"I'm glad of that. Yes, it was an accident—your part of it, I mean. I didn't see you at all. I meant the part the hen got, though."
Her laugh was over, but there was still a twinkle in her eye. Kendrick was, by this time, aware that her eyes were brown.
"Yes," she observed, demurely, "I—gathered that you did."
"Yes, I—" It suddenly occurred to him that his language had been as emphatic as his actions. "Good lord!" he exclaimed. "I forgot. I beg your pardon for that, too. When I lose my temper I am liable to—to make salt water remarks, I'm afraid. And those hens.... Eh? There they are again, hard at it! Will you excuse me while I kill three or four of 'em? You see, I'm in charge of that garden and.... Get out!"
This last was, of course, another roar at the fowl, who, under the leadership of the rake-helly rooster, were scratching harder than ever in the beds. The captain reached for another missile, but his visitor stepped forward.
"Please don't," she begged. "Please don't kill them."
"Eh? Why not? They ought to be killed."
"I know it, but I don't want them killed—yet, at any rate. You see, they are my hens."
"Yours?" The captain straightened up and looked at her. "You don't mean it?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, I do. They are mine, or my mother's, which is the same thing. I am dreadfully sorry they got in here. I'll have them out in just a minute. Oh, yes, I will, really."