"Yes, I ought. It's my job," said Aileen, panting, but smiling.
"But you ain't used to it," said 'Possum unhappily.
"Then the sooner I get used to it, the better!" Aileen returned for the third box, but, being easily beaten by her determined assistant, had to content herself by bringing the eggs in her wake.
"Thirteen to each," said 'Possum, disposing the eggs swiftly in the nests. "There—look nice, don't they? Always makes me feel almost like setting myself. Now for them old hens. D'you want to learn to handle 'em, Missus?" It was clear that she abandoned "Mrs. Macleod" with relief.
Never had Aileen wanted anything less. The infuriated old hens filled her with such forebodings as might be felt on approaching an angry hyena.
"Yes, please," she said, with an effort.
"Then you get a pair of old gloves. Got any leather gardening gloves?"
"Oh, yes—run for them, Garth."
"Gives you great pluck, to have gloves on," remarked 'Possum. "Not that they'll peck you, if you're quick—but sometimes you ain't quick enough. Now, you watch."
She stooped before the box where the three hens clustered angrily, greeting her with hisses and snarls. For a moment she watched, then her hand shot out swiftly and grasped the nearest hen by the neck. Quick as she was, the second hen was quicker—a red mark showed on the brown hand as she rose with the struggling captive.