“Because if you do, I’ll–”
He did not finish the sentence. Instead he leaped to his feet and hanging on to one hand howled with pain. His friends, however, instead of sympathizing with him, all with one accord shrieked delightedly.
“Whew!” cried George feelingly. “He’s a good biter all right.”
“He,” in this case referred to a small green parrot which George had been holding in both hands. In some way it had wriggled loose from his grasp and twisting its head around had taken a good sized bit of flesh out of the back of his hand. This was the cause of George’s pain and his friends’ mirth.
“Put a muzzle on him, Pop,” advised Fred. “He’s dangerous.”
“He certainly is,” agreed George. “I’m afraid he’ll bite that string in half too.”
“How did you catch him?” inquired Grant curiously. “Did you put salt on his tail?”
George gave the speaker a scornful look. “I caught him,” he replied, “because he has a broken wing and can’t fly very well. It wasn’t any easy job, though.”
“How did he break his wing?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”