“Is it all right?” he says. “Is it alive?”
“It's about as alive,” I says, “as anybody'll ever want it to be, I should say.”
“Is it breathing all right?” he says.
“If you can't hear it breathing,” I says, “I'm afraid you're deaf.”
You might have heard its breathing outside in the street. He listened, and even he was satisfied.
“Thank Heaven!” he says, and down he plumped in the easy-chair by the fireplace. “You know, I never thought of that,” he goes on. “He's been shut up in that basket for over an hour, and if by any chance he'd managed to get his head entangled in the clothes—I'll never do such a fool's trick again!”
“You're fond of it?” I says.
He looked round at me. “Fond of it,” he repeats. “Why, I'm his father.” And then he begins to laugh again.
“Oh!” I says. “Then I presume I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Coster King?”
“Coster King?” he answers in surprise. “My name's Milberry.”