At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk
upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable
alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller,
really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he
muttered in a sepulchral voice, 'Polly put the ket--' but very drowsily,
and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.
The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The man
glided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.
'--tle on,' cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much
excited. '--tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have
tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah,
hurrah! I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep up your
spirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle, I'm
a--Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.'
They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from the
grave.
But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards the
fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it.
The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for a
moment, and then she motioned him towards the door.
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