Betty at Fort Blizzard | Page 7

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 Kun'l
is mighty strict, an' kinder queer in his head, an' he ain't no dead game
sport like me an' you, so if you will oblige me, Mr. Broussard, jes' keep
my fightin' chickens in your cellar, an' if the Kun'l say anything to you,
tell him them chickens is yourn. You wouldn't mind a little thing like
that, would you, Mr. Broussard?' That's what I hee'rd the chaplain say."

"Kettle!" shouted the Colonel, and Mrs. Fortescue remarked candidly:
"You are a big story-teller, Kettle, there isn't a word of truth in all you
have been telling."
"That's so, Miss Betty," announced Kettle, brazenly. "Truth is, Mr.
Broussard ain't got no chickens at all in his cellar, he keeps ducks, Miss
Betty, 'cause the water rises in the cellar all the time."
Kettle's active help did not end with wholesale lying as a means of
helping Broussard. Within a week every time the After-Clap caught
sight of Broussard he would shout for "Bruvver." This, Kettle carefully
explained, was the baby's way of saying Broussard, but it brought a
good many quarters from Broussard's pocket into Kettle's palm.
CHAPTER II
A PRETTY MAID AND A GAMECHICK
The December days sped on, and Christmas was nearing. As the great,
splendid fort was a shut-in place, the people in it made great
preparations for Christmas, if only to forget that they were shut in. The
Christmas Eve exhibition drill and music ride was to be the principal
event of the season, and, wonder of wonders, Anita was to ride with
Broussard at the music ride. This was not accomplished without
pleadings and even tears from Anita. Mrs. Fortescue took no part in this
affair between the Colonel and the adored of his heart; Anita and the
Colonel had always settled their problems between themselves solely.
Sergeant McGillicuddy had something to do with wringing from the
Colonel his consent that Anita should ride with Broussard.
"Accordin' to my way of thinkin', Mr. Broussard is the best rider of all
the young orficers, sir," said McGillicuddy to the Colonel, in the
seclusion of the office. "Miss Anita, she'd look mighty pretty ridin' with
him, and Pretty Maid is as quiet as a lamb, sir, under the saddle. I
wouldn't answer for her in shafts, sir. Lord! There's nothin' too devilish
for a horse to do in shafts, or hitched to a pole. Missis McGillicuddy
can't see it in this light, judgin' from the Christmas gift she's preparin' to

give me."
"What is it, McGillicuddy?" asked the Colonel.
"It's a buggy, sir," answered the Sergeant despondently. "When I
wanted to enlist in the aviation corps that woman, sir, forbid it; she said
to me, 'Patrick McGillicuddy, I never did believe one word about your
bein' afraid av horses in wheeled vehicles.' An' ivery time I go up in a
flyin' machine, just for the fun av it, Missis McGillicuddy, she says to
me 'Patrick, if they was to lop off the f from that flyin' machine, it
would fit you to a t, bedad!' And that's the way she talks to me when I
spent seven dollars and fifty cents in gettin' prognostications that I was
goin' to marry a woman as would follow me around like a poodle dog!"
"Women have a good many burrs in their convolutions," said the
Colonel, lighting a cigar and handing a handful to the Sergeant.
"They has, sir," replied McGillicuddy, accepting the cigars with doleful
gratitude, "and Missis McGillicuddy threatens to take me out in that
buggy on Christmas day. Well, sir, I've made my will and settled up my
account at the post trader's, and the aviation orficer has promised to tak'
me on a fly Christmas Eve morning. It may be the last fly I'll take until
I get wings, for I hardly expects,