In another moment, the chick was born.

“Golly!” cried Jack. “What a monster!”

“It’s because it’s young,” said Edna. “It’ll grow lovely. Like its mother.”

“Maybe,” said Jack. “I must be off. Put it in the nest. Feed it pap. Keep it warm. Don’t monkey with it too much. Goodbye, my love.”

That morning Jack telephoned home two or three times to find out how the chick was, and if it ate. He rushed home at lunchtime. In the evening everyone came round to peep at the nestling and offer advice.

Charlie was there. “It ought to be fed every hour at least,” said he. “That’s how it is in nature.”

“He’s right,” said Jack. “For the first month, at least, that’s how it should be.”

“It looks as if I’m going to be tied down a bit,” said Edna ruefully.

“I’ll look in when I pass and relieve your solitude,” said Charlie.

“I’ll manage to rush home now and then in the afternoons,” said Jack, a little too thoughtfully.

Certainly, the hourly feeding seemed to agree with the chick, which grew at an almost alarming speed. It became covered with down, feathers sprouted; in a few months it was fully grown, and not in the least like its mother. For one thing, it was coal-black.

“It must be a hybrid,” said Jack. “There is a black parrot; I’ve seen them in zoos. They didn’t look much like this, though. I’ve half a mind to send a photograph of him somewhere.”

“He looks so wicked,” said Edna.

“He looks cunning,” said Jack. “That bird knows everything, believe me. I bet he’ll talk soon.”

“It gave a sort of laugh,” said Edna. “I forgot to tell you.”

“When?” cried Jack.