uld do, seemed inclined to stay there.
Anxiously I waited below with my mouth open; he came slowly down at
last; and in my eagerness I played my second just a shade too soon. It
missed him. My third (when I was ready for it) went harmlessly over his
head. A frantic fourth and fifth helped him downwards ... and in another
moment my beautiful Percy was on the floor. I dropped on my knees and
played my sixth vigorously. He swirled to the left; I was after him like
a shot ... and crashed into Thomas. We rolled over in a heap.

"Sorry!" we apologized as we got back on to our hands and knees.

Thomas went on blowing.

"Where's my feather?" I said.

Thomas was now two yards ahead, blowing like anything. A terrible
suspicion darted through my mind.

"Thomas," I said, "you've got my feather."

He made no answer. I scrambled after him.

"That's Percy," I said. "I should know him anywhere. You're blowing
Percy. It's very bad form to blow another man's feather. If it got
about, you would be cut by the county. Give me back my feather, Thomas."

"How do you know it's your feather?" he said truculently. "Feathers are
just alike."

"How do I know?" I asked in amazement. "A feather that I've brought up
from the egg? Of course I know Percy." I leant down to him.
"_P--percy_," I whispered. He darted forward a good six inches. "You
see," I said, "he knows his name."

"As a matter of fact," said Thomas, "his name's _P--paul_. Look, I'll
show you."

"You needn't bother, Thomas," I said hastily. "This is mere trifling. I
_know_ that's my feather. I remember his profile distinctly."

"Then where's mine?"

"How do I know? You may have swallowed it. Go away and leave Percy and
me to ourselves. You're only spoiling the knees of your trousers by
staying here."

"Paul and I----" began Thomas.

He was interrupted by a burst of applause. Dahlia had cajoled her
feather over the line first. Thomas rose and brushed himself. "You can
'ave him," he said.

"There!" I said, as I picked Percy up and placed him reverently in my
waistcoat pocket. "That shows that he was mine. If he had been your own
little Paul you would have loved him even in defeat. Oh, musical chairs
now? Right-o." And at the President's touch I retired from the arena.

We had not entered for musical chairs. Personally I should have liked
to, but it was felt that, if none of us did, then it would be more easy
to stop Simpson doing so. For at musical chairs Simpson is--