 CHAPTER 6 THE LITTLE HOUSE Foolish Tootles was standing like a conqueror over Wendy's body when the other boys sprang armed from their trees. You are too late, he cried proudly. I have shot the Wendy. Peter will be so pleased with me. Overhead, Tinkerbell shouted, silly ass, and darted into hiding. The others did not hear her. They'd crowded around Wendy, and as they looked, a terrible silence fell upon the wood. Wendy's heart had been beating. They would have all heard it. Slightly was the first to speak. This is no bird, he said in a scared voice. I think this must be a lady. A lady, said Tootles, and fell a-tumbling. And we have killed her, Nibbs said hoarsely. They all whipped off their caps. Now I see, Curly said. Peter was bringing her to us. He threw himself sorrowfully on the ground. A lady to take care of us at last, said one of the twins, and you have killed her. They were sorry for him, but sorry for themselves. And when he took a step nearer, they turned from him. Tootles' face was very white, but there was a dignity about him, now that there never had been before. I did it, he said, reflecting. When ladies used to come to me in dreams, I always said, pretty mother, pretty mother, but when at last she really came, I shot her. He moved slowly away. It don't go, they called in pity. I must, he answered, shaking. I am so afraid of Peter. It was at this tragic moment that they heard a sound which made the heart of every one of them rise to his mouth. They heard Peter crow. Peter, they cried, for it was always thus that he signaled his return. Hide her, they whispered, and gathered hastily around Wendy. But Tootles stood aloof. Again there came that ringing crow, and Peter dropped in front of them. Greetings, boys, he cried, and mechanically they saluted, and then again was silence. He frowned, I am back, he said. Hotly, why do you not cheer? They opened their mouths, but the cheers would not come. He overlooked it in his haste to tell the glorious tidings. Great news, boys, he cried, I have brought at last a mother for you all. Still no sound except a little thud from Tootles as he dropped on his knees. Have you not seen her? asked Peter, becoming troubled. She flew this way. Oh, me, one voice said, another said, oh mournful day. Tootles rose. Peter, he said, quietly, I will show her to you. And when the others would still have hidden her, he said, back twins, let Peter see. So they all stood back and let him see, and after he had looked for a little time, he did not know what to do next. She is dead, he said, uncomfortably. Perhaps she is frightened at being dead. He thought of hopping off in a comic sort of way till he was out of sight of her, and then never going near the spot anymore. They all would have been glad to follow him if he had done this. But there was the arrow. He took it from her heart and faced his band. Whose arrow, he demanded sternly. Mine, Peter, said Tootles on his knees. Oh, dastard hand, Peter said. And he raised the arrow to use it as a dagger. Tootles did not flinch. He bared his breast. Strike, Peter, he said, firmly. Strike true. Twice did Peter raise the arrow and twice did his hand fall. I cannot strike, he said, with awe. There is something which stays my hand. All looked at him in wonder, saved Nibbs, who fortunately looked at Wendy. It is she, he cried. The Wendy lady, see her arm. Wonderful to relate, Wendy had raised her arm. Nibbs bent over her and listened reverently. I think she said, poor Tootles, he whispered. She lived, Peter said, briefly. Slightly cried instantly. The Wendy lady lives! Then Peter knelt beside her and found his button. You remember, she had placed it on the chain that she wore around her neck. See, he said, the arrow struck against this. It is the kiss I gave her. It has saved her life. I remember kisses, slightly interposed quickly. Let me see it. Aye, there's a kiss. Peter did not hear him. He was begging Wendy to get better quickly so that he could show her the mermaids. Of course, she could not answer yet, being still in a frightful faint, but from overhead came a wailing note. Listen to Tink, said Curly. She is crying because the Wendy lives. Then they had to tell Peter of Tink's crime. And almost never had they seen him look so stern. Listen, Tinkerbell. He cried, I am your friend no more. Be gone from me forever. She flew onto his shoulder and pleaded, but he brushed her off. Not until Wendy raised her arm did he relent sufficiently to say, Well, not forever, but for a whole week. Do you think that Tinkerbell was grateful to Wendy for raising her arm? Oh, dear no, never wanted to pinch her so much. Fairies are indeed strange, and Peter, who understood them best, often cuffed them. But what to do with Wendy in her present delicate state of health? Let us carry her into the house, Curly suggested. I said slightly. That is what one does with ladies. No, no, Peter said. You must not touch her. It would not be sufficiently respectful. That, said slightly, is what I was thinking. But if she lies there, Toodle said, she will die. I, she will die, slightly admitted, but there is no way out. Yes, there is, cried Peter. Let us build a little house round her. They were all delighted. Quick, he ordered them. Bring me each of you the best of what we have. Get out the house. Be sharp. In a moment they were as busy as tailors the night before a wedding. They scurried this way and that, down for bedding, up for firewood. And while they were at it, who should appear but John and Michael? As they dragged up along the ground, they fell asleep standing, stopped, woke up, moved another feet, and slept again. John, John, Michael would cry, wake up. Where is Nana, John, and mother? And then John would rub his eyes and mutter. It is true. We did fly. You may be sure they were very relieved to find Peter. Hello, Peter, they said. Hello, replied Peter amicably, though he had quite forgotten them. He was very busy at the moment, measuring Wendy with his feet to see how large a house she would need. Of course he meant to leave room for chairs and a table. John and Michael watched him. Is Wendy asleep? They asked. Yes. John, Michael proposed, let us wake her and get her to make supper for us. But as he said it, some of the other boys rushed on, carrying branches for building the house. Look at them, he cried. Curly, said Peter, in his most captainly voice, see that these boys help in the building of the house. Aye, aye, sir. Build a house, exclaimed John, for the Wendy, said Curly. For Wendy, John said aghast. Well, she is only a girl. That, explained Curly, is why we are her servants. You, Wendy's servants? Yes, said Peter, and you also. Away with them. The astounded brothers were dragged away to hack and queue and carry. Chairs and defender first. Peter ordered. Then we should build a house round them. Aye, said slightly. That is how a house is built. It all comes back to me. Peter thought of everything. Slightly, he cried. Fetch a doctor. Aye, aye, said slightly, at once, and disappeared, scratching his head. But as he knew Peter must be obeyed. He returned in a moment, wearing John's hat and looking solemn. Please, sir, said Peter, going to him. Are you a doctor? The difference between him and the other boys at such a time was that they knew it was make-believe, while to him make-believe and true were exactly the same thing. This sometimes troubled them as when they had to make-believe that they had their dinners. If they broke down in their make-believe, he wrapped them on the knuckles. Yes, my little man, slightly anxiously replied, who had chapped knuckles. Please, sir, Peter explained. A lady lies very ill. She was lying at their feet, but slightly had the sense not to see her. He said, where does she lie? In yonder glade. I will put a glass thing in her mouth, said slightly, and he made-believe to do it, while Peter waited. It was an anxious moment when the glass thing was withdrawn. How is she? inquired Peter. Said slightly, this has cured her. I am glad, said Peter. I will call again in the evening, slightly said. Give her beef-tea out of a cup with a spout to it. But after he had returned the hat to John, he blew big breaths, which was his habit on escaping from a difficulty. In the meantime, the wood had been alive with the sound of axes. Almost everything needed for a cozy dwelling already lay at Wendy's feet. If we only knew, said one, the kind of house she likes best. Peter shouted another. She is moving in her sleep. Her mouth opens, cried a third, looking respectfully into it. Oh, lovely. Perhaps she's going to sing in her sleep, said Peter. Wendy, sing the kind of house you would like to have. Immediately, without opening her eyes, Wendy began to sing. I wish I had a pretty house, the littlest ever seen, with funny little red walls and roof of mossy green. They gurgled with joy at this, for by the greatest good luck the branches they had brought were sticky with red sap, and all the ground was carpeted with moss. As they rattled up the little house, they broke into song themselves. We've built the little walls and roof and made a lovely door, so tell us, mother Wendy, what are you wanting more? To this she answered greedily. Oh really, next I think I'll have gay windows all about, with roses peeping in, you know, and babies peeping out. With a blow of their fist they made windows and large yellow leaves with a blinds, but roses? Roses, cried Peter sternly. Quickly they made believe to grow the loveliest roses up the walls. Babies? To prevent Peter ordering babies they hurried in a song again. We've made the roses peeping out, the babes are at the door. We cannot make ourselves, you know, because we've been made before. Peter, seeing this to be a good idea, at once pretended that it was his own. The house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very cozy within, though of course they could no longer see her. Peter strode up and down, ordering finishing touches, nothing escaped his eagle eyes. Just when it seemed absolutely finished, there's no knocker on the door, he said. They were very ashamed, but Toodles gave the sole of his shoe, and it made an excellent knocker. Absolutely finished now, they thought, not a bit of it. There's no chimney, said Peter. We must have a chimney. It certainly does need a chimney, said John importantly. That gave Peter an idea. He snatched the hat off John's head, knocked out the bottom, and put the hat on the roof. The little house was so pleased to have such a capital chimney that, as if to say thank you, smoke immediately began to come out of the hat. Now really and truly it was finished. Nothing remained to do but to knock. All look your best, Peter warned them. First impressions are awfully important. He was glad no one asked him what first impressions are. They were all too busy looking their best. He knocked politely, and now the wood was as still as the children, not a sound to be heard except from Tinkerbell, who was watching from a branch and openly sneering. What the boys was wondering was, would anyone answer the knock? If a lady, what would she be like? The door opened, and the lady came out. It was Wendy. They all whipped off their hats. She looked properly surprised, and this was just how they had hoped she would look. Where am I, she said. Of course, slightly was the first to get his word in. Wendy, lady, he said rapidly, for you we built this house. Oh, say you're pleased, cried Nibbs. Lovely darling house, Wendy said, and they were the very words they had hoped she would say. And we are your children, cried the twins. They all went on their knees and holding out their arms, cried. Oh, Wendy, lady, be our mother. Odd eye, Wendy said, all shining. Of course, it's frightfully fascinating, but you see, I'm only a little girl, I have no real experience. That doesn't matter, said Peter, as if he were the only person present who knew it all about it, though he was really the one who knew least. What we need is just a nice, motherly person. Oh dear, Wendy said. You see, I feel that is exactly what I am. It is, it is, they all cried. We saw it at once. Very well, she said, I will do my best. Come inside at once, you naughty children, I'm sure you'll feed her damp, and before I put you to bed, I have just time to finish the story of Cinderella. In they went, I don't know how there was room for them, but you can squeeze very tight in Neverland. And that was the first of the many joyous evenings they had with Wendy. By and by, she tucked them up in the great bed in the home under the trees, but she herself slept that night in the little house, and Peter kept watch outside with drawn sword, for the pirates could be heard carousing far away, and the wolves were on the prowl. The little house looked so cozy and safe in the darkness. With a bright light showing through its blinds, and the chimneys smoking beautifully and Peter standing on guard. After a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on their way home from an orgy. Any of the other boys obstructing the ferry path at night, they would have mischiefed. But they just tweaked Peter's nose, and passed on. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and record it by Catherine Eastman, www.stanford.edu, slash tilde, Seastman. On March 24th, 2006. Peter Pan, by J. M. Barry. Chapter 7. The Home Under the Ground One of the first things Peter did next day was to measure Wendy and John and Michael for hollow trees. Hook, you remember, had sneered at the boys for thinking they needed a tree apiece. But this was ignorance, for unless your tree fitted you, it was difficult to go up and down, and no two of the boys were quite the same size. Once you fitted, you drew in your breath at the top, and down you went at exactly the right speed. While to ascend, you drew in and let out alternately, and so wriggled up. Of course, when you have mastered the action, you are able to do these things without thinking of them, and nothing can be more graceful. But you simply must fit, and Peter measures you for your tree as carefully as for a suit of clothes, the only difference being that the clothes are made to fit you, while you have to be made to fit the tree. Usually it is done quite easily, as by you are wearing too many garments or too few. But if you are bumpy in awkward places, or the only available tree is an odd shape, Peter does some things to you. And after that you fit. Once you fit, great care must be taken to go on fitting, and this, as Wendy was to discover to her delight, keeps a whole family in perfect condition. Wendy and Michael fitted their trees at the first try, but John had to be altered a little. After a few days' practice, they could go up and down as gaily as buckets in a well, and how ardently they grew to love their home under the ground, especially Wendy. It consisted of one large room, as all houses should do, with a floor in which you could dig if you wanted to go fishing, and in this floor grew stout mushrooms of a charming color, which were used as stools. A never-tree tried hard to grow in the center of the room, but every morning they sawed the trunk through level with the floor. By tea-time it was always about two feet high, and then they put a door on top of it, the whole thus becoming a table. As soon as they cleared away, they sawed off the trunk again, and thus there was more room to play. There was an enormous fireplace, which was in almost any part of the room where you cared to light it, and across this Wendy stretched strings made of fiber, from which she suspended her washing. The bed was tilted against the wall by day, and let down at six thirty when it filled nearly half the room, and all the boys slept in it except Michael, lying like sardines in a tin. There was a strict rule against turning round until one gave the signal, when all turned it once. Michael should have used it also, but Wendy would have a baby, and he was the littlest, and you know what women are, and the short and long of it is that he was hung up in a basket. It was rough and simple, and not unlike what baby bears would have made of an underground house in the same circumstances. But there was one recess in the wall no larger than a birdcage, which was the private apartment of Tinkerbell. It could be shut off from the rest of the house by a tiny curtain, which Tink, who was most fastidious, always kept drawn when dressing or undressing. No woman, however large, could have had a more exquisite boudoir and bed chamber combined. The couch, as she always called it, was a genuine queen-mab with club legs, and she varied the bedspreads according to what fruit blossom was in season. Her mirror was a puss in boots of which there are now only three unchipped known to fairy dealers. The wash stand was pie-crossed and reversible. The chest of drawers an authentic charming the sixth, and the carpet and rugs the best, the early period, of Marjorie and Robin. There was a chandelier from tiddly winks for the look of the thing, but of course she lit the residence herself. Tink was very contemptuous of the rest of the house, as indeed was perhaps inevitable, and her chamber, though beautiful, looked rather conceited, having the appearance of a nose permanently turned up. I suppose it was all especially entrancing to Wendy, because those rampageous boys of hers gave her so much to do. Really, there were whole weeks when, except perhaps with a stocking in the evening, she was never above ground. The cooking, I can tell you, kept her nose to the pot, and even if there was nothing in it, even if there was no pot, she had to keep watching that it came a boil just the same. You never exactly knew whether there would be a real meal or just a make-believe. It all depended upon Peter's whim. He could eat, really eat, if it was part of a game. But he could not stodge just to feel stodgy, which is what most children like better than anything else, the next best thing being to talk about it. Make-believe was so real to him that during a meal of it you could see him getting rounder. Of course it was trying, but you simply had to follow his lead, and if you could prove to him that you were getting loose for your tree, he let you stodge. Wendy's favourite time for sewing and darning was after they had all gone to bed. Then, as she expressed it, she had a breathing time for herself, and she occupied it in making new things for them and putting double pieces on the knees, for they were almost frightfully hard on their knees. When she sat down to a basket full of their stockings, every heel with a hole in it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim, Oh dear, I am sure I sometimes think spinsters are to be envied. Her face beamed when she exclaimed this. You remember about her pet wolf? Well, it very soon discovered that she had come to the island, and it found her out, and they just ran into each other's arms. After that, it followed her about everywhere. As time wore on, did she think much about the beloved parents she had left behind her? This is a difficult question, because it is quite impossible to say how time does wear on in the Neverland, where it is calculated by moons and suns, and there are ever so many more of them than on the mainland. But I am afraid that Wendy did not really worry about her father and mother. She was absolutely confident that they would always keep the window open for her to fly back by, and this gave her complete ease of mind. What did disturb her at times was that John remembered his parents vaguely only, as people he had once known, while Michael was quite willing to believe that she was really his mother. These things scared her a little, and nobly anxious to do her duty, she tried to fix the old life in their minds by setting them examination papers on it as like as possible to the ones she used to do at school. The other boys thought this awfully interesting, and insisted on joining, and they made slates for themselves and sat round the table, writing and thinking hard about the questions she had written on another slate and passed round. They were the most ordinary questions. What was the color of mother's eyes, which was taller father or mother? Was mother blonde or brunette? Answer all three questions if possible. A. Write an essay of not less than forty words on how I spent my last holidays, or the characters of father and mother compared, only one of these to be attempted. Or. 1. Describe mother's laugh. 2. Describe father's laugh. 3. Describe mother's party dress. 4. Describe the kennel and its inmate. They were just everyday questions like these, and when you could not answer them you were told to make a cross, and it was really dreadful what a number of crosses even John made. Of course the only boy who replied to every question was slightly, and no one could have been more hopeful of coming out first, but his answers were perfectly ridiculous, and he really came out last, a melancholy thing. Peter did not compete. For one thing he despised all mother's except Wendy, and for another he was the only boy on the island who could neither write nor spell, not the smallest word. He was above all that sort of thing. By the way, the questions were all written in the past tense. What was the colour of mother's eyes, and so on? Wendy, you see, had been forgetting too. Adventures, of course, as we shall see, were of daily occurrence, but about this time Peter invented with Wendy's help a new game that fascinated him enormously, until he suddenly had no more interest in it, which, as you have been told, was what always happened with his games. It consisted in pretending not to have adventures, in doing the sort of thing John and Michael had been doing all their lives, sitting on stools, flinging balls in the air, pushing each other, going out for walks, and coming back without having killed so much as a grizzly. To see Peter doing nothing on a stool was a great sight. He could not help looking solemn at such times to sit still seemed to him such a comic thing to do. He boasted that he had gone walking for the good of his health. For several sons these were the most novel of all adventures to him, and John and Michael had to pretend to be delighted also, otherwise he would have treated them severely. He often went out alone, and when he came back you were never absolutely certain whether he had had an adventure or not. He might have forgotten it so completely that he said nothing about it, and then when you went out you found the body. And on the other hand he might say a great deal about it, and yet you could not find the body. Sometimes he came home with his head bandaged, and then Wendy cooed over him and bathed it in lukewarm water while he told a dazzling tale. But she was never quite sure, you know. There were, however, many adventures which she knew to be true because she was in them herself, and there were still more that were at least partly true, for the other boys were in them and said they were wholly true. To describe them all would require a book as large as an English-Latin-Latin-English dictionary, and the most we can do is to give one as a specimen of an average hour on the island. The difficulty is which one to choose. Should we take the brush with the redskins at a slightly gulch, it was a sanguinary affair, and especially interesting as showing one of Peter's peculiarities, which was that in the middle of a fight he would suddenly change sides. At the gulch, when victory was still in the balance, sometimes leaning this way and sometimes that, he called out, I'm Redskin today, what are you, Toodles? And Toodles answered, Redskin, what are you, Knits? And Nim said, Redskin, what are you, Twin? And so on, and they were all Redskins, and of course this would have ended the fight had not the real Redskins, fascinated by Peter's methods, agreed to be lost boys for that once, and so at it they all went again more fiercely than ever. The extraordinary upshot of this adventure was, but we have not decided yet that this is the adventure we are to narrate. Perhaps a better one would be the night attack by the Redskins on the house under the ground, when several of them stuck in the hollow trees and had to be pulled out like corks. Or we might tell how Peter saved Tiger Lily's life in the mermaid's lagoon, and so made her his ally. Or we could tell of that cake the pirates cooked so that the boys might eat it and perish, and how they placed it in one cunning spot after another, but always Wendy snatched it from the hands of her children, so that in time it lost its succulence, and became as hard as a stone, and was used as a missile, and hook fell over it in the dark. Or suppose we tell of the birds that were Peter's friends, particularly of the never-bird that built in a tree overhanging the lagoon, and how the nest fell into the water, and still the bird sat on her eggs, and Peter gave orders that she was not to be disturbed. That is a pretty story, and the end shows how grateful a bird can be. But if we tell it, we must also tell the whole adventure of the lagoon, which would, of course, be telling two adventures rather than just one. A shorter adventure, and quite as exciting, was Tinkerbell's attempt, with the help of some street fairies, to have the sleeping Wendy conveyed on a great floating leaf to the mainland. Fortunately the leaf gave way, and Wendy woke, thinking it was bath time, and swam back. Or, again, we might choose Peter's defiance of the lions, when he drew a circle round him on the ground with an arrow, and dared them to cross it. And though he waited for hours, with the other boys and Wendy looking on breathlessly from trees, not one of them dared to accept his challenge. Which of these adventures shall we choose? The best way will be to toss for it. I have tossed, and the lagoon has won. This almost makes one wish that the gulch, or the cake, or Tink's leaf, had won. Of course I could do it again, and make it the best out of three. However, perhaps fairest to stick to the lagoon. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 8 The Mermaid's Lagoon If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale colors suspended in the darkness. Then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colors become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire. But just before they go on fire, you see the lagoon. This is the nearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just one heavenly moment. If there could be two moments, you might see the surf and hear the mermaid singing. The children often spent long summer days on this lagoon swimming or floating most of the time, playing the mermaid games in the water, and so forth. You must not think from this that the mermaids were on friendly terms with them. On the contrary, it was among Wendy's lasting regrets that all the time she was on the island, she never had a civil word from one of them. When she stole softly to the edge of the lagoon, she might see them by the score, especially on Maruna's rock, where they loved to bask, combing out their hair in a lazy way that quite irritated her. Or she might even swim on tiptoe, as it were, to within a yard of them, but then they saw her and dived, probably splashing her with their tails, not by accident, but intentionally. They treated all the boys in the same way, except, of course, Peter, who chatted with them on Maruna's rock by the hour, and sat on their tails when they got cheeky. He gave Wendy one of their cones. The most haunting time at which to see them is at the turn of the moon, when they utter strange wailing cries. But the lagoon is dangerous for mortals then, and until the evening of which we now have to tell, Wendy had never seen a lagoon by moonlight, less from fear, for, of course, Peter would have accompanied her, than because she had strict rules about everyone being in bed by seven. She was often at the lagoon, however, on sunny days after rain, when the mermaids come up in extraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles. The bubbles of many colors made in the rainbow water, they treat as balls, hitting them gaily from one to another with their tails, and trying to keep them in the rainbow until they burst. The goals are at each end of the rainbow, and the keepers only are allowed to use their hands. Sometimes a dozen of these games will be going on in the lagoon at a time, and it is quite a pretty sight. But the moment the children tried to join in, they had to play by themselves, for the mermaids immediately disappeared. Nevertheless, we have proof that they secretly watched the interlopers, and were not above taking an idea from them, for John introduced a new way of hitting the bubble with the head instead of the hand, and the mermaids adopted it. This is the one mark that John has left on the Neverland. It must also have been rather pretty to see the children resting on a rock for half an hour after their midday meal. Wendy insisted on their doing this, and it had to be a real rest, even though the meal was make-believe. So they lay there in the sun, and their bodies glistened in it, while she sat beside them, and looked important. It was one such day, and they were all on Maruna's rock. The rock was not much larger than their great bed, but of course they all knew how not to take up much room, and they were dozing, or at least lying with their eyes shut, and pinching occasionally when they thought Wendy was not looking. She was very busy stitching. While she stitched, a change came to the lagoon. Little shivers ran over it, and the sun went away, and shadows stole across the water, turning it cold. Wendy could no longer see to thread her needle, and when she looked up, the lagoon that had always hitherto been such a laughing place seemed formidable and unfriendly. It was not, she knew, that night had come, but something as dark as night had come. No, worse than that. It had not come, but it had sent that shiver through the sea to say that it was coming. What was it? There crowded upon her all the stories she had been told of Maruna's rock, so-called because evil captains put sailors on it and leave them there to drown. They drown when the tide rises, for then it is submerged. Of course she should have roused the children at once, not merely because of the unknown that was stalking towards them, but because it was no longer good for them to sleep on a rock-grown chili. But she was a young mother, and she did not know this. She thought, you simply must stick to your rule about half an hour after the midday meal. So, though fear was upon her and she longed to hear male voices, she would not awaken them. Even when she heard the sound of muffled oars, though her heart was in her mouth, she did not awaken them. She stood over them to let them have their sleep out. Was it not brave of Wendy? It was well for those boys then that there was one among them who could sniff danger even in his sleep. Peter sprang erect as wide awake at once as a dog, and with one morning cry he roused the others. He stood motionless, one hand to his ear. Pirates, he cried. The others came closer to him. A strange smile was playing about his face, and Wendy saw it and shuddered. While that smile was on his face, no one dared address him. All they could do was stand ready to obey. The order came sharp and incisive. Dive! There was a gleam of legs, and instantly the lagoon seemed deserted. Marooner's rock stood alone in the forbidding waters, as if it were itself marooned. The boat drew nearer. It was the pirate dingy, with three figures in her, Smee and Starkey, and the third a captive, no other than Tiger Lily. Her hands and ankles were tied, and she knew what was to be her fate. She was to be left on the rock to perish, an end to one of her race more terrible than death by fire or torture, for is it not written in the book of the tribe that there is no path through water to the happy hunting ground? Yet her face was impassive. She was the daughter of a chief. She must die as a chief's daughter. It is enough. They had caught her boarding the pirate ship with a knife in her mouth. No watch was kept on the ship. It being hooks boast that the wind of his name guarded the ship for a mile around. Now her fate would help to guard it also. One more whale would go round in that wind by night. In the gloom that they brought with them, the two pirates did not see the rock till they crashed into it. Laugh you lubber, cried an Irish voice that was Smee's. Here's the rock. Now then, what we have to do is hoist the red skin onto it, and leave her here to drown. It was the work of one brutal moment to land the beautiful girl on the rock. She was too proud to offer a vain resistance. Quite near the rock, but out of sight, two heads were bobbing up and down, Peters and Wendy's. Wendy was crying, for it was the first tragedy she had seen. Peter had seen many tragedies, but he had forgotten them all. He was less sorry than Wendy for Tiger Lily. It was two against one that angered him, and he meant to save her. An easy way would have been to wait until the pirates had gone, but he was never one to choose the easy way. There was almost nothing he could not do. He now imitated the voice of Hook. Ahoy there, you lubbers, he called. It was a marvelous imitation. The captain, said the pirates, staring at each other in surprise. He must be swimming out to us, Sturkey said, when they had looked for him in vain. We are putting the red skin on the rock, Sme called out. Set her free, came the astonishing answer. Free? Yes, cut her bonds and let her go. But captain, at once, do you hear, cried Peter, or I'll plunge my hook into you. This is queer, Sme gasped. Better do what the captain orders, said Sturkey nervously. Aye aye, Sme said, and he cut Tiger Lily's cords. At once, like an eel, she slid between Sturkey's legs into the water. Of course, Wendy was very elated over Peter's cleverness, but she knew that he would be elated also, and very likely crow and thus betray himself, so at once her hand went out to cover his mouth. But it was stayed, even in the act, for, Boatahoy rang over the lagoon in Hook's voice, and this time it was not Peter who had spoken. Peter may have been about to crow, but his face puckered in a whistle of surprise instead. Boatahoy again came the voice. Now Wendy understood. The real hook was also in the water. He was swimming to the boat, and as his men showed a light to guide him, he had soon reached them. In the light of the lantern, Wendy saw his hook grip the boat's side. She saw his evil, swarthy face as he rose dripping from the water, and, quaking, she would have liked to swim away. But Peter would not budge. He was tingling with life, and also top-heavy with conceit. Am I not a wonder? Oh, I am a wonder, he whispered to her. And though she thought so also, she was really glad for the sake of his reputation that no one heard him except himself. He signed to her to listen. The two pirates were very curious to know what had brought their captain to them, but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of profound melancholy. Captain, is all well? they asked timidly, but he answered with a hollow moan. He sighs, said Smee. He sighs again, said Starkey. And yet a third time he sighs, said Smee. Then at last he spoke passionately. The games up, he cried, those boys who have found a mother. Afraid it though she was, Wendy swelled with pride. Oh, evil day! cried Starkey. What's a mother? asked the ignorant Smee. Wendy was so shocked that she exclaimed, he doesn't know, and always after this she felt that if you could have a pet pirate, Smee would be her one. Peter pulled her beneath the water, for hook had started up crying. What was that? I heard nothing, said Starkey, raising the lantern over the waters, and as the pirates looked they saw a strange sight. It was the nest I have told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the neverbird was sitting on it. See? said Hook in answer to Smee's question, that is a mother. What a lesson! The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the mother desert her eggs? No. There was a break in his voice, as if for a moment he recalled innocent days when he brushed away this weakness with his hook. Smee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was born past, but the more suspicious Starkey said, if she's a mother, perhaps she's hanging about here to help Peter. Hook winced. I, he said, that is the fear that haunts me. He was roused from this dejection by Smee's eager voice. Captain, said Smee, could we not kidnap these boys' mother and make her our mother? It is a princely scheme, cried Hook, and at once it took practical shape in his great brain. We will seize the children and carry them to the boat. The boys we will make walk the plank, and Wendy shall be our mother. Again Wendy forgot herself. Never, she cried and bobbed. What was that? But they could see nothing. They thought it must have been a leaf in the wind. Do you agree, my Belize? asked Hook. There is my hand on it, they both said, and there is my hook. Swear. They all swore. By this time they were on the rock, and suddenly Hook remembered Tiger the Lee. Where's the red skin? he demanded abruptly. He had a playful humor at moments, and they thought this was one of the moments. That's all right, Captain, Smee answered complacently. We let her go. Let her go, cried Hook. Twas your own orders, the bosson faltered. You called over the water to us to let her go, said Starkey. Brimstone and gall, thundered Hook. What cousining is going on here? His face had gone black with rage, but he saw that they believed their words, and he was startled. Lads, he said, shaking a little. I gave no such order. It is passing queer, Smee said, and they all fidgeted uncomfortably. Hook raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it. Spirit that haunts this dark lagoon tonight, he cried. Dust hear me? Of course Peter should have kept quiet, but of course he did not. He immediately answered in Hook's voice. Odds, bobs, hangar and tongs, I hear you. In that supreme moment Hook did not blanch even at the gills, but Smee and Starkey clung to each other in terror. Who are you, stranger? Speak, Hook demanded. I am James Hook, replied the voice, Captain of the Jolly Roger. You are not, you are not, Hook cried hoarsely. Brimstone and gall, the voice retorted, say that again and I'll cast anchor in you. Hook tried a more ingratiating manner. If you are Hook, he said almost humbly, come tell me, who am I? A codfish, replied the voice, only a codfish. A codfish, Hook echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till then, that his proud spirit broke. He saw his men draw back from him. Have we been captained all this time by a codfish? they muttered. It is the lowering to our pride. They were his dog snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had become, he scarcely heeded them. Against such fearful evidence, it was not their belief in him that he needed, it was his own. He felt his ego slipping from him. Don't desert me, bully, he whispered hoarsely to it. In his dark nature there was a touch of the feminine, as in all the great pirates, and it sometimes gave him intuitions. Suddenly he tried the guessing game. Hook, he called, have you another voice? Now Peter could never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his own voice. I have. And another name? Aye, aye. Vegetable? asked Hook. No. Mineral? No. Animal? Yes. Man? No. This answer rang out scornfully. Boy? Yes. Ordinary boy? No. Wonderful boy? To Wendy's pain, the answer that rang out this time was yes. Are you in England? No. No. Are you here? Hook was completely puzzled. You asked him some questions, he said to the others, wiping his damp brow. Smee reflected. I can't think of a thing, he said regretfully. Can't guess, can't guess, crowed Peter. Do you give it up? Of course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the miscreants saw their chance. Yes, yes, they answered eagerly. Well then, he cried, I am Peter Pan. Pan. In a moment, Hook was himself again, and Smee and Starkey were his faithful henchmen. Now we have him, Hook shouted, into the water, Smee. Starkey, mind the boat, take him, dead or alive. He leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of Peter. Are you ready, boys? Aye, aye, from various parts of the lagoon. Then lamb into the pirates! The fight was short and sharp. First to draw blood was John, who gallantly climbed into the boat and held Starkey. There was fierce struggle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate's grasp. He wriggled overboard, and John left after him. The dinghy drifted away. Here and there a head bopped up in the water, and there was a flash of steel, followed by a cry or a whoop. In the confusion some struck at their own side. The corkscrew of Smee got toodles in the fourth rib, but he was himself pinked and turned by Curly. Further up the rock, Starkey was pressing slightly in the twins hard. Where all this time was Peter? He was seeking bigger game. The others were all brave boys, and they must not be blamed for backing from the pirate captain. His iron claw made a circle of dead water round him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes. But there was one who did not fear him. There was one, prepared to enter that circle. Strangely, it was not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the rock to breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the opposite side. The rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl rather than climb. Neither knew that the other was coming. Each feeling for a grip met the other's arm. In surprise they raised their heads, their faces were almost touching. So they met. Some of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they fell, too, they had a sinking. Had it been so with Peter at that moment, I would admit it. After all, he was the only man that the sea-cook had feared. But Peter had no sinking. He had one feeling only, gladness. And he gnashed his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought, he snatched a knife from Hook's belt, and was about to drive it home when he saw that he was higher up the rock than his foe. It would not have been fighting fair. He gave the pirate a hand to help him up. It was then that Hook bit him. Not the pain of this, but its unfairness was what dazed Peter. It made him quite helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child is affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness. After you have been unfair to him, he will love you again, but will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first unfairness. No one except Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot it. I suppose that was the real difference between him and all the rest. So when he met it now, it was like the first time. And he could just stare, helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him. A few moments afterwards, the other boys saw Hook in the water, striking wildly for the ship. No elation on the pestilent face now, only white fear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On ordinary occasions, the boys would have swum alongside cheering, but now they were uneasy, for they had lost both Peter and Wendy, and were scouring the lagoon for them, calling them by name. They found the dingy and went home in it, shouting, Peter, Wendy, as they went. But no answer came, save mocking laughter from the mermaids. They must be swimming back, or flying, the boys concluded. They were not very anxious, because they had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boylike, because they would be late for bed, and it was all Mother Wendy's fault. When their voices died away, there came cold silence over the lagoon, and then a feeble cry. Hell, two small figures were beating against the rock. The girl had fainted and lay on the boy's arm. With a last effort, Peter pulled her up the rock, and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted, he saw that the water was rising. He knew that they would soon be drowned, but he could do no more. As they lay side by side, a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began pulling her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him, woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back. But he had to tell her the truth. We're on the rock, Wendy, he said. But it is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over it. She did not understand even now. We must go, she said almost brightly. Yes, he answered faintly. Shall we swim or fly, Peter? He had to tell her. Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy, without my help? She had to admit that she was too tired. He moaned. What is it? She asked, anxious about him at once. I can't help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim. Do you mean we shall both be drowned? Look how the water is rising. They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They thought they would soon be no more. As they sapped us, as they sapped us, something brushed against Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there as if saying timidly, can I be of any use? It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days before. It had torn itself out of his hand and floated away. Michael's kite, Peter said without interest. But next moment he had seized the tail and was pulling the kite toward him. It lifted Michael off the ground, he cried. Why should it not carry you? Both of us. I can't lift two, Michael and Curly tried. Let us draw lots, Wendy said bravely. And you a lady, never. Already he had tied the tail round her. She clung to him. She refused to go without him. But with a goodbye, Wendy. He pushed her from the rock, and in a few minutes she was born out of his sight. Peter was alone on the lagoon. The rock was very small now. Soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of light tiptoed across the waters, and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world. The mermaids calling to the moon. Peter was not quite like other boys, but he was afraid at last. A tremor ran through him, like a shutter passing over the sea. But on the sea one shutter follows another until there are hundreds of them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face, and a drum beating within him. It was saying, To die will be an awfully big adventure. Chapter 9 The Neverbird The last sound Peter heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids retiring one by one to their bed chambers under the sea. He was too far away to hear their doors shut, but every door in the coral caves where they live rings a tiny bell when it opens or closes, as in all the nicest houses on the mainland, and he heard the bells. Steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet, and to pass the time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only thing on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of floating paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long it would take to drift ashore. Presently he noticed, as an odd thing, that it was undoubtedly out upon the lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide, and sometimes winning. And when it won, Peter, always sympathetic to the weaker side, could not help clapping. It was such a gallant piece of paper. It was not really a piece of paper. It was The Neverbird making desperate efforts to reach Peter on the nest. By working her wings in a way she had learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able to some extent to guide her strange craft. But by the time Peter recognized her she was very exhausted. She had come to save him, to give him her nest, though there were eggs in it. I rather wonder at the bird, for though he had been nice to her, he had also sometimes tormented her. I can suppose only that like Mrs. Darling and the rest of them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth. She called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to her what she was doing there. But of course neither of them understood the other's language. In fanciful stories people can talk to the birds freely, and I wish for the moment I could pretend that this were such a story, and say that Peter replied intelligently to The Neverbird. But truth is best, and I want to tell you only what really happened. Well, not only could they not understand each other, but they forgot their manners. I want you to get into the nest, the bird called, speaking as slowly and distinctly as possible. And then you can drift ashore, but I am too tired to bring it any nearer, so you must try to swim to it. What are you quacking about? Peter answered. Why don't you let the nest drift as usual? I want you, the bird said, and repeated it all over. Then Peter tried slow and distinct. What are you quacking about? And so on. The Neverbird became irritated. They have very short tempers. You dunderheaded little Jay, she screamed. Why don't you do as I tell you? Peter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted hotly. So are you! Then rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark. Shut up, shut up! Nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by one last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock. Then up she flew, deserting her eggs so as to make her meaning clear. Then at last he understood, and clutched the nest, and waved his thanks to the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive his thanks, however, that she hung there in the sky. It was not even to watch him get into the nest. It was to see what he did with her eggs. There were two large white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and reflected. The bird covered her face with her wings so as not to see the last of them. But she could not help peeping between the feathers. I forgot whether I have told you that there was a stave on the rock, driven into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of buried treasure. The children had discovered the glittering horde, and when in a mischievous mood used to fling showers of moydores, diamonds, pearls, and pieces of eight to the galls, who pounced upon them for food, and then flew away, raging at the scurvy trick that had been played upon them. The stave was still there, and on it Starkey had hung his hat, a deep tarpel and watertight with a broad brim. Peter put the eggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon. It floated beautifully. The never-bird saw at once what he was up to and screamed her admiration of him, and alas Peter crowed his agreement with her. Then he got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and hung up his shirt for a sale. At the same moment the bird fluttered down upon the hat, and once more sat snugly on her eggs. She drifted in one direction, and he was born off in another, both cheering. Of course when Peter landed he beached his bark. Small ship, actually the never-bird's nest in this particular case in point, in a place where the bird would easily find it, but the hat was such a great success that she abandoned the nest. It drifted about till it went to pieces, and often Starkey came to the shore of the lagoon, and with many bitter feelings watched the bird sitting on his hat. As we shall not see her again it may be worth mentioning here that all never-birds now build in that shape of nest with a broad brim on which the youngsters take an airing. Great were the rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the ground almost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and thither by the kite. Every boy had adventures to tell, but perhaps the biggest adventure of all was that they were several hours late for bed. This so inflated them that they did various dodgy things to get staying up still longer, such as demanding bandages. But Wendy, though glorifying in having them all home again safe and sound, was scandalized by the lateness of the hour and cried, too bad, too bad, in a voice that had to be obeyed. Next day, however, she was awfully tender and gave out bandages to every one, and they played till bedtime at limping about and carrying their arms in slings. This reading by Eric Mackenzie. Peter Pan by James Matthew Bering Chapter 10 The Happy Home One important result of the brush on the lagoon was that it made the Redskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily from a dreadful fate, and now there was nothing she and her braves would not do for him. All night they sat above, keeping watch over the home under the ground and awaiting the big attack by the pirates, which obviously could not be much longer delayed. Even by day they hung about, smoking the pipe of peace and looking almost as if they wanted tidbits to eat. They called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves before him, and he liked this tremendously so that it was not really good for him. The Great White Father, you would say to them in a very lordly manner as they groveled at his feet, is glad to see the Pickenany warriors protecting his wigwam from the pirates. Me Tiger Lily, that lovely creature would reply. Peter Pan saved me, me his very nice friend, me no let pirates hurt him. She was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it is due and he would answer condescendingly. It is good. Peter Pan has spoken. Always when he said Peter Pan has spoken, it meant that they must now shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit. But they were by no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon as just ordinary braves. They said, how do, to them, and things like that. And what annoyed the boys was that Peter seemed to think this all right. Secretly Wendy sympathized with them a little, but she was far too loyal a housewife to listen when he complains against Father. Father knows best, she always said, whatever her private opinion must be. Her private opinion was that the Redskins should not call her a squaw. We have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as the Night of Knights because of its adventures and their upshot. The day, as if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful, and now the Redskins and their blankets were at their posts above, while below the children were having their evening meal. All except Peter, who had gone out to get the time. The way you got the time on the island was to find the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock struck. The meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around the board, guzzling in their greed, and really, what with their chatter and recriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was positively deafening. To be sure, she did not mind noise, but she simply would not have them grabbing things, and then excusing themselves by saying the Toodles had pushed their elbow. There was a fixed rule that they must never hit back at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to Wendy by raising the right arm politely and saying, I complain of so-and-so. But what usually happened was that they forgot to do this, or did it too much? Silence! cried Wendy, when for the twentieth time she had told them that they were not all to speak at once. Is your mug empty, slightly darling? Not quite empty, mummy, slightly said, after looking into an imaginary mug. He hasn't even begun to drink his milk, nibs interposed. This was telling, and slightly seized his chance. I complain of nibs, he cried promptly. John, however, had held up his hand first. Well, John, may I sit in Peter's chair as he is not here? Sit in Father's chair, John, when he was scandalized. Certainly not. He is not really our father, John answered. He didn't even know how a father does till I showed him. This was grumbling. We complain of John, cried the twins. Toodles held up his hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed he was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him. I don't suppose, Toodles said diffidently, that I could be father. No, Toodles. Once Toodles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of going on. As I can't be father, he said heavily. I don't suppose, Michael, you would let me be baby. No, I won't, Michael wrapped out. He was already in his basket. As I can't be baby, Toodles said, getting heavier and heavier and heavier. Do you think I could be a twin? No, indeed replied the twins. It's awfully difficult to be a twin. As I can't be anything important, said Toodles. Would any of you like to see me do a trick? No, they all replied. Then at last he stopped. I hadn't really any hope, he said. The hateful telling broke out again. Slightly as coughing on the table, the twins began with cheesecakes. Curly is taking both butter and honey. Nibs is speaking with his mouth full. I complained of the twins. I complained of Curly. I complained of nibs. Oh dear, oh dear! cried Wendy. I'm sure I sometimes think that spinsters are to be envied. She told him to clear away and sat down to her work basket. A heavy load of stockings in every knee with a hole in it as usual. Wendy, remonstrated Michael. I'm too big for a cradle. I must have somebody in a cradle, she said, almost hardly. And you are the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a house. While she sewed, they played around her. Such a group of happy faces and dancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become a very familiar scene in this, in the home under the ground. But we are looking on it for the last time. There was a step above. In Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to recognize it. Children, I hear your father's step. He likes you to meet him at the door. Above the redskins crouched before Peter. Watch well, braves. I have spoken. And then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from his tree. As so often before. But never again. He had brought nuts for the boys, as well as the correct time for Wendy. Peter, you just spoil them, you know, Wendy simpered. Ah, old lady, said Peter, hanging up his gun. He was me, told him, mother's or called old lady, Michael whispered to Curly. I complain of Michael, said Curly, instantly. The first twin came to Peter. Father, we want to dance. Dance away, my little man, said Peter, who was in high good humor. But we want you to dance. Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be scandalized. Me, my old bones would rattle. And mummy too. What, cried Wendy, the mother of such an armful dance. But on a Saturday night, slightly insinuated. It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they had long lost count of the days. But always if they wanted to do anything special, they said this was Saturday night, and then they did it. Of course it is Saturday night, Peter, Wendy said, relenting. People of our figure, Wendy. But it is only among our own progeny. True, true. So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties first. Ah, old lady, Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire and looking down at her as she sat, turning a heel. There is nothing more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day's toil is over than to rest by the fire with the little ones nearby. It is, sweet Peter, isn't it? Wendy said, frightfully gratified. Peter, I think, curly has your nose. Michael takes after you. She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. Dear Peter, she said, with such a large family, of course, I have now passed my best, but you don't want to change me, do you? No, Wendy. Certainly he did not want to change, but he looked at her uncomfortably, blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep. Peter, what is it? I was just thinking, he said, a little scared. It is only make-believe, isn't it, that I am their father? Oh, yes, Wendy said, primely. You see, he continued apologetically. It would make me seem so old to be their real father. But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine. But not really, Wendy, he asked anxiously. Not if you don't wish it, she replied, and she distinctly heard his sigh of relief. Peter, she asked, trying to speak firmly. What are your exact feelings to me? Those of a devoted son, Wendy. I thought so, she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the room. You are so queer, he said, frankly puzzled. And Tiger Lily is just the same. There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is not my mother. No, indeed it is not, Wendy replied, with frightful emphasis. Now we know why she was prejudiced against the Redskins. Then what is it? It isn't for a lady to tell. Oh, very well, Peter said, a little nettled. Perhaps Tinkerbell will tell me. Oh, yes, Tinkerbell will tell you, Wendy retorted scornfully. She is an abandoned little creature. Here Tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out something imputed. She says she glories in being abandoned, Peter interpreted. He had a sudden idea. Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother. You silly ass, cried Tinkerbell in a passion. She had said it so often that Wendy needed no translation. I almost agree with her, Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping. But she had been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before the night was out. If she had known, she would not have snapped. None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance gave them one more glad hour, and as it was to be their last hour on the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it. They sang and danced in their nightgowns. Such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own shadows. Little wedding that so soon shadows would close in upon them, from whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was the dance, in how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it. It was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the pillows insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may never meet again. The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy's good night story. Even slightly tried to tell a story that night. The beginning was so fearfully dull, that it appalled not only the others, but himself. And he said happily, Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the end. And then at last, they all got into bed for Wendy's story. The story they loved best. The story Peter hated. Usually when she began to tell this story, he left the room, or put his hands over his ears. And possibly if he had done either of those things this time, they might all still be on the island. But tonight he remained on his stool. And we shall see what happened. End of Chapter 10. Lucy Burgoyne Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie Chapter 11. Wendy's Story Listen, then, said Wendy, settling down to her story, with Michael at her feet and seven boys in the bed. There was once a gentleman. I had rather he had been a lady, Curly said. I wish he had been a white rat, said Nibbs. Quiet, their mother admonished them. There was a lady also. And, oh, Mummy, cried the first twin. You mean that there is a lady also, don't you? She is not dead. Is she? Oh, no. I am awfully glad she isn't dead, said Tootles. Are you glad, John? Of course I am. Are you glad, Nibbs? Rather, are you glad twins? We are glad. Oh, dear, sighed Wendy. Little less noise there. Peter called out, determined that she should have fair play, however beastly a story it might be, in his opinion. The gentleman's name, Wendy continued, was Mr. Darling, and her name was Mrs. Darling. I knew them, John said, to annoy the others. I think I knew them, said Michael, rather doubtfully. They were married, you know, explained Wendy. And what do you think they had? White rats, cried Nibbs, inspired. No. It's awfully puzzling, said Tootles, who knew the story by heart. Quiet, Tootles. They had three descendants. What is descendants? Well, you are one twin. Did you hear that, John? I am a descendant. Descendants are only children, said John. Oh, dear, oh, dear, sighed Wendy. Now, these three children had a faithful nurse, called Nana. But Mr. Darling was angry with her and chained her up in the yard, and so all the children flew away. It's an awfully good story, said Nibbs. They flew away, Wendy continued, to the Neverland, where the lost children are. I just thought they did. Curly broke in, excitedly. I don't know how it is, but I just thought they did. Oh, Wendy, cried Tootles, was one of the lost children, called Tootles. Yes, he was. I am in a story. Hooray, I am in a story, Nibbs. Hush. Now, I want you to consider the feelings of the unhappy parents with all their children flown away. Oh, they all moaned, though they were not really considering the feelings of the unhappy parents, one jot. Think of the empty beds. Oh, it's awfully sad, the first twin said cheerfully. I don't see how it can have a happy ending, said the second twin. Do you, Nibbs? I'm frightfully anxious. If you knew how great is a mother's love, Wendy told them triumphantly. You would have no fear. She had now come to the part that Peter hated. I do like a mother's love, said Tootles, hitting Nibbs with a pillow. Do you like a mother's love, Nibbs? I do just, said Nibbs, hitting back. You see, Wendy said complacently. Our heroine knew that the mother would always leave the window open for her children to fly back by, so they stayed away for years and had a lovely time. Did they ever go back? Let us now, said Wendy, bracing herself up for her finest effort. Take a peep into the future, and they all gave themselves the twist that makes peeps into the future easier. Years have rolled by, and who is this elegant lady of uncertain age alighting at London Station? Oh, Wendy, who is she? cried Nibbs. Every bit as excited as if he didn't know. Can it be, yes, no? It is the fair Wendy. Oh, and who are the two noble portly figures accompanying her? Now grown to man's estate. Can they be John and Michael? They are. Oh, see, dear brothers, says Wendy, pointing upwards. There is the window still standing open. Ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime faith in a mother's love. So up they flew to their mummy and daddy, and Penn cannot describe the happy scene over which we draw a veil. That was the story, and they were as pleased with it as the fair narrator herself. Everything just as it should be, you see. Off we skip like the most heartless things in the world, which is what children are, but so attractive. And we have an entirely selfish time, and then when we have need of special attention, we know we return for it. Confident that we shall be rewarded instead of smacked. So great indeed was their faith in a mother's love, but they felt they could afford to be callous for a bit longer. But there was one there who knew better, and when Wendy finished, he uttered a hollow groan. What is it, Peter? she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill. She felt him solicitously, lower down than his chest. Where is it, Peter? It isn't that kind of pain, Peter replied, darkly. Then what kind is it? Wendy, you are wrong about mothers. They all gathered round him in a fright. So alarming was his agitation, and with a fine candor, he told them what he had hitherto concealed. Long ago, he said, I thought, like you, that my mother would always keep the window open for me. So I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back, but the window was barred. The mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed. I am not sure that this was true, but Peter thought it was true, and it scared them. Are you sure mothers are like that? Yes. So this was the truth about mothers, the toads. Still, it is best to be careful, and no one knows so quickly as a child when he should give in. Wendy, let us go home, cried Michael and John together. Yes, she said, clutching them. Not tonight, asked the lost boys bewildered. They knew in what they called their hearts that one can get on quite well without a mother, and that it is only the mothers who think you can't. At once, Wendy replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had come to her. Perhaps mother is in half-morning by this time. This dread made her forgetful of what must be Peter's feelings, and she said to him rather sharply, Peter, will you make the necessary arrangements? If you wish it, he replied as coolly as if she had asked him to pass the nuts. Not so much as a sorry to lose you between them. If she did not mind the parting, he was going to show her, was Peter, that neither did he. But of course he cared very much, and he was so full of wrath against grown-ups, who, as usual, was spoiling everything, that as soon as he got inside his tree, he breathed intentionally quick, short breaths at the rate of about five to a second. He did this because there is a saying in the Neverland that, every time you breathe, a grown-up dies, and Peter was killing them off vindictively as fast as possible. Then having given the necessary instructions to the red skins, he returned to the home, where an unworthy scene had been enacted in his absence. Panicked stricken at the thought of losing Wendy, the lost boys had advanced upon her threateningly. It will be worse than before she came. They cried. We shan't let her go. Let's keep her prisoner. Aye, chain her up. In her extremity, an instinct told her to which of them to turn. Tuttle, she cried. I appeal to you. Was it not strange? She appealed to Tuttle's, quite the silliest one. Grandly, however, did Tuttle's respond? For that one moment he dropped his silliness and spoke with dignity. I am this Tuttle's, he said, and nobody minds me. But the first who does not behave to Wendy, like an English gentleman, I will blood him severely. He drew back his hangar, and for that instant his son was at noon. The others held back uneasily. Then Peter returned, and they saw at once that they would get no support from him. He would keep no girl in the Neverland against her will. Wendy, he said, striding up and down, I have asked the Redskins to guide you through the wood, as flying tires you so. Thank you, Peter. Then he continued, in the short, sharp voice of one accustomed to be obeyed. Tinkerbell will take you across the sea, wake her, nibs. Nibs had to knock twice before he got an answer, though Tink had really been sitting up in bed, listening for some time. Who are you? How dare you? Go away, she cried. You are to get up, Tink, nibs called, and take Wendy on a journey. Of course, Tink had been delighted to hear that Wendy was going. But she was jolly well-determined not to be her career, and she said so in still more offensive language than she pretended to be asleep again. She says she won't, nibs exclaimed, aghast at such insubordination, whereupon Peter went sternly toward the young lady's chamber. Tink, he rapped out, if you don't get up and dress at once, I will open the curtains and then we shall all see you in your negligee. This made her leap to the floor. Who said I wasn't getting up? She cried. In the meantime the boys were gazing very forlornly at Wendy, now equipped with John and Michael for the journey. By this time they were dejected, not merely because they were about to lose her, but also because they felt that she was going off to something nice, to which they had not been invited. Novelty was beckoning to them as usual, predating them with a nobler feeling Wendy melted. Dear ones, she said, if you will all come with me, I feel almost sure I can get my father and mother to adopt you. The invitation was meant specially for Peter, but each of the boys was thinking exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy. But won't they think us rather a handful? Nibbs asked in the middle of his jump. Oh no, said Wendy, rapidly thinking it out, it will only mean having a few beds in the drawing room. They can be hidden behind the screens on first Thursdays. Peter, can we go? They all cried imploringly. They took it for granted that if they went, he would go also. But really they scarcely cared. Thus children are ever ready when novelty knocks to desert their dearest ones. All right, Peter replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they rushed to get their things. And now Peter, Wendy said, thinking she had put everything right, I am going to give you your medicine before you go. She loved to give the medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too much. Of course it was only water, but it was out of a bottle, and she always shook the bottle and counted the drops, which gave it a certain medicinal quality. On this occasion, however, she did not give Peter his draught. For just as she had prepared it, she saw a look on his face that made her heart sink. Get your things, Peter, she cried shaking. No, he answered, pretending indifference. I am not going with you, Wendy. Yes, Peter, no. To show that her departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up and down the room, playing gaily on his heartless parts. She had to run about after him, though it was rather undignified. To find your mother, she coped. Now, if Peter had ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed her. He could do very well without one. He had thought them out, and remembered only their bad points. No, no, he told Wendy decisively. Perhaps she would say I was old, and I just want always to be a little boy and to have fun. But Peter, no, and so the others had to be told. Peter isn't coming. Peter not coming. They gazed blankly at him. Their sticks over their backs, and on each stick a bundle. Their first thought was that if Peter was not going, he had probably changed his mind about letting them go. But he was far too proud for that. If you find your mothers, he said darkly, I hope you will like them. The awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression, and most of them began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said, were they not noodles to want to go? Now then cried Peter, no fuss, no blubbering, goodbye Wendy. And he held out his hand cheeringly, quiet as if they must really go now, that he had something important to do. She had to take his hand, and there was no indication that he would prefer a thimble. You will remember about changing your flannels, Peter. She said, lingering over him. She was always so particular about their flannels. Yes, and you will take your medicine. Yes, that seemed to be everything, and an awkward pause followed. Peter, however, was not the kind that breaks down before other people. Are you ready, Tinkerbell? He called out. Aye aye, then leave the way. Tink darted up the nearest tree. But no one followed her, for it was at this moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the redskins. Above, where all had been so still, the air was rent with freaks and the clash of steel. Below, there was dead silence. Mouths opened and remained open. Wendy fell on her knees, but her arms were extended toward Peter. All arms were extended to him, as if suddenly blown in his direction. They were beseeching him mutely, not to desert them. As for Peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought he had slain barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye. End of Chapter 11 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Genevieve Tokes, April 8, 2007, New Haven, Connecticut. Peter Pan by J. M. Berry. Chapter 12, The Children Are Carried Off The pirate attack had been a complete surprise, a sure proof that the unscrupulous hook had conducted it improperly, for to surprise redskins fairly is beyond the wit of the white man. By all the unwritten laws of savage warfare, it is always the redskins who attacks, and with the wiliness of his race, he does it just before the dawn, at which time he knows the courage of the whites to be at its lowest ebb. The white men have in the meantime made a rude stockade on the summit of yonder undulating ground, at the foot of which a stream runs, for it is destruction to be too far from water. There they await the onslaught, the inexperienced ones clutching their revolvers and treading on twigs, with the old hands slipping tranquilly until just before the dawn. Through the long black night, the savage scouts wriggle, snake-like, among the grass, without stirring a blade. The brushwood closes behind them, as silently as sand, and to which a mole has dived. Not a sound is to be heard, save when they give vent to a wonderful imitation of the lonely call of the coyote. The cry is answered by other braves, and some of them do it even better than the coyotes, who are not very good at it. So the chill hours wear on, and a long suspense is horribly trying to the pale face who has to live through it for the first time. But to the trained hand, those ghastly calls, and still ghastlier silences, are but an intimation of how the night is marching. That this was the usual procedure was so well known to Hook that in disregarding it, he cannot be excused on the plea of ignorance. The Piccaninis, on their part, trusted implicitly to his honour, and their whole election of the night stands out in marked contrast to his. They left nothing undone that was consistent with the reputation of their tribe. With that alertness of the senses, which is at once the marvel and despair of civilised peoples, they knew that the pirates were on the island, from the moment one of them trod on a dry stick, and in an incredibly short space of time the coyote cries began. Every foot of ground between the spot where Hook had landed his forces, and the home of the trees, was stealthily examined by braves wearing their moxins with the heels in front. They found only one hillock with a stream at its base, so that Hook had no choice. Here he must establish himself and wait for just before the dawn. Everything being thus mapped out, with almost diabolical cunning, the main body of the Redskins folded their blankets around them, and in a phlegmatic manner that is to them, the pearl of manhood squatted above the children's home, awaiting a cold moment when they should deal pale death. Here dreaming the wide awake of the exquisite tortures to which they were to put him at break of day, those confiding savages were found by the treacherous Hook. From the accounts afterwards supplied by such a discount as escaped the carnage, he does not seem even to have paused at the rising ground, though it is certain that in the gray light he must have seen it. No thought of waiting to be attacked appears from first to last who have visited his subtle mind. He would not even hold off till the night was nearly spent, on he pounded with no policy but to fall too. What could the bewildered scouts do? Masters are they rare of every warlike artivist saved this one, but tried helplessly after him, exposing themselves fatally to view, while they gave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry. Around the bray of Tiger Lily, where a dozen of her stoutest warriors, and they suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them, fell from their eyes then the film through which they had looked at victory. No more would they torture at the stake, for them the happy hunting grunts was now. They knew it, but as their father's sons they quitted themselves. Even then they had time to gather on a phalanx that would have been far to break had they risen quickly, but this they were forbidden to do by the traditions of their race. It is written that the noble savage must never express surprise in the presence of the white. Thus, terrible as the sudden appearance of the pirates must have been to them, they remained stationary for a moment, not a muscle moving, as if the foe had come by invitation. Then indeed, the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their weapons, and the air was torn with the war cry, but it was now too late. It is no part of ours to describe what was a massacre rather than a fight. Thus perished many of the flower of the Piccadilly tribe. Not all on avenge did they die, for with lean wolf fell elf mason, to disturb the Spanish man no more, and among others who bit the dust were George Scory, Charles Turley, and the Alsatian Fogarty. Turley fell to the tomahawk of the terrible panther, who ultimately cut away through the pirates with tyranny and a small remnant of the tribe. To what extent Hook is to blame for his tactics on this occasion is for the historian to decide. Had he waited on the rising ground to the proper hour, he and his men would probably have been butchered, and in judging him it is only fair to take this into account. What he should perhaps have done was to acquaint his opponents that he proposed to follow a new method. On the other hand, this as destroying the element of surprise would have made his strategy of no avail, so that the whole question is beset with difficulties. One cannot at least withhold a reluctant admiration for the wit that I conceived, so bold a scheme, and the fell genius with which it was carried out. What were his own feelings about himself at that triumphant moment? Fain would as dogs have known, as breathing heavily and wiping their cutlaces they gathered at a screent distance from his hook, and squinted through their ferret eyes at this extraordinary man. Elation must have been in his heart, but his face did not reflect it. Ever a dark and solitary enigma, he stood aloof from his followers in spirit as in substance. The night's work was not yet over, for it was not the redskins he had come out to destroy. They were but the bees to be smoked, so that he should get at the honey. It was Pan he wanted, Pan and Wendy in their band, but chiefly Pan. Peter was such a small boy that one tends to wonder at the man's hatred of him. True, he had flung hooks armed to the crocodile, but even this and the increased insecurity of life to which it led, along to the crocodile's pertinacity, hardly accounted for a vindictiveness so relentless and malignant. The truth is that there was something about Peter which goaded the pirate captain to frenzy. It was not his courage, it was not his engaging appearance, it was not there was no beating about the bush, for we know quite well what it was, and had got to tell. It was Peter's cockiness. This had got on Hook's nerves. It made his iron-claw twitch, and at night it disturbed him like an insect. While Peter lived, the tortured man felt that he was aligned in a cage into which a sparrow had come. The question now was how to get down the trees, or how to get his dogs down. He ran his greedy eyes over them searching for the thinnest ones. They regaled uncomfortably, for they knew he would not scruple to ram them down with poles. In the meantime, one of the boys. We have seen them at the first clang of the weapons turned as it were into stone figures, open-mouthed, all appealing with outstretched arms to Peter, and we return to them as their mouths close and their arms fall to their sides. The pandemonium above has ceased almost as suddenly as it arose, past like a fierce gust of wind, but they know that in the passing it has determined their fate. Which side had won? The pirates listening avidly at the mouth of the trees heard the question put by every boy, and alas, they also heard Peter's answer. If the Redskins have won, he said, they'll beat the Tom Tom, it is always their sign of victory. Now Smee had found the Tom Tom and was at that moment sitting on it. You will never hear the Tom Tom again, he muttered, but inaudibly, of course, for strict silence had been enjoined. To his amazement, Hook signed him to beat the Tom Tom, and slowly there came to Smee an understanding of the dreadful wickedness of the order. Never probably had this simple man admired Hook so much. Twice Smee beat upon the instrument and then stopped to listen gleefully. The Tom Tom, Miss Grant's heard Peter cry, an Indian victory. The doomed children answered with a cheer that was music to the black hearts above, and almost immediately they repeated their goodbyes to Peter. This puzzled the pirates, but all their other feelings were swallowed by a base delight that the enemy were about to come up the trees. They smirked at each other and rubbed their hands. Rapidly and silently Hook gave his orders, one man to each tree, and the others to arrange themselves in a line two yards apart. End of Chapter 12