We feelingly withdrew, and he did it. He took the corpse away with
him, so that he presumably had a use for it.

Soon a second pullet went down with a considerably swollen face. My
aunt bathed it twice a day in a hot anti-septic, but to no purpose,
except that the poor thing seemed much comforted by the fomentation.
That hen was, Nibletts whispered to me, for fear my aunt should
overhear, "a waster." The only thing to do was to coop it up from the
rest, or they'd all go down with it--whatever it was.

We cooped it up till it died. Nibletts certified the cause of death as
that unmentionable complaint, the pip.

Still no eggs, notwithstanding repeated appeals in the sacred name of
_Macduff_. We did, however, find out what the trouble was.

The hens were eating the eggs!

Nibletts said--under his breath--that they were what was known as
"blighters." He recommended (deprecating the term) a "stodger." A
"stodger" proved to be an egg-shell stuffed with bread-crumbs, mustard
and the strongest photographic ammonia.

My aunt said it would be cruel. It was certainly rough on me. Nibletts
apologetically directed me to blow an egg--"a shop 'un 'd do."
Accordingly, following his instructions, I injected or otherwise
introduced the ingredients through a small aperture. It was the
bread-crumbs that gave me most trouble; but it was the photographic
ammonia that was "cruel." The mustard went in quite easily with a