Part 5 (1/2)
”A tame bear?”
”No. Wait. I'll prop you up so you can see him. Look, behind the veranda post.”
The professor looked and forgot about the value of authenticity; for from behind the veranda post a most curious face was peeping--a round, solemn baby face of cafe au lait with squat, wide nose and flat-set eyes.
”A j.a.p?” exclaimed Spence in surprise.
”No. He's Indian. Some of the babies are so j.a.paneesy that it's hard to tell the difference. Father says it's a strain of the same blood. But they are not all as pretty as Sami. Isn't he a duck?”
”He is at home in the rain, anyway. Why doesn't he come in?”
”He's afraid of you.”
”That's unusual--until one has seen me.”
”Sami doesn't need to see a stranger.”
”Well, that's primitive enough, surely! Let's call him in.”
”I'd like to, but Sami won't come for calling.”
”Oh, won't he? Leave the door open and watch him.”
As absorbed now as the girl herself, the professor put his finger to his lips and whistled--a low, clear whistle, rather like the calling of a meditative bird. Several times he whistled so, on different notes; and then, to her surprise, the watching girl saw the little wild thing outside stir in answer to the call. Sami came out from behind the post and stood listening, for all the world like an inquiring squirrel. The whistle sounded again, a plaintive, seeking sound, infinitely alluring.
It seemed to draw the heart like a living thing. Slowly at first and then with the swift, gliding motion of the woods, the wide-eyed youngster approached the open door and stood there waiting, poised and ready for advance or flight. Again the whistle came, and to it came Sami, straight as a bird to its calling mate.
”Tamed!” said the professor softly. ”See, he is not a bit afraid.”
”How on earth did you do it?” asked Miss Farr when the shy, brown baby had been duly welcomed. The whistler was visibly vain.
”Oh, it's quite simple. I merely talked to him in his own language.”
”I see that. But where did you learn the language?”
”Well, a fellow taught me that--man I met at Ypres. He could have whistled back the dodo, I think. He knew all kinds of calls--said all the wild things answered to them.”
”Was he a great naturalist?”
The cheerful vanity faded from Spence's face, leaving it sombre.
”He--would have been,” he said briefly.
Miss Farr asked no more questions. It was a restful way she had. And perhaps because she did not ask, the professor felt an unaccustomed impulse. ”He was a wonderful chap,” he volunteered. ”There are few like him in a generation. It seemed--rather a waste.”
The girl nodded. ”Used or wasted--it's as it happens,” she said. ”There is no plan.”
”That's a heathen sentiment!” The professor recovered his cheerfulness.
”A sentiment not at all suited for the contemplation of extreme youth.”
”I am not extremely young.”