“Not these eggs. Not these eggs. These are all prize stock, every one a prize winner.” The arms of the moon-faced madam made an upward sweep. I clapped my hands over my ears instinctively. But a compassionate Fate in the shape of a young girl intervened. “Breakfast’s ready, Ma’am,” she sang out. “Mr. MacBride says he will be right in.” A tremendous struggle was mirrored in my lady’s open countenance. She looked at the “prize chickens,” turned toward the house, shot a covert glance at Dan, gazed anxiously at the chickens again. It was a solemn moment. But fear and hospitality triumphed. “Maybe you better come in. I don’t know what Tamas will say. But the dog would have killed more—all prize stock—so shortsighted of me....” Thus rambling on, she led the way into the house, while the maid stared unbelievingly. It came my turn for wonderment when I caught sight of the breakfast table. It was loaded with great bowls of oatmeal, cream, sausage, eggs, potatoes, and a heaping plate of graham or oatmeal gems. An odour of hot cakes spoke of more food to follow. “You must wait till Tamas has finished. Just sit down here. I hear him coming now.” Our hostess turned in much agitation as a long, cadaverous individual entered the door. He halted and fixed us with a hostile glare. “Now, Tamas, now—this lady saved my prize doggins from a chick—oh, dickens from a chog—oh, oh, what am I saying!” Dan uttered a strangled snort. The mingled horror and wrath on Tamas’ face was indescribable. His unfortunate wife once more essayed an explanation. “He—he was going to suck the eggs. But I told him they were all—all prize eggs. Then I thought it best to bring them in here.” “Probably under the circumstances it was the safest thing to do, ah. So you go about the country begging, do you?” He turned to Dan. “I am surprised, surprised and pained. Your wife—I presume she is your wife?—appears quite intelligent, ah.” He dragged out each word as from the depths of ultimate wisdom. “Well, I’ll admit that my wife does show gleams of intelligence at times,” Dan responded gravely. “Those thoroughbred fowls are provoking, most provoking, ah.” Mr. MacBride turned to his palpitating wife. “You see, my dear, how very shortsighted it was of you to bargain for them while I was in Omaha. Such a waste and loss—no profit. I shall be compelled to foreclose on old lady Martin’s poultry farm next week, which will give us some of the finest fowls in this county,—and at absolutely no expense for feed and care, no bother, no annoyance. All profit, clear profit, mark you that.” He licked his lips physically and metaphorically as he seated himself at the table and attacked a bowl of oatmeal and cream. His performance reminded me of a dredger I once saw at work in the Sacramento Valley. The spoon work was wonderful—his only rival in endless chain effect being a Chinaman with chopsticks.