"A parrot, by the looks of it," put in Mr Philp.
"Sherlock 'Omes!" Mr Rogers congratulated him curtly.
"'Mornin', Mr Rogers—mornin', Mr Philp!" 'Bias halted and held out the cage at half-arm's length. "Yes, 'tis a fine bird I'm told." He eyed the parrot vindictively.
"Talks?"
"Damn! That's just it."
"What can it say?"
"Dunno. Wish I did. Will ye take the bird for a gift, or would ye rather have sixpence to wring its neck?"
"Both," suggested Mr Philp with promptitude.
"What yer wrigglin' for like that, at the back o' my chair, you Tabb's child?" asked Mr Rogers, whose paralysis prevented his turning his head.
"Offer for 'n, master!" whispered Fancy. Mr Rogers, if he heard, made no sign. "D'ye mean it?" he inquired of 'Bias. "I'm rather partial to parrots, as it happens: and it's a fine bird. What's the matter with it?"