t stunned. Do you know it would be about
the greatest treat a body could have?"

"No, I don't," said Jack shortly. "It means nothing but misery and
discomfort. A rough life amongst rough people; no chance to read and
study. Oh, it would be dreadful."

"Well!" exclaimed the man; and again, "Well! You do cap me, sir, that
you do. Can't you see it means change?"

"I don't want change," cried Jack petulantly.

"Oh, don't you say that, sir," cried Edward reproachfully; "because,
begging your pardon, it ain't true."

"What! Are you going to begin on that silly notion too? I tell you I
am not ill."

"No, sir, you're not ill certainly, because you don't have to take to
your bed, and swaller physic, and be fed with a spoon, but every bit of
you keeps on shouting that you ain't well."

"How? Why? Come now," cried the boy with more animation, as he
snatched at the opportunity for gaining an independent opinion of his
state. "But stop: has my father or Doctor Instow been saying anything
to you?"

"To me, sir? Not likely."

"Then tell me what you mean."

"Well, sir; you're just like my magpie."

"What!" cried Jack angrily.

"I don't mean no harm, sir; you asked me."

"Well, there, go on," cried Jack pettishly.

"I only meant you were like him in some ways. You know, sir, I give one
of the boys threppuns for him two years ago, when there was the nest at
the top of the big ellum."

"Oh yes, I've seen the bird."

"I wasn't sure, sir, for you never did take much notice of that sort of
thing. Why, some young gents is never happy unless they're keeping all
kinds of pets--pigeons and rabbits and hedgehogs and such."

"I wish you wouldn't talk quite so much," cried Jack sharply.

"There, sir, that's what it is. You want stirring up. I like that.
You haven't spoke to me so sharp since I don't know when."

"What, do you like me to scold you?"

"I'd like you to bully me, and chuck things at me too, sooner than see
you sit moping all day as you do, sir. That's what made me say you put
me in mind of my magpie. He sits on his perch all day long with his
feathers, set up, and his tail all broken and dirty, and not a bit o'
spirit in him. He takes the raw meat I cut up for him, but he doesn't
eat half of it, only goes and pokes the bits into holes and corners, and
looks as miserable and moulty as can be. It's because he's always shut
up in a cage, doing just the same things every day, hopping from perch