"Depends on the size of the hen. A small one'll take eleven, a medium-size can handle thirteen and you can put fifteen 'neath a big hen."
"When do you think my hens will turn broody?"
"Hard telling," Gramps growled. "A hen's a female critter and when it comes to doing anything sensible they ain't no different from other female critters. Hell and high water can't make 'em do anything 'thout they put their mind to it, and nine cases of dynamite can't stop 'em once they do."
Two days later, when he had carried five more eggs to his hoard that now numbered forty-seven, Bud found only two eggs left. He was sure that Gram or Gramps had mistakenly sent the eggs he had been saving to Haleyville along with the regular farm shipment. He went sadly out to the barn where Gramps was going over his gardening tools.
"You look like you'd swallowed a quart of vinegar," the old man said as he glanced up.
"It isn't that," Bud said forlornly. "Somebody sent most of my hatching eggs to market."
"No they didn't," Gramps said. "Three of my hens went broody and I took 'em. Put fifteen eggs under each, seeing they were big hens."
"But they're your hens."
"Don't trouble your head," Gramps said. "Setting hen rent'll be on the bill when time comes to settle up."