"To me, sir? Not likely." "Then tell me what you mean." "Well, sir; you're just like my magpie." "What!" cried Jack angrily. "I don't mean no harm, sir; you asked me." "Well, there, go on," cried Jack pettishly. "I only meant you were like him in some ways. You know, sir, I give one of the boys threppuns for him two years ago, when there was the nest at the top of the big ellum." "Oh yes, I've seen the bird." "I wasn't sure, sir, for you never did take much notice of that sort of thing. Why, some young gents is never happy unless they're keeping all kinds of pets--pigeons and rabbits and hedgehogs and such." "I wish you wouldn't talk quite so much," cried Jack sharply. "There, sir, that's what it is. You want stirring up. I like that. You haven't spoke to me so sharp since I don't know when." "What, do you like me to scold you?" "I'd like you to bully me, and chuck things at me too, sooner than see you sit moping all day as you do, sir. That's what made me say you put me in mind of my magpie. He sits on his perch all day long with his feathers, set up, and his tail all broken and dirty, and not a bit o' spirit in him. He takes the raw meat I cut up for him, but he doesn't eat half of it, only goes and pokes the bits into holes and corners, and looks as miserable and moulty as can be. It's because he's always shut up in a cage, doing just the same things every day, hopping from perch to perch that often--and back again over and over again, till he hasn't got a bit of spirit in him. I'm just the same--it's boots and knives and plate and coal-scuttles and answer the bells, till I get tired of a night and lie abed asking myself whether a strong chap like me was meant to go on all his life cleaning boots and knives; and if I was, what's the good of it all? I'm sick of it, Master Jack, and there's been times when I've been ready to go and 'list for a soldier, only I don't believe that would be much better. The toggery's right enough, and you have a sword or a gun, but it's mostly standing in a row and being shouted at by sergeants. But now there's a chance of going about and seeing what the world's like, and its works, and how it goes round, and you say you don't want to go. Why, it caps me, it do, sir, really." "Yes," cried Jack angrily; "and it `caps me,' as you call it, to hear a good servant like you talk about giving up a comfortable place and want to go on a long and dangerous voyage. Are you not well fed and clothed and paid, and have you not a good bed?" "Yes, sir; yes sir; yes, sir," cried Edward; "but a man don't want to be always comfortable, and well fed, and to sleep on a feather bed. He's a poor sort of a chap who does. I don't think much of him. It's like being a blind horse in a clay mill, going round and round and round all his life. Why, he never gets so much change as to be able to go the other way round, because if he did the mill wouldn't grind."