He has spread his coat on the side of the path, and pats it for her to sit down.
"What is it?" anxiously. "If you were a mare I'd know what to do for you. Have a nip of whiskey?"
He strides off without waiting for her reply, and comes back with it and a biscuit, kneels down and holds the glass to her lips. "Poor little woman, buck up! You'll see that'll fix you. Then you go, by-and-by, and have a shy at the fish."
She is about to say something, when a fresh qualm attacks her and she does not. He goes back to his tying.
"By Jove!" he says suddenly, "I forgot; got something to show you!"
After a few minutes he returns, carrying a basket covered with a piece of sacking; a dishevelled-looking hen, with spread wings trailing and her breast bare from sitting on her eggs, screeches after him. He puts it carefully down and uncovers it, disclosing seven little balls of yellow fluff splashed with olive-green; they look up sideways with bright round eyes, and their little spoon-bills look disproportionately large.
"Aren't they beauties?" enthusiastically. "This one is just out," taking up an egg; "mustn't let it get chilled; there is a chip out of it and a piece of hanging skin. Isn't it funny?" he asks, showing her how it is curled in the shell, with its paddles flattened and its bill breaking through the chip, and the slimy feathers sticking to its violet skin.
She suppresses an exclamation of disgust, and looks at his fresh-tinted skin instead. He is covering basket, hen, and all.
"How you love young things!" she says.
"Some! I had a filly once; she turned out a lovely mare! I cried when I had to sell her; I wouldn't have let any one in God's world mount her."