They did not like the idea of going back to the Third Green Lane at all. But they went. When they came within sight of the lane they were amazed to find that the house had gone. It had vanished completely. Jack and Molly could scarcely believe their eyes at first, but on the whole they were distinctly relieved that it wasn’t there; nevertheless, they searched the end of the lane and the edge of the Heath quickly, with constant, watchful eyes on the place where the house had been. Having satisfied themselves that the leaf was nowhere about there, they proceeded to the spot where they had left off searching, and continued peering among the bushes and trees and heather of the Goblin’s Heath.
Hour after hour passed by, and the day wore on. Still they plodded away at their task, keeping together and listening always, in case a message came from the Goblin. When they got hungry again, they ate some of Old Nancy’s little brown sweets, and found them very refreshing.
In the daylight they could hardly imagine it was the same Heath that they had seen by moonlight; there was not the slightest trace of goblins, or spies. That is, not the slightest trace until they came across a pond and saw, half out of the water, and stuck in the soft mud, a shoe: a curiously shaped shoe, which they remembered, vaguely, seeing before—on the foot of the old woman with the horrible eyes. This was evidently the shoe that the goblins had thrown into the pond. The sight of it made all their recent adventures return vividly to their minds, and made them very unwilling to be still on the Heath when night came. So they hastened on their way.
Evening was already approaching when they finally came to the end of their day’s search, and no sign of the Black Leaf had they found. As no warning had come from the Goblin and they had not been disturbed in any way, they felt, on the whole, all the better for their open-air day on the sunny, wind-swept Heath; though they were tired now, and not at all sorry to turn their footsteps toward the little village, which appeared close at hand, at the edge of the Heath.
CHAPTER XIII
Timothy Gives Them a Clue
MISS MARIGOLD was in the garden tying up the sunflowers as Jack and Molly passed her cottage, which was the fourth one along the village street. Such a quaint little village street it was, with cobbled stones, and grass growing in the roadway, and bunchy white cottages with thatched roofs. The children did not know the name of the lady in the garden, of course, and were just wondering where Miss Marigold lived, when they saw a card hanging in the window, on which was printed:
MISS MARIGOLD
Teas Provided.
Apartments
They stopped. Miss Marigold looked up from her flowers and saw two tired little faces looking at her over the gate. Miss Marigold was tall and thin and looked neither old nor young, but between the two. Her thick hair, which was of a pale yellow colour, was neatly braided round her head; she was dressed in a dark green dress with snow-white collar and cuffs. She looked kind when she smiled, and as she smiled when she saw the children they made up their minds to stay there if they could. So they opened the gate and entered her garden.
She listened while they told her who they were and what they wanted.
“I shall be pleased to give you accommodation,” she said in her gentle, stiff little manner. “And you would like a cup of hot tea and some toasted muffins at once, I’m sure.”
Jack and Molly felt that there was nothing they would like more than tea and muffins, but they told Miss Marigold that they had no money with them, and asked her what they could do for her to earn their tea, bed, and breakfast.
“Nothing at all. You are searching for the Black Leaf—that is enough. You will have done more for me, and for the whole country, than can ever be repaid, if you find it,” said Miss Marigold, and led the way into her cottage, which was quaint and old-fashioned, with low, oak-beamed ceilings and sloping floors.
The children had a refreshing wash, then sat down to a well-spread table—hot tea, and toasted muffins and eggs, and brown bread and butter, and honey, and fresh fruit. Over tea they told Miss Marigold about their search, and the latest doings of the Pumpkin. Miss Marigold had never actually seen the Pumpkin, but she had heard much about him, of course, and was very interested in the children’s account.
“We have only just received news, in the village here, that the Pumpkin has returned. One of the villagers, who went to the city, came riding back over the Goblin’s Heath with the news,” she told the children.
While they were talking they heard footsteps on the garden path outside the window, and then came a tap at the door. Jack and Molly started. But Miss Marigold rose leisurely saying, with a shake of her head, “I told him not to stay as late as this.” Then she opened the door. “Ah! come in, Timothy,” she said.
Timothy came in. Catching sight of strangers in the room, he paused, hesitating on the mat, nervously twisting his cap in his hands. Timothy was a fat, awkward-looking boy, about twelve years old, with puffy cheeks, and round eyes, and a simple expression. Miss Marigold introduced him as her nephew, much to the children’s surprise, as he was utterly unlike his aunt in every way—in looks especially, except for the hair, which was the same pale yellow colour.
“Timothy has been out to a tea-party to-day,” said Miss Marigold to the children. “Haven’t you, Timothy?”
“Umth,” lisped Timothy, in a thick voice, nodding his head.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” said Molly, politely.
“Perapths,” replied Timothy, sitting down on the extreme edge of a chair.
Molly looked puzzled, but he seemed well-meaning, and she felt sorry for him as he appeared to be so nervous.
“What kept you so late?” asked his aunt. “You ought to have been home an hour ago—you know I don’t like you being out after dusk.”
Timothy blushed and began a jerky, stammering sort of explanation. His aunt frowned a little and looked at him suspiciously.
“You haven’t been on the Goblin’s Heath, have you?” Miss Marigold asked.
“No, ma’m,” replied Timothy, promptly. “Where have you come from?” he asked Jack suddenly.
“We’ve just come from the Goblin’s Heath,” replied Jack; and at Timothy’s eager request to be told about their adventures, Jack started to tell him about their search. Timothy appeared to listen intently, until presently his aunt got up and went out of the room to prepare the bedrooms. Immediately he leant across the table and interrupted.
“Here!” he exclaimed suddenly.
Jack stopped speaking, and stared at Timothy, who was obviously in a very excited state.
“Here, I thay! What do you thig?” said Timothy.
“What? What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Jack.
“I theen it,” said Timothy, and exploded with laughter.
Jack and Molly exchanged bewildered glances, while Timothy rolled and rocked in his chair with laughter till the tears ran down his fat white cheeks. He continued to gasp and laugh until Molly grew quite concerned about him, and jumping off her chair she ran to the door to call his aunt. This sobered him immediately and he sprang up waving his hand to stop her.
“Don’t, don’t,” he managed to gasp. “I alwayth laugh when … he! he! he!… when I exthited … don’t call aunt … I tell you … he! he! he! he!… in a minute.”
When he had quieted down a bit he said:
“Aunt muthn’t know, becauth ’e thig I been out to tea—well, I haven’t—and I been where ’e told me not to go, and I theen it!” He was getting fearfully excited again.
“Seen what? Oh, do tell us,” said Molly.
“The … he! he! he!…” Timothy giggled. “The … Black Leaf!”
“Oh,” cried Jack and Molly together, their questions tumbling over each other in their eagerness. “Where is it? Where did you see it? Did you pick it? What did you do with it?”
“I didn’t pick it—I couldn’t get near it,” Timothy answered. “But I know where it ith....” He leant toward them and whispered hoarsely, his eyes round and bulging. “… In the Orange Wood.”
Timothy went on to tell them how he had happened to see it. It seemed that he had been forbidden by his aunt to go on to the Goblin’s Heath, or into the Orange Wood, because it was rumoured that the Pumpkin’s spies were in hiding in both these places—it was even said by some that the Pumpkin himself had been seen on the Heath yesterday. Although Timothy didn’t believe this, he said, he longed to explore both the wood and the heath, and to-day he had deceived his aunt, pretending he was going to tea with a friend and instead had slipped into the wood, which lay just beyond the village, and had wandered about there. He had come across Mr Papingay’s house in the wood—which he had often heard about, but never seen before. (Mr Papingay! Jack and Molly recognised the name, of course; it was Glan’s relation.) He was a funny old man, was Mr Papingay, said Timothy; and it was a funny house. And the Black Leaf was growing in a plant-pot, in the house! Only don’t tell his aunt he’d been in the wood, he pleaded, she would be angry with him, and perhaps send him away home to his father: and he didn’t want to go home yet.
“Wait till you’ve got the Leaf—then it won’t matter,” said Timothy.
He seemed so distressed at the idea of his aunt knowing of his disobedience (although she didn’t seem the kind of aunt to be too severe, Molly thought) that the children promised they would say nothing about it.
“Couldn’t you come with us, to-morrow, and show us the way?” said Jack.
But Timothy shook his head. “I rather you tell me about it afterwarth,” he said. “I had enough of the wood. Ith too full of crackly noith. I ran all the way home,” he confessed. “Oh, and thereth one thig. Don’t let Mr Papingay know you’ve come for the Leaf. He’th a funny old man, perapth he wouldn’t let you have it. Wait till you thee it. It wath on the kitchen window thill—inthide—when I thaw it.”
The children thanked Timothy, and were discussing eagerly to-morrow’s plans, when Miss Marigold looked in to say all was ready upstairs.
“I heard you laughing a lot just now, Timothy,” she remarked. “That tea-party made you very excited, I’m afraid.”
“Umth,” agreed Timothy, meekly.
The children were very tired that night, and in spite of their excitement they slept soundly in the comfortable, warm beds Miss Marigold had prepared for them.
Their first waking thoughts were of the plant-pot in Mr Papingay’s house: they longed to be off to the Orange Wood without delay. But they discovered, on arriving downstairs, that the village had made other plans for them. Somehow the news had spread that two people from the Impossible World had come to search the village for the Black Leaf, and the villagers meant to welcome them handsomely and give them all the help they could. During breakfast the children noticed that people kept stopping and peering in through the window at them, and from remarks dropped by Miss Marigold they understood that they would create great disappointment, if not give real offence, unless they searched the village thoroughly that day—and in sight of the people. Jack and Molly began to feel as if they were a sort of show or entertainment. However, they talked things over together, and calculating that the village ought not to take more than a few hours to do—as it was very small—they decided that perhaps they had better search it first, and then in the afternoon start off into the Orange Wood. After all Timothy might have made a mistake, and the Leaf might be in the village after all; it would never do to pass it by.
So they set to work immediately after breakfast, much refreshed by their long sleep and the wholesome, good food that Miss Marigold had set before them. They thanked her warmly and said good-bye to Timothy, then stepped out into another day of sunshine.
But they had reckoned their time without the villagers. So insistent and eager were they to help the children that they hindered and delayed them in every way. Children and men and women suggested likely places where the Black Leaf might be growing, and insisted on taking Jack and Molly to the places; but each search proved in vain.
They searched a field by special request of the man who owned it, and who expressed great surprise when told that the Leaf was not there. (Although he knew very well that the Leaf was not there as he had already gone over the field himself. Still he felt he couldn’t have his ground neglected when all his neighbours’ fields were being searched.)
And one old lady insisted on digging up her window box to show them that the Leaf wasn’t there, conscious of the importance she was gaining in the eyes of her neighbours while the children stayed about her place.
The attention they received made the children rather uncomfortable. However, every garden, every yard of roadway, every field and lane and paddock, and even every plant-pot, having been searched to the villagers’ (and the children’s) satisfaction, Jack and Molly at length said good-bye to the village and turned eagerly toward the Orange Wood.
The afternoon was well advanced by this time, and the sun gleaming through the trees in the wood turned the gold and brown leaves on the branches to a mass of flaming colour.
CHAPTER XIV
Mr Papingay’s House in the Orange Wood
AS soon as the children entered the wood all sounds of life seemed to die away, and everything was still. No birds sang or fluttered overhead; no little wood animals scurried through the dry, dead leaves on the ground; no breeze rustled the golden leaves on the trees; the sun shone softly through the branches and cast a strange orange-coloured shimmer over the scene—which accounted for the name by which the wood was known. As Jack and Molly went along they found themselves talking to each other in whispers, afraid to disturb the brooding quietness of the wood; the sound of their footsteps on the path seemed unusually loud.
“I say, Molly, what do you say if we keep to the footpath and go straight to Mr Papingay’s house as quickly as possible and see if it really is the Leaf? Then we can search the rest of the wood afterward—if it isn’t,” suggested Jack.
Molly agreed readily. Remembering that it was rumoured that the wood was full of the Pumpkin’s spies, the children had great hopes that it was the Black Leaf in Mr Papingay’s plant-pot; for the spies would surely be stationed all around the place where the Black Leaf grew, to guard it.
“Thank goodness we know we can trust Mr Papingay,” said Molly. “If we can only find him. Oh, Jack, if only it is the Leaf, won’t it be splendid!” Molly broke off and glanced over her shoulder. “How awfully quiet everything is, Jack—just as if the wood were listening!… Oh! What was that!”
“It wasn’t anything. Don’t, Molly. You gave me quite a jump,” Jack said unsteadily, looking over his shoulder too. The light in the wood was beginning to fade, and under the distant trees dim shadows gathered.
“I thought I heard some twigs crackling—a snapping sound,” said Molly, wide-eyed.
“Well, you needn’t say so, Moll, if you did. But anyway, I’m not afraid—if you are.” Nevertheless Jack quickened his pace to a sharp trot, and Molly had some difficulty in keeping up with him.
“I’m not afraid, either,” she gasped.
“Nor am I,” repeated Jack, and went a little faster.
Then they both began to run.
“Of course—we ought—to—get there—as quick—as—we can—so—as not to—waste—any—time,” Molly jerked out, apologizing as it were to herself and to Jack for their sudden haste.
They ran along the footpath for a short distance until, a little way ahead of them, they saw an open space in the wood, in the centre of which stood a house.
“Let’s—stop—Molly,” said Jack, breathlessly. They both pulled up and stood still for a few moments. “It wouldn’t—do—for—us—to run in—on—on—him like this. It might look as if—as if we were—as if–oh, well, it would look funny, you know.”
Molly agreed. So they waited until they had got their breath again, then they walked casually out into the open space. The trees stood round the clearing in a wide circle, and above the house was a big expanse of sky. It seemed quite light out here after the dim light of the wood.
It was a queer-looking house that faced them, but what it was about the house that made it queer Jack and Molly could not at first make out. Around it was a square of asphalt, and drawing nearer they saw that on the asphalt, all round the four sides, were rows of narrow white streaks, that looked like railings lying down flat; and this is what they actually proved to be—only they were not real railings, they were painted on the ground with white paint. The children looked up, and then they realized what it was that made the house look funny. Nearly everything on it and about it was not real but painted. The house itself was real, and so was the front door; but the knocker and handle and letter-box were all painted on. Three of the windows seemed real, but there were three more that were obviously painted on, and were obviously the work of some one not greatly skilled in the art of painting. There was a large tree painted on the asphalt, and a row of tulips, and a path bordered by painted stones that led up to the front door.
The children were gazing at these things in astonishment when the front door suddenly opened, and the owner of the house appeared on the threshold.
“Come inside,” he called affably, peering at them over the top of his spectacles. “The latch on the gate pulls downward. Don’t be afraid of the dog; he won’t hurt you if I speak to him. There, Percy, there! Down, sir! There’s a good dog!”
Jack and Molly looked round wonderingly, but could not see any signs of a dog, till their eyes caught sight of a black smudge of paint, which proved on closer acquaintance to be a black dog chained to a red kennel—both painted flat on the ground a few feet inside the gate. The children gazed at each other questioningly; then Glan’s words came back to them, “Humour him, he’s a queer old soul.”
So Molly bent down and pretended to pull the latch on the gate down; she and Jack walked carefully on to the asphalt over the flat gate, then she turned and pretended to close and latch the gate again. As they passed the painted dog, she had another happy idea. “Good dog. Good dog,” she said, and stooped and patted the asphalt.
The old man beamed down upon her. “He’s quite harmless when I tell him it’s all right,” he confided, “but you should just see him when he’s roused. Stand on the step and I’ll tell him there’s a bath-chair round the corner. He hates ’em.”
The children could not see a real step, but spying a painted white square by the front door, they stood on that.
“Now then,” cried the old man, “at ’em, Percy, at ’em! There’s a bath-chair a-comin’ round the corner!”
There was a dead silence while the painted dog gazed with unseeing eyes up at the sky, and a little breeze rustled in the tree-tops.
“Isn’t he furious?” chuckled the old man, beaming proudly from the dog to the children. “Go it, old boy! Give it ’em!”
As he seemed to expect an answer to his question, Molly said: “He—he—certainly looks very fierce, doesn’t he?”
“That’s nothing to what he can look,” said Mr Papingay, obviously delighted at Molly’s reply. “But, come inside, come inside.”
So the children entered the narrow, dark hall and Mr Papingay shut the front door behind them.
“This way,” he said, crushing past them and throwing open a door on the right. “Come inside and sit down a bit. This is my study. What do you think of it?”
As the question was asked before Jack and Molly were inside the room there was naturally a short interval before Molly could reply, politely:
“What a very—er—uncommon room.”
“All done by myself,” said the old man, waving his hand with a sweeping movement toward the walls.
The children followed the hand-sweep and saw rows upon rows of books painted round the walls. There was no doubt about them being painted. And they noticed also that the carpet, chairs, tables, curtains, and even the fireplace were all painted in this amazing room. Jack’s eyes travelled rapidly over the room, but not a single real thing could he see in it except himself, and Molly, and the old man standing in front of him; and he looked at the latter twice to make sure that he was real and not simply made of paint like the other things. But Mr Papingay was real enough with his spectacles and bald head. The only hair he possessed grew like a fringe at the back of his head, low down, just above the nape of his neck—and under his chin a little fringe of whiskers appeared; he had round, blue eyes and eyebrows set high that gave him a look of continual surprise; over a dark-coloured suit he wore a brown plaid dressing-gown, with long cord and tassels, and on his feet were a pair of very old red felt carpet slippers. And then Jack’s roving eye noticed that the buttons on his dressing-gown were painted on; but that was the only bit of paint about Mr Papingay.
“You see, it’s so handy making my own things,” he was explaining to Molly. “I can have any kind of things I like and change them as often as I like.”
“Don’t you find the chairs rather awkward to sit on?” inquired Jack.
“Not at all. Why should I?” replied the old man, slightly offended.
“Well—I—er—well, you see—they’re not real, are they?” Jack blundered on.
“Not real! What do you mean?” snapped Mr Papingay. “Of course they’re real. Sit on one and see.”
“Don’t be silly, Jack,” Molly broke in. “They certainly look most comfortable. I do think it is clever of you to make them,” she said to the old man.
“Oh, no, no. Not at all. Simple enough,” said Mr Papingay airily, appeased at once. “But you try one. They may look comfortable, but it’s nothing to what they are to sit on. You try one,” he urged.
So Molly pretended to sit down on one of the painted chairs. It was a most curious sensation. Although she knew there was no chair there she felt somehow as if she really were sitting on a chair; so that when the old man asked her, with a self-conscious smile on his face, “Now, isn’t it comfortable?” she could answer truthfully, “Yes, it really is.”
Yet, afterward, Jack told her that he had tried one of the chairs when she and the old man were not looking, and had nearly fallen on the floor. “I found it anything but comfortable—the silly old ass,” he said.
When they had admired the study to the old man’s content he led them out into the hall again and up the stairs to a curious little room he called his visitors room. As they went upstairs Molly tried to tell their host who they were and how they knew Glan and his father, but he kept up a constant stream of conversation himself and took no notice of her remarks.
The children found the visitors room more difficult than ever to be truthful and yet polite in. It had been hard to pretend the painted stair-carpet was soft and real, and that the books in the study could be taken out and read; but these things were nothing compared to the difficulties in the visitors room. It was a small, high-ceilinged room, furnished with painted chairs and tables; only, in addition to the painted furniture were painted people. Round the walls and on the floor, people standing, people sitting, ladies, gentlemen, girls and boys; some with hats on as if paying an afternoon call, some with hats off as if they had come to spend the day. But one and all, without exception, were simply painted people. On the panes of one of the real windows was painted the figure of a sandy-haired man, back view; this gentleman, who was dressed in a dull grey suit and a high white collar, was apparently looking out of the window.
As the children glanced round at these queer silent people, hesitating what to do, they became aware that the old man was murmuring some kind of introduction to a painted lady in bright purple.
“This is my dear friend, Mrs Pobjoy,” he was saying. “Mrs Pobjoy, allow me to introduce you to my two little friends—er—what are your names, by the way?”
The children told him, and took this opportunity of explaining who they were and how they knew Glan.
“Dear me, dear me!” said Mr Papingay. “How very extraordinary!” and he shook hands affably, and then he introduced them to Mr Pobjoy—a red-faced gentleman painted on the wall beside his wife.
Molly bowed politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, and gave Jack a nudge with her elbow.
“Howjer do?” said Jack, feeling an awful ass.
The painted lady in bright purple stared vacantly down at the two children.
“Mrs Pobjoy’s always delighted to see new faces, aren’t you, ma’m? Ah, ha! A regular butterfly. A regular butterfly. What do you say, Pobjoy?” and Mr Papingay gave the painted figure of Mr Pobjoy a dig in the ribs, then turned from one to the other of his painted visitors chattering and laughing, and shaking his head. “And here’s little Maudie. Well, and how is Maudie to-day?” and he stooped and playfully flicked the cheeks of a fat-faced little girl with yellow hair and a pink frock who was leaning against a painted sideboard. “Here’s a little girl to see you, Maudie. You’ll like that, won’t you?” He turned to the children. “I’m afraid she’s rather peevish this evening. She is sometimes. It’s best to take no notice—she’ll come round presently. Here’s Mr Waffer, here by the window—I won’t introduce you to him just at present, he’s probably just got an inspiration I should think, by the way he stands absorbed in the scenery outside. He’s a poet, you know.... But come over here and let Lizzie and her sister see you.” He bundled away across the room followed by the two children.
“I say, Molly,” whispered Jack, “do you think we should see the front of Mr Waffer through the window if we went outside and looked up. I would like to see his face.”
“Why?” asked Molly with interest.
“Because I don’t believe he has one. Do remind me to look as we go out,” said Jack.
“This,” the old man was saying as they came up to him, “is Lizzie and here’s her sister. Very bright girls, both of them,” he added in an undertone so that the green-frocked Lizzie should not hear. And so he moved on introducing them to one after the other, and it began to look as if he would never tear himself away from the visitors room. At length Molly told him that they would not be able to stay much longer as they wished to get out of the Orange Wood before darkness came down.
“Oh, you mustn’t go yet,” he protested. “I’ve got a lot more to show you yet.... Ah! and that reminds me.... But first you must come and see my kitchen arrangements; they are absolutely first-rate; and then I have something very exciting to tell you.” He nodded his head mysteriously.
Jack and Molly exchanged significant glances. As they followed him downstairs it struck them that although he was introducing them to everything and everybody in his house, yet he had never troubled to introduce himself. He had forgotten about that. He led the way to the kitchen, and the children noticed, in passing, a servant carrying a tray, painted on the passage wall a few yards from the kitchen door. (“How tiresome it must be for her never to get any farther,” thought Molly, but she didn’t say anything.)
The kitchen was very like the other rooms, nearly all paint. It worried Molly a little to notice that the sink was painted on the wall, and she wondered however Mr Papingay managed to wash up the cups and saucers in the tin bowl that was painted inside the sink; especially as the taps and cups and saucers appeared to be real. But she was afraid to ask any questions in case it delayed the “exciting” news that they were longing to hear.
A quick glance at the kitchen window sill on entering the room showed them that there was no plant-pot there now. After Mr Papingay had taken them a tour of the kitchen and they had admired everything from the oven with the painted round of beef on the shelf to the painted egg-whisk hanging on the dresser, their host bade them be seated on a bench by the kitchen window—which happened to be a real bench, much to Jack’s relief—and then he said:
“There is something I think you ought to know.” He shut the kitchen door carefully so that the servant painted in the passage should not hear, while the children’s hearts began to beat rapidly. Mr Papingay came back and stood before them.
“The Grey Pumpkin has returned to this land,” he said solemnly, then waited for the exclamations of amazement which did not come.
“Of course, we know,” said Jack, after a short pause.
Mr Papingay looked both surprised and offended. “Why, how’s this?” he asked.
And the children told him, and explained about the search they were making.
“Well, well, well,” he said at length. “I’ve been searching for the Black Leaf too. I searched every inch of the Orange Wood thoroughly, directly I heard the Pumpkin was back again. And—this is what I really wanted to tell you—what do you think I did when I found that the Black Leaf wasn’t anywhere in the wood?” he asked excitedly.
“What?” cried both children together.
“Painted a Black Leaf,” he said triumphantly, beaming with joy. “And here it is.”
He opened a cupboard door behind him and disclosed a plant-pot (which was real) in which grew a black leaf (which was painted). In fact it was so entirely artificial that it wasn’t even a real leaf coloured black: it was cut out of newspaper, and painted with a thick black paint.
Jack and Molly did not speak for a moment or two. They could not. They were so thoroughly disappointed. Had they wasted all this valuable time ‘humouring’ Mr Papingay for nothing more than this? They had hardly realized how high their hopes had been, until now, when they were flung to the ground. It was with an effort that Molly kept back her tears; as for Jack, he felt he would like to kick something.
Meanwhile, Mr Papingay was perplexed at their silence. He lifted the pot down and set it on the floor in front of the bench.
“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Jack.
“I will tell you,” said Mr Papingay. “I have decided that you shall have the leaf and take it back to the City. I was wondering, only yesterday, whom I could send it by. It isn’t time for my yearly visit to the City yet, and besides, Percy has rather a nasty little cough—I can’t leave him till he’s better, poor old chap.”