He looked and spoke as if he would have been far from objecting to do so, however, on a favourable occasion.
“And to talk about birdcages, too!” whimpered the Grinder. “As if that was a crime! Why, look’ee here! Do you know who this belongs to?”
“To Master, dear?” said the old woman with a grin.
“Ah!” replied the Grinder, lifting a large cage tied up in a wrapper, on the table, and untying it with his teeth and hands. “It’s our parrot, this is.”
“Mr Carker’s parrot, Rob?”
“Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown?” returned the goaded Grinder. “What do you go naming names for? I’m blest,” said Rob, pulling his hair with both hands in the exasperation of his feelings, “if she ain’t enough to make a cove run wild!”
“What! Do you snub me, thankless boy!” cried the old woman, with ready vehemence.
“Good gracious, Misses Brown, no!” returned the Grinder, with tears in his eyes. “Was there ever such a—! Don’t I dote upon you, Misses Brown?”
“Do you, sweet Rob? Do you truly, chickabiddy?” With that, Mrs Brown held him in her fond embrace once more; and did not release him until he had made several violent and ineffectual struggles with his legs, and his hair was standing on end all over his head.
“Oh!” returned the Grinder, “what a thing it is to be perfectly pitched into with affection like this here. I wish she was—How have you been, Misses Brown?”