 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt. CHAPTER VI. SAVIORS OF THE TRAIN The Russian gentleman was better the next day, and the day after that, better still, and on the third day he was well enough to come into the garden. A basket-chair was put for him, and he sat there, dressing clothes of fathers which were too big for him. But when mother had hemmed up the ends of the sleeves and the trousers, the clothes did well enough. His was a kind face, now that it was no longer tired and frightened, and he smiled at the children whenever he saw them. They wished very much that he could speak English. Mother wrote several letters to people she thought might know whereabouts in England a Russian gentleman's wife and family might possibly be. Not to the people she used to know before she came to live at Three Chimneys. She never wrote to any of them. But strange people—members of Parliament and editors of papers and secretaries of societies. And she did not do much of her story-writing, only corrected proofs as she sat in the sun near the Russian, and talked to him every now and then. The children wanted very much to show how kindly they felt to this man who had been sent to prison and to Siberia just for writing a beautiful book about poor people. They could smile at him, of course. They could, and they did. But if you smile too constantly, the smile is apt to get fixed like the smile of the hyena. And then it no longer looks friendly, but simply silly. So they tried other ways, and brought him flowers till the place where he sat was surrounded by little fading bunches of clover and roses and canterbury bells. And then Phyllis had an idea. She beckoned mysteriously to the others and drew them into the backyard, and there, in a concealed spot between the pump and the water-butch, she said, You remember Perks promising me the very first strawberries out of his own garden? Perks, you will recollect, was the porter. Well, I should think they're ripe now. Let's go down and see. Mother had been down, as she had promised, to tell the stationmaster the story of the Russian prisoner. But even the charms of the railway had been unable to tear the children away from the neighbourhood of the interesting stranger. They had not been to the station for three days. They went now. And, to their surprise and distress, were very coldly received by Perks. I, ly honoured, I'm sure, he said, when they peeped in at the door of the porter's room, and he went on reading his newspaper. There was an uncomfortable silence. Oh, dear, said Bobby with a sigh, I do believe you're cross. What, me? Not me, said Perks loftily. It ain't nothing to me. What ain't nothing to you, said Peter, too anxious and alarmed to change the form of words. Nothing ain't nothing. What happens either here or elsewhere, said Perks, if you like to have your secrets? Have them and welcome, that's why I say." The secret chamber of each heart was rapidly examined during the pause that followed. Three heads were shaken. We haven't got any secrets from you, said Bobby at last. Maybe you have, and maybe you haven't, said Perks. It ain't nothing to me. I wish you all a very good afternoon." He held up the paper between him and them, and went on reading. Oh, don't, said Phyllis in despair. This is truly dreadful. Whatever it is, do tell us. We didn't mean to do whatever it was. No answer. The paper was refolded, and Perks began on another column. Look here, said Peter suddenly. It's not fair. Even people who do crimes aren't punished without being told what it's for, as once they were in Russia. I don't know nothing about Russia. Oh, yes you do, when Mother came down on purpose to tell you and Mr. Gills all about our Russian. Can't you fancy it? said Perks indignantly. Don't you see Emma asking me to step into his room and take a chair and listen to what her ladyship has to say? Do you mean to say you've not heard? Not so much as a breath. I did go so far as to put a question, and he shuts me up like a rack-trap. Affairs of state, Perks, says he. But I did think one of you would nip down to tell me you're ear-sharp enough when you want to get anything out of old Perks. Phyllis flushed purple as she thought of the strawberries. Information about locomotives or signals or the likes, said Perks. We didn't know you didn't know. We thought Mother had told you. We wanted to tell you only we thought it would be stale news. The three spoke all at once. Perks said it was all very well and still held up the paper. Then Phyllis suddenly snatched it away and threw her arms around his neck. Oh, let's kiss and be friends, she said. We'll say we're sorry first if you like, but we didn't really know that you didn't know. We're so sorry," said the others. And Perks at last consented to accept their apologies. Then they got him to come out and sit in the sun on the green railway bank where the grass was quite hot to touch, and there, sometimes speaking one at a time and sometimes altogether, they told the porter the story of the Russian prisoner. Well, I must say," said Perks, but he did not say it, whatever it was. Yes, it is pretty awful, isn't it?" said Peter, and I don't wonder you were curious about who the Russian was. I wasn't curious, not so much as interested, said the porter. While I do think Mr. Gills might have told you about it, it was horrid of him. I don't keep no down on him for that, Missy," said the porter, because why? I see his reasons. He wouldn't want to give away his own sign with a tale like that here. It ain't human nature. A man's got to stand up for his own sign, whatever they does. That's what it means by party politics. I should have done the same myself if that long-air chap had been a chap. But the japs didn't do cruel, wicked things like that, said Bobby. Perhaps not, said Perks cautiously. Still, you can't be sure with foreigners. My own belief is they're all tarred with the same brush. Then why were you on the side of the japs? Peter asked. Well, you see, you must take one side or the other, same as with liberals and conservatives. The great thing is to take your side and then stick to it whatever happens. A signal sounded. There's the three-fourteen up, said Perks. You lie low till she's through, and then we'll go up along to my place and see if there's any of them strawberries ripe what I told you about. If there are any ripe, then you do give them to me, said Phyllis. You won't mind if I give them to the poor Russian, will you? Perks narrowed his eyes and then raised his eyebrows. So it was them strawberries should come down for this afternoon, eh? said he. This was an awkward moment for Phyllis. To say yes would seem rude and greedy and unkind to Perks. But she knew if she said no she would not be pleased with herself afterwards. So yes, she said, it was. Well done, said the porter, speak the truth and shame that, but we'd have come down the very next day if we'd known you hadn't heard the story, Phyllis added hastily. I believe you missy, said Perks, and sprang across the line six feet in front of the advancing train. The girls hated to see him do this, but Peter liked it. It was so exciting. The Russian gentleman was so delighted with the strawberries that the three racked their brains to find some other surprise for him. But all the racking did not bring out any idea more novel than wild cherries, and this idea occurred to them next morning. They had seen the blossom on the trees in the spring, and they knew where to look for wild cherries now that cherry-time was here. The trees grew all up and along the rocky face of the cliff, out of which the mouth of the tunnel opened. There were all sorts of trees there, birches and beaches and baby oaks and hazels, and among them the cherry blossom had shone like snow and silver. The mouth of the tunnel was some way from three chimneys, so Mother'd let them take their lunch with them in a basket, and the basket would do to bring the cherries back in if they found any. She also lent them her silver watch, so that they should not be late for tea. Peter's water-breed had taken it into its head not to go since the day when Peter dropped it into the water-butt. And they started. When they got to the top of the cutting, they leaned over the fence and looked down to where the railway lines lay at the bottom of what, as Phyllis said, was exactly like a mountain gorge. If it wasn't for the railway at the bottom, it would be as though the foot of man had never been there, wouldn't it? The sides of the cutting were of grey stone, very roughly hewn. Indeed, the top part of the cutting had been a little natural glen that had been cut deeper to bring it down to the level of the tunnel's mouth. Among the rocks, grass and flowers grew, and seeds dropped by birds in the crannies of the stone had taken root and grown into bushes and trees that overhung the cutting. Near the tunnel was a flight of steps leading down to the line, just wooden bars roughly fixed into the earth, a very steep and narrow way, more like a ladder than a stair. "'We'd better get down,' said Peter. "'I'm sure the cherries would be quite easy to get at from the side of the steps. You remember it was there we picked the cherry blossoms that we put on the rabbit's grave. So they went along the fence towards the little swing-gate that is at the top of these steps. And they were almost at the gate when Bobby said, "'Hush! Stop! What's that?' That was a very odd noise indeed, a soft noise but quite plainly to be heard through the sound of the wind and tree branches, and the hum and wear of the telegraph wires. It was a sort of rustling, whispering sound, as they listened it stopped, and then it began again, and this time it did not stop, but it grew louder and more rustling and rumbling. "'Look!' cried Peter suddenly, the tree over there. The tree he pointed out was one of those that have rough grey leaves and white flowers. The berries, when they come, are bright scarlet, but if you pick them they disappoint you by turning black before you get them home. And as Peter pointed, the tree was moving not just the way trees ought to move when the wind blows through them, but all in one piece, as though it were a live creature and were walking down the side of the cutting. "'It's moving!' cried Bobby. "'Oh, look! And so are the others! It's like the woods in Macbeth!' "'It's magic!' said Phyllis breathlessly. I always knew this railway was enchanted. It really did seem a little like magic. For all the trees for about twenty yards of the opposite bank seemed to be slowly walking down towards the railway line. The tree with the grey leaves bringing up the rear like some old shepherd driving a flock of green sheep. "'What is it?' "'Oh, what is it?' said Phyllis. "'It's too much magic for me. I don't like it. Let's go home.' But Bobby and Peter clung fast to the rail and watched breathlessly, and Phyllis made no movement towards going home by herself. The trees moved on and on. Some stones and loose earth fell down and rattled on the railway metals far below. "'It's all coming down,' Peter tried to say, but he found there was hardly any voice to say it with. And indeed, just as he spoke, the great rock on the top of which the walking trees were leaned slightly forward. The trees, ceasing to walk, stood still and shivered. Leaning with the rock they seemed to hesitate a moment, and then rock and trees and grass and bushes with a rushing sound slipped right away from the face of the cutting and fell on the line with a blundering crash that could have been heard half a mile off. A cloud of dust rose up. "'Oh!' said Peter in awestruck tones. "'Isn't it exactly like when coals come in? If there wasn't any roof to the cellar in you could see down.' "'What a great mound it's made,' said Bobby. "'Yes,' said Peter slowly. He was still leaning on the fence. "'Yes,' he said again, still more slowly. Then he stood upright. "'The eleven-twenty-nine down hasn't gone by yet. We must let them know at the station or they'll be a most frightful accident.' "'Let's run,' said Bobby, and began. But Peter cried, "'Come back!' and looked at Mother's watch. He was very prompt and businesslike, and his face looked whiter than they had ever seen it. No time,' he said. "'It's two miles away, and it's past eleven.' "'Couldn't we,' suggested Phyllis, breathlessly. "'Couldn't we climb up a telegraph post and do something to the wires?' "'We don't know how,' said Peter. "'They do it in more,' said Phyllis. "'I know I've heard of it.' "'They only cut them silly,' said Peter, and that doesn't do any good. And we couldn't cut them even if we got up, and we couldn't get up. If we had anything red, we could get down on the line and wave it. But the train wouldn't see us till it got round the corner, and then it could see the mound just as well as us,' said Phyllis. "'Better, because it's much bigger than us.' "'If we only had something red,' Peter repeated, "'we could go round the corner and wave to the train. "'We might wave anyway. They'd only think it was just us as usual. We've waved so often before. "'Anyway, let's get down.' They got down the steep stairs. Bobby was pale and shivering. Peter's face looked thinner than usual. Phyllis was red-faced and damp with anxiety. "'Oh, how hot I am,' she said, and I thought it was going to be cold. I wish we hadn't put on our—' She stopped short, and then ended in quite a different tone. "'Our flannel petticoats,' Bobby turned at the bottom of the stairs. "'Oh, yes,' she cried. "'They're red! Let's take them off.' They did, and with the petticoats rolled up under their arms, ran along the railway, skirting the newly-fallen mound of stones and rock and earth, and bent, crushed, twisted trees. They ran at their best pace. Peter led, but the girls were not far behind. They reached the corner that hid the mound from the straight line of railway that ran half a mile without curve or corner. "'Now,' said Peter, taking hold of the largest flannel petticoat, "'you're not,' Phyllis faltered. "'You're not going to tear them?' "'Shut up,' said Peter, with brief sternness. "'Oh, yes,' said Bobby. "'Tare them into little bits, if you like. "'Don't you see, Phil, if we can't stop the train, there'll be a real-life accident, with people killed. Oh, horrible! Here, Peter, you'll never tear it through the band.' She took the red flannel petticoat from him, and tore it off an inch from the band. Then she tore the other in the same way. "'There,' said Peter, tearing in his turn, he divided each petticoat into three pieces. "'Now we've got six flags,' he looked at the watch again. "'And we've got seven minutes. We must have flagstuffs.' The knives given to boys are, for some odd reason, seldom of the kind of steel that keeps sharp. The young saplings had to be broken off. Two came up by the roots. The leaves were stripped from them. "'We must cut holes in the flags, and run the sticks through the holes,' said Peter, and the holes were cut. The knife was sharp enough to cut flannel with. Two of the flags were set up in heaps of loose stones between the sleepers of a down-line. Then Phyllis and Roberta took each a flag, and stood ready to wave it as soon as the train came in sight. "'I shall have the other two myself,' said Peter, because it was my idea to wave something red. "'There are petticoats, though,' Phyllis was beginning, but Bobby interrupted. "'Oh, what does it matter? Who waves what if only we can save the train?' Perhaps Peter had not rightly calculated the number of minutes it would take the eleven twenty-nine to get from the station to the place where they were, or perhaps the train was late. Anyway, it seemed a very long time that they waited. Phyllis grew impatient. I expect the watch is wrong, and the train's gone by,' said she. Peter relaxed the heroic attitude he had chosen to show off his two flags, and Bobby began to feel sick with suspense. It seemed to her that they had been standing there for hours and hours, holding those silly little red flannel flags that no one would ever notice. The train wouldn't care. It would go rushing by them and tear around the corner, and go crashing into that awful mound, and everyone would be killed. Her hands grew very cold and trembled so that she could hardly hold the flag. And then came the distant rumble and hum of the metals, and a puff of white steam showed far away along the stretch of line. Stand firm, said Peter, and wave like mad. When it gets to the big furs bush, step back, but go on waving. Don't stand on the line, Bobby. The train came rattling along very, very fast. They don't see us. They won't see us. It's all no good, cried Bobby. The two little flags on the line swayed as the nearing train shook and loosened the heaps of stones that held them up. One of them slowly leaned over and fell on the line. Bobby jumped forward and caught it up and waved it. Her hands did not tremble now. It seems that the train came on as fast as ever. It was very near now. Keep off the line, you silly cuckoo! said Peter fiercely. It's no good, Bobby said again. Stand back! cried Peter suddenly, and he dragged Phyllis back by the arm. But Bobby cried, not yet, not yet, and waved her two flags right over the line. The front of the engine looked black and enormous. Its voice was loud and harsh. Oh, stop, stop, stop!" cried Bobby. No one heard her. At least Peter and Phyllis didn't, for the oncoming rush of the train covered the sound of her voice with a mountain of sound. But afterwards she used to wonder whether the engine itself had not heard her. It seemed almost as though it had, for it slackened swiftly, slackened and stopped—not twenty yards from the place where Bobby's two flags waved over the line. She saw the great black engine stop dead, but somehow she could not stop waving the flags. And when the driver and the fireman had got off the engine and Peter and Phyllis had gone to meet them and pour out their excited tail of the awful mound just round the corner, Bobby still waved the flags, but more and more feebly and jerkily. When the others turned towards her she was lying across the line with her hands flung forward and still gripping the sticks of the little red flannel flags. The engine driver picked her up, carried her to the train, and later on the cushions of a first-class carriage. Gone right off in a faint, he said, poor little woman. And no wonder. I'll just have a look at this the amount of yours, and then we'll run you back to the station and get her seen to. It was horrible to see Bobby lying so white and quiet, with her lips blue and parted. I believe that's what people look like when they're dead, whispered Phyllis. Don't! said Peter sharply. They sat by Bobby on the blue cushions and the train ran back. Before it reached their station Bobby had sighed and opened her eyes and rolled herself over and begun to cry. This cheered the others wonderfully. They had seen her cry before, but they had never seen her faint, nor anyone else for the matter of that. They had not known what to do when she was fainting, but now she was only crying they could thump her on the back and tell her not to just as they always did. And presently when she stopped crying they were able to laugh at her for being such a coward as to faint. When the station was reached the three were the heroes of an agitated meeting on the platform. The praises they got for their prompt action, their common sense, their ingenuity, were enough to have turned anybody's head. Phyllis enjoyed herself thoroughly. She had never been a real heroine before and the feeling was delicious. Peter's ears got very red, yet he too enjoyed himself. Only Bobby wished they all wouldn't. She wanted to get away. You'll hear from the company about this, I expect, said the station master. Bobby wished she might never hear of it again. She pulled at Peter's jacket. Oh, come away, come away. I want to go home, she said. So they went. And as they went station master and porter and guards and driver and fireman and passengers sent up a cheer. Oh, listen, cried Phyllis. That's for us. Yes, said Peter. I say, I am glad I thought about something red and waving it. How lucky we did put on our red flannel petticoats, said Phyllis. Bobby said nothing. She was thinking of the horrible mound and the trustful train rushing towards it. And it was us that saved them, said Peter. How dreadful if they'd all been killed, said Phyllis. Wouldn't it, Bobby? We never got any cherries after all, said Bobby. The others thought her rather heartless. I hope you don't mind me telling you a good deal about Roberta. The fact is, I'm growing very fond of her. The more I observe her, the more I love her. And I notice all sorts of things about her that I like. For instance, she was quite oddly anxious to make other people happy. And she could keep a secret, a tolerably rare accomplishment. Also, she had the power of silent sympathy. That sounds rather dull, I know, but it's not so dull as it sounds. It just means that a person is able to know that you are unhappy and to love you extra on that account without bothering you by telling you all the time how sorry she is for you. That was what Bobby was like. She knew that mother was unhappy, and that mother had not told her the reason. So she just loved mother more and never said a single word that could let mother know how earnestly her little girl wondered what mother was unhappy about. This needs practice. It is not so easy as you might think. Whatever happened, and all sorts of nice pleasant ordinary things happened, such as picnics, games, and buns for tea, Bobby always had these thoughts at the back of her mind. Mother's unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't want me to know. I won't try to find out. But she is unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't—and so on, repeating and repeating like a tune that you don't know the stopping part of. The Russian gentleman still took up a good deal of everybody's thoughts. All the editors and secretaries of societies and members of parliament had answered mother's letters as politely as they knew how, but none of them could tell where the wife and children of Mr. Shepansky would be likely to be. Did I tell you that the Russian's very Russian name was that? Bobby had another quality which you will hear differently described by different people. Some of them call it interfering in other people's business, and some call it helping lame dogs over styles, and some call it loving kindness. It just means trying to help people. She racked her brains to think of some way of helping the Russian gentleman to find his wife and children. He had learned a few words of English now. He could say, good morning, and good night, and please, and thank you, and pretty, when the children brought him flowers, and very good when they asked him how he had slept. The way he smiled when he said his English was, Bobby felt, just too sweet for anything. She used to think of his face, because she fancied it would help her to some way of helping him, but it did not. Yet his being there teared her, because she saw that it made mother happier. She likes to have someone to be good to, even beside us, said Bobby, and I know she hated to let him have father's clothes, but I suppose it hurt nice, or she wouldn't have. For many and many a night after the day when she and Peter and Phyllis had saved the train from wreck by waving their little red flannel flags, Bobby used to wake up screaming and shivering, seeing again that horrible mound of the poor, dear, trustful engine rushing on towards it, just thinking that it was doing its swift duty, and that everything was clear and safe. And then a warm thrill of pleasure used to run through her at the remembrance of how she and Peter and Phyllis and the red flannel petticoats had really saved everybody. One morning a letter came. It was addressed to Peter and Bobby and Phyllis. They opened it with enthusiastic curiosity, for they did not often get letters. The letter said, Dear sir and ladies, it is proposed to make a small presentation to you in commemoration of your prompt and courageous action in mourning the train on the blank inst, and thus averting what must humanly speaking have been a terrible accident. The presentation will take place at the blank station, at three o'clock on the 30th inst, if this time and place will be convenient to you. Yours faithfully, Jabez Inglewood, secretary, great northern and southern railway company. There had never been a prouder moment in the lives of the three children. They rushed to mother with the letter, and she also felt proud and said so, and this made the children happier than ever. But if the presentation is money, you must say, Thank you, but we'd rather not take it, said mother. I'll wash your Indian muslins at once, she added. You must look tidy on an occasion like this. Phil and I can wash them, said Bobby, if you'll iron them, mother. Washing is rather fun. I wonder whether you've ever done it. This particular washing took place in the back kitchen, which had a stone floor and a very big stone sink under its window. Let's put the bath on the sink, said Phyllis, then we can pretend we're out of door's washer-woman like mother saw in France. But they were washing in the cold river, said Peter, his hands in his pockets, and not in hot water. This is a hot river, then, said Phyllis. Lend a hand with the bath, there's a deer. I should like to see a deer lending a hand, said Peter, but he lent his. Now to rub and scrub and scrub and rub, said Phyllis, hopping joyously about as Bobby carefully carried the heavy kettle from the kitchen fire. Oh, no! said Bobby, greatly shocked. You don't rub muslin. You put the boiled soap in the hot water and make it all frothy, lathery, and then you shake the muslin, squeeze it ever so gently, and all the dirt comes out. It's only clumsy things like tablecloths and sheets that have to be rubbed. The lilac and the gloidity-gen roses outside the window swayed in the soft breeze. It's a nice drying day, that's one thing, said Bobby, feeling very grown up. Oh, I do wonder what wonderful feelings we shall have when we wear the Indian muslin dresses. Yes, so do I, said Phyllis, shaking and squeezing the muslin in quite a professional manner. Now we squeeze out the soapy water. No, we mustn't twist them, and then rinse them. I'll hold them while you and Peter empty the bath and get clean water. A presentation—that means presents, said Peter, as his sisters, having duly washed the pegs and wiped the line, hung up the dresses to dry. Whatever will it be? It might be anything, said Phyllis. What I have always wanted is a baby elephant. But I suppose they wouldn't know that. Suppose it was gold models of steam engines, said Bobby, or a big model of the scene of the Prevented Accident, suggested Peter, with the little model train and dolls just like us and the engine driver and fireman and passengers. Do you like—said Bobby doubtfully drying her hands on the rough towel that hung on a roller at the back of the scullery door—do you like us being rewarded for saving a train? Yes, I do, said Peter downrightly, and don't you try to come it over us that you don't like it too, because I know you do. Yes, said Bobby doubtfully, I know I do. But oughtn't we to be satisfied with just having done it and not ask for anything more? Who did ask for anything more silly? said her brother. Victoria Cross soldiers don't ask for it, but they're glad enough to get it all the same. Perhaps it'll be medals. Then, when I'm very old indeed, I shall show them to my grandchildren and say, We only did our duty, and they'll be awfully proud of me. You have to be married, warned Phyllis, or you don't have any grandchildren. I suppose I shall have to be married some day, said Peter. But it will be an awful bother having her around all the time. I'd like to marry a lady who had trances and only woke up once or twice a year. Just to say you were the light of her life and then go to sleep again. Yes, that wouldn't be bad, said Bobby. When I get married, said Phyllis, I shall want him to want me to be awake all the time so that I can hear him say how nice I am. I think it would be nice, said Bobby, to marry someone very poor, and then you'd do all the work and he'd love you most frightfully, and see the blue wood smoke curling up among the trees from the domestic hearth as he came home from work every night. I say, we've got to answer that letter and say that the time and place will be convenient to us. There's the soap, Peter. We're both as clean as clean. That pink box of writing paper you had on your birthday, Phil. It took some time to arrange what should be said. Mother had gone back to her writing, and several sheets of pink paper with scalloped gilt edges, and green four-leaved shamrocks in the corner were spoiled, before the three had decided what to say. Then each made a copy and signed it with its own name. The threefold letter ran. Dear Mr. Jabez Inglewood. Thank you very much. We did not want to be rewarded, but only to save the train. But we are glad you think so, and thank you very much. The time and place you say will be quite convenient to us. Thank you very much. Your fecate little friend. Then came the name, and after it, P.S., thank you very much. Washing is much easier than ironing," said Bobby, taking the clean, dry dresses off the line. I do love to see things come clean. Oh, I don't know how we shall wait till it's time to know what presentation they're going to present. When at last—it seemed a very long time after— it was the day the three children went down to the station at the proper time, and everything that happened was so odd that it seemed like a dream. The station master came out to meet them, in his best clothes, as Peter noticed at once, and led them into the waiting-room, where once they had played the advertisement game. It looked quite different now. A carpet had been put down, and there were pots of roses on the mantelpiece, and on the window-ledges. Green branches stuck up like holly and laurel are at Christmas, over the framed advertisement of Cook's tours in the beauties of Devon, and the Paris-Lyon railway. There were quite a number of people there, besides the porter—two or three ladies in smart dresses, and quite a crowd of gentlemen in high hats and frock coats, besides everybody who belonged to the station. They recognized several people who had been in the train on the Red Flannel Petticoat day. Best of all, their own old gentleman was there, and his coat and hat and collar seemed more than ever different from anyone else's. He shook hands with them, and then everybody sat down on chairs, and a gentleman in spectacles—they found out afterwards that he was the district superintendent—began quite a long speech, very clever indeed. I am not going to write the speech down. Firstly, because you would think it dull, and secondly, because it made all the children blush so, and get so hot about the ears, that I am quite anxious to get away from this part of the subject, and thirdly, because the gentleman took so many words to say what he had to say, that I really haven't time to write them down. He said all sorts of nice things about the children's bravery and presence of mind, and when he had done, he sat down, and everyone who was there clapped and said, here, here. And then the old gentleman got up and said things, too. It was very like a prize-giving. And then he called the children one by one by their names, and gave each of them a beautiful gold watch and chain. And inside the watches were engraved after the name of the watch's new owner. From the directors of the northern and southern railway, in grateful recognition of the courageous and prompt action which averted an accident on Blank 1905. The watches were the most beautiful you can possibly imagine, and each one had a blue leather case to live in when it was at home. You must make a speech now, and thank everyone for their kindness," whispered the stationmaster in Peter's ear, and pushed him forward. Begin, ladies and gentlemen, he added. Each of the children had already said thank you quite properly. Oh dear, said Peter, but he did not resist the push.—Ladies and gentlemen, he said in a rather husky voice. Then there was a pause, and he heard his heart beating in his throat. Ladies and gentlemen, he went on with the rush. It's most awfully good of you, and we shall treasure the watches all our lives. But we really don't deserve it, because what we did wasn't anything really. At least, I mean, it was awfully exciting, and what I mean to say— Thank you all very much. The people clapped Peter more than they had done the district superintendent, and then everybody shook hands with them, and as soon as politeness would let them, they got away and tore up the hill to three chimneys with their watches in their hands. It was a wonderful day—the kind of day that very seldom happens to anybody, and to most of us not at all. I did want to talk to the old gentleman about something else, said Bobby, but it was so public, like being in church. What did you want to say? asked Phyllis. I'll tell you when I've thought about it more, said Bobby. So when she had thought a little more, she wrote a letter. My dearest old gentleman, it said, I want most awfully to ask you something. If you could get out of the train and go by the next, it would do. I do not want you to give me anything. Mother says we ought not to, and besides, we do not want any things, only to talk to you about a prisoner in captive—your loving little friend, Bobby. She got the stationmaster to give the letter to the old gentleman, and next day she asked Peter and Phyllis to come down to the station with her at the time when the train that brought the old gentleman from town would be passing through. She explained her idea to them, and they approved thoroughly. They had all washed their hands and faces and brushed their hair, and were looking as tidy as they knew how. But Phyllis, always unlucky, had upset a jug of lemonade down the front of her dress. There was no time to change, and the wind happening to blow from the coal-yard, her frock was soon powdered with grey, which stuck to the sticky lemonade stains and made her look, as Peter said, like any little gutter child. It was decided that she should keep behind the others as much as possible. Perhaps the old gentleman won't notice, said Bobby. The aged are often weak in the eyes. There was no sign of weakness, however, in the eyes or in any other part of the old gentleman, as he stepped from the train and looked up and down the platform. The three children, now that it came to the point, suddenly felt that rush of deep shyness which makes your ears red and hot, your hands warm and wet, and the tip of your nose pink and shiny. Oh, said Phyllis, my heart's something like a steam engine right under my sash, too. Nonsense, said Peter. People's hearts under their sashes. I don't care. Mine is, said Phyllis. If you're going to talk like a poetry book, said Peter, my heart's in my mouth. My heart's in my boots, if you come to that, said Roberta. But do come on, you'll think we're idiots. He won't be far wrong, said Peter gloomily, and they went forward to meet the old gentleman. Hello, he said, shaking hands with them all in turn. This is a very great pleasure. It was good of you to get out, Bobby said, perspiring and polite. He took her arm and drew her into the waiting-room, where she and the others had played the advertisement game the day they found the Russian. Phyllis and Peter followed. Well, said the old gentleman, giving Bobby's arm a kind little shake before he let it go. Well, what is it? Oh, please, said Bobby. Yes, said the old gentleman. What I mean to say, said Bobby. Well, said the old gentleman. It's all very nice and kind, said she. But, he said, I wish I might say something, she said. Say it, said he. Well then, said Bobby, and out came the story of the Russian, who had written the beautiful book about poor people, and had been sent to prison and to Siberia for just that. And what we want more than anything in the world is to find his wife and children for him, said Bobby. But we don't know how. And you must be most horribly clever, or you wouldn't be a direction of the railway. And if you knew how, and would, we'd rather have that than anything else in the world. We'd go without the watches even, if you could sell them and find his wife with the money. And the others said so too, though not with so much enthusiasm. Hmm. Said the old gentleman, pulling down the white waistcoat that had the big guilt buttons on it. What did you say the name was? Frying Pansky? No, no, said Bobby earnestly. I'll write it down for you. It doesn't really look at all like that, except when you say it. Have you a bit of pencil in the back of an envelope? She asked. The old gentleman got out a gold pencil case, and a beautiful, sweet-smelling, green Russian leather notebook, and opened it in a new page. Here, he said, right here. She wrote down S-Z-E-Z-C-P-A-N-S-K-Y, and said, That's how you write it. You call it Chapansky. The old gentleman took out a pair of gold rimmed spectacles, and fitted them on his nose. When he had read the name, he looked quite different. That man? Bless my soul, he said. Why, I've read his book. It's translated into every European language. A fine book. A noble book. And so your mother took him in, like the Good Samaritan. Well, well. I'll tell you what, youngsters. Your mother must be a very good woman. Of course she is, said Phyllis, in astonishment. And you're a very good man, said Bobby, very shy, but firmly resolved to be polite. You flatter me, said the old gentleman, taking off his hat with a flourish. And now am I to tell you what I think of you? Oh, please don't, said Bobby hastily. Why, asked the old gentleman. I don't exactly know, said Bobby, only if it's horrid I don't want you to, and if it's nice I'd rather you didn't. The old gentleman laughed. Well then, he said, I'll only just say that I'm very glad you came to me about this, very glad indeed, and I shouldn't be surprised if I found out something very soon. I know a great many Russians in London, and every Russian knows his name. Now tell me all about yourselves. He turned to the others. But there was only one other, and that was Peter. Phyllis had disappeared. Tell me all about yourself, said the old gentleman again, and quite naturally Peter was stricken dumb. All right, we'll have an examination, said the old gentleman. You two sit on the table, and I'll sit on the bench and ask questions. He did, and out came their names and ages, their father's name and business, how long they had lived at three chimneys and a great deal more. The questions were beginning to turn on a herring and a half for three half-pence, and a pound of lead and a pound of feathers, when the door of the waiting-room was kicked open by a boot. As the boot entered, everyone could see that its lace was coming undone, and in came Phyllis, very slowly and carefully. In one hand she carried a large tin can, and in the other a thick slice of bread and butter. Afternoon tea, she announced proudly, and held the can and the bread and buttered out to the old gentleman who took them and said, bless my soul. Yes, said Phyllis, I was very thoughtful of you, said the old gentleman. Very. But you might have got a cup, said Bobby, and a plate. Perks always drinks out of the can, said Phyllis, flushing red. I think it was very nice of him to give it to me at all. Let alone cups and plates, she added. So do I, said the old gentleman, and he drank some of the tea and tasted the bread and butter. And then it was time for the next train, and he got into it with many good-byes and kind last words. Well, said Peter, when they were left on the platform, and the taillights of the train disappeared around the corner. It's my belief that we've lighted a candle today, like Latimer, you know, when he was being burned, and there'll be fireworks for our rush from before long. And so there were. It wasn't ten days after the interview in the waiting-room that the three children were sitting on the top of the biggest rock in the field below their house, watching the five-fifteen steam away from the station along the bottom of the valley. They saw, too, the few people who had got out at the station straggling up the road towards the village, and they saw one person leave the road and open the gate that led across the fields to three chimneys, and to nowhere else. Who on earth? said Peter, scrambling down. Let's go and see, said Phyllis. So they did. And when they got near enough to see who the person was, they saw it was their old gentleman himself, his brass buttons winking in the afternoon sunshine, and his white waistcoat looking whiter than ever against the green of the field. Hello! shouted the children, waving their hands. Hello! shouted the old gentleman, waving his hat. Then the three started to run, and when they got to him they hardly had breath left to say, How do you do? Good news, said he. I found your Russian friend's wife and child, and I couldn't resist the temptation of giving myself the pleasure of telling him. But as he looked at Bobby's face, he felt that he could resist that temptation. Here, he said to her, You run on and tell him. The other two will show me the way. Bobby ran. But when she had breathlessly panted out the news to the Russian and mother sitting in the quiet garden, when mother's face had lighted up so beautifully, and she had said half a dozen quick French words to the exile, Bobby wished that she had not carried the news. For the Russian sprang up with a cry that made Bobby's heart leap and then tremble, a cry of love and longing such as she had never heard. Then he took mother's hand and kissed it gently and reverently, and he sank down in his chair and covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Bobby crept away. She did not want to see the others just then. But she was as gay as anybody when the endless French talking was over, when Peter had torn down to the village for buns and cakes, and the girls had got tea ready and taken it out into the garden. The old gentleman was most merry and delightful. He seemed to be able to talk in French and English almost at the same moment, and mother did nearly as well. It was a delightful time. Mother seemed as if she could not make enough fuss about the old gentleman, and she said yes at once when he asked if he might present some goodies to his little friends. The word was new to the children, but they guessed it meant sweets, for the three large pink and green boxes tied with green ribbon which you took out of his bag held unheard of layers of beautiful chocolates. The Russians' few belongings were packed, and they all saw him off at the station. Then mother turned to the old gentleman and said, I don't know how to thank you for everything. It has been a real pleasure to me to see you. But we live very quietly. I am so sorry that I can't ask you to come and see us again. The children thought this very hard. When they had made a friend, and such a friend, they would dearly have liked him to come and see them again. But the old gentleman thought they couldn't tell. He only said, I consider myself very fortunate, madam, to have been received once at your house. Ah, said mother, I know I must seem surly and ungrateful, but you could never seem anything but a most charming and gracious lady, said the old gentleman with another of his bows. And as they turned to go up the hill, Bobby saw her mother's face. How tired you look, mummy, she said, lean on me. It's my place to give mother my arm, said Peter. I'm the headman of the family when father's away. Mother took an arm of each. How awfully nice, said Phyllis, skipping joyfully, to think of the dear Russian embracing his long lost wife. The baby must have grown up a lot since he saw it. Yes, said mother. I wonder whether father will think I've grown, Phyllis went on skipping still more gaily. I've grown already, haven't I, mother? Yes, said mother. Oh, yes. And Bobby and Peter felt her hands tighten on their arms. Poor old mummy, you are tired, said Peter. Bobby said, come on, Phil, I'll race you to the gate. And she started the race though she hated doing it. You know why Bobby did that. Mother only thought that Bobby was tired of walking slowly. Even mothers who love you better than anyone else ever will don't always understand. End of Chapter 7 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage Waco, Texas, October 2006 The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt Chapter 8 The Amateur Fireman That's a likely little brooch you've got on miss, said Perks, the porter. I don't know, as ever I see a thing more like a butter-cup without it was a butter-cup. Yes, said Bobby, glad and flushed by this approval. I always thought it was more like a butter-cup almost than even a real one. And I never thought it would come to be mine, my very own. And then mother gave it to me for my birthday. Oh, have you had a birthday, said Perks, and he seemed quite surprised as though a birthday were a thing only granted to a favoured few. Yes, said Bobby. When's your birthday, Mr. Perks? The children were taking tea with Mr. Perks in the porter's room among the lamps and the railway almanacs. They had brought their own cups and some jam turnovers. Mr. Perks made tea in a beer-can, as usual, and everyone felt very happy and confidential. My birthday, said Perks, tipping some more dark brown tea out of the can into Peter's cup. I give up keeping of my birthday before you was born. But you must have been born some time, you know, said Phyllis thoughtfully, even if it was twenty years ago, or thirty, or sixty, or seventy. Not so long as that, Missy, Perks grinned, as he answered. If you really want to know, it was thirty-two years ago, come the fifteenth of this month. Then why don't you keep it? asked Phyllis. I've got something else to keep besides birthdays, said Perks, briefly. Oh! what? asked Phyllis eagerly. Not secrets. No, said Perks, the kids and the missus. It was this talk that set the children thinking and presently talking. Perks was, on the whole, the dearest friend they had made. Not so grand as the station-master, but more approachable, less powerful than the old gentleman, but more confidential. It seems horrid that nobody keeps his birthday, said Bobby. Couldn't we do something? Let's go up to the canal bridge and talk it over, said Peter. I got a new gut-line from the postman this morning. He gave it me for a bunch of roses that I gave him for his sweetheart. She's ill. Then I do think you might have given her the roses for nothing, said Bobby indignantly. Nya-nya, said Peter desegreably, and put his hands in his pockets. He did, of course, said Phyllis, in haste. Directly we heard she was ill, and we got the roses ready and waited by the gate. It was when you were making the brekker toast. And when he'd said thank you for the roses so many times, much more than he need have, he pulled out the line and gave it to Peter. It wasn't exchange. It was the grateful heart. Oh, I beg your pardon, Peter, said Bobby. I am so sorry. Don't mention it, said Peter grandly. I knew you would be. So then they all went up to the canal bridge. The idea was to fish from the bridge, but the line was not quite long enough. Never mind, said Bobby. Let's just stay here and look at things. Everything's so beautiful. It was. The sun was setting in red splendor over the grey and purple hills, and the canal lay smooth and shiny in the shadow. No ripple broke its surface. It was like a grey satin ribbon between the dusky green silk of the meadows that were on each side of its banks. It's all right, said Peter. But somehow I can always see how pretty things are much better when I have something to do. Let's get down on to the towpath and fish from there. Phyllis and Bobby remembered how the boys on the canal boats had thrown coal at them, and they said so. Oh, nonsense, said Peter. There aren't any boys here now. If there were, I'd fight them. Peter's sisters were kind enough not to remind him how he had not fought the boys when the coal had last been thrown. Instead they said, all right then, and cautiously climbed down the steep bank to the towing path. The line was carefully baited, and for half an hour they fished patiently and in vain. Not a single nibble came to nourish hope in their hearts. All eyes were intent on the sluggish waters that earnestly pretended they had never harboured a single minnow, when a loud, rough shout made them start. I, said the shout in most disagreeable tones, get out of that, can't you? An old white horse coming along the towpath was within half a dozen yards of them. They sprang to their feet and hastily climbed up the bank. We'll slip down again when they've gone by, said Bobby. But alas! the barge, after the manner of barges, stopped under the bridge. She's going to anchor, said Peter, just our luck. The barge did not anchor, because an anchor is not part of a canal boat's furniture, but she was moored with ropes, fore and aft, and the ropes were made faster the palings into crowbars driven into the ground. What are you staring at? growled the barge crossly. We weren't staring, said Bobby. We wouldn't be so rude. Rude be blessed, said the man. Get along with you. Get along yourself, said Peter. He remembered what he had said about fighting boys, and besides he felt safe halfway up the bank. Weave as much rights here as any one else. Oh, have you indeed, said the man. We'll soon see about that. And he came across his deck and began to climb down the side of his barge. Oh, come away, Peter. Come away, said Bobby and Phyllis in agonized unison. Not me, said Peter, but you'd better. The girls climbed to the top of the bank and stood ready to bolt for home, as soon as they saw their brother out of danger. The way home lay all downhill. They knew that they all ran well. The barge did not look as if he did. He was red-faced, heavy and beefy. But as soon as his foot was on the towing-path, the children saw that they had misjudged him. He made one spring up the bank and caught Peter by the leg, dragged him down, set him on his feet with a shake, took him by the ear, and said sternly, Now then, what do you mean by it? Don't you know as these ear-waters is preserved? You ain't no right catchin' fish here, not to say nothing of your precious cheek. Peter was always proud afterwards when he remembered that, with the barge's furious fingers tightening on his ear, the barge's crimson countenance close to his own, the barge's hot breath on his neck, he had the courage to speak the truth. I wasn't catching fish," said Peter. It's not your fault, Arby bound," said the man, giving Peter's ear a twist—not a hard one, but still a twist. Peter could not say that it was. Bobby and Phyllis had been holding onto the railings above and skipping with anxiety. Now suddenly Bobby slipped through the railings and rushed down the bank towards Peter, so impetuously that Phyllis, following more temporarily, felt certain that her sister's dissent would end in the waters of the canal, and so it would have done if the barge hadn't let go of Peter's ear and quarter in his jerseyed arm. Who are you a-shovin' of? he said, setting her on her feet. Oh! said Bobby, breathless, I'm not shoving anybody—at least not on purpose. Please don't be cross with Peter. Of course, if it's your canal, we're sorry and we won't any more. But we didn't know it was yours. Go along with you, said the bargee. Yes, we will—indeed we will, said Bobby earnestly, but we do beg your pardon, and really we haven't caught a single fish. I'd tell you directly if we had, on a bright eye would. She held out her hands and Phyllis turned out her little empty pocket to show that really they hadn't any fish concealed about them. Well, said the bargee, more gently, cut along then, and don't you do it again, that's all. The children hurried up the bank. Shug as a coat, Maria! shouted the man, and a red-haired woman in a green plaid shawl came out from the cabin door with a baby in her arms and threw a coat to him. He put it on, climbed the bank, and slouched along across the bridge towards the village. You'll fire me up at the rose and crown when you've got the kid to sleep! He called her from the bridge. When he was out of sight, the children slowly returned. Peter insisted on this. The canal may belong to him, he said, though I don't believe it does. But the bridge is everybody's. Dr. Forrest told me it's public property. I'm not going to be bounced off the bridge by him or anyone else, so I tell you." Peter's ear was still sore, and so were his feelings. The girls followed him as gallant soldiers might follow the leader of a fall-on hope. I do wish you wouldn't, was all they said. Go home if you're afraid, said Peter. Leave me alone. I'm not afraid. The sound of the man's footsteps died away along the quiet road. The piece of the evening was not broken by the notes of the sedge warbler, or by the voice of the woman in the barge, singing her baby to sleep. It was a sad song, she sang, something about Bill Bailey, and how she wanted him to come home. The children stood leaning their arms on the parapet of the bridge. They were glad to be quiet for a few minutes, because all three hearts were beating much more quickly. I'm not going to be driven away by any old bargeman I'm not, said Peter thickly. Of course not, Phyllis said soothingly. You didn't give in to him? So now we might go home, don't you think? No, said Peter. Nothing more was said till the woman got off the barge, climbed to the bank, and came across the bridge. She hesitated, looking at the three backs of the children. Then she said, Peter stayed where he was, but the girls looked around. You mustn't take no notice of my Bill, said the woman. His barks worsen his bite. Some of the kids down Farleyway, it's fair terrors. It was them put his back up, calling out about who ate the puppy pie under Marlowe bridge. Who did? asked Phyllis. I don't know, said the woman. Nobody don't know. But somehow, and I don't know the whine or the wherefore of it, them words is pison to a barge-master. Don't you take no notice? You won't be back for two hours good. You might catch a para-fisher for that. The light's good nor, she added. Thank you, said Bobby. You're very kind. Where's your baby? I sleep in the cabin, said the woman. He's all right. Never wakes a four twelve. Regular as a church-clock, he is. I'm sorry, said Bobby. I would have liked to see him close, too. And a finer you never did see, Miss, though I says it. The woman's face brightened as she spoke. Aren't you afraid to leave it, said Peter? Oh, love you, now, said the woman. Who dirt a little thing like him? Besides, spots there. So long, the woman went away. Shall we go home, said Phyllis. You can. I'm going to fish, said Peter, briefly. I thought we came up here to talk about Perks's birthday, said Phyllis. Perks's birthday'll keep. So they got down on the towing-path again and Peter fished. He did not catch anything. It was almost quite dark. The girls were getting tired, and as Bobby said, it was past bedtime, when suddenly Phyllis cried, What's that? And she pointed to the canal-boat. Smoke was coming from the chimney of the cabin, had indeed been curling softly into the soft evening air all the time, but now other wreaths of smoke were rising, and these were from the cabin door. It's on fire, that's all, said Peter calmly. Serve him right. Oh, how can you? cried Phyllis. Think of the poor, dear dog. The baby! screamed Bobby, in an instant, all three made for the barge. Her mooring ropes were slack, and the little breeze, hardly strong enough to be felt, had yet been strong enough to drift her stern against the bank. Bobby was first, then came Peter, and it was Peter who slipped and fell. He went into the canal up to his neck, and his feet could not feel the bottom, but his arm was on the edge of the barge. Phyllis caught at his hair. It hurt, but it helped him to get out. Next minute he had leapt onto the barge, Phyllis following. Not you! he shouted to Bobby. Me! because I'm wet! He caught up with Bobby at the cabin door, and flung her aside very roughly, indeed. If they had been playing, such roughness would have made Bobby weep with tears of rage and pain. Now, though he flung her onto the edge of the hold, so that her knee and her elbow were grazed and bruised, she only cried, No! not you! me! and struggled up again, but not quickly enough. Peter had already gone down two of the cabin steps into the cloud of thick smoke. He stopped, remembering all he had ever heard of fires, pulled his soaked handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and tied it over his mouth. As he pulled it out, he said, It's all right, hardly any fire at all. And this, though he thought it was a lie, was rather good of Peter. It was meant to keep Bobby from rushing after him into danger. Of course, it didn't. The cabin glowed red. A paraffin lamp was burning calmly in an orange mist. I said Peter, lifting the handkerchief from his mouth for a moment. Hi, baby! Where are you? he choked. Oh, let me go! cried Bobby, close behind him. Peter pushed her back more roughly than before, and went on. Now, what would have happened if the baby hadn't cried? I don't know. But just at that moment it did cry. Peter felt his way through the dark smoke, found something small and soft and warm and alive, picked it up and backed out, nearly tumbling over Bobby, who was close behind. A dog snapped at his leg, tried to bark, choked. I've got the kid! said Peter, tearing off the handkerchief and staggering onto the deck. Bobby caught at the place where the bark came from, and her hands met on the fat back of a smooth-haired dog. It turned and fastened its teeth on her hand, but very gently as much as to say, I'm bound to bark and bite if strangers come into my master's cabin. But I know you mean well, so I won't really bite. Bobby dropped the dog. All right, old man. Good dog, said she. Here, give me the baby, Peter. You're so wet, you'll give it cold. Peter was only too glad to hand over the strange little bundle that squirmed and whimpered in his arms. Now, said Bobby quickly, you run straight into the rows and crown and tell them, Phil and I will stay here with the precious. Hush then, a deer, a duck, a darling. Go now, Peter! Run! I can't run in these things, said Peter firmly. There is heavy as lead. I'll walk. Then I'll run, said Bobby. Get on the bankful, and I'll hand you the deer." The baby was carefully handed. Phyllis sat down on the bank and tried to hush the baby. Peter rung the water from his sleeves and knickerbocker legs as well as he could, and it was Bobby who ran like the wind across the bridge and up the long, white, quiet twilight road towards the rows and crown. There is a nice, old-fashioned room at the rows and crown, where bargees and their wives sit of an evening drinking their supper beer, and toasting their supper cheese at a glowing basket full of coals that sticks out into the room under a great hooded chimney, and is warmer and prettier and more comforting than any other fireplace I ever saw. There was a pleasant party of barge people around the fire. You might not have thought it pleasant, but they did, for they were all friends or acquaintances, and they liked the same sort of things, and talked the same sort of talk. This is the real secret of pleasant society. The bargy Bill, whom the children had found so disagreeable, was considered excellent company by his mates. He was telling a tale of his own wrongs, always a thrilling subject. It was his barge he was speaking about, and he sent word down, paint her inside out, not name and no colour to see. So I get a lot of green paint, and I paint a stem to stern, and I tell you, she looked A1. Then he comes along, and he says, What do you paint her all one colour for, he says? And I says, says I, because I thought she'd look fast rate, says I, and I think so still. And he says, Do you? Then you can just pay for the blue man paint yourself, says he, and I add too, too. A murmur of sympathy ran round the room. Breaking noisily in on it came Bobby. She burst open the swing door, crying breathlessly, Bill, I want Bill, the barge men! There was a stupefied silence. Pots of beer were held in mid-air, paralyzed on their way to thirsty mouths. Oh, said Bobby, seeing the barge woman and making for her. Your barge cabin's on fire, go quickly. The woman started to her feet and put a big red hand to her waist on the left side, where your heart seems to be when you're a frightened or miserable. Retinal Horace! She cried in a terrible voice. My retinal Horace! All right, said Bobby, if you mean the baby, got him out safe. Dog too. She had no breath for more except, Go on, it's all a light. Then she sank on the alehouse bench, and tried to get that breath of relief after running, which people call the second wind. But she felt as though she would never breathe again. Bill the bargee rose slowly and heavily, but his wife was a hundred yards up the row before he had quite understood what was the matter. Phyllis, shivering by the canal side, had hardly heard the quick approaching feet before the woman had flung herself on the railing, rolled down the bank, and snatched the baby from her. Don't, said Phyllis reproachfully, I just got him to sleep. Bill came up later, talking in a language with which the children were wholly unfamiliar. He leapt onto the barge and dipped up pales of water. Peter helped him, and they put out the fire. Phyllis, the barge woman and the baby, and presently Bobby too, cuddled together in a heap on the bank. Lord, help me if it was me left anything as could catch a light, said the woman again and again. But it wasn't she. It was Bill the bargeman who had knocked his pipe out, and the red ash had fallen on the hearth-rug and smoldered there, and at last broken into flame. Though a stern man, he was just. He did not blame his wife for what was his own fault, as many bargemen and other men too would have done. Mother was half-wild with anxiety when at last the three children turned up at three chimneys, all very wet now, for Peter seemed to have come off on the others. But when she had disentangled the truth of what had happened from their mixed and incoherent narrative, she owned that they had done quite right, and could not possibly have done otherwise. Nor did she put any obstacles in the way of their accepting the cordial invitation with which the bargeman had parted from them. You be here at seven to-morrow, he had said, and I'll take you the entire trip to Farley and back, so I will, and not a penny to pay—nineteen locks. They did not know what locks were, but they were at the bridge at seven, with bread and cheese, and half a soda-cake, and quite a quarter leg of mutton and a basket. It was a glorious day. The old wide-horse strained at the ropes, the barge glided smoothly and steadily through the still water. The sky was blue overhead. Mr. Bill was as nice as any one could possibly be. No one would have thought that he could be the same man who had held Peter by the ear. As for Mrs. Bill, she had always been nice, as Bobby said, and so had the baby, and even Spot, who might have bitten them quite badly if he had liked. It was simply ripping, Mother, said Peter, when they reached home very happy, very tired, and very dirty, right over that glorious aqueduct, and locks. You don't know what they're like. You sink into the ground, and then, when you feel you're never going to stop going down, two great black gates open slowly, slowly, you go out, and there you are on the canal, just like you were before. I know, said Mother, there are locks on the Thames. Father and I used to go on the river at Marlowe before we were married. And the dear, darling, ducky baby, said Bobby, it let me nurse it for ages and ages, and it was so good. Mother, I wish we had a baby to play with. And everybody was so nice to us, said Phyllis, everybody we met, and they say we may fish whenever we like, and Bill is going to show us the way next time he's in these parts. He says we don't know, really. He said you didn't know, said Peter. But Mother, he said he'd tell all the bargees up and down the canal that we were the real right sort, and they were to treat us like good pals as we were. So then I said, Phyllis interrupted, we'd always each wear a red ribbon when we weren't fishing by the canal, so they'd know it was us, and we were the real right sort, and be nice to us. So you've made another lot of friends, said Mother, first the railway, and then the canal. Oh, yes, said Bobby. I think everyone in the world is friends, if you can only get them to see you don't want to be unfriends. Perhaps you're right, said Mother, and she sighed. Come, chicks, it's bedtime. Yes, said Phyllis. Oh, dear! And we went up there to talk about what we'd do for Perk's birthday, and we haven't talked a single thing about it. No more we have, said Bobby. But Peter saved Reginald Horace's life. I think that's about good enough for one evening. Bobby would have saved him if I hadn't locked her down. Twice I did, said Peter loyally. So would I, said Phyllis, if I'd known what to do. Yes, said Mother, you've saved a little child's life. I do think that's enough for one evening. Oh, my darlings, thank God you're all safe. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, October 2006 The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt Chapter 9 The Pride of Perk's It was breakfast time. Mother's face was very bright as she poured the milk and ladled out the porridge. I've sold another storied, chickies, she said, the one about the king of the mussels, so there'll be buns for tea. You can go and get them as soon as they're baked. About eleven, isn't it? Peter, Phyllis, and Bobby exchanged glances with each other, six glances in all. Then Bobby said, Mother, would you mind if we didn't have the buns for tea tonight, but on the fifteenth? That's next Thursday. I don't mind when you have them, dear, said Mother, but why? Because it's Perk's birthday, said Bobby. He's thirty-two, and he says he doesn't keep his birthday any more, because he's got other things to keep. Not rabbits or secrets, but the kids and the missus. You mean his wife and children, said Mother. Yes, said Phyllis. It's the same thing, isn't it? And we thought we'd make a nice birthday for him. He's been so awfully jolly decent to us, you know, Mother, said Peter, and we agreed that next Monday we'd ask you if we could. But suppose there hadn't been a Monday before the fifteenth, said Mother. Oh, then we meant to ask you to let us ante— antipate it, and go without when the Monday came. Anticipate, said Mother. I see. Certainly. It would be nice to put his name on the buns with pink sugar, wouldn't it? Perk's, said Peter. It's not a pretty name. His other name's Albert, said Phyllis. I asked him once. We might put AP, said Mother. I'll show you how when the day comes. This was all very well as far as it went, but even fourteen half-penny buns with AP on them and pink sugar do not of themselves make a very grand celebration. There are always flowers, of course, said Bobby, later, when a really earnest council was being held on the subject in the hail-doft where the broken chaff-cutting machine was, and the row of holes to drop hay through into the hay-racks over the manges of the stables below. He's got lots of flowers of his own, said Peter. But it's always nice to have them given you, said Bobby, however many you've got of your own. We can use flowers for trimmings to the birthday, but there must be something to trim besides buns. Let's all be quiet and think, said Phyllis. No one's to speak until it's thought of something. So they were all quiet, and so very still that a brown rat thought that there was no one in the loft and came out very boldly. When Bobby sneezed, the rat was quite shocked and hurried away, for he saw that a hail-doft where such things could happen was no place for a respectable middle-aged rat that liked a quiet life. Hooray! cried Peter suddenly. I've got it! He jumped up and kicked at the loose hay. What! said the others eagerly. Why, perks is so nice to everybody. There must be lots of people in the village who'd like to help to make him a birthday. Let's go round and ask everybody. Mother said we went to ask people for things, said Bobby doubtfully. For ourselves she meant silly, not for other people. I'll ask the old gentleman too. You see if I don't, said Peter. Let's ask Mother first, said Bobby. Oh, what's the use of bothering Mother about every little thing, said Peter, especially when she's busy? Come on. Let's go down to the village now and begin. So they went. The old lady at the post office said she didn't see why perks should have a birthday any more than anyone else. No, said Bobby. I should like everyone to have one. Only we know when his is. Mine's to-morrow, said the old lady, and much notice any one will take of it. Go along with you. So they went. And some people were kind, and some were crusty, and some would give, and some would not. It is rather difficult work asking for things, even for other people, as you have no doubt found if you have ever tried it. When the children got home and counted up what had been given and what had been promised, they felt that for the first day it was not so bad. Peter wrote down the lists of the things in the little pocket book where he kept the numbers of his engines. These were the lists. Given. A tobacco pipe from the sweet shop. Half a pound of tea from the grocers. A woollen scarf slightly faded from the drapers, which was the other side of the grocers. A stuffed squirrel from the doctor. Promised. A piece of meat from the butcher. Six fresh eggs from the woman who lived in the old turnpike cottage. A piece of honeycomb and six bootlaces from the cobbler, and an iron shovel from the blacksmiths. Very early next morning, Bobby got up and woke Phyllis. This had been agreed on between them. They had not told Peter because they thought he would think it silly, but they told him afterwards when it had turned out all right. They cut a big bunch of roses and put it in a basket with the needle book that Phyllis had made for Bobby on her birthday, and a very pretty blue necktie of Phyllises. Then they wrote on a paper, for Mrs. Ransom, with our best love because it is her birthday, and they put the paper in the basket, and they took it to the post office, and went in and put it on the counter, and ran away before the old woman at the post office had time to get into her shop. When they got home, Peter had grown confidential over helping Mother to get the breakfast, and had told her their plans. There's no harm in it, said Mother, but it depends how you do it. I only hope you won't be offended and think it's charity. Poor people are very proud, you know. It isn't because he's poor, said Phyllis, it's because we're fond of him. I'll find some things that Phyllis has outgrown, said Mother, if you're quite sure you can give them to him without his being offended. I should like to do some little thing for him, because he's been so kind to you. I can't do much because we're poor ourselves. What are you writing, Bobby? Nothing particular, said Bobby, who had suddenly begun to scribble. I'm sure he'd like the things, Mother. The morning of the fifteenth was spent very happily in getting the buns and watching Mother make AP on them with pink sugar. You know how it's done, of course. You beat up whites of eggs in mix-powdered sugar with them and put in a few drops of cochineal. And then you make a cone of clean white paper with a little hole at the pointed end, and put the pink egg sugar in at the big end. It runs slowly out at the pointed end, and you write the letters with it, just as though it were a great fat pen full of pink sugaring. The buns looked beautiful with AP on every one, and when they were put in a cool oven to set the sugar, the children went up to the village to collect the honey and the shovel and the other promised things. The old lady at the post-office was standing on her doorstep. The children said, Good morning, politely, as they passed. Here, stop a bit, she said. So they stopped. Those roses, said she. Did you like them? said Phyllis. They were as fresh as fresh. I made the needle-book, but it was Bobby's present. She skipped joyously as she spoke. Here's your basket, said the post-office woman. She went in and brought out the basket. It was full of fat red gooseberries. I daresay Perks's children would like them, said she. You are an old deer, said Phyllis, throwing her arms around the old lady's fat waist. Perks will be pleased. He won't be half as pleased as I was with your needle-book and the tie and the pretty flowers and all, said the old lady patting Phyllis's shoulder. Your good little souls, that you are. Look here, I've got a pram round the back in the wood-lodge. It was got from my Emmy's first that didn't live but six months, and she never had but that one. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It'd be a help to her with that great boy of hers. Will you take it along? Oh! said all the children together. When Mrs. Ransom had got out the perambulator and taken off the careful papers that covered it, and dusted it all over, she said, Well, there it is. I don't know but what I'd have given it to her before, if I'd thought of it. Only I didn't quite know if she'd accepted it from me. You tell her it was my Emmy's little one's pram. Oh! isn't it nice to think that there is going to be a real live baby in it again? Yes, said Mrs. Ransom sighing, and then laughing. Here, I'll give you some peppermint cushions for the little ones, and then you run along before I give you the roof off my head and the clothes off my back. All the things that had been collected for Perks were packed into the perambulator, and at half-past three, Peter and Bobby and Phyllis wheeled it down to the little yellow house where Perks lived. The house was very tidy. On the window ledge was a jug of wildflowers, big daisies and red sorrel and feathery flowery grasses. There was a sound of splashing from the wash-house, and a partly washed boy put his head round the door. Mother's a change in of herself, he said. Down in a minute! A voice sounded from the narrow, freshly scrubbed stairs. The children waited. Next moment the stairs creaked, and Mrs. Perks came down, buttoning her bodice. Her hair was brushed very smooth and tight, and her face shone with soap and water. I'm a bit late changing, Miss," she said to Bobby, owing to me having had an extra clean-up today, along with Perks happening to name its being his birthday. I don't know what put it into his head to think of such a thing. We keep the children's birthdays, of course, but him and me, we're too old for such life as a general rule. We knew it was his birthday, said Peter, and we've got some presents for him outside in the perambulator. As the presents were being unpacked, Mrs. Perks gasped. When they were all unpacked, she surprised and horrified the children by sitting suddenly down on a wooden chair and bursting into tears. Oh, don't, said everybody. Oh, please don't! And Peter added, perhaps a little impatiently, what on earth is the matter? You don't mean to say you don't like it? Mrs. Perks only sobbed. The Perks' children, now as shiny-faced as anyone could wish, stood at the wash-house door and scowled at the intruders. There was a silence, an awkward silence. Don't you like it? said Peter again, while his sisters patted Mrs. Perks on the back. She stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun. There, there, don't mind me. I'm all right, she said. Like it? Why, it's a birthday such as Perks never had, not even when he was a boy and stayed with his uncle, who was a corn chandler in his own account. He failed afterwards. Like it? Oh! And then she went on and said all sorts of things that I won't write down, because I am sure that Peter and Bobby and Phyllis would not like me to. Their ears got hotter and hotter, and their faces redder and redder, at the kind things Mrs. Perks said. They felt they had done nothing to deserve all this praise. At last Peter said, Look here, we're glad you're pleased, but if you go on saying things like that, we must go home. And we did want to stay and see if Mr. Perks is pleased, too, but we can't stand this. I won't say another single word, said Mrs. Perks, with a beaming face, but that needn't stop me thinking needed. For if ever— Can we have a plate for the buns? Bobby asked abruptly, and then Mrs. Perks hastily laid the table for tea, and the buns and the honey and the gooseberries were displayed on plates, and the roses were put in two glass jam jars, and the tea-table looked, as Mrs. Perks said, fit for a prince. To think, she said, me getting the place tidy early, and the little ones getting the wildflowers in all, and never did I think there'd be anything more for him, except the ounce of his pet particular, that I'd got him a Saturday and been saving up for him ever since. Bless us, he is early! Perks had indeed unlatched the latch of the little front gate. Oh! whispered Bobby. Let's hide in the back kitchen, and you tell him about it. But give him the tobacco first, because you've got it for him, and when you've told him, we'll all come in and shout many happy returns. It was a very nice plan, but it did not quite come off. To begin with, there was only just time for Peter and Bobby and Phyllis to rush into the wash-house, pushing the young and open-mouthed Perks' children in front of them. There was not time to shut the door, so that without at all meaning it, they had to listen to what went on in the kitchen. The wash-house was a tight fit for the Perks' children and the three Chimney's children, as well as all the wash-house's proper furniture, including the mangle and the copper. Hello, old woman! They heard Mr. Perks' voice say, here's a pretty set-out. It's your birthday tea, Bert," said Mrs. Perks, and there's an ounce of your extra-particular. I got it a Saturday, along with your happening to remember it was your birthday today. Good old girl! said Mr. Perks, and there was a sound of a kiss. But what's that pram doing here? And what's all these bundles? Why did you get the sweet stuff, and the children did not hear what Mrs. Perks replied, because just then Bobby gave a start, put her hand in her pocket, and all her body grew stiff with horror. Oh! she whispered to the others. Whatever shall we do? I forgot to put the labels on any of the things. He won't know what's from who. He'll think it's all from us, and that we're trying to be grand, or charitable, or something horrid. Hush! said Peter. And then they heard the voice of Mr. Perks, loud and rather angry. I don't care, he said. I won't stand it, and so I tell you straight. But, said Mrs. Perks, it's them children you make such a fuss about, the children from the three chimneys. I don't care, said Perks, firmly, not if it was an angel from heaven. We've got on all right all these years, and no favours asked. I'm not going to begin these sort of charity goings on at my time of life, so don't you think it, Nell. Oh, hush! said poor Mrs. Perks. But shut your silly tongue for goodness' sake. The all three of them in the wash-house are listening to every word you speaks. Then I'll give them something to listen to, said the angry Perks. I've spoke my mind to them afore now, and I'll do it again," he added, and he took two strides to the wash-house door and flung it wide open, as wide that is, as it would go, with the tightly packed children behind it. Come out, said Perks. Come out and tell me what you mean by it. Have I ever complained to you of being short, as you come's this charity lay over me? Oh! said Phyllis. I thought you'd be so pleased. I'll never try to be kind to anyone else as long as I live. No, I won't not—never! she burst into tears. We didn't mean any harm, said Peter. It ain't what you mean so much as what you does, said Perks. Oh, don't! cried Bobby, trying hard to be braver than Phyllis, and to find more words than Peter had done for explaining in. We thought you'd love it. We always have things on our birthdays. Oh, yes, said Perks. Your own relations—that's different. Oh, no! Bobby answered. Not our own relations. All the servants always gave us things at home, and asked to them when it was their birthdays. And when it was mine and Mother gave me the brooch like a butter-cup, Mrs. Viney gave me two lovely glass pots, and nobody thought she was coming the charity lay over us. If it had been glass pots here, said Perks, I wouldn't have said so much. It's there being all this heaps and heaps of things I can't stand. No, nor won't, neither. But they're not all from us, said Peter. Only we forgot to put the labels on. They're from all sorts of people in the village. Who put them up to it, I'd like to know, asked Perks. Why, we did, sniffed Phyllis. Perks sat down heavily in the elbow-chair and looked at them with what Bobby afterwards described as withering glances of gloomy despair. So you've been round telling the neighbours we can't make both ends meet? Well, now you've disgraced us as deep as you can in the neighbourhood. You can just take the whole bag of tricks back where it came from. Very much obliged, I'm sure. I don't doubt but what you meant it kind, but I'd rather not be acquainted with you any longer if it's all the same to you." He deliberately turned the chair round so that his back was turned to the children. The legs of the chair grated on the brick floor and that was the only sound that broke the silence. Then suddenly Bobby spoke. Look here, she said. This is most awful. That's what I says, said Perks, not turning round. Look here, said Bobby desperately. Well, go if you like, and you needn't be friends with us any more if you don't want, but we shall always be friends with you, however nasty you are to us." Sniffed Phyllis wildly. Be quiet, said Peter, and a fierce aside. But before we go, Bobby went on desperately. Do let us show you the labels we wrote out to put on the things. I don't want to see known labels, said Perks, except proper luggage ones in my own walk of life. Do you think I've kept respectable and out of debt on what I get, and her having to take in washing, laughing stock to all the neighbours? Laughing, said Peter, you don't know. You're a very hasty gentleman, wine-phyllis. You know you were wrong once before about us not telling you the secret about the Russian. Do let Bobby tell you about the labels. Well, go ahead, said Perks grudgingly. Well, then, said Bobby, fumbling miserably, yet not without hope in her tightly stuffed pocket. We wrote down all the things everybody said when they gave us the things, all those names, because mother said we ought to be careful, because—but I wrote down what she said, and you'll see. But Bobby could not read the labels just at once. She had to swallow once or twice before she could begin. Mrs. Perks had been crying steadily ever since her husband had opened the wash-house door. Now she caught her breath, choked, and said, Don't you upset yourself, Missy? I know you meant it kind if he doesn't. May I read the labels? Mothers first. It says, Little clothes for Mrs. Perks's children. Mothers said, I'll find some of Phyllis's things that she's grown out of if you're quite sure Mr. Perks wouldn't be offended and think it's meant for charity. I'd like to do some little thing for him because he's so kind to you. I can't do much because we're poor ourselves." Bobby paused. That's all right, said Perks. Your ma's a born lady. We'll keep the little frocks and whatnot, Nell. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It would be a help with her fine boy. I'd have given it before if I'd been sure she'd accepted it from me. She told me to tell you, Bobby added, that it was her Emmy's little one's pram. I can't send that pram back, Bert," said Mrs. Perks, firmly, and said, I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It would be a help with her fine boy. I'd have given it before if I'd been sure she'd accepted it from me. She told me to tell you, Bobby added, Bert," said Mrs. Perks, firmly, and I won't. So don't you ask me. I'm not asking anything," said Perks, roughly. Then the shovel, said Bobby, Mr. James made it for you himself, and he said, where is it? Oh, yes, here. He said, you tell Mr. Perks, it's a pleasure to make a little trifle for a man as he's so much respected. And then he said he wished he could shoe your children and his own children like they do the horses because, well, he knew what shoe leather was. James is a good enough chap," said Perks. Then the honey, said Bobby in haste, and the bootlaces. He said he respected a man that paid his way, and the butcher said the same. And the old turnpike woman said many was the time you'd lend her a hand with her garden when you were a lad, and things like that came home to roost. I don't know what she meant. And everybody who gave anything said they liked you, and it was a very good idea of ours, and nobody said anything about charity or anything horrid like that. The gentleman gave Peter a gold pound for you and said you were a man who knew your work, and I thought you'd love to know how fond people are of you, and I never was so unhappy in my life. Goodbye. I hope you'll forgive her some day." She could say no more, and she turned to go. Stop," said Perks, still with his back to them. I take back every word I've said contrary to what you'd wish. Nell, set on the kettle. We'll take the things away if you're unhappy about them, said Peter, but I think everybody'll be most awfully disappointed as well as us. I'm not unhappy about them, said Perks. I don't know." He added, suddenly wheeling the chair around and showing a very odd-looking, screwed-up face. I don't know as I was ever better pleased. Not so much with the presents, though they're an A1 collection, but the kind respect of our neighbours. That's worth having, eh, Nell? I think it's all worth having, said Mrs. Perks, and you've made a most ridiculous fuss about nothing, Bert, if you ask me. No, I ain't," said Perks, firmly. If a man didn't respect his self, no one wouldn't do it for him. But everyone respects you, said Bobby. They all said so. I knew you'd like it when you really understood, said Phyllis Brightley. You'll state a T, said Mr. Perks. Later on Peter proposed Mr. Perks's health, and Mr. Perks proposed a toast, also honoured in T, and the toast was May the garland of friendship be evergreen, which was much more poetical than any one had expected from him. Jolly good little kids those, said Mr. Perks to his wife as they went to bed. Oh, they're all right. Bless their hearts, said his wife. It's you that's the aggravatingest old thing that ever was. I was ashamed of you. I tell you. You needn't be old, gal. I climbed down Hanson as soon as I understood it wasn't charity. But charity's what I never did abide, and won't neither. All sorts of people were made happy by that birthday party. Mr. Perks and Mrs. Perks, and the little Perksers, by all the nice things, and by the kind thoughts of their neighbours. The three chimneys children by the success were unexpectedly delayed of their plan. And Mrs. Ransom every time she saw the fat Perks baby in the perambulator. Mrs. Perks made quite a round of visits to thank people for their kind birthday presents, and after each visit felt that she had a better friend than she had thought. Yes, said Perks reflectively. It's not so much what you does as what you means, that's what I say. Now, if it had been charity, oh, drat charity, said Mrs. Perks. Nobody won't offer you charity, but however much you was to want to delay. That was just friendliness that was. When the clergyman called on Mrs. Perks she told him all about it. It was friendliness, wasn't it, sir? Said she. I think," said the clergyman. It was what is sometimes called loving-kindness. So, you see, it was all right in the end. But if one does that sort of thing one has to be careful to do it in the right way. For as Mr. Perks said when he had time to think it over it's not so much what you do as what you mean. End of Chapter 9 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, October 2006 The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt Chapter 10 The Terrible Secret When they first went to live at Three Chimneys the children had talked a great deal about their father and had asked a great many questions about him and what he was doing and where he was and when he would come home mother always answered their questions as well as she could. But as the time went on they grew to speak less of him. Bobby had felt almost from the first that for some strange, miserable reason these questions hurt mother and made her sad. And little by little the others came to have this feeling too though they could not have put it into words. One day when mother was working so hard that she could not leave off even for ten minutes Bobby carried up her tea to the big bare room that they called mother's workshop. It had hardly any furniture just a table and a chair and a rug but always big pots of flowers on the windowsills and on the mantelpiece. The children saw to that. And from the three long uncurtained windows the beautiful stretch of meadow and moorland the far violet of the hills and the unchanging changefulness of cloud and sky. Here's your tea, mother love," said Bobby. Do drink it while it's hot. Mother laid down her pen among the pages that were scattered all over the table pages covered with her writing which was almost as plain as print and much prettier. She ran her hands into her hair as if she were going to pull it out by hand-force. "'Poor dear head,' said Bobby. "'Does it ache?' "'No. Yes. Not much,' said mother. "'Bobby, do you think Peter and Phil are forgetting father?' "'No,' said Bobby indignantly. "'Why?' "'You none of you ever speak of him now.' Bobby stood first on one leg and then on the other. "'We often talk about him when we're by ourselves,' she said. "'But not to me,' said mother. "'Why?' Bobby did not find it easy to say why. "'I—' "'You,' she said, and stopped. She went over to the window and looked out. "'Bobby, come here,' said her mother. And Bobby came. "'Now,' said mother, putting her arm around Bobby and laying her ruffled head against Bobby's shoulder. "'Try to tell me, dear.' Bobby fidgeted. "'Tell mother.' "'Well, then,' said Bobby. "'I thought you were so unhappy about daddy not being here. It made you worse when I talked about him. So I stopped doing it. "'And the others?' "'I don't know about the others,' said Bobby. "'I never said anything about that to them. "'But I expect they felt the same about it as me.' "'Bobby, dear,' said mother, "'still leaning her head against her. "'I'll tell you. "'Besides parting from father, "'he and I have had a great sorrow. "'Oh, terrible! "'Worse than anything you can think of. "'And at first it did hurt to hear you all talking of him "'as if everything were just the same. "'But it would be much more terrible "'if you were to forget him. "'That would be worse than anything.' "'The trouble,' said Bobby in a very little voice. "'I promised I would never ask you any questions. "'And I never have, have I. "'But the trouble—' "'It won't last always.' "'No,' said mother. "'The worst will be over when father comes home to us.' "'I wish I could comfort you,' said Bobby. "'Oh, my dear, do you suppose you don't? "'Do you think I haven't noticed how good you've all been, "'not quarrelling nearly as much as you used to, "'and all the little kind things you do for me— "'the flowers and cleaning my shoes "'and tearing up to make my bed before I get time to do it myself?' "'Bobby had sometimes wondered whether mother noticed these things. "'That's nothing,' she said, "'to what? "'I must get on with my work,' said mother, "'giving Bobby one last squeeze. "'Don't say anything to the others.' "'That evening, in the hour before bedtime, "'instead of reading to the children, "'mother told them stories of the games "'she and father used to have when they were children "'and lived near each other in the country, "'tales of the adventures of father with mother's brothers "'when they were all boys together. "'Very funny stories they were, "'and the children laughed as they listened. "'Uncle Edward died before he was grown up, didn't he?' said Phyllis, "'as mother lighted the bedroom candles. "'Yes, dear,' said mother, "'you would have loved him. "'He was such a brave boy and so adventurous, "'always in mischief, "'and yet friends with everybody in spite of it. "'And your uncle Reggie's in Ceylon, yes, "'and father's away, too. "'But I think they'd all like to think "'we'd enjoyed talking about the things they used to do. "'Don't you think so?' "'Not Uncle Edward,' said Phyllis, in a sharp tone. "'He's in heaven. "'You don't suppose he's forgotten us in all the old times "'because God has taken him any more than I forget him? "'Oh, no, he remembers. "'He's only away for a little time. "'We shall see him some day.' "'And Uncle Reggie?' "'And father, too,' said Peter. "'Yes,' said mother. "'Uncle Reggie and father, too. "'Good night, my darlings.' "'Good night,' said everyone. "'Bobby hugged her mother more closely "'even than usual and whispered in her ear, "'Oh, I do love you so, mummy. "'I do, I do.' When Bobby came to think it all over, she tried not to wonder what the great trouble was. But she could not always help it. Father was not dead, like poor Uncle Edward. Mother had said so. And he was not ill, or mother would have been with him. Being poor wasn't the trouble. Bobby knew it was something nearer the heart than money could be. "'I mustn't try to think what it is,' she told herself. "'No, I mustn't. "'I am glad mother noticed about us not quarrelling so much. "'We'll keep that up.' And alas, that very afternoon, she and Peter had what Peter called a first-class shindy. They had not been a week at three chimneys before they had asked mother to let them have a piece of garden each for their very own, and she had agreed. And the south border under the peach trees had been divided into three pieces, and they were allowed to plant whatever they liked there. Phyllis had planted mignonette and nasturtium and Virginia stock in hers. The seeds came up, and though they looked just like weeds, Phyllis believed that they would bear flowers some day. The Virginia stock justified her faith quite soon, and her garden was gay with a band of bright little flowers, pink and white and red and mauve. "'I can't weed for fear I pull up the wrong things,' she used to say comfortably. "'It saves such a lot of work.'" Peter sowed vegetable seeds in his, carrots and onions and turnips. The seed was given to him by the farmer who lived in the nice black and white wooden plaster house just beyond the bridge. He kept turkeys and guinea fowls and was a most amiable man. But Peter's vegetables never had much of a chance, because he liked to use the earth of his garden for digging canals and making forts and earthworks for his toy soldiers, and the seeds of vegetables rarely come to much in a soil that is constantly disturbed for the purposes of war and irrigation. Bobby planted rose-bushes in her garden, but all the little new leaves of rose-bushes shriveled and withered, perhaps because she moved them from the other part of the garden in May, which is not at all the right time of year for moving roses. But she would not own that they were dead and hoped on against hope, until the day when perks came up to see the garden and told her quite plainly that all her roses were as dead as doornails. "'Only good for bonfires, Miss,' he said, "'You just dig them up and burn them, "'and I'll give you some nice fresh roots out of my garden. "'Pansies and stocks and sweet willies and forget-me-nots. "'I'll bring them along to-morrow if you get the ground ready.' So next day she set to work, and that happened to be the day when mother had praised her and the others about not quarrelling. She moved the rose-bushes and carried them to the other end of the garden where the rubbish heap was that they meant to make a bonfire of when Guy Faulk's day came. Meanwhile Peter had decided to flatten out all his forts and earthworks with a view to making a model of the railway tunnel, cutting, embankment, canal, aqueduct, bridges, and all. So when Bobby came back from her last thorny journey with the dead rose-bushes, he had got the rake and was using it busily. "'I was using the rake,' said Bobby. "'Well, I'm using it now,' said Peter. "'But I had it first,' said Bobby. "'Well, it's my turn now,' said Peter. "'And that was how the quarrel began.' "'You're always being disagreeable about nothing,' said Peter after some heated argument. "'I had the rake first,' said Bobby, flushed and defiant, holding on to its handle. "'Don't! I tell you I said this morning "'I meant to have it, didn't I, Phil?' Phyllis said she didn't want to be mixed up in their rouse, and instantly, of course, she was. "'If you remember, you ought to say.' "'Of course she doesn't remember, but she might say so.' "'I wish I'd had a brother instead "'of two whiny little kiddie sisters,' said Peter. "'This was always recognized as indicating "'the high watermark of Peter's rage.' Bobby made the reply she always made to it. "'I can't think why little boys were ever invented. "'And just as she said it, she looked up "'and saw the three long windows of mother's workshop "'flashing in the red rays of the sun. "'The sight brought back those words of praise. "'You don't quarrel like you used to.' "'Oh!' cried Bobby, just as if she'd been hit, "'or had caught her finger in a door, "'or had felt the hideous sharp beginnings of toothache. "'What's the matter?' said Phyllis. "'Bobby wanted to say, "'Don't let's quarrel. Mother hates it so. "'But though she tried hard, she couldn't. "'Peter was looking too disagreeable in insulting. "'Take the horrid rake, then, "'was the best you could manage. "'And she suddenly let go her hold on the handle. "'Peter had been holding on to it too firmly and pullingly, "'and now that the pull the other way was suddenly stopped, "'he staggered and fell over backward, "'the teeth of the rake between his feet. "'Serve you right,' said Bobby, "'before she could stop herself. "'Peter lay still for half a moment, "'long enough to frighten Bobby a little. "'And he frightened her a little more, for he sat up, "'screamed once, turned rather pale, "'and then laid back and began to shriek, "'faintly but steadily. "'It sounded exactly like a pig being killed "'a quarter of a mile off. "'Mother put her head out of the window, "'and it wasn't half a minute after that, "'that she was in the garden kneeling by the side of Peter, "'who never for an instant ceased to squeal. "'What happened, Bobby?' mother asked. "'It was the rake,' said Phyllis. "'Peter was pulling at it, so was Bobby, "'and she let go and he went over. "'What that noise, Peter?' said mother. "'Come, stop it once.' Peter used up what breath he had left in a last squeal and stopped. "'Now,' said mother, "'are you hurt?' "'If he was really hurt he wouldn't make such a fuss,' said Bobby, still trembling with fury. "'He's not a coward.' "'I think my foot's broken off, that's all,' said Peter, huffily, and sat up. Then he turned quite white. Mother put her arm around him. "'He is hurt,' she said. "'He's fainted. "'Mother undid Peter's boots. "'As she took the right one off, "'something dripped from his foot onto the ground. "'It was red blood. "'And when the stocking came off, "'there were three red wounds in Peter's foot and ankle, "'where the teeth of the rake had bitten him, "'and his foot was covered with red smears. "'Run for water, a basinful,' said mother, "'and Phyllis ran. "'She upset most of the water out of the basin "'in her haste, and had to fetch more in a jug. "'Peter did not open his eyes again "'till mother had tied her handkerchief round his foot, "'and she and Bobby had carried him in "'and laid him on the brown wooden settle in the dining-room. "'By this time Phyllis was half-way to the doctors.' "'Mother sat by Peter and bathed his foot "'and talked to him, and Bobby went out "'and got tea ready, and put on the kettle. "'It's all I can do,' she told herself. "'Oh, suppose Peter should die, "'or be a helpless cripple for life, "'or have to walk with crutches, "'or wear a boot with a sole like a log of wood?' "'She stood by the back door, reflecting "'on these gloomy possibilities, "'her eyes fixed on the water-butt. "'I wish I'd never been born,' she said, "'and she said it out loud. "'Why, log of mercy, what's that for?' asked a voice, "'and Perks stood before her with a wooden "'trug-basket full of green-leaved things "'and soft, loose earth. "'Oh, it's you,' she said. "'Peter's hurt his foot with a rake, "'three great gaping wounds like soldiers get, "'and it was partly my fault.' "'That it was, and I'll go bail,' said Perks. "'Doctor seen him. "'Phyllis has gone for the doctor. "'He'll be all right. You see if he isn't,' said Perks. "'Why, my father's second cousin had a hay-fork run into him, "'right into his inside, "'and he was right as ever in a few weeks, "'all except his being a bit weak in the head afterwards, "'and they did say that it was along of his "'getting a touch of the sun in the hay-field "'and not the fork at all. "'I remember him well. Kind-hearted chap, "'but soft, as you might say.' "'Bobby tried to let herself be cheered "'by this heartening reminiscence. "'Well,' said Perks. "'You won't want to be bothered with gardening "'just this minute, I dare say. "'You show me where your garden is, "'and I'll pop the bits of stuff in for you. "'And I'll hang about if I may make so free "'to see the doctor as he comes out and hear what he says. "'You cheer up, Missy. "'A layer poundy-aid hurt, not to speak of.' "'But he was.' "'The doctor came and looked at the foot "'and bandaged it beautifully, "'and said that Peter must not put it to the ground "'for at least a week. "'He won't be lame, or have to wear crutches "'or a lump in his foot, will he?' whispered Bobby breathlessly at the door. "'I aren't. No,' said Dr. Forrest. "'You'll be as nimble as ever on his pins "'in a fortnight. Don't you worry, little mother-goose.' "'It was when mother had gone to the gate "'with the doctor to take his last instructions "'and Phyllis was filling the kettle for tea "'that Peter and Bobby found themselves alone. "'He says you won't be lame or anything,' said Bobby. "'Of course I shard silly,' said Peter, "'very much relieved, all the same. "'Oh, Peter, I am so sorry,' said Bobby after a pause. "'That's all right,' said Peter gruffly. "'It was all my fault,' said Bobby. "'Rot,' said Peter. "'If we hadn't quarrelled, it wouldn't have happened. "'I knew it was wrong to quarrel. "'I wanted to say so, but somehow I couldn't.' "'Don't dribble,' said Peter. "'I shouldn't have stopped if you had said it, "'not likely. "'And besides, us rowing hadn't anything to do with it. "'I might have caught my foot in the whole wall, "'taken off my fingers in the chaff-cutting machine "'or blown my nose off with fireworks. "'It would have been hurt just the same "'whether we'd been rowing or not.' "'But I knew it was wrong to quarrel,' said Bobby, "'in tears. "'And now you're hurt and now look here,' said Peter firmly. "'You just dry up. "'If you're not careful, you'll turn into a beastly "'little Sunday school prigg, so I tell you.' "'I don't mean to be a prigg, "'but it's so hard not to be "'when you're really trying to be good.' "'The gentle reader may perhaps "'have suffered from this difficulty.' "'Not it,' said Peter. "'It's a jolly good thing it wasn't you was hurt. "'I'm glad it was me. "'There, if it had been you, "'I'd have been on the sofa looking like a suffering angel "'and being the light of the anxious household and all that. "'And I couldn't have stood it. "'No, I shouldn't,' said Bobby. "'Yes, you would,' said Peter. "'I tell you I shouldn't. I tell you you would.' "'Oh, children,' said Mother's voice at the door, "'correlling again, already.' "'We aren't quarrelling, not really,' said Peter. "'I wish you wouldn't think it's rouse "'every time we don't agree.' "'When Mother had gone out again, Bobby broke out. "'Peter, I am sorry you're hurt, "'but you are a beast to say I'm a prigg.' "'Well,' said Peter unexpectedly, "'perhaps I am. "'You did say I wasn't a coward "'even when you were in such a wax. "'The only thing is, don't you be a prigg, that's all. "'You keep your eyes open, "'and if you feel priggishness coming on, "'just stop in time, see?' "'Yes,' said Bobby. "'I see.' "'Then let's call it packs,' said Peter magnanimously. "'Bury the hatchet in the fathoms of the past. "'Shake hands on it.' "'I say, Bobby, old chap, I am tired.' "'He was tired for many days after that, "'and the settle seemed hard and uncomfortable "'in spite of all the pillows and bolsters "'and soft-folded rugs. "'It was terrible not to be able to go out. "'They moved the settle to the window, "'and from there Peter could see the smoke of the trains "'winding along the valley. "'But he could not see the trains.' "'At first Bobby found it quite hard "'to be as nice to him as she wanted to be, "'for fear he should think her priggish. "'But that soon wore off, "'and both she and Phyllis were, as he observed, "'mother sat with him when his sisters were out. "'And the words, He's not a coward,' "'made Peter determined not to make any fuss "'about the pain in his foot, "'though it was rather bad, especially at night. "'Praise helps people very much sometimes. "'There were visitors, too. "'Mrs. Perks came up to ask how he was, "'and so did the stationmaster "'and several of the village people. "'But the time went slowly, slowly. "'I do wish there was something to read,' said Peter. "'I've read all our books fifty times over. "'I'll go to the doctors,' said Phyllis. "'He's sure to have some.' "'Only about how to be ill "'and about people's nasty insides, I expect,' said Peter. "'Perks has a whole heap of magazines "'that came out of trains when people are tired of them,' said Bobby. "'I'll round down and ask him.' "'So the girls went their two ways. "'Bobby found Perks busy cleaning lamps. "'And ours a young gent,' said he. "'Better thanks,' said Bobby. "'But he's most frightfully bored. "'I came to ask if you've got any magazines "'you could lend him.' "'There now?' said Perks regretfully, "'rubbing his ear with a black and oily lump of cotton waste. "'Why didn't I think of that now? "'I was trying to think of something as it amused him "'only this morning, and I couldn't think of anything "'better than a guinea pig. "'And a young chap I know "'is going to fetch that over for him this tea-time. "'How lovely! A real-life guinea!' "'He will be pleased. "'But he'd like the magazines as well.' "'That's just it,' said Perks. "'I've just sent the pig of him to Stigson's boy, "'him what's just getting over Pimonia. "'But I've lots of illustrated papers left.' "'He turned to the pile of papers in the corner "'and took up a heap, six inches thick. "'There,' he said, "'I'll just slip a bit of string "'and a bit of paper round him. "'He pulled an old newspaper from the pile "'and spread it on the table, "'and made a neat parcel of it. "'There,' said he. "'There's lots of pictures, "'and if he likes to mess them about with his paint-box "'or coloured chalks or what-not, why let him? "'I don't want him.' "'You're a deer,' said Bobby, "'took the parcel and started. "'The papers were heavy, "'and when she had to wait at the level crossing "'while a train went by, "'she rested the parcel on the top of the gate, "'and idly she looked at the printing on the paper "'that the parcel was wrapped in. "'Suddenly she clutched the parcel tighter "'and bent her head over it. "'It seemed like some horrible dream,' she read on. "'The bottom of the column was torn off. "'She could read no farther. "'She never remembered how she got home. "'But she went on tiptoe to her room "'and locked the door. "'Then she undid the parcel "'and read that printed column again, "'sitting on the edge of her bed, "'her hands and feet icy cold "'and her face burning. "'When she had read all there was, "'she drew a long, uneven breath.' "'So now I know,' she said. "'What she had read was headed, "'end of the trial, verdict, sentence.' "'The name of the man who had been tried "'was the name of her father. "'The verdict was guilty, "'and the sentence was five years' penal servitude. "'Oh, Daddy!' she whispered, "'crushing the paper hard. "'I don't believe it. "'You never did it. "'Never, never, never.' "'There was a hammering on the door.' "'What is it?' said Bobby. "'It's me,' said the voice of Phyllis. "'T's ready, and a boy's brought Peter a guinea pig. "'Come along down.' And Bobby had to.