Ambrose admitted that danger, but was still sure of his first point. It was best to cut a jackdaw’s wing.
“I wonder,” he said, looking at the other window, “if you’re quite sure he’s not in the garden. P’r’aps he’s up in some tree.”
The doctor shook his head.
“The garden has been thoroughly searched,” he said. “There are very few trees there.”
“Might I look?” asked Ambrose eagerly. Dr Budge meekly led the way into his little garden. Certainly there was not much room in it for the jackdaw to hide, and it only needed a glance to see that he was not there. The only possible place was in a large old medlar-tree which stood in the middle of the grass plot, with a wooden bench and table under it. It was nearly bare of leaves now, and a few sparrows were hopping about in its branches. Ambrose turned his eyes to the roof of a barn which ran along one side of the garden.
“P’r’aps he’s flown over into the farm-yard,” he said.
“I sent there early this morning,” replied the doctor dejectedly, “and no one had seen the bird.”
Big and learned as he was, he looked so cast, down that Ambrose forgot that he had ever been afraid of him, and only desired to give him comfort and help.
“Does he know the garden well?” he asked.
Dr Budge nodded. “His cage has often hung in the medlar-tree in the summer,” he said, “when I’ve been sitting out here.”