Біла пташка
William Paterson
ThenIsawthat,beforesittingdownonthesofa,hewasspreadingtheday’spaperoverit.“Whatevermakesyoudothat?”Iasked,andhestartedlikeonebewilderedbythequestion,thenwentwhiteandpushedthepaperaside.
Davidhadnoticednothing,butIwasstrangelyuncomfortable,and,despitemyeffortsattalk,oftenlapsedintosilence,toberousedfromitbyafeelingthatPatersonwaslookingatmecovertly.Pooh!whatvapoursoftheimaginationwerethese.Iblewthemfromme,andtoprovetomyself,sotospeak,thattheyweredissipated,IaskedhimtoseeDavidhome.AssoonasIwasalone,Iflungmedownonthefloorlaughing,thenasquicklyjumpedupandwasafterthem,andverysobertoo,foritwascometomeabruptlyasanoddthingthatPatersonhadsetoffwithoutaskingwhereDavidlived.
Seeingtheminfrontofme,Icrossedthestreetandfollowed.Theywerewalkingsidebysiderathersolemnly,andperhapsnothingremarkablehappeneduntiltheyreachedDavid’sdoor.Isayperhaps,forsomethingdidoccur.Alady,whohasseveralprettyreasonsforfrequentingtheGardens,recognisedDavidinthestreet,andwasstoopingtoaddresshim,whenPatersondidsomethingthatalarmedher.Iwastoofarofftoseewhatitwas,buthadhegrowled“Handsoff!”shecouldnothavescurriedawaymoreprecipitately.Hethenponderouslymarchedhischargetothedoor,where,assuredly,hedidastrangething.Insteadofknockingorringing,hestoodonthestepandcalledoutsharply,“Hie,hie,hie!”untilthedoorwasopened.
