“Why o’ course, Tommy,” growled Wriggs, “anybody could ha’ know’d that.”
“You didn’t, Billy,” said Smith shortly.
“Well, I can’t say as I did quite, mate, but I do now, and I shan’t never forget it. But what’s he doin’ o’ that for? It won’t ketch cold now.”
“No,” said Oliver, laughing, as he fitted a little cone of paper on the bird’s head by thrusting it with the beak right down to the end. “That paper cap is to hold the bird’s head well down upon its shoulders, so that it may dry in a natural shape. Birds’ necks fold so that they always look very short.”
“And what bird may that be, sir?” said Wriggs.
“A pitta—or ground thrush.”
“A mercy on us!” said Smith. “It’s a wonderful place this. Thrushes at home is all browny speckly birds, and this here’s blue and green.”
“Yes, birds have brilliant plumage here, my lads. Now, then, what have you got for me? Anything good?”
“Well, that’s for you to say, sir. Now then, Billy, out with yours first.”
“Nay, let’s see yours first, matey.”