Murtagh had taken to finishing the plucking of the hen, while Saloo set about divesting the old cock of his feathers.
The chick needed no plucking, nor even to be singed.

Its skin was as free of covering as the shell of the egg lately containing it.

It was tender enough to be cooked in any way.

It could be boiled over the embers, and would make a nice meal for the two young people, and doubtless greatly benefit their strength.
When the bodies of the old birds were unmasked of their feathery envelopment, it was seen that they were much smaller than supposed; and, moreover, that the hen was by many degrees larger in size and fatter than the cock.

It was but natural, and was due to her sex, as well as to her long confinement in a dark cell of but limited dimensions, where she had nothing to do but to rest.
But as the cock bird, after all, was quite as large as a Cochin-China fowl, and, moreover, in good condition, there would be enough of him to supply a full repast, without touching either the hen or chick.