“Oh, the feathers?” he said very mildly. “Oh, yes; the feathers. Why—why, we—we thought Hector there—he—well, he ought to know about ’em.”
“Land o’ love! but the boy’s crazy!”
The hired man scratched his head. “Must say it looks like it, Katy. Still, I dunno—boys’ll be boys. And this young man acted ’sif he was willin’ to learn same time Hector did. They were sharin’, and sharin’ alike, on the smudge-pot, te he!”
Step scowled, but Poke burst into a roar of laughter, which eased the situation. The cook chuckled; Sam smiled. The hired man smote his thigh with his hand.
“Gee-whillikens! but I never saw the like of it! And I guess no great harm’s done. Don’t seem to be no fire under the porch.”
Then Poke found tongue. “It’s this way: The dog stole a chicken, and got us into a scrape. We thought we’d—er—er—we’d teach him a lesson and sicken him of stealing. And feathers and chickens go together—and—er—er—get the idea, don’t you?”
“Sorter!” grinned the hired man. “Kind o’ think I do, sonny. And t’other fellow got tangled up, somehow. Wal, yes, I do see how ’twas.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, we’ll be going home.”
The hired man waved his hand. “I would, if I was you,” he said. “I’d go home and get into some dry clothes.”
The three friends moved down the drive, with Step, a truly disconsolate and melancholy figure between the other two. For a little none of them spoke. It was left to Poke to break the silence with one of his bits of philosophy.