The Frenchman didn’t know, but he nodded.
“Well, that’s very far south. We suffer—yes, we suffer, but our poor poultry suffer more.”
“Ze—ze pooltree? Wat eez zat?”
Clifford explained.
“In summer the fire engines are detailed to throw water on the hens to keep their feathers from singeing. Singeing spoils the flavor.”
The Frenchman growled.
“One of our national institutions is the ‘Hen’s Mutual Fire Insurance Company,’ supported by the Government,” added Clifford.
Deschamps snorted.
“That is why,” put in Rhodes, lazily dabbing at his canvas, “why we seldom have omelets—the eggs are so apt to be laid fried.”
“How, zen, does eet make ze chicken?” spluttered the Frenchman, his wrath rising.