Parrot Co. | Page 4

soundly trounced one of the biggest bullies in the
teak timber-yards at Rangoon.
He made no friends; he had no confidences to exchange; nor did he
offer to become the repository of other men's pasts. But he would share
his bread and his rupees, when he had them, with any who asked. Many
tried to dig into his past, but he was as unresponsive as granite. It takes
a woman to find out what a man is and has been; and Warrington went
about women in a wide circle. In a way he was the most baffling kind
of a mystery to those who knew him: he frequented the haunts of men,
took a friendly drink, played cards for small sums, laughed and jested
like any other anchorless man. In the East men are given curious names.
They become known by phrases, such as, The Man Who Talks, Mr.
Once Upon a Time, The One-Rupee Man, and the like. As Warrington
never received any mail, as he never entered a hotel, nor spoke of the
past, he became The Man Who Never Talked of Home.
"I say, James, old sport, no more going up and down this bally old river.
We'll go on to Rangoon to-night, if we can find a berth."
"Yes, Sahib; this business very piffle," replied the Eurasian without
turning his head. Two things he dearly loved to acquire: a bit of
American slang and a bit of English silver. He was invariably changing
his rupees into shillings, and Warrington could not convince him that
he was always losing in the transactions.
They tramped on through the dust. The sun dropped. A sudden chill
began to penetrate the haze. The white man puffed his cheroot, its
wrapper dangling; the servant hummed an Urdu lullaby; the parrot
complained unceasingly.
"How much money have you got, James?"
"Three annas."

Warrington laughed and shook the dust from his beard. "It's a great
world, James, a great and wonderful world. I've just two rupees myself.
In other words, we are busted."
"Two rupees!" James paused and turned. "Why, Sahib, you have three
hundred thousand rupees in your pocket."
"But not worth an anna until I get to Rangoon. Didn't those duffers give
you anything for handling their luggage the other day?"
"Not a pice, Sahib."
"Rotters! It takes an Englishman to turn a small trick like that. Well,
well; there were extenuating circumstances. They had sore heads. No
man likes to pay three hundred thousand for something he could have
bought for ten thousand. And I made them come to me, James, to me. I
made them come to this god-forsaken hole, just because it pleased my
fancy. When you have the skewer in, always be sure to turn it around. I
believe I'm heaven-born after all. The Lord hates a quitter, and so do I.
I nearly quit myself, once; eh, Rajah, old top? But I made them come to
me. That's the milk in the cocoanut, the curry on the rice. They almost
had me. Two rupees! It truly is a great world."
"Jah, jah, jah! Jah--jah--jah--ja-a-a-h!" screamed the parrot. "Chaloo!"
"Go on! That's the ticket. If I were a praying man, this would be the
time for it. Three hundred thousand rupees!" The man looked at the far
horizon, as if he would force his gaze beyond, into the delectable land,
the Eden out of which he had been driven. "Caviar and truffles, and
Romanée Conti, and Partagas!"
"Chicken and curry and Scotch whisky."
"Bah! You've the imagination of a he-goat."
"All right, Sahib."
"James, I owe you three hundred rupees, and I am going to add seven

hundred more. We've been fighting this old top for six years together,
and you've been a good servant and a good friend; and I'll take you with
me as far as this fortune will go, if you say the word."
"Ah, Sahib, I am much sorry. But Delhi calls, and I go. A thousand
rupees will make much business for me in the Chandney Chowk."
"Just as you say."
Presently they became purple shades in a brown world.

II
A MAN WITH A PAST
The moonless Oriental night, spangled with large and brilliant stars,
brilliant yet mellow, unlike the crisp scintillating presentment in
northern latitudes, might have served as an illustration of an air-tight
bowl, flung down relentlessly upon this part of the world. Inside this
figurative bowl it was chill, yet the air was stirless. It was without
refreshment; it became a labor and not an exhilaration to breath it. A
pall of suffocating dust rolled above and about the Irrawaddy flotilla
boat which, buffeted by the strong irregular current, strained at its
cables, now at the bow, now at the stern, not dissimilar to the last
rocking of a