“Only one girl， my lord，” said the Owl. “Her name is Jill.” “Speak up， speak up，” said the Dwarf. “Don‘t stand therebuzzing and twittering in my ear. Who’s been killed？” “Nobody‘s been killed，” hooted the Owl.
“Who？”
“NOBODY.”
“All right， all right. You needn’t shout. I‘m not so deaf as all that. What do you mean by coming here to tell me that nobody’s been killed？ Why should anyone have been killed？”
“Better tell him I‘m Eustace，” said Scrubb.
“The boy’s Eustace， my lord，” hooted the Owl as loud as it could.
“Useless？” said the Dwarf irritably. “I dare say he is. Is that any reason for bringing him to court？ Hey？”
“Not useless，” said the Owl. “EUSTACE.”
“Used to it， is he？ I don‘t know what you’re talking about， I‘m sure. I tell you what it is， Master Glimfeather； when I was a young Dwarf there used to be talking beasts and birds in this country who really could talk. There wasn’t all this mumbling and muttering and whispering. It wouldn‘t have been tolerated for a moment. Not for a moment， sir. Urnus， my trumpet please.”
