“Why, hallo!” cried our visitor; “who stuffed those birds?”
I answered modestly enough that it was I.
“And what’s in these drawers, eh?” he said, pulling them out sharply one after the other, and then opening my cases.
“Nat’s collections,” said my uncle very proudly. “Here’s his catalogue.”
“Neatly written out—numbered—Latin names,” he said, half to himself. “Why, hallo, young fellow, I don’t wonder that your Aunt Sophia says you are a bad character.”
“But he isn’t, Dick,” said Uncle Joe warmly; “he’s a very good lad, and Sophy don’t mean what she says.”
“She used to tell me I should come to no good in the old days when I began to make a mess at home, Joe,” he said merrily. “Why, Nat, my boy, you and I must be good friends. You would like to come and see my collection, eh?”
“Will you—will you show it to me, sir?” I said, catching him in my excitement by the sleeve.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said drily; “you looked daggers at me because I kicked your aunt’s pet.”
“I couldn’t help it, sir,” I said; “Nap has always been such good friends with me that I didn’t like to see him hurt.”