He was so wabbly, and so slow flying from tree to tree and
through the bushes, I just had to wait on him, for I couldn't drive him
back."
"Of course you couldn't! Me bird has too amazing good sinse to go back
when he could be following you," exulted Freckles, exactly as if he did
not realize what the delay had cost him. Then he lay silently thinking,
but presently he asked slowly: "And so 'twas me Little Chicken that was
making you late, Angel?"
"Yes," said the Angel.
A spasm of fierce pain shook Freckles, and a look of uncertainty crossed
his face.
"All summer I've been thanking God for the falling of the feather and
all the delights it's brought me," he muttered, "but this looks as
if----"
He stopped short and raised questioning eyes to McLean.
"I can't help being Irish, but I can help being superstitious," he said.
"I mustn't be laying it to the Almighty, or to me bird, must I?"
"No, dear lad," said McLean, stroking the brilliant hair. "The choice
lay with you. You could have stood a rooted dolt like all the remainder
of us.
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