“Take a hand to a wooster? Take a hand to a wooster!”
Dick Harding was standing out in the road near the white cottage one morning about two weeks after the hunting party, trying to decide whether he would take a walk or a ride to settle his breakfast. He glanced down into Jilly’s sober little face lifted to his appealingly.
“Take a hand to a wooster? Charmed, I’m sure. Point out the rooster. But what has his rooster-ship done, and how can I make him keep still long enough to lay hands on him, Jilly Dilly?”
Jilly clasped five fat fingers around two of his, smiled confidingly and made her plea once more: “Take a hand to a wooster.”
124Dick looked puzzled, but Jilly was pulling and he meekly followed her guidance. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are getting me into, young lady, but go ahead, I’m at your service.”
Jilly pattered along not deigning to reply to his remarks. Jilly considered words as something to be reserved for business purposes only.
She led him to the chicken yard, pressed her small face against the wire netting that enclosed it, and contemplated the fowls ecstatically. Dick contemplated also, trying to pick out the offending rooster.
“Which rooster, Jilly?”
But Jilly only smiled vaguely. “Feed a wooster,” she commanded after another season of gazing.
“Yes, to be sure, but what would you suggest that I offer him? There doesn’t seem to be anything edible round here.”