“Board wages, perhaps, Rob?” said Mrs Brown.
“Pretty Polly!” said the Grinder.
The old woman darted a glance at him that might have warned him to consider his ears in danger, but it was his turn to look in at the parrot now, and however expressive his imagination may have made her angry scowl, it was unseen by his bodily eyes.
“I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, Rob,” said the old woman, in a wheedling voice, but with increased malignity of aspect.
Rob was so absorbed in contemplation of the parrot, and in trolling his forefinger on the wires, that he made no answer.
The old woman had her clutch within a hair’s breadth of his shock of hair as it stooped over the table; but she restrained her fingers, and said, in a voice that choked with its efforts to be coaxing:
“Robby, my child.”
“Well, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder.
“I say I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, dear.”
“Never you mind, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder.