“I know of one nest—eleven eggs, old bird sitting,” he said, in a tone of exultation. “Just your book, I should say.”
“That’s the style, Polly. Bring ’em to me, my lad, and I’ll give you a shilling.”
“If you’ll give me a shilling I’ll show you the nest, and let you take it as you did the bottletit’s. I want money, I can tell you.”
“I s’pose you do. That’s by no means an uncommon complaint.”
“Well, you can have it if you like—only say the word.”
“And fork out the bob—eh?”
“Yes, that’s a bargain, you know.”
“Well, look here, my little ace of trumps, that may be all very well; but how am I to know if you wont round on me afterwards?”
“I never rounded on anybody in my life,” cried Alf, in a tone of indignation.
“Umph, I’m jolly glad of it; but you’ve got a pair of queer grey peepers. I’m always keerful how I do business with grey peepers.”