"We'll postpone it till to-morrow," said Grant. "I'm winded."

"You're afraid of me," taunted George.

"Oh, go and play with your parrot," exclaimed Fred. "You're a bird yourself."

"Where is he?" demanded George. "I'd almost forgotten him."

"There he is," said Fred laughingly. "He looks like a little old man sitting up there on that rock."

"He's all right; don't you worry about him," said George. "He's my friend."

"It looked so when he ate the back of your hand off," laughed Grant.

"That's just the way he shows his affection," exclaimed George. "He didn't mean anything by that."

"Well, if that's the case," said Grant, "I'm certainly glad he doesn't care anything about me."

"Catch him, Pop," urged John, "and we'll clip his wings."

"Will you help me? I don't want to lose him now after all the trouble I had to get him. I think I can tame him, too."

"Sure you can. Get him over here."

"How can I do it?"

"I'll show you," exclaimed John. "Watch me."

He seized hold of the string that was tied around the parrot's leg and began to haul in hand over hand. The poor bird fluttered and struggled indignantly but all to no avail. He was quickly pulled along until he was at John's feet when George grabbed him and held him securely.

"Now how can we cut his wings?" demanded Fred. "We have no scissors."

"We have knives, haven't we?" exclaimed George.

"But are they sharp enough?"

"Mine is."

"So am mine," said Sam. "It suttinly done fix dat sha'k all right."

"I'm afraid it's a little too big for a parrot though," laughed Grant.

"Don't you think so?"

"P'raps it am," admitted Sam. "It's sho' a good knife dough."

"Spread his wings out on the rock here," directed John. "I'll cut the tips off his feathers so he can't fly away."

"Don't hurt him."

"No danger of that. You just hold him still."

The operation was quickly performed and a few moments later the little green bird was angrily stalking away, shaking his ruffled feathers and uttering indignant squawks at every step.

"Look at him," laughed Grant. "My, but he's mad."

"So would you be," said George. "Imagine being treated like that by someone about a hundred times as big as you are."

"It would rouse me a little," admitted Grant. "What are you going to name him?"

"I don't know. What's a good name, anyway?"

"Call him Snip," suggested Fred. "He certainly took a snip out of you."

"That's a good one," exclaimed George. "His name is Snip."

"You'll have to teach him his name now, Pop," said Grant. "That'll give you something to do and keep you out of mischief."

"I want him to talk, too," said George, "and I want him to get so tame that he'll ride around on my shoulder wherever I go."

"And he'll peck your eye out," said John.

"Oh, I guess not. He'll be all right after a while."

"How are you going to go about teaching him to talk?" demanded John. "I suppose he'll have to learn the alphabet first," and he nudged Grant as he spoke.

"Oh, yes, of course," laughed George sarcastically. "You're all pretty smart."

"Why, Pop," said John, soothingly, "it wouldn't take long. There are only twenty-six letters in it."

"What did you say?" cried Grant, suddenly springing to his feet.

"I said there were twenty-six letters in the alphabet."

"Hooray!" shouted Grant, and he began to dance around like a wild man.

"I've got it. I've got it," he repeated excitedly over and over again.

CHAPTER XXII

A CLUE

Grant's companions sat and looked at him in amazement not unmixed with alarm. They could see no reason for his strange behavior and were at a complete loss what to make of it. They watched their comrade execute a war dance around the entrance to the cave for some moments and finally disappear within, uttering one last triumphant whoop.

"What struck him?" exclaimed John in perplexity.

"He's gone crazy I guess," said Fred. "I can't think of anything else."