"Why, why! Here's a surprise for us all!" Pushing back his spectacles
into the very roots of his white hair, the professor stared feebly round
on the company, and twiddled in his fingers a sheet of thin foreign
paper.
"Yes, sir?" Mrs. Barbara turned to her master eagerly alert for the
news, and Jinty wondered if it were to say the dream-father was coming
home at last.
But Mike, though some folk believe that ravens understand every word you
say, continued to dip again and again into his stolen bread and milk
with a lofty indifference. It might be an earthquake that had come to
Old Studley for all he knew. What if it were? There would always be a
ledge of rock somewhere about where he, Mike, could hold on in safety if
the earth were topsy-turvy. Besides, he had now scooped up the last
scrap of Jinty's breakfast, and it behoved him to be up and doing some
mischief.
His bold black eye caught a gleam of silver, an opportunity ready to his
beak. It was a quaint little Norwegian silver salt-cellar in the form of
a swan. Mike, with his head on one side, considered the feasibility of
removing that ancient Norse relic quietly. Then, afraid perhaps of
bringing about bad luck by spilling the salt, he gave up the idea and
stole softly away, unnoticed by his betters, who seemed ridiculously
occupied with a thin, rustling sheet of paper.
But to this day Mrs. Barbara has never found the salt-spoon, a little
silver oar, belonging to that Norse salt-cellar, and she never will,
that's certain.
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