The Three Prigs: Feathers For the Bird Brained

The dandies are inspired to make a fashion statement.

"E-Gods! What is that thing in your hat?" Abram had just stepped into the room of the small flat in which the three prigs shared. Instead of the door, he had climbed in through the window.

The only one of the three prigs who ever used the squeaky door was Baron Darnell. The reason? A 'clever' little plan that rooted from their collected brain cells. To pay the lowest possible rent, Darnell was listed as the only tenant, and according to the landlord, he was he the only one living there. He would come and go via the doors and stairs while his comrades made use of the dangerous shingled roof and window. But, the habit of an unorthodox entrance had become commonplace and they no longer saw anything the matter with it.

Crowther was standing in front of the full length mirror (their only one) where he attentively poked and tugged at the brown top hat on his head. His nose, which had been nearly broken by the odd 'Indian' woman, was black and blue across the bridge and was vainly powdered in an attempt to conceal it. Poking straight up on the side of his hat stood a long white feather. Hearing Abram enter, Crowther turned and smiled to him, pointing a short finger at it.

"Isn' it dashing, Abrab? I was possitively idpired by that idian wobad!" His nose, bashed as it was, made him horribly nasal and incapable of pronouncing particular letters.

"Oh my..." Abram laughed as he shut the window and sauntered nearer for better inspection. "It does look rather... well, in its own way it is sort of.... well..."

"He looks like a jackass, that's what it is..." Came Darnell's groggy voice from across the room.

As there was so little furniture, Darnell was sitting sideways in the only armchair near the wall, his head rested back on the faded wallpaper with a sheet of old newspaper concealing his face.

"He does rather," agreed Abram. Reaching up, he lightly touched a dainty finger along the feather as it stood atop Crowther's head, and at the touch of it, his face lit up. "Have you another one, Crowther? I do so want one of my own! Oh please!"

"Ideed I do!" Crowther said happily as he reached to the dressing table to pull an identical one from the paper wrapping.

"Brilliant!" Abram was absolutely giddy as he took the feather and scurried across the room to collect his own hat for decorating. "We shall be the first star with these feathers, what? Prigs as we are, we shall produce a new fashion for the masses of society!"

"Oh God..." Darnell groaned from beneath the paper. With a huff that caused the paper to billow somewhat, he finally tore it from his face to look at his preening friends. "You are going to look like fools. No Englishman in his right mind would wear feathers. You'll only look like the turkeys that you are."

"Do't be a grubbletodiad, Dardell," Crowther said as he put his monocle to his eye to survey his reflection.

"I think you mean 'grumbletonian', Crowther," Abram corrected distractedly as he tried to decide if his feather looked better on the right or left side.

Crowther then reached into the brown paper once more where he produced another feather. This one, however, was a small, but lovely, ostrich feather. Reaching, he held it towards Darnell.

"Here you are, Dardell!" He beamed. "I dew you would be this way, so I bade certain to buy you a gradeur feather! It'll bake you look buch like a busketeer of sorts!"

Darnell appeared extremely annoyed as he took the feather between two fingers. But, after watching it sway and float from the slightest breath of air, his face began to smooth. Casually, he rose from the armchair, and ever so nonchalant, approached the only table of the room. It was cluttered, but atop the papers and things sat his top hat. As inconspicuously as possible, he poked the feather into the brim. In spite of himself, he smiled.