Parrot Co. | Page 3

of the scarlet palace in Jaipur (so his history ran); but the
proximity of Indian princes had left him untouched: he had neither

chivalry, politeness, nor diplomacy. He was, in fact, thoroughly and
consistently bad. Round and round he went, over and over, top-side,
down-side, restlessly. For at this moment he was hearing those familiar
evening sounds which no human ear can discern: the muttering of the
day-birds about to seek cover for the night. In the field at the right of
the road stood a lonely tree. It was covered with brilliant scarlet leaves
and blossoms, and justly the natives call it the Flame of the Jungle. A
flock of small birds were gyrating above it.
"Jah, jah, jah! Jah--jah--ja-a-a-h!" cried the parrot, imitating the
Burmese bell-gong that calls to prayer. Instantly he followed the call
with a shriek so piercing as to sting the ear of the man who was
carrying him.
"You little son-of-a-gun," he laughed; "where do you pack away all that
noise?"
There was a strange bond between the big yellow man and this little
green bird. The bird did not suspect it, but the man knew. The pluck,
the pugnacity and the individuality of the feathered comrade had been
an object lesson to the man, at a time when he had been on the point of
throwing up the fight.
"Jah, jah, jah! Jah--jah--ja-a-a-h!" The bird began its interminable
somersaults, pausing only to reach for the tantalizing finger of the man,
who laughed again as he withdrew the digit in time.
For six years he had carried the bird with him, through India and
Burma and Malacca, and not yet had he won a sign of surrender. There
were many scars on his forefingers. It was amazing. With one pressure
of his hand he could have crushed out the life of the bird, but over its
brave unconquerable spirit he had no power. And that is why he loved
it.
Far away in the past they had met. He remembered the day distinctly
and bitterly. He had been on the brink of self-destruction. Fever and
poverty and terrible loneliness had battered and beaten him flat into the
dust from which this time he had had no wish to rise. He had walked

out to the railway station at Jaipur to witness the arrival of the tourist
train from Ahmadabad. He wanted to see white men and white women
from his own country, though up to this day he had carefully avoided
them. (How he hated the English, with their cold-blooded suspicion of
all who were not island-born!) The natives surged about the train, with
brass-ware, antique articles of warfare, tiger-hunting knives
(accompanied by perennial fairy tales), skins and silks. There were
beggars, holy men, guides and fakirs.
Squatted in the dust before the door of a first-class carriage was a
solemn brown man, in turban and clout, exhibiting performing parrots.
It was Rajah's turn. He fired a cannon, turned somersaults through a
little steel-hoop, opened a tiny chest, took out a four-anna piece, carried
it to his master, and in exchange received some seed. Thereupon he
waddled resentfully back to the iron-cage, opened the door, closed it
behind him, and began to mutter belligerently. Warrington haggled for
two straight hours. When he returned to his sordid evil-smelling
lodgings that night, he possessed the parrot and four rupees, and sat up
the greater part of the night trying to make the bird perform his tricks.
The idea of suicide no longer bothered him; trifling though it was, he
had found an interest in life. And on the morrow came the Eurasian,
who trustfully loaned Warrington every coin that he could scrape
together.
Often, in the dreary heart-achy days that followed, when weeks passed
ere he saw the face of a white man, when he had to combat opium and
bhang and laziness in the natives under him, the bird and his funny
tricks had saved him from whisky, or worse. In camp he gave Rajah
much freedom, its wings being clipt; and nothing pleased the little rebel
so much as to claw his way up to his master's shoulder, sit there and
watch the progress of the razor, with intermittent "jawing" at his own
reflection in the cracked hand-mirror.
Up and down the Irrawaddy, at the rest-houses, on the boats, to those of
a jocular turn of mind the three were known as "Parrot & Co."
Warrington's amiability often misled the various scoundrels with whom
he was at times forced to associate. A man who smiled most of the time

and talked Hindustani to a parrot was not to be accorded much courtesy;
until one day Warrington had settled all distinctions, finally and
primordially, with the square of his fists. After that he went his way
unmolested, having