The little dogs were jumping to reach his hands. Evidently they
loved him.
"I say," Cuckoo said huskily.
The old gentleman stopped, lifted a rat from his shoulder, placed it on
his breast, like a man who arranged his necktie, clicked his tongue
against his teeth, and remarked:
"Parding, lydy."
Cuckoo swallowed. She felt as if she had a ball in her throat shifting up
and down.
"I say," she repeated. "You buy toy dogs, eh?"
"I buys 'em and I sells 'em," answered the old man, with a large accent
on the conjunction. "Buys 'em dear and sells 'em cheap. There's a wy to
mike a living, lydy!"
His small eyes twinkled with humour as he spoke.
Cuckoo swallowed again. The ball in her throat was getting larger.
"Want to buy one this morning?" she asked. "A show little dog, eh?"
She choked.
The old man did not appear to notice it. He looked at her with sharp
consideration.
"Oh, you means selling!" he remarked. "Where is it, then?"
"What?"
"The show little dawg?"
Cuckoo gulped out her address. All this time the old man had been summing
her up, and drawing his own conclusions from her thin figure and haggard
face. He scented a possible bargain.
"Trot along, lydy," he said, turning on his heels with all his little
dogs in commotion.
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