The next day and the next came and went, and Sandy, who looked carefully every morning for the old fellow, began to give up all hope of seeing him again. Then, in the late afternoon when the other birds were away, the old man came sailing slowly over the water and landed stiffly upon the coral of a point just awash at the end of the key.
As the sun was setting, the old man swung himself slowly around to face it. He drew his head well back and held himself dignified and stately as he walked to the edge of the surf. There he stopped, and as the flaming orb sank beneath the western sea, the old man still stood watching it as it disappeared.
Sandy Shackford lit the lantern, and the sudden tropic night fell upon the quiet ocean.
In the morning the keeper looked out, and the old man was sitting silent and stationary as before. When the day wore on and he did not start out fishing Sandy took the dory and rowed to the jutting reef. He walked slowly toward the old man, not wishing to disturb him, but to help him if he could. He drew near, and the old bird made no motion. He reached slowly down, and the head he touched was cold.
Sitting there, with the setting sun shining over the southern sea, the old man had died. He was now cold and stiff, but even in death he sat straight and dignified. He had died as a leader should.
“Poor old man,” said Sandy. “His pouch was cut open an’ he jest naterally starved to death—couldn’t hold no fish, an’ as fast as he’d catch ’em they’d get away. It was a mean way to kill a fine old bird. Ye have my sympathy, old man. I came nigh goin’ the same way once myself.”
And then, as if not to disturb him, the keeper walked on his toes to his boat and shoved off.
THE OUTCAST
