"Perhaps you wouldn't, Tom. You haven't any taste for white mice."
"Taste—is it? Sure, would anyone ate 'em?"
Tom Casey was a recent importation from the Green Isle, and the emerald dust had not been rubbed off him by the civilizing and humanizing influence of the public schools; but he brought with him from Ireland a big heart, which was worth more than polish and refinement, though both go very well together. In spite of the grave responsibility which rested upon him, Leo laughed heartily at the blunder, and took the trouble to explain the meaning of taste in its artistic sense.
The procession—for the crowd of boys and girls was augmented continually when the mouse-car reached High Street—advanced towards its destination, and Leo had all he could do to keep the youngsters from crowding upon and upsetting the wagon, in their eagerness to see the mice and their magnificent dwelling-house.
"Just twig 'em, Jimmy!" shouted one who had tipped over half a dozen of his companions in his enthusiasm. "Their tails is as long as Seven's rope."
"Hotel dees mice," said another, spelling out the sign over the grand parade. "What does that mean, Billy?"
"They're going to take 'em to a hotel to make soup of. I guess there's some Chinamen at the Tremont. They say them coveys eats rats. Twig the red eyes they has!"
Leo kept the youngsters at bay as well as he could, and hurried Tom along, till they reached State Street, where he took a stand in front of the Exchange. A crowd of curious merchants, clerks, and curb-stone brokers immediately gathered around the palace to examine the structure and its inhabitants. It was a novel establishment, and excited no little attention.
"What have you there, my boy?" asked a well-dressed gentleman, working his way into the interior of the ring.
"White mice, sir," replied Leo.