The sound came from within the hut. Chaytor started, Basil looked up with a piece of mutton between his thumb and knife: forks they had none.
"Basil! Basil! Basil and Annette! Little lady! Little lady!"
"It's the magpie I told you about," said Old Corrie to Basil, "the last time I saw you."
"Its vocabulary is extended," said Basil.
"By request," said Old Corrie in a pleasant voice, "of the little lady herself."
Basil glowed. Annette had not forgotten him, even thought kindly of him; otherwise, why should she wish that the bird Old Corrie was training for her should become familiar with his name? Chaytor smarted under a sense of injury. Basil and Old Corrie were speaking of something which he did not understand--a proof that Basil had not told him everything. This, in Chaytor's estimation, was underhanded and injurious. Basil and everything in relation to him, his antecedents, his whole story, belonged by right to him, Newman Chaytor, who had saved his life, who had the strongest claim of gratitude upon him which a man could possible have. Old Corrie noted the vindictive flash in his eyes, but made no comment upon it.
"And is that really a bird?" said Chaytor, in a tone of polite inquiry.
"Go and see for yourself," replied Old Corrie, "but don't go too close. It hasn't the best of tempers."
"I should like to see the bird that could frighten me," said Chaytor, rising.
"Should you?" said Old Corrie. "Then on second thoughts I prefer that you stay where you are."