"My God!" he said, violently.
"It's only the parrot!" said Mrs. Tree, comfortably. "Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things beside. Good Jocko! speak up, boy!"
"Old friends to talk!" said the parrot. "Old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks! hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!"
"That was my grandson and his friend," said the old lady, never taking her eyes from the man's face. "What's the matter? feel faint, hey?"
"Yes," said the man. He was leaning on the back of his chair, fighting some spasm of feeling. "I am—faint. I must get out into the air."
The old lady rose briskly and came to his side. "Nothing of the sort!" she said. "You'll come up-stairs and lie down."
"No! no! no!" cried the man, and with each word his voice rang out louder and sharper as the emotion he was fighting gripped him closer. "Not in this house. Never! Never!"
"Cat's foot!" said Mrs. Tree. "Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say! There!"
"Old friends!" said the parrot.