“Ought to be a beard of oats, but it’s the thistle,” said Tavia, promptly.
“Ireland?” demanded Ned, without turning from his steering wheel.
“Shamrock, of course.”
“Got you!” ejaculated Nat. “What’s Spain’s favorite?”
“Oh-oh-oh—— Bulrushes, I s’pect,” said Tavia, having the words jolted out of her. “Bull-fights, anyway. Dear, dear me! we might as well travel over plowed ground.”
They struck a better automobile road on the Fountainville turnpike, and before long they came in sight of Farmer Prater’s house. Oddly enough there was a gray and yellow automobile under one of the farmer’s sheds.
The farmer was in high fettle, it proved, and willing enough to talk about the raid the night before on his pens of Rhode Island reds.
“Jefers pelters!” he chortled. “I got me pullets back and the ortermerbile ter boot. D’ye see it? That’s what the raskils come in.”
“Not the red-headed man?” demanded Tavia.
“Who said anything about a red headed—— Oh! you mean Tom Moran?” asked Mr. Prater. “Why, he warn’t with ’em. If it hadn’t been for him them raskils would ha’ got erway with my pullets—ya-as, sir-ree-sir!”