I told him about the poem I found in Uncle Izzy's book. "We look for a white bird," I said. "Or perfume."
"You're nuts," he pointed out with some justice, because he hadn't known Uncle Isadore. "How do you know these changes weren't made by somebody else a long time ago? Maybe this ancient printer printed it wrong and had to change it afterward."
"I don't think they were that primitive back then."
But I didn't know what "back then" meant or how primitive ancient printing was. All I knew for sure was that, as the poem stood, it sounded as if somebody had loused up a perfect Grilch Hop rhyme. And Uncle Izzy knew I was a Grilch Hop expert in Middle School and this was the only real Grilch Hop rhythm in the book. What's more, Uncle Izzy could depend on me to go over that book in painstaking detail because a studs and neck clasp man has to be good on details.
"All right," I said. "You look your way and I'll look my way."
"We're not looking any more any way today," Rene said, emerging from Uncle Isadore's ship loaded down with removings. "It'll be night and below freezing in half an hour."
"What do you think," I asked, "a dodo would like to eat?"
"A what?"
"The birds. I want to put something out to attract them. Crackers or something?"