Keeping his left hand on the banisters, he circled the corner of the staircase, recalling McLane’s clear description of the way to his bedroom. He had just made the turn into his corridor when a hail from Sam Hollister stopped him.
“Hello, Curtis!” Hollister kept his usually hearty voice at a low pitch. “I am glad you haven’t gone to bed. I want a word with you.”
“You can have more than one if you wish,” responded Curtis. “I am in no hurry.”
“Good! Suppose we go to John’s old bedroom. This way.” He slipped his arm inside Curtis’ and suited his step to his as they went down the winding corridor. “I was on my way to look you up.”
“Yes?” queried Curtis, as his companion ushered him into the bedroom, switched on the light and then closed the hall door. “What can I do?”
An answer came from an unexpected quarter. “Go to H—l!” shouted Ruffles, awakened from slumber by the brilliant electric light. The parrot hopped about on his perch and flapped his wings in Hollister’s face as the latter approached.
“I’ll wring that bird’s neck some day,” he grumbled. “How John stood his infernal talking is one of the mysteries of this place.”
Curtis snapped his fingers and hummed a popular tune. Ruffles’ plumage assumed its normal sleek appearance and his anger subsided. He gently nipped Curtis’ extended finger, then with one sleepy eye cocked at Hollister, descended from the top of his perch to a lower crossbar and prepared to enjoy his interrupted nap.
“Hum! You seem to have the same knack of pleasing Ruffles as John,” commented Hollister, eyeing the parrot with disfavor. “Come over this way, Curtis.” He pushed a chair aside and Curtis followed him across the bedroom. He judged they were near an open window from the cooler air which blew upon them. “I’ll shut this in just a minute—”
“No, please don’t,” broke in Curtis. “The room is a trifle close and the fresh air feels good.”