CHAPTER XXI
A JACKDAW'S TAIL FEATHER
One of the first mornings after the coming of the Caw girls—just as we were all sitting late over our breakfast, having waited for Constantia (Harriet was always on wing with the lark)—Grace Rigley came up the back stairs, shuffling her feet and rubbing her nose with her apron for manners, and told my mother that there was a gamekeeper man who was very anxious to see her down in the kitchen.
"Go, Joseph!" said my mother. "See what he wants. I cannot be fashed with such things at such a time."
She had been listening to Harriet's lively lisp and mimicry of Constantia's many aspirants. But that did not matter. I went down, and there, sitting on the edge of a chair—he had evidently just sat down—was Peter Kemp, the gamekeeper at Rushworth Court, where my father had been so long building greenhouses and doing other contracting jobs.
"Hello, Peter Kemp!" I said. "What brings you here so early in the morning?"
The man seemed a little bit scared; but whether because of his errand, or because I had come in at an inopportune time, or just that he felt a little awkward, I cannot say.
"Why, this, Master Joe!" he said, holding out something that looked like a rook's feather, but smaller and with a thicker quick.
The bottom of the quill had been cut away very deftly, and plugged with something white—bread crumbled between the fingers, I think. The plug had evidently been removed before, and as I looked curiously at it the gamekeeper said—
"I did that, Master Joe. You see, I had never seen the like before."