"One of Pinky's grandchildren's children. You see, her child was Fluffy, and its child was Toppy—that was her grandchild; well, its child was Blackie—and that's her scratchin' her cheek with her left foot. She's done scratchin', but that's her over there."
"She's got the Pinky blood in her all right?" asked Mr. Borland.
"She's bound to have it," the boy answered gravely; "they was all born right in this room; besides, I've got it all marked down on the door."
David surveyed the descendant critically. "Does she lay brown eggs?" he enquired presently. "Madeline said Pinky always laid brown eggs."
Harvey hesitated a moment. "They're—they're pretty brown," he said after a pause. "They mostly turn brown a little after they're laid."
"I'm terrible fond of brown eggs," remarked the purchaser.
"What for?" asked Harvey, looking full into his face.
"Well, really—I don't know," and David grinned a little. "Only I always fancy they're kind o'—kind o' better done, don't you think? Besides," he added quickly, "I always like my toast brown, too—and they kind o' match better, you see."
"Yes," said Harvey reflectively; "I never thought of that before. Of course, there isn't any hen can be taught always to lay them brown—I think Blackie tries to make them as brown as she can," glancing fondly at the operator as he spoke. "If you was to feed her bran, Mr. Borland, I think she'd get them brown nearly all the time."
"That's a thunderin' good idea," affirmed Mr. Borland, Harvey chiming in with increasing assurance of success as he marked the favour with which his theory was received.