"Mat!... Malachi!" he wailed.
Then came a jumble of phrases in polyglot, sailors' oaths, scraps of Hindustani and Spanish. But after a few minutes he began to mutter in parrakeetese. That peculiar cell in Malachi's head had closed up again. Mathison urged and coaxed in vain. Malachi rolled his yellow eyes and continued to mutter. The irony of it lay in the fact that his fear had subsided. Wasn't this his master?
"Well, I—be—damn!" exploded Murphy. "A talking parrot! Say"—wrathfully—"why did you give me that bunk about being Ellison?"
"Quickest way I could get back to this room. All this was accomplished while they were holding me down-stairs."
"A frame-up! I knew the moment you held out your hands that you weren't Ellison. The forefinger of his right hand is missing. Look at those grips! Bo, what did you have?"
"They got it."
"All right. Come on. I'll send out a general alarm. We'll run a comb over the town. Off your train, too, I'll gamble. Get a move on!"
"Thanks, Mr. Murphy; but it wouldn't do a bit of good. The damage is done. And ten to one they've already boarded a freight."
"Going to let 'em put it over without a kick?"
"The thing they took was valuable only so long as it remained in my possession. The Chinese have a saying—you can't pour water into a shattered jar."