"Uncle John," she said, "do you s'pose there'll be room?"
"On the roost?"
"Yes."
"Why, plenty of it—plenty!" said the reckless Uncle John.
I was out of bed an hour before Bessie next morning to take a horseback ride. "Guess I'll go over to the farm," said I to myself, "and see how Coachy is doing." So off to the farm I cantered.
I hitched my horse to a post by the farm-house door, and walked out where the chickens were picking up a breakfast. I looked them all over, and—and—well, Coachy was not there.
Seeing a man coming down the path, and feeling quite sure it was Mr. Beck, I waited. A narrow-faced, fair-haired, frail-looking man—not at all like a farmer, I thought.
"Good-morning, Mr. Beck," said I.
"Morning," said Mr. Beck, looking puzzled.
"My name is Rathbun. I was just looking around for a hen I brought up from my brother's house yesterday. I don't seem to find her," I said, still peering about.