Dorothy on a Ranch

“Gracias, Señor Leslie. Much better. Only, the hen of Wun Sing; the omelette – Ah! I suffer, si. I groan – I am on fire. The heathen creature and his foul fowl!”

“What’s the matter, Les? Is that your pert valet laid up in yon? What’s up?”

“Rather – what’s down? The boy hasn’t been well, or says he hasn’t these three days. That’s why I had to put off the bear – ”

“Mum! Dorothy’s just behind us and she has ears all round her head! But we’ll do it, yet; either with or without him. It’ll be rippin’ fun, but if that girl gets wind of it she’ll stop it, sure.”

“I wonder if we’ll see Wun Sing’s hen!” said Monty again.

“Stark! I tell you if you mention that fowl again I’ll stuff her down your throat!” cried Herbert, dropping his jew’s-harp and engaging with Monty. But the latter was round and easily slipped through Bert’s fingers, and the scrimmage was playful, anyway.

Resuming their march they entered the great kitchen, now wholly deserted save by the Chinaman, who cowered in a corner, praying lustily to his honorable forefathers and burning some sort of stuff before a little image on the floor beside him. Like a good many others of his race, Wun Sing was “good Chlistian” when it suited him to be, but a much better devotee of his ancient gods when real trouble overtook him.

Wun Sing was in trouble now. Bottomless trouble, he feared, and so wholly engaged in his devotions that he didn’t take any notice of the noisy youngsters foraging his stores. Until, from the corner of his eye, he saw Alfy poking into a little wall-cupboard that was his own property and used to shelter his dearest treasures.

“No, no, Missee Alfaletta! No, no. Wun Sing’s chalm no wolkee if lill gels meddle!”

He rose from his prostration on the floor and fairly flew to the girl’s side, pushing her hand aside from the key she had almost turned, his whole manner expressing great agitation.

Of course, she desisted at once, even apologized for her action, but her old co-worker in Mrs. Calvert’s kitchen begged pardon in his own turn and after his foreign fashion. In his broken English he eagerly explained that he and his belongings had been bewitched.

His hen – the so beloved hen of Wun Sing, that he had brought from far away California, along with some garden seeds and roots, the hen had been entered by an evil spirit and the days of Wun Sing were numbered. Already he felt the dread sickness stealing over him, as it had already stolen upon his old neighbor of San Diego – the so afflicted Mateo. He had been praying and offering gifts to his little clay god but so far no good had come. Within the cupboard on the wall he had placed a “charm” – a terrible charm, in his opinion and if that failed not only he but all at San Leon were doomed. Would that he had never heard of the place, even for the extra big wages the rich owner had offered. He —

When he had reached this point, Alfy shook him demanding:

“What makes you such a fool, Wunny? That little old image on the floor is enough to make you sick, course, it’s so filthy dirty. I hope you’ll scrub your hands good with soap before you touch any food for other folks to eat. What’s the matter with the hen, anyway?”

Having put this question, Alfaretta walked to the sink and turned the spigot over her own hand, which suddenly felt soiled by contact with the Chinaman’s shoulder. Then she remarked:

“We’re all hungry. Tell us where we can find something to eat.”

The cook shook his head and Alfy foraged for herself: presently securing from the pantry a box of crackers and a jar of cheese. Armed with these refreshments she felt she would be sustained until the regular supper time, and invited her mates to accompany her on a visit to this wonderful hen whose name was in everybody’s mouth.

Wun Sing protested; but when they were determined, he tremblingly presented each of the youngsters with a bit of red paper, inscribed in black with a few Chinese characters. Laughingly, they pinned these on and so protected from “evil chalms” sought the little wire enclosure which the Chinaman had made for his petted fowl, upon his first coming to San Leon.

The hen had been the gift of his opulent kinsman, Der Doo, and was far too precious to its new owner to be allowed with the other poultry. It had lived in state within its little wire-covered yard, supplied with fresh grass each day and fattening upon the best of food. For its night accommodation, Wun Sing had constructed a tiny pagoda-like house imitating a temple of his native land. Here the pampered fowl slept luxuriously, and for a time had been the delight of its owner’s eyes.

“Let’s sit down on the grass and watch it awhile. We can eat our crackers here, first rate, ’cause if we get thirsty we can drink out of the spigot o’ running water that cooky has fixed for the hen,” suggested Alfy.

So they ranged themselves in a semi-circle, with the crackers and cheese in the centre and awaited developments.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” crowed Herbert, in excellent imitation of a rooster.

“Oh! hush! Hens don’t do that; they just say – cut-cut-cut-cut – cut-tarket!” corrected Molly.

Immediately the rest took up the mocking cries, to the evident distress of poor Wun Sing, who stood in the background, his face yellower than common and his hands clasping and unclasping nervously.

But neither cat-calls, crowings, nor cacklings, coaxed the invisible fowl from her palace-like retreat. So, soon tiring of this, they fell to talking of other things and forgot the creature; till, suddenly, from within the temple came a crow that beat even Herbert’s noisy ones. It was so loud and so sudden, and was so closely followed by a jubilant cackle, that all of them were a trifle startled while Wun Sing threw himself down in real terror.

The cackling continued a longer time than is usual and ended in another masculine crow. Then there solemnly stalked into the little yard a very handsome fowl, of the Plymouth Rock species, who strutted about as if she were the queen of all hens.

“Huh! Nothing the matter with that biddy, Wun Sing! I wish ’t Ma Babcock had her in our hennery, up-mounting. What’s wrong with her, you think, Wunny?”

“Missee Alfletta —eggs!”

“Well, what’s a hen’s business in life but to lay eggs?” demanded Herbert, laughing at the Chinaman’s curious expression.

Then it came out. That hen did lay eggs – such eggs! She was a big hen and her eggs so small, and so many! Ah! she was bewitched. She was bewitching Wun Sing. She had already bewitched Mateo, yes. It began the very day the master left. On that sorrowful, august occasion that pent up, solitary fowl deposited two eggs in her softly lined nest.

“That might be. Ma’s hens do that, sometimes, good breeds,” said Alfy, in answer to the Chinaman’s impressive statement.

With all this company of doubters around him Wun Sing felt secure enough to go on and state that on the day following there had been four eggs! Then one – then again seven – the mystic number. Latterly there had been eight, nine, as high as ten! All in one twenty-four hours! Could a fowl, free from an evil spirit, so conduct itself? No. No, indeed. Wun Sing knew what he knew. Disaster was coming. There was trouble on the wing. It would light upon San Leon. They were doomed – doomed – doomed!

“I don’t believe it!” declared Leslie. “But a hen of that character ought to crow as well as cackle. How much’ll you take for her, cooky? I’ll buy and start a hennery to stump the world. Anybody want to go in with me on this deal? San Leon Chinese Poultry – Warranted to Make Possessors Rich! The Egg Trust of San Leon! I say, boys, the thing’s just rippin’!”

“Undo that little gate, Wunny. I’m going in to collect the eggs. Come on, Alfy, or anybody,” cried Dorothy, laughing. “That empty cracker box to hold them in. By the way, Wunny, when did you empty the nest?”

He assured her that he had done so the last thing before retiring on the night before. He had already taken two from it this day. Now by the cackle – there must be – Ah! he finished his speech with a wild flourish of his hands, then put them before his eyes to shield them from an uncanny sight.

Those outside the little poultry yard waited in curiosity for the others to come back. The two girls within it had their heads close together peering into the hen-temple, while Monty had squeezed his plump body through its little door with the cracker box in hand.

“Oh! I say, come out of there! How many have you found?” called Herbert. “Hurry up! Nell and Molly are getting scared. Fact!”

“I’m not,” denied Molly, but Helena said nothing. It was absurd, but she was actually catching some of the Chinaman’s nervousness over this most uncanny fowl. And a moment later, she was relieved to see the egg-hunters turn around and Monty emerge from that “heathen temple,” the cracker box held tightly in his hand. He carried it as if it were heavy and his face was almost as solemn as the Chinaman’s. The box contained eleven eggs!

Wun Sing gave one glance and fled, and trying to take the box into his own hands, Leslie dropped it – with the natural result.

“Well, they may be bewitched eggs but they can break ‘allee samee!’ I’m sorry, Wun Sing, but I’ll pay for them! And say, did anybody ever hear of such a thing before?” asked Leslie, astonished.

Nobody had; and seeing Dr. Jones crossing the grounds at a little distance they ran to him with the marvellous tale. He listened attentively and even walked back with them to see the hen for himself. His decision put bewitchment out of the question.

“The bird is a freak of nature. I have read of such before, but they are rare. Either that – or – are you quite sure that no practical joke has been played by any of the boys – or by yourselves?”

His keen study of their faces revealed nothing mischievous on any. They were all as honestly surprised as himself, and he then made a close inspection of the little place. The pagoda stood exactly in the centre of the yard, so far from the wire-netting on every side that no arm would be long enough to reach it and drop eggs into the nest at the back. Wun Sing always kept the key of the Chinese padlock on the wire gate and entrance through it without his consent could not be made.

“It doesn’t look like a hoax, and it’s not to be wondered at that the Chinaman was scared. We all are – at the unusual and unexplainable. But this is simple. It is a freak of nature and the hen will probably die soon, of exhaustion.”

The Doctor walked away and Molly made a funny little face behind his back.

“I call that real mean, to take the mystery out of it in that way! I’ve been getting delightfully goose-fleshy and creepy, just to find the spook is nothing but a silly old hen that’s outdone herself. I hate to be disappointed like that. I wish something would happen, real hair-raising, as Indians, or bears, or even a few catamounts!”

“If they did, I’d like to be on the spot. I bet you, Molly Breckenridge, you’d run faster than anybody if those things did happen,” teased Monty.

Saying that, he exchanged an odd glance with Leslie, who nodded and said:

“Come along, boys, let’s visit Mateo in a body. Force of numbers you know. He lays it to eggs – Wunny’s bewitched eggs, but I lay it to cowardice. There’s nothing the matter with my valiant valet but downright scare. After proposing the thing, too, and being the best figure of all to do it. Ta, ta, ladies! We shall meet again – at feeding time. Eh, Alfy? I mean Miss Babcock!”

“Huh! Don’t you think I didn’t notice ’t you ate more ’n anybody else of the crackers and cheese. Good-by!”