Mrs. Cary stopped and looked sharply at something lying on the ground beside the steps. Then she turned and swept the old man with an accusing glance which made him quail.
"William!" she said, in awful tones.
"Yas'm," replied Uncle Billy, feverishly.
"What's that?"
Uncle Billy immediately became the very picture of innocence and ignorance. He looked everywhere but at the helpless rooster.
"What's what?" he asked. "Aw, dat? Why—why, dat ain' nothin' 'tall, Miss Hallie. Dat's—dat's des a rooster. Yas'm."
Mrs. Cary came down from the steps and looked carefully at the unfamiliar bird. No fear that she would not recognize it if it were hers. "Whose is he?" she asked.
"You—you mean who he b'longs to?" queried Uncle Billy, fencing for time in which to prepare a quasi-truthful reply. "He—he don' b'long to nobody. He's his own rooster."
"William!" commanded Mrs. Cary, severely. "Look at me. Where did you get him?"
Here was a situation which Uncle Billy knew must be handled promptly, and he picked up the rooster and made an attempt to escape. "Down on de low grouns—dis mornin'. Dat's right," he said, as he saw dawning unbelief in his mistress' face. "Now you have to skuse me, Miss Hallie. I got my wuck to do."