“Yes, or we might roast Clay,” said Louise scornfully. “Why don’t you suggest that? He isn’t any use, goodness knows, and they may have been missionaries to the cannibals!” She glanced at the small darky, who was sitting on the cellar door in happy idleness, singing fragments of popular songs to himself.
“You ought to make him useful,” said Billy. “Here, Clay, get up and help your young ladies.”
“Ah is helpin’ ’em,” said Clay with dignity; nevertheless he rose and came in for further orders.
“Down home,” continued Billy, “we always kill a chicken when we expect a minister.”
“But we haven’t so much as a papier-mache Easter chick,” objected Louise.
“The people next door but one have,” said Winona excitedly, starting up. “It’s against the law to keep chickens within the city limits, but they do it. But they’re away for the day.”
“They’re always getting into your garden and tempting poor old Puppums to chase them,” said Billy sympathetically.
Winona, acting on his suggestion, went to the door and looked out.
“Yes,” she said. “There’s one there now. There nearly always is.”
Louise lifted one eyebrow. “Well?” said she.