The woman hesitated, muttering. “I guess I may’s well lit ye have it,” she at last wavered aloud, “though it’s ours, sure! Homely ol’ thing!” she went on scornfully. “Mame was a fool fer buyin’ it!” She still stood there, behind the crack, sullen, unwilling to yield.
Thomas Fitzpatrick was patient, but his supper hour was going. “I suppose you know the penalty for resisting an officer of the law,” he finally insinuated.
She darted away, and the man swung the door wide, stepping to the sill. His big form nearly filled the open space, and Blue shifted about for a view of the apartment beyond.
When the cage was actually in the boy’s hand his heart bounded with joy. His faith in Tom Fitzpatrick had been all but overbalanced by Mrs. Sweeney’s determination to keep the bird, and he had doubted ever seeing Caruso again.
Her duty performed, the woman grew bold. “Ye kin take it,” she patronized, “if ’t will pacify ye; but Sweeney’ll prob’ly bring suit. He ain’t wan ter stan’ no humbuggin’, Sweeney ain’t!”
“You can, of course, do as you choose,” replied the officer; “but I should advise you to drop the matter. You see, the law’s all on our side; there ain’t enough your side o’ the fence for you to git a big toe on, let alone a whole foot. Good-day, ma’am!”
Down on the sidewalk Fitzpatrick cast a look into the cage. Caruso, huddled up on his lowest perch, was a forlorn bunch of feathers.
“What kind of bird is it?”
“Do’ know what he is; nobody seems to know.”
“Looks some like a mockin’-bird.”