He still clung to that idea. He had read of such things, but until now had never considered them in the light of facts. If Hallowell had called to Malachi, the little bird knew. But would he ever speak? Had he understood that one of his masters had been trying to tell him something?
Every morning for an hour Mathison had worked patiently to get the bird to speak; but, aside from grumbling in parrakeetese, Malachi refused to utter a word. All this confusion annoyed him. There was a strange swing to the world, now up, now down, now from side to side. It kept his temper, normally irascible, in a state of feverish vindictiveness. True, he would climb up Mathison's arm, nip his master's ear gently—the only way he had of expressing affection; but he was generally unhappy.
"I don't know why," said the gray lady, when Mathison's silence began to get upon her nerves, "but my first thought was of Malachi. I ... you have told me so often how much you loved him."
"And you have probably saved him. In ten minutes he would have been dead."
Malachi turned slowly head-on to the wind. The beak was closed. This was a good sign.
"Malachi, old boy?"
The woman stifled the sob that rose in her throat. A strong, vigorous man, young, handsome beyond ordinary, all alone but for the little green bird. Why? What was the meaning of this self-imposed isolation? "A mollycoddle so far as women were concerned." Why, there was nothing about him to suggest bashfulness. She had not studied him through all these hours without learning that fundamentally he was light-hearted in temperament and tremendously interested in living. No woman in the background, for he was not cynical. And here he was, his sole companion a Hindustani parrakeet.
Mathison thrust a finger into the cage, and Malachi struck at it drunkenly.
"He'll come around. I can't thank you; I haven't the words. But it would have broken my heart if anything had happened to him. Won't you please tell me exactly what happened?"