"Why—am I like a Hen?" said the Lady.
"O—h," said our Uncle Peter. He acted very much relieved. "O—h," he said. "I was afraid it was something you were going to ask me about Base Ball. But a Hen——?" He looked with smiles at the Lady. "Oh but a Hen—?—Why even a Hen, my dear Madam," he smiled, "a real professional true-enough hen doesn't take any too easily to the actual chick itself until she's served a certain sit-tightly, go-lightly, egg-shell sort of apprenticeship as it were to the IDEA.—Thrust a bunch of chicks under her before she's served this apprenticeship and——"
I jumped up and down and clapped my hands. I just couldn't help it.
"Oh, I know what happens!" I cried. "She sits too heavy! And squashes 'em perfectly flat!—There was a hen," I cried. "Her name was Lizzie! She was a good hen! But childless! The Grocer gave us some day-old chicks to put under her! But when we went out to the nest the next morning to see 'em—they couldn't have been flatter if they'd been pressed in the Bible!—My Brother Carol cried,—I cried,—my Mother——"
"I don't care at all who cried," said the Lady. It was true. She didn't. All she cared was to look at our Uncle Peter. The look was a stern look.
"And are you trying to imply, Mr.—Mr.—?"
"Merredith," said our Uncle Peter. "Percival Merredith.—'Uncle Peter' for short."
"Mr. Merredith," repeated the Lady coldly. "Are you trying to imply that my——step-son looks as though he had been pressed in a—a—Bible?"
I shook in my boots. Carol shook in his boots. You could hear us.
Our Uncle Peter never shook a bit. He just twinkled.