Big thanks to JWood201 for beta-ing, callensensei for helping me with canon v. fanon, Riley F. for not giving up and Louise for just existing.
And Bob Denver for being Gilligan!
# # # #
Sometimes when Gilligan wandered aimlessly around the island, he liked to pretend he was different people. Sometimes he'd pretend he was a hunter- his frightening experiences with Jonathan Kinkaid had taught him how to be stealthy and to stalk. He'd practise on small birds that he knew were easily frightened. The closer he got without them knowing he was there, the better he felt. If any more hunters like Kinkaid ever showed up, he'd be ready for 'em.
Other times he'd pretend he was a small boy again, tramping through the woods with his friends on lazy Sunday afternoons, looking for ideal places to build a tree house or a den. Not a well constructed tree house or den like the huts he and his fellow castaways had built out of bamboo and palm leaves, but haphazard structures made out of uneven planks of wood hastily and clumsily banged together using discarded nails found on the ground and a hammer sneaked out of someone's dad's toolbox. Sometimes these small boy dreams became too real and he'd find himself calling out a name before he snapped out of it and remembered where he was, and he'd stand stock still with both hands over his mouth in case anyone heard and thought he had finally taken a turn for the worse.
Today he was pretending he was even richer than Thurston Howell III, and that he actually owned this island. He was holding a conversation in his head that involved being introduced to the haughty millionaire and went something like this-
"Thurston Howell The Third, meet William Gilligan the Second, long-lost son of Emperor William Gilligan the First, owner of this bejewelled isle, which means he inherits all that you see before you. Including your bamboo hut."
"M-Mr. Gilligan, it's an honor to meet you, S-Sir."
"There's no need to grovel, my good man. You'll only get your knees dirty and I'm sure those pants cost a pretty penny. Probably not as much as mine, but then I get all my clothes hand-woven out of silk straight from the silk worm farms, which of course, I also own." At this, Gilligan would peer loftily but benignly down his nose.
"Y-yes, Sir William."
"Now- fetch me some oysters- I'm hungry. Oh, and clean my sneakers while you're at it. I'm not used to walking, but the Royal elephant I normally ride upon has a cold and the last thing you want to be anywhere near is a Royal elephant with a cold. Or any elephant with a cold for that matter."
"Y-yes, Sir William. Will there be anything else?"
"Humph. I'm sure I'll think of something."
Gilligan would normally end up grinning to himself at the thought of making Mr. Howell do something humiliating like sweeping the floor of his and the Skipper's hut, or simply being able to call him Thurston and get away with it.
He loped easily along the well worn jungle paths, knowing that most of the other castaways never went exploring much themselves. They'd be hopeless at tracking or hunting. Ginger's high heels were useless for a start, and Mary Ann would be too scared to go too far by herself. No, it was usually just him, exploring on his own, making mental notes of new landmarks and testing his orienteering skills. If there was one thing Gilligan knew how to do, it was find his way around.
He pushed his way through some overhanging palm fronds and caught sight of the lagoon. May as well head down there anyway, he thought to himself. I can see if anything's washed up on the shore.
As he came out into the clearing and headed down the sandy beach, his eyes caught sight of something in the distance. He shielded his face and squinted, narrowing his field of vision.
Surely that wasn't a boat? But...it sure looked like a boat, and he should know what a boat looked like.
It was definitely a boat. A very small boat, like a rowing boat, and peering harder, he saw a hunched figure at the helm.
Someone was on it and rowing it, and they were rowing it this way.
Gilligan ran right down to the water's edge, as though a few more feet would help him see better. "Hey!" he yelled, waving his long skinny arms in the air. "Hey! Over here!"
The small figure in the boat turned around and a tiny arm lifted and waved back.
"Oh my Gosh," Gilligan muttered to himself, all his fantasies of owing the island gone in an instant. "I'd better go get Skipper!"
# # # #
Jonas Grumby was sitting at the table enjoying a nice, quiet cup of starflower tea before he got started on the day's chores. One of the walls in the girls' hut was starting to come apart- the palm leaves would need to be rewoven. Plus, their fresh water supply needed topping up. He would have to speak to Gilligan, but for now he was just enjoying a moment of quietude without the presence of the First Mate causing havoc. He really wasn't in the mood for Gilligan's antics today. He had a headache and he was tired. A nice, quiet day without any trouble or tomfoolery would be perfect.
"Skippeeerrrr!"
Jonas put his face in his hands and sighed heavily. He knew the solitude had been too good to last.
"Skipper, Skipper! Am I glad to see you!" Gilligan flew into the clearing like a red, white and blue whirlwind. The Skipper felt seasick just watching the skinny young man standing there flailing his arms and gasping for breath. "Skipper, there's a boat!" He gasped again, "A boat, a real boat! In the lagoon. Someone's in it!"
"Someone's in the lagoon?" said Mary Ann, who had appeared the moment she heard Gilligan's over excited tone.
"No, someone's in a boat!" Gilligan explained.
"What boat?" Mary Ann looked from Gilligan to the Skipper.
The Skipper shrugged and looked annoyed. "If you're wasting our time again, little buddy..."
"No, Skipper, I'm not! There really is a boat in the lagoon!" said Gilligan, looking at the Skipper in exasperation, wondering why the big man always seemed so grumpy these days.
"There's a boat in the lagoon?" said Ginger, teetering across the clearing on impossibly high heels.
"That's what Gilligan says," said Mary Ann, shrugging.
"Come on, see for yourselves!" Gilligan grinned, tugging at the Skipper's sleeve. "A real boat, I swear!"
# # # #
Four castaways lined up on the shore as the tiny rowing boat drew nearer and nearer, the Howells and Ginger having stayed behind at the campsite to make their table presentable with fruit and refreshments for their latest visitor. Mary Ann, in her little shorts and gingham check shirt, stood nervously between the Professor and Gilligan.
"I wonder who it could be?" she said in a quiet voice, shuffling her feet in the sand.
"He looks old," Gilligan muttered back. "Like, even older than Mr. Howell."
"Maybe he's been rowing for a long time," Mary Ann whispered back. "He looks tired."
The boat finally reached the shore, and the Skipper waded into the shallows to grab hold of the bow and guide it in. At Mary Ann's prompt, Gilligan ran forward too, heaving on the tiny vessel until its hull struck bottom and scraped up onto the sand. The lone passenger, grey haired and grizzled and dressed, for some reason in a loose fitting business suit, was able to clamber out by holding onto the Skipper's sturdy arm for support as he splashed up onto the beach.
"Ah! Terra firma at last," he declared, falling to his knees and kissing the ground, sputtering through a mouthful of sand.
Gilligan exchanged a look with the Skipper, who still didn't look too happy.
"And what is this wondrous place in which I find myself?" the old man cried, hoisting himself onto his haunches and spreading his arms out in wonderment.
"Is he being sarcastic?" the Skipper muttered.
The Professor shrugged. "He's probably suffering from heatstroke."
The old man staggered to his feet and turned in a half circle to look at all the castaways. "Well, well. Who have we here," he mused. He peered sceptically at Gilligan, then slowly studied the Skipper. He tilted his head back slightly at the Professor, who narrowed his own eyes in response. Then the old man let his watery gaze settle on Mary Ann, whom he looked at very appraisingly indeed. "My word, you are a lovely young lady," he announced. "Perhaps we should be introduced?"
The Skipper coughed loudly and pulled the appreciative old man around by the shoulders. He went through the introductions in turn, managing to get the man to stop looking at Mary Ann as though he'd never seen a woman before. Through the introductions, the castaways learned that the man's name was Gregory Jameson.
"And this island is unchartered, Mr. Jameson," the Skipper said. "We've been here almost three years now."
"You're lucky you didn't wash up on the other side, Mr. Jameson," said Gilligan, helpfully, "because there's headhunters over there."
"Headhunters, you say?" Jameson's rheumy eyes widened.
"Yeah. Headhunters. They've got spears and everything and they sneak up on you when you're not expecting it, and then they chop your head clean off." Gilligan spoke ominously, pulling the collar of his rugby shirt up to his chin and flitting his eyes around nervously.
"Well! In that case, I certainly am glad I met you first," the old man smiled, then turned and let the Professor and Mary Ann walk him up the beach while the Skipper turned to Gilligan and whacked the grimacing First Mate hard with his hat.
"I'll chop your head clean off one of these days," he muttered irritably.
# # # #
Ginger and the Howells were on hand to greet their lone visitor the moment he appeared at the huts, with the Professor on one side of him, Mary Ann on the other and Gilligan and the Skipper close behind. When Jameson saw Ginger in her shimmering gown that clung in all the right places he beamed like a man with two birthdays.
"My word!" The old man declared. "Such a vision of beauty!"
Ginger immediately went into flirtatious mode and allowed Jameson to kiss her hand. Then Jameson looked at the Howells, and suddenly Mr. Howell was looking back at Jameson, and the two old men were studying each other intently.
"Thurston?" said Jameson at last. "Thurston Howell the Third? Is that really you?"
"Gregory Rupert 'Headhunter' Jameson!" Mr. Howell declared, throwing his arms open. "You old dog! It is you!"
As the two older men embraced, no-one noticed that Gilligan had gone into a mild panic. He started tugging on the Skipper's sleeve again. "'Headhunter'? Skipper, he's a headhunter! What are we gonna do? We'll have to get him!"
"He's not a headhunter, Gilligan," Skipper replied, patting the young man's arm. "That's just a nickname."
"He could be in disguise,"Gilligan persisted. "He could have killed the real Mr. Jameson and stole his suit and..."
"Little buddy," the Skipper said sweetly out of the side of his mouth, "my patience is sorely being stretched."
Gilligan knew what that meant. If he carried on he'd get another whack with the Skipper's hat. He watched silently, telling himself that at the first sign of any headhunting, he'd pick up a chair and hit the newest castaway over his head with it. To facilitate this action should it become necessary, Gilligan edged a little closer to the nearest chair and tested its weight with one hand, only stopping and gazing nonchalantly into the trees after the Skipper shot him another warning glance.
Mr. Howell and Jameson finally released each other and stood back, each looking the other thoughtfully up and down.
"We all thought you were dead," Jameson grinned broadly. "But you haven't changed a bit!"
"It's all the fresh air," Mr. Howell beamed back. "Does wonders for the skin."
"Not to mention the thought of all that interest piling up back home, eh?" Jameson thumped Mr. Howell knowingly on the arm. "You must be worth a pretty packet by now, huh, Thursty my boy?"
Mr. Howell brought his wife forward. "You remember Lovey, of course?"
"Ah! Lovey, who could forget such a wondrous and elegant creature?" Jameson stepped forward and held Mrs. Howell in a tender embrace, planting a kiss on both sides of her face, making her giggle and blush.
"Oh, Gregory," she tittered. "You always were such a charmer!"
The Skipper frowned and waved his hat in Gilligan's direction when he saw the First Mate unconsciously copying Mrs. Howell's simpering. "Gilligan, I'm warning you," he whispered, knowing how his little buddy was prone to acting out at the most inconvenient moments. "Make yourself useful- go and offer our visitor some refreshments."
Sighing, Gilligan went over to the table to join Mary Ann.
"Isn't it funny how he knows Mr. and Mrs. Howell?" Mary Ann said, her face a picture of surprise. "I wonder if he's a millionaire too?"
"I know he's a headhunter," Gilligan uttered, poking at a mango with the tip of his finger.
Mary Ann smiled and put her hand on Gilligan's arm. "Oh, Gilligan, he's not a real headhunter. It's just a funny nickname."
"Head hunting isn't funny," said Gilligan. He picked up the bowl of fruit and stalked off towards the new castaway, ignoring Mary Ann's calls for him to stop.
Mr. Howell and Jameson were stopped in their tracks when the red shirted First Mate thrust himself between them and held the bowl of fruit right up to Jameson's face.
Jameson smiled politely, declining the fruit bowl with his hand. "Er, no thanks, son, but if you could...?"
Gilligan didn't even give him time to finish his sentence. "Are you a headhunter?" he demanded.
There was complete silence for a moment or two, then, "Dohhhhh!" came Skipper's angry exclamation. "Gilligan!"
Gilligan felt a strong hand grab his shoulder and yank him out from under Jameson's nose. Such was the speed of the movement that the resulting inertia caused fruit to fly out of the bowl and land all over the clearing with a series of small bouncing thumps.
"Didn't I warn you?" the Skipper grumbled. "Why, I've a good mind to..."
"Oh, it's quite all right, Captain!" Jameson laughed. "I don't blame the boy for being scared if there really are headhunters here! No, son- 'Headhunter' is indeed just a nickname. I was quite the headhunter in business, wasn't I, Thurston?"
"That you were," Mr. Howell agreed appreciatively. "No-one was safe while you were around!"
Gilligan was puzzled. When Jameson explained that 'headhunting' meant stealing valued employees away from rival business firms, he looked even more perplexed.
"Why would you want to steal people?" he asked.
"For their valuable information, my boy. Their ideas. Their resources. Their expertise. Their insider knowledge." He tapped the side of his mottled nose and winked at Mr. Howell.
"That doesn't sound like much fun," Gilligan decided.
"Oh, but fun it was, my boy." Jameson chuckled. "We practically decimated Binks and Co.!"
Gilligan pulled a face. "Sir, I can't say I know what that means, but it doesn't sound all that good to me."
"It certainly wasn't good for Binks and Co.!" Jameson cackled, and soon he and Mr. Howell were roaring away like two jungle lions.
They carried on in the same vein like this for a while until finally Mary Ann told everyone to sit down at the table so that she could make a fuss over their visitor. If anyone could bring order it was Mary Ann and her homemaking skills. She got everyone to calm down and talk at normal levels of volume. She made sure Jameson was well watered and feasting on papaya slices before she would let anyone talk to him again. As he ate and drank, he told them all how he'd come to be shipwrecked.
"I've been unwell for a while," he said around a mouthful of the sweet, pulpy fruit. "Of course, I refused to give up work until I had my first angina attack, and then my doctor in all his worldly wisdom ordered me to cut my workload and find myself a nice, gentle hobby. So what did I pick?" He laughed ruefully. "I picked sailing! And look at me now. Stranded. All because I couldn't steer a boat properly."
"What happened?" asked The Professor.
"I capsized, my boy! Keeled right over. Don't ask me how I managed it. I don't even know myself. One minute I'm on the deck enjoying a nice relaxing cognac, the next minute I'm in the water with the safety boat. I'm wondering if perhaps I blacked out. Because I certainly don't remember any of the details!"
"If you don't mind me saying, Mr. Jameson, you seem rather cheerful for someone who might have been drowned," said Mary Ann, hovering at his left shoulder in case his glass or bowl needed replenishing.
"I'm cheerful because I'm still alive, dear girl!" Jameson replied heartily. "I don't know quite how I got here, but at least I got here in one piece!" At that, he lifted his glass of mango juice and toasted his fellow castaways before downing the liquid in one mighty gulp.
# # # #
Later that day, when he decided that Mr. Jameson and Mr. Howell were probably going to be talking about twenty year old business deals for hours, Gilligan sloped off to be by himself, away from all the boring talk and the Skipper's unusually bad temper. He thought he might try setting some traps. Not traps that would kill anything, just gentle traps that might capture a bird for a while and let him take a good look at its feathers before setting it free.
He hadn't got very far into the undergrowth when he heard someone coming up behind him. It wasn't one of the girls and it wasn't Skipper, it wouldn't be one of the Howells and it didn't sound like the Professor. Immediately Gilligan was on guard.
Jameson appeared, beaming widely, looking much healthier now that he'd sat down and relaxed with food, drink and good company. There was a pink glow to his withered cheeks and his gunboat grey eyes twinkled. "My boy, do wait for an old man!" he puffed, pushing his way through the bushes until he was standing at Gilligan's side.
Gilligan wasn't tall- he stood around five foot eight inches with his battered sneakers on. Jameson was just slightly shorter, with the wiry build of a lightweight boxer. The old man tugged on his tie and undid the top two buttons of the rather worn pale blue shirt he wore underneath. "Sure is hot here," he smiled. "So, Gilligan. Tell me- what do you do?"
"What do I do?" Gilligan thought for a moment. "You mean, what am I doing right now?"
"My boy, your job. What do you do?"
Gilligan shrugged. "I don't do anything." Then realising how bad that sounded to a man who was obviously obsessed with work, he went on, "Although, on the Minnow I was First Mate, so I guess I still am, even though we're not at sea anymore. Oh- and I was in the Navy for a while." He grinned to himself, pleased. Thank goodness he'd remembered to mention that.
"An ex-navy man! Well, I am impressed. A very noble calling. Defending the high seas and all that. You don't mind if I walk with you, do you? I find you quite intriguing."
"You do?" Gilligan's smile grew even wider. "Gee. Not many people ever called me intr...intree..."
"Intriguing. It means I'm curious about you. I want to find out more."
"Well, gosh, there's nothing...I mean, I'm not all that interesting, really."
"My boy," Jameson said, patting Gilligan's shoulder. "Let me be the judge of that."
They walked on. Gilligan held the old man's elbow as he climbed over logs and small boulders. "Where on earth are we going?" Jameson asked, panting.
"Truthfully, sir? I don't know. I just explore. But don't worry," Gilligan added, "I always know my way home."
"Hmm. You said 'home'." Jameson smiled. "That's interesting."
"I meant camp." Gilligan corrected himself.
"Ah, but you called it 'home'." Jameson stopped and picked something up off the ground. "What's this?"
Gilligan's eyes widened. "Ginger's earring! She lost it. Wow- I wonder how it got all the way out here?"
"Perhaps one of those brightly colored birds stole it," Jameson said. "I've heard some birds are awful for collecting trinkets to decorate their nests with." He broke off suddenly and appeared thoughtful. "Now- why on earth would I have remembered a useless fact like that?"
"Well, it's not a useless fact if it helps you find things," Gilligan said, turning Ginger's earring over and over in his fingers so that the emerald shone in the sunlight. "Ginger will be so happy you found her earring. She can't wear the other one on its own and she always said these were her favorites."
"My boy, we shall tell her that you found it," said Jameson with a wink. "A young fellow like you deserves a kiss from that sultry vixen more than an old hound like me."
Gilligan blushed furiously. "I don't want Ginger to kiss me," he protested, shoving the earring unceremoniously into his jeans pocket.
Jameson gasped, then burst out laughing. "Gilligan! You're stranded on an island with those two beautiful women and you don't like being kissed? Oh, dear, oh, dear! Now I really have heard everything!"
The old man's amusement was so great that he started wheezing and had to sit down on a nearby log to get his breath back.
"What's so funny?" Gilligan pouted.
"You are. Those two beautiful women, and you don't like being kissed!"
"Why should I?" Gilligan said, feeling an overwhelming need to defend himself.
"Well, when I was your age, you couldn't keep me away from the women," Jameson chuckled. "You certainly are a mystery!"
"I don't have to be the same as you," Gilligan shot back, then wondered why he was being so defensive.
"You're quite right. You don't. Besides, women are nothing but trouble." Jameson got to his feet again. "So. Where were we?"
"I was going to try to catch a bird," said Gilligan.
# # # #
Back at the huts, Mr. Howell sat talking to the Skipper and the Professor. "It's certainly a surprise to see old Jameson again," the millionaire smiled wistfully. "What a strange and small world it is, when a former colleague you haven't seen for nearly thirty years washes right up on your doorstep."
"The other thing is, of course," said the Professor, "that they'll likely start searching for him and maybe at last we'll all be discovered."
"There is that possibility," agreed Jonas Grumby, with a little smile of anticipation.
"Although we shouldn't get our hopes up too high," The Professor continued, ever the pragmatist.
"No," the Skipper replied, huffing, his headache immediately returning. "Of course not."
"Where is Mr. Jameson, anyway?" The Professor wondered, looking around the clearing.
# # # #
An hour later, Gregory Jameson and Gilligan were crouched low behind some bushes, carefully watching the small trap that Gilligan had meticulously woven out of palm fronds. It was shaped like a small bowl, with a stone woven into the front for added weight, and was balanced on a stick. There was a long piece of string tied to the stick, the other end of which rested in Gilligan's hand. Gilligan had placed some food from his pocket onto the ground beneath the bowl, and told Jameson that when a bird walked under the bowl, he would pull the stick away and the bird would be trapped underneath.
"Sounds pretty foolproof to me," Jameson nodded. "Have you tried it before?"
"No," whispered Gilligan. "I was afraid of hurting the bird. But I made the bowl big enough, I think. Boy- I sure would hate to break a bird's wing, though."
"Well, let's just see what happens," Jameson replied, lowering his own voice to a whisper. "I must say, I'm becoming quite fascinated! This certainly beats sitting in a stuffy boardroom listening to a bunch of old windbags!"
They waited for ages and ages, during which Jameson looked all around him at the beauty of nature. He had never really admired the sky before, but now he noticed all the streaks and wisps of high clouds and the puffy fat clouds that were lower down. Aren't those fat ones called cumulus? He wondered to himself. And the streaky ones- oh come, now Jameson. Surely your old head isn't so full of facts and figures that you can't remember what those wispy high up clouds are called?
"Cirrus," said Gilligan.
"Wh-what?" Jameson said, a little startled.
"Those high up streaky clouds, they're called cirrus."
"How did you know what I was thinking?" the old man asked, swallowing.
"You just asked me," Gilligan said. "Out loud." The young man frowned. "Didn't you?"
Jameson stared back. "I was pretty sure I only thought it," he said.
"Well, I'm pretty sure I heard it," replied Gilligan, and shrugged. "Anyway, that's what they're called. Cirrus." He turned back to watch the trap, blinking in confusion.
"Thank you," Jameson said, equally confused. "Gilligan."
They fell silent again, until suddenly they both saw a small, bright green and yellow bird hop towards the crumbs scattered beneath the down-turned bowl.
"Ssshhhh," whispered Gilligan, crouching lower. Jameson though he looked like a cat, the muscles in his body subtly shifting whilst his head and eyes remained firmly locked onto his target. Jameson was impressed at the young man's physical instincts. In the boardroom, mental agility was just as important. It was all about survival, all about entrapment. Whether a business deal or a bird, it was the same- keep your nerve steady until you got what you were after.
The bird hopped right under the bowl. Gilligan patiently let it peck at a few crumbs before he wrapped the string tightly around his fingers and snapped his wrist back with lightning speed, so fast that Jameson hardly saw what he'd done. The next minute there was an almighty flapping, and Gilligan burst out of the bushes and ran towards the bowl, which had landed over the bird and trapped it underneath and was now bouncing around on the ground as the bird tried in vain to fly away.
Jameson followed, and the two of them knelt on the ground as Gilligan placed his hand over the bowl and held it down.
"I don't know what to do next," he admitted. "What if it's hurt?"
"Here." Jameson removed his jacket. "If we need to, we can put it in this."
Gilligan bit his lip and crouched down low over the bowl until his nose was almost in the dirt. He lifted the bowl slightly and the bird immediately began flapping in a mad panic again. "Sssh, little bird," he soothed. "I'm not gonna hurt you." With his other hand he reached slowly under the bowl. The bird panicked harder, but Gilligan ignored all the sharp pecks from its beak, not giving up until he felt the small, warm body enclosed in his gentle fingers. "Got you," he murmured, bringing the small creature out into the light. "Wow- you're beautiful."
The bird trembled in Gilligan's hand, its tiny heart fluttering. Its bright little eyes stared at its captor. It knew that it was completely helpless.
"It certainly is a pretty specimen," said Jameson, coming closer to inspect the bird.
"The shape of its beak tells you what kind of food it eats," Gilligan explained. "Like, if it's hooked, then it eats meat. If it's long and thin, it drinks nectar out of flowers. If it's little and stubby, like this, it most likely just eats berries and seeds."
"You're very knowledgable," Jameson said, impressed.
"The Professor tells me stuff," Gilligan replied, modestly. "Plus, he has lots of books. He's very clever, the Professor."
"You're not exactly a slouch either, Gilligan," said the old man. "You know all the things that are important to the task that you're performing."
"Not really," Gilligan said, peering closely at the bird. "I mess up a lot. Like, every time we nearly get rescued, something happens and we have to stay here."
"Maybe you don't want to be rescued," Jameson smiled. "Maybe this place is your home, now."
"Oh, I want to be rescued," Gilligan said firmly. "And I know the others do. The Skipper especially, so that he can get away from me. I just mess up. All the time."
"Are you going to release the bird?" Jameson asked, gently changing the subject.
"Sure," said Gilligan. He stroked the bird lightly on the head with his forefinger, then slowly opened his hand to let the bird fly away. The bird flexed its wings, uttered a small tweet, stretched upwards as it felt Gilligan's cage of fingers open wide.
And then it just stayed there, unmoving, settled into Gilligan's palm.
"Would you look at that?" Jameson murmured. "It's almost like he doesn't want to leave."
"He'll leave," said Gilligan. "When he's ready."
Gilligan and the bird continued to look at each other. Then finally the bird stretched its wings one more time and flew up onto Gilligan's hat where it perched precariously on the brim, its tail feathers hanging over Gilligan's eyes.
"Oh, how I wish I had a camera!" Jameson laughed.
"I hope it doesn't...um, you-know-what," Gilligan grinned, going cross-eyed staring at the tail feathers.
"Looks like you've found yourself a friend," Jameson smiled. "How utterly extraordinary."
The bird hopped up onto the crown of Gilligan's hat, then finally it spread its wings and took off, wheeling upwards through the trees until it was gone.
"Young man," said Jameson, "I'd like to shake your hand."
"What for?" asked Gilligan, staring at the old man's outstretched arm.
"For teaching me more about compassion in ten minutes than I ever learned in a lifetime up until now," the old man said, gripping Gilligan's hand in his and squeezing it tightly.