“That’s what Dolly Rose said,” agreed Blue.
“What ails his wing?—broke?”
“I do’ know. It’s always been bad; but it hangs down worse ’n ever.” The boy scowled anxiously at it, thinking of Doodles.
“You ought to have it fixed,” counseled the big man, “and I know who can do it for you—that’s Sandy Gillespie. If ther’ ’s anything ’bout birds ’at he don’t know, ’t ain’t worth knowin’. Why, he’s got a house full of em—all kinds! He had more ’n fifty, one time. He could tell you, quick as wink, what this one is. I’d take it up there, if I was you. He lives ’way out on the Temple Hill Road. Know where the old Hayward place is?”
Blue nodded.
“Well, he lives just a little piece beyond there, a big, old-fashioned house, with a piazza on the side.”
“How much’ll he charge?” ventured the boy.
“Oh, that’ll be all right! You just tell him Tom Fitzpatrick sent you. I declare, wish I could go with you! Sandy Gillespie is a mighty nice man—good’s they make ’em.”
They had reached The Flatiron, and Blue expressed his thanks in no uncertain way. “I was awful afraid she wasn’t goin’ ter let yer have it,” he confessed.
The officer laughed. “I wasn’t, a bit,” he said. “I took a little more time than I might have with some folks; but I didn’t want a row. It’s better to get along quietly when you can. Now you take that bird up to Sandy to-morrow! And tell the kid I’m coming in to call on him some day. Good-night.”