Біла пташка
The Fight For Timothy
TheNoah’sarksarepackedonewithinanother,withclockworkhorsesharnessedtothem;thesoldiers,knapsackonback,arekissingtheirhandstothedearfoolishgirls,who,however,willnotbeleftbehindthem;allthefour-footedthingsgatheraroundtheelephant,whoisoverfulofdrawing-roomfurniture;thebirdsfluttertheirwings;themanwiththescythemowshiswaythroughthecrowd;theballoonstugattheirstrings;theshipsrockunderaswellofsail,everythingisgettingreadyforthemightyexodusintotheStrand.Tearswillbeshed.
SoweboughtthehorseintheLowtherArcade,Porthos,whothoughtitwasforhim,lookingproudbutuneasy,anditwassenttothebandboxhouseanonymously.AboutaweekafterwardIhadtheill-lucktomeetMary’shusbandinKensington,soIaskedhimwhathehadcalledhislittlegirl.
“Itisaboy,”hereplied,withintolerablegood-humour,“wecallhimDavid.”
Andthenwithasingularlackoftastehewantedthenameofmyboy.
Iflickedmyglove.“Timothy,”saidI.
Isawasuppressedsmileonhisface,andsaidhotlythatTimothywasasgoodanameasDavid.“Ilikeit,”heassuredme,andexpressedahopethattheywouldbecomefriends.IboiledtosaythatIreallycouldnotallowTimothytomixwithboysoftheDavidclass,butIrefrained,andlistenedcoldlywhilehetoldmewhatDaviddidwhenyousaidhistoeswerepigsgoingtomarketorreturningfromit,Iforgetwhich.HealsoboastedofDavid’sweight(asubjectaboutwhichweareuncommonlytouchyattheclub),asifchildrenwereforthrowingforthforawager.
