"Yes sir." Quietly the Negro went about the room, opening cage doors. Jonathan followed his progress with growing horror. The birds, so long accustomed to captivity, refused freedom. A few came to the opened wickets, then retreated to their perches with frightened twitters.
"Yes sir. Anything else, sir?"
"Go down to the pier and tell Captain Parker to hold the steamer; we're sailing with him."
"But you can't do that, sir. You can't leave your people to starve." The whites of Tom's eyes glistened. "You have to send out shipments of stones and the ultramarine dye which is made at the factory; you have to distribute the food which comes in."
"Nonsense. I'll pay them off and arrange for a boat to pick them up if they want to leave the island. They'll get along...."
"You'd better see your people first." The servant pointed toward the cowering birds. "You don't understand."
"All right, then, we'll visit the factory. Come on."
Morosely he strode along the weed-grown path across the valley. Midway they passed the little cemetery where six generations of Robertsons lay side by side.
"I had to bury him myself, sir." Tom indicated a fresh mound of earth. "They couldn't help ... couldn't perform a task they were not accustomed to."