IN ORDER to relieve the reader's suspense, I may as well say here that
Jimmy Dunn did not marry Miss Seiler. It is too bad to have to sacrifice
what promised to be a first-class love interest, but the truth is that
there is less chance of Jimmy ever marrying Miss Seiler than there
seemed likelihood of Isobel and me reaching Port Lafayette in Mr.
Millington's automobile.
Usually when we started for Port Lafayette, my wife and Millington's
wife would dress for the matinée or church, or wherever they intended
going that day, and when Millington heard the knocking sound in his
engine and began to get out his tools, they would excuse themselves
politely and go and spend the day in the city. They usually returned
in time to get into the car and ride back to the garage. But I stuck to
Millington. You never can tell when a car of that kind will be ready to
start up, and I was really very anxious to go to Port Lafayette. I spent
some very delightful days with Millington that way, for when he was
mending his car he was always in a charming humour, and as gay and
playful as a kitten.
I began to fear that one, if not the only, reason why Mr. Millington was
always in such a good humour when his car was in a bad one, was because
I had told him that I had heard of a man in Port Lafayette who had a
fine farm of White Wyandotte chickens, and that I thought I might buy
some for my place. Millington does not believe in Wyandottes. He is all
for Orpingtons.
It is remarkable how many wives object to chickens. I do not blame
Isobel for not liking chickens, for she was born in a flat, and I am
willing to make allowances for her lack of education; but why Mrs. Rolfs
and Mrs. Millington should dislike chickens was beyond my comprehension.
Both were born in the suburbs, and grew up in a real chickenish
atmosphere, and still they do not keep chickens. I must say, however,
that Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington are persons of greater intelligence.
Almost the first day I moved into the suburb of Westcote, Mr. Rolfs
leaned over the division fence and complimented me on my foresight in
purchasing such an admirable place on which to raise chickens. He told
me that if I needed any advice about chickens he would be glad to supply
me with all I wished, just as a neighbourly matter. He seemed to take it
as a matter of course that I would arrange for a lot of chickens as soon
as I was fairly settled on the place, and in this he was seconded by Mr.
Millington.
When Mr. Millington saw Mr. Rolfs talking to me, he came right over and
said that, while he hated to boast, he had studied chickens from A to
Gizzard, and that when I was ready to get my chickens he could give me
some suggestions that would be simply invaluable. We talked the chicken
matter over very thoroughly, and I soon saw that they were men of
knowledge and deep experience in chicken matters, and when they had
decided that I would keep chickens, and what kind of chickens, and where
I should build the coop, and what kind of coop I should build, we all
shook hands warmly, and I went around front to tell Isobel. I was very
enthusiastic about chickens when I went.
After I had interviewed Isobel for three minutes I learned, definitely,
that I was not going to keep chickens. There were a great many things
Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington had not said about chickens, and those were
the very things Isobel told me, and they were all reasons for not having
chickens on the place at all. She also threw in an opinion of Mr. Rolfs
and Mr. Millington. It seemed that they were two villains of the most
depraved sort, who did not dare keep chickens themselves because they
were afraid of their wives, and who were trying to steal a vicarious joy
by bossing my chickens when I got them, but that I was not going to get
any. Absolutely!
Of course, I always do what Isobel tells me, and when she told me I was
not going to have chickens, I obeyed. But I merely told Mr. Rolfs
and Mr. Millington when they came over the next day, that I had been
thinking the matter over and that I was doubtful whether the south corner
or the north corner would be the best place for the coop. So we three
went and looked over the ground again. Both favoured the north corner,
so I hung back and seemed undecided and doubtful, and finally, in a week
or two, they agreed with me.
[Illustration: 123]
I never saw two men so anxious to have a neighbour keep chickens. They
were willing to let me have almost everything my own way. It was quite a
strain on me, for I had to think of a new objection to their plans every
day or so, but I could see the suspense was harder on Mr. Rolfs and Mr.
Millington. Every morning they came and hung over my fence wistfully,
and every evening they came over and talked chickens, and on the train
to town they spoke freely of the chickens they were going to keep. In
a month they were talking of the chickens they _were_ keeping, and
bragging about them; and old-seasoned chicken raisers used to hunt them
up and sit with them and ask for information on knotty points.
Toward fall Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington were beginning to talk about
the large sums of money they were making out of their chickens, and
promising settings of their White Orpington and White Wyandotte eggs to
the commuters, and they began to be really annoying. They would stand
at the fence, hollow-eyed and hungry-looking, staring into my yard, and
when I passed they would make slighting remarks about me and the lack of
decision in my character. They said sneeringly that they did not believe
I would ever get any chickens.
“You, Millington, and you, Rolfs,” I said firmly, “should remember one
thing: I am the man who is getting these chickens, and the main thing in
raising chickens is to start right. I do not want to go into this thing
hastily and then regret it all my life. If you do not like my way, all
you have to do is to build coops yourselves and buy chickens and raise
them yourselves. Be patient. Every day I am learning more about chickens
from your conversations on the train, and when I do get my chickens you
will find I have profited by your suggestions.”
Millington and Rolfs had to be satisfied with that, so far as I was
concerned, for although I spoke to Isobel frequently on the subject of
chickens she had not changed. I silenced Millington by telling him I
would have chickens long before he ever succeeded in taking Isobel and
me to Port Lafayette in his automobile.
“If that is all you are waiting for,” he said, “we will start
to-morrow,” and so we did; but that was all.
Millington and Rolfs, during the winter, worked off some of their
surplus chicken energy writing letters to the poultry periodicals. My
friends in town began asking me why I did not keep chickens when I
lived near to such chicken experts as Rolfs and Millington, by whose
experience I could profit; but the worst came one day on the train when
Rolfs actually had the assurance to offer me a setting of his White
Wyandotte eggs. I blame Rolfs and Millington for acting in this way. No
man should brag about chickens he has not; I only bragged about those I
meant to get.
By the time spring put forth her tender leaves, Rolfs and Millington
were so deep in their imaginary chicken business that they talked
nothing else, and all their spare time was spent in my yard, urging me
to hurry a little and get the chickens.
“I wish you would hurry a bit in getting those chickens of mine,”
Millington would say; “I ought to have at least ten hens sitting by this
time.” And then Rolfs would say: “He is right about that. Unless you get
my White Wyandottes soon, the chicks will not be hatched out before
cold weather. I ought to have the hens on the eggs now.” Occasionally I
mentioned chickens in an off-hand way to Isobel, but she had not changed
her views.
“Now, Isobel,” I would say, “about chickens--”
At the word “chickens” Isobel would look at me reproachfully, and I
would end meekly: “About chickens, as I was saying. Don't you think we
could have a pair of broilers to-morrow?”
As a matter of fact, this happened so often that I began to hate the
sight of a broiled chicken, and was forced to mention roast chicken once
in a while. It was after one of these times that the event happened that
stirred all Westcote.
I had reached a point where I dodged Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington when
I saw them, in order to avoid their insistent clamour for chickens, when
one evening Isobel met me at the door with a smile.
“John!” she cried. “What do you think! Our chicken laid an egg!”
“Chicken?” I asked anxiously. “Did you say chicken?”
“And I am going to give you the egg for dinner,” cried Isobel joyfully.
“Just think, John! Our own egg, laid by our own chicken! Do you want
it fried, or boiled, or scrambled?”
“Isobel,” I demanded, “what is the meaning of all this?”
“I just could not kill the hen,” Isobel ran on, “after it had been
so--so friendly. Could I? I felt as if I would be killing one of the
family.”
“People do get to feeling that way about chickens when they keep them,”
I said insinuatingly. “Why, Isobel, I have known wives to love chickens
so warmly--wives that had never cared a snap for chickens before--wives
that hated chickens--and they grew to love chickens so well that as
soon as the coop was made--of course it was a nice, clean, airy coop,
Isobel--and the dear little fluffy chicks began to peep about--”
Isobel stiffened.
“John,” she said finally “you are not going to keep chickens!”
“Certainly not!” I agreed hastily.
“But of course we can't kill Spotty,” said Isobel. “I call her Spotty
because that seems such a perfect name for her. I telephoned for a
roaster this morning, because you suggested having a roaster for dinner,
John, and when the roaster came it was a _live_ chicken! Imagine!”
“Horrors!” I exclaimed.
“I should think so!” agreed Isobel. “So there was nothing to do but
'phone the grocer to come and get the live roaster, but when I 'phoned,
his grandmother was much worse, and the store was closed until she
got better--or worse--and I couldn't bear to see the poor thing in the
basket with its legs tied all that time, for there is no telling how
long an old person like a grandmother will remain in the same condition,
so I loosened the roaster in the cellar, and at a quarter past four I
heard it cluck. It had laid an egg. I knew that the moment I heard it
cluck.”
“Isobel,” I said, “you were born to be the wife of a chicken fancier!
You shall eat that egg!”
“No, John,” she said, “you shall eat it. It is our first real egg, laid
by our dear little Spotty, and you shall eat it.”
“No, Isobel,” I began, and then, as I saw how determined she was, I
compromised. “Let us have the egg scrambled,” I said, “and each of us
eat a part.”
“Very well,” said Isobel, “if you will promise not to kill Spotty. We
will keep her forever and forever!”