“Now, Isobel,” I would say, “about chickens—”
At the word “chickens” Isobel would look at me reproachfully, and I would end meekly: “About chickens, as I was saying. Don't you think we could have a pair of broilers to-morrow?”
As a matter of fact, this happened so often that I began to hate the sight of a broiled chicken, and was forced to mention roast chicken once in a while. It was after one of these times that the event happened that stirred all Westcote.
I had reached a point where I dodged Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington when I saw them, in order to avoid their insistent clamour for chickens, when one evening Isobel met me at the door with a smile.
“John!” she cried. “What do you think! Our chicken laid an egg!”
“Chicken?” I asked anxiously. “Did you say chicken?”
“And I am going to give you the egg for dinner,” cried Isobel joyfully. “Just think, John! Our own egg, laid by our own chicken! Do you want it fried, or boiled, or scrambled?”
“Isobel,” I demanded, “what is the meaning of all this?”
“I just could not kill the hen,” Isobel ran on, “after it had been so—so friendly. Could I? I felt as if I would be killing one of the family.”
“People do get to feeling that way about chickens when they keep them,” I said insinuatingly. “Why, Isobel, I have known wives to love chickens so warmly—wives that had never cared a snap for chickens before—wives that hated chickens—and they grew to love chickens so well that as soon as the coop was made—of course it was a nice, clean, airy coop, Isobel—and the dear little fluffy chicks began to peep about—”