But the rooster did not intend to be caught. Half running and half flying, he “scooted,” as Freddie called it, down to the end of the car, and, as the conductor had just opened the door to look out and see what was causing the blockade, the rooster made his escape.
The hen, however, did not seem to know how to get out. She fluttered around, cackling and making a great fuss. The men in the car laughed, and the women held their hands over their hats so the chicken would not light on them.
“Maybe she came in here to lay an egg!” suggested Flossie, laughing.
“I’m goin’ to catch her!” shouted Freddie.
“Get her and have a chicken dinner,” said the motorman.
By this time the car was in an uproar, most of the passengers enjoying the queer excitement. As for the hen, I do not think she liked it at all, though she had more room than in the crate.
The driver of the auto-truck was talking to a policeman about whose fault it was that the trolley window had become broken, and the motorman and conductor now joined in.
“I’ve got to get that chicken and rooster back,” said the truck driver. “I’ll be blamed for letting them get away.”
“And we’ll be blamed for having a window in our car broken,” said the conductor. “It was your fault.”
“It was not!” insisted the driver.