“I mean pigeons,” replied his host, dryly.
“O, pigeons,” said Dallas, with relief; “they’re my favorite birds. I love them.”
He spoke so warmly that Titus’s heart was almost touched in one of his tenderest spots. Almost, but not quite. He had a vague distrust of this English boy, with his fine manners and his peculiar, lofty accent. However, Titus felt ashamed of himself for this distrust, and therefore said in a gruffly polite tone, “Want to see mine? I’ve got some beauties.”
The stranger’s face clouded the very least little bit in the world.
“There are one or two things I should like to unpack first,” he said, eyeing the tray that Higby was bringing in. “After that I should be delighted—”
“Very well,” said Titus, “you eat your meat and I’ll go see what room you’re to have.”
Catching sight of Mrs. Blodgett in the big upstairs pantry he rushed in.
“Blodgieblossom,” he said, “there’s a boy here—he’s going to stay all night. Which room shall I take him to?”
“Bless me, Master Titus,” said the woman, withdrawing her gaze from the china closet, “give me a little notice. The bed has to be aired and clean sheets put on, and dusting to be done.”
“I tell you, he’s got to go in it now,” said Titus, imperiously. “I want him to hurry up and come with me to the pigeon loft.”