Mary Frances and he walked over to the garden.
“Right there,” explained Feather Flop, going toward the tomato plants and pointing with his wing: “right down there. About twenty, I guess there were, and I had some difficulty——”
“Get out of that garden, will you, Feather Flop!” roared Billy, coming with a stick. “Say, Mary Frances, why don’t you chase that old good-for-nothing rooster off? If he doesn’t look out——”
“Oh, Billy,” cried Mary Frances. “Oh, Billy, you ought—he was—he has eaten a lot of cutworms. I know he has! You don’t understand!”
“I don’t understand! Well, I guess I don’t! Get out of here, you old busybody of a rooster!” said Billy.
Mary Frances felt so sorry about the rooster she couldn’t have helped crying, and out came her handkerchief.
“Oh, Billy,” she sobbed, “he’s so interested—in the—garden.”
“I should say he is!” said Billy. “I should say so! But whatever can be the matter with you, gets me! For pity’s sake, dry up those tears. I was going to give you the next lesson.”