"You've always laughed at me, Percy Eastman, and plagued me about Freddy Jackson, and everything, and I've borne it like a—like a lady. But when you go to laughing at my poor little Dandy that's dead, and can't speak—"
Susy was about to say, "Can't speak for himself," but saw in time how absurdly she was talking, and stopped short.
Percy laughed.
"Where are you going with that cage?"
"Going to put it away, where I'll never see it again," sobbed poor Susy.
"Give it to me," said Percy: "I'll take care of it for you."
If Susy's eyes had not been blinded by tears, she would have been surprised to see the real pity in Percy's face.
He was a rollicking boy, full of merriment and bluster, and what tender feelings he possessed, he took such a wonderful amount of pains to conceal, that Susy never suspected he had any. She would have enjoyed her ride if she had not felt so full of grief. The day was beautiful. There had been a storm, and the trees looked as if they had been snowballing one another; but Susy had no eye for trees, and just then hardly cared for her pony.
Percy put the cage in the sleigh, under the buffalo robes; and when they reached his own door, he carried the cage into the house, while Susy drew a sigh of relief. He offered to stuff Dandy, or have him stuffed; but Susy rejected the idea with horror.
"No, if Dandy was dead, he was all dead; she didn't want to see him sitting up stiff and cold, when he couldn't sing a speck."