eight long toes, as cats clutch with their claws from pleasure, and
chuckled, and sighed, and bit softly without hurting, and laid his head
against the bars till his snow and sulphur feathers touched John Broom's
black locks, the man was amazed.

"Look here, mate," said he, "you've the trick with birds, and no
mistake. I'll sell you this one cheap, and you'll be able to sell him
dear."

"I've not a penny in the world," said John Broom.

"You do look cleaned out too," said the man, scanning him from head to
foot. "I tell you what, you shall come with me a bit and tame the birds,
and I'll find you something to eat."

Ten minutes before, John Broom would have jumped at this offer, but now
he refused it. The sight of the cockatoo had brought back the fever of
home-sickness in all its fierceness. He couldn't stay out here. He would
dare anything, do anything, to see the hills about Lingborough once more
before him died; and even if he did not live to see them, he might live
to sleep in that part of Davy's Locker which should rock him on the
shores of home.

The man gave him a shilling for fastening a ring and chain on to the
Cocky's ankle, and with this he got the best dinner he had eaten since
he lost sight of the farm-bailiff's speckled hat in the mist.

And then he went back to the one-eyed sailor, and shipped as cabin-boy
again for the homeward voyage.