“Of course not, with prize stock like these. You know, oh, you know.”
Dan approached with the tandem, the front tire of which was sadly flattened.
“Got a puncture when you rammed the hedge. Guess we’ll have to camp here till I can patch the inner tube. Maybe you can buy a few eggs and cook breakfast. I’m nearly starved.”
“Not these eggs. Not these eggs. These are all prize stock, every one a prize winner.” The arms of the moon-faced madam made an upward sweep. I clapped my hands over my ears instinctively. But a compassionate Fate in the shape of a young girl intervened.
“Breakfast’s ready, Ma’am,” she sang out. “Mr. MacBride says he will be right in.”
A tremendous struggle was mirrored in my lady’s open countenance. She looked at the “prize chickens,” turned toward the house, shot a covert glance at Dan, gazed anxiously at the chickens again. It was a solemn moment. But fear and hospitality triumphed.
“Maybe you better come in. I don’t know what Tamas will say. But the dog would have killed more—all prize stock—so shortsighted of me....”
Thus rambling on, she led the way into the house, while the maid stared unbelievingly. It came my turn for wonderment when I caught sight of the breakfast table. It was loaded with great bowls of oatmeal, cream, sausage, eggs, potatoes, and a heaping plate of graham or oatmeal gems. An odour of hot cakes spoke of more food to follow.
“You must wait till Tamas has finished. Just sit down here. I hear him coming now.”
Our hostess turned in much agitation as a long, cadaverous individual entered the door. He halted and fixed us with a hostile glare.