I seated myself miserably on a stone and waited for the deluge. It came. I heard:
"Oh! Oh! Uncle! Mr. Jones, do come here; Solomon's gone!"
"We ought to sing the doxology," said the Skipper to me in an undertone. He called to her in a well-simulated tone of regret:
"Oh, no, Cynthy, it can't be possible!"
So there were two cowards of us.
"How can she tell? She can't reach the cage," said I.
"How can you tell he's gone?" called the Skipper, in tones whose joy was but poorly concealed. "You can't reach the cage."
"I'm standing right under the cage, Uncle; I can see right into it. O Solomon, Solomon! my dear, darling, beautiful bird!"
"Never knew she could look through a piece of tin. Guess I'll go and see."
I put my fingers in my ears and ran toward the Bo's'n, who was still waving. The Minion trotted along by my side. The strange thing about the Minion was that, unlike most boys, he seldom spoke; I should have thought that he was dumb had it not been that occasionally, when hard pressed, he did open his childish lips and pour forth words of wisdom. There is an old saying that actions speak louder than words. The Minion seemed to prefer to communicate his thoughts in this way. He pointed to the beach, where I still saw the Bo's'n making his gestures. I turned and looked back to the camp. I put my hands to my mouth and hallooed to the Skipper, who had emerged from the shadow of the trees.