"But I do, John," tartly responded Mrs. Fortescue.

Anita knew that when it was Jack and Betty the skies were serene, and
when it became John and Elizabeth there were clouds upon the horizon.

At this point Kettle, who was serving dinner, felt that his duty as
Broussard's ally was to speak.

"Miss Betty," said he with solemn emphasis, "Mr. Broussard doan' keep
them chickens in his cellar fur to fight; he keeps 'em to lay aigs fur
his breakfus'."

"That's queer," said the Colonel, "all of Mr. Broussard's chickens are
cock chickens."

This would have abashed a less ardent partisan, but it only stimulated
Kettle.

"Come to think of it, Miss Betty," Kettle continued stoutly, "them
chickens is cock chickens, but Mr. Broussard, he keep 'em for fryin'
chickens and bri'lers; he eats a cock chicken ev'ry mornin' fur his
breakfus', day in and day out."

"Oh, Kettle!" said Anita, in a tone of soft reproach. She disliked the
notion of a cockpit, but she was a lover of abstract truth, which
Kettle was not.

"Well, Miss Anita," Kettle began argumentatively, "the truth is, Mr.
Broussard, he jes' keep them chickens to' 'commodate the chaplain. The
chaplain, he's a gre't cockfighter, an' he say, 'Mr. Broussard, the