Part 7 (1/2)

At last they were almost there--that is, the main body. Kendrick noted, with sudden uneasiness, that there were stragglers. A gaily decorated old rooster, a fowl with a dissipated and immoral swagger and a knowing, devil-may-care tilt of the head, was sidling off to the left. Two or three young pullets were following the lead of this ancient pirate, evidently fascinated by his recklessness. The captain turned to head off the wanderers. They squawked and ran hither and thither. He succeeded in turning them back, but, at the moment of his success, heard triumphant cluckings at his rear. The rest of the flock had, while his attention was diverted by the rooster and his followers, galloped joyfully back to the garden again. Now, as Captain Sears gazed, the rooster and his satellites flew to join them. All hands--or, more literally, all feet--resumed excavating with the abandon of conscientious workers striving to make up lost time.

And now Sears Kendrick did lose his temper. Probably at another time he might have laughed, but now he was tired, in pain, and in no mood to see the humorous side of the situation. He expressed his opinion of the hens and the rooster, using quarter deck idioms and withholding little. If the objects of his wrath were disturbed they did not show it. If they were shocked they hid their confusion in the newly turned earth of Judah Cahoon's squash bed.

Whether they were shocked or not Sears did not stop to consider. He intended to shock them to the fullest extent of the word's meaning. At his feet was a stick, almost a log, part of the limb of a pear tree. He picked up this missile and hurled it at the marauders. It missed them but it struck in the squash bed and tore at least six of the delicate young squashlings from their moorings. Kendrick plunged after it--the hens separating as he advanced and rejoining at his rear--picked up the log and, turning, again hurled it.

”There!” roared the captain, ”take that, d.a.m.n you!”

One of the hens did ”take it.” So did some one else. The missile struck just beneath the fowl as she fled, lifted her and a peck or two of soil as well, and hurled the whole ma.s.s almost into the face of a person who, unseen until then, had advanced along the path from the gate and had arrived at that spot at that psychological instant. This person uttered a little scream, the hen fled with insane yells, the log and its accompanying shower fell back to earth, and Sears Kendrick and the young woman--for the newcomer was a young woman--stood and looked at each other.

She was bareheaded and her hair was dark and abundant, and she was wearing a gingham dress and a white ap.r.o.n. So much he noticed at this, their first meeting. Afterward he became aware that she was slender and that her age might perhaps be twenty-four or twenty-five. At that moment, of course, he did not notice anything except that her ap.r.o.n and dress--yes, even her hair and face--were plentifully besprinkled with earth and that she was holding a hand to her eyes as if they, too, might have received a share of the results of the terrestrial disturbance.

”Oh!” he stammered. ”I'm awfully sorry! I--I hope I didn't hurt you.”

If she heard him she did not answer, but, removing her hand, opened and shut her eyes rapidly. The captain's alarm grew as he watched this proceeding.

”I--I _do_ hope I didn't hurt you,” he repeated. ”It--it didn't put your eyes out, did it?”

She smiled, although rather uncertainly. ”No,” she said.

”You're sure?”

”Yes.” The smile became broader. ”It's not quite as bad as that, I guess. I seem to be able to see all right.”

He drew a relieved breath. ”Well, I'm thankful for so much, then,” he announced. ”But it's all over your dress--and--and in your hair--and....

Oh, I _am_ sorry!”

She laughed at this outburst. ”It is all right,” she declared. ”Of course it was an accident, and I'm not hurt a bit, really.”

”I'm glad of that. Yes, it was an accident--your part of it, I mean. I didn't see you at all. I meant the part the hen got, though.”

Her laugh was over, but there was still a twinkle in her eye. Kendrick was, by this time, aware that her eyes were brown.

”Yes,” she observed, demurely, ”I--gathered that you did.”

”Yes, I--” It suddenly occurred to him that his language had been as emphatic as his actions. ”Good lord!” he exclaimed. ”I forgot. I beg your pardon for that, too. When I lose my temper I am liable to--to make salt water remarks, I'm afraid. And those hens.... Eh? There they are again, hard at it! Will you excuse me while I kill three or four of 'em?

You see, I'm in charge of that garden and.... _Get out!_”

This last was, of course, another roar at the fowl, who, under the leaders.h.i.+p of the rake-h.e.l.ly rooster, were scratching harder than ever in the beds. The captain reached for another missile, but his visitor stepped forward.

”Please don't,” she begged. ”Please don't kill them.”

”Eh? Why not? They ought to be killed.”

”I know it, but I don't want them killed--yet, at any rate. You see, they are my hens.”

”Yours?” The captain straightened up and looked at her. ”You don't mean it?” he exclaimed.

”Yes, I do. They are mine, or my mother's, which is the same thing. I am dreadfully sorry they got in here. I'll have them out in just a minute.

Oh, yes, I will, really.”