"I'll have it." "Don't hurt it, it's a starling," I said.

"Can't you see its nice shiny black-and-green plumage, and its yellow bill like a blackbird?
Leave the poor little thing alone, it's tired to death." "A starling! your grandmother!" he retorted, nettled at my speaking, and bearing me a grudge still for what had recently occurred in the deck- house.

"A fine lot you know about birds, no doubt! I tell you I'll catch it, and kill it too, if I like." So saying, he made another grab at the little creature, which, just fluttering off the rigging in time, managed for the moment to escape him and perched on the backstay, when the cruel lad hove a marlin-spike at it.

He again missed the bird, however, and it then flew straight into the bosom of my jacket as I stood in front of it, whistling to entice it in that chirpy kissing way in which you hear starlings call to each other, having learnt the way to do so from a boy at Westham.
Weeks was furious at my succeeding in the capture of the poor bird when he had failed; although he would not understand that I had only coaxed it to protect it from his violence.

Poor little thing.