“Nobody ever did die at Ferriby, did they?” said Jim Sparrow, the youngest and tenderest specimen we had at Jolliffe’s.
It was rather cheek of a kid like Jim to interpose at all in a conversation of his seniors, and it seemed as if he was going to get snubbed by receiving no reply, when Fergus suddenly took the thing up.
“Eh, young Jim Sparrow, what’s that you’re saying?”
Fergus was the wag of our house—indeed, he was the only Irishman we could boast of, and the fact of his being an Irishman always made us inclined to laugh whenever he spoke. We could see now by the twinkle in his eye that he was going to let off the steam at Jim Sparrow’s expense.
“I said,” replied Jim, blushing rather to find every body listening to him, “nobody’s ever died at Ferriby, have they?”
Fergus gazed at him in astonishment.
“What!” exclaimed he, “you mean to say you never heard of poor Bubbles?”
“Bubbles? No,” replied Jim, looking rather scared.
“Just fancy that!” said Fergus, turning round to us; “never heard of Bubbles!”
Of course we, who saw what the wag was driving at, looked rather surprised and a little mysterious.