“That must be Squealer, the one who got his ears boxed,” whispered Ann to Rudolf, “but what do you suppose is the matter with the other duck, the one in the heap?  He will be smothered, I know he will!”

Rudolf thought so, too, yet it didn’t seem polite to mention it.  The Lady Goose had been busily helping the children to brush off the feathers that were sticking to them, and patting Peter on the back with her bill because he said he was sure he had swallowed at least a pound.  She now brought forward chairs for them all.  As the children looked around more closely they saw that the room they were in was a very cozy sort of place, long and low and neatly furnished with a white deal table, a shiny black cook-stove, a great many bright copper saucepans, and a red geranium in the window.  A large iron pot was boiling merrily on the stove and from time to time the Gray Goose stirred its contents with a wooden spoon.  It smelled rather good, and Peter, sniffing, began to put on his hungry expression.

“No, not even a family resemblance,” went on the Gray Goose, waving her spoon, “although, as is generally known, a Roman nose is characteristic in our family, having developed in fact at the time of that little affair when we repelled the Gauls in the year—­”

But Rudolf felt he could not stand much more of this.  “I beg your pardon,” he interrupted, “but would you mind if we helped the little one out of the heap, the—­the—­duck who is getting so thoroughly smothered?”

“Not at all, if you care about it,” said the Gray Goose kindly.  “Squawker’ll be good now, won’t he, Father?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be good,” Ann cried, and she ran ahead of Rudolf to catch hold of one of the thin yellow legs and give it a mighty pull.

“He’ll be good,” said the Gentleman Goose gravely, speaking for the first time, “when he’s roasted.  Very good indeed’ll Squawker be—­with apple sauce!” And he smacked his lips and winked at Peter who was standing close beside him, looking up earnestly into his face.

Peter thought a moment.  Then he said:  “I likes currant jelly on my duck.  I eats apple sauce on goose.”

The Gentleman Goose appeared suddenly uncomfortable.  He began nervously stuffing little parcels of the feathers he had been weighing into small blue and white striped bags, which he threw one after the other to Squealer, who never by any chance caught them as he turned his back at every throw.  “I suppose,” said the Gentleman Goose to Peter in a hesitating, anxious sort of voice, “you believe along with all the rest, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, don’t you?  I suppose there’s nothing sauce-y about yourself now, is there?” And apparently comforted by his miserable little joke he went on with his weighing.

By this time the other little duck had been hauled out of the heap of feathers by Ann and Rudolf, and stood coughing and sneezing and gasping in the middle of the floor.  As soon as he had breath enough he began calling pitifully for some one to brush the down off his Sunday trousers.  The Gray Goose came good-naturedly to his assistance, but as she brushed him all the wrong way, the children couldn’t see that she improved him very much.  Squawker seemed quite pleased, however, and turned himself round and round for their approval.