“Something to come for?” screamed the old woman.
“Besides you, I mean, Misses Brown,” returned the craven Rob. “Not that I want any inducement but yourself, Misses Brown, I’m sure. Don’t begin again, for goodness’ sake.”
“He don’t care for me! He don’t care for me, as I care for him!” cried Mrs Brown, lifting up her skinny hands. “But I’ll take care of his bird.”
“Take good care of it too, you know, Mrs Brown,” said Rob, shaking his head. “If you was so much as to stroke its feathers once the wrong way, I believe it would be found out.”
“Ah, so sharp as that, Rob?” said Mrs Brown, quickly.
“Sharp, Misses Brown!” repeated Rob. “But this is not to be talked about.”
Checking himself abruptly, and not without a fearful glance across the room, Rob filled the glass again, and having slowly emptied it, shook his head, and began to draw his fingers across and across the wires of the parrot’s cage by way of a diversion from the dangerous theme that had just been broached.
The old woman eyed him slily, and hitching her chair nearer his, and looking in at the parrot, who came down from the gilded dome at her call, said:
“Out of place now, Robby?”
“Never you mind, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder, shortly.