“There’s a hen gone under Grandma’s bed,” said Peletiah again.
“O dear—dear!” exclaimed Davie, trying to hold fast to the two struggling biddies.
But they flapped so violently that one got away, and thinking that where another Mrs. Biddy went, it was easy to follow, this one ran around Peletiah’s slow legs, and there they were, two of them, under Grandma’s big four-poster.
Davie shut the door on his vanquished fowl, and turned his hot tired face to the parson’s son.
“We must get them out.”
“We can’t,” said Peletiah. He might be slow, but he knew when it was impossible to accomplish a thing. “You can’t get hens out from under a bed,” he said positively.
“We must,” said Davie in great distress—but just as decidedly.
“And she can’t hear ’em,” said Peletiah.
“But they can’t stay there,” persisted David. “You stand one side of the bed, and I’ll stand the other with the broom, and drive ’em out.” And he ran and laid hold of the broom again.
“I want the broom,” said Peletiah, reaching a hand for it.