"Oh," laughed Bronson, "call it chicken. He'll eat just as heartily."
"The ranger is up," said Dorothy. "I can hear him whistling."
"Then let's have breakfast and get this big fellow ready to roast. It will take some time."
An hour later, Lorry, fresh-faced and smiling, knocked on the lintel of their open doorway.
Bronson, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing a diminutive apron to which clung a fluff of turkey feathers, came from the kitchen.
"Good-morning. You'll excuse my daughter. She is busy."
"I just came over to ask how she was."
"Thank you. She is much better. We want you to have dinner with us."
"Thanks. But I got some beans going—"
"But this is chicken, man! And it is Sunday."