ne, vaguely.

"Yes," said Dan Anderson, "it's gone." He turned at the sound of
voices. Curly appeared at the door, carrying in his hand a limp,
bedraggled figure.

"That," said Dan Anderson, "I take to be the remains of our late friend
Bill, the parrot. What made you, Curly?"

"Well," said Curly, defensively, as he held the body of Bill suspended
by the head between two fingers, "I was lookin' for his teeth, to see
if he had any candy in 'em, and he bit my finger nigh about off. So I
just wrung his neck. Do you reckon he'd be good fried?"

"He'd like enough be tolerable tough," said McKinney. "Them parrots
gets shore old."

"You ought to have some drugs to tan his hide," Doc Tomlinson
volunteered hopefully. "It'd be right stylish on a hat."

Dan Anderson gazed at Curly with reproach in his eyes. "Now, I just
wrung his neck," repeated the latter, protesting.

"Yes," said Dan Anderson, "and you've wrung the wrong neck. Bill was
innocent."

"Then who done et the legs?"

"That," said Dan Anderson, "brings me again to the position which I
enunciated this morning. In these modern days of engineers, mining
companies, parrots, and twins, the structure of our civilization is so
complex as to require the services of a highly intelligent corporation
counsel. You ask who ate the candy ornament, representation, or image
formerly existent on your premises. I reply that in all likelihood it
was done by a corporation; but these matters must appear in court at a
later time."

"Well," said McKinney, "it looks like the joke was on us."

Dan Anderson smiled gravely. "In the opinion of myself and the
consolidation which I represent," said he, and he hugged the twins, who
looked down frightened from his arms, "the joke is on Bill, the
prisoner at the bar."

The group would have separated, had it not been for a sudden
exclamation from Curly. "Ouch!" cried that worthy, and cast from him
the body of Bill. supposedly defunct. "He bit me again, blame him!"
said Curly, sucking his thumb.

"If he bit you for true," said McKinney, who was of a practical turn of
mind, "like enough he ain't been dead at all."

Corroboration was not lacking. The prisoner at the bar, thrown
violently upon the ground, now sat up, half leaning against a pinon
log, and contemplated those present with a cynical and unfriendly gray
eye.

"Now," said Doc Tomlinson, regarding him, "you get him a few drugs, and
he'll be just as good as new,