On a stormy night in March, not long ago, a respectable taxi driver named Ebenezer Jones found himself driving home, very late, through the somewhat wild and sinister district of London known as Rumbury Town. Mr. Jones had left Rumbury Tube Station behind him, and was passing the long, desolate piece of land called Rumbury Waste, when, in the street not far ahead, he observed a large, dark, upright object. It was rather smaller than a coal scuttle, but bigger than a quart cider bottle, and it was moving slowly from one side of the street to the other.
Mr. Jones had approached to within about twenty yards of this object when a motorcycle with two riders shot by him, going at a reckless pace and cutting in very close. Mr. Jones braked sharply, looking in his rearview mirror. When he looked forward again he saw that the motorcycle must have struck the upright object in passing, for it was now lying on its side, just ahead of his front wheels.
He brought his taxi to a halt.
“Not but what I daresay I’m being foolish,” he thought. “There’s plenty in this part of town that’s best left alone. But you can’t see something like that happen without stopping to have a look.”
He got out of his cab.
What he found in the road was a large black bird, almost two feet long, with a hairy fringe around its beak. At first he thought it was dead. At his approach, however, it slightly opened one eye, then shut it again.
“Poor thing; it’s probably stunned,” thought Mr. Jones.
His horoscope in the Hackney Drivers’ Herald that morning had said: “Due to your skill a life will be saved today.” Mr. Jones had been worrying slightly, as he drove homeward, because up till now he had not, so far as he knew, saved any lives that day, except by avoiding pedestrians however recklessly they walked into the road without looking.
“This’ll be the life I’m due to save,” he thought, “must be, for it’s five to midnight now.” And he went back to his cab for the bottle of brandy and teaspoon he always carried in the toolbox in case lady passengers turned faint.
It is not so easy as you might believe to give brandy to a large bird lying unconscious in thestreet. After five minutes there was a good deal of brandy on the cobblestones, and some up Mr. Jones’s sleeve, and some in his shoes, but he could not be sure that any had actually gone down the bird’s throat. The difficulty was that he needed at least three hands: one to hold the bottle, and one to hold the spoon, and one to hold the bird’s beak open. If he prized open the beak with the handle of the teaspoon, it was sure to shut again before he had time to reverse the spoon and tip in some brandy.
A hand fell on his shoulder.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” inquired one of two policemen (they always traveled in pairs through Rumbury Town) who had left their van and were standing over him.
The other policeman sniffed in a disapproving manner.
Mr. Jones straightened slowly.
“I was just giving some brandy to this rook,” he explained. He was rather embarrassed, because he had spilled such a lot of the brandy.
“Rook? That’s no rook,” said the officer who had sniffed. “That’s a raven. Look at its hairy beak.”
“Whatever it is, it’s stunned,” said Mr. Jones. “A motorcycle hit it.”
“Ah,” said the second officer, “that’ll have been one of the pair who just pinched thirty thousand quid from Lloyds Bank in the High Street. It’s the Cash-and-Carat boys—the ones who’ve done a lot of burglaries around here lately. Did you see which way they went?”
“No,” said Mr. Jones, tipping up the raven’s head, “but they’ll have a dent on their motorcycle. Could one of you hold the bottle for me?”
“You don’t want to give him brandy. Hot sweet tea’s what you want to give him.”
“That’s right,” said the other policeman. “And an ice pack under the back of his neck.”
“Burn feathers in front of his beak.”
“Slap his hands.”
“Undo his shoelaces.”
“Put him in the fridge.”
“He hasn’t got any shoelaces,” said Mr. Jones, not best pleased at all this advice. “If you aren’t going to hold the bottle, why don’t you go on and catch the blokes that knocked him over?”
“Oh, they’ll be well away by now. Besides, they carry guns. We’ll go back to the station,” said the first policeman. “And you’d best not stay here, giving intoxicating liquor to a bird, or we might have to take you in for loitering in a suspicious manner.”
“I can’t just leave the bird here in the road,” said Mr. Jones.
“Take it with you, then.”
“Can’t you take it to the station?”
“Not likely,” said the second policeman. “No facilities for ravens there.”
They stood with folded arms, watching, while Mr. Jones slowly picked up the bird (it weighed about as much as a fox terrier) and put it in his taxi. And they were still watching (he saw them in his rearview mirror) as he started up and drove off.
So that was how Mr. Jones happened to take the raven back with him to Number Six, Rainwater Crescent, London N.W. 31/2, on a windy March night.
When he got home, nobody was up, which was not surprising, since it was after midnight.