ing further whatever to do
with anything of food once in Michael's possession. But Cocky, a bit of
feathery down, a morsel-flash of light and life with the throat of a god,
violated with sheer impudence and daring Michael's taboo, the defence of
the meat.

Perched on the rim of Michael's pannikin, this inconsiderable adventurer
from out of the dark into the sun of life, a mere spark and mote between
the darks, by a ruffing of his salmon-pink crest, a swift and enormous
dilation of his bead-black pupils, and a raucous imperative cry, as of
all the gods, in his throat, could make Michael give back and permit the
fastidious selection of the choicest tidbits of his dish.

For Cocky had a way with him, and ways and ways. He, who was sheer
bladed steel in the imperious flashing of his will, could swashbuckle and
bully like any over-seas roisterer, or wheedle as wickedly winningly as
the first woman out of Eden or the last woman of that descent. When
Cocky, balanced on one leg, the other leg in the air as the foot of it
held the scruff of Michael's neck, leaned to Michael's ear and wheedled,
Michael could only lay down silkily the bristly hair-waves of his neck,
and with silly half-idiotic eyes of bliss agree to whatever was Cocky's
will or whimsey so delivered.

Cocky became more intimately Michael's because, very early, Ah Moy washed
his hands of the bird. Ah Moy had bought him in Sydney from a sailor for
eighteen shillings and chaffered an hour over the bargain. And when he
saw Cocky, one day, perched and voluble, on the twisted fingers of
Kwaque's left hand, Ah Moy discovered such instant distaste for the bird
that not even eighteen shillings, coupled with possession of Cocky and
possible contact, had any value to him.

"You likee him? You wanchee?" he proffered.

"Changee for changee!" Kwaque queried back, taking for granted that it
was an offer to exchange and wondering whether the little old cook had
become enamoured of his precious jews' harp.

"No changee for changee," Ah Moy answered. "You wanchee him, all right,
can do."

"How fashion can do?" Kwaque demanded, who to his beche-de-mer English
was already adding pidgin English. "Suppose 'm me fella no got 'm what
you fella likee?"

"No fashion changee," Ah Moy reiterated. "You wanchee, you likee he stop
along you fella all right, my word."

And so did pass the brave bit of feathered life with the heart of pluck,
called of men, and of himself, "Cock