"Have you any
lobsters, Mr. Apgar?"
"Lobsters? No'm. They don't raise none of them birds out here. But we
got chicken."
"Oh, listen to him, Pearl!" exclaimed Miss Dixon. "He thinks a
lobster is a bird."
"Don't mind them," said Paul Ardite to Sandy, in a low voice. "It
hasn't been many years that they could afford lobster. Chicken for
mine, every time."
"Well, they do say ma cooks th' best chicken around here," spoke
Sandy, proudly. "She done it in Southern style this time."
"Say no more!" exclaimed Mr. DeVere. "Sandy, you are a gentleman and
a scholar. How long will it take us to get to your farm?"
"About half an hour."
"That's twenty-nine minutes too long, since you have mentioned
chicken in Southern style. But do your best."
Seated in the comfortable carryall, the members of the moving
picture company began their trip to Oak Farm. The way lay along a
pleasant country road, and in the distance could be seen the cool,
green hills.
It was early June, and, all about, the farmers were doing their work.
The air was sweet with the scent of flowers and the green woods, for
the road led past several forest patches where the wind swept
pleasantly through the swaying trees.
"Oh, it is just lovely here!" sighed Ruth, as she removed her hat and
let the gentle wind blow about her hair.
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