"I know, father," cried Paul joyfully. "I'm the policeman and you're the judge—he must be tried and then sentenced to wear a muzzle."
Angelica was tried and sentenced, then muzzled with a small rubber band that fitted tightly over his bill. His antics amused us so much that for a few minutes I forgot my fatal errand.
"He looks wicked enough to kill some of the others," I remarked, after a pause. "Do you know, Paul, how a person who kills another is punished?" He looked up with sudden, awed interest. "They put a rope around—him, and—and"——
"And what?"
"——fine him a dollar and costs."
"Oh!" he gasped, "I'm so glad that's all. And do they take the rope off afterwards?"
"I believe they do," I replied, in deep dejection.
"Father, I just love chickens. Don't you?"
"I do, indeed," I affirmed, with sudden reckless, despairing intention; "but I love them in two different ways. If they're nice, well-mannered birds I love to see them running about with their feathers on; but if they're naughty I love to see them not running about with their feathers off." Paul laughed in glee. "Your mother and Aunt Sophy like them too," I went on warily, my heart thumping; "and I think if chickens are cruel and bad they deserve to be stuffed"—his expression changed suddenly, but he still looked bravely into my eyes—"with bread-crumbs, and roasted, with thick—brown—rich—gravy."
Paul jerked his little hand from mine and stood up in front of me, his face twitching and his eyes brimming. "You greedy—greedy—GREEDY!" he gasped.