"No."
"Won't eat 'em, won't yer?"
"No."
We all held our breath, wondering what manner of assault Joe would select for this reckless fellow.
But Joe grinned, actually grinned, and replied: "I don't blame yer; I wot makes 'em wouldn't touch 'em; no, not for a fortune."
One Saturday afternoon I happened to be passing through the yard when Joe was discussing with his handy-man, Sammy, the Sunday lunch. (Sammy was an Indian, and in Africa all Indians are "Sammy" to all men.)
"'Ow many dead chickens are there, Sammy?"
"Fourteen, Boss."
"'Ell! 'Ow many died yesterday and 'ow many did yer find dead this mornin'?"
"Eight yesterday and six to-day, Boss."