It was for the purpose of instructing him further in the
matter of feeding them.
Where were the grits? They needed grits. He didn't know. The sack
had been lost among the miscellaneous stores, but Mr. Pike had
promised a couple of sailors that afternoon to overhaul the
lazarette.
"Plenty of ashes," she told the steward. "Remember. And if a sailor
doesn't clean the coop each day, you report to me. And give them
only clean food--no spoiled scraps, mind. How many eggs yesterday?"
The steward's eyes glistened with enthusiasm as he said he had got
nine the day before and expected fully a dozen to-day.
"The poor things," said Miss West--to me. "You've no idea how bad
weather reduces their laying." She turned back upon the steward.
"Mind now, you watch and find out which hens don't lay, and kill them
first. And you ask me each time before you kill one."
I found myself neglected, out there on top the draughty house, while
Miss West talked chickens with the Chinese ex-smuggler. But it gave
me opportunity to observe her.
Pages:
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177