"Now all's shipshape for the night," said Pan as he spread out his armful
of feathers into a bunchy line on the edge of the bin. "Just throw them
about two double handfulls of mixed corn and wheat down in the hay litter
on the floor at daybreak and keep them shut up and scratching until you are
sure none of them are going to lay. From the red of their combs I judge
they will all be laying in a few days."

"At daybreak?" I faltered.

"Yes; they ought to be got to work as soon as they hop off the roost,"
answered Pan, as he spread a little more of the hay on the floor in front
of the perch of the Bird family.

"How do I know it--I mean daybreak?" I asked, with eagerness and
hesitation both in my voice, as Pan started padding out through the
monster-haunted darkness towards the square of silver light beyond the huge
door. As I asked my question I followed close at his heels.

"I'll be going through to Plunketts and I'll call you, like this." As we
came from the shadows into the moonlight beside the coach, Adam paused and
gave three low weird notes, which were so lovely that they seemed the
sounds from which the melody of all the world was sprung. "I'll call twice,
and then you answer if you are awake. If not, I'll call again."

"I'll be awake," I asserted positively. "Won't you--that is, must I fix--"

"That's all for to-night, and good night," he answered me with a laugh that
was as reedy as the brisk wind in the trees. In a second he was padding
away from me into the trees beyond the garden as swiftly as I suppose