"No, not one!" cried Tom. "They're all mine. uncle Robson gave them to me—one, two, three, four, five—you shan't touch one of them! no, not one for your lives!" continued he, exultantly, laying the est on the ground, and standing over it, with his legs wide apart, his hands thrust into his breeches-pockets, his body bent forward, and his face twisted into all manner of contortions in the ecstacy of his delight.
"But you shall see me fettle 'em off. My word, but I will wallop 'em! See if I don't now! By gum! but there's rare sport for me in that nest."
"But, Tom," said I. "I shall not allow you to torture those birds. They must either be killed at once, or carried back to the place you took them from, that the old birds may continue to feed them."
"But you don't know where that is, madam. It's only me and uncle Robson that knows that."
"But if you don't tell me, I shall kill them myself—much as I hate it."
"You daren't. You daren't touch them for your life! because you know papa and mamma,
