Mr. Popper's Penguins

skillful at getting out and was ready to be taught how to get inside when the door was shut.
    By the time the policeman came to the back door, Captain Cook was going in and out the refrigerator as easily as if he had lived in one all his life.

     
     

CHAPTER VI

More Troubles
     
    HE CHILDREN were the first to notice the policeman.
    “Look, Papa,” said Bill. “There’s a policeman at the back door. Is he going to arrest you?”
    “ Gook,” said Captain Cook, walking with dignity to the door, and trying to poke his beak through the screen. “Is this 432 Proudfoot Avenue?”
    “It is,” answered Mr. Popper.
    “Well, I guess this is the place all right,” said the policeman, and pointed to Captain Cook. “Is that thing yours?”
    “Yes, it is,” said Mr. Popper, proudly.
    “And what do you do for a living?” asked the policeman sternly.
    “Papa is an artist,” said Janie.
    “He’s always getting paint and calcimine all over his clothes,” said Bill.
    “I’m a house painter, a decorator,” said Mr. Popper. “Won’t you come in?”
    “I won’t,” said the policeman, “unless I have to.“
    “Ha, ha!” said Bill. “The policeman is afraid of Captain Cook.”
    “ Gaw! ” said the penguin, opening his red beak wide, as if he wanted to laugh at the policeman.
    “Can it talk?” asked the policeman. “What is it — a giant parrot?”
    “It’s a penguin,” said Janie. “We keep it for a pet.”
    “Well,, if it’s only a bird ...” said the policeman, lifting his cap to scratch his head in a puzzled sort of way. “From the way that fellow with a tool bag yelled at me outside, I thought there was a lion loose in here.”
    “Mamma says Papa’s hair looks like a lion’s sometimes,” said Bill.
    “Keep still, Bill,” said Janie. “The policeman doesn’t care how Papa’s hair looks.”
    The policeman now scratched his chin. “If it’s only a bird, I suppose it will be O. K. if you keep him in a cage.”
    “We keep him in the icebox,” said Bill.
    “You can put it in the icebox, for all I care,” said the policeman. “What kind of a bird did you say it was?”
    “A penguin,” answered Mr. Popper. “And by the way, I might want to take him walking with me. Would it be all right, if I kept him on a leash?”
    “I tell you,” said the policeman, “honestly I don’t know what the municipal ordinance about penguins is, with or without a leash, on the public streets. I’ll ask my sergeant.”
    “Maybe I ought to get a license for him,” suggested Mr. Popper.
    “It’s certainly big enough for a license,” said the policeman. “I tell you what to do. You call up the City Hall and ask them what the ruling about penguins is. And good luck to you, Popper. He’s kind of a cute little fellow, at that. Looks almost human. Good day to you, Popper, and good day to you, Mr. Penguin.”
    When Mr. Popper telephoned the City Hall to see about a license for Captain Cook, the penguin did his best to disconnect the telephone by biting the green cord. Perhaps he thought it was some new kind of eel. But just then Mrs. Popper came back from market and opened a can of shrimps, so that Mr. Popper was soon left alone at the telephone.
    Even so, he found it was not so easy to learn whether or not he must get a license for his strange pet. Every time he would explain what he wanted, he would be told to wait a minute, and much later a new voice would ask him what he wanted. This went on for considerable time. At last a new voice seemed to take a little interest in the case. Pleased with this friendly voice, Mr. Popper began again to tell about Captain Cook.
    “Is he an army captain, a police captain, or a navy captain?”
    “He is not,” said Mr. Popper. “He’s a penguin.”
    “Will you repeat that, please?” said the voice.
    Mr. Popper repeated it. The voice suggested that perhaps he had better spell it.
    “P-e-n-g-u-i-n,” said Mr. Popper. “Penguin.”
    “Oh!” said the voice. “You mean that Captain Cook’s first name is Benjamin?”
    “Not Benjamin. Penguin. It’s a bird,” said Mr. Popper. “Do you mean,” said the phone in his ear, “that Captain Cook wishes a license to shoot birds? I am sorry. The bird-hunting season does not open until November. And please try to speak a little more distinctly, Mr. — Topper, did you say your name is?”
    “My name is Popper, not Topper,” shouted Mr. Popper.
    “Yes, Mr. Potter. Now I can hear you quite