“Now,” I said, “restore me instantly, or I’ll crush you.”
“No,” answered Robinson, “you won’t; you’ll crush a grey rat--that’s
all. You can’t touch me, any more than they’d hurt you if they shot
this tiger. You may like to hear the news. We’ve taken your carcase
back to your diggings. Several doctors have examined you, and they are
divided in their opinions. Some say you are dead; others fancy it is
a case of trance. Primrose went down and wept over you, and kissed
your pallid cheek. She says it doesn’t matter now who knows her secret
passion, as you have gone. A devoted woman, Tarver!”
Nothing annoyed me more on that terrible day than the mental spectacle
of Primrose Robinson dropping tears on me and fussing about my bachelor
rooms.
“I suppose you’ll marry her all right now?” asked Robinson.
“I won’t,” I answered. “I defy you and your devilish accomplishments.
Providence isn’t going to let this outrage go on for ever. Something
will be sure to happen, and the moment I’m restored I’ll summon you, if
it costs me every farthing I’ve got in the world.”
“The only thing that can happen,” said Robinson, “is this: I shall
hurry you on. There are worse tenements than tigers. You’ll have to
give in; it’s only a question of time. You’ll go to sleep presently and
when you wake you’ll find yourself the adjutant stork. He happens to be
moulting just now, too--a sight for the gods, my boy! I’ll look you up
again in the course of a day or two. Till then, ta-ta, Tarver.”
He was gone with a whisk of his tail, and despite the bold front I had
put on before him, I broke down, shed bitter tears, and I suppose
finally went to sleep on my sawdust.
Next morning I woke to find Robinson’s prediction verified. I gazed
gloomily at my hideous future through the eyes of an adjutant stork--a
bird in poor feather--a piteous, comic object that made even the
professional attendants laugh as they passed me. The public poured
forth their wit upon me; the human misery in my eye merely served to
accentuate the proportions of my beak, the length of my legs, the
general air of ruin and decay which characterised me. I tried to talk
again, believing all birds possessed the power; but I found that an
adjutant stork does not. Doubtless Robinson knew this. He did not
manifest himself that day, but on the following evening, after office
hours, he arrived in the form of a house-sparrow and sat upon the edge
of a bath where I was standing on one leg--that being, so I found, the
most comfortable position.
“Great Scott!” he chirruped, “you look as if you’d seen trouble and no
mistake! How goes it?”
“Devil!” I answered. “Tell me how long this loathsome tragedy is to
last.”
“All depends on you, Tarver. Primrose goes down every day to look at
you and weep over you. The doctors are still undecided. Two hold out
that you are alive, but all the others say you’re dead as a herring. I
tell them I think you live.”
“Is there no alternative except a union with Miss Robinson?”
“None, Tarver. I’ve no hesitation in saying this: the marriage was made
in heaven.”
“In Thibet, more likely,” I replied, not without acerbity.
“Has Providence taken any steps yet?” he asked civilly.
The question gave me fresh courage.
“No, but do your worst,” I answered; “I still have hope. You cannot rob
me of life; you cannot alter my destiny.”
“True,” he admitted, “I cannot; but I can give you about the worst time
in these Gardens any man ever endured even in imagination. The day
after to-morrow is Bank Holiday. Just you wait and see where you come
in then!”
After which threat he flew off.