Despite the Misses Jacobite’s efforts to keep him ill, Ocky insisted on getting better. His cork-like nature refused to be submerged by adversity; it was warranted un-sinkable.

At first, after repeated and urgent requests, he was allowed to sit by the window in a dressing-gown. Then he was allowed to get partly dressed and to ramble about the house in carpet-slippers. At last he was permitted to venture into the garden. There, for some days, his adventures ended. His four benevolent Delilahs had the felicity of watching their captive-man, pottering in the sunshine, watering the grass and tying up the flowers, while leaves tapped against the walls and birds flew over him.

They were terribly afraid that presently he would contemplate an exodus. It was so very long since they had had anything to do with men—they had almost forgotten what things amused them. In those far-off days when the world was young and lovers were frequent, they had played and sung a little. But the drawing-room was faded, their songs were out of date, the piano was out of tune, and their voices——. Perhaps those lovers had never really cared for their singing; appearing to care had afforded an excuse for sitting close to the singers, as they turned the pages of their music.

Mr. Waffles mustn’t be allowed to get dull—that would be fatal. They asked him if he would be so good as to keep an eye on the cats—to see that they didn’t pounce on any of the birds who made a home in their garden. Mr. Waffles promised. But the cats still stole along the wall and crept through the bushes, unmolested by the weary gentleman in carpet-slippers.

Something had to be done. The case grew desperate. The four gray sisters hunted through their father’s library and searched out books—Dickens’ novels in paper-covers, issued in parts at a time when a new character from Boz was more exciting than a new comet hurled through the night from the unseen shores of eternity. Dickens left Mr. Waffles cold; his tastes were not literary. He fell asleep with David Copperfield face-down beside his chair, while the sunlight played leap-frog with the shadows across the lawn.

He had to be amused. Providence sent a diversion. Seated beneath the apple tree, where the shrubbery began, Miss Florence was assuring her Samson for the hundredth time of how glad she and her sisters were to have him with them. To enforce the sincerity of her words, she had stretched out her hand to touch him—had almost touched him—when a shocked voice exclaimed, “What the devil! What the devil! Poor father! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

Miss Florence jumped back from Mr. Waffles. Had he accused her? She saw that his lips were not moving—that in fact, he was as surprised as herself. Both looked slowly round. Their astonished glances found nothing more perturbing than the innocent greenness of the garden and the noiseless hopping of birds.

The voice came again, maliciously strident. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What the devil! What the devil!”

Overhead, perched on a branch, was a gray and scarlet parrot. From whom had it escaped? How long had it been there? All they knew was that, while taking refuge in their garden, it was not above reviling them. At night it formed the habit of roosting in the apple tree. Before anyone was out of bed, it could be heard profaning the early morning.

The energies of the entire household were now directed toward the effecting of its capture. Ingenious plans were concocted. A topic of conversation was never lacking.

The four elderly ladies placed themselves under their guest’s protection. What would the neighbors think if they were to hear a constant stream of blasphemy issuing from their walls? And, besides, the parrot in a cage could be taught better manners and made an attractive pet.

Mr. Grace, on a visit, learnt of the situation and volunteered to lend a hand. He and Mr. Waffles were provided with bags of grain and butterfly-nets. They were instructed to creep with the stealth of poachers behind ambuscades of trees and flowers, following the gray and scarlet peril till it settled, and then——

But the triumphant moment was continually postponed; for, whenever they approached the parrot, no matter how warily, it spread its wings, mocking them and crying, “What the devil!”—or something even worse.

Ocky’s days were fully occupied now. He had a morning-to-evening interest. The Misses Jacobite urged on him the importance of his task—the safeguarding of their reputation.

But even a trust so sacred and incessant failed to content Mr. Waffles. Peter made this discovery when his uncle asked him for the loan of a shilling. “Voluntary contributions thankfully borrowed,” was Ocky’s motto. No one ever gave him anything. It was always lent. Now money implied an excursion into the larger world; Peter wondered what might be its purpose. He knew next morning; his uncle had a sixpenny pipe in his mouth and a tin of cheap tobacco in his pocket. He was stoking up to renew life’s battle; with a pipe between his teeth, Ocky Waffles was a man.

He led Peter down the garden to the shrubbery, behind which were two cane-chairs. The shrubbery was convenient for hiding the fact that he was smoking.

“Peter,” he said, jerking his head across his shoulder, “I’ve been noticing. They can’t afford it. I’ve got to go to work, old chap.”

He spoke with his old swaggering confidence, as though the entire world was waiting to engage his services. The carpet-slippers, which had been Mr. Jacobite’s, chafed one against the other thoughtfully.

“Got to go to work,” he repeated reflectively, in a tone which implied regret. “I think I know a fellow—— We were in the coop together, and he said—— But I’m not going to tell you till I’m more certain of my plans.”

Had he been burdened with the weightiest of financial secrets, he could not have made them more mysterious. Peter tried not to smile; he was glad—this was the muddling self-deceived uncle he remembered.

Ocky knocked the ashes out of his pipe, waiting for the bowl to cool before he filled it. “I hadn’t an idea that they had so little. It’s come home to me gradually—the worn carpets and old things everywhere. And here have I been eating my head off. We’ll have to pay ‘em back, Peter—have to pay ‘em back.”

Peter had reason to be sceptical about the paying back; he applauded the intention. Except in imagination, his uncle had never been much of a money-maker. He had always been unemployable; he was ten times more unemployable now with a prison record. Peter spoke to his father, with the result that a position was offered as packer in a publisher’s establishment. Ocky refused it. “Got something better.”

The “something better” was at last divulged. One afternoon Peter found his uncle up the apple-tree, trying to balance a box in its branches. In the box was scattered the kind of food best calculated to tempt the appetite of a parrot. The box had a flap-door leading into it, propped open by a stick from which a string dangled. If an ill-natured bird were to enter the box and a lady beneath the tree were to pull on the string, thus dragging away the stick, the door would shut and the ill-natured bird would be a captive. Gathered under the tree were the four Misses Jacobite, looking very weepy and calling up warnings to their guest, please not to fall and to be careful.

Peter knew what it meant—these were the last offices of gratitude which preceded departure.

When the adventurous gentleman had clambered down, it was seen that he wore his shabby spats and that his mustaches were pointed with wax. He led Peter aside and winked at him solemnly. It was the return from Elba; after exile, he was going forth to conquer the world afresh.

“Well?” said Peter.

“Well?” said Ocky.

“Leaving?” asked Peter.

“‘S’afternoon,” said Ocky. Then, after a silence, which heightened the suspense, came the revelation. “There’s a fellow, I know, a Mr. Widow—we were in the coop together. A nice fellow! He oughtn’t to have been there. Seems he was in the second-hand business and dressed like a parson to inspire confidence. Well, his wife was a gadabout woman and always jeering at him. One day, quite quietly, in a necessary sort of manner, without losing his temper, so he told me, he up and clumped her over the head. He went out to a sale, never thinking he’d done any more than was his duty; when he came back she was dead. He’s a nice, kind sort of chap, is Jimmie Widow, and religious. Not a bit like a murderer. If you didn’t start with a prejudice, you’d like him, Peter. I met him a fortnight ago. He’s opened a little place in Soho and wants me to join him. I’m to mind shop while he’s out. There’s heaps of money to be made in the second-hand business. You see, I’ll surprise you all and die a rich man yet.”

“Oh, yes,” said Peter, “I—I hope so.”

Mr. Grace thought it just as well that his friend should enter on his new adventure with the appearance of prosperity. He offered him a free ride in his cab. So Ocky took leave of his benevolent Delilahs not as a pedestrian but, as he had arrived—a carriage-gentleman.

Shortly after his exit, the parrot was pounced on and eaten by a cat. With the first money that he earned, Ocky made up for the loss with the gift of a pair of love-birds. The Misses Jacobite named one Ocky and the other Waffles. Which was the husband-bird and which the lady was a matter in continual dispute between the sisters. Miss Florence insisted that Waffles was the husband, because it had the more considerate habits. The other she thought of as Jehane, and disliked.

The question was still undecided, when a hawker of goldfish happened to call. No gold-fish were required; but the conversation veered round to the sex of love-birds. The peddler confessed that in his spare moments ‘e did a bit in poultry and bulldogs. He was at once invited to enter, with all the deference that is due to an expert. Having inspected Ocky and Waffles, he announced as his verdict that them bloomin’ love-birds wuz either both cocks or both ‘ens; but, whether cocks or ‘ens, even he, with a vast experience be’ind him, could not tell.

When he had departed, a silver cruet-stand was missed from the sideboard. And there the perplexing problem rested.