Pinky Pye (18 page)

The sound of typing stopped. Papa looked at his watch. Four o'clock. Pinky tiredly settled herself along Papa's thin and lanky thigh and dozed. Papa half closed his eyes and half watched the roof watchers, Rachel and Gracie. Gracie still stared semi-alerted through the dusty windowpane that divided her from the glorious loot that was up there in the eaves.

"Incredible!" murmured Papa. "Incredible!" Impatiently he listened for the return of the picnickers. Then a smile came over his face. "Say, Rachel," he called up to his daughter. "When the others return, let's keep them in the dark for a while about the you-know-what in the eaves. OK?"

"OK," said Rachel a little reluctantly. She had wanted to shout it to them the minute she saw them coming. In fact, if she'd had a megaphone, she'd have been bellowing it out now. "Why?" she asked.

"We'll tell them at the right psychological moment," said Papa.

"All right, but may I do the telling?"

"Of course. You were the main discoverer. You're a real ornithologist."

Rachel hugged her knees happily. She got out her notebook to write down her first real bird observation of this summer. "What's the hard word for owls?" she called down to Papa. "You know, the genius word."

"Genus Strigiformes," said Papa.

"The pygmy owl of the Strigiformes is a great eater of grasshoppers," she wrote. "And crickets!!!!"

Meanwhile, how were things going with those who had taken the expedition to the sunken forest? Right now, the tide having receded again, they were on their way home. The sunken forest had been well worth the long and arduous tramp up the sands to it. From a distance it had looked like just a tangled web of boughs, or the tops only of trees, mainly holly trees and pines. But when you got near, you found that these tops of trees that you couldn't see the bottom of were the tops of real trees growing from a deep bowl in the earth.

"Wouldn't Rachel love this!" said Jerry. And, while Mama and Uncle Bennie waited on regular land, not sunken forest land, Jerry and Mr. Bish went down, down—exploring. At the boggy bottom of the forest Jerry had found an odd specimen of rock. He had not had rocks on his mind. Yet he had happened to glimpse this odd rock, which, upon careful scrutiny, turned out to be one he was not familiar with. Mr. Bish did not recognize it either. But then he knew more about birds than rocks.
This rock,
thought Jerry excitedly,
may be the very one that will tell the real and exact age of the earth and then we won't have to guess about that anymore at least.
He put this good rock in his wagon.

Now, loping wearily along the sand on their way home, the Pyes passed many fishermen in high boots, casting flies in the surf, hoping to catch a fish. They had been in the same places when the little safari had passed in the morning. Then, their faces had been bright and expectant, anticipating a fine big catch on this wonderful day. The wind, they thought, was perfect. Now their faces were red and weary, and not one man they passed had caught one single fish, that is, not a fish that counted, for they couldn't keep the blowfish. Yet still they stood and cast their lines and still they hoped for a whopper. They had even eaten their sandwiches, those who remembered to eat, at the edge of the surf, holding their poles between their knees, not to miss a nibble. Their faces grew redder and redder. But they caught nothing.

"Don't they ever catch anything?" Jerry asked Mama.

"Poor things," she murmured.

After the first two or three fishermen had muttered, "Not biting today, wind's wrong," to the Pyes' friendly query, "How's it going?" the Pyes asked no one else. The lack of success of the real fishermen, however, made the extraordinary feat that Mr. Bish was about to perform even more startling. Mr. Bish was walking along the edge of the waves, trousers rolled up, barefooted, cooling his toes, when suddenly he caught sight of a huge fish flopping and floundering bewilderedly in the surf just a few feet out.

Without stopping to think, Mr. Bish strode right out into the ocean and with his two bare fists he picked up the large gasping, flapping fish. It was a perfectly good fish, not hurt at all. Probably it had been chased into shallow water by some larger fish. Mr. Bish said it was a sort of a herring and good to eat.

Imagine the expressions on the faces of the real fishermen! And imagine how the Pyes felt having a visitor visit them and just stoop down and catch a fish in that easy way! Just put his hands down in the water, he did, and had them come out with a fish that was almost two feet long and good to eat besides. His pants got a little wet, but that didn't matter. Jerry and Uncle Bennie were speechless with admiration, and Ginger barked happily at the ocean to express his enthusiasm. Mama, staying away from the fish's exuberant flaps, naturally was proud too. Mr. Bish was the envy of all the fishermen they passed who had not caught one single fish with all their paraphernalia and flies and bait and things, let alone with bare hands. Their hollow, bloodshot eyes followed Mr. Bish as he and the Pyes meandered up the beach toward home. The Pyes tried not to look boastful, but it is hard to conceal a two-foot fish, and though Mr. Bish was a modest man and was not flaunting his trophy, now and then he did give his fish a happy, jaunty swing.

When, tired and hungry, footsore and weary, the members of the expedition, with Uncle Bennie mounted like a charioteer atop their trappings and gear, trudged around the little cottage, they were spurred on by Rachel's enthusiastic greeting. "Papa, they're here. They're here!" And they revived sufficiently to recount the adventures of the day to the (they thought) lonely and bored injured stay-at-homes.

"Guess what! Guess what!" yelled Uncle Bennie while Pinky, sorry that the noisy fellow was back, flattened down her ears. "The man caught it in his hands, just his bare hands!" Pinky perked up and sniffed appreciatively.

Mr. Bish modestly displayed his catch. "Just luck," he said, shrugging. He had a pleased smile on his face nevertheless. "Just luck."

Mama went indoors to see about supper. "Cook the fish!" the children urged her. "Cook the wonderful fish!"

Ordinarily none of the children was fond of fish that had bones in it, but they were certainly going to eat this famous one. Mama did not like to prepare live fish, and this one still gave a gasp now and then. She prayed that when the time came to do something about it, it would not flip off the table.
If Mr. Bish had only caught a lobster that needs no beheading instead,
she thought wistfully.

"Don't you want to embalm this unusual fish and keep it on the wall over your mantel at home?" she called out to him. "You may never catch another."

Mr. Bish thought and then he said, no, he guessed not.

Mama opened the icebox to get out the lemon. Then she raced outdoors and demanded, "Where's my nice chopped steak that I was planning to have for supper?" Naturally, since all the family except Papa and Rachel had been at the sunken forest, one of them must know about the steak. "Did you give it to that spoiled cat?" she said, pointing to Pinky, who, not liking the tone of voice, hissed at her.

"No," said Papa truthfully.

"And we didn't eat it either," said Rachel. "We ate what you left in the wax paper for us."

"Well, where'd it go?" asked Mama bewilderedly. "Quite a lot of it is gone." And she went indoors to puzzle about the disappearance of the meat and try to get some sort of supper together.

Because the subject of the chopped steak had been brought up, Rachel thought that right now was a wonderful chance to break their astounding news of the day, which would make the fish story pale in comparison. "Papa, when can I tell them?" she whispered.

"You'll see," Papa whispered back. "I'll lead up to it. And give you the high sign when to tell."

Oh,
thought Rachel.
That old "illogical" moment!
She could hardly bear to wait.

"Well," said Papa as they all, except Mama, settled themselves comfortably under the green umbrella, sipped lemonade, and relaxed. "What did you see on your walk today? And whom did you see at the beach? Any trace of your lost owl?" he asked his friend politely. "Great blow blow him into the sunken forest by any chance? Hear any to-whits, to-whos?"

Rachel was alerted. Soon the moment was bound to come when Papa would give her a nudge for her to say, "Guess who's up in our eaves?" She listened tensely for her cue.
It's like being in a play,
she thought.
And I have just one line to say.

Mr. Bish started guiltily. "Why no-o-o," he drawled. "I knew there really was no hope of finding Owlie. But I suppose I still hoped against hope that I might find him. I confess I even whistled for him now and then, his pygmy owl call, you know." Mr. Bish gave a profound sigh.

Jerry said, "I learned the call too. Listen." And Jerry gave his version of the call of a pygmy owl. This struck Uncle Bennie funny, and he laughed so hard no one, no one but Papa, Rachel, Pinky, and Gracie, that is, sharers of the secret of the eaves, heard a very faint echo of this call from inside the cottage. Rachel and Papa exchanged knowing looks. And so did the big and little cats. Rachel signaled her father, "Now? Now?" He shook his head. "Not quite now," his lips formed the words.

Shucks,
thought Rachel.

It was so nice out nobody wanted to go indoors to eat, so they had supper on a little table under the green umbrella. Mama was the quickest cook in the world and the best. That's what they all said. Here she had thought they wouldn't have anything for supper, what with most of the chopped steak gone; yet they had a wonderful supper, a delicious sort of stew made out of the remainder of the meat, some canned kidney beans, tomatoes, and rice. They also had fresh corn on the cob, cucumbers, and tomatoes. In addition, as an appetizer, they had the hand-caught fish. All took one taste of this in order to be able to say that they had eaten Mr. Bish's fish that he had caught bare-handed without even a bent pin to help. No one liked it. But still it was a splendid thing to have done, to have caught it in this unusual fashion, whether anyone liked the taste or not.

At one point, while dishes were being brought into the kitchen, Rachel and her father happened to be alone. "Oh why, why can't we tell them now?" she wailed. "The suspense is terrible."

"I think they should all rest a little while, relax, allow their suppers to digest," said Papa. "After all, they have had a strenuous day hiking, delving down into sunken forests, catching a great fish. Besides," Papa added, giving Rachel a little wink, "I want to build up to it. Have a little fun first."

"All right," sighed Rachel. She still thought there was no time like the present. (How right she was, you shall presently hear.)

Now the others came bearing the dessert, the coffee, and the peaches. The men lighted their pipes, sat back on their beach chairs, hands behind their heads, and puffed away. Mama said the dishes could wait, and everybody but Rachel relaxed. It began to grow dusky and, inside, the one little flickering kerosene lamp cast a warm and golden reflection on the sand. There was a little talk of this and of that, and then it seemed that Papa simply could not keep off the subject of owls, a delicate and painful one, surely, for their guest, thought Mama.

And even though Rachel knew the story was going to come out all right in the end, that, as in most good stories, there was to be a happy reunion, still she could not help but squirm along with the others. In fact, she was tempted to whisper in Mr. Bish's ear, "Don't worry. You'll soon have your owl. Just as soon as Papa has had his old joke." Of course she could not do this, since poor Papa had to have some fun once in a while, even if he did have a broken ankle.

"Now, Bish," said Papa. "If the high wind that tore your owl from the hands of your wife as she braved the storm on the deck of the SS
Pennsylvania
on that fearsome and epochal night had blown him, by some freakish chance, to some very safe and protected place, would you say that he might have stayed alive? That he might, in fact, still be alive on this very night, as we sit here, exactly two weeks to the dot since the night of the great blow? Eh?"

Mr. Bish was a thoughtful-looking man. He had some scars on his chin that the children took to be the result of battle wounds. ("Verdun," Jerry had said to Rachel. "Yes," she had answered.) These scars added to the thoughtfulness of his face. He gave Papa a long and respectful scrutiny, for no bird man likes to give a wrong answer to another bird man, and he drew in his lower lip and bit on it. Then he gave his reply.

"Pye," he said, "I think I have to conclude that my owl, beneficent landing or not, has perished. He had no idea how to find food for himself."

"Well," said Papa (and here Rachel wondered if her cue were coming now and wiggled her bare toes in nervousness), "I have heard of American birds, a robin, for instance, being blown across the ocean to England and remaining alive."

"Yes," agreed Mr. Bish. "I have heard of that and also of the opposite happening, of a widgeon recently being blown from England and fitting in nicely in America. But as I say, Myra and I caught Owlie when he was a baby, and unlike that robin and that widgeon he has no idea how to protect himself or find food."