“The Chicken?” said the Captain.
“The Game Chicken,” said Mr Toots.
The Captain shaking his head, Mr Toots explained that the man alluded to was the celebrated public character who had covered himself and his country with glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire One; but this piece of information did not appear to enlighten the Captain very much.
“Because he’s outside: that’s all,” said Mr Toots. “But it’s of no consequence; he won’t get very wet, perhaps.”
“I can pass the word for him in a moment,” said the Captain.
“Well, if you would have the goodness to let him sit in the shop with your young man,” chuckled Mr Toots, “I should be glad; because, you know, he’s easily offended, and the damp’s rather bad for his stamina. I’ll call him in, Mr Gills.”
With that, Mr Toots repairing to the shop-door, sent a peculiar whistle into the night, which produced a stoical gentleman in a shaggy white great-coat and a flat-brimmed hat, with very short hair, a broken nose, and a considerable tract of bare and sterile country behind each ear.
“Sit down, Chicken,” said Mr Toots.
The compliant Chicken spat out some small pieces of straw on which he was regaling himself, and took in a fresh supply from a reserve he carried in his hand.