Philo Gubb could not understand it. He tried to, but he could not understand it at all. And then suddenly a great light dawned in his brain. There was something this chicken thief knew that he and Mrs. Smith did not know. The stolen chicken must have been of some rare and much-sought strain. So it was all right. The thief was paying what the chicken was worth, and not what Mrs. Smith thought it was worth in her ignorance. He slipped the money into his pocket.
“All right,” he said. “I’m satisfied if you are. The chicken was a fancy bird, ain’t it so?”
“The Chicken was a tough old rooster, that’s what he was,” said Wixy, staggering to his feet.
“I thought he was a hen,” said Philo Gubb. “Mrs. Smith said he was a hen.”
Wixy laughed a sickly laugh.
“That ain’t much of a joke. That’s why everybody called him Chicken, because his first name was Hen.”
Philo Gubb’s mouth fell open. He was convinced now that he had to do with an insane man. Wixy moved toward the open drying-floor.
“Well, so ’long, pard,” he said to Philo Gubb. “Give my regards to Mother Smith. And say,” he added, “if you see Sal, don’t let her know what happened to the Chicken. Don’t say anybody made away with the Chicken, see? Tell Sal the Chicken flew the coop himself, see?”
“Who is Sal?” asked Philo Gubb.
“You ask Mother Smith,” said Wixy. “She’ll tell you.” And he went out into the dark. Philo Gubb heard him shuffle across the drying-floor, and when the sound had died away in the distance he put up his revolver.