"Who is he, anyhow?" demanded the Flamingo, glancing at Tom in such a way that the youngster began to feel very uncomfortable.
"I'm a Dormouse," said Tom, remembering the agreement.
"Not for this occasion," put in the Poker. "This time you're a boy, and we've got to save you somehow or other and we'll do it, Tom, so don't be afraid."
"What kind of boy is he?" demanded the Flamingo. "One of these bean-snapping boys that go around shooting robins and hooking birds' eggs when they haven't anything else to do?"
"Not a bit of it," said Righty. "He never snapped a bean at a bird in all his life."
"Humph!" said the Flamingo. "I suppose he's been too busy pulling feathers out of peacocks' tails to decorate his room with to be bothering with robins and eggs."
"Never did such a thing in all my born days," retorted Tom indignantly.
"Probably not," sneered the Flamingo. "And why? Because you were so well satisfied keeping a canary locked up in a cage for your own pleasure that you hadn't any time to chase peacocks."
"I've lived in the family forty years," said the Righthandiron, "and to my knowledge there was never a caged bird in the house."
"Really?" said the Flamingo, looking at Tom with interest. "Rather a new kind of boy this. Very few boys have a good record where birds are concerned."