ANALYTICAL STUDY OF A TEXT

It was a raw, winter day. Wind gusted against the high, plate-glass windows. Having completed his usual tasks, Mr. Purcell again mounted the high stool and unfolded his morning paper. He adjustedhis glasses, and glanced at the day's headlines. Hopping feet, chirping and squeaking and mewing, the soft frantic stir of life, vibrated all around him; yet Mr. Purcell heard it no more than he would have heard the monotonous ticking of a familiar clock.

There was a bell over the door that rang whenever a customer entered. This morning, however, for the first time Mr. Purcell could recall, it failed toring. Simply he glanced up, and there was the stranger, standing just inside the door, as if hehad materializedout ofthin air.

The storekeeper slid off his stool. From the first instant he knew instinctively, unreasonably, that the man hated him; but out of habit rubbed his hands, smiled and nodded.

“Good morning,” he beamed. “What can I do for you?”

The man's shiny shoes squeaked forward. His suit was cheap, ill-fitting, but obviously new. A gray pallor deadened his pinched features. He had a shuttling glance and close-cropped hair. Ignoring Purcell for the moment, he looked around the shadowy shop.

“A nasty morning,” volunteered the shopkeeper. He clasped both hands across his melonlike stomach, and smiled importantly. “I see by the paper we'rein for a cold snap. Now what was it you wanted?”

The man stared closely at Purcell, as though just now aware of his presence. He said, “I want something in a cage.”

“Something in a cage?” Mr. Purcell was a bit confused. “You mean – some sort of pet?”

“I mean what I said!” snapped the man. “Something in a cage. Something alive that's in a cage.”

“I see,” hastened the storekeeper, not at all certain that he did. His eye narrowed gravely and he pursed his lips. “Now let me think. A white rat, perhaps? I have some very nice white rats.”

“No!” said the man. “Not rats. Something with wings. Something that flies.”

“A bird!” exclaimed Mr. Purcell.

“A bird's all right.” The customer pointed suddenly to a suspended cage which contained two snowy birds. “Doves?How much for those?”

“Five-fifty,” came the prompt answer. “And a very reasonable price. They are a fine pair.”

“Five-fifty?” The sallow man was obviously disappointed. He hesitantly produced a five-dollar bill. “I'd like to have those birds. But this is all I've got. Just five dollars.”

Mentally, Mr. Purcell made a quick calculation, which told him that at a fifty cent reduction he could still reap a tidy profit. He smiled kindly: “My dear man, if you want them that badly, you can certainly have them for five dollars.”

“I'll take them.” He laid his five dollars on the counter. Mr. Purcell unhooked the cage, and handed it to his customer. The man cocked his head to one side, listening to the constant twittering, the rushing scurry of the shop. “That noise!” he said suddenly. “Doesn't it get on your nerves?”

“Noise? What noise?” Mr. Purcell looked surprised. He could hear nothing unusual.

The customer glared. “I mean all this caged stuff. Drives you crazy, doesn't it?”

Purcell drew back. Either the man was insane, or drunk. He said hastily: “Yes, yes. Certainly. I guess so.”

“Listen.” The staring eyes came closer. “How long d'you think it took me to make that five dollars?”

The merchant wanted to order him outof the shop. But oddly enough, he couldn't. He heard himself dutifully asking, “Why – why, how long did it take you?”

The other laughed. “Ten years! At hard labor.Ten years to earn five dollars. Fifty cents a year.”

It was best, Purcell decided, to humor him. “My, my! Ten years. That's certainly a long time. Now – ”

“They give you five dollars,” laughed the man, “and a cheap suit, and tell you not to get caught again.”

Mr. Purcell mopped his sweating brow. “Now, about the care and feeding of your doves. I would advise – ”

“Bah!” The sallow man swung around, and stalked abruptly from the store.

Purcell sighed with sudden relief. He waddled to the window and stared out. Just outside, his peculiar customer had halted. He was holding the cage shoulder-high, staring at his purchase. Then, opening the cage, he reached inside and drew out one of the doves. Ho tossed it into the air. He drew out the second and tossed it after the first. They rose like windblown balls of fluff and were lost in the smoky gray of the winter city. For an instant the liberator's silent and lifted gaze watched them. Then he dropped the cage. A futile, suddenly forlorn figure, he shoved both hands deep in his trouser pockets, hunched down his head and shuffled away …

The merchant was perplexed. So desperately had the man desired the doves that he had let him have them at a reduced price. And immediately he had turned them loose. “Now why,” Mr. Purcell muttered, “did he do that?” He felt vaguely insulted.