“I cannot say that I see any mystery about it, sir; I am no believer in spiritualism, but I am in logic. I laid the spectacles and case there on that table. They are now gone—no one has been in the room but Master Charles.”
“Ergo, Master Charles must have them,” interrupted my father. “That is the true inference of your logic.”
Just then, another visitor came hopping into the room—no less than my father’s favorite, Jack, the magpie. My father was now seated by the side of the doctor, and the bird, as was his custom, hopped and flew to his shoulder, which was his favorite perch when he had the opportunity.
“Well pa,” said the cunning bird, bending his head and beak to my parent’s face.
“And what do you want, Master Jack?”
“Sho!” said the magpie, which was another daily phrase of his which he had picked up. Then he pretended to be sleepy, winking and blinking, and even yawning and crying, “Poor Jack! poor Jack!”
“A fine, rare bird, Mr. Mitford, is your magpie,” said the doctor, who would not have said so much had he known, as I did, that Jack was the author of his misery.
“By the by,” cried my father, “I wonder if the magpie has taken the things from the table!”
“Tell the truth!” I said, catching the bird up by his tail, much to his displeasure. “What have you done with the spectacles?”
“Sho!” screamed the bird, making divers pecks at my hands.