With a burst of relief Mrs. Gammit declared her sorrow.
“It’s the aigs,” said she, passionately. “Fer 223 nigh on to a month, now, I’ve been alosin’ of ’em as fast as the hens kin git ’em laid. An’ all I kin do, I cain’t find out what’s atakin’ ’em.”
Having reached the point of asking advice, an expression of pathetic hopefulness came into her weather-beaten face. Under quite other conditions it might almost have been possible for Mrs. Gammit to learn to lean on a man, if he were careful not to disagree with her.
“Oh! Aigs!” said the woodsman, relaxing slightly the tension of his sympathy. “Well, now, let’s try an’ git right to the root of the trouble. Air ye plumb sure, in the first place, that the hens is really layin’ them aigs what ye don’t git?”
Mrs. Gammit stiffened.
“Do I look like an eejut?” she demanded.
“Not one leetle mite, you don’t!” assented her host, promptly and cordially.
“I was beginning to think mebbe I did!” persisted the injured lady.
“Everybody knows,” protested the woodsman, “as how what you don’t know, Mrs. Gammit, ain’t hardly wuth knowin’.”
“O’ course, that’s puttin’ it a leetle too strong, Mr. Barron,” she answered, much mollified. “But I do reckon as how I’ve got some horse sense. Well, I thought as how them ’ere hens might ’ave stopped layin’ on the suddint; so I up an’ watched ’em. 224 Land’s sakes, but they was alayin’ fine. Whenever I kin take time to stan’ right by an’ watch ’em lay, I git all the aigs I know what to do with. But when I don’t watch ’em, clost––nary an aig. Ye ain’t agoin’ to persuade me a hen kin jest quit layin’ when she’s a mind ter, waitin’ tell ye pass her the compliment o’ holdin’ out yer hand fer the aig!”