"I must have that little bird!" he exclaimed, and carefully taking off his fashionable hat—even more out of place in the tropics than it had been on the Georgetown docks—he slapped it quickly over the parakeet which allowed itself to be captured.
This, Osterbridge Hawsey's own prize, made him crow with delight. Clambering as gracefully as possible over the battle-scarred side of the Vulture, he took the parakeet gently out from under his tricorne.
"A parakeet—as I live!" he shrilled, sounding very like a parakeet himself. "My soul—what a prize!" he rattled on, entirely to himself as it turned out, for the sailors were not at all interested in a pet. Exhausted from the battle or drunk from captured wine, and all despising the fastidious ways of Osterbridge Hawsey, they paid not the slightest attention. They obeyed occasional orders from him, for they knew they would be whipped by Claggett Chew if they did not, and so hauled up the baskets of fruits and flowers, dumped them unceremoniously in the Captain's cabin, and left as quickly as they could to rejoin their shipmates on shore.
Holding the parakeet firmly, Osterbridge Hawsey tied a long silk cord to its right leg, fastening the other end to the arm of his chair so that he could closely observe his new pet.
Chris did not disappoint him. As the parakeet, he played the clown for all he was worth. He strutted up and down, and bobbed his head whenever Osterbridge Hawsey spoke, so that it appeared that the brightly feathered bird was in constant agreement with his captor. Or he would cock his head to one side as if weighing one of Osterbridge's remarks, in a truly comical manner.
Looking about meanwhile with his black beady eyes, Chris saw that Claggett Chew was lying in a bunk against one wall, nursing his left leg which had been given a sword thrust in the fight. He was obviously in pain and perhaps feverish, and Osterbridge Hawsey's childish talk irritated and bored him so that he turned his face to the wall. Light from the swinging lamp that Chris remembered from many weeks before threw black hollows into Claggett Chew's eye sockets and deeply lined face. Now and again he could be heard grinding his teeth at the pain of his wound, but Osterbridge Hawsey, throwing his fine coat and plumed hat to one side, lightheartedly amused himself by trying to tempt his new pet with some fruit.
"Claggett!" he cried, as if Claggett Chew could possibly be interested in a parakeet at that point, "do look at what I captured! This is my very own spoils of war!" he crowed.
Claggett Chew made an impolite noise and said nothing. "Well," Osterbridge Hawsey gave a shrug as answer to the noise, "you know how I detest fighting. It is vulgar, messy, and noisy. I can imagine no possible good word to say for it. And I see no reason why you could not have made them give up their cargo without a skirmish. Ugh!" he said, at the remembrance.
"Now, a good gentlemanly fight with a rapier is quite another thing," he went on. He smirked and made a face at the parakeet who did its best to smirk back. "That is a graceful and fine art. Refined, and not at all degrading to one's character."
No sound from Claggett Chew. Osterbridge Hawsey rattled on and Chris, pecking at the fruit proffered him, thought that sometimes Osterbridge Hawsey might quite possibly talk just as gaily to himself as he did to the unresponsive Claggett Chew.