“We have homemade w-w-wines, sir,” said Higby, insinuatingly.
“Bring him some rhubarb,” said Titus; “that is good.”
Higby disappeared, and Titus sank back into his chair. There was a heavy dew of perspiration on his lip. He did not like this business of entertaining. What could he do to amuse his guest while Higby was absent? Perhaps the new boy liked pigeons.
“I say,” he remarked, suddenly, “do you like any kind of pet birds?”
Dallas scrutinized Titus’s face intently before he replied; then he said, “I’m awfully fond of them.”
“What kind?” asked Titus.
“Well, I like canaries and robins—”
Titus’s face was unresponsive, and the stranger went on, tentatively, “and doves, and linnets, and thrushes, and mocking-birds—”
He had not struck the right kind of bird yet, and he put up a hand and pushed back the light hair from his pale forehead.
“Cage birds, do you mean?” he said, courteously, “or yard birds?”