“This one,” she said, catching the most disreputable-looking of the birds, “is the one I want for the gipsies’ stew. There, I will give you ninepence for this bird.”
“Ninepence!” cried Mr. Leeson, almost shrieking out the word. “Do you think I would sell a valuable hen like that for ninepence? And you say it can be boiled down to eat tender!”
“Boiled down to eat tender!” said the supposed gipsy. “Why, it can be made delicious. There is broth in it, soup in it, and meat in it. There is dinner for four, and supper for four, and soup for four in this old hen!”
“And you offer me ninepence for such a valuable bird! I tell you what: I wish you would show me that recipe. I will give you sixpence for it. I do not know how to make an old hen tender.”
“Give me a quarter of an hour, your honor, and you will not know that you are not eating the youngest chicken in the land.”
“But how are you to cook it?”
“I will make a bit of fire in the shrubbery, and do it by a recipe of my own.”
“You are sure you will not go near the house?”
“No, your honor.”
“But how can a fowl that is now alive be fit to eat in a quarter of an hour?”