"Leave all to me," he said in a whisper.
The hens were restless, and made little hiccoughy noises in their throats, noises that were not nice to listen to. I stood in the centre of the building while Joe groped cautiously around. After a little while he passed me and I could see his big gaunt form in the doorway.
"Come away," he whispered.
About twenty yards from the inn he threw down that which he carried and we proceeded to put on our boots.
"It's a rooster," he said, pointing to the dead fowl; "a young soft one too. When our boots are on, we'll slide along for a mile or so and drum up. It's not the thing to cook your fowl on the spot where you stole it. I mind once when I lifted a young pig——"
Suddenly the young rooster fluttered to its feet and started to crow.
"Holy hell!" cried Moleskin, and jumping to his feet he flung one of his boots at the fowl. The aim was bad, and the bird zig-zagged off, crowing loudly. Both of us gave chase.
The bird was a very demon. Several times when we thought that we had laid hands on it, it doubled in its tracks like a cornered fox and eluded us. Once I tried to hit it with my foot, but the blow swung clear, and my hobnailed boot took Moleskin on the shin, causing him to swear deeply.
"Fall on it, Joe; it's the only way!" I cried softly.
"Fall be damned! You might as well try to fall on a moonbeam."