flushed, Tommy came
back to his post and poked his gun through the knothole. And once more,
after a very brief interval, here came Pete.

To analyze the motives that led to his return would require a knowledge
of rooster psychology, if any such thing exists. Maybe Pete actually
forgot what had just happened--his head was very small, his face very
narrow, and he had a receding forehead. More likely, though, his
enormous vanity lay at the bottom of it. He would show these wives of
his, in whose admiration he basked all the day long, whether or not he
was to be thwarted in his purpose of eating crumbs by a meddling boy
with some kind of shiny instrument in his hand.

Yet once more, when Tommy burst upon him and into the midst of his
admirers, he threw all semblance of dignity aside. He ran ingloriously
away, jumping high into the air when clods of dirt like exploding bombs
struck near him, and hitting the ground again on the run, with loud
cackles of indignation and wild excitement.

"Sick him, F'ank!" screamed the boy. "Sick him!"

But old Frank sat down on his haunches panting, which is a dog's way of
shaking his head. To injure his master's property, even at an order from
his master's offspring, was something which he, as a dog of honour,
could never think of doing. He did look with a touch of regretful
longing at the fleeing rooster; he pricked his ears, his eyes grew
fierce, he licked his chops. There had been a time, perhaps--but that
was long ago, in the dim past of his irresponsible puppyhood.

"You ain't no 'count!" said the boy.

The long silken ears flattened; the brown eyes looked indulgently into
the angry blue ones. He could stand such an accusation very well; his
character was thoroughly established, his life an open book. Just now
the boy was beside himself with anger, and a friend passes over things
said in anger. Only a small spirit without magnanimity is touchy on
such points.

Tail waving gently, therefore, he followed the outraged boy back to the
barn. The crumbs were all gone. The nimble bills of the hens, the
greedy, overbearing beak of the rooster, had gobbled them all up.
Resentfully, Tommy picked up his shiny air rifle and went to the house
after more.

In the spacious kitchen, hung with pots and pans, old Aunt Cindy, big,
fat, black, her head tied up in a red bandanna handkerchief, sat
churning butter and singing a hymn:

"Dere was ninety an' nine dat safely lay
In de s