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“You will,” answered Flaps.

“Is it far, dear Flaps?”

“It is very near,” said Flaps; “but I may as well tell you the truth at once–it’s a farmyard.”

“Oh!–” said all the fowls.

“We may be roasted, or have our heads chopped off,” whimpered the young cockerels.

“Well, Scratchfoot was roasted at Hencastle,” said Flaps; “and he wasn’t our only loss. One can’t have everything in this world; and I assure you, if you could see the poultry-yard–so dry under foot, nicely wired in from marauders; the most charming nests, with fresh hay in them; drinking-troughs; and then at regular intervals, such abundance of corn, mashed potatoes, and bones, that my own mouth watered at–are served out–“

“That sounds good,” said the young cockerels.

“Ahem! ahem!” said the chief cock. “Did you see anything very remarkable–were the specimens of my race much superior in strength and good looks?—-“

“My dear cock!” said Flaps; “there’s not a tail or a comb or a hackle to touch you. You’ll be cock of the walk in no time.”

“Ahem! ahem!” said the chief cock modestly. “I have always had a sort of fatality that way. Pray, my dears, don’t look so foolish and deplorable, but get the young people together, and let us make a start. Mr. Flaps is a person of strong common sense, a quality for which I myself have always been remarkable, and I thoroughly endorse and support his excellent advice, of which I am the best judge. I have very much regretted of late to observe a tendency in this family (I say a tendency, for I hope it goes no further) to undervalue Mr. Flaps, and even (I hardly like to allude to such reprehensible and disgusting absurdity) to recall the memory of a vulgar red-haired impostor, who gained a brief entrance into our family circle. I am not consulted as I should be in these fluctuations of opinion, but there are occasions when it is necessary that the head of a family should exercise his discretion and his authority, and, so to speak, put down his claw. I put down my claw. We are going to Mr. Flaps’ farmyard. Cock-a-doodle-doo Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

Now, when the head of a family says “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” there is nothing more to be said. So to the farmyard the whole lot of them went, and were there before the sun got one golden hair of his head over the roof of the big barn.

And only Mark, as they all crowded into their new home, turned his head round over his back to say: “And you, Flaps; what shall you do?”

“Oh, I shall be all right,” said Flaps. “Good-bye and good luck to you.”

It cannot be said that Flaps was positively in high spirits when he had settled his proteges in their new home in the farmyard, and was left alone; but there are some good folk who contrive to make duty do the work of pleasure in this life, and then a piece of business fairly finished is as good as a treat.

It is not bread and bones, however, and Flaps was very hungry–so hungry that he could not resist the temptation to make his way towards the farmhouse, on the chance of picking up some scraps outside. And that was how it came about, that when the farmer’s little daughter Daisy, with a face like the rosy side of a white-heart cherry set deep in a lilac print hood, came back from going with the dairy lass to fetch up the cows, she found Flaps snuffing at the back door, and she put her arms round his neck (they reached right round with a little squeezing) and said:

“Oh, I never knew you’d be here so early! You nice thing!”

And Flaps’ nose went right into the print hood, and he put out his tongue and licked Daisy’s face from the point of her chin up her right cheek to her forehead, and then from her forehead down her left cheek back to her chin, and he found that she was a very nice thing too.