“B-but it’s worth money,” said Titus. “It’s a Jacobin—the parents cost twenty dollars.”
Higby looked at it again. Neither he nor the lad was much animated by sentiment in saving the life of a bird. Then he felt the pigeon’s crop.
“Th-th-there ain’t nothin’ in there, Master Titus. You’ve got to fe-fe-feed it mighty quick.”
“Y-you come help me,” said the boy.
“I ca-ca-can’t leave these workmen.”
“I-if you don’t,” replied Titus, “I’ll tell my grandfather that you seek me out and talk to me. Then he’ll discharge you.”
Higby flew into a rage. As he choked and spluttered and stammered he stepped backward. That was his way when wrestling for words, and when he at last got his words he struck one foot sharply on the floor.
Young Titus, on the contrary, always stopped stuttering when he became deeply moved about anything, but in his excitement he had formed the habit of stepping forward. So if he were talking to Higby there was at the same time advance and retreat.
The painters were nearly killing themselves laughing, and when Higby discovered this he shuffled downstairs after the boy.
Titus led the way to the kitchen. “Mrs. Blodgett,” he called to the housekeeper, who was directing the maids, “please make me some warm feed for this pigeon.”