“That you will,” echoed several voices in ominous tones.
“Wull,” said the cobbler, with an odd chuckle, “I expect I might, for it’s not every day that I get an offer of that sort. All right, then I close, on condition that the very instant that you get the bird you clear out of my place, every stick and staver of you.”
“Oh, you needn’t be anxious about that,” said Andrew, “this abominable smell of leather isn’t so particularly nice if you don’t happen to have a cobbler’s nose.”
“Isn’t that raver rude?” asked Marygold, under her breath.
Fay set to work at once to collect the various contributions towards the poor thrush’s ransom. In due time, after the rifling of many pockets, the half-crown was collected and handed to the cobbler. Phoena was allowed the proud delight of actually paying down the sum.
With an ill-concealed chuckle, Jonas slipped the sundry coins into some safe hiding-place behind the folds of his black apron.
“Now Aaron, my lad, fetch the thrush for the young gentlefolk,” he said, turning with a grim smile to his son.
“Yes, and look alive,” added Andrew, sharply, “don’t be all night about it, do you hear?”
“Don’t rag the poor beggar,” said Jack, “he’s not so well off as we are in the leg line.”
“We won’t let the poor bird fly here,” said Phoena, “for there may be cats about for all we know.”