"Considering all the evidence, this certainly falls within the definition—no doubt it's abnormal and hypertrophied, but still—especially since it was hatched from the egg of a normal hen— Yes, I think, Miss Bensington, I must admit—this, so far as one can call it anything, is a sort of chick."
"You mean it's a chick?" said cousin Jane.
"I think it's a chick," said Redwood.
"What nonsense!" said Mr. Bensington's cousin Jane, and "Oh!" directed at Redwood's head, "I haven't patience with you"; and then suddenly she turned about and went out of the room with a slam.
"And it's a very great relief for me to see it, too, Bensington," said Redwood, when the reverberation of the slam had died away. "In spite of its being so big."
Without any urgency from Mr. Bensington he sat down in the low arm-chair by the fire and confessed to proceedings that even in an unscientific man would have been indiscreet. "You will think it very rash of me, Bensington, I know," he said, "but the fact is I put a little—not very much of it—but some—into Baby's bottle very nearly a week ago!"
"But suppose—!" cried Mr. Bensington.
"I know," said Redwood, and glanced at the giant chick upon the plate on the table.
"It's turned out all right, thank goodness," and he felt in his pocket for his cigarettes.
He gave fragmentary details. "Poor little chap wasn't putting on weight. . . desperately anxious.—Winkles, a frightful duffer. . . former pupil of mine. . . no good. . . . Mrs. Redwood—unmiti-
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