“Dinna call on him, leddies,” he said, speaking more quickly than usual. “Dinna mak him turn his head. Steady, lad! Grip wi’ your feet. Spit on your pawms, man.”
Once the boy trod on a rotten branch, and as he drew back his foot, and it came crashing down, the farm-bailiff set his teeth, and Miss Kitty fainted in Thomasina’s arms.
“I’ll reward anyone who’ll fetch him down,” sobbed Miss Betty. But John Broom seated himself on the same branch as the cockatoo, and undid the chain and prepared his hands for the downward journey.
“You’ve got a rare perch, this time,” said he. And Pretty Cocky crept towards him, and rubbed its head against him and chuckled with joy.
What dreams of liberty in the tree-tops, with John Broom for a playfellow, passed through his crested head, who shall say? But when he found that his friend meant to take him prisoner, he became very angry and much alarmed. And when John Broom grasped him by both legs and began to descend, Cocky pecked him vigorously. But the boy held the back of his head towards him, and went steadily down.
“Weel done!” roared the farm-bailiff. “Gently lad! Gude save us! ha’e a care o’ yoursen. That’s weel. Keep your pow at him. Didna let the beast get at your een.”
But when John Broom was so near the ground as to be safe, the farm-bailiff turned wrathfully upon his son, who had been gazing open-mouthed at the sight which had so interested his father.
“Ye look weel standing gawping here, before the leddies,” said he, “wasting the precious hours, and bringing your father’s gray hairs wi’ sorrow to the grave; and John Broom yonder shaming ye, and you not so much as thinking to fetch the perch for him, ye lazy loon. Away wi’ ye and get it before I lay a stick about your shoulders.”
And when his son had gone for the perch, and John Broom was safely on the ground, laughing, bleeding, and triumphant, the farm-bailiff said,—
“Ye’re a bauld chil, John Broom, I’ll say that for ye.”