"Did you bring that hen?" asked the man.
I turned and looked at him then.
"That old yellowish-brown hen?" he went on.
"Yes," said I, sharply. "Why?"
"Why, I didn't know where she come from," he drawled. "She was cluckin' round the cows' heels while I was milkin', an' I took 'er an' chopped 'er head off."
It seems to me that for one whole minute I never drew a breath. I just stood there, dumb and glaring, till I was conscious the man was shrinking away from my eyes and clinched hands.
"What's the fuss?" said he.
"What's the fuss?" I roared. "Why, you confounded idiot, do you know what you've done? Do you know that you've killed Bessie Rathbun's pet hen?"
"Wa'al," he growled, with his hands in his pockets, "I didn't know whose hen it was."
"Well, that's a fine excuse, isn't it?—a fine excuse, Mr. Beck," I went on, hotly.