Slung from the rearmost hoop of the schooner-top, the sheet of which was removed, presumably to give free play to the relatively cooling breeze, for the day had been blisteringly hot, was a second cage. This held in close captivity three speckled farmyard birds.
"Plymouth Rocks," the man explained proudly as Sam and Bert stared up at them. What little could be seen of the birds seemed to indicate that they weren't very ancient—not above seven or eight, perhaps.
"Gettin' any eggs?" queried Sam, materialistic as usual.
"Not yet. My wife says they swing about too much. She says it makes 'em seasick. What d'you think yourself?"
"Shouldn't wonder," said Bert, thoughtfully.
"But when we get to our land," went on the man, "I think they'll give us a few."
As though in protest, a couple of the fowls cocked their heads up, and, with bursting throats and wide-open beaks, proclaimed to their ingenuous owner their unimpeachable masculinity in a pair of the lustiest and most competitive cock-a-doodle-doos that ever resounded across an astonished prairie.
"Does that uvver one do that?" Sam questioned suspiciously.
"No."
"You ain't alf lucky."