When the office was
empty, Slivers would go on sorting the scrip on his table, drinking
his whisky, or talking to Billy. Now Billy was about as well known
in Ballarat as Slivers, and was equally as old and garrulous in his
own way. He was one of those large white yellow-crested cockatoos
who, in their captivity, pass their time like galley-slaves, chained
by one leg. Billy, however, never submitted to the indignity of a
chain--he mostly sat on Slivers' table or on his shoulder,
scratching his poll with his black claw, or chattering to Slivers in
a communicative manner. People said Billy was Slivers' evil spirit,
and as a matter of fact, there was something uncanny in the wisdom
of the bird. He could converse fluently on all occasions, and needed
no drawing out, inasmuch as he was always ready to exhibit his
powers of conversation. He was not a pious bird--belonging to
Slivers, he could hardly be expected to be--and his language was
redolent of Billingsgate. So Billy being so clever was quite a
character in his way, and, seated on Slivers' shoulder with his
black bead of an eye watching his master writing with the rusty pen,
they looked a most unholy pair.
The warm sunlight poured through the dingy windows of the office,
and filled the dark room with a sort of sombre glory. The atmosphere
of Slivers' office was thick and dusty, and the sun made long beams
of light through the heavy air.
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