“’Tisn’t safe,” said the starling.
“Get out,” said Boxer; “why, what do you mean?”
“You’d get hold of my tail, perhaps,” said Specklems.
“Ha-ha-ha,” laughed all the birds; “that’s capital, so he would.”
“No, no; honour bright,” said Boxer. “You never knew me cheat; ask Robin, there.”
Whereupon the robin came forward in a new red waistcoat, blew his nose very loudly, and then said:—
“Gentlemen all, I could, would, should, and always have trusted my person freely with my friend—if he will allow me to call him so,”—here the robin grew quite pathetic, and said that often and often he had been indebted to his friend for a sumptuous repast, or for a draught of water when all around was ice; he assured them they might put the greatest trust in Boxer’s honour.
Whereupon Boxer laid himself in the path, and the birds dropped down one at a time, some on the beds, some on the gooseberry or currant bushes, and formed quite a cluster round the great, rough, hairy fellow, for they felt perfectly safe after what the robin had said.
First of all, the starling examined the wound with great care, and said, “The thorn is sticking in it.”