Another rectangle on the back side of the midget Victorian house looked big enough to open. Judging from the worn spot on the paint of the trim that ran through the middle of it, that was the handle.
The cart pulled up. An older female voice called out to someone in the house.
Max opened the large rectangle. A flurry of feathers and upset hens came flying out. A last pair ran clucking from the smaller door with a ramp. Max went inside to hide. With any luck, the good Dr. would simply restart his intervals, starting with a short one, now that he’d sent Max to a different time period. Max found a bunch of straw in the corners behind the rows of off-the-ground nests. His head connected with one of the rungs in the rafters. Max froze to make sure that noise hadn’t drawn undue attention.
After Max was beginning to think the cart had come back for some other reason, a feeling of foolishness at his fear crept in. All the voices had died out. Even the disturbed hens were content pecking in the dirt outside.
Then a rooster made his appearance.
At first Max guessed it was just a large bold hen who had come back to claim their spot on a hay-filled nest. But it had a large mohawk of a tail. Then it’s half crowing and bold sounding clucks of warning confirmed that it was more than just a mad hen. When the sharp beak started in on him, Max quickly abandoned hope of waiting out his stay in the hen house. The rooster wasn’t content to just have him vacate the premise, however. He chased Max all through the barn yard with sharp jabs at his exposed ankles, causing Max to prance about trying to keep them off the ground.
To his relief, a broom swept the rooster away. Then a set of folded clothes smacked him in the face.