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On the 23rd of February, the two remaining men, the captain and Ramsdale, just on the point of casting lots as to which should have the last poor chance for life, were picked up by the Nantucket whaler, Dauphin, Captain Zimri Coffin. They had almost reached St. Mary's Island, ten miles from the coast of Chili.
I heard Jim Anderson, who drives the 'bus, snicker as he helped her in again; but he didn't give me away. Jim and I are good friends. But when she got home she wrote to Sally Ramsdale to ask how Nickey was; and Sally, not bein' on to the game, wrote back that there was nothin' the matter with Nickey that she knew of.
But he was English and a neighbour, and my parents made it a point of paying him an occasional visit, and I always managed to go with them certainly not to see Mr. Ramsdale, who had nothing to say to a shy little boy and whose hard red face looked the face of a hard drinker. My visits were to the paroquets exclusively.
The only breeding-place in our neighbourhood was in a grove or remains of an ancient ruined plantation at an estancia house, about nine miles from us, owned by an Englishman named Ramsdale. Here there was a colony of about a couple of hundred birds, and the dozen or more trees they had built on were laden with their great nests, each one containing as much material as would have filled a cart.
Mr. Ramsdale was not our nearest English neighbour the one to be described in another chapter; nor was he a man we cared much about, and his meagre establishment was not attractive, as his old slatternly native housekeeper and the other servants were allowed to do just what they liked.
She paused, and then remarked meditatively: "I went down to visit in New York once." "Didn't you enjoy your visit?" Maxwell inquired. "New York's my home-city." "Can't say I did, awful much. You see, I was visitin' Sally Ramsdale Sally Greenway that was. They were livin' in an apartment, ninth floor up. In the first place, I didn't like goin' up stairs in the elevator.
The lot fell upon Owen Coffin, the captain's nephew. He did not repine. He expressed his willingness to abide by the decision. No man desired to be his executioner. They cast lots, as before, to determine who should kill him, and the lot fell upon Charles Ramsdale. By him Coffin was shot. Thus they eked out a miserable existence until the 11th of February, when Barzilla Ray died.
Out and up they would rush, to unite in a flock and hover shrieking over my head, and the commotion would last until I left them. On our return late one afternoon in early spring from one of our rare visits to Mr. Ramsdale, we witnessed a strange thing.
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