Of all the uproars ever heard, those little cormorants set up the worst. Mrs. Lease looked at me.
“They must have a bit, sir: they must indeed. Polly wouldn’t eat all herself, Master Ludlow; you couldn’t get her to do it.”
But I was determined Polly should have it. It was through me she got hurt; and besides, I liked her.
“Now just listen, you little pigs. I’ll go to Ford’s, the baker’s, and bring you all a bun a-piece, but Polly must have this one. They have lots of currants in them, those buns, for children that don’t squeal. How many are there of you? One, two, three,—— four.”
Catching up my cap, I was going out when Mrs. Lease touched me. “Do you really mean it, sir?” she asked in a whisper.
“Mean what? That I am going to bring the buns? Of course I mean it. I’ll be back with them directly.”
“Oh, sir—but do forgive me for making free to ask such a thing—if you would only let it be a half-quartern loaf instead?”
“A half-quartern loaf!”
“They’ve not had a bit between their lips this day, Master Ludlow,” she said, catching her breath, as her face, which had flushed, turned pale again. “Last night I divided between the four of them a piece of bread half the size of my hand; Tom, he couldn’t eat.”
I stared for a minute. “How is it, Mrs. Lease? can you not get enough food?”