his slow, laconic fashion, a few brutal stories. They laughed and chaffed him. George seemed to have a thirst for tales of brutal experience, the raw gin of life. He drank it all in with relish, enjoying the sensation. The dinner was over. It was time to go out again to work.
“And how old are you. Dad?” George asked. The Parrot looked at him again with his heavy, tired, ironic eyes, and answered:
“If you’ll be any better for knowing—sixty-four.”
“It’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it,” continued the young man, “going round with the threshing machine and sleeping outdoors at that time of life? I should ’a thought you’d ’a wanted a bit o’ comfort——”
“How do you mean, ‘rough on me’?” the Parrot replied slowly.
“Oh, I think you know what I mean,” answered George easily.
“Don’t know as I do,” said the slow old Parrot.
“Well, you haven’t made exactly a good thing out of life, have you?”
“What d’you mean by a good thing? I’ve had my life, an’ I’m satisfied wi’ it. Is’ll die with a full belly.”
“Oh, so you have saved a bit?”
“No,” said the old man deliberately, “I’ve spent as I’ve gone on. An’ I’ve had all I wish for. But I pity the angels, when the Lord sets me before them like a book to read. Heaven won’t be heaven just then.”
“You’re a philosopher in your way,” laughed George.
“And you,” replied the old man, “toddling about
