 CHAPTER VIII. THE ABATER 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. Why, 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 stationmaster, 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. Said Peter disagreeably, and put his hands in his pockets. He did, of course, said Phyllis in haste. Directly we heard she was ill. We got the roses ready and waited by the gate. It was when you were making the bricker toast. And when he'd said, thank you for the roses so many times, much more than you need have, he pulled out the line and gave it to Peter. It wasn't exchange, it was a 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 gray and purple hills, and the canal lay smooth and shiny in the shadow. No ripple broke its surface. It was like a gray satin ribbon between the dusty 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've got something to do. Let's get down onto 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 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. Said the shout in most disagreeable tones. Get out of that, can't you? An old white horse coming along the towing-path 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 a luck. The barge did not anchor, because an anchor is not part of a canal boat's furniture, but she was moored with ropes for and aft, and the ropes were made fast to the palings and to crowbars driven into the ground. What are you staring at? growled the bargee 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. We have as much right here as anyone else. Oh, have you indeed? Said the man. Well soon, say 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 agonised 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 bargee 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 these earwaters is preserved? You ain't no right-catchin' fish here. Not to say nothing of your blessed cheek. Peter was always proud afterwards when he remembered that, with the bargee's furious fingers tightening on his ear, the bargee's crimson countenance close to his own, the bargee's hot breath on his neck, he had the courage to speak the truth. I wasn't catching fish. Said Peter. That's not your fault, I'll be pounded. 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 on to 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 descent would end in the waters of the canal, and so it would have done if the bargee hadn't let go of Peter's ear and caught her in his jerseyed arm. He said, setting her on her feet. 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 anymore, 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 I 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. Got along then, and don't do it again, that's all. The children hurried up the bank. Jock us a kite, 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 the bridge towards the village. You're following me up at the rose and crown when you've got the kid to sleep. He called to 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 forlorn 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 peace of the evening was not broken by the notes of the sedged warblers, 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. He didn't give in to him, so now we make a home, don't you think? No, said Peter. Nothing more was said till the woman got off the barge, climbed the bank, and came across the bridge. She hesitated, looking at the three backs of the children. Then she said, Peter stayed as he was, but the girls looked round. You mustn't take no notice of my Bill, said the woman. Is Barks worth in his bite? Some of the kids down Farley Way is fed terrors. It was them who put his back up calling out about who ate the poppy 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 wine or the wherefore of it, them words as pleasing to a bargemaster. Don't you take no notice? You won't be back for two hours, good. You might catch a power of Fisher for that. The light's good and all. She added. Thank you, said Bobby. You're very kind. Where's your baby? Sleep in the cabin, said the woman. He's all right. Never wakes before 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. Lord Love, you know. Said the woman. He'd heard a little thing like him. Besides, sports 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 Perk's birthday. Said Phyllis. Perk'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. Cried Phyllis. Think of the po- The baby! Screamed Bobby. In an instant all three made for the barge. Hormuring 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, remembered 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. Hi. 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's 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 to the rose-and-crown and tell them, Phil and I will stay here with the precious. Hush, then, a dear, 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 bank, Phil, 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 nick-a-bocker 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 rose-and-crown. There is a nice old-fashioned room at the rose-and-crown where barges and their wives sit of an evening, drinking their supper-beer, and toasting their supper-cheese at a glowing basketful 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 barged people round 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 downward, paint her inside out, not name them the color, do you see? So he gets a lot of green paint, and I paints her stem to stern, and I'll tell you she looked A1. Then he comes along, and he says, What do you paint of all one color for, he says? And I says, says I, Cos I thought she'd look first rate, says I, And I think so still. And he says, Do you? Then you can just pay for the bloom and paint yourself, says he. And I had her 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 bargeman. 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 bargewoman 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 are frightened or miserable. Reginald Horace! She cried in a terrible voice. My Reginald Horace! All right, said Bobby. If you mean the baby, cut 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 bargey rose slowly and heavily, but his wife was a hundred yards up the road, 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 pails 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 smouldered 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 by 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 bargemen had parted from them. You be here at seven, Amora? he had said. And I'll take you the entire trip to Farley and back so I will, and not a penny to pay. Nine in 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 of a leg of mutton in a basket. It was a glorious day. The old white 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 anyone 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're like, and Bill's 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 went fishing by the canal, so they'd know that 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 knocked her down. Twice, I did. Said Peter, loyally. So would I. Said Phyllis. If I'd known what to do. Yes, said Mother. You saved a little child's life. I do think that's enough for one evening. Oh my darlings, thank God you're all safe. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of The Railway Children This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbit. 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 story, chickies. She said. The one about the king of the mussels. So there'll be buns for tea. You can go 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 anymore 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 anti-antipated 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 hapeny buns with AP on them in 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 hayloft where the broken chaff cutting machine was and the row of holes to drop hay through into the hay-racks over the mangers 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 hayloft 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 make him a birthday. Let's go round and ask everybody. Mother said we weren't 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. I, 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. 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's 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 neck-tie of Phyllis's. 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 he 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 something 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 and 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 sugar-ink. 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 Barbie'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. Perk'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 so pleased as I was with your needle-book and the tie and the pretty flowers and all. Said the old lady, patting Phyllis' shoulder. Your good little souls, that you are. Look here. I got a pram round the back and the wood-lodge. It was got for my Emmys 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? All! 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 thought of it. Only, I didn't quite know if she'd accept it from me. You tell her. It was my Emmys little one's pram. Oh, isn't it nice to think there's going to be a real-life 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 wild flowers, 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-changing of herself, he said. Down in a minute. A voice sounded down the narrow, freshly scrubbed stairs. The children waited. Next moment the stairs creak, and Mrs. Perks came down, bustling 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 the perks happening to Nameth's being his birthday. I don't know what put it to his head to think of such a thing. We keep the children's birthdays, of course, but him and me, we're to all for such like, 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 any one 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 sister's patted Mrs. Perks on the back. She stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun. There, there, don't you 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 conch-channel 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, need it, 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 wild flowers and all, whenever did I think there'd be anything more for him, except the ounce of a spectre particular, that I got a Saturday, and been saving up for him ever since. Bless us, ease 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 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 birdie-tea-bird. Said Mrs. Perks. And here's the answer for your extra-particular. I got it on Saturday along 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? And where did you get the sweet-star funder? 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 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 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 now? Oh, hush! said poor Mrs. Perks. But shut your silly tongue, for goodness sake. The old three vans 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 before 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 comes this charity lay over me? Oh, said Phyllis. I thought you'd been 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 means 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 them when it was their birthdays, and when it was mine and Mother gave me the brooch like a buttercup, Mrs. Vinnie 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. Oh, you can't stand. No, Nora 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 wherever it come 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. We'll 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, in a fierce aside. But before we go- Bobby went on desperately. Do let us show you the labels we wrote to put on the things. I don't want to see no labels, said Perks. Except proper luggage ones and my own walk of life. Do you think I've kept respectable and utter debt on what I gets, and her having to take in washing, to be give away for a laughing stock to all the neighbours? Laughing, said Peter. You don't know. You are a very hasty gentleman. Wind 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, with the people's 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? Said Bobby, crying onto the slips as she tried to sort them. Mother's first. It says, Little clothes for Mrs. Perks' children. Mother said, I'll find some of Phyllis's things that she's grown out of, if you're quite sure Mr. Perks won'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 are borne-lady. We'll keep the little frox and whatnot now. Then there's the Perambulator and the Gooseberries and the Sweets. Said Bobby. There from Mrs. Ransom. She said, I daresay Mr. Perks' children would like the Sweets, and the Perambulator was got from my Emmy's first. It didn't live but six months, and she's never had with that one. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It would be a help with her fine boy. I'd have given it to her before, if I'd been sure she'd accept 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, but Said Mrs. Perks firmly. And I vote, so don't you ask me. I not asking anything. Said Perks, gruffly. 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 is 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 heist. 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 lent 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. And the old 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 us 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 one 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 round, and showing a very odd-looking, screwed-up face. I don't know as ever I was better pleased. Not so much with the prisons, though they're an A-1 collection, but the kind respect of our neighbours. That's worth having, A. Nell. I think it's all worth having, said Mrs. Perks. And you've made the most ridiculous fuss about nothing bad, if you ask me. No, I ain't, said Perks, firmly. If a man didn't respect himself, 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, brightly. You'll stay to tea, said Mr. Perks. Later on, Peter proposed Mr. Perks' health, and Mr. Perks proposed a toast, also honoured in tea, and the toast was May the garland of friendship be ever green, which was much more poetical than anyone 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 didn't need to be old gal. I claimed unhandsome, soon as I understood it wasn't charity. But charity is 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 Perkses, by all the nice things, and by the kind thoughts of their neighbours. The three chimneys' children, by the success, undoubted though 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 do as what you means. That's what I say. Now, if it had been charity— Oh, drat's charity! said Mrs. Perks. Nobody won't offer you charity, but have ever much you was to want at I.L.A. 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. 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-bear 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 handfuls. 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 round 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 could think of. And at first it did hurt to hear you all talking about 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. But 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 quarreling 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— Do 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 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 enjoyed talking about the things they used to do. Don't you think so? Not, Uncle Edward. Said Phyllis in a shocked tone. He's in heaven. You don't suppose he's forgotten us and 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 Minionette and Nestertium, 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 wait for fear I'll pull up the wrong things. She used to say comfortably. It says 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, wood and 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 the 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 from the garden, pansies and stalks and sweet willies, and forget me knots. I'll bring them along tomorrow, 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 Fawkes 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. Then 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 onto 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 kitty sisters, said Peter. This was always recognised as indicating the high water mark 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 do. Oh! cried Bobby, just as if she had 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 and insulting. Take the word rake then. Was the best she could manage. And she suddenly let go her hold on the handle. Peter had been holding onto 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. Then he frightened her a little more for he sat up, screamed once, turned rather pale, and then lay 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 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 a rake, said Phyllis. Peter was pulling at it. So was Bobby, and she let go. And he went over. Stop that noise, Peter. Said Mother. Come, stop at once. Peter used up what breathy 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 round him. He is hurt. She said. He's fainted. Here, Bobby, sit down and take his head on your lap. Then 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 basin full. 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 halfway 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, Locker Mercy, what's that for? Asked a voice, and Perks stood before her with a wooden-trug basket, full of green-leafed 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 wasn't, 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 a long if he's getting a touch of the sun in the hay-field, and not the fork at all. I remember him well, a 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 daresay. 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. I lay a pound he ain't 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 on his foot, will he? whispered Bobby breathlessly at the door. My aunt, no, said Dr. Forrest. He'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 shan't, 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 hoe, or 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. No, 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 prig, so I tell you. I don't mean to be a prig, 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, you'd have been lying 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. Quarreling 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 prig. 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 prig, that's all. You keep your eyes open, and if you feel prigishness coming on, just stop in time, see? Yes, said Bobby. I see. Then let's call it Pax. Said Peter magnanimously. Burry 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 prigish. But that soon wore off, and both she and Phyllis were, as he observed, jolly good sorts. 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 station master, and several of the village people, but the time went slowly, slowly. I do wish there was something to read, said Peter. I read all our books fifty times over. I'll go to the doctors, said Phyllis. He is 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, and people are tired of them. Said Bobby. I'll run down and ask him. So the girls went their two ways. Bobby found Perks busy cleaning lamps. And how was the young gent? Said he. Better, thanks. Said Bobby. But he's most frightfully bored. I came to ask you if you'd 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 at a museum 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 pick of him to Sneakson's boy. Him what's just getting over the pure monia. 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. Oil just slipped 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 miss them about with these paint-box or colored chalks or whatnot, why let him? I don't want them. You're a dear. 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. It's not true. 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. Tea's ready, and a boy's brought Peter a guinea pig. Come along down. And Bobby had to. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of The Railway Children This Libber Vox recording is in the public domain. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt. Chapter 11. The Hound in the Red Jacket Bobby knew the secret now. A sheet of old newspaper wrapped round a parcel, just a little chance like that, had given the secret to her, and she had to go down to tea and pretend that there was nothing the matter. The pretence was bravely made, but it wasn't very successful. For when she came in, everyone looked up from tea and saw her pink-lidded eyes and her pale face with red tear-blotches on it. My darling! cried Mother, jumping up from the tea-tray. Whatever is the matter? My headaches, rather. Said Bobby. And indeed it did. Has anything gone wrong? Mother asked. I'm all right. Really? Said Bobby, and she telegraphed to her Mother from her swollen eyes this brief imploring message. Not before the others. Tea was not a cheerful meal. Peter was so distressed by the obvious fact that something horrid had happened to Bobby that he limited his speech to repeating at startlingly short intervals. Phyllis stroked her sister's hand under the table to express sympathy, and knocked her cup over as she did it. Fetching a cloth and wiping up the spilled milk helped Bobby a little, but she thought that tea would never end. Yet at last it did end, as all things do at last, and when Mother took out the tray, Bobby followed her. She's gone to own up. Said Phyllis to Peter. I wonder what she's done? Broken something, I suppose. Said Peter. But she needn't be so silly over it. Mother never rouse for accidents. Listen. Yes, they're going upstairs. She's taking Mother up to show her the water jug with stalks on it, I expect it is. Bobby, in the kitchen, had caught hold of Mother's hand as she set down the tea-things. What is it? Mother asked. But Bobby only said, Come upstairs. Come up where nobody can hear us. When she had got Mother alone in her room, she locked the door, and then stood quite still, and quite without words. All through tea she had been thinking of what to say. She had decided that I know all. Or. All is known to me. Or. That terrible secret is a secret no longer. Would be the proper thing. But now that she and her Mother and that awful sheet of newspaper were alone in the room together, she found that she could say nothing. Suddenly she went to Mother and put her arms round her, and began to cry again. And still she could find no words only. Oh, Mammy! Oh, Mammy! Oh, Mammy! Over and over again, Mother held her very close and waited. Suddenly Bobby broke away from her, and went to her bed. From under her mattress, she pulled out the paper she had hidden there, and held it out, pointing to her father's name with a finger that shook. Oh, Bobby! Mother cried when one little quick look had shown her what it was. You don't believe it? You don't believe Daddy did it? No! Bobby almost shouted. She had stopped crying. That's all right, said Mother. It's not true, and they've shut him up in prison, but he's done nothing wrong. He's good and noble and honorable, and he belongs to us. We have to think of that and be proud of him, and wait. Again Bobby clung to her Mother, and again only one word came to her. But now that word was Daddy. And Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy. Again and again. Why didn't you tell me, Mommy? She asked presently. Are you going to tell the others? Mother asked. No. Why? Because Exactly. Said Mother. So you understand why I didn't tell you. We too must help each other to be brave. Yes. Said Bobby. Mother, will it make you more unhappy if you tell me all about it? I want to understand. So then, sitting cuddled up close to her Mother, Bobby heard all about it. She heard how those men who had asked to see Father on that remembered last night when the engine was being mended had come to arrest him, charging him with selling state secrets to the Russians, with being, in fact, a spy and a traitor. She heard about the trial and about the evidence. Letters found in Father's desk at the office, letters that convinced the jury that Father was guilty. Oh, how could they look at him and believe it? cried Bobby. And how could anyone do such a thing? Someone did it. Said Mother. And all the evidence was against Father. Those letters. Yes. How did the letters get into his desk? Someone put them there. And the person who put them there was the person who was really guilty. He must be feeling pretty awful all this time. Said Bobby thoughtfully. I don't believe he had any feelings. Mother said hotly. He couldn't have done a thing like that if he had. Perhaps he just shoved the letters into the desk to hide them when he thought he was going to be found out. Why don't you tell the lawyers or someone that it must have been that person? There wasn't anyone that would have hurt Father on purpose, was there? I don't know. I don't know. The man under him who got Daddy's place when he, when the awful thing happened, he was always jealous of your father because Daddy was so clever and everyone thought such a lot of him. And Daddy never quite trusted that man. Couldn't we explain all that to someone? Nobody will listen. Said Mother very bitterly. Nobody at all. Do you suppose I've not tried everything? No, my dearest, there's nothing to be done. All we can do, you, I and Daddy, is to be brave and patient and- She spoke very softly. To pray, Bobby dear. Mother you've got very thin. Said Bobby abruptly. A little, perhaps. And oh, said Bobby. I do think you're the bravest person in the world as well as the nicest. We won't talk about this anymore, will we dear? Said Mother. We must bear it and be brave and, darling, try not to think of it. Try to be cheerful and amuse yourself and the others. It's much easier for me if you can be a little bit happy and enjoy things. Wash your poor little round face, and let's go out into the garden for a bit. The other two were very gentle and kind to Bobby, and they did not ask her what was the matter. This was Peter's idea, and he had drilled Phyllis, who would have asked a hundred questions if she had been left to herself. A week later Bobby managed to get away alone, and once more she wrote a letter, and once more it was to the old gentleman. My dear friend, she said, You see what is in this paper. It is not true. Father never did it. Mother says someone put the papers in Father's desk, and she says the man under him that got Father's place afterwards was jealous of Father, and Father suspected him a long time. But nobody listens to a word she says. But you are so good and clever, and you found out about the Russian gentleman's wife directly. Can't you find out who did the treason? Because he wasn't Father upon my honour. He is an Englishman, and incapable to do such things, and then they would let Father out of prison. It is dreadful, and Mother is getting so thin, she told us once to pray for all prisoners and captives. I see now. Oh, do help me. There's only just Mother and me, and we can't do anything. Peter and Phil don't know. I'll pray for you twice every day as long as I live. If you'll only try, just try to find out. Think if it was your Daddy, what you would feel. Oh, do, do, do help me. With love, I remain your affectionately little friend, Roberta. P.S., Mother would send her kind regard that she knew I am writing, but it is no use telling her I am, in case you can't do anything. But I know you will. Bobby, with best love. She cut the account of her father's trial out of the newspaper, with Mother's big cutting-out scissors, and put it in the envelope with her letter. Then she took it down to the station, going out to the back way and round by the road, so that the others should not see her, and offer to come with her, and she gave the letter to the station master to give to the old gentleman next morning. Where have you been? shouted Peter from the top of the yard wall, where he and Phyllis were. To the station, of course, said Bobby. Give us a hand, Pete. She set her foot on the lock of the yard door. Peter reached down a hand. What on earth? She asked as she reached the wall top, for Phyllis and Peter were very muddy. A lump of wet clay lay between them on the wall. They had each a slip of slate in a very dirty hand, and behind Peter, out of the reach of accidents, were several strange rounded objects, rather like very fat sausages, hollow but closed up at one end. It's nests, said Peter. Swallow's nests. We're going to dry them in the oven, and hang them up with string under the eaves of the coach-house. Yes, said Phyllis. And then we're going to save up all the wool, and here we can get. And in the spring we'll line them, and then how pleased the swallows will be. I've often thought people don't do nearly enough for dumb animals, said Peter, with an air of virtue. I do think people might have thought of making nests for the poor little swallows before this. Oh, said Bobby vaguely. If everybody thought of everything, there'd be nothing left for anybody else to think about. Look at the nests, aren't they pretty? Said Phyllis, reaching across Peter to grasp a nest. Look out, Phil, you goat! Said her brother. But it was too late. Her strong little fingers had crushed the nest. There now, said Peter. Never mind. Said Bobby. It is one of my own. Said Phyllis. So you need a job, Peter. Yes, we've put our initial names on the ones we've done so that the swallows will know who they've got to be so grateful to and fond of. Swallows can't read, silly. Said Peter. Silly yourself. Retorted Phyllis. How do you know? Who thought of making the nests, anyhow? Shouted Peter. I did! Screamed Phyllis. Yeah. Rejoined Peter. You only thought of making hay ones and sticking them in the ivy for the sparrows and that had been sopping long before egg-laying time. It was me, said Clay and Swallows. I don't care what you said. Look. Said Bobby. I've made the nest all right again. Give me the bit of stick to mark your initial name on it. But how can you? Your letter and Peter's are the same. P for Peter, P for Phyllis. I put F for Phyllis. Said the child of that name. That's how it sounds. So Swallows wouldn't spell Phyllis with a P. I'm certain, sir. They can't spell it all. Peter was still insisting. Then why do you see them always on Christmas cards and valentines with letters around their necks? How would they know where to go if they couldn't read? That's only in pictures. You never saw one really with letters around its neck? Well, I have a pigeon then. At least Daddy told me they did. Only was under their wings and not round their necks. But it comes with the same thing and I say. Interrupted Bobby. There's to be a paper chase tomorrow. Who? Peter asked. Grammar school. Berks thinks the hair will go along by the line at first. We might go along the cutting. You can see a long way from there. The paper chase was found to be a more amusing subject of conversation than the reading powers of Swallows. Bobby had hoped it might be. And next morning Mother let them take their lunch and go out for the day to see the paper chase. If we go to the cutting, said Peter, we shall see the workman even if we miss the paper chase. Of course it had taken some time to get the line clear from the rocks and earth and trees that had fallen on it when the great landslip happened. That was the occasion, you will remember, when the three children saved the train from being wrecked by waving six little red flannel petticoat flags. It is always interesting to watch people working, especially when they work with such interesting things as spades and picks and shovels and planks and barrows, when they have cindery red fires in iron pots with round holes in them, and red lamps hanging near the works at night. Of course the children were never out at night, but once, at dusk, when Peter had got out of his bedroom skylight onto the roof, he had seen the red lamp shining far away at the edge of the cutting. The children had often been down to watch the work, and this day the interest of picks and spades and barrows being wheeled along planks completely put the paper chase out of their heads, so that they quite jumped when a voice just behind them panted, Let me pass, please. It was the hare, a big boned, loose-limbed boy, with dark hair lying flat on a very damp forehead. The bag of torn paper under his arm was fastened across one shoulder by a strap. The children stood back, the hare ran along the line, and the workmen leaned on their picks to watch him. He ran on steadily, and disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel. That's against the by-laws, said the foreman. Why worry, said the oldest workman. Living let lives, what I always say. You ain't never been younging yourself, Mr. Bates. I ought to report him, said the foreman. Why spoil sports, what I always say. Passengers are forbidden to cross the line on any pretense. murmured the foreman doubtfully. You ain't no passenger, said one of the workmen. Nor he ain't crossed the line, not where we could see him do it, said another. Nor yet he ain't made no pretenses, said a third. And? said the oldest workman. He's out of sight now. What the eye don't see, the art needn't take, no notice ofs, what I always say. And now, following the track of the hair by the little white blots of scattered paper, came the hounds. There were thirty of them, and they all came down the steep ladder-like steps, by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens. Bobby and Phyllis and Peter counted them as they passed. The foremost ones hesitated a moment at the foot of the ladder, then their eyes caught the gleam of scattered whiteness along the line, and they turned towards the tunnel, and, by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens, disappeared into the dark mouth of it. The last one, in a red jersey, seemed to be extinguished by the darkness, like a candle that is blown out. They don't know what they're in for, said the foreman. It isn't so easy running in the dark. The tunnel takes two or three turns. They'll take a long time to get through, you think? Peter asked. An hour or more, I shouldn't wonder. Then let's cut across the top, and see them come out at the other end. Said Peter. We shall get there long before they do. The council seemed good, and they went. They climbed the steep steps from which they had picked the wild cherry blossom for the grave of the little wild rabbit, and, reaching the top of the cutting, set their faces towards the hill through which the tunnel was cut. It was stiff work. It's like Alps. Said Bobby breathlessly. Or Andes. Said Peter. It's like Himmy. What's its name? Gasped Phyllis. Mount Everlasting. Do let's stop. Stick to it. Panted Peter. You'll get your second wind in a minute. Phyllis consented to stick to it, and on they went, running when the turf was smooth and the slope easy, climbing over stones, helping themselves up rocks by the branches of trees, creeping through narrow openings between tree trunks and rocks, and so on and on, up and up, till at last they stood on the very top of the hill, where they had so often wished to be. Halt! cried Peter, and threw himself flat on the grass, for the very top of the hill was a smooth, turfed table-land, dotted with mossy rocks and little mountain ash trees. The girls also threw themselves down flat. Plenty of time. Peter panted. The rest all down hill. When they were rested enough to sit up and look round to them, Bobby cried. Look! What at? Said Phyllis. The view. Said Bobby. I hate views. Said Phyllis. Don't you, Peter? Let's get on. Said Peter. But this isn't like a view they take you to in carriages when you're at the seaside. All sea and sand and bear hills. It's like the coloured counties in one of mother's poetry books. It's not so dusty. Said Peter. Look at the aqueducts straddling slap across the valley like a giant centipede, and then the towns sticking their church spires up out of the trees like pens out of an ink stand. I think it's more like, there could he see the banners of twelve fair cities shine. I love it. Said Bobby. It's worth the climb. The paper chases worth the climb. Said Phyllis. If you don't lose it, let's get on. It's all downhill now. I said that ten minutes ago. Said Peter. Well, I've said it now. Said Phyllis. Come on. Loads of time. Said Peter. And there was. For when they had got down to a level with the top of the tunnel's mouth, they were a couple of hundred yards out of their reckoning, and hatched a creep along the face of the hill. There was no sign of the hare or the hounds. They've gone long ago, of course. Said Phyllis, as they leaned on the brick parapet above the tunnel. I don't think so. Said Bobby. But even if they had, it's ripping here, and we shall see the trains come out of the tunnel like dragons out of layers. We've never seen that from the top side before. No more we have. Said Phyllis, partially appeased. It was really a most exciting place to be in. The top of the tunnel seemed ever so much farther from the line than they had expected, and it was like being on a bridge. But a bridge overgrown with bushes and creepers and grass and wild flowers. I know the paper chase has gone long ago. Said Phyllis every two minutes, and she hardly knew whether she was pleased or disappointed when Peter, leaning over the parapet, suddenly cried. Look out! Here he comes. They all leaned over the sun-warmed brick wall, in time to see the hare going very slowly, come out from the shadow of the tunnel. There now. Said Peter. What did I tell you? Now for the hounds. Very soon came the hounds, by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens, and they also were going slowly and seemed very tired. Two or three who lagged far behind came out long after the others. There. Said Bobby. That's all. Now what shall we do? Go along into the tolgib wood over there and have lunch. Said Phyllis. We can see them for miles from up here. Not yet. Said Peter. That's not the last. There's the one in the Red Jersey to come yet. Let's say the last of them come out. But though they waited and waited and waited, the boy in the Red Jersey did not appear. Let's have lunch. Said Phyllis. I've got a pain in my front with being so hungry. You must have missed seeing the Red Jersey one when he came out with the others. But Bobby and Peter agreed that he had not come out with the others. Let's get down to the tunnel-mouth. Said Peter. Then perhaps we shall see him coming along from the inside. I expect he felt spunchuck and rested in one of the manholes. You stay up here and watch, Bob, and when I signal from below you come down. We might miss seeing him on the way down with all these trees. So the others climbed down, and Bobby waited till they signaled to her from the line below. And then she too scrambled down the roundabout slippery path among roots and moss, till she stepped out between two dogwood trees and joined the others on the line. And still there was no sign of the hound with the Red Jersey. Oh, do, do, let's have something to eat. Wailed Phyllis. I shall die if you don't, and then you'll be sorry. Give her the sandwiches, for goodness sake, and stop her silly mouth. Said Peter, not quite unkindly. Look here. He added, turning to Bobby. Perhaps we'd better have one each too. We may needle our strength. No more than one, though, there's no time. What? Asked Bobby, her mouth all ready full, for she was just as hungry as Phyllis. Don't you see? replied Peter impressively. The Red Jersey'd hound has had an accident. That's what it is. Perhaps even as we speak he's lying with his head on the metals and unresisting prey to any passing express. Oh, don't try to talk like a book. Cried Bobby, bolting what was left of her sandwich. Come on. Phyll, keep close behind me, and if a train comes, stand flat against the tunnel wall and hold your petticoats close to you. Give me one more sandwich. pleaded Phyllis. And I will. I'm going first. said Peter. It was my idea. And he went. Of course you know what going into a tunnel is like. The engine gives a scream, and then suddenly the noise of the running rattling train changes, and grows different and much louder. Grown-up people pull up the windows and hold them by the strap. The railway carriage suddenly grows like night. With lamps, of course, unless you're in a slow local train, in which case lamps are not always provided. Then, by and by, the darkness outside the carriage window is touched by puffs of cloudy whiteness. Then you see a blue light on the walls of the tunnel. Then the sound of the moving train changes once more, and you are out in the good open air again. And grown-ups let the straps go. The windows all dim with the yellow breath of the tunnel rattle down into their places, and you see once more the dip and catch of the telegraph wires beside the line, and the straight cut hawthorn hedges with the tiny baby trees growing up out of them every 30 yards. All this, of course, is what a tunnel means when you are in a train, but everything is quite different when you walk into a tunnel on your own feet and tread on shifting, sliding stones and gravel on a path that curves downwards from the shining metals to the wall. Then you see slimy, oozy trickles of water running down the inside of the tunnel, and you notice that the bricks are not red or brown as they are at the tunnel's mouth, but dull, sticky, sickly green. Your voice when you speak is quite changed from what it was out in the sunshine, and it is a long time before the tunnel is quite dark. It was not yet quite dark in the tunnel when Phyllis caught at Bobby's skirt ripping out half a yard of gathers, but no one noticed this at the time. I want to go back, she said. I don't like it. It'll be pitch dark in a minute. I won't go on in the dark. I don't care what you say, I won't. Don't be a silly cuckoo, said Peter. I've got a candle in and matches and what's that? That was a low humming sound on the railway line, a trembling of the wires beside it, a buzzing humming sound that grew louder and louder as they listened. It's a train, said Bobby. Which line? Let me go back! cried Phyllis, struggling to get away from the hand by which Bobby held her. Don't be a coward, said Bobby. It's quite safe. Stand back. Come on! shouted Peter, who was a few yards ahead. Quick! Manhole! The roar of the advancing train was now louder than the noise you hear, when your head is underwater in the bath, and both taps are running, and you're kicking with your heels against the bath's tin sides. But Peter had shouted for all he was worth, and Bobby heard him. She dragged Phyllis along to the manhole. Phyllis, of course, stumbled over the wires and grazed both her legs, but they dragged her in, and all three stood in the dark, damp, arched recess, while the train roared louder and louder. It seemed as if it would deafen them, and in the distance they could see its eyes of fire growing bigger and brighter every instant. It is a dragon. I always knew it was. It takes its own shape in here, in the dark. shouted Phyllis. But nobody heard her. You see, the train was shouting too, and its voice was bigger than hers. And now, with a rush and a roar and a rattle, and a long, dazzling flash of lighted carriage windows, a smell of smoke and blast of hot air, the train hurtled by, clanging and jangling and echoing in the vaulted roof of the tunnel, Phyllis and Bobby clung to each other, even Peter caught hold of Bobby's arm. In case you should be frightened, as he explained afterwards. And now, slowly and gradually, the taillights grew smaller and smaller, and so did the noise. Till, with one last whizz, the train got itself out of the tunnel, and silence settled again on its damp walls and dripping roof. Said the children, all together in a whisper. Peter was lighting the candle end with a hand that trembled. Come on. He said, but he had to clear his throat before he could speak in his natural voice. Oh! said Phyllis. If the Red Jersey'd one was in the way of the train. We've got to go and see. Said Peter. Couldn't we go and send someone from the station? Said Phyllis. Would you rather wait here for us? Asked Bobby severely, and, of course, that settled the question. So the three went on into the deeper darkness of the tunnel. Peter led, holding his candle end high to light the way. The grease ran down his fingers, and some of it, right up his sleeve. He found a long streak from wrist to elbow when he went to bed that night. It was not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where they had stood while the train went by, that Peter stood still, shouted, Hello! and then went on much quicker than before. When the others caught him up, he stopped, and he stopped within a yard of what they had come into the tunnel to look for. Phyllis saw a gleam of red, and shut her eyes tight. There, by the curved pebbly downline, was the red Jersey'd hound. His back was against the wall, his arms hung limply by his sides, and his eyes were shut. Was the red blood, is he all killed? Asked Phyllis, screwing her eyelids more tightly together. Killed, nonsense, said Peter. There's nothing red about him except his Jersey. He's only fainted. What on earth are we to do? Can we move him? Asked Bobby. I don't know, he's a big chap. Suppose we bathe his forehead with water. No, I know we haven't any, but milk's just as wet. There's a whole bottle. Yes, said Peter. And they rub people's hands, I believe. They burn feathers, I know. Said Phyllis. What's the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers? As it happens. Said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph. I've got a shuttle-cook in my pocket, so there. And now Peter rubbed the hands of the red Jersey'd one. Bobby burned the feathers of the shuttle-cook, one by one under his nose. Phyllis splashed warmish milk on his forehead, and all three kept on saying as fast and as earnestly as they could. Oh, look up! Speak to me. For my sake, speak! End of Chapter 11