with his iron bill. 'Is he old?'

'A mere boy, sir,' replied the locksmith. 'A hundred and twenty, or
thereabouts. Call him down, Barnaby, my man.'

'Call him!' echoed Barnaby, sitting upright upon the floor, and staring
vacantly at Gabriel, as he thrust his hair back from his face. 'But who
can make him come! He calls me, and makes me go where he will. He goes
on before, and I follow. He's the master, and I'm the man. Is that the
truth, Grip?'

The raven gave a short, comfortable, confidential kind of croak;--a most
expressive croak, which seemed to say, 'You needn't let these fellows
into our secrets. We understand each other. It's all right.'

'I make HIM come?' cried Barnaby, pointing to the bird. 'Him, who never
goes to sleep, or so much as winks!--Why, any time of night, you may see
his eyes in my dark room, shining like two sparks. And every night, and
all night too, he's broad awake, talking to himself, thinking what he
shall do to-morrow, where we shall go, and what he shall steal, and
hide, and bury. I make HIM come! Ha ha ha!'

On second thoughts, the bird appeared disposed to come of himself. After
a short survey of the ground, and a few sidelong looks at the ceiling
and at everybody present in turn, he fluttered to the floor, and went
to Barnaby--not in a hop, or walk, or run, but in a pace like that of
a very particular gentleman with exceedingly tight boots on, trying to
walk fast over loose pebbles. Then, stepping into his extended hand,
and condescending to be held out at arm's length, he gave vent to a
succession of sounds, not unlike the drawing of some eight or ten dozen