Oakum was gone some time, and meanwhile poor Wilson fidgeted about amongst his birds, hardly able to bear the suspense, turning first red, and then pale, as Oakum came back, cage in hand, and set it down before him.
“Miss Studwick says she’s werry much obliged to you, sir,” said Sam; “but she can’t werry well keep the birds, as Mr John thinks they’d be too much for him to bear when they took to cooing.”
“It don’t matter, Oakum—set them down,” he said, huskily, with his back turned to the old sailor. “I only thought the birds might amuse them, as Mr John is so ill. Dick, Dick, pretty Dick,” first to one bird and then to another, to hide his confusion. “Come, little tame bird—come, Jenny,” he continued, opening one of the cage doors, when a pretty little red-poll came hopping down from one perch to the other, and then stood at the door looking out, with its head first on one side and then on the other, and its little beady eyes directed first at Oakum, then at its master.
“Why, bless its little heart, it looks as knowing as a Christian,” said the old sailor. “Why didn’t you send that one, sir? That would have pleased the young lady, and would have made no noise.”
Wilson shook his head as he held out his finger, and the bird uttered a loud twitter and flew to him, sitting on its living perch, and then, raffling its throat and crest, jerked out a little song, suffering itself afterwards to be stroked, and ending by picking a crumb from the naturalist’s mouth, and then flitting back to the cage in which it was duly secured.
But all of the birds were more or less tame, being ready to peck at the young man’s fingers; and a robin, setting up his feathers and making a playful attack as it fluttered its wings, and pecked and fought, ended by hopping on its perch, and bursting into a triumphant song, as if it had conquered some fierce rival.
“I wonder how many of them’ll live in a foreign country, sir, when you gets ’em there,” said Oakum.
“Well, not all,” said Mr Wilson; “but many of them. Mind the paint on that cage, Mr Oakum. I’m so much obliged. Er—you won’t take any notice about that cage and the birds? Not that it matters, only Mr Meldon or Mr Parkley might laugh, perhaps.”
“Not I, sir. You may trust me,” growled Sam.
“Some people have a habit of laughing at natural history, you know, er—er—because they don’t understand.”