Bill had presence of mind enough, fortunately for the dinner prospects, to seize his hen before Tip made his lunch from her, and he said, as he handed her to Tim:
“There, you see Tip knew we ought to kill her, an’ so he did it for us. Now we can have a good dinner.”
Tim made no reply, and perhaps for the first time in his life he was angry with Tip for having meddled in matters which did not concern him. It was necessary now to cook the hen, and as he stood with her in his hand the terrible thought came to him that he did not even know enough to prepare her for cooking.
“Do you think we had better have her roasted or boiled?” he asked, in a low tone, of Bobby.
Now, this other cook was quite as perplexed about the matter as Tim was, and he was thoroughly well pleased that he had allowed his partner to take the lead in other matters, so that the latter would now be obliged to take all the responsibility of the hen’s appearance at the dinner-table.
“I think we had better roast her,” he said, in a careless sort of way, as if to him one style of cooking was as easy as another.
Again was Tim disappointed. He had hoped Bobby would propose boiling her, in which case all he would be obliged to do would be to pop her into the kettle, letting her stay there until she was done. But since Bobby was so cruel as to propose the hardest way of cooking the hen, roasted it must be, or gone was his reputation as cook.
“I’ll pick the feathers off,” said Bill, gleefully; and Tim handed him the fowl.
“I don’t seem to see how we’re goin’ to get along,” said Tim to Bobby. “We ain’t got any dishes to cook her in.”