At length a voice answered; but it came from the end of the passage
next, the street, and it was not Mr. Goodfellow's.
"D--n my giblets!" it said, in a kind of muffled scream.
"Drunk again! Oh, you nasty image!"
It was the barber's accursed parrot. I could hear it tearing with
its beak at the bars of its cage, as if struggling to pull off the
cloth which covered it.
A window creaked on its hinges, some way up the court.
"Hallo! Who's there?" demanded a gruff voice.
I took to my heels, and made a dash up the passage for the street.
The cage, as I passed under it, swayed violently with the parrot's
struggles for free speech.
"Drunk again!" it yelled. "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me--here's a
pretty time o' night to disturb a lady!"
No longer had I any thought of braving the night and the perils of
the road, but pressed my elbows tight against my ribs and raced
straight for Stimcoe's.
CHAPTER X.
NEWS.
By great good fortune, Mr. Stimcoe had been drinking the health of
the returned prisoners until his own was temporarily affected.
In fact, as I reached Delamere Terrace, panting and excogitating the
likeliest excuse to offer Mrs. Stimcoe, the door of No. 7 opened, and
the lady herself emerged upon the night, with a shawl swathed
carelessly over her masculine neck and shoulders.
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