When Whispering Smith got back to the house he was in good-humor. He joined Dicksie and Marion in the dining-room, where they were drinking 221 coffee. Afterward Dicksie ordered horses saddled and the three rode to the river. Up and down the bank as far as they could see in the misty rain, men were moving slowly about––more men, it seemed to Dicksie, than she had ever seen together in her life. The confusion and the noise had disappeared. No one appeared to hurry, but every one had something to do, and, from the gangs who with sledges were sinking “dead-men” among the trees to hold the cables of the mattress that was about to be sunk, and the Japs who were diligently preparing to float and load it, to the men that were filling and wheeling the sandbags, no one appeared excited. McCloud joined the visitors for a few moments and then went back to where Dancing and his men on life-lines were guiding the mattress to its resting-place. In spite of the gloom of the rain, which Whispering Smith said was breaking, Dicksie rode back to the house in much better spirits with her two guests; and when they came from luncheon the sun, as Smith had predicted, was shining.
“Oh, come out!” cried Dicksie, at the door. Marion had a letter to write and went upstairs, but Whispering Smith followed Dicksie. “Does everything you say come true?” she demanded as she stood in the sunshine.
She was demure with light-heartedness and he 222 looked at her approvingly. “I hope nothing I may say ever will come true unless it makes you happy,” he answered lightly. “It would be a shame if it did anything else.”
She pointed two accusing fingers at him. “Do you know what you promised last night? You have forgotten already! You said you would tell me why my leghorns are eating their feathers off.”
“Let me talk with them.”
“Just what I should like. Come on!” said Dicksie, leading the way to the chicken-yard. “I want you to see my bantams too. I have three of the dearest little things. One is setting. They are over the way. Come see them first. And, oh, you must see my new game chickens. Truly, you never saw anything as handsome as Cæsar––he’s the rooster; and I have six pullets. Cæsar is perfectly superb.”
When the two reached the chicken-houses Dicksie examined the nest where she was setting the bantam hen. “This miserable hen will not set,” she exclaimed in despair. “See here, Mr. Smith, she has left her nest again and is scratching around on the ground. Isn’t it a shame? I’ve tied a cord around her leg so she couldn’t run away, and she is hobbling around like a scrub pony.”
“Perhaps the eggs are too warm,” suggested her companion. “I have had great success in cases like this with powdered ice––not using too 223 much, of course; just shave the ice gently and rub it over the eggs one at a time; it will often result in refreshing the attention of the hen.”
Dicksie looked grave. “Aren’t you ashamed to make fun of me?”
Whispering Smith seemed taken aback. “Is it really serious business?”