One might really just as well salute one's acquaintances
with ``Pretty Polly. Puss, puss, miaow!'' Groby began to
fume against the picture of himself as a foolish feathered
fowl which his nephews sketch had first suggested, and which
his own accusing imagination was filling in with such
unflattering detail.
``I'll give the beastly bird away,'' he said resentfully;
though he knew at the same time that he would do no such
thing. It would look so absurd after all the years that he
had kept the parrot and made much of it suddenly to try and
find it a new home.
``Has my brother arrived?'' he asked of the stable-boy,
who had come with the pony-carriage to meet him.
``Yessir, came down by the two-fifteen. Your parrot's
dead.'' The boy made the latter announcement with the relish
which his class finds in proclaiming a catastrophe.
``My parrot dead?'' said Groby. ``What caused its
death?''
``The ipe,'' said the boy briefly.
``The ipe?'' queried Groby. ``Whatever's that?''
``The ipe what the Colonel brought down with him,'' came
the rather alarming answer.
``Do you mean to say my brother is ill?'' asked Groby.
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