Billy was by this time well inside the building, but no flutter of wings or delighted cackle from Toppy greeted him. Not a chicken was busily scratching in the deep straw that covered the rough flooring. Instead there were little, square boxes—piles and piles of them—set neatly in rows one upon the other, each with a wire screen front, and each containing a chicken. Poor things! cooped up in tiny houses that were scarcely large enough to permit them to turn around without stepping in the dish holding their portion of water for the entire day.
Billy’s kind heart bubbled over with rage at the sight, and his eyes kindled at the thought that Toppy was in one of these prison houses.
“Our Toppy, who has always had the freedom of the Farm, to be shut up in such a bird cage!” he lamented, waxing indignant at the situation.
Up and down he walked, looking in each box, always hoping that the next one would hold his feathered friend. Big Buff Cochins, tiny Bantams, so full of fighting zeal, Wyandottes, Speckled Hamburgs, every kind was there but Plymouth Rocks.
“I’ll search all morning if necessary,” he vowed, as he turned into the third aisle.
Carefully he conducted his quest now, not merely casting careless glances up and down the long rows. Instead, he peered into every box, though it meant tedious and wearisome work, for at last he had reached that part of the exhibit devoted to the pretty Plymouth Rocks, all decked out in their Quakerish gray. The first three rows of boxes were easily inspected, being on Billy’s own level. The fourth and fifth tiers were a real problem, however, and caused the eager searcher much trouble. Each time he wished to look into one of these homes perched up so high, he had to rear up on his hind feet. This is not a natural position for four-footed animals, and Billy often lost his balance. He was afraid to use the boxes for support for his front legs, lest they might topple over and the consequent cackling and crowing of the terrified fowls put to rout his plan of rescue, for this his search for Toppy had now become.
Down, down, down went Billy’s heart as he progressed. Tears of vexation welled up in his eyes, for he was a very determined goat and disappointment was hard to bear.
“No use, I guess,” he decided, and he was hurrying along, glancing neither to the right nor to the left, but wholly bent on reaching the door quickly.
“Cluck, cluck! Cluck, cluck!” sounded a familiar call.
Billy stopped short.