By Laura Reeve

Purcell was a small, fussy man; red cheeks and a tight melon like stomach. Large glasses so magnified his eyes as to give him the appearance of a wise and kind owl. He owned a pet shop. He sold cats and dogs and monkeys; he dealt in fish food and bird seed, prescribed remedies for ailing canaries, on his shelves there were long rows of gilded cages. He considered himself something of a professional man. There was a constant stir of like in his dusky shop – whispered twitters, rustling, squeals, cheeps, and sudden squawks. Small feet scampered in frantic circles; frightened, bewildered, blindly seeking. Across the shelves pulsed this endless flicker of life.

It was a raw, wintry day. Having completed his usual tasks, Mr. Purcell again mounted the high stool and unfolded his morning paper. He adjusted his 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 to ring. Simply he glanced up, and there was the stranger, standing just inside the door, as if he had materialized out of thin air. The storekeeper slid off his stool. From the first instant he knew instinctively, unreasonably, that the man hated him; but out of habit he 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. 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 alive that’s in a cage.” “I see, ” hastened the shopkeeper, not at all certain that he did. “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 in 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 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 out of the shop. But oddly enough, he couldn’t.

“Ten years! At hard labor. Ten years to earn five dollars. Fifty cent a year. 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. He 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 he smoky gray of the wintry 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.