"Thomas," I said, "you've got my feather."
He made no answer. I scrambled after him.
"That's Percy," I said. "I should know him anywhere. You're blowing Percy. It's very bad form to blow another man's feather. If it got about, you would be cut by the county. Give me back my feather, Thomas."
"How do you know it's your feather?" he said truculently. "Feathers are just alike."
"How do I know?" I asked in amazement. "A feather that I've brought up from the egg? Of course I know Percy." I leant down to him. "P—percy," I whispered. He darted forward a good six inches. "You see," I said, "he knows his name."
"As a matter of fact," said Thomas, "his name's P—paul. Look, I'll show you."
"You needn't bother, Thomas," I said hastily. "This is mere trifling. I know that's my feather. I remember his profile distinctly."
"Then where's mine?"
"How do I know? You may have swallowed it. Go away and leave Percy and me to ourselves. You're only spoiling the knees of your trousers by staying here."
"Paul and I——" began Thomas.