"A ghost, George, by the name of Palæornis torquatus."
"I pass!"
Mathison laughed. "It's a parrakeet, a hop-o'-my-thumb of a bird."
"Talk?"
"Almost as much as you do, George."
The porter grinned and helped stow the luggage inside the cab. Mathison climbed in and slammed the door. The porter watched the taxicab until the gray, swirling pall swallowed it up. He pocketed the bill.
"Dey ain't no reason why, but I sure hates t' take dat young man's money," he mused, remorsefully. "De undah dawg; I s'pose dat's it. W'en dey don't look like it dey is. What's he done, I wonduh? A parrot! Fust time I ev' seen a white man tote a parrot. An' he don't look like a henpeck, neither."
He turned and jogged back to the train.
The taxicabs began to straggle along. The streets were full of ruts and drifts, and the vehicles looked like giant beetles scurrying.