“C-c-can’t you feed it?”
“Too much trouble. I did have some birds that would feed young ones—two fine old feeders, but I sold them.”
Titus had a mercenary little soul. “A-a pity to throw away good money,” he said, looking at the pigeon. “I-I should think you could worry some food down its throat yourself.”
“I could, but it’s an awful bother. I’ve tried it. This is a sick thing anyway. It will be dead in five minutes. See how it’s gasping.”
“B-b-bet you my jackknife it won’t die,” replied Titus.
So they waited five minutes, and, as good fortune would have it, the future princess gasped them out, and Charlie laid her in Titus’s palm. “The squab is yours.”
“B-b-blest if I know what to do with it,” remarked Titus, turning the pigeon over in his hands.
Charlie smiled mischievously. “I guess your grandfather will give you a time if he finds out.”
“H-h-he shan’t find out,” said Titus.
“It’s mean that you can’t have pigeons or something,” observed Charlie. “All the fellows have. Why don’t you make tracks for another grandfather?”