Charlotte faced round once more.
"Doctor Churchill," she said, "I never cleaned a chicken in my life. I
don't know what I'm doing at all, only that I've been doing it for
almost an hour, and it isn't done. I presume it's because I take so much
time washing my hands."
She smiled in spite of herself as the doctor's hearty laugh filled the
little kitchen.
"I think I can appreciate your feelings," he remarked.
He walked over to the table. "Get a good hold on the offending windpipe,
shut your eyes and pull."
"I'm afraid of doing something wrong."
"You won't. The trachea of the domestic fowl was especially designed for
the purpose, only the necessary attachment for getting a firm grip on it
was accidentally omitted."
"It certainly was." Charlotte tugged away energetically for a moment,
and drew out the windpipe successfully. The doctor regarded the bird
with a quizzical expression.
"I should advise you to cut up the chicken and make a fricassee of it,"
he observed.
"I want to roast it. I've got the stuffing all ready." She indicated a
bowlful of macerated bread-crumbs mixed with milk and butter, and
liberally seasoned with pepper.
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