"Will you let me come in and talk a bit?" he said.
When he went in, he was obliged to sit on the top of Lazarus's wooden box because there was nothing else for him.
"I want to ask you," he plunged into his talk at once, "do you think he minds me looking at him so much? I can't help it—but if he hates it—well—I'll try and keep my eyes on the table."
"The Master is used to being looked at," Lazarus made answer. "But it would be well to ask himself. He likes open speech."
"I want to find out everything he likes and everything he doesn't like," The Rat said. "I want—isn't there anything—anything you'd let me do for him? It wouldn't matter what it was. And he needn't know you are not doing it. I know you wouldn't be willing to give up anything particular. But you wait on him night and day. Couldn't you give up something to me?"
Lazarus pierced him with keen eyes. He did not answer for several seconds.
"Now and then," he said gruffly at last, "I'll let you brush his boots. But not every day—perhaps once a week."
"When will you let me have my first turn?" The Rat asked.
Lazarus reflected. His shaggy eyebrows drew themselves down over his eyes as if this were a question of state.
"Next Saturday," he conceded. "Not before. I'll tell him when you brush them."