He woke with a start, a childish treble in his ears.
“Poor little birdie,” the voice was saying. “Look, Mr. Deeling. It hasn’t got any head!”
Mr. Deeling opened his eyes and sat up with a Jerk. In front of him stood Miss Collett in her girlish frock, bearing in her arms a dead cockerel, its feathers spattered with blood and a red stain where the head should have been.
“I found it in the woods,” she said, as Mr. Deeling gazed at her. “We must have a funeral. Come and help me, Mr. Deeling.”
Mr. Deeling rose to his feet. The sight of this grown woman in her girlish frock, crooning over that dreadful trophy, disturbed even his unimaginative soul.
“Drop that disgusting thing at once,” he said sternly. “Go to your room and wash your face and hands.”
For answer Miss Collett dropped the bird
