“You bin pay your ’spects to de fishes,” said Bumble, with a grin.
“Yes, I have, Bumble, and they say that if you stare at them any longer with your great goggle eyes they’ll all go mad with horror and die right off. Have you caught any codlings, Bumble?”
“Yis, me hab, an’ me hab come for to make a preeposol to Missie Ally.”
“A what, Bumble?”
“A preeposol—a digestion.”
“I suppose you mean a suggestion, eh?”
“Yis, dat the berry ting.”
“Well, out with it.”
“Dis am it. Me ketch rock-coddles; well, me put ’em in bucket ob water an’ bring ’em to you, Missie Ally, an’ you put ’em into dat pool and tame ’em, an’ hab great fun with ’em. Eeh! wot you tink?”
“Oh, it will be so nice. How good of you to think about it, Bumble; do get them as quick as you can.”