"Whereof one Thomas Wells, gent., under God, was master--go on, Polly." "Perruque blonde Et collet noir," the Frenchman repeated, with a half-offended voice, finishing his stanza.
But just as he stopped, Methuselah stopped too, and, throwing back his head in the air with a triumphant look, stared hard at his vanquished and silenced opponent out of those blinking gray eyes of his.

"I thought I'd be too much for you!" he seemed to say, wrathfully.
"Whereof one Thomas Wells, gent., under God, was master," Muriel suggested again, all agog with excitement.

"Go on, good bird! Go on, pretty Polly." But Methuselah was evidently put off the scent now by the unseasonable interruption.

Instead of continuing, he threw back his head a second time with a triumphant air and laughed aloud boisterously.

"Pretty Polly," he cried.