A half hour later, Johnny’s slight wounds having been quite skilfully dressed by his surprising host and his spirits revived by a strong cup of black coffee, the two sat staring out at the lake.
“Do men come out here often?” Johnny asked.
“Not so often. It ain’t safe crossing on the breakwater. I’ve got a sort of flat bottomed boat I paddle across with every morning when I go over to feed the chickens.”
There it was again. “The—the chickens?” Johnny stammered.
“Yes. I got a regular job. Don’t pay very big, but it keeps me, and besides, when a chicken gets sick and looks like he’d die, they give him to me. I bring ’em out here and dope ’em up. Then if they get all right I take ’em back and sell ’em. I’ve got five chickens, a guinea hen and a goose right now.”
“Where are these chickens you feed?” Johnny asked, more perplexed than ever.
“Commission house. South Water Street. Come in by car loads and in crates and have to be fed, you know. I feed ’em an’ water ’em. That’s my job. An’ this island, it’s my chicken ranch. Roam all over it, my poultry does, in the daytime. At night I shut ’em up. I’d like a better place, where there was grass an’ shade, but seems like a fellow can’t save enough for that. This here island, it don’t cost me nothin’. They just let me stay here, the park folks do. An’ the house, it didn’t cost nothin’ neither, only the price of a bag of lime. Sand came from the lake; bricks I picked up from rubbish piles. Pretty neat, ’eh?” He proudly surveyed his three walls.
“Pretty neat,” Johnny agreed.
“I like it best with the end open to the fire. It’s more healthy. But if folks are goin’ to come out here at night, ’taint goin’ to be safe. I’ll haf to build a door. Not folks like you, but that other fellow’s kind. Seems like I’ve seen that man out here before.”
“Big man—with a stoop and a limp?” Johnny asked.