Overhead, perched on a branch, was a gray and scarlet parrot. From whom had it escaped? How long had it been there? All they knew was that, while taking refuge in their garden, it was not above reviling them. At night it formed the habit of roosting in the apple tree. Before anyone was out of bed, it could be heard profaning the early morning. The energies of the entire household were now directed toward the effecting of its capture. Ingenious plans were concocted. A topic of conversation was never lacking. The four elderly ladies placed themselves under their guest's protection. What would the neighbors think if they were to hear a constant stream of blasphemy issuing from their walls? And, besides, the parrot in a cage could be taught better manners and made an attractive pet. Mr. Grace, on a visit, learnt of the situation and volunteered to lend a hand. He and Mr. Waffles were provided with bags of grain and butterfly-nets. They were instructed to creep with the stealth of poachers behind ambuscades of trees and flowers, following the gray and scarlet peril till it settled, and then---- But the triumphant moment was continually postponed; for, whenever they approached the parrot, no matter how warily, it spread its wings, mocking them and crying, “What the devil!”--or something even worse. Ocky's days were fully occupied now. He had a morning-to-evening interest. The Misses Jacobite urged on him the importance of his task--the safeguarding of their reputation. But even a trust so sacred and incessant failed to content Mr. Waffles. Peter made this discovery when his uncle asked him for the loan of a shilling. “Voluntary contributions thankfully borrowed,” was Ocky's motto. No one ever gave him anything. It was always lent. Now money implied an excursion into the larger world; Peter wondered what might be its purpose. He knew next morning; his uncle had a sixpenny pipe in his mouth and a tin of cheap tobacco in his pocket. He was stoking up to renew life's battle; with a pipe between his teeth, Ocky Waffles was a man. He led Peter down the garden to the shrubbery, behind which were two cane-chairs. The shrubbery was convenient for hiding the fact that he was smoking. “Peter,” he said, jerking his head across his shoulder, “I've been noticing. They can't afford it. I've got to go to work, old chap.” He spoke with his old swaggering confidence, as though the entire world was waiting to engage his services. The carpet-slippers, which had been Mr. Jacobite's, chafed one against the other thoughtfully. “Got to go to work,” he repeated reflectively, in a tone which implied regret. “I think I know a fellow---- We were in the coop together, and he said---- But I'm not going to tell you till I'm more certain of my plans.” Had he been burdened with the weightiest of financial secrets, he could not have made them more mysterious. Peter tried not to smile; he was glad--this was the muddling self-deceived uncle he remembered.