Its webbed feet
patted the ground complacently. It came laboriously towards the wall
of the house, then halted. It paused a moment, then turned its eyes
up, while Judy turned hers down. The pair of creatures looked at one
another steadily for several seconds.
"You're not out for nothing," exclaimed Judy audibly. "So now I know!"
The reply was neither in the affirmative nor in the negative. The up-
and-under bird said nothing. It made no sign. It just turned away,
stalked heavily back across the lawn without once looking either to
right or left, launched itself upon the water, uttered its queer
bugle-call for the last and second time, and promptly disappeared
below. The tilt of its vanishing tail expressed sublime indifference
to everything on land. And Judy, reflecting vaguely that she, too, was
something of an up-and-under creature, followed its example, though
without the same dispatch or neatness of execution. She tumbled
sideways into bed and disappeared beneath the sheets, aware that the
bird had left her richer than it found her. It had communicated
something that lay beyond all possible explanation. She had no tail,
nor did she express indifference.
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