“Just a parrot,” Cartwright said. “You’ve upset her nest, you see. Be careful when you lift the lid. There may be centipedes inside.”
“If you’ll clear the live stock off the outside, I’ll see to the inside,” I said. “I should think a cheaper piano would have done the parrots to nest in, sir.
“It seems odd to you,” he said meekly, wrinkling his forehead a little. “I wish I could explain—”
He caught himself up, and I answered never a word, but began examining the piano. It was a Broadwood grand, but the state it was in! I’d hard work not to give him a further piece of my mind.
For three days I worked at the poor thing. Hammers eaten off by the white ants, wires that the sea rust had done for, cracked keys, nothing really in shape but the sounding board. And all the time I was working the parrots kept screaming over my head, the trades blew through the torn thatch of palms, the surf beat on the pink and purple reefs beyond the point, and I kept thinking what a queer start it all was and how much I’d have to tell Molly when I got back.
Now and again Cartwright would stop a few minutes in the doorway and make jerky conversation, eyeing the piano like a starving man the while. He stopped quite a time the third morning. I was busy tuning and hadn’t much to say, but gradually he came nearer.
“How’s it coming on?” he asked.
“All in shape but one string,” I said. “Try the tone of it, sir.”
“I mustn’t touch it, I mustn’t touch it,” he says to himself, but all the time he was coming closer, as if something was pulling him on. He put out his hand and struck B flat octave.
“The upper B is mute!” he cries.