He gave me a long, searching look, then he said, “I’ll trust you, but how shall I get in, and if I get in, what about that meek looking dog who is nevertheless a dog?”
“Oh, Billie Sundae would not hurt any guest of mine,” I said, “and the window is always open a crack in the afternoon to air the sitting room, because no one sits there till evening.”
“Is Mrs. Martin not at home?” he asked.
I glanced at the big yellow boarding-house set away back from the street next Chummy’s house and said, “At half past four she is going in there to have tea with a friend.”
“What do you offer me for afternoon tea?” asked Chummy.
I was rather taken aback, for this question
did not seem a very polite one to me. However, I reflected that he had had a street upbringing, and could not be expected to observe fine points of etiquette, such as not asking your host what he is going to set before you.
“Your question is very businesslike,” I said gaily, but with a thought of giving him just a gentle dig, “and I may say that there will be first of all a few crumbs of sponge cake.”
“That’s nice,” he said, clacking his horny beak with satisfaction.
“Then a nice little nibble of fresh, rosy-faced apple.”