shoulder, sobbing. "Oh my dear, my poor little girl!"

Jehane looked on unmoved, merely saying in her hard flat voice, "If
there's any crying or fainting to be done, seems to me I'm the person to
do it. But I'm past all that."

Nan quieted herself. "It so shocked me. I--I didn't mean to make a fuss.
But won't you tell me how it all happened?"

"Nothing to tell. It's just Ocky with his lies and promises."

"Oh, don't say that before the children about their father."

"I'll say what I like; they're my children. They've seen everything."

Nan looked round and saw sympathy only in the eyes of Glory. Moggs,
balancing herself by her mother's skirts, piped up and spoke for the
rest, "Farver's a naughty man." Even her mother was startled by the
candor of this endorsement; turning sharply, she caused Moggs to tumble
on the floor with a bump. Moggs began to yell.

Grateful for a diversion in any form, Nan knelt and comforted the little
girl. Jehane watched her indifferently, as though all capacity for
kindness had left her.

When peace was restored, Nan said, "You're coming home with me, all of
you."

"We're not."

"Why not?"

"My husband may return. If he doesn't, I must stay here and keep up
appearances till he gets safely out of the country. Heaven knows what
he's done!---- And it's likely that I'd come to Topbury to be laughed
at! _You_ may want me, but what about Billy? You've both known this
for a month, and you couldn't even send me a line. Come to Topbury! No,
thank you!"

There was so much to be explained and explanations were so tangled. Nan
saw nothing for it but to make a clean breast. When she told Jehane of
the years of borrowing that had been going on behind her back, she was
justifiably angry.

"So you knew all the time! And for three years it was practically you
and Billy who were running this house! And you kept me in ignorance! I
must say, you've a queer way of showing friendship!"

"We did it because--because we were afraid, if you knew, you wouldn't
love him. And then matters would have been worse."

"Love him! I've not loved him since we married. He started playing
the fool directly after the wedding before the train moved out of the
station. I knew then that I'd have to be ashamed of him always. I knew
what I'd done for myself. He killed my love within an hour of making me
his wife---- But how you must have amused yourselves, knowing what
you did, when you received my letters about his getting on in the
world--_his progress!_ My God! how you must have laughed, the two of
you! Every time he gave me a present it was your money."

All this before the children!

She threw herself down on a couch and gave way to hysterics, wrenched
with sobs, screaming with unhappy merriment, clutching at her breast and
throwing back her head. The children began to cry, hiding in corners
of the room, terrified. Only Glory kept her nerve and, following Nan's
directions, fetched water to bathe her mother's face and hands.

When the insane laughter had spent itself, Jehane lay still with eyes
closed, panting. Shame took the place of harshness. Nan asked whether
there were any stimulants in the house; when a half-emptied bottle was
brought from the cupboard, Jehane gesticulated it away with disgust.
"I couldn't touch it. It's Ocky's." It was all that was left of his
"medicine."

Nan persuaded Glory to take the children out of the room. She seated
herself by the couch in silence, stroking Jehane's forehead.

Presently the bitter woman's eyes opened. They regarded her companion
steadily, with an expression of sad wonder. "You're still beautiful. I'm
old already."

Nan began to protest in little birdlike whispers; she was so nervous
lest she should give offence. She was interrupted. "Even your voice is
young. People who don't want to love you have to---- And I always longed
to be loved." She raised herself on her elbow, brushing back the false
hair. "You've had the goodness of life; I've had the falseness. Things
aren't fair."

151

"No, they're not fair," Nan assented. "God's been hard on you, poor old
girl."

"God! Oh, yes!" Jehane spoke the words gropingly, as though
recollecting. "Ah, yes! God! He and I haven't been talking to one
another lately. The cares of this world---- the cares of this world----
What is that passage I'm trying to remember?"

"It's about the sower who sows the good seed, but the cares of this
world rise up and choke it unless it falls on fruitful land. It's
something like that."

Jehane looked at Nan vaguely, only half-comprehending. "Fruitful land!
That's the difficulty. I was never fruitful land---- Tell me, why did
you marry Billy?"

"Why? I never thought about it."

"Think about it now. Why was it?"

"I suppose because I loved him and wanted to help him."

Jehane's elbow slipped from under her. She lay back, staring at the
ceiling, looking gaunt and faded, as though she had passed through a
long illness. "To help him! When I loved I wanted to be helped. God's
not been hard on me, little Nan; I've been hard on myself. I'm a hard
woman. I've got what I deserved. And Ocky---- He was a fool. He had no
mind--never read anything. He was clumsy and liked vulgar people best.
But, perhaps, he's my doing. Perhaps!"

Seeing that she had grown passive, Nan stole out to give the children
their supper and to put them to bed. That night, the first time since
Cassingland, she and Jehane slept together. The light had been put out
for some time and Nan was growing drowsy, when Jehane spoke.

"Madeira Lodge! It's funny. A house built on sand! A house built on----
That's what we came here to do for other people; we've done it for
ourselves. O God, spare my little children, my----"

Nan took her in her arms and soothed her.

CHAPTER XVIII--PETER TO THE RESCUE

It was all up. A warrant was out for the arrest of Ocky. Accusers came
forward from all directions--people whom glib promises had kept silent
and people who had kept themselves silent because they were friends of
Barrington. Now that silence had lost its virtue, they shouted. Their
numbers and the noise they made were a revelation and testimonial of a
sort to Ocky's enterprising character. He must have been skating
over thin ice for years. He had almost established a record. Such a
performance, so dexterous and long protracted, had required a kind of
gay courage that is rarely given to honest men. And Ocky was honest by
tradition, if not in practice. His nerve was admirable. No wonder he
drank.

He was wanted on many charges. There were checks which he had cashed
through tradesmen, drawn on banks where he had no effects. With his
habitual folly, he had left tracks by negotiating some of these
in London since his flight, using letters of a family nature from
Barrington to inspire confidence. These began to be presented five weeks
after his departure from Sandport. It seemed as though he had been doing
himself well and his supplies were exhausted. His name found its
way into the papers, largely because he was Barrington's cousin. So
everything became public.

The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his
appearance had enquired at Cook's in Ludgate Circus about the
exchange rates for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in
consequence; but he must have taken warning and altered his plans.

"He's ineffectual even in his sinning," said Barrington. "Why couldn't
the fool have skipped the country earlier and saved us the humiliation
of a trial?"

The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs
would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the
odds and ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted.
So Jehane's scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her
husband's retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose.
Moreover, every thing in the house was seized by creditors--even her own
possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky's. She
and her children found themselves penniless.

Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he
had already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on
his early objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always
been wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for
a time, but couldn't put up with the younger children. Her independence
had been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The
first Homeric scholar in Europe couldn't afford to have his peace of
mind disturbed. He was sorry.

Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom
she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas
with her four children--it was the first Christmas she had spent at
Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles.

Barrington's relations with 'Jehane were painfully strained. He hated
the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of his
family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in
the vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don's
daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be
loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted
to be kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her
feelings were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the
comfort which he permitted her to share as if it were something of
which he had robbed her. She spoke continually of "my poor children,"
betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter.

An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable
mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father.
Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could
not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong
resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the
quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked.

Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility
of her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was
overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right
to expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which
his name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations
he was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp
was threatened.

And she also understood Jehane's predicament. She was too gentle to
resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from
girlhood, she marveled at her friend's fortitude--that she could still
lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the
future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington's back was
turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness.

And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying
her head on Nan's shoulder, confessed her folly.

"I'm cruel," she wept; "all the sweetness in me is turned to acid. I
shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be quite impenitent. I
can't help it. Life won't grow easier for me---- If you told the truth,
you'd write over me, 'Here lies a mother who loved too much and a wife
who loved too little.' I'm spoiling my children with my fondness and
filling their heads with vanity---- And I shall often hurt you, little
Nan. But you'll stick by me, won't you?"

Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence;
manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He
was furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky
to be mentioned in his presence.

Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by
both Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things
were said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part
with Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad.
Glory shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of
Ocky was formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he
had ever made with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter--too much of a
Saint Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could
not be valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised
her cowardice.

Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky's name, but outside on the
Terrace there was a perpetual reminder.

A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the
house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from
the window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking
a breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington's
nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him.

"What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won't have it."

The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered
respectfully "Sorry, sir. H'it's orders."

"But what _are_ you? A plain-clothes man?"

"That's not for me to say, sir."

Barrington slipped him a sovereign, saying, "Come, speak out You're safe
with me. I won't tell. You know, it's a bit thick, having you out here.
The ladies are upset." The man scratched his head. "It ain't the ladies
I'm after. It's 'im. You've got 'is missis and kids in there. 'E was
allaws fond of 'is kids, so they tell us. We calkilate that since 'e
cawn't get out o' the country, 'e'll turn up 'ere sooner or later. These
things is allaws painful for the family. That chap was a mug; 'e should
'a planned things better."

Barrington thought for a minute. Then he asked, "Are you a married man?"

"Married, and five nippers, Gawd bless 'em."

"Well, look here, put it to yourself: how'd you like to have your wife
made ill and your kiddies sent frightened to bed, because a stranger was
always staring in at their windows?"

"Shouldn't like it. I'd get damned peevish, I can tell yer."

"Good. Then you'll understand what I'm going to say. I'm a gentleman and
you can trust my word. If the man you're after comes here, I'll hold
him for you. In return I want you to be a little less obvious in your
detective work. I can't have my family scared. Go further away, and
watch from a distance. Is it a bargain?"

Just then Barrington turned and saw Peter standing with his satchel
across his shoulder. How much had he heard? He was awkward under his
boy's eyes; he often wondered what thoughts went on behind them.

"Run along, Peter. I'll be with you in a second."

Then to the man, "Is it a bargain?"

"It ain't reg'lar," said the man.

"But under the circumstances, you'll do it. I'm not trying to interfere
with your duty."

"My orders were----. Awright, sir, 'cause of the wife and kids I'll do
it."

That night Peter thought matters out. It was he and his Uncle Waffles
against the world. He did not accuse anybody, neither his father, nor
Aunt Jehane; but there was a mistake somewhere. They did not understand.
Whatever Uncle Waffles had done, to Peter he was still a good man.

Peter crept out of bed and across the landing to a window in the front
of the house. He peered into the blackness. By the railing of the
fields, at a point mid-way between two gas-lamps where shadows lay
deepest, he could see a figure watching. He must save Uncle Waffles from
that.

School had broken up. It was the twenty-fourth of December. There was
still no news of Ocky. In their anxiety they had almost forgotten that
to-morrow would be Christmas.

That morning Barrington dawdled over his breakfast, postponing his
departure for business. His wife glanced down the table at him, trying
to conjecture the motive of his dallying. Presently he signaled her with
his eyes, raising his brows at the children. When she had excused them,
he turned to her and Jehane. "Whatever's happened or is going to happen,
we don't want to rob the kiddies of their pleasure, do we? We've got to
pull ourselves together and pretend to forget and try to be cheerful.
What d'you say, Nan?"

"I'd thought of that. But I didn't like to mention it. Janey and I,
working together, can get things ready."

"All right, then. And I'll see to the presents."

He rose and laid his hand on Jehane's shoulder. "Come, Jehane,
things are never so bad but what they may mend. I've not always been
considerate of you. Let's be friends."

It was one of those patched-up truces which, like milestones, were to
dot the road of their latent enmity.

Kay's and Peter's money-boxes were brought out; their savings for the
year were counted. Nan gave to Jehane's children an equal sum with
which to go out and buy presents. Peter was kept running all morning
on errands; in the afternoon he was busy decorating with mistletoe and
holly. The preparations were so belated that everyone was pressed into
service. Tea was over and the dark had fallen when he set out to do his
own shopping.

"Be careful, Peter, and come back quickly," his mother called from the
doorway. And Kay, thrusting her vivid little face under her mother's
arm, piped up, "Don't be 'stravagant, Peter. Don't buy too much. 'Member
birfdays is coming."

Peter felt happy. It was as though a long sickness had ended and a
life that had been despaired of had been restored to them. He knew that
nothing for the better had really happened; but, because people had
laughed, it seemed as if it had. Down in the Vale of Holloway the bells
of the Chapel of Ease were ringing. They seemed to be saying, over and
over, "Peace and good-will to men."

Far away, at the bottom of the Crescent, he could see the spume of
gas-light flung against the dusk. All the shops were there and the
crowds of jaded people who had become for one night extraordinarily
young and compassionate. He began to calculate how far his money would
go in buying gifts for the family. Formerly there had been just his
mother, and father, and Kay, and Grace to buy for. Now there were how
many? He counted. With his cousins and Aunt Jehane there were nine
people. He would divide his money into ten shares; Kay should have two
of them. He was passing the gateway of an empty house; a hand stretched
out of the dark and grabbed him.

"Peter. Peter." The voice was hoarse and terrified at its own sound.

Peter broke away and jumped into the road that he might have room to
run. He turned and looked back. He could see nothing--only the walls of
the garden, the gateway and the wooden sign hanging over it, with the
words, _To Let._

"Don't do that," came the hoarse voice, "they may see you."

"Who are you?" asked Peter, peering into the shadows.

"You know who I am," came the voice; "this little boy can't have changed
as much as that."

_This little boy!_

"Look out. Someone's coming."

A heavy tread was heard. Grace's policeman approached with the
plain-clothes man. Peter bent down to the pavement and pretended to be
searching.

"Hulloa!" said Grace's policeman. "Who's there?"

"It's Peter. How are you?" He continued his searching, moving away from
the gate.

"Wot yer doing?" asked the plain-clothes man.

"Dropped some money. Oh well, I can't see it. It was only sixpence."

He straightened up.

"Cawn't we help?" asked Grace's policeman.

"It doesn't matter. To-morrow's Christmas and I'll get more than that."

"It's more'n the price of a pot o' beer," said Grace's policeman. "If
you can afford to lose it, we can. Goodnight."

"Good-night," said Peter, "and a Merry Christmas."

When they were out of sight he stole back. "Uncle! Uncle! What can I do?
Tell me."

"They're after me. I've nowhere to sleep. I just want to see my kids and
Jehane before they get me. That's why I've come."

"They shan't get you," said Peter firmly.

"Oh, but they will. I once said, 'They shan't get me'; but when you're
cold and hungry----"

"You stop there. I'll be back in ten minutes."

Peter ran down the Crescent. It was he and Uncle Waffles against the
world; but there was one man who might help--a man who wasn't good
enough to be hard and judging. Peter looked ahead as he ran, shaping
his plan. Yes, there he was, dropping the reins on his horse's back from
driving his last fare.

Peter tugged at his arm as Mr. Grace heaved himself down from the seat
to the pavement.

"None O' that, me boy, or I'll tear yer bloomin' tripes h'out---- Oh,
beg parding; h'it's you, Master Peter."

"I want to speak to you, Mr. Grace, somewhere where we can't be seen or
heard."

"Yer do, do yer? Wot abart the pub?"

"Not the pub, people'd wonder to see me there."

Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. "Not
respeckable enough! That's it, is h'it. Ah well, you take my advice.
You're young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer guts.
Yer'll 'ave a darter one day, don't yer worry. Gawd pity a man wiv a
disrespekful hussy---- Suppose yer think I'm drunk?"

The situation required tact. "Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don't run your
words together. You're just Christmasy, I expect."

Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse's back and fetched out the
nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying
himself against the shafts. "I am drunk. Yer know I'm drunk. I know I'm
drunk. Old Cat's Meat knows I'm drunk. Where's the good o' argify-ing
and tellin' lies abart it? Let's settle the point at once. I'm damn well
drunk and I'm goin' ter be drunker."

The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. "Mr. Grace, I
want you to help me. There's no one else in the world I would ask."

Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on
the half-shell.

"'Elp! 'Elp 'oo? 'Elp wot? Me 'elp! I need 'elp me-self; I kin 'ardly
stand up."

"Oh please, not so loud! I'm serious. Something dreadful's happening and
you're my friend---- You are my friend, aren't you?"

Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter's shoulder. "S'long h'as Gawd
gives me breaf."

"Then let's sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I'll tell you."

"Strange h'as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don't fancy the
h'inside o' me own keb. Know too much abart it. There wuz a bloke I
druv ter the 'orspital t'other day wrapped up in blankits. 'E died o'
smallspecks. But anythin' ter h'oblidge a friend."

The door closed behind them.

"'Ere, darn wiv that winder, young 'un. I feel crawlly wivout air. Sye,
don't yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb."

Peter seized the cabman's hairy hand and held it firmly; he had
to anchor him somehow. "Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle
Waffles?"

"Swiped somefing, didn't 'e?"

"Yes."

"Wise bloke. Honesty's been my ruin. H'I allaws returns the numbrella's
wot's left in me keb. I might 'a been a rich man; there's lots o' money
in numbrellas.---- Wot did 'e swipe? 'Andkerchiefs or jewels?"

"He swiped money; but he meant to give it back."

Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings,
like the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. "Yer make me larf. Wot
d'yer taik me for? I ain't no chicken---- Oh, me tripes and onions! He
meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!---- Now come, Master Peter, no uncle o'
yours 'ud be such a fool as that."

"Well, anyway, he didn't give it back and they're after him."

"Oo? The cops?"

"Yes. Grace's policeman."

Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient
timbers. "The devil, 'e is! A nice, h'amiable man, my Grice's policeman!
'E's allaws makin' h'enmity 'tween me and my darter. 'E watches the pubs
and tells 'er abart me, and 'im no better 'imself. H'I 'ate' im. So 'e's
after yer uncle?"

"He and a tall thin man who's been watching our house for a fortnight.
My uncle's up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of an empty house.
You've got to help me to get him away and hide him."

Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. "Daingerous work,
Peter! Daingerous work! H'its against traffic reg'lations to h'aid and
h'abet a h'escapin' criminal. Wot yer goin' ter do wiv 'im if I lends
yer me keb?"

Peter bent his head and whispered.

Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. "Blime! Lord love us! That
ain't 'alf bad. That's one in the h'eye for me darter's young feller.
H'I'm on, me lad."

An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the
pavement, looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of
the cab.

"'Ere, don't yer do that. Yer'll knock the paint h'orf."

"I've been waiting out here for half an hour. It's disgraceful. Drive me
to Paddington."

Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving
Peter inside. "I'm h'engaged," he said.

While he removed the nose-bag from Cat's Meat's head and gathered up the
reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the purport of which
was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license.

As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to
outdo this burst of eloquence.

"None o' yer lip, old bladder o' lard. I know your sort. Yer the sort
'as ain't got no change fer a tip and feels un-'appy as 'ell abart
payin' a fare."

CHAPTER XIX--THE CHRISTMAS CAB

As they neared the empty house, Peter was about to thrust his head out
of the window. He had the words on the tip of his tongue to say, "Stop
here, Mr. Grace." So much were they on the tip of his tongue that he
almost believed he had said them. But he darted back, crouching in the
darkest corner of the fusty cab. At a little distance, watching the
gate, he had caught sight of a man.

Cat's Meat crawled on, ascending the hill. At the top, where the Terrace
began, Mr. Grace halted. "'Ere, young 'un, where are we goin'? You'll be
'ome direckly."

"Turn the corner," Peter whispered from inside the growler; "turn the
corner quickly."

Mr. Grace turned and lumbered on a little way. Again he halted. "'Arf a
mo', Peter. Wot's the gime? Tell us."

"Did you see that tall lean man, standing outside the garden of the
empty house?"

"May a' done. Thought h'I saw two on 'em, but maybe I'm seein' double---
H'oh yes, h'I saw old Tapeworm."

"He's the plain-clothes man. I know, 'cause I heard him talking with my
father. My father said he'd give my uncle up, if the plain-clothes man
would trust him and not make mother nervous."

"And wery friendly o' your pa, h'I'm sure. Let family love kintinue----
But where's this uncle o' yours as did the swipin'? Come darn to facts,
me friend. Where h'is 'e nar?"

Peter's answer was like the beating wings of a moth, rapid but making
hardly any sound. "He's hidden in the garden of the empty house."

"Jee-rusalem!" Mr. Grace whistled, cleared his throat once or twice
and spat. Then he started laughing. "Leave 'im ter me, me 'earty. I'll
settle wiv the spotter."

He pulled his horse round. But when Peter saw what was happening, he
gave a small imploring whisper. "Oh, Mr. Grace, please, please don't go
back yet; we've got to think something out."

"Think somefing h'out! Crikey! I've thought. H'I'm drunk, me lad, and
when h'I'm drunk h'I think quicklike. You get under the seat and think
o' somefing sad, somefing as'll keep yer quiet--think o' the chap as
died o' small-specks."

Peter took his friend's advice. Oh, what a Christmas Eve he was having!
He had known Mr. Grace both drunk and sober--sober, t'is true, very
rarely. But sobriety is a relative term, according to your man.
Mr. Grace sober was afraid of the law; Mr. Grace drunk was game for
anything.

Mr. Grace jerked on the reins. Cat's Meat flung his legs apart, fell
forward, fell backward, came to rest and grunted. He was for all the
world like a chair giving way and making a desperate effort to hold
together; only Cat's Meat was always successful in dodging disruption--a
chair in collapse isn't.

"I see yer, Mr. Piece o' Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn't 'ide from
a man as sees double. Come h'out o' that there shadder. Come h'out inter
the blessed light. 'No shadders yonder, no temptations there,' as they
sing in the H'Army o' Salwashun."

When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. "Blokey, yer
ain't got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer 'ang-dawg h'air.
Yer wanted by the cops, I'll bet a tanner. It's Christmas h'Eve, blokey,
so I won't be 'ard on yer; but yer've got ter pay fer ridin' in me keb.
Every bloke 'as, or else I whacks 'im on the snout."

"Shish! Wot's the matter?" The shadow by the wall spoke and stirred.

"Wot's s'matter! I'll let yer know wot's s'matter if yer don't pay me my
fare. H'I druv yer from the Terrace and yer wuz goin' ter King's Cross,
yer were. And yer opened the door by the pub darn there and jumped
h'out."

"You're drunk, me man. H'I'm lookin' fer the very chap yer blatherin'
about. Where did 'e jump h'out?"

The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone
on him.

"Kum up, Cat's Meat. I see nar; 'e ain't the feller." Cat's Meat came up
one weary step and the wheels protested.

"No, yer don't." The detective caught hold of the reins. "Where'd this
chap jump h'out?"

"'Ands h'orf." Mr. Grace rose up on his box threateningly, his whip
raised as if about to bring it down. "'Ands h'orf, I sye. Leave me
prancin' steed to 'is own dewices, le'go o' me gallopin' charger."

"Where'd this chap jump out? If yer don't tell me, I'll arrest you
instead."

"Awright, yer Royal 'Ighness! Don't lose yer 'air. Why didn't yer sye
yer was a cop at fust. H'I'm lookin' fer 'im as much as you are. I want
'im wery bad. You and me's friends."

"Friends! I choose me own friends. I'm a respeckable man, I am. Tell me
quickly, where'd 'e jump out?"

Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. "Of h'all the fiery
blokes I h'ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. 'E h'excused
hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I 'ears the door o' me keb
a-bangin'. I looks round and, lo, 'e'd wanished in the crards."

The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the
Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him,
"Me and Cat's Meat'll miss yer--so agreeable yer were. Merry Christmas,
ole pal." Then, in a lower voice to Peter, "Yer kin forget the
smallspecks, young 'un. Yer----"

But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway
under the sign _To Let_. "Uncle. Uncle. He's gone. Hurry."

He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty
windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a
little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called
more loudly. "Uncle. Uncle. Make haste."

Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the
steps. He ran forward and seized the man's coat--it was sodden--dragging
him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a
boy should take command of a grown man.

"You won't give me up, Peter, will you?"

Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer
if he could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance's kittens were to be
drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn't bear that
anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab
and, before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace.

"You remember my plan--what I told you?"

Mr. Grace digressed. He twisted round on the box, craning his neck to
look in at the window. "'E don't strike me as much ter make a fuss
abart."

"That's 'cause you don't know him."

"Well, I ain't pining' fer an introduction."

"But you're not going back on me, Mr. Grace! He doesn't look very grand;
but he's kind and gentle." Peter was dismayed by this sudden coolness.

"H'I'm not the chap ter go back on 'is friends. Hook inter the keb. I
remember wot yer told me."

At the top of the Crescent they turned to the left, crawled a hundred
yards and then turned to the right, going down the mews which ran behind
the Terrace. The mews was unlighted and humpy. On one side stood the
high closed doors of stables; on the other, rubbish heaps and the backs
of jerry-built houses not yet finished building.

The man at Peter's side said nothing. Every now and then he shivered and
seemed to hug himself. Once or twice he twitched and muttered below his
breath. There was the stale smell of alcohol and wet clothes about him.
To Peter it was all so terrible that he could not put his comfort
into words. This man, who swayed weakly with each jerk of the cab and
crouched away from him, was a stranger--not a bit like the irresponsible
joking person he had known as his Uncle Waffles.

The cab stopped. Mr. Grace waddled down and blew out his lamps. Then
he tapped on the window. "'Ere we are, Master Peter. H'I've counted the
doors; this 'ere's the back o' yer 'ouse."

Peter stretched out his hand gropingly in the blackness and touched his
uncle's. "I'm going to hide you so you'll never be found."

Ocky's voice came in a hopeless whisper. "Are you, Peter? But how----
how?"

"You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one goes
there but Kay and myself--it's our secret. It's too cold for Kay to go
there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over the wall; then
you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and lie quiet.
To-morrow I'll come to you as soon as I can and bring you whatever I can
get."

"You're a good boy, Peter. You're a ha'penny marvel; I always said you
were."

The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless.

Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. "'Ere, make 'aste. Come
h'out of it, you in there."

When Peter and his uncle had obeyed orders, the cab was backed up
against the tall doors which gave entrance to the yard of the stable.

"Get h'up on the roof o' me keb, climb onter the top o' the doors and
see if yer kin drop h'over." Mr. Grace spoke gruffly.

Ocky did as he was bidden but, either through timidity or weakness,
failed to scramble from the cab on to the top of the doors. Mr. Grace
growled impatiently and muttered something explosive at each failure.
Now that he was in mid-act of contriving against the law, he was anxious
to be rid of the adventure.

Ocky excused himself humbly. "I'm not the man I was. I've had my
troubles."

"To 'ell with yer troubles! They cawn't be no worse'n mine; if yer want
ter know wot trouble is, taik a week o' bein' father ter my darter----
Kum on, Peter, you and me's got ter chuck 'im h'over."

Standing on the roof of the cab, they each caught hold of a leg and
hoisted. Ocky protested, but up he went, till in desperation he clutched
at the doors and sat balancing astride them.

Now that he had something to do, Mr. Grace's cheerfulness returned.
"Like bringin' 'ome the family wash, ain't it, Peter?" Then, to Ocky
threateningly, "Nar Bill Sykes, yer've got ter tumble darn t'other side;
I'm goin' ter drar awye me keb."

Ocky said he'd break his legs--he might need them, so he didn't want
to do that. He lay along the narrow ledge like a man unused to riding,
clinging to a horse's neck.

"Awright, yer force me to it." Mr. Grace spoke sadly with a kind of
it-hurts-me-more than-it-does-you air. Peter was told to get down. Mr.
Grace having driven away a few paces, dropped the reins and stepped on
to the roof, whip in hand.

"Me and Peter is good pals. Peter says ter me, 'My uncle's swiped
somefing. The cops is after 'im.' 'Righto,' I says. Now h'it appears yer
don't want ter be saved; but h'I've give me word and h'I'm goin' ter do
it.---- Are yer going' h'over?"

Mr. Grace brought his whip down lightly across Ocky's legs; his humor
made him a humane man. Ocky squirmed, lost his balance and disappeared,
all except his hands which clung desperately. Once again the whip came
down and a muffled thud was heard.

Mr. Grace took his seat on the box and gathered up the reins. "Any more
h'orders, sir?" he asked of Peter. "Keb. Keb. Keb.---- Thirsty work,
Master Peter. Poor chap lost 'is nerve; 'e needed a little stimerlant.
We h'all do sometimes."

But when Peter tried to pay Mr. Grace, he refused indignantly.
"H'I h'ain't like some folks as would rob a work 'ouse child o' its
breakfust. Wot I done I done fer love o' you, Master Peter. You buy
that little gal o' yours a present." Then, because he didn't want to
be thought a good man, he spoke angrily. "H'I've got ter be drunk
ter-night. Yer've wasted enough o' me time awready. Kum h'up 'ere beside
me h'at once and I'll drive yer 'ome."

So they drove round the mews to the Terrace and halted this time in
front of the house. When Peter had rung the bell, his friend beckoned
him back. "Sonny, 'e weren't worf it. 'E weren't reelly."

Before Peter could answer, the door opened and he heard his mother's
voice saying, "Why, it's Peter in a Christmas cab! Oh, how kind of Mr.
Grace to bring you back! Were you so loaded down with presents, Peter?"
And he entered empty-handed. He would need all his Christmas money
to help Uncle Waffles. Kay came running to meet him and halted in
bewilderment. "But, Mummy, where are Peter's presents?"

Grace's mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she had
caught her father's eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she passed
her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, "Pa's drunk as usual, Mam.
Ain't it sick'ning? Fat lot o' good me prayin'!"

But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about
his heart. It wasn't because he had saved a man from Justice; he was
happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the
world from whom he could have asked help.---- Grace might call him a
drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be
something better as well, or else Peter wouldn't have talked like that.

So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace.
It wasn't exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It
expressed devil-may-care contempt for public opinion--and that was how
he felt.

                   "Darn our narbor'ood,

                   Darn our narbor'ood,

                   Darn the plaice where I'm a-livin' nar,

                   Why, the gentry in our street

                   In the cisterns wash their feet,

                   In the narbor'ood where I'm a-livin' nar."

Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat's
Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more
work.

In the distance the lights of the public-house grew up.

CHAPTER XX--THE HIDING OF OCKY WAFFLES

Peter's Christmas cab! Why a cab? What had he brought back in it and
where had he hidden it? It must be something very grand and splendid to
demand a cab. Kay coaxed him to give her just one little hint as to what
it was: she went through all her love-tricks without success, rubbing
her silky hair against his cheek and kissing his eyes while she clasped
his neck. It was useless for him to declare that he had bought no
presents; she snuggled against him laughing--she knew her Peter better
than that.

In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was
wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into
the yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such
a timid climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was
wondering how he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might
not be willing to assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles
"weren't worf it." But he was; _he was_.

Wild plans were forming in Peter's brain. Would it be possible to put
his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected?
Would it be possible to----?

And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy
he had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall--a fear which he
knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining;
there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination
made him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed
tramps, when darkness fell--tramps who climbed over the wall, just as
Uncle Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should
find his uncle there----. Peter shuddered.

"Peter, little man, you've been getting too excited," his father said;
"we don't want you ill to-morrow. Don't you think you'd better go to
bed?"

And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would
observe him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father
and his family. He wasn't at all sure that he hadn't committed a
criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him
and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother
then?

In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the
downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the
landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and
his mother and father whispering together.

"That's for Glory."

"It won't go into her stocking."

"Oh, yes, it will at a stretch."

"And who's this for?"

"That's for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed." Through
half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his
cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He
came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair.

Nan came hurrying noiselessly. "Oh Billy, darling, you're a rotten Santa
Claus. Have you wakened him now?"

They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, "It's all
right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he's not hung up
his stocking!"

They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. "No, he hasn't.
He couldn't have been feeling well. He's been worrying, I'm sure he has,
all this last month."

"A boy of his age oughtn't to worry. What about?"

Nan hesitated. "Our Peter's very compassionate---- He loved Ocky. I've
looked through his eyes often lately; I'm sure he's condemning us."

"Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt---- Well, he doesn't
understand."

They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept.

"Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves."

And Nan answered, "You can make anyone good by love--don't you think so,
Billy?"

He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. "I
know you made me better, dearest."

The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs.

One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours.
Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes
and crept to the door; his parents' room was under his--they must not
hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, his
heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the light
breathing of sleepers.

Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along
the passage, past Riska's room, past Grace's, till he came to the door
of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a shaft
of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck
with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same
sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same
streaming honey-colored hair.

He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new
kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents
at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he--should he tell Glory? She
looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of
his knowledge himself. And yet----. He was very troubled.

Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of
music--a harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words:

                   "It came upon the midnight clear

                   That glorious song of old,

                   From angels bending near the earth

                   To touch their harps of gold."

Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of
legend. It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of
Jesus on the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps
Uncle Waffles heard it.

It ceased. A man's voice rang out: "Fine and frosty. Three o'clock in
the morning. A Happy Christmas. All's well."

Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a
cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the
faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no
surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching?

He stooped over her and whispered, "It was the waits, Glory."

Her arms reached up and dragged him down. "Peter, Peter, you don't hate
me, do you? I can't help being a coward."

"Shish! We'll wake Kitten Kay. Of course I don't hate you. I try to love
everybody."

"And me just as one with the rest? Not even with the rest, Peter.--No,
no, kiss me now."

He kissed her; it was almost like kissing Kay. She held him so tightly
that she took away his breath. He drew back, a little thrilled and
startled. He looked down. Kay's eyes were closed; Glory's were smiling
up at him, timid with puzzled longing. Years later he was to remember
that. Then, yet more distant, the waits re-commenced, like the feet of
Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. And that also he would remember.

Back in bed he lay very still. The fear had gone out of him; once again
the world seemed kind and gentle. "Christ was born this morning," he
whispered; "Christ was born this morning. Oh Jesus, who came into the
world a little boy just like Peter, you can understand. I'm so troubled.
Oh Jesus----" But sleep was sent in answer to his prayer.

It was dark when he awoke. What was it he had been dreaming? Ah yes!--He
rose stealthily and dressed. The morning was chilly. His teeth chattered
and shivers ran through him; that wasn't all due to coldness. Without
looking at the packages on his bed, he stole across the landing and
down the stairs. Outside the servants' room he listened. One of them was
snoring loudly; that was reassuring. As he drew further away from the
bedrooms, he moved more hurriedly. All the time he was expecting to hear
a door open and to see a head peering over the banisters. Having reached
the hall, he ran down into the basement, taking less care to make no
sound. His feet on the stone flags of the kitchen seemed as loud as
those of a procession marching. Something brushed against his legs. He
jumped aside with a cry of terror. It came again, a shadow following.
Then he saw that it was only Romance.

What was it he must get? It was difficult to think; a hammer was
knocking, in his temples. He felt along the dresser; sent a pan
clattering; stood tense, listening; found what he sought; struck a match
and lit the gas The light helped him to think more clearly, but it also
convicted him of wrong doing. Everything he saw, even Romance looking up
at him unblinking, seemed to say, "I shall tell. I shall tell."

Things looked cheerless. Chairs were pushed back from the table, just as
they had been left by the servants. The grate was choked with ashes, in
which a few coals glowered red. But he must hurry. What was it he must
get?

In the pantry there were sausage-rolls--so many that no one would miss
a few of them. There were loaves of bread, an uncut ham from which Peter
took some slices, a jug of milk from which he took a glassful, making up
the deficit with water, and a dish of baked apples. He helped himself,
feeling horribly thief-like. Then he thought of how cold it was out
there. He crept upstairs to the cloakroom and unhooked one of his
father's coats from its peg. He returned and took a cushion from
Cookie's favorite chair in which the cane was broken and sagging. Thus
loaded, he unlocked the door into the garden, closing it behind him, and
shuffled out.

How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old
mulberry, stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach
down and clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl,
pointed thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an
icy breeze, which whispered, "Cut off his head. Cut off his head." As he
tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves
rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows.

He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He
could still feel the shaking of his uncle's clammy hand as he had felt
it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that he
saw him crouched beneath the bushes.

He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or----?

He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness--hollow sockets
from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the
window ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden.
He had always expected to see a man's face there. It was to be a face
about which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and
the eyes cavernous.--What would Kay think if she could see him now?

He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked
round, hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be
clutched forward. Nothing happened.

In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before
entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still,
his left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he
would push himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle
Waffles now.

Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr,
and jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was
the turning of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem
tricycle, with many groans and curses, a man emerged.

"Bruised all over. That's what I am.--Hulloa! You there, Peter? Oh damn!
That's another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, I am. Nice way
you've got of treating your poor old uncle."

He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed
and sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an
occasion for jest. "Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make strange
bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always told
this little boy he must never swear."

As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support
uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol.
He did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior
climber.

"Why, I brought you here last night--I and Mr. Grace together.--Did you
hurt yourself when you fell?"

"Fell! Did I fall? I'm used to falling these days. I'm a li'le
bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And nobody
cares--nobody cares."

Peter, hearing his weak self-pitying sobbing, overcame his momentary
physical repulsion. "But I care, Uncle. I _do_ care. Glory cares."

"Where's the good o' your caring, dear old chap? You're only a boy and
Glory's only a girl--you can't help me."

"But I can." He pulled at his uncle's trembling hands. "I'm going to
hide you in the loft till they've all forgotten to look for you, and
then----"

"But, chappie, I've got to be fed and my money's all spent."

"I'll get food for you."

Uncle Waffles bent above Peter, trying to catch his eyes.

"You'll get food for me--but from where? Whose food?--You mean you're
going to steal for me. No, Peter, you shan't do that."

Peter was perplexed. "If I don't, you'll go hungry. People aren't good
to you. I won't steal, I'll--I'll just borrow. When you're safe, I'll
tell them and pay it all back."

"That's what I said, 'I'll just borrow.' That's why I'm here. I can't
bear to let you do anything wrong for me."

"But if I don't they'll take you away and lock you up. My heart would
break if that should happen."

Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness,
putting his arm about him. "I've never been loved like that; if I
had I'd have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a
promise. Whether I'm caught or not, for your sake I'm going to be good
in the future.--You don't know what I am--how foolish and bad. I was
drunk last night--I got drunk to forget my terror. Do you think I'm
worth doing wrong for, chappie?"

Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. "You poor, poor
uncle! It wouldn't be doing wrong if you became good because I stole,
now would it?--You'll let me do it?"

They stood up. "What you got there?"

"Food. We must hurry. If we don't they'll find out.--And here's some
money."

"Did you steal that?"

"I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here's
the way we go upstairs."

Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in
the wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through
the trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of
his foraging and followed.

The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs.
Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had
built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which
hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far
end, which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken
and let in the wintry air.

Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble
in his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first
time what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. "But
you mustn't do that."

"Why not?"

"They might see you from the house."

"Not if I'm careful."

"You never are careful," said Peter wisely.

"But baccy's all I've got."

"You've got me. I'll come as often as I can."

As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. "Could you
manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn't you coax 'em into
the garden? I'm longing for a sight of them. They'd never know I was
watching.--It's an odd Christmas I'm going to have."

Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the
garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern.
He could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped
and broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a
light sprang up; it was Riska's--she must be examining her stocking.

He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was
met by Cookie.

"So that's it, is h'it? There's no tellin' wot you'll be h'up to next.
I was just goin' ter count the forks. I thought as we'd 'ad beargulars.
Awright Grice, it's the young master been h'out for a h'early mornin's
h'airing." He ran past her, but she caught him. "Lor', yer cold, boy.
Come and warm yerself. If you h'ate meat three times a day the same h'as
I do yer wouldn't get blue like that."

Cookie's one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced into
conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her different
from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, afforded
her a topic with which to draw attention to herself.

"You need some 'ot chockerlit, that's wot yer want. Not but wot meat 'ad
be better; but there, that's where h'I'm pecooliar. 'Never was such a
gel for eatin' meat. Lor, 'ow yer runs my bills h'up!' that's wot my ma
used to say abart me. She's dead, Gawd rest 'er bones.--Now, drink that
h'up, yer little sinner. Thought h'it was summer, did yer? Went h'out
to 'ear the pretty burds. I'm only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil
take me, if you ain't pecooliar all over."

Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her
legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. "'Elp! 'Elp me, Master Peter.
For good luck's sake!"

Peter helped her.

"H'it's a wonder I didn't break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather.
But where's me cushion? If that cat's 'ad it----"

Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats,
he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and
slaughter against all cats--especially cats who stole cushions.

In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries.
"Where's them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And 'oo's been cuttin'
the 'am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can't understand it. Never
knew a cat to cut 'am. Cats ain't us'ally fond o' h'apples--leastwise no
cat I h'ever 'eard of.--Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi' yer."

Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir
Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained
that others should be blamed--even though they were only cats--for his
wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he
was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever
love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also
take a coat. Would they blame her for that?

He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his
dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last
he had to answer, "Coming." He went to her shame-faced, like a guest
without a wedding-garment: he had no present.

She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and
the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries.

"Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa
sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And
this---- But why didn't you come sooner? I've been calling and calling."

Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her
eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess?

"I didn't come, Kitten Kay, because I haven't anything for you."

She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. "But
the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!"

"There was nothing in it. I've not got anything for anybody."

She couldn't understand it; he could see that. She was saying to
herself, "Did Peter forget me?" But her face brightened bravely. "I've
something for you."

"I couldn't take it, Kay. No, really."

He was nearly crying with mortification. "I've nothing for you, little
Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world."

She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood.
"Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It'll do just as well."

He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed
with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father
and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give
in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at
breakfast--especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she
thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he
had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation
commenced.

Kay entered. "Coming downstairs?"

He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make
him smile back.

It was their custom to go to their parents' bedroom first thing on
Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him
forward.

Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly
excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a
parcel. "What is it?" he asked. "Let me have it. What is it?"

"Guess. Father's got to guess, hasn't he, mother?"

"A fishing-rod?"

"Don't be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?"

The guessing went on--such absurd guessing!--until the paper was torn
off and a match-box was revealed.

"And now, what's Peter brought me?"

"Nothing, father. I haven't got anything for anybody. So, please, I
don't think I ought to take any of your presents."

Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas
stocking. "But, old boy, what became of your money?"

"I--I gave it away, father."

"Last night? To a beggar?"

"Not--not exactly a beggar."

"But to someone who needed it badly?"

"Yes, badly. I couldn't give it to--to them and buy presents as well."
Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the truth at all costs.
"And it wasn't last night. It was this morning."

His father regarded him gravely. "To someone in the house?"

"Not exactly."

"I can't see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It must be
exactly one or the other." Silence. "You don't want to tell?"

"I can't tell. But I want to so badly."

His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her
mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. "I'm sure
he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here's what mother's got
for you."

"Darling motherkins, I do love you--all of you. But I mustn't take
anything this Christmas."

"Nonsense," said his father.

"I mean it," said Peter proudly.

At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too
outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied,
so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, "Because
he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs."

There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was
rather thin this morning.

When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service,
they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came
back.

Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was
always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and
peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word
was brought of Cookie's lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red.

He called him aside that evening. "What is it? Can't you trust me? Can't
you tell me, little Peter?"

How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. "I can't
even tell you, father."

During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every
morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was
there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, "So he's not
caught yet." Peter's responsibilities were increasing. He found it more
and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle without
betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of his
confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he
had not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The
mustaches had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and
climbing. Still, when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful.
He was only depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory
or Jehane to come into the garden. "I want a sight of 'em, sonny. A
ha'penny marvel like you ought to be able to manage that."

Frequently he discussed marriage with Peter, warning him against it
and tracing his own downfall to it. "It's awright if you meet the right
girl. But you never do--that's my experience. People think you have;
but you know you haven't. I knew a chap; his wife had black hair. They
seemed so happy that folk called 'em the love-birds. Well, this chap
used to get drunk. Not often, you know, but just as often as was
sensible. Well, when he was drunk, he'd give himself away, oh,
entirely--let all his bitterness out. He'd always hoped that he'd marry
a girl with yellow hair. His wife was awright except for that; but he
couldn't forget it. Of course he never told her. But there's always
something like that in marriage--something that rankles and that you
keep to yourself. That little something wrong spoils all the rest.
Then one day there's a row. Chaps have killed their girls for less than
that.--Ah, yes, and folk called 'em the love-birds!"

Or he would say, "Love's a funny thing, Peter. Some men fall in love
with the slope of a throat or the shape of a nose, and marry a girl for
that. Now there was a chap I once knew----- Umph! Did I ever tell you?
This chap and his wife were known as the love-birds and his wife had
black hair." Then out would come the same old story.

Jehane had black hair. Peter wondered whether 'the chap' was Uncle
Waffles. And he wondered more than that; he was surprised that Uncle
Waffles should keep on forgetting that he'd told him the story already.
He supposed it was because he sat there all alone, brooding for hours
and hours.

"Mustn't mind if I'm queer, Peter. I'd be awright if you'd let me have
some baccy."

But Peter wouldn't let him have it; it would increase the risk of
discovery.

One night he ceased to be surprised at his uncle's lapses of memory. His
father and mother had gone out to dinner. The younger children had
been put to bed. Jehane and Glory were sitting by the dining-room fire,
darning socks and whispering of the future. Peter took his opportunity,
slipped into the garden and down to the stables.

Snow was on the ground; every footstep showed like a blot of ink on
white paper. He was surprised to see that someone had crossed the
flower-beds. Then he was startled by a thought. Perhaps the police, or
the man whom Mr. Grace called 'the spotter,' had guessed. He listened.
No sound. He entered the yard; the footprints led into the stable. He
called softly, "Are you there?" No one answered. With fear in his heart
he climbed into the loft: Uncle Waffles had vanished.

CHAPTER XXI--STRANGE HAPPENINGS

Had they caught him? Ever since the beginning of the adventure Peter
had wondered interminably how it would end. He hadn't been able to see
any ending. It had seemed to him that, if nothing was found out, Uncle
Waffles might go on hiding in the loft forever and he might go on
pilfering for him.

Peter had watched his uncle carefully; he knew much more about him
now. He knew that he was a great disreputable child, much younger than
himself, who would always be dependent on somebody. He came to realize
that through all those years of large talking his uncle had never been
a man--never would be now; that he was just a large self-conscious boy,
boastful, affectionate and unreliable, whose sins were not wickedness
but naughtiness. The odd strain of maternity in Peter, which prompted
him always to shelter things weaker than himself, made him love his
uncle the more for this knowledge. And now he was distracted, like a
bantam hen which has hatched out a swan and lost it.

He set to work searching in the coach-house, under the tandem
tricycle, in the harness-room. He went out into the yard, following the
footprints. They led through the door into the garden, under the pear
trees, across a flower-bed to a neighbor's wall and there terminated
abruptly. What could have happened?

The night about him was spectacular and glistening as a picture on a
Christmas card. Everything in sight was draped in exaggerated purity.
Like cotton-wool, sprinkled with powdered glass, snow lay along the arms
of trees and sparkled in festoons on withered creepers. The march of
those countless London feet, that invisible hurrying army, always weary,
yet never halting, came to him muffled as though it moved across a heavy
carpet. "Be quiet. Be quiet," said the golden windows, mounting in a
barricade of houses against the stars. "Be quiet. Be quiet," whispered
the shrouded trees, as their burdened branches creaked and lowered. But
he could not be quiet. Cold as it was, sweat broke out on his forehead.
What had happened?

A crunching sound--a mere rumor, seeming infinitely distant! A head
appeared above the wall, right over him. A man lumbered across and fell
with a gentle thud almost at his feet.

"Oh, how could you? How could you do that?"

The voice which answered was thick and truculent. It made no pretence
at being secret. "And why shouldn't I? That's what I ask. I was tired of
sticking up there. It's no joke, I can tell you."

"Shish! Where've you been?"

"Found a way out four gardens down--the wall's lower. No danger of
breaking one's legs--not like the way you brought me."

Peter was a little staggered by this hostile manner; it was as though he
were being charged with having done something wilfully unfair and cruel.
"But to-morrow they'll see that somebody's been there. They'll follow
your tracks from garden to garden and then------"

"I don't care. Let 'em. You'd never do anything I ask you. You wouldn't
let me see Jehane and Glory. They're my flesh and blood; and who are
you? You wouldn't give me any baccy. You gave me nothing. Buried me
alive, that's what you did for me. So I just slipped off by myself."

It was like an angry child talking. Ocky pulled a bottle from his
pocket, drew the cork with his teeth and tilted the neck against his
mouth. "Must have my medicine. Ah!"

Peter watched him. He was thinking fast, remembering past queernesses of
temper. "You've done this before?"

"Of course. And not ashamed of it either. I'll do it again as soon as I
get thirsty. It's cold up there." He jerked his thumb toward the loft.
"Has it ever struck you?"

Peter disregarded the question. "You did it with my money--the money
that was to help you."

"And isn't it helping me?" Another long draught. "Ah! That's
better!--You gave it me to take care of--I'm taking care of it. See? You
ought to know by now that I'm not to be trusted."

Peter saw that nothing was to be gained by arguing. He helped his uncle
to scramble into the loft. "We'll be lucky if you're not caught by
morning."

"Think so? What's the odds? Couldn't be worse off. Now shut up scolding;
you're as bad as Jehane. Let's be social. Did I ever tell you that story
about the chap whose wife had black hair?"

"Yes, you did. I know now that you'd been drinking every time you told
it."

"Hic! Really! Awright, you needn't get huffy. It's a good story."

Peter had at last hit on a plan. "Will you promise to stop here
to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?"

"Now you're talking. Reg'lar ha'penny marvel, that's what you are.
Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?" He spoke with the
_hauteur_ of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He was Ocky Waffles
Esquire, capitalist, who wasn't to be beaten at a bargain.

"Well, it'll probably be in a family."

"Depends on the family."

"Then promise me you won't go out again to-night."

"Shan't be able when I've polished off this bottle."

Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he
went he said, "It's my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it was
for you."

Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity
better in a sitting posture. "Don't take it to heart, sonny. Forgive and
forget--that's my motto." He reached up his hand to Peter with a fine
air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it with the tips of his
fingers.

That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing
which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the
house, ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day
it was kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the
gardener and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual
answering of the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping
through the hall. At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside
the diningroom, where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace
had borrowed the key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the
chance, and always had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding
kitchen company. "I won't have strange men lolling in my house without
my knowledge. That's how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their
friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it's none of my
business to supply 'em with opportunities for getting married."

So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the
pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived
stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up
from the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with
her and helped her. "It's a burnin' shime," she said, "cagin' us h'up
like h'animals. H'it's a wonder ter me as we h'ever get married. The
master thinks that, 'cause we're servants, we ain't got no pashuns."

This evening when Grace had stopped her lover on his beat, Cookie had
suggested that they should borrow the key and let him into the kitchen
by the side-passage. That was why Peter heard a man's voice when he
crept stealthily into the basement. The sound was so unexpected that he
paused to listen without any intention of eavesdropping.

"It started Christmas mornin', didn't it, Grice?" It was Cookie
speaking. "The door was h'on the latch, the milk was watered, the
sorsage-rolls and me cushion was gone. We blimed the cat at first. H'I
was that h'angry, I threw a broom at 'er. Not but wot I might 'a known
as no cat could water milk if I'd 'a stopped ter thought. And then
Master Peter, 'im that's so ginerous, 'e forgets to give anyone 'is
Christmas presents. H'it beats creation, so it does. And h'ever since
then, though I h'ain't said much abart it, 'cause I didn't want ter git
'is pa h'angry, h'ever since then h'its been goin' h'on. One day h'it's
h'eggs missin'. 'Nother day h'it's beef--little nibbles like h'all
round. And yer may taik my word for h'it, the little master's h'at the
bottom h'of it. What d'yer sye abart that, Mr. Somp? Yer 'andle crimes,
don't yer? Wot's yer sudgestion?"

Mr. Somp was the name of Grace's policeman. Mr. Somp thought. "Kid's
got a h'appetite, ain't 'e?" he procrastinated. "I 'ad a h'appetite
once.--But h'I wouldn't 'a believed it h'of 'im."

Grace giggled. She had evidently felt the pressure of a burly arm. "Not
so frisky, cop. You 'old too 'ard. I ain't a drunk and disorderly."
Then, taking up the thread of the conversation, "A fine policeman you
are! 'Ow could a little boy h'eat Cookie's cushion?"

Mr. Somp growled. Peter could imagine how he threw out his hands as he
said with all the weight of the noncommittal law, "Ah, there yer are!"

"Come h'orf it, dearie. Yer don't know nothing." Grace tittered.

"H'if that's so, h'I'd best be goin'."

Cookie laughed. "Ain't 'e the boy for losin' 'is 'air? And me cookin'
'im a h'om'let? Yer'll 'ave a 'andful ter manage, Grice, when yer marry.
'Is temper's nawsty."

Mr. Somp must have changed his mind at the mention of the omelet, for he
postponed his departure.

In the dining-room Peter found Glory alone.

"Where's Aunt Jehane?"

"Mother's got a headache. She's gone to lie down." Peter took his place
on the hearth-rug, his legs apart, his back to the fire, in unconscious
imitation of his father. Glory bowed her head, hiding her face, and went
on with her darning. Peter watched her. How slight she was! How lonely
she looked in the great arm-chair. Then it struck him that she was
always working, and that Aunt Jehane very frequently had headaches.

"Don't you ever want to play, Glory?"

"Oh, yes, I want."

"Why d'you say it like that? Just _I want_."

"Where's the good of wanting?"

The head bowed lower. The firelight shone in her hair. Her face was more
than ever hidden from him.

"But you're such a little girl--a whole year younger than I am. When I
want to play I do it."

"Do you?"

It was always like that when Peter took notice of Glory--short questions
and short answers which led no further.

Peter leant over her and stayed her hands. "I don't like to see you work
so hard."

"It's sweet to hear you say so, Peter." He felt something splash and run
down his fingers. "I love to hear you say that. But you see, there's no
one to care for us now. I've got to do it. I always shall have to do it,
more and more."

"Not when I'm a man."

"When you're a man, Peter? What then?"

"When I'm a man no one shall be sorry. I'll make people ashamed of
prisons and of letting other people be poor. No one shall go hungry. No
one shall go unhappy. I'll build happy houses everywhere. And, oh Glory,
I'll take all the little children with no shoes on their feet out into
the country to where the grass is soft."

She looked up at him with her grave gray eyes--eyes so much older than
her years. "When you're a man, Peter, you'll be splendid."

"But I didn't say it to make you say that. I said it because I wanted
you to know that there's a day coming when--when instead of making you
cry, dear Glory, I'll make you laugh."

"Just me, Peter, all by myself?"

She tilted back her head, gazing up at him, so that her hair rippled
back across her shoulders and her throat stretched white and long, like
a mermaid's looking up through water, Peter thought.

"Just me only, Peter?"

He couldn't understand why she should always want him to do things for
her only. She wasn't selfish like Riska. He was puzzled.

"Why I'll make you laugh and Kay laugh and everybody, because you know,
Glory, we all ought to be happy."

Her face fell. The eager gladness was dying out of it, so he added
hurriedly, "And most especially I want to help Uncle Waffles."

Was he going to have told her? Probably he did not know himself.
There was a sound of running feet in the hall; Grace burst in on them
breathlessly. "Oh, mum, can I 'ave a word with you? There's a light in
the winder of the---- Where's yer ma, Miss Glory? Quick, tell me."

"She's gone to lie down with Moggs. Her head---- But what's happened?"

Grace was gone. As she climbed the house they heard her calling. Out in
the hall they found the policeman standing, with his baton in his hand;
he was trying to appear very brave, as though saying, "Fear nothing. I
am the law. I will protect you."

Peter took one swift glance at Glory. Did she understand? He almost
fancied----

"Keep them here as long as you can," he whispered; "I'm going out."

The last sight he had was of Aunt Jehane coming down the stairs. She was
in her night-gown with a counterpane flung round her. Moggs was in her
arms, crying against her shoulder. Eustace was clinging stupidly to her
nightgown. Aunt Jehane's 'mat' was off. Her forehead looked surprised
and her scant hair straggled away from it. Grace was explaining
vociferously.

"I've called in the policeman, mum. Luckily 'e was passin'."

"But what's he wasting time for?" Aunt Jehane asked tartly. "If you
didn't imagine the light, they're still there in the loft and he can
catch them."

Mr. Somp spoke up for himself. "H'I was waitin' your h'orders."

Peter flew down the path. The window was in darkness. Directly he
entered the stables he knew what had happened, for the air was heavy
with the smell of tobacco.

"Uncle! Uncle!"

"Here, sonny."

"Quick. Come down. Grace saw you strike a match in the dark and a
policeman's coming to catch you."

Peter had to go up after him, for Ocky's wits were clouded. He shook
him, saying, "Make haste. Can't you understand? Surely you don't want to
be caught."

The fear, in Peter's voice pierced through the fog of alcohol and
reached Ocky's intellect. "But what's to be done?"

"There's an empty tank in the yard--you know it? If you can get in there
before they come, they mayn't find you."

Ocky woke to life. Stumbling and hurrying he dropped down through the
trap-door. As they ran across the yard, they heard the grumbling of
voices approaching. Ocky climbed on the tank, keeping low so as not to
be seen from the garden, and vanished.

"Whatever you do, don't make a sound," Peter warned him.

Uncle Waffles replied disgustedly, "It isn't empty. The water's up to me
ankles."

Peter had hoped to get out of the stable before the search began; it
would look suspicious if they should find him. It was too late for that.
The voices were near enough for him to hear what was being said.

"Nothin' 'ere, me gal. You must 'ave h'imagined it."

"I didn't imagine it, neither. And don't call me 'me gal' as though h'I
was nothin' to yer."

"I calls you 'me gal' in me h'official capacity."

"I don't care abart yer capacity, h'official or defficial, I won't 'ave
it."

"My, but yer crusty, Grice!"

"H'I _am_ crusty and h'I tell yer for wot. Yer doubt my word--throw
h'aspersions on it. I did see a light, I tell yer."

"Well, it ain't there now. The chap's gone."

"Ow d'you know 'e's gone without lookin'?"

"By a kind o' h'inkstink one dewelopes by bein' in the police force."

"D'you know wot I'm thinkin'?--Yer funky."

"Funky, h'am I? H'awright--h'it's h'all over between us. Never tell me
h'again that you loves me."

They had been talking in loud voices from the start--quite loud enough
to warn any burglar. Now that they had quarreled their voices cut the
still night air in anger. Not a word was lost.

Suddenly they paused. "Wot's that?" Grace asked the question in a sharp
whisper.

"Footsteps or I'm no cop."

Peter heard the click of Mr. Somp's lantern; it must have struck against
his buttons as he bent to examine. "Footsteps. Someone's been a-climbin'
this 'ere wall."

"Well, ain't yer goin' ter do nothin'?"

"You stand there, Grice, while I go for'ard. The chap may fire h'on us.
Good-bye, Grice. H'if anythin' should 'appen, remember I died a-doin' o'
me dooty."

"Yer shan't. I'll come with yer. If 'e shoots we'll die together."

"Grice, h'I commands yer in the nime o' the law ter stay where yer
h'are."

But when the door into the yard opened cautiously,

Grace was clinging to her lover's arm. They both looked frightened and
ready to withdraw. Slowly, slowly the bull's-eye swept the surface of
the snow.

"More footsteps!"

The ray of light followed along the tracks till it fell on Peter.

"Well, I'll be blessed. Of h'all the---- I'll be blowed if 'e aren't!"

Peter laughed. "It looked so lovely I couldn't stop indoors."

"Yer've given us a nice scare, young master."

"I didn't mean to. And when I heard that Grace thought it was a burglar,
I thought it would be such a lark to let you find me--just Peter."

"That boy's dotty," said Grace's policeman; "a little bit h'orf."

"Yer come ter bed h'at once," said Grace severely. "I'll tell yer pa.
See if I don't."

She caught him roughly by the arm. Then Peter did something mean--he
hated himself while he did it. "If you do, I'll tell that you had Mr.
Somp in the kitchen. Father'll say you're not to be trusted."

"Ah!" said Grace's policeman. "There's somethin' in that."

"Ain't he artful?" said Grace.

"Well," asked Peter, "will you keep quiet if I do? Is it a bargain?"

"We didn't find nothink," said Grace's policeman. "We was mistooken."

"It must 'a been the snow reflected in the winder," said Grace.
"Cur'ous, 'ow the snow deceives yer!--But oh, Master Peter, I never
thought this h'of yer. I reelly didn't."

"Until to-night I never thought it of myself," said Peter a little
sadly.

"Ah!" sighed Grace's policeman. But to himself he thought, "More in this
than meets the h'eye. I'll be danged if there aren't."

CHAPTER XXII--CAT'S MEAT LOOKS ROUND

Peter kept awake for his parents' home-coming. Long before the cab drew
up he heard the jingle of the horse's harness and was out of bed. The
key grated in the front door; in the silence it sounded to Peter as
though the old house cleared its throat, getting ready to tell. Leaning
out across the banisters with bare feet shivering against the cold
linoleum, he lost little of what was said.

Grace met his father and mother in the hall. "Why, Grace, you ought to
have been asleep two hours. I thought I told you not to wait up for us."

"And you did, mam. So you did. But after the disturbance that we've
'ad----" Her voice sank to a mumbling monotone.

Then his father spoke. "I never heard anything more absurd.--Can't be
away for a single evening without a stupid affair like this happening.
Lights in the stable, indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And
you a grown woman! I wonder what next!"

Grace was boo-hooing. "H'I'll never do it again. I did think I saw 'em.
No one'll know abart it. Mr. Somp won't tell."

"Oh, go upstairs. The children'll be frightened for months now."

Peter heard Grace come up to bed sobbing. Where would his wrong-doing
end? Romance had had a broom thrown at her; Grace had received a
scolding. The injustice was spreading. He examined the stain on his
heart in much the same way that Lady Macbeth looked at the stain on her
hands. Would it ever be clean again? "Never," he told himself in his
desperation, "never."

As he turned to go back to his room he was alarmed by the sudden scurry
of naked feet. A flash of white disappeared round the corner and a
mattress creaked. Glory had been watching.

When his mother bent over him that night he told another lie--he feigned
that he slept. As her fluffy hair touched his cheek he longed to drag
her down to him and tell her all. She would stretch herself beside him
in the darkness, holding him tightly, as she had done so often when he
had had something to confess. He denied himself the luxury.--That night
as he lay awake and listened, the angel in the cupboard whistled very
softly, very distantly, as though she were carrying Kay far away from
him.

When he had offered his uncle a change of lodging, his uncle had said,
"Depends on the family." Peter had only one family to suggest; he didn't
at all know whether the family would accept Uncle Waffles. Gentlemen for
whom the law is searching are not popular as guests.

During breakfast, despite frowns from Barrington, all Aunt Jehane's
conversation had to do with the shock she had suffered by reason of
Grace's folly. When Barrington banged his cup in his saucer, she lost
her temper. "Well, I don't see why I shouldn't talk about it. I had to
put up with the worry of it."

"My good Jehane, haven't you any sense? You can say anything you like,
except before the children."

"Goodness!" Jehane replied pettishly. "The children were here and saw
it."

Peter slipped out. Through the white snow-strewn fields he hurried and
through Topbury Park where the snow was trodden black, till he came to
a quiet street and a tall house with stone steps leading up to it. Miss
Madge, the fat and jolly Miss Jacobite, answered his knock.

"What a long face for a little boy to wear!"

"If you please, I'd like to speak to Miss Florence." Miss

Florence was the sister who was tall and reserved; she managed
everything and everybody.

"Won't I do, Peter? She's busy at present."

"Please, I've got to speak to her."

Miss Madge ruffled his hair--she had seen his mother do that. "What a
strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern."

She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire
was burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She
looked back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not
reply to her friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he
would not tell her.

He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on
the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed
to say to him, "Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear
your own burdens."

But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help
him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses.
At the Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle
Waffles might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught.

Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her
song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture
how she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her
empty hands folded in her lap.

                   "On the other side of Jordan

                   In the sweet fields of Eden

                   Where the Tree of Life is growing

                   There is rest for me."

It almost made him cry to hear her. He was beginning to know just a
little of that need for rest.

A door opened. The singing came out. To his astonishment Peter saw
Miss Leah approaching. Up to now she had never left her room to his
knowledge. She beckoned. Then she spoke in that hoarse voice of hers. "I
heard her tell Florence that you're in trouble. You're too young to know
sorrow. That comes surely. But for you not yet."

She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and drew him with her into
the room where the blinds were always lowered. Closing the door, she
searched his face. "You have the look. Sorrow! Sorrow! I have suffered
and can understand. Don't be afraid. Tell me."

And he told her--he never knew why or how. She listened, rocking to and
fro in her chair, with her dim eyes fixed upon him. When he paused for
a word she nodded encouragement, pulling her woolen shawl tighter round
her narrow shoulders.

"And in spite of that you love him?--You're like a woman, Peter. You
love people for their faults and in defiance of common sense. And you
refuse to think he's bad?"

"He's not really," said Peter. "The world's not been good to him."

"Not really!" She spoke reflectively, as though she groped beneath the
words. "No, we're never bad really--only seem bad to other people till
they make us seem bad to ourselves.--Yes, you can bring him."

But to bring him Peter needed Mr. Grace's help, and Mr. Grace had been
so candid in saying that "'e weren't worf it."

When he reached the cab-stand, Mr. Grace wasn't there. He had waited an
hour before he saw Cat's Meat crawl out of the traffic.

"Well?" said Mr. Grace, with an instinctive fore-knowledge.

He let Peter explain his errand without comment till he came to the
account of the part played by Grace's policeman.

"'Oly smoke! 'Fraid, was 'e?--But wot yer tellin' me h'all this for?
H'out wiv it?"

"I want you to drive down the mews to-night and take us round to the
Misses Jacobite."

Mr. Grace became very emphatic and solemn. "Cawn't be done. H'I wash me
'ands of 'im. Plottin' ag'in the law. Too daingerous."

"Mr. Grace," asked Peter, softly, "who's afraid now?"

"H'I'm not. Me afraid o' Grice's young man! Was that wot yer was
h'insinooating?"

"But aren't you?"

"No, I ain't."

"Then prove it."

"'Ow?"

"By doing what I've asked you."

Mr. Grace stared between Cat's Meat's ears, twisting a straw in his
mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. "D'yer see that? The
'oss is a-listenin'. 'E ain't much ter look h'at, but 'e's won'erful
h'intelligent. When h'I'm drunk 'e just walks by h'every pub and pays
no h'attention to my pullin'. 'E's like a mother, that 'oss is, ter me.
'E's more kind than a darter, which ain't sayin' much."

"Well?"

"Well wot? Oh, yes. H'am I goin' to 'elp yer stink-pot of a h'uncle? Ter
be frank wiv yer, I h'am."

Cat's Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. "See that?
'E likes h'adwentures. Won'erful h'intelligent h'animal, but not much
ter look h'at!"

With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down
the mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out.

"Yer a nice old cup o' tea," growled Mr. Grace, addressing Ocky, "a
reg'lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter do--yer oughter sign the
pledge. 'Ope yer ain't got much luggage; me keb ain't as strong as it
were."

Ocky retreated into the darkness of the interior. He had promised Peter
he would become a good man and for once was ashamed of himself.

Seated by his side, Peter felt after his hand. "Don't mind what he
says."

"But I am. It's true. I've been a mucker to you from first to last."

Ocky coughed; the water in the tank had given him a cold on the chest.

"I'm sure you haven't. Anyhow, you're going to be better now."

"Going to try till I bust."

As the cab lumbered out on to the Terrace a man saw it. He scratched his
head, thought twice, then began to run and follow. Coming up behind he
did what street-urchins do--he stole a ride on the springs, crouching
low so as to be unobserved.

Cat's Meat alone was aware that something wrong had happened. He felt
the extra weight and halted.

"Kum up."

He refused to come up.

"Kum up, won't yer?"

No, he wouldn't. He planted his feet firmly. There was something that
had to be explained to him first.

Very reluctantly Mr. Grace got out his whip--it was there for ornament;
he rarely used it. "Nar, look 'ere old friend, h'I don't wanter do it."
But he had to.

Cat's Meat shook his head sorrowfully and looked round. His feelings
were hurt. When his master was drunk he accepted worse punishment than
that without resentment, but his master wasn't drunk now. Mr. Grace laid
the whip again across his back. Cat's Meat shrugged his shoulders and
snorted, as much as to say, "Don't blame me. Never say I didn't warn
yer." Then he moved slowly forward.

"Now h'I wonder wot was the meanin' o' that?" reflected Mr. Grace.
"Don't like 'is cargo, h'I bet. Well, h'I don't, either. Won'erful
h'intelligent h'of 'im!"

Inside the cab Peter was asking, "But if you don't like the 'medicine,'
why do you take it?"

"Life's dull for a chap," said Ocky. He would have said more, but was
shaken by a fit of coughing.

They crawled along by ill-lighted streets purposely, avoiding main
thoroughfares. As they drew up outside the Misses Jacobite's house,
Peter saw the slits of the Venetian blinds turned and guessed that four
tremulous ladies were watching. He opened the door for his uncle to get
out As Mr. Waffles alighted, a man jumped from behind the cab.

"Yer caught, Cockie. Come along quiet."

Mr. Grace heaved himself round. "Wot the devil!" He was blinking into
the eyes of Grace's policeman.

"We can walk to the station," said Grace's policeman, "but h'if you'd
care to drive us---- Yer seem kind o' fond o' conductin' this party
round."

"I'll drive 'im, but I'll be 'anged h'if I'll drive you, yer great fat
mutton 'ead."

"Mutton 'ead yerself."

Peter jumped into the gap. "Oh, do drive them, Mr. Grace. Don't let him
be dragged there in public."

"If that's the wye yer feel abart it---- Anythin' fer you, Master
Peter."

"Look 'ere," said Grace's policeman, "h'I'm in love with yer darter--as
good as one o' the family. We don't need to sye nothink abart the keb."

"Get in, mutton 'ead."

They got in.

Cat's Meat shook his harness as much as to say, "Now you're sorry, I
suppose. What did I tell you?"

Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall
sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah
looked out. "Peter. Peter." But he couldn't bear to face her.

As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade
himself that it hadn't happened. It must be his old disease--his
'magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all
this while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn't happened,
hadn't---- Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled
shoulders and the iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him.

And Uncle Waffles hadn't said a word when he was taken--he hadn't even
coughed.

CHAPTER XXIII--AND GLORY SAID

Peter asked to see his father alone. They went up together to the
study. Barrington knew that a confession was coming. He was curious.
Peter's sins were so extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of
the decalogue. His sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of
commandments, which no one but he would dream of observing. Barrington
struggled to keep his face grave and long; inwardly he was laughing.
He drew up his big chair to the fire--his soldier's chair the children
called it. He put out his knee invitingly. "Sit down, little son. What's
the trouble?"

"I'd rather stand, father. You'll never want to speak to me again when
I've told you."

Barrington observed Peter's pallor and the way his hands kept folding
and unfolding.

"It can't be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be."

"But it is, father. I'm a thief and a liar, and I expect I'll be
arrested before morning."

Peter's tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was
certainly something the matter.

"Well, Peter, I'll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak up like a
little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the whole
truth when it's easy to lie.--Queer things have been happening lately.
It's about those Christmas presents, now, isn't it?"

Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back
and his knickerbockered legs close together. "You mustn't be kind to me,
father. It makes it harder. I'm going to hurt you."

Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his
fingers and nodded. "Go on."

In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back
bravely. When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter's
own story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an
important engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account
progressed he saw that here was something really serious. And yet how
Peterish it was to feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance!
The humor of it all vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been
arrested.

"And then," he said, "I came straight home to tell you. I don't suppose
you'll want me to live here any longer. It wouldn't be good for Kay; I'm
too wicked. I'm almost too bad for anybody. Kay--Kay'll never be able to
love me any more."

They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust
himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was
frightened he would sink below Peter's standard and give way to crying.
He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. And
he recalled the last confession that this room had heard--it was from
Ocky. He compared it with Peter's.

The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father's face; he saw there
the worst thing of all--sorrow.

A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from
themselves.

Barrington leant further forward. "What made you do it, Peter?"

"I loved him."

"But what made you love him when you came to know all?"

"Because nobody else loved him." Peter caught his voice tripping on a
sob and stopped.

"But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt
Jehane's homeless and so are all your cousins."

"I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering
about--wandering about at Christmas."

"But wasn't it his own fault?"

Peter bit his lip--he'd never thought of not loving people just because
they'd done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered Jesus and
the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief's own
fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on
Sundays--so he just looked at his father and said nothing.--Again the
minutes dragged on.

There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. "I'm going to bed,
Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?"

Barrington nodded. "Come here, little girl; but first close the door."

As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to
his knee. "Peter isn't going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he isn't
worthy."

"Peter not worthy!" She shook back the hair from her eyes and gazed from
Peter to her uncle incredulously.

"He doesn't think he's worthy to be loved by any of us. He expects he
won't live here much longer."

"But why? Why?--Peter can't have done anything wicked."

"I'm going to ask him to tell you what he's done, just as he told me.
And then I want you to say what you think of him."

It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While
he spoke, his father could feel how Glory's body stiffened and trembled.
Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening to an
old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. When
the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle's shoulder, shaken
with deep sobbing. "Poor father! Oh, poor father!"

As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. "And that," he
said, "is why Peter thinks he isn't worthy. He's waiting, Glory. You've
not told him yet what you think of him."

She looked toward Peter, dazed, as though not fully understanding. Then
she saw how alone and upright he was standing; it dawned on her that he
was really waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. She rose to her
feet; her uncle's arm still about her.

"Why--why, I think Peter's the most splendiferous boy in the world."

Barrington laughed. "D'you know, I didn't dare to say it; but that's
just what I've been thinking all evening."

It was only when Glory's arms went about him that Peter sank below his
standard of courage.

"I guessed it all the while," she whispered; "I was waiting for you to
tell me. Why wouldn't you let me help you?"

Ah, why, why? How often in years to come would she ask him that
question, not with her lips as now, but with her gravely following eyes!

CHAPTER XXIV--THE TRICYCLE MAKES A DISCOVERY

H'I'm a better man than you are," said Mr. Grace.

"In wot respeck?" asked Mr. Somp.

"In h'every respeck," said Mr. Grace. "Nice wye yer've got o' h'arsking
fer me darter's 'and."

Mr. Somp rubbed his nose, finished off his beer and winked at the
barmaid. Then he turned with a smile of tolerant patronage to his future
father-in-law. 'Any'ow, Cockie, h'I didn't need to h'arsk yer. Yer must
allaws remember that you come in on the second h'act."

"Wot d'yer mean?"

"H'I mean the curtain was h'up and the play'd began when you h'entered."

"H'information ter me--I'm larnin'." Mr. Grace tossed off his pot to
show his supreme contempt and signed for another. Having wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand, he spoke reflectively. "So I h'entered when
the bloomin' curtain was h'up! Now I h'allaws thought as I wuz be'ind
the scenes and 'elped ter mike 'er."

"A peep be'ind the scenes," chirped the barmaid; "read a book called
that once. Mr. Grice this 'ouse is respeckable. If you ain't careful
you'll get chucked h'out."

Mr. Somp looked deeply shocked. "That ain't no subjeck to mention before
ladies--birth ain't a matter ter be discussed in publick. It 'appens to
h'all of us, but people as is well brought h'up tries to ferget it."

Glancing round and seeing that opinion was against him, Mr. Grace
retreated a step in the argument. "You said as h'I came in on the second
h'act. As 'ow?"

"H'after I'd h'arsked yer darter and she'd said 'yus.' In 'igh society
h'it's considered perlite to h'arsk the purmission o' the parent."

"'Igh society be blowed. Pooh!"

"Well, and 'avn't I been purmoted?" said Mr. Somp importantly, scenting
an affront.

Mr. Grace was surprised into an expression of astonishment. Then, in an
effort to recover lost ground, "Wot mug purmoted you?" To the barmaid he
said, "H'I'll be King's jockey if h'I wite long enough."

Mr. Somp swelled out his chest. "H'I got purmotion fer nabbin' that
bloke Waffles. Wot d'yer sye ter me proposal now?"

An audience of tap-room loafers had gathered; there was a reputation to
be won. "H'I sye wot h'I've awready said. H'I'm a better man than you are
and me darter's better."

"In wot respeck?" Mr. Somp was tenacious.

"She's a h'orator as yer'll soon find h'out if yer marry 'er."

The policeman gazed at the cabman sombrely. "That don't mike 'er no
better; h'it mikes 'er wuss. H'I've found that h'out. It's my h'opinion
that wimen should be seen and not 'eard."

"So yer've found it h'out, 'ave yer?" Into Mr. Grace's voice had crept a
sudden warmth of fellow-feeling and friendliness.

"Ter my regret," sighed Grace's policeman, wagging a mournful head. "If
I'd knowed before h'I got ter love 'er---- Ah, well! It don't mend
matters ter talk abart it."

Mr. Grace heaved himself off the bench. "Shike 'ands, old pal; yer goin'
ter suffer."

Mr. Somp gloomily accepted the proffered hand, looking at the barmaid.
"H'I'm afraid I h'am."

"Then why not taik me?" asked the barmaid cheerily.

"And why not? That's the question. My dear, you might mike me suffer
wuss."

"And I mightn't 'ave you," she said coyly. "Any'ow, Mr. Somp had no
sympathy with the Salvation Army old top, try me next. Yours truly,
Gertie, h'always ready ter oblige a friend."

It was the day after the honeymoon, which had consisted of a
steamer-trip to Greenwich, that Mr. Somp confided to Mr. Grace, "Too
much religion abart your gel." At that hour Mr. Somp and Grace's father
became friends.

[Illustration: 0227]

Grace's husband had no sympathy with the Salvation Army--he didn't feel
the need of conversion; and Grace, for her part, had no patience with
men who refused to sign the pledge. Mr. Somp took revenge for domestic
wrongs in his official capacity, by moving his wife along when he
found her beating her drum at street corners. Mrs. Somp punished him by
keeping him awake at night while, to use his own words, she sneaked to
God abart him. She even addressed God in the highways on this intensely
private matter, when she saw her husband approaching. She followed
St. Paul's advice by being urgent in season and out in her rebuking,
long-suffering, teaching and exhorting. Her lofty sense of right and
wrong depressed him; he grew slack, lost his standing in the force and
gradually ceased to work. His self-confidence melted before her superior
morality.

So she went back to the Barringtons by the day to do charring and to
give extra help. That was how Peter came to know all about her intimate
matrimonial problems. He heard the other side from Mr. Grace and Mr.
Somp, who now had a common grievance--they wanted to drink and Grace
tried to prevent them. "Don't you never marry a good woman," they both
advised him; "good wimen is bad."

Grace, on the other hand, despite her frequent complaints, held that
her husband was a very decent man, but bone-lazy. Having proved prayer
useless, she could think of only one other remedy. "If I was ter die,
father'd be sorry and my 'usband 'ad 'ave ter work; but I ain't got the
'eart ter do it."

To which Cookie would reply, "I'm sure yer 'aven't, dearie. It's them as
should do the dyin'."

After Ocky's arrest a period of flatness followed. The uncertainty which
had kept the household nervous and hoping for the best no longer buoyed
them up. Until they heard that Waffles had been sentenced, they could
make no plans for Jehane's future. Barrington placed money at his
disposal for his defence and went to see him once. He never disclosed
what happened; but his face was ashen when he returned. All that
evening, when anyone spoke to him, he seemed to have to wake before he
could answer. Next morning he told Jehane, "Ocky wants to see you." She
shook her head. "He's dragged me low enough. I never intend to see him
again."

"If that's the way you feel, you couldn't help him; it's better that you
shouldn't visit him."

She looked into the shrewd gray eyes fiercely. She wanted to find anger
there--she could resent anger; she found only quiet judgment. "You don't
mean that you actually expected me to go to him?"

"I expected nothing, but he's in trouble. You've given him
children--he's your husband. In all your years together there must have
been some hours that are sweet to remember. I did rather hope that, now
that he's in trouble, you might have remembered them."

"Well, I don't. I'm ashamed that I ever had them."

"All right. It's strange; but I think I understand. He still loves you,
Jehane, and you could have helped the chap."

"Love! What's the value of his love?"

"I think its value once was whatever you cared to make it."

Later in the day he said to her, "And you wouldn't let Glory see him, I
suppose? He mentioned her."

"No, I wouldn't. He's not her father. Captain Spashett was a gentleman."

The children were never told what occurred at the trial; all they knew
was that the man who had laughed and played with them, who had loved the
sunshine so carelessly, was to be locked up for a time so long that it
seemed like the "ever and forever" of the Bible. It was like burying
someone who was not dead--they seemed to hear him tapping. And they must
not go to him; they must pretend they had not heard. He was a thing to
be shunned and forgotten.

Jehane was anxious to earn her living. But how? She had been trained to
do nothing. Barrington bought her a little cottage near Southgate, which
at this time was still in the country. Gradually he got into the habit
of letting her do a little outside reading for his firm--he did it to
enable her to pretend that she was self-supporting. To his surprise she
developed a faculty for the work and he began to trust her judgment. She
had inherited a literary instinct of which, during her married life, she
had remained unaware. It was a feeble instinct, but in the end it proved
sufficiently rewarding. She took to writing sentimental novelettes,
which found a market. Whatever her faults of heart, she had always been
capable and gifted with a strong sense of duty; so, now that she had
found a means of making money, she worked hard with her pen, stinting
herself and treating her children with foolish liberality.

Her chief regret was that Ocky had spoilt the marriage chances of her
girls; she tried to rub out this social stain by creating the impression
that her husband was dead. She had two extravagances--the purchase of
hair-tonics and a mania for visiting fortune-tellers. She had one great
hope--that in the future she might re-marry. This would entail Ocky's
death; but she was not so cruel as to reason that out. She had one
great mission--to teach her daughters to catch men. Her chief theme of
conversation with her children was the wickedness of their father and
the heroic loyalty of her own conduct. No doubt there were times when
her conscience troubled her.

Peter was just fifteen and Kay was nearly nine when all this happened.
It made a deep impression on both of them, but especially on Peter. For
months the crushed shoulders and sunken face of Uncle Waffles haunted
his memory, so that it seemed a crime to be happy. He could not bear
to enter the stable; he was always expecting to hear a hoarse voice
addressing him in a whisper from the loft, calling him a ha'penny marvel
or enquiring whether he knew the story of the husband whose wife had
black hair. Often in the street he would turn sharply at the sight of
some shabby outcast, shuffling through the crowd with bowed head. He
would run to the window, hardly daring to own what he expected, when
he heard the mournful singing along the Terrace of a group of
out-of-works:

                   "We've got no work to do,

                   We've got no work to do;

                   We're all thrown out, poor labourin' men,

                   And we've got no work to do."

Sooner or later he would recognize, he knew, in one of the tattered
singers his Uncle Waffles. Peter was suffering from a suddenly awakened
social conscience; he did not know enough to call it that.

It was partly because Barrington had observed and was distressed by his
boy's sadness, that he granted his desire. He granted it to give him a
new interest. Peter had always dreamt of a day when he should polish up
the tandem tricycle, put Kay on the back seat and ride off with her into
the country.

"Well, Peter, I'll let you do it if you'll promise to be very careful."

It was early summer when these splendid adventures commenced. Peter had
to do all the work--Kay's legs were too short to reach the pedals. But
what did he care? Just to have his little sister all to himself, London
dropping away behind and the world growing greener before him--what more
could a boy ask to make him happy?

The tandem trike was a clumsy solid-tired affair--desperately heavy and
beyond belief old-fashioned. Peter managed to accomplish six miles an
hour on it. The way out, along Green Lanes to Wood Green and up Jolly
Butcher's Hill, would have been full of ignominy for anybody less
light-hearted. Kay's flying hair and plunging legs would have attracted
attention had the tricycle been ever so new and handsome.

Errand-boys stood still and whistled after them. Tradesmen followed
them in their carts, offering to race them and grinning ridicule. Very
frequently insult set itself to the words of a street song then in
fashion:

                   "It won't be a stylish marriage;

                   For I can't afford a carriage;

                   But you'll look sweet with your two little feet

                   On a tricycle made for two."

What did Peter care? Ill-nature failed to touch him. Little boys who
pulled faces at him from the pavements, made long noses at him or stuck
out their tongues, did it in envy. He wished he could take them too. So
he and Kay turned their heads and threw back laughter. It was fun--all
fun. And then there was the anticipation of lunch; two shillings between
two people can buy so much.

Shortly after Jolly Butcher's Hill the country began. At Southgate they
would stop to see their cousins. Riska affected to despise their means
of traveling. She was shooting up into a tall girl, like her mother; she
was darkly handsome and carried herself with a gipsy slouch. Jehane's
philosophy, of teaching her girls how to catch men, was already
beginning to take effect. Outside the cottage-gate she had a little
table from which she sold ginger-beer to Cockney cyclists. She did it
to make pocket-money; even as a child, by this means of introduction she
gathered about her a group of boy-lovers. She was learning early how
to attract when she cared. Her mother was pleased by her foolish
conquests--in the rose-scented air of the cottage garden they seemed
very guileless and humorous. In the presence of men, whatever their
years, Riska invariably tried to fascinate.

"It's an instinct with her, the little puss," said Barrington; "she even
tries to make love to her old uncle."

It was a subject for laughter in the family.

On these short visits Kay and Peter saw hardly anything of Glory--she
was doing the work. Just as they were going she would come out from
the kitchen, untying her apron, or would pop her head out of a bedroom
window to shake a duster and smile at them. Then, as the pedals began to
turn, Riska would sing half-tauntingly, and Eustace and Moggs would join
in with her pipingly:

                   "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true,

                   I 'm half-crazy, all for the love of you.

                   It won't be a stylish marriage,

                   For I can't afford a carriage,

                   But you'll look sweet-"

The words would be lost as the tricycle lumbered into the sunshine
between the hedges.

Kay used to say, when she was very little, that the gladness went into
her feet when she was happy. On these expeditions it went everywhere,
into her feet, her eyes, her lips, her hands. She did the things that
boys do, and yet she had the sweetness of a girl. She ran like a boy and
she swam like a boy. She was a darling and a puzzle to Peter; he could
never make her out. He was always trying to put her dearness into words
and always failing.

"Your voice is like the laughter of birds," he said. "But why do you
love me so much, Peter?"

He slanted his eyes. "Because I borned you." He knew better than that
now.

Sometimes they spoke of their cousins.

"I did something horrid this morning."

"Don't believe it."

"Oh, but yes. I was brushing the dust off my shoes in the kitchen, and
what do you think I found?"

"Hurry up and tell me."

"That Glory hadn't had time to eat her breakfast and that some of the
dust had gone into her plate of porridge."

"Oh, Peter! How careless! Did you tell her?"

"She came in and saw it. You'd never guess what she said.--'Never mind,
old boy. One's got to eat a peck o' dirt before one dies. So mother
says.' And she took a spoon and-----"

"And ate it?"

Peter nodded, trying to look penitent, but laughing.

Then Kay became grave-eyed and asked one of her questions. "But do you?"

"Do you what?"

"Have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?"

Peter wriggled his toes in his shoes and looked down to see them moving.
"Don't know. You and I don't. But that's what Glory says."

Having learnt to walk like a boy, Kay learnt to whistle. One hot
summer's afternoon they had ridden out and were lying on their backs
in a field tall with grass, nearly ready for cutting. Peter had almost
drowsed with the heavy smell of the wild flowers, when he sat up
suddenly and seized his sister by the arm quite roughly. She was only
whistling a little tune softly and was surprised at the strength he
used.

"Peterkins, what's the matter? You're hurting. I'm sure you've made a
bruise."

He paid no attention to her protest. "Where'd you learn that?"

"What?"

"That tune you were whistling?"

"Don't know. Just made it up, I suppose. I never heard it."

"But you must have."

"But I haven't, Peter." She was frightened by his earnestness, mistaking
it for anger.

"Did you never hear it in the cupboard in the bedroom--the one that was
yours and mine?"

She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. "You're joking."

"I'm not. I'm in dead seriousness."

The tears came. "I'm telling the truth. I never knew it till this
moment."

"Whistle it again."

"I can't. I forget it."

As the children's legs grew stronger they went further afield,
conquering new territory, exploring all kinds of dusty lanes and
by-roads. They had turned off from Potter's Bar to Northaw, working
round through Gough's Oak to Cheshunt when they were hailed by a
freckled boy, about Peter's age, who sat astride a gate, playing a
mouth-organ.

"Hey, kids! Want to buy anything?"

They jammed on the brakes and addressed him from the trike. "Got
anything to sell?"

"Nope. Just wanted to talk and had to say something."

"But who are you?"

"I've lived in America and now I'm living here in Friday Lane. I've
often seen you go by."

They looked round to discover Friday Lane; on every side was a sweep of
country, rolling away in sun-dazzled fields and basking woodlands.

"But--but it's lonely here."

"Yup. But it's lonelier where I come from. Nothing but Indians and
prairie."

Even Indians didn't turn them aside; they were trying to unravel the
mystery of Friday Lane.

"Is this road the Lane?"

"That's the Lane." The boy pointed with a brown hand to a grass-grown
field-track starting from the gate on which he sat and vanishing between
a line of tall oaks--oaks which had probably been standing when the land
was part of the royal chase.

"But there aren't any houses."

The boy laughed. "Oh, aren't there? There's our house, right over there,
out of sight."

"And who are you?" Kay and Peter asked together.

"I'm Harry Arran and the house belongs to my brother. He's the Faun Man;
I kind o' look after him and keep him straight. He's a wonder; you'd be
lucky if you knew him."

"We'd like to know him. We'd both like to know him very much." Again
they spoke together.

The boy thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them.

"Don't know so much about that. I'm very particular about my brother. I
don't let him know just anybody."

He twisted round on the gate, turning his back on them, and re-commenced
playing, giving them plainly to understand that their too eager interest
in his family affairs had made conversation undesirable.

CHAPTER XXV--THE HAPPY COTTAGE

It was the way in which the boy had said "just anybody." Peter gazed
beyond the gate into the green mysterious depth of country--an Eden from
which he was excluded by that hostile back. His eyes followed Friday
Lane: it ran on, trees, sunshine and shadows, tremulous with the wings
of birds, a canopied track, across fields, into the heart of wooded
fairyland. What promises lay over there? A voice of ecstasy kept
calling.

Reluctantly he set his feet against the pedals, glanced across his
shoulder to Kay and was going to have said--

Something that glistened shot down her cheek and swiftly vanished.

Very deliberately he dismounted. Yankee-Doodle, or a tune not unlike
it, was being played at the moment. He thumped the student of the
mouth-organ in the place from which Eve was created. Kay, all legs,
flushed face and blown hair, watched from the back seat of the trike the
novel sight of her brother being violent.

The boy tumbled from his perch, putting the gate between himself and
Peter. Yankee-Doodle ended abruptly--the mouth-organ slipped from his
hand. The freckled good humor of his face changed to an expression of
amused and fierce intelligence. It was his way to be amused when he was
angry or in danger--Kay and Peter were to learn that later. He bobbed
in the grass, recovered his fallen treasure, rubbed it on his sleeve,
stuffed it into his knickerbockers' pocket and grimaced across the rail.

"You're a fresh kid."

Peter removed his cap; his curly hair fell about his forehead. "You've
made my sister cry," he said. His hands were clenched.

One leg hopped over the gate; then another. "I haven't," the boy denied
stoutly.

"You have. You called her 'just anybody.'"

The boy stepped into the road--a pugnacious little figure. "Pshaw! What
of it? Girls cry for nothing."

Peter drew himself erect. "My sister doesn't."

The boy raised his eyes and met Kay's. Ashamed of himself, but more
ashamed of showing it, he spoke stubbornly, "She's doing it now."

There was silence. A small strained voice, which sounded not at all like
Peter's, said, "I never hurt people. I never fought in my life. But if I
did ever fight, I'd like to punch your head. And--and I think I could do
it."

The boy lost his shame and became happy. "Guess you can't. Anyhow, why
don't you have a shot at it?"

Without waiting for a reply, he commenced to take off his coat and to
roll up his shirt-sleeves. He did it with an air of competence which was
calculated to intimidate. All the while he carried on a monologue. "So
he'd like to punch my head--_my_ head. Why, I could get his goat by just
looking at him. In America I've licked boys twice his size, and they
hadn't curly hair, either." He faced Peter, doubling his fore-arm, and
inviting him to feel his muscle. "See that. Say, kid, I'm sorry for
you.--Ready?"

Peter nodded; before his nod had ended something hit him on the nose. He
threw up his arms to defend himself, but the something seemed all about
him. Always smiling into his own was the freckled face of a pleasant
looking boy--so pleasant that it was hard to believe that it was he who
was doing the hurting. And Peter--he hit back valiantly; but somewhere
at the back of his brain he kept on seeing pictures of the boy dead. It
was disconcerting; every now and then, when he should have pressed home
his advantage, he shortened his blows intentionally, with the strong
weakness of the humanitarian.

A bird rose twittering out of a hedge. From a meadow across the road,
a cow hung its mild head over, looked shocked, switched its tail
disapprovingly, mooed loudly, swung round and lumbered away uncertainly,
like a distressed old lady with gathered skirts, in a futile endeavor to
bring help.

Peter saw it all. His faculties were unnaturally and desperately alert.
It was odd how time lengthened its minutes--how much he saw and heard:
the deep blue stillness of sky-lagoons, the foam and wash of traveling
clouds, the erect and listening quiet of tree-sentinels and hedges,
and, somewhere out of sight, the sigh-sigh-sighing of wind in distant
country.

There was a cry behind him. How long had he been fighting? He could not
guess. Between himself and the boy rushed a little girl. Her small hands
commenced to beat the boy furiously. She could not speak; she was choked
with sobbing. The boy's arms fell to his side; he let her aim her puny
blows at his impudent face, making no attempt to stop her. Suddenly she
swayed and sank into the flowers at the side of the road. Peter stooped;
his arms went about her. The boy looked on, gazing from these strange
invaders to the waiting trike. It was he who was excluded now. He wanted
to say something--opened his mouth several times and halted. At last he
stumbled out the words.

"I'm--I'm sorry. And you're not just anybody." And then, "I say, you're
plucky 'uns--won't you shake hands?"

The bird came back to the hedge and dropped into its nest. The cow,
having sought help in vain, looked distractedly into the road and saw
a boy pushing open a gate, while another boy, a little bruised and
battered, pushed an ancient tandem tricycle into a meadow, and a small
girl, with flushed face and blowy corn-colored hair, dabbed her eyes
furtively with the hem of her dress.

The trike had to be hidden. It was unlikely, but always possible, that
it might be coveted by tramps. Friday Lane lay before them. The boy
turned to them with abrupt frankness. "Here, what your names?"

"Mine's Peter, and my sister's is Kay."

"Well, Peter, I guess I hit harder than I meant. But--but I reckon you
could have punched my head if you'd chosen. Didn't get warmed up to the
work before she stopped us--was that it?"

They were up to their knees in the meadow-world; the air was full of
kind new fragrances. Peter's eyes were dreamy. The boy rambled on,
leading deeper into the avenue of oaks, so that already the first
straggling fringe of woods commenced. "My brother's like that. In
Alaska, when the dogs took to fighting, he'd just stand still and laugh
and holler at them. Then, all of a sudden, when he saw that they were
eating one another, he'd go clean mad and wade in among 'em and lay 'em
out with the butt of his rifle. He's a wonder, my brother."

"I'm sure he is," said Peter, and Kay, trotting closely by his side,
repeated his words to show her interest.

The boy, flattered by the attention of his audience, with the treachery
of the born story-teller, sharpened their appetite by suspense. He
wagged his head mysteriously. "I could tell you heaps about him if you
were to come here often."

He waited to see what effect that would have. Kay had been hiding behind
her brother, clinging to his hand. Now she came level with him, bending
her face across him so that she could meet the eyes of the boy. She
asked, "May we, Peter? Do you think we can?"

"Not often," said Peter guardedly; "but as often as we can."

The boy held out a further inducement. "One day I might show him to you.
He's like that with dogs and--and especially with girls: laughs at 'em,
hollers at 'em, and then-----. He's the most glad-eyed chap that ever
came down the pike, I reckon. That's what gives me all my trouble."

Neither Kay nor Peter knew exactly what was meant. So Peter said,
"You've been everywhere, haven't you? And we--we just tricycle out
and----"

The boy had drawn his mouth-organ from his pocket and was playing,
stamping his feet and swaying his body. Suddenly he stopped and his
voice took up the air:

                   "I've been shipwrecked off Patagonia,

                   Home and Colonia,

                   Antipodonia;

                   I've shot cannibals,

                   Funny looking animals,

                   Top-knot coons;

                   I've bought diamonds twenty a penny there,

                   I've been somewhere, nowhere, anywhere--

                   And I'm the wise, wise man of the

                   Wide, wide world."

They gazed at him wide-eyed in the hushed summer woodland. Then they
beat their hands together, crying, "Oh, again, again, please."

The boy smiled tantalizingly. "Can you climb?" He shot the question out.
The next moment he was scrambling up a tall oak. Sometimes his body
was lost in leaves. Sometimes it sounded as though he were tumbling,
tumbling through the branches to the ground. At last, from a bough high
up where the sky commenced, his impish face gazed down on them. First
they heard the mouth-organ, then the voice, singing of somewhere,
nowhere, anywhere--of the splendidly imagined No-Man's-Land through
which every child has longed to wander.

And they believed his song, as though it were autobiography. In a
picture-flash they saw the world, beautiful, tumultuous, full of
terrors--saw it as a vast balloon, swimming through eternal clouds,
painted with the dreams of young desire: islands in sun-drenched seas,
where palms stood motionless, pointing to the skies with silent hands;
countries of yellow men, small and crafty, who lived in paper houses and
fed on flowers; enfeebled cities, dazzlingly white, whose eyes had
been burnt out by the door of hell left open in the iron heavens; and
snow-deserts where the frost carved Titans with his breath.

This freckled pugnacious master of the mouth-organ,

This pugnacious master of the mouth organ, caroling a street song in the
tree-turrets of Friday Lane, became for them the embodied soul of
adventure.

[Illustration: 0243]