Henry seemed wounded.
“Woddyer mean sting me? I know all abart parrots, I do. My brother Joe’s wife’s sister ’ad one of ’em. They don’t ’urt yer, not if you’re kind to ’em. You know yer pals when you see ’em, don’t yer, mate?” he went on, addressing Bill, who was contemplating the finger with one half-closed eye.
“Good-bye, boy,” said the parrot, evading the point.
“Jear that?” cried Henry delightedly. “Goo’-bye, boy!’ ’Uman they are!”
“’E’ll ’ave a piece out of yer finger,” warned Erb, the suspicious.
“Wot, ’im!” Henry’s voice was indignant. He seemed to think that his reputation as an expert on parrots had been challenged. “’E wouldn’t ’ave no piece out of my finger.”
“Bet yer a narf-pint ’e would ’ave a piece out of yer finger,” persisted the skeptic.
“No blinkin’ parrot’s goin’ to ’ave no piece of no finger of mine! My brother Joe’s wife’s sister’s parrot never ’ad no piece out of no finger of mine!” He extended the finger further and waggled it enticingly beneath Bill’s beak. “Cheerio, matey!” he said winningly. “Polly want a nut?”
Whether it was mere indolence or whether the advertised docility of that other parrot belonging to Henry’s brother’s wife’s sister had caused him to realize that there was a certain standard of good conduct for his species one cannot say: but for awhile Bill merely contemplated temptation with a detached eye.
“See!” said Henry.