CHAPTER XIII
AS Dick went up the hill, he saw on the porch a spot of blue with an expanse of white beside it,—Mrs. Osborne in blue gingham, with a dozen hospital shirts that she was basting, ready for machine work.
Suddenly there was a commotion, a frightened fluttering and squawking among the fowls in the side yard. Mother hens were warning their young that a chicken hawk was near. It had alighted in a tall locust tree, ready to pounce on some defenseless creature. Mrs. Osborne rose quickly, but unhurriedly, went into the house, and reappeared in the door with an old shotgun. As the bird poised for its downward dive, she winged it with a quick, sure shot; it dropped in the midst of the young things that were to have been its prey.
“Whew! that was a fine shot, Cousin Polly!� Dick said admiringly. “A hawk on the wing!�
“I am glad to get the rascal,� Mrs. Osborne said quietly. “It has been raiding my poultry yard, and I was afraid it would get some of Mayo’s pigeons.�
“Where’s Cousin Mayo?� Dick asked, beginning to feel embarrassed as soon as he got over the thrill of the hawk-shooting.
Mrs. Osborne always made the boys feel clumsy and untidy and ill at ease. She was as different as possible from her dark, rugged, merry husband. Everything about her was neat and prim and small. She had a pretty little mouth, a little thin nose, little round blue eyes; her fair glossy hair was plaited and coiled around her small well-shaped head.
“Mayo has gone away,� she answered. “He may not come back to-night. Will you come in? Is there any message?�
“No. No, thank you.�
And Dick made his escape.