Just then another of the party, who had received his portion and begun eating, laid down his knife and fork with an unmistakable air of discomfort.
“Perhaps you don’t like hen,” cried Bill, now growing angry that food of his providing should be refused.
By this time several of the party had shown unmistakable signs of disliking the roast, and Bill proceeded to make an investigation.
He cut off a large mouthful, and began eating it with the air of one who thinks he knows just what he is about to taste, and has made up his mind beforehand to be pleased. But he stopped as suddenly as the others had, and looking sternly at Tim, he asked:
“What did you put on this hen?”
“Nothin’; perhaps it tastes queer ’cause the ’taters tipped over on it.”
“It don’t taste like ’taters,” said Bill; “it tastes a good deal worse.”
Then he examined the uncarved portion of the fowl, and the mystery was explained.
“I know what the matter is, an’ I don’t think you’re much of a cook, Tim Babbige. You’ve cooked the hen without cleanin’ her, an’ of course she’s spoiled.”