“Please, sir, have you lost the jackdaw?”
The doctor looked across the table. There was Ambrose’s eager little face all aglow with sympathy and interest.
“I’m afraid so,” he answered. “And what I fear is, that he has flown out of the window into the road. There is no trace of him in the garden.”
“Was his wing cut?” inquired Ambrose, drawing nearer and looking up at the empty cage.
The doctor shook his head.
“Then, you see,” said Ambrose gravely and instructively, “it’ll be much more difficult to find him. He can fly ever so far, and even if he wanted to get back he might lose his way. Jackdaws always ought to have their wings cut.”
“Ought they?” said the doctor humbly. He and his pupil seemed to have changed places. It was now Ambrose who took the lead, for he felt himself on firm ground.
“We lost two that hadn’t got their wings cut,” he continued, “so now we always cut their wings.”
The doctor listened with the greatest respect, and seemed to weigh the matter in his mind. Then he said rather uncertainly:
“But how about the cats?”