nce which gave him an interest beyond any
that his companion could boast of, and attracted Barnaby's attention.
There was something soldierly in his bearing, and he wore a jaunty cap
and jacket. Perhaps he had been in the service at one time or other.
If he had, it could not have been very long ago, for he was but a young
fellow now.

'Well, well,' he said thoughtfully; 'let the fault be where it may, it
makes a man sorrowful to come back to old England, and see her in this
condition.'

'I suppose the pigs will join 'em next,' said the serjeant, with
an imprecation on the rioters, 'now that the birds have set 'em the
example.'

'The birds!' repeated Tom Green.

'Ah--birds,' said the serjeant testily; 'that's English, an't it?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Go to the guard-house, and see. You'll find a bird there, that's got
their cry as pat as any of 'em, and bawls "No Popery," like a man--or
like a devil, as he says he is. I shouldn't wonder. The devil's loose
in London somewhere. Damme if I wouldn't twist his neck round, on the
chance, if I had MY way.'

The young man had taken two or three steps away, as if to go and see
this creature, when he was arrested by the voice of Barnaby.

'It's mine,' he called out, half laughing and half weeping--'my pet,
my friend Grip. Ha ha ha! Don't hurt him, he has done no harm. I taught
him; it's my fault. Let me have him, if you please. He's the only friend
I have left now. He'll not dance, or talk, or whistle for you, I
know; but he will for me, because he knows me and loves me--though you
wouldn't think it--very well. You wouldn't hurt a bird, I'm sure. You're
a brave soldier, sir, and wouldn't harm a woman or a child--no, no, nor
a poor bird, I'm certain.'

This latter adjuration was addressed to the serjeant, whom Barnaby
judged from his red coat to be high in office, and able to seal Grip's
destiny by a word. But that gentleman, in reply, surlily damned him for
a thief and rebel as he was, and with many disinterested imprecations on
his own eyes, liver, blood, and body, assured him that if it rested with
him to decide, he would put a final stopper on the bird, and his master
too.

'You talk boldly to a caged man,' said Barnaby, in anger. 'If I was on
the other side of the door and there were none to part us, you'd change
your note--ay, you may toss your head--you would! Kill the bird--do.
Kill anything you can, and so revenge yourself on those who with their
ba