The boy pointed to a cage on the man's right.

"A canary? . . . Well, and you're right. What is talk, after all, to
compare with music? And chosen the best bird of my stock, you have; the
pick of the whole crop. That's Quality, my friends; nothing but the
best'll do for Quality, an' the instinct of it comes out young."
The man, who was evidently an eccentric, ran his eye roguishly over the
faces behind the boy and named his price; a high one--a very high one--
but one nicely calculated to lie on the right side of public
reprobation.

Dicky laid his guinea on the sill. "I want a whistle, too," he said,
"and my change, please."

The bird-fancier slapped his breeches pockets.

"A guinea? Bless me, but I must run around and ask one of my neighbours
to oblige. Any of you got the change for a golden guinea about you?" he
asked of the crowd.

"We ain't so lucky," said a voice somewhere at the back. "We don't
carry guineas about, nor give 'em to our bastards."

A voice or two--a woman's among them--called "Shame!" "Hold your
tongue, there!"

Dicky had his back to the speaker. He heard the word for the first time
in his life, and had no notion of its meaning; but in a dim way he felt
it to be an evil word, and also that the people were protesting out of
pity. A rush of blood came to his face. He gulped, lifted his chin,