At the River
much, of course; just shave the ice gently and rub it over the eggs one at a time; it will often result in refreshing the attention of the hen.”
Dicksie looked grave. “Aren’t you ashamed to make fun of me?”
Whispering Smith seemed taken aback. “Is it really serious business?”
“Of course.”
“Very good. Let me watch this hen for a few minutes and diagnose her. You go on to your other chickens. I’ll stay here and think.”
Dicksie went down through the yards. When she came back, Whispering Smith was sitting on a cracker-box watching the bantam. The chicken was making desperate efforts to get off Dicksie’s cord and join its companions in the runway. Smith was eying the bantam critically when Dicksie rejoined him. “Do you usually,” he asked, looking suddenly up, “have success in setting roosters?”
“Now you are having fun with me again.”
“No, by Heaven! I am not.”
“Have you diagnosed the case?”
“I have, and I have diagnosed it as a case of mistaken identity.”
“Identity?”
“And misapplied energy. Miss Dicksie, you have tied up the wrong bird. This is not a ban-
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