Pinky Pye (13 page)

"Taxi, sir?" asked Jerry, who happened, of all the taxi boys, to be nearest to the man.

"Yes," said the man. "Taxi."

Now this one man on the boat, whose luggage Jerry happened to be lucky enough to get, turned out to be a curious one. Not curious in the way some small children are, asking a lot of questions. But curious because he turned out to be another bird man. Wasn't it a curious happenstance that not only their father, Mr. Edgar Pye, but also this new man, just arrived on the Fire Island boat, should both be men who studied birds?

Moreover, was it not curious that this one lone man on the boat who was a bird man like their father should turn out to be a bird man of whom they had heard? H. Hiram Bish (though they had never heard of the extra H. he had), a friend of their father's! The name of Hiram Bish was now a familiar one to them, and it had been only yesterday that Papa had read them the story in the newspaper that had been wound around the mackerel telling how this very man's little owl had been lost at sea, his pet pygmy owl.

How had Rachel and Jerry found out so soon that this man was another bird man and one whom they knew about? Just by looking at a person you can't tell whether he is a bird man or what. You have to find out, somehow. Well, Rachel happened to see a sticker on his valise, a sticker from the boat the SS
Pennsylvania,
and it had on it the name H. Hiram Bish, Department of Ornithology, University of the Great and Far West. Ornithology may be a big word to some but not to a boy and a girl who happened to have an ornithologist for a father. They knew that in simple language it meant birds, just birds. When the man wasn't looking, Rachel gave Jerry a kick and pointed to the label. He lowered the corners of his mouth, indicating, "I see, hm-m-m, ornithology, yes..." And he and Rachel exchanged a meaningful glance.

Are there enough birds on Fire Island for two bird men to study during the same summer?
Rachel asked herself. Their father, in a wheelchair with a broken ankle, probably was not seeing the best of the birds. This man, with his two good feet and two good legs, would probably probe every nook and cranny of the island with his spy glasses and his optical lenses and his notebooks and get the whole thing down and send it in first to the men in Washington.

Out of loyalty to her ankle-broken father, Rachel said, "Not many birds on Fire Island. Just a tern here or there." She hoped the man would take the boat back when he heard this discouraging news.

"Ah, I see," said Mr. Bish. "But it's nice here, though."

"Ye-e-e-es," said Rachel in a tone she intended to have sound some-may-think-so, some-may-not.

Then she felt ashamed of herself. "It really is very nice," she said, "when you get used to it. I mean with the poison ivy and all, it's not easy to get used to it. But we did. And there really are plenty of birds to go around, plenty. Not as many as in Cranbury, perhaps..."

"Cranbury!" said the man. "Why, I just came from there! What do you know about Cranbury?"

"We live there," said the children, "if you mean Cranbury, Connecticut."

"Indeed I do. Why, when I got to New York, I ran up there to say 'Hello' to my friend Edgar Pye. Do you happen to know him? He wasn't there. The neighbors were out, and I couldn't find a trace of him."

For a moment the children were speechless. Here was a man who had just come straight from their own town, Cranbury, from their own house, their very own tall house!

"Did you see Dick Badger?" asked Jerry. "And Duke?"

"Not that I know of," said the man. "But do you know Pye?"

"Pye is our father," they said. "We are the boy and the girl of Pye." And to prove the point, Jerry put his finger on his name in blue letters on his taxi—JARED PYE. "And this is our uncle," they said, pointing to Bennie.

"Not Edgar Pye! Not here on Fire Island! What a coincidence! What an unusual occurrence! No wonder he wasn't in Cranbury if he's here on Fire Island! The famous Edgar Pye! My friend Pye whom I went looking for in the town of Cranbury, Connecticut! The great bird man! Is that your father?"

"The same," said Jerry modestly. "Our father is Edgar Pye, the bird man. I never heard of any other Edgar Pye, anyway. There may be others, but I just never heard of them," said Jerry.

The children could see that Mr. Bish was as amazed at finding that their father was Edgar Pye and that he was spending the summer here on Fire Island as they were that another bird man should happen to come to this island, which was so sparse in this branch of life. But after a while it seemed to the children that there had been enough exclaiming, and Jerry asked politely, "Where would you like me to take you?"

"We-ell...," hesitated the man. It became apparent that the man did not quite know where he was going. Since this sort of case had never come up before in Jerry's short life as a taxi driver, he could only wait, hoping that the man would hit on a plan and state a destination. Still the man hesitated.

Now all bird men are rather poor, to judge by their own father anyway, and perhaps this man did not have the ten cents necessary to pay for taxi service. So Jerry said to Mr. Bish, "If you'd like to carry the quilt—whatever it is—the trip will be only five cents." After all, since Jerry's father was a bird man, all other bird men should have reduced rates. It was too bad that one of his first customers had to be a reduced rate man, but that was life, wasn't it? All doctors had to give doctoring free to other doctors, he had heard. And perhaps this taxi ride should cost the man absolutely nothing. "In fact," said Jerry, "this first trip of yours to wherever you want to go will cost you nothing. Because you are a bird man."

"Well, fine," said the man amiably. "But where's the taxi?" Again Jerry pointed to his wagon, and Mr. Bish caught on. "Oh, you're the taxi man," he said. "I'm slow."

"Oh, that's all right," said Jerry. "How would you know that wagons are taxis here? Do you want me to put the quilt, if that's what it is, in? Or do you want to carry it?" Jerry thought it might have expensive equipment in it for the man's expedition and he might want to take special care of it.

"Well, let's put it in the taxi," said Mr. Bish. "It's just my sleeping bag. Careful of it, though. It does have something rather fragile in the middle of it."

Sleeping bag!
thought Rachel, and exchanged an ecstatic look with Jerry. All her life she had heard of sleeping bags, and now here was one right in their own taxi. No wonder the man was taking so long making up his mind "where to," with all this wonderful space to choose from for sleeping in his sleeping bag. She and Jerry waited respectfully.

After a considerable wait the man said, "Well, what are we waiting for?"

"Ha," laughed Jerry self-consciously. "Nothin'," he said.

"Well, let's go," said the man.

"All right," said Jerry, and started pulling his taxi wagon.
Where to?
he asked himself, and then he quickly answered himself.
Why, to the beach, of course.
That's where a man with a sleeping bag would want to go and stake out the best and coolest place to spend the day and yet the most protected for the night. He knew just the spot, so off he went, leading the way to the nearest little lane that led down to the beach. Rachel was proud of her brother. She had recognized the dilemma he was in and saw that he had now rallied his thoughts and knew what to do.

They came to one of the little landings at the top of the gray weather-beaten steps, sixty-four of them in this case, that led down the dune to the beach.

"Well," said Jerry. "Here we are. I guess I'll leave the taxi at the top of the stairs."

"I'll carry the suitcase," said Rachel.

"And I'll carry the sleeping bag," said Jerry.

The man stood on the landing staring thoughtfully out to sea. He was blocking the way so the children had to wait for him to drink in his fill. "Right off there, Owlie got lost," they heard him murmur.

Jerry and Rachel turned a sad expression onto their faces out of deference to his grief. Then, thinking that that was enough, Jerry said, "Shall we go down now? I know the best place for your sleeping bag, sir," he said.

The man gulped. His Adam's apple went up and down.
Not choking?
thought Rachel anxiously.
No,
she answered herself as the man regained his composure.

"I tell you what, though," he said. "Before I bunk in, suppose you run me around to pay my respects to your eminent father. How'll that be? And we'll investigate that best spot of yours afterward."

"All right," said Jerry with a shrug.

Rachel was amazed. If she had been the man, she would have wanted to get settled for the night right now. She had looked forward to the man's unrolling this sleeping bag so she could see what a sleeping bag looked like. Their father didn't have one. On his trips he rolled up in moth-eaten khaki blankets.

They backed the taxi off the platform and led the man to their cottage. "The Eyrie," murmured the man as they turned into their yard. "My, my," he said. "What an appropriate name for a cottage of a bird man. Did Pye name it?"

"Oh, no," said Rachel. "Mrs. A. A. Pulie named it. She is birdaceous, too, though."

"She's what?" asked Mr. Bish.

"Birdaceous," said Rachel. "Yes. Birdaceous. She's also boldaceous."

"What does that mean?" asked Mr. Bish.

"I suppose it means bold, more than bold, bold-my-gracious," said Rachel.

"Well, come on in," said Jerry.

The man was in no hurry. He was taking in the whole house, its location, everything. "I see you have a cat," he said, looking up at Gracie, who was looking evilly into the eaves.

"Two," said Jerry. "That's Gracie; and Pinky's on Papa's lap."

"Gracie seems to enjoy her lookout," said the man briskly.

"Yes, but it's more of a look in," laughed Rachel. "She hopes to see a grasshopper."

"High-flying grasshoppers, if you ask me," said the man.

And around the cottage they all strolled.

Rachel ran ahead to give the word of warning to Papa.
Here we are,
she thought.
Here we have a visitor who came over on the boat. Just like other people. And when he goes, we will all stand on the wharf and wave our handkerchiefs and cry 'Good-bye, good-bye' after our eminent visitor.
She presumed he was eminent, since there had been a story about him in the newspaper, him and his owl. Or was it the owl who was eminent, it being the one that had disappeared? Anyway it would be touching to wave good-bye to him, owner once of the eminent owl of newspaper fame. But here he hadn't even really arrived and she was waving good-bye to him in her mind. Joy in having a visitor now outweighed her dismay over his being another bird man.

Papa was still sitting under the green umbrella, typewriter table, typewriter, and Pinky all still on his lap. He was looking blandly and vacantly out toward sea. There was a lot of typing on the page.

Often, out of deference to her father and to indicate her great and absorbing interest in everything pertaining to him and to his exploits, Rachel would glance at the page of learned works upon which he happened to be working and she would ask, "What does this say?" or, "What does this long word spell?" and nod knowingly when her father said, "It spells
Eupsychortyx.
It is a genus." "Yes," said Rachel, "a genius."

Now, glancing hastily over her father's shoulders, from habit, she read some of his "works." Well.... No words like
genus
or
Eupsychortyx
at all. And all rather badly typed. "Why can't dogs be like cats?" she read.

Rachel did not have time to ponder this statement. She nudged her father to rouse him from his glazed-eye sun stupor and survey of the sea and sky and to call his attention to the fact that someone beside Pyes was in the yard and slowly approaching the green umbrella. Papa looked up at Rachel with his slow, loving smile and then, hearing Jerry's squeaking taxi, turned around and took in the rest of the entourage.

"Why, bless my sainted aunt!" he exclaimed. "If it isn't Hi Bish from the San Bernardino Valley." Dropping Pinky, he hopped up to greet Mr. Bish. "Ouch!" he said, and sat back down again. He had forgotten about his foot.

The two bird men soon settled down for a good bird conversation. Rachel knew that grown-ups do not like to have children standing around, listening and gawking every minute. So, even though she was in the same bird field as her father and his visitor, she tiptoed away. It is not necessary to tiptoe on sand, but from habit Rachel tiptoed anyway.

Pinky said, "Woe," and leaped after Rachel. Then she said, "Woe," again, and made several little holes in the sand and sat tentatively in each one of them until she had made one that was just right and she sat in it like a little cat statue. "Not very polite," said Uncle Bennie, and he and Rachel and Jerry and Ginger went into the cottage to inform Mama of the arrival of the man on the ferryboat.

Mama saw nothing unusual in their being visited by a bird man whom they knew and yet who hadn't known that they, the Pyes, were here on Fire Island. "Things like that happen all the time. They just do," she said.