‘Perhaps you don’t say the invocation properly,’ said the bird.
‘Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day,
Little baby wants to play,’
said Anthea.
‘That’s quite wrong; and if you say it in that sort of dull way, I can quite understand the rain not taking any notice. You should open the window and shout as loud as you can:
‘Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day;
Now we want the sun, and so,
Pretty rain, be kind and go!
‘You should always speak politely to people when you want them to do things, and especially when it’s going away that you want them to do. And today you might add:
‘Shine, great sun, the lovely Phoe-
Nix is here, and wants to be
Shone on, splendid sun, by thee!’
‘That’s poetry!’ said Cyril, decidedly.
‘It’s like it,’ said the more cautious Robert.
‘I was obliged to put in “lovely”,’ said the Phoenix, modestly, ‘to make the line long enough.’
‘There are plenty of nasty words just that length,’ said Jane; but everyone else said ‘Hush!’
And then they opened the window and shouted the seven lines as loud as they could, and the Phoenix said all the words with them, except ‘lovely’, and when they came to that it looked down and coughed bashfully.
The rain hesitated a moment and then went away:
‘There’s true politeness,’ said the Phoenix, and the next moment it was perched on the window-ledge, opening and shutting its radiant wings and flapping out its golden feathers in such a flood of glorious sunshine as you sometimes have at sunset in autumn time. People said afterwards that there had not been such sunshine in December for years and years and years.
‘And now,’ said the bird, ‘we will go out into the city, and you shall take me to see one of my temples.’
‘Your temples?’
‘I gather from the carpet that I have many temples in this land.’
‘I don’t see how you can find anything out from it,’ said Jane: ‘it never speaks.’
‘All the same, you can pick up things from a carpet,’ said the bird; ‘I’ve seen you do it. And I have picked up several pieces of information in this way. That papyrus on which you showed me my picture – I understand that it bears on it the name of the street of your city in which my finest temple stands, with my image graved in stone and in metal over against its portal.’
‘You mean the fire insurance office,’ said Robert. ‘It’s not really a temple, and they don’t—’
‘Excuse me,’ said the Phoenix, coldly, ‘you are wholly misinformed. It is a temple, and they do.’
‘Don’t let’s waste the sunshine,’ said Anthea; ‘we might argue as we go along, to save time.’
So the Phoenix consented to make itself a nest in the breast of Robert’s Norfolk jacket, and they all went out into the splendid sunshine. The best way to the temple of the Phoenix seemed to be to take the tram, and on the top of it the children talked, while the Phoenix now and then put out a wary beak, cocked a cautious eye, and contradicted what the children were saying.
It was a delicious ride, and the children felt how lucky they were to have had the money to pay for it. They went with the tram as far as it went, and when it did not go any farther they stopped too, and got off. The tram stops at the end of the Gray’s Inn Road, and it was Cyril who thought that one might well find a short cut to the Phoenix Office through the little streets and courts that lie tightly packed between Fetter Lane and Ludgate Circus. Of course, he was quite mistaken, as Robert told him at the time, and afterwards Robert did not forbear to remind his brother how he had said so. The streets there were small and stuffy and ugly, and crowded with printers’ boys and binders’ girls coming out from work; and these stared so hard at the pretty red coats and caps of the sisters that they wished they had gone some other way. And the printers and binders made very personal remarks, advising Jane to get her hair cut, and inquiring where Anthea had bought that hat. Jane and Anthea scorned to reply, and Cyril and Robert found that they were hardly a match for the rough crowd. They could think of nothing nasty enough to say. They turned a corner sharply, and then Anthea pulled Jane into an archway, and then inside a door; Cyril and Robert quickly followed, and the jeering crowd passed by without seeing them.
Anthea drew a long breath.
‘How awful!’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there were such people, except in books.’
‘It was a bit thick; but it’s partly you girls’ fault, coming out in those flashy coats.’
‘We thought we ought to, when we were going out with the Phoenix,’ said Jane; and the bird said, ‘Quite right, too’ – and incautiously put out his head to give her a wink of encouragement. And at the same instant a dirty hand reached through the grim balustrade of the staircase beside them and clutched the Phoenix, and a hoarse voice said:
‘I say, Urb, blowed if this ain’t our Poll parrot what we lost. Thank you very much, lidy, for bringin’ ’im home to roost.’
The four turned swiftly. Two large and ragged boys were crouched amid the dark shadows of the stairs. They were much larger than Robert and Cyril, and one of them had snatched the Phoenix away and was holding it high above their heads.
‘Give me that bird,’ said Cyril, sternly: ‘it’s ours.’
‘Good arternoon, and thankin’ you,’ the boy went on, with maddening mockery. ‘Sorry I can’t give yer tuppence for yer trouble – but I’ve ’ad to spend my fortune advertising for my vallyable bird in all the newspapers. You can call for the reward next year.’
‘Look out, Ike,’ said his friend, a little anxiously; ‘it ’ave a beak on it.’
‘It’s other parties as’ll have the Beak on to ’em presently,’ said Ike, darkly, ‘if they come a-trying to lay claims on my Poll parrot. You just shut up, Urb. Now then, you four little gells, get out er this.’
‘Little girls!’ cried Robert ‘I’ll little girl you!’ He sprang up three stairs and hit out.
There was a squawk – the most bird-like noise any one had ever heard from the Phoenix – and a fluttering, and a laugh in the darkness, and Ike said:
‘There now, you’ve been and gone and strook my Poll parrot right in the fevvers – strook ’im something crool, you ’ave.’
Robert stamped with fury. Cyril felt himself growing pale with rage, and with the effort of screwing up his brain to make it clever enough to think of some way of being even with those boys. Anthea and Jane were as angry as the boys, but it made them want to cry. Yet it was Anthea who said:
‘Do, please, let us have the bird.’
‘Dew, please, get along and leave us an’ our bird alone.’
‘If you don’t, said Anthea, ‘I shall fetch the police.’
‘You better!’ said he who was named Urb. ‘Say, Ike, you twist the bloomin’ pigeon’s neck; he ain’t worth tuppence.’
‘Oh, no,’ cried Jane, ‘don’t hurt it. Oh, don’t; it is such a pet.’
‘I won’t hurt it,’ said Ike; ‘I’m ’shamed of you, Urb, for to think of such a thing. Arf a shiner, miss, and the bird is yours for life.’
‘Half a what?’