 Chapter 3 of The Magic City, this Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic City by E. Nesbitt. Chapter 3. Lost. Philip went to sleep, and dreamed that he was at home again, and that Helen had come to his bedside to call him, leading a white pony that was to be his very own. It was a pony that looked clever enough for anything, and he was not surprised when it shook hands with him. But when it said, well, we must be moving, and began to try to put on Philip's shoes and stockings, Philip called out, here, I say, stop that! and awoke to a room full of sunshine but empty of ponies. Oh, well, said Philip, I suppose I'd better get up. He looked at his new silver watch, one of Helen's parting presents, and saw that it marked ten o'clock. I say, you know, said he to the watch, you can't be right! and he shook it to encourage it to think over the matter, but the watch still said ten, quite plainly and unmistakably. Now, the grain breakfast time was at eight, and Philip was certainly had not been called. This is jolly rum, he remarked. It must be the watch. Perhaps it stopped. But it hadn't stopped. Therefore it must be two hours past breakfast time. The moment he had thought this he became extremely hungry. He got out of bed as soon as he knew exactly how hungry he was. There was no one about, so he made his way to the bathroom, and spent a happy hour with the hot water and the cold water, and the brown Windsor soap, and the shaving soap, and the nail brush, and the flesh brush, and the luffas, and the shower bath, and the three sponges. He had not so far been able thoroughly to investigate and enjoy all these things. But now there was no one to interfere, and he enjoyed himself to that degree that he quite forgot to wonder why he hadn't been called. He thought of a piece of poetry that Helen had made for him about the bath, and when he had done playing, he lay on his back in water that was very hot indeed, trying to remember the poetry. The water was very nearly cold by the time he had remembered the poetry. It was called Dreams of a Giant Life, and this was it. Dreams of a Giant Life What was I once in ages long ago? I look back and I see myself. We grow so changed through changing years, I hardly see how that which I look back on could be me. Never mind, grammar. Glorious and splendid, giant like I stood on a white cliff topped by a darkling wood. Below me, placid, bright and sparkling lay the equal waters of a lovely bay. White cliffs surrounded it, and calm and fair it lay asleep in warm and silent air. I stood alone, naked and strong, upright, my limbs gleamed in the clear, pure golden light. I saw below me all the water lie expecting something, and that thing was I. This is correct grammar, but never mind. I leaned, I plunged, the waves splashed over me. I lay a giant in a little sea. White cliffs all round, wood crowned, and as I lay, I saw the glories of the dying day. No wind disturbed my sea. The sunlight was as though it came through windows of gold glass. The white cliffs rose above me, and around the clear sea lay pure, perfect and profound. And I was master of the cliffs, the sea, and the gold light that brightened over me. Far miles away my giant feet showed plain, rising like rocks out of the quiet main. On them a lighthouse could be built to show wayfaring ships the way they must not go. I was the master of that cliff-girt sea. I splashed my hands, the waves went over me, and in the dimples of my body lay little rock-pools where small sea-beasts might play. I found a boat, its deck was perforate. I launched it, and it dared the storms of fate. Its woollen sail stood out against the sky, supported by a mast of ivory. Another boat rode proudly to my hand. Upon its deck a thousand spears did stand. I launched it, and it spared full fierce and fast against the boat that had the ivory mast, and woollen sail, and perforated deck. The two went down in one stupendous wreck. Beneath the waves I chased with joyous hand upon the bed of an imagined sand, the slippery brown sea-mouse that still escaped, with a deep cave beneath my knee was shaped, caught it at last, and caged it into rest upon the shallows of my submerged breast. Then, as I lay, wrapped as in some kind arm by the sweet world of waters, soft and warm, a great voice cried from some far unseen shore, and I was not a giant any more. Come out, come out! cried out the voice of power. You've been in for a quarter of an hour. The water's cold. Come, Master Pip, your head's all wet, and at his time you were in bed. I rose all dripping from the magic sea, and left the ships that had been slaves to me, the soap-dish with its perforated deck, the nail-brush that had rushed to loss and wreck, the flannel sail, the toothbrush that was masked, the sleek soap-mouse. I left them all at last. I went out of that magic sea, and cried, because the time came when I must be dried, and leave the splendour of a giant's joy, and go to bed, a little well-washed boy. When he had quite remembered the poetry, he had another shower-bath, and then when he had enjoyed the hot, rough towels out of the hot cupboard, he went back to his room to dress. He now felt how deeply he wanted his breakfast, so he dressed himself with all possible speed, even forgetting to fasten his bootplaces properly. He was in such a hurry that he dropped his collar-stud, and it was as he stooped to pick it up that he remembered his dream. Do you know, that was really the first time he had thought of it, the dream that, indeed, would be something to think about. Breakfast was the really important thing. He went down very hungry indeed. I shall ask for my breakfast directly I get down, he said. I shall ask the first person I meet. And he met no one. There was no one on the stairs, or in the hall, or in the dining room, or in the drawing room. The library and billiard room were empty of living people, and the door of the nursery was locked. So then Philip made his way into the regions beyond the bay's door, where the servants' quarters were. And there was no one in the kitchen, or in the servants' hall, or in the butler's pantry, or in the scullery, or the wash house, or the larder. In all that big house—and it was much bigger than it looked from the front, because of the long wings that ran out on each side of its back—in all that big house, there was no one but Philip. He felt certain of this before he ran upstairs and looked in all the bedrooms, and in the little picture gallery and the music room, and then in the servants' bedrooms and the very attics. There were interesting things in those attics, but Philip only remembered that afterwards. Now he tore down the stairs three at a time. All the room doors were open as he had left them, and somehow those open doors frightened him more than anything else. He ran along the corridors, down more stairs, past more open doors, and out through the back kitchen, along the moss-grown walk by the brick wall, and so round by the three yew-trees and the mounting-lock to the stable-yard. And there was no one there—neither coachman, nor groom, nor stable-boys. And there was no one in the stables, or the coachhouse, or the harness-room, or the loft. Philip felt that he could not go back into the house. Something terrible must have happened. Was it possible that anyone could want the Grange servants enough to kidnap them? Philip thought of the nurse, and felt that at least as far as she was concerned it was not possible. Or perhaps it was magic—a sort of sleeping beauty happening. Only everyone had vanished instead of just being put to sleep for a hundred years. He was alone in the middle of the stable-yard when the thought came to him. Perhaps they're only made invisible. Perhaps they're all here, and watching me, and making fun of me. He stood still to think this. It was not a pleasant thought. Suddenly he straightened his little back and threw back his head. They shan't see I'm frightened anyway. He told himself. And then he remembered the larder. I haven't had any breakfast, he explained aloud, so as to be plainly heard by any invisible people who might be about. I ought to have my breakfast. If nobody gives it to me I shall take my breakfast. He waited for an answer, but none came. It was very quiet in the stable-yard. Only the rattle of a halter-ring against a manger, the sound of a hoof on stable-stones, the cooing of pigeons, and the rustle of straw in the loose-box, broke the silence. Very well, said Philip. I don't know what you think I ought to have for breakfast, so I shall take what I think. He drew a long breath, trying to draw courage in with it, through back his shoulders more soldierly than ever, and marched in through the back door and straight to the larder. Then he took what he thought he ought to have for breakfast. This is what he thought. One cherry pie, two custards in cups, one cold sausage, two pieces of cold toast, one piece of cheese, two lemon cheesecakes, one small jam tart—there was only one left—but a one pat. What jolly things the servants have to eat, he said. I never knew. I thought that nothing but mutton and rice grew here. He put all the food on a silver tray, and carried it out onto the terrace, which lies between the two wings at the back of the house. Then he went back for milk, but there was none to be seen, so he got a white jug full of water. The spoons he couldn't find, but he found a carving fork and a fish slice. Did you ever try to eat cherry pie with a fish slice? Whatever's happened, said Philip to himself through the cherry pie, and whatever happens, it's as well to have had your breakfast. And he bit a generous inch of the cold sausage which he had speared with the carving fork. And now, sitting out in the good sunshine and growing less and less hungry as he plied fish slice and carving fork, his mind went back to his dream, which began to seem more and more real. Suppose it really had happened. It might have. Magic things did happen, it seemed. Look how all the people had vanished out of the house, out of the world too, perhaps. Suppose everyone's vanished, said Philip. Suppose I'm the only person left in the world who hasn't vanished. Then everything in the world would belong to me. Then I could have everything that's in all the toy shops. And his mind for a moment dwelt fondly on this beautiful idea. Then he went on. But suppose I vanished too. Perhaps if I were to vanish, I could see the other people who have. I wonder how it's done. He held his breath and tried hard to vanish. Have you ever tried this? It is not a tall easy to do. Philip could not do it at all. He held his breath and he tried and he tried, but he only felt fatter and fatter and more and more as though in one more moment he should burst, so he let his breath go. No, he said, looking at his hands. I'm not any more invisible than I was before. Not so much, I think, he added thoughtfully, looking at what was left of the cherry pie. But that dream. He plunged deep in the remembrance of it that was to him like swimming in the waters of a fairy lake. He was hooked out of his lake suddenly by voices. It was like waking up. There, away across the green park, beyond the sunk fence, were people coming. So everyone hasn't vanished, he said, caught up the tray and took it in. He hid it under the pantry shelf. He didn't know who the people were who were coming, and you can't be too careful. Then he went out and made himself small in the shadow of a red buttress. Heard their voices coming nearer and nearer. They were all talking at once, in that quick, interested way that makes you certain something unusual has happened. He could not hear exactly what they were saying, but he caught the words, No. Of course I've asked. Police. Telegram. Yes, of course. Better make quite sure. Then everyone began speaking all at once, and you could not hear anything that anybody said. Philip was too busy keeping behind the buttress to see who they were who were talking. He was glad something had happened. Now I shall have something to think about besides the nurse and my beautiful city that she has pulled down. But what was it that had happened? He hoped nobody was hurt or had done anything wrong. The word police had always made him uncomfortable, ever since he had seen a boy no bigger than himself, pulled along the road by a very large policeman. The boy had stolen a loaf, Philip was told. Philip could never forget that boy's face. He always sort of it in church when it said prisoners and captives, and still more when it said desolate and oppressed. I do hope it's not that, he said. And slowly he got himself to leave the shelter of the red brick buttress, and to follow to the house those voices and those footsteps that had gone by him. He followed the sound of them to the kitchen. The cook was there in tears and a Windsor armchair. The kitchen maid, her cap all on one side, was crying down most dirty cheeks. The coachman was there, very red in the face, and the groom without his gaiters. The nurse was there, neat as ever she seemed at first, but Philip was delighted when a more careful inspection showed him that there was mud on her large shoes and on the bottom of her skirt, and that her dress had a large three-cornered tear in it. I wouldn't have had it happen for a twenty-per-none, the coachman was saying. George! said the nurse to the groom. You go and get a horse ready, I'll write the telegram. You'll best take peppermint, said the coachman, she's the fastest. The groom went out, saying under his breath, teach your grandmother, which Philip thought rude and unmeaning. Philip was standing unnoticed by the door. He felt that thrill. If it isn't pleasure, it is more like it than anything else, which we all feel when something real has happened. But what had happened? What? I wish I'd never come back, said the nurse, then nobody could pretend it was my fault. It don't matter what they pretend, the cook stopped crying to say. The thing is what's happened. Oh, my goodness, I'd rather have been turned away without a character than about this happen. And I'd rather anything, said the nurse. Oh, my goodness me, I wish I'd never been born. And then and there, before the astonished eyes of Philip, she began to behave as any nice person might. She began to cry. It wouldn't have happened, said the cook. If the master hadn't been away, he's a justice of the P.C., isn't a terror to Gypsies, it wouldn't never have happened. Philip could not bear it any longer. What wouldn't have happened if, he asked, startling everybody to a quick jump of surprise. The nurse stopped crying and turned to look at him. Oh, you, she said slowly. I forgot you. You want your breakfast, I suppose, no matter what happened. No, I don't, said Philip, with extreme truth. I want to know what has happened. Miss Lucy's lost, said the cook heavily. That's what's happened. So now you know. You'll run along and play like a good little boy, and don't make extra trouble for us in the trouble we're in. Lost, repeated Philip. Yes, lost. I expect you're glad, said the nurse, the way you treated her. You hold your tongue, and don't let me so much as hear you breathe the next 24 hours. I'll go and write that telegram. Philip thought it best not to let anyone hear him breathe. By this means, he heard the telegram, when nurse read it aloud to the cook. Peter Graham, a squire, Hotel Vargram, Brussels. Miss Lucy lost, stop. Please come home immediately, stop. Philkins. I don't see why you sign it, Philkins. You're only the nurse. I'm the head of the house, when the family's away. And my name's Bobson, the cook said. There was a sound of torn paper. There, the paper's torn. I'd just as soon your name went to it, said the nurse. I don't want to be the one to tell such news. Oh, my good gracious, what a thing to happen! sighed the cook. Poor little darling. Then somebody wrote the telegram again, and the nurse took it out to the stable yard, where peppermint was already saddled. I thought, said Philip, bold in the nurse's absence, I thought Lucy was with her aunt. She came back yesterday, said the cook, yes, after you'd gone to bed. And this morning that nurse went into the night nursery, and she wasn't there. Her bed all empty and cold, and her clothes gone. Though how the gypsies could have got in without waking that nurse, is a mystery to me, and ever will be, she must sleep like a pig. Or the seven sleepers. said the coachman. But what would gypsies want her for? Philip asked. What do they ever want anybody for? retorted the cook. Look at the heirs that's been stolen. I don't suppose there's a titled family in England, but what had its heirs stolen, one time and another? I suppose you've looked all over the house, said Philip. I suppose we ain't deaf and dumb and blind and silly. Said the cook. Here's that nurse. You'll be off, Mr. Philip, without you want a flea in your ear. And Philip, at the word, was off. He went into the long drawing-room and shut the door. Then he got the ivory chessman out of the ball cabinet, and set them out on that delightful chess-table whose checkers are of mother of pearl and ivory, and tried to play a game, right hand against left. But right hand, who was white, and so moved first, always won. He gave up after a while, and put the chessman away in their proper places. Then he got out the big book of photographs of pictures, but they did not seem interesting. So he tried the ivory spellicons. But his hand shook, and you know spellicons is a game you can't play when your hand shakes. And all the time, behind the chess and the pictures and the spellicons, he was trying not to think about his dream, about how he had climbed that ladder stair, which was really the yardstick, and gone into the cities that he had built on the tables. Somehow he did not want to remember it. The very idea of remembering made him feel guilty and wretched. He went and looked out of the window, and as he stood there, his wish not to remember the dream made his boots restless, and in their shuffling his right boot kicked against something hard that lay in the folds of the blue-brocade curtain. He looked down, stooped, and picked up little Mr. Noah. The nurse must have dropped it there when she cleared away the city. And as he looked upon those wooden features, it suddenly became impossible not to think of the dream. He let the remembrance of it come, and it came in a flood, and with it the remembrance of what he had done. He had promised to be Lucy's noble friend, and they had run together to escape from the galloping soldiers, and he had run faster than she, and at the top of the ladder, the ladder of safety. He had not waited for her. Any old hero would have waited for her and let her go first, he told himself. Any gentleman would, even any man, let alone a hero. And I just bumped down the ladder and forgot her. I left her there. Remorse stirred his boots more urgently than before. But it was only a dream, he said. And then remorse said, as he had felt all along that it would if he only gave it a chance. But suppose it wasn't a dream, suppose it was real, suppose you did leave her there, my noble friend, and that's why she's lost. Suddenly Philip felt very small, very forlorn, very much alone in the world. But Helen would come back, that telegram would bring her. Yes, and he would have to tell her that perhaps it was his fault. It was in vain that Philip told himself that Helen would never believe about the city. He felt that she would. Why shouldn't she? She knew about the fairy tales and the Arabian knights, and she would know that these things did happen. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? He said, quite loud, and there was no one but himself to give the answer. If I could only get back into the city, he said. But that hateful nurse has pulled it all down and locked up the nursery, so I can't even build it again. Oh, what shall I do? And with that he began to cry. For now he felt quite sure that the dream wasn't a dream, that he really had got into the magic city, had promised to stand by Lucy. And had been false to his promise and to her. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, and also, rather painfully, with Mr. Noah, whom he still held. What shall I do? He sobbed. And a very, very teeny, tiny voice said, Put me down! Hey! said Philip. Said Philip. Said Philip. Said the voice again. It was such a teeny, tiny voice that he could only just hear it. It was unlikely, of course, that the voice could have been Mr. Noah's, but then, whose else could it be? On the bare chance that it might have been Mr. Noah who spoke, more unlikely things had happened before, as you know. Philip set the little wooden figure down on the chest-table. It stood there, wooden as ever. Put who down? Philip asked. And then, before his eyes, the little wooden figure grew alive. Stooped to pick up the yellow disc of wood, on which Noah's Ark people stand, rolled it up like a mat, put it under his arm, and began to walk towards the side of the table where Philip stood. He knelt down to bring his ears nearer the little, live, moving thing. What did you say? he asked, for he fancied that Mr. Noah had again spoken. I said, what's the matter? said the little voice. It's Lucy. She's lost, and it's my fault. And I can only just hear you. It hurt my ears hearing you, complained Philip. There's an ear trumpet in a box on the middle of the cabinet. He could just hear the teeny, tiny voice say. It belonged to a great aunt. Get it out, and listen through it. Philip got it out. It was an odd, curly thing, and at first he could not be sure which end he ought to put to his ear, but he tried both ends, and on the second trial he heard quite a loud, strong, big voice say, that's better. Then it wasn't a dream last night, said Philip. Of course it wasn't, said Mr. Noah. Then where is Lucy? In the city, of course, where you left her. But she can't be, said Philip, desperately. The city's all pulled down and gone forever. The city you built in this room is pulled down, said Mr. Noah. But the city you went to wasn't in this room. Now I put it to you. How could it be? But it was, said Philip. Or else how could I have got into it? It's a little difficult I own. Said Mr. Noah. But you see, you built those cities in two worlds. It's pulled down in this world, but in the other world it's going on. I don't understand, said Philip. I thought you wouldn't, said Mr. Noah. But it's true for all that. Everything people make in that world goes on forever. But how was it that I got in? Because you belong to both worlds and you built the cities, so they were yours. But Lucy got in. She built up a corner of your city that the nurse had knocked down. But you, said Philip, more and more bewildered. You're here, so you can't be there. But I am there, said Mr. Noah. But you're here, and you're alive here. What made you come alive? Your tears, said Mr. Noah. Tears are very strong magic. No, don't begin to cry again. What's the matter? I want to get back into the city. It's dangerous. I don't care. You were glad enough to get away, said Mr. Noah. I know that's the worst of it, said Philip. Oh, isn't there any way to get back? If I climbed in at the nursery windows and got the bricks and built it all up, and quite unnecessary, I assure you, there are a thousand doors to that city. I wish I could find one, said Philip. But I say I thought time was all different there. How is it Lucy's lost all this time? If time doesn't count. It does count now, said Mr. Noah. You made it count when you ran away and left Lucy. That set the clocks of the city to the time of this world. I don't understand, said Philip. But it doesn't matter. Show me the door, and I'll go back and find Lucy. Build something and go through it, said Mr. Noah. That's all. Your tears are dry on me now. Goodbye. And he laid down his yellow mat, stepped onto it, and was just a little wooden figure again. Philip dropped the ear-chumpet and looked at Mr. Noah. I don't understand, he said. But this at least he understood, that Helen would come back when she got that telegram, and that before she came he must go into the other world and find the lost Lucy. But oh, he said, suppose I don't find her. I wish I hadn't built those cities so big, and time will go on, and perhaps when Helen comes back she'll find me lost too, as well as Lucy. But he dried his eyes, and told himself that this was not how heroes behaved. He must build again. Whichever way you looked at it, there was no time to be lost. And besides, the nurse might occur at any moment. He looked round for building materials. There was the chess-table, it had long, narrow legs set round it, rather like arches, something might be done with it, with books and candlesticks and Japanese vases. Something was done. Philip built with earnest care, but also with considerable speed. If the nurse should come in before he had made a door and got through it, come in and find him building again, she was quite capable of putting him to bed, where, of course, building is impossible. In a very little time there was a building. But how to get in? He was, alas, the wrong size. He stood helpless, and once more tears pricked and swelled behind his eyelids. One tear fell on his hand. Tears are a strong magic, Mr. Noah had said. And at the thought the tears stopped. Still there was a tear, the one on his hand. He rubbed it on the pillar of the porch. And instantly a queer, tight, thin feeling swept through him. He felt giddy and shut his eyes. His boots, ever sympathetic, shuffled on the carpet. Or was it the carpet? It was very thick. And he opened his eyes. His feet were once more on the long grass of the illimitable prairie. And in front of him towered the gigantic porch of a vast building and a domino path leading up to it. Oh, I am so glad! cried Philip, among the grass. I couldn't have borne it if she'd been lost forever and all my fault. The gigantic porch lowered frowningly above him. What would he find on the other side of it? I don't care. I've simply got to go, he said, and stepped out bravely. If I can't be a hero, I'll try to behave like one. And with that he stepped out, stumbling a little in the thick grass, and the dark shadow of the porch received him. Bother the child, said the nurse, coming into the drawing-room a little later. If he hasn't been at his precious building-game again, I shall have to give him a lesson over this, I can see that. And I will, too, a lesson he won't forget in a hurry. She went through the house, looking for the two bold builder that she might give him that lesson. Then she went through the garden, still on the same errand. Half an hour later she burst into the servant's hall and threw herself into a chair. I don't care what happens now, she said. The house is bewitched, I think. I shall go the very minute I've had my dinner. What's up now? the cook came to the door to say. Up! said the nurse. Oh, nothing's up. What should there be? Everything's all right and beautiful and just as it should be, of course. Miss Lucy's not found yet, of course, but that's all, isn't it? All, and enough too I should have thought, said the nurse. But as it happens it's not all. The boy is lost now. Oh, I'm not joking. He's lost, I tell you, the same as the other one. And I'm off out of this by the 237 train, and I don't care who knows it. Laura, said the cook. Before starting for the 237 train, the nurse went back to the drawing-room to destroy Philip's new building, to restore to their proper places its books, candlesticks, vases, and chess-men. There we will leave her. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Ruth Golding. Chapter 4 of The Magic City This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic City by E. Nesbitt. Chapter 4 The Dragon Slayer When Philip walked up the domino path and under the vast arch into the darkness beyond, his heart felt strong with high resolve. His legs, however, felt weak, strangely weak, especially about the knees. The doorway was so enormous, that which lay beyond was so dark, and he himself so very, very small. As he passed under the little gateway which he had built of three dominoes with the little silver knight in armour on the top, he noticed that he was only as high as a domino, and you know how very little that is. Philip went along the domino path. He had to walk carefully, for to him the spots on the dominoes were quite deep hollows, but as they were black they were easy to see. He had made three arches, one beyond another, of two pairs of silver candlesticks, with silver ink-stands on the top of them. The third pair of silver candlesticks had a book on the top of them, because there were no more ink-stands, and when he had passed through the three silver arches, he stopped. Beyond lay a sort of velvety darkness with white gleams in it, and as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw that he was in a great hall of silver pillars—gigantic silver candlesticks they seem to be—and they went in long vistas, this way and that way and every way, like the hot poles in a hot field, so that whichever way you turned, a long-pillared corridor lay in front of you. Philip had no idea which way he ought to go. It seemed most unlikely that he would find Lucy in a dark hall with silver pillars. All the same, he said, it's not so dark as it was by long chalks. It was not. The silver pillars had begun to give out a faint soft glow, like the silver phosphorescence that lies in sea-pools in summer time. It's lucky, too, he said, because of the holes in the floor. The holes were the spots on the dominoes with which the pillard hall was paved. I wonder what part of the city where Lucy is I shall come out at, Philip asked himself. But he need not have troubled. He did not come out at all. He walked on, and on, and on, and on, and on. He thought he was walking straight, but really he was turning first this way, and then that, and then the other way, among the avenues of silver pillars, which all looked just alike. He was getting very tired, and he had been walking a long time before he came to anything that was not silver pillars and velvet black under invisible roofs, and floor paved with dominoes laid very close together. Oh, I am glad, he said at last, when he saw the pavement narrow to a single line of dominoes, just like the path he had come in by. There was an art, too, like the art by which he had come in, and then he perceived in a shock of miserable surprise that it was, in fact, the same arch and the same domino path. He had come back after all that walking to the point from which he had started. It was most mortifying, so silly. Philip sat down on the edge of the domino path to rest and to think. Suppose I just walk out and don't believe in magic any more, he said to himself. Helen says magic can only happen to people who believe in magic, so if I just walked out and didn't believe as hard as ever I could, I should be my own right size again and Lucy would be back, and there wouldn't be any magic. Yes, but, said that voice, that always would come and join in whenever Philip was talking to himself. Suppose Lucy does believe it, then it'll all go on for her whatever you believe, and she won't be back. Besides, you know you've got to believe it because it's true. Oh, bother, said Philip. I'm tired, I don't want to go on. You shouldn't have deserted Lucy, said the tiresome voice, then you wouldn't have had to go back to look for her. But I can't find my way, how can I find my way? You know well enough. Fix your eyes on a far-off pillar and walk straight to it, and when you're nearly there, fix your eyes a little farther, you're bound to come out somewhere. But I'm tired and it's so lonely, said Philip. Lucy's lonely too, said the voice. Drop it, said Philip. And he got up and began to walk again. Also he took the advice of that worrying voice and fixed his eyes on a distant pillar. But why should I bother, he said. This is a sort of dream. Even if it were a dream, said the voice, there are adventures in it, so you may as well be adventurous. Oh, all right, said Philip, and on he went. And by walking very carefully, and fixing his eyes a long way off, he did at last come right through the Hall of Silver Pillars, and saw beyond the faint glow of the Pillars the blue light of day. It shone very brightly through a very little door, and when Philip came to that door, he went through it without hesitation, and there he was in a big field. It was rather like the illimitable prairie, only there were great patches of different coloured flowers. Also there was a path across it, and he followed the path. Because, he said, I'm more likely to meet Lucy, girls always keep to paths they never explore. Which just shows how little he knew about girls. He looked back after a while to see what the Hall of Pillars looked like from outside, but it was already dim in the mists of distance. But ahead of him, he saw a great rough building, rather like Stonehenge. I wish I'd come into the other city where the people are, and the soldiers and the Greyhounds and the coconuts, he told himself. There's nobody here at all, not even Lucy. The loneliness of the place grew more and more unpleasing to Philip, but he went on. It seemed more reasonable than to go back. I ought to be very hungry, he said. I must have been walking for hours. But he wasn't hungry. It may have been the magic, or it may have been the odd breakfast he had had. I don't know. He spoke aloud, because it was so quiet in that strange open country, with no one in it but himself, and no sound but the clump-clump of his boots on the path. And it seemed to him that everything grew quieter and quieter, till he could almost hear himself think. Loneliness, real loneliness, is a dreadful thing. I hope you will never feel it. Philip looked to right and left, and before him, and on all the wide plain nothing moved. There were the grass and flowers, but no wind stirred them. And there was no sign that any living person had ever trodden that path, except that there was a path to tread, and that the path led to the stone henge building, and even that seemed to be only a ruin. I'll go as far as that, anyhow, said Philip. Perhaps there'll be a signboard there or something. There was something, something most unexpected. Philip reached the building. It was really very like Stonehenge, only the pillars were taller and closer together, and there was one high solid towering wall. Turned the corner of a massive upright, and ran almost into the arms and quite onto the feet of a man in a white apron and a square paper cap, who sat on a fallen column, eating bread and cheese with a clasp knife. I beg your pardon, Philip gasped. Granted, I'm sure, said the man, but it's a dangerous thing to do, Master Philip, running sheer onto chap's clasp knives. He set Philip on his feet and waved the knife, which had been so often sharpened that the blade was half worn away. Set you down and get your breath, he said kindly. Why, it's you, said Philip. Course it is. Who should I be if I wasn't me? That's poetry. But how did you get here? Ah, said the man, going on with his bread and cheese, while he talked quite in the friendliest way. That's telling. Well, tell then, said Philip impatiently, but he sat down. Well, you say it's me. Who be it? Give it a name. Your old Perrin, said Pip. I mean, of course, I beg your pardon. You're Mr. Perrin, the carpenter. And what does carpenters do? Carp, I suppose, said Philip. That means they make things, doesn't it? That's it, said the man, encouragingly. What sort of things now might old Perrin have made for you? You made my wheelbarrow, I know, said Philip, and my bricks. Ah, said Mr. Perrin, now you've got it. I made your bricks, seasoned oak, and true to the thousandth of an inch they was. And that's how I got here. So now you know. But what are you doing here? said Philip, wriggling restlessly on the fallen column. Waiting for you. Them as knows sent me out to meet you, and give you a hint of what's expected of you. Well, what is, said Philip? I mean, I think it's very kind of you. What is expected? Plenty of time, said the carpenter. Plenty. Nothing ain't expected of you till toward sundown. I do think it was most awfully kind of you, said Philip, who had now thought this over. You was kind to old Perrin once, said that person. Was I, said Philip, much surprised. Yes, when my little girl was ailing you brought her a lot of pears off your own tree. Not one of them you didn't have yourself that year, Miss Helen told me. And you brought back our kitten, the sandy and white one with the black spots, when it strayed. So I was quite willing to come and meet you, when so told. And knowing something of young gentleman's peckers, owing to being in business once next door to a boys' school, I made so bold as to bring you a snack. He reached a hand down behind the fallen pillar on which they sat, and brought up a basket. Here, he said. And Philip, raising the lid, was delighted to find that he was hungry. It was a pleasant basket for meat pasties, red hairy gooseberries, a stone bottle of ginger beer, a blue mug with Philip on it in gold letters, a slice of soda cake, and two farthing sugar sticks. I'm sure I've seen that basket before, said the boy as he ate. Like enough, it's the one you brought them pears down in. Now, look here, said Philip, through his seventh bite of pasty. You must tell me how you got here, and tell me where you've got to. You've simply no idea how muddling it all is to me. Do tell me everything. Where are we, I mean, and why, and what I've got to do, and why, and when? Tell me every single thing. And he took the eighth bite. You really don't know, sir? No, said Philip, contemplating the ninth or last bite, but one, it was a large pasty. Well, then, here goes. But I was always a poor speaker, and so considered, even by friends at cricket dinners and whatnot. But I don't want you to speak, said Philip. Just tell me. Well, then, how did I get here? I got here through having made them bricks, what you built this tumble-down old ancient place with. I built? Yes, with them bricks I made you. I understand as this was the first building you ever put up. That's why it's first on the road to where you want to get to. Philip looked round at the Stonehenge building, and saw that it was indeed built of enormous oak bricks. Of course, he said, only I've grown smaller. Or they've grown bigger, said Mr. Perrin, it's the same thing. You see, it's like this. All the cities and things you ever built is in this country. I don't know how it's managed no more than what you do, but so it is. And as you made them, you've the right to come to them, if you can get there. And you have got there. It isn't everyone has the luck, I'm told. Well then, you made the cities, but you made them out of what other folks had made. Things like bricks and chessmen and books and candlesticks and dominoes, and brass basins, and every sort of kind of thing. And all the people who helped to make all them things you used to build with, they're all here too. Do you see? Making's the thing. If it was no more than the lad that turned the handle of the grindstone to sharp the knife that carved a bit of a cabinet or what not, or a child that picked a teasle to finish a bit of the cloth that's glued on to the bottom of a chessman, they're all here. They're what's called the population of your cities. I see. They've got small like I have, said Philip. Or the cities has got big, said the carpenter. It comes to the same thing. I wish you wouldn't interrupt, Master Philip. You put me out. I won't again, said Philip. Only do tell me just one thing. How can you be here and at Amblehurst too? We come here, said the carpenter slowly, when we're asleep. Oh, said Philip, deeply disappointed. It's just a dream then. Not it. We come here when we're too sound asleep to dream. You go through the dreams and come out on the other side where everything's real. That's here. Go on, said Philip. I don't know where I was. You do put me out so. Pop you something or other, said Philip. Population, yes. Well, all those people has made the things you made the cities of. They live in the cities, and they've made the insides to the houses. What do they do? Oh, they just live here, and they buy and sell and plant gardens and work and play like everybody does in other cities. And when they go to sleep, they go slap through their dreams and into the other world and work and play there, see. That's how it goes on. There's a lot more, but that's enough for one time. You get on with your gooseberries. But they aren't all real people, are they? Yes, Mr. Noah. Ah, those is aristocracy. The ones you put in when you built the cities. They're our old families, very much respected. They're all very high up in the world. Came over with the conquer, as the saying is. There's the Noah family. They're the oldest of all, of course. And the dolls you've put in different times, and the tin soldiers, and of course all the Noah's Ark animals is alive, except when you use them for building and then their statues. But I don't see, said Philip. I really don't see how all these cities that I built at different times can still be here, all together and all going on at once, when I know they've all been pulled down. Well, I'm no scholar, but I did hear Mr. Noah say once in a lecture, he's a speaker, if you like. I heard him say it was like when you take a person's photo. The person is so many inches thick through, and so many feet high, and is round and is solid, but in the photo he's flat. Because everything's flat in photos, but all the same it's him right enough. You get him into the photo, then all you've got to do is to get him out again, into where everything's thick and tall and round and solid. And it's quite easy, I believe, once you know the trick. Stop, said Philip suddenly. I think my head's going to burst. Ah, said the carpenter kindly. I felt like that at first. Lie down, and try to sleep it off a bit. Education does go to your head something cruel. I've often noticed it. And indeed Philip was quite glad to lie down among the long grass, and be covered up with the carpenter's coat. He fell asleep at once. An hour later he woke again, looked at the wrinkled apple face of Mr. Perrin, and began to remember. I'm glad you're here anyhow, he said to the carpenter. It was horribly lonely. You don't know. That's why I was sent to meet you, said Mr. Perrin simply. But how did you know? Mr. Noah sent for me early this morning. Bless you, he knows all about everything. Says he, you go and meet him and tell him all you can. If he wants to be a deliverer, let him, says Mr. Noah. But how do you begin being a deliverer? Philip asked, sitting up, and feeling suddenly very grand and manly, and very glad that Lucy was not there to interfere. Yeah. There's lots of different ways, said Mr. Perrin. Your particular ways simple. You just got to kill the dragon. A live dragon? Live, said Mr. Perrin. Why, he's all over the place, and as green as grass he is. Lively is a kitten. He's got a broken spear sticking out of his side, so someone must have had a try at bagging him some time or another. Don't you think, said Philip, a little overcome by this vivid picture, that perhaps I'd better look for Lucy first, and be a deliverer afterwards. If you're afraid, said Mr. Perrin. I'm not, said Philip doubtfully. You see, said the carpenter, what you've got to consider is, are you going to be the hero of this here adventure, or ain't you? You can't have it both ways. And if you are, you may as well make up your mind, cause killing a dragon ain't the end of it, not by no means. Do you mean there are more dragons? Not dragons, said the carpenter suzingly. Not dragons, exactly. But there, I don't want to lower your heart. If you kills the dragon, then afterwards there's six more hard things you've got to do. And then they make you king. Take it or leave it. Only if you take it, we'd best be starting. And anyhow, we may as well get a move on us, because at sundown the dragon comes out to drink and exercise of himself. You can hear him rattling all night among these heroines, miles off you can hear him of a still night. Suppose I don't want to be a deliverer, said Philip slowly. Then you'll be a destroyer, said the carpenter. There's only these two situations they can hear at present. Come, Master Philip, sir, don't talk, as if you wasn't going to be a man and do your duty for England home and beauty like it says in the song. Let's be starting, shall us. You think I ought to be the deliverer? Or it stands for nothing, said Mr Perrin. I think you're going to be the deliverer, that's what I think. Come on. As they rose to go, Philip had a brief fleeting vision of a very smart lady in a motor-veil disappearing round the corner of a pillar. Are there many motors about here? he asked, not wishing to talk any more about dragons just then. Not a single one, said Mr Perrin unexpectedly. Nor yet phonographs, nor railways, nor factory chimneys, nor none of them loud, ugly things. Nor yet advertisements, nor newspapers, nor barbed wire. After that the two walked silently away from the ruin. Philip was trying to feel as brave and confident as a deliverer should. He reminded himself of St George, and he remembered that the hero never fails to kill the dragon, but he still felt a little uneasy. It takes some time to accustom yourself to being a hero, but he could not help looking over his shoulder every now and then to see if the dragon was coming. So far it wasn't. Well, said Mr Perrin, as they drew near a square tower with a long flight of steps leading up to it. What do you say? I wasn't saying anything, said Philip. I mean, are you going to be the deliverer? Then something in Philip's heart seemed to swell, and a choking feeling came into his throat, and he felt more frightened than he had ever felt before, as he said, looking as brave as he could. Yes, I am! Perrin clapped his hands, and instantly from the doors of the tower and from behind it came dozens of people, and down the long steps alone came Mr Noah, moving with careful dignity, and carrying his yellow mat neatly rolled under his arm. All the people clapped their hands till Mr Noah, standing on the third step, raised his hands to command silence. Friends, he said, and fellow citizens of Polystopolis, you see before you one who says that he is the deliverer. He was yesterday arrested and tried as a trespasser, and condemned to imprisonment. He escaped, and you all assumed that he was the destroyer in disguise, but now he has returned, and of his own free will he chooses to attempt the accomplishment of the seven great deeds. And the first of these is the killing of the great green dragon, the people who were a mixed crowd of all nations, cheered loudly. So now, said Mr Noah, we will make him our knight. Neil, said Mr Noah, in token of fealty to the kingdom of cities. Philip knelt. You shall now speak after me, said Mr Noah solemnly. Say what I say, he whispered, and Philip said it. This was it. I, Philip, claimed to be the deliverer of this great nation, and I pledge myself to carry out the seven great deeds that shall prove my claim to the deliverership and the throne. I pledge my honour to be the champion of this city, and the enemy of its destroyer. When Philip had said this, Mr Noah drew forth a bright silver-hilted sword and held it over him. You must be knighted, he said. Those among my audience who have read any history will be aware that no mere commoner can expect to conquer a dragon. We must give our would-be deliverer every chance, so I will make him a knight. He tapped Philip lightly on the shoulder and said, Rise up, Sir Philip. This was really grand, and Philip felt new courage, as Mr Noah handed him the silver sword and all the people cheered. But as the cheers died down, a thin and disagreeable voice suddenly said, But I claimed to be the deliverer, too. It was like a thunderbolt. Everyone stopped cheering and stood with mouth open and head turned towards the person who had spoken. And the person who had spoken was the smartly dressed lady in the motor-veil whom Philip had seen among the ruins. A trespasser, a trespasser, cried the crowd, to prison with it, and angry, threatening voices began to arise. I am no more a trespasser than he is, said the voice. And if I say I am the deliverer, you can't stop me. I can kill dragons, or do anything he can do. Silence, trespasser, said Mr Noah, with cold dignity. You should have spoken earlier. At present Sir Philip occupies the position of candidate to the post of King Deliverer. There is no other position open to you except that of destroyer. But suppose the boy doesn't do it, said the voice behind the veil. True, said Mr Noah, you may, if you choose, occupy for the present the position of pretender-in-chief to the claimancy of the deliverer-ship, an office now and here created expressly for you. The position of claimant to the destroyer-ship is also, he added, reflectively, open to you. Then if he doesn't do it, said the veiled lady, I can be the deliverer. You can try, said Mr Noah. There are a special set of tasks to be performed if the claimant to the deliverer-ship be a woman. What are they? said the veiled lady. If Sir Philip fails, you will be duly instructed in the deeds required of a deliverer who is a woman. And now, my friend, let us retire and leave Sir Philip to deal with the dragon. We shall watch anxiously from yonder ramparts, he added, encouragingly. But isn't anyone to help me? said Philip, deeply uneasy. It is not usual, said Mr Noah, for champions to require assistance with dragons. I should think not indeed, said the veiled lady, but you're not going usual whereabout it at all. Where's the princess I should like to know? There isn't any princess, said Mr Noah. Then it won't be a proper dragon-killing, she said, with an angry shaking of skirts. That's all I can say. I wish it was all, said Mr Noah to himself. If there isn't a princess it isn't fair, said the veiled one, and I shall consider it's my turn to be deliverer. Be silent woman, said Mr Noah. Woman indeed, said the lady. I ought to have a proper title. Your title is pretender to the— I know, she interrupted, but you forget you're speaking to a lady. You can call me the pretenderette. Mr Noah turned coldly from her, and pressed two Roman candles and a box of matches into Philip's hand. When you have arranged your plans, and are quite sure that you will be able to kill the dragon, light one of these. We will then have a princess in readiness, and on observing your signal will tie her to a tree. Or since this is a district where trees are rare and buildings frequent to a pillar, she will be perfectly safe if you make your plans correctly, and in any case you must not attempt to deal with the dragon without first lighting the Roman candle. And the dragon will see it and go away. Exactly, said Mr Noah, or perhaps he will see it and not go away, time alone will show. The task that is without difficulties can never really appeal to a hero. You will find weapons, cords, nets, shields, and various first aids to the young dragon catcher in the vaults below this tower. Good evening, Sir Philip. He ended warmly. We wish you every success. And with that the whole crowd began to go away. I know who you ought to have for princess, the pretenderette said as they went, and Mr Noah said, Silence in court. This isn't a court, said the pretenderette aggravatingly. Wherever justice is, is a court, said Mr Noah, and I accuse you of contempt of it. Guards arrest this person and take her to prison at once. There was a scuffling and a shrieking, and then the voices withdrew gradually. The angry voice of even the pretenderette growing fainter and fainter till it died away all together. Philip was left alone. His first act was to go up to the top of the tower and look out to see if he could see the dragon. He looked east and north and south and west, and he saw the ramparts of the fort where Mr Noah and the others were now safely bestowed. He saw also other towers and cities in the distance, and he saw the ruins where he had met Mr Perrin. And among those ruins something was moving, something long and jointed and green. It could be nothing but the dragon. Oh crikey, said Philip to himself, whatever shall I do? Perhaps I'd better see what weapons there are. So he ran down the stairs and down and down till he came to the vaults of the castle. And there he found everything a dragon killer could possibly need, even to a little red book called the Young Dragon Catcher's Vardemacum, or a complete guide to the good sport of dragon slaying, and a pair of excellent field glasses. The top of the tower seemed the safest place. It was there that he tried to read the book. The words were very long and most difficultly spelt, but he did manage to make out that all dragons sleep for one hour after sunset. Then he heard a loud rattling sound from the ruin, and he knew it was the dragon who was making that sound, so he looked through the field glasses, frowning with anxiety, to see what the dragon was doing. And as he looked, he started and almost dropped the glasses, and the frown cleared away from his forehead, and he gave a sigh that was almost a sob and almost a laugh, and then he said, That old thing! Then he looked again, and this is what he saw, an enormous green dragon, very long and fierce looking, that rattled as it moved, going in and out among the ruins, rubbing itself against the fallen pillars. And the reason Philip laughed and sighed was that he knew that dragon very well indeed. He had known it long ago. It was the clockwork lizard that had been given him the Christmas before last. And he remembered that he had put it into one of the cities he and Helen had built together. Only now, of course, it had grown big and had come alive like all the other images of live things he had put in his cities. But he saw that it was still a clockwork creature, and its key was sticking out of its side, and it was rubbing itself against the pillars so as to turn the key and wind itself up. But this was a slow business, and the winding was not half done when the sun set. The dragon instantly lay down and went to sleep. Well, said Philip, now I've got to think. He did think harder than he had ever done before, and when he had finished thinking he went down into the vault and got a long rope. Then he stood still a moment wondering if he really were brave enough, and then he remembered, rise up, Sir Philip, and he knew that a night simply mustn't be afraid. So he went out in the dusk towards the dragon. He knew it would sleep for an hour, but all the same, and the twilight was growing deeper and deeper. Still, there was plenty of light to find the ruin and also to find the dragon. There it lay, about ten or twelve yards of solid, dark dragon flesh. Its metal claws gleamed in the last of the daylight. Its great mouth was open, and its breathing, as it slept, was like the sound of the sea on a rough night. Rise up, Sir Philip, he said to himself, and walked along close to the dragon, till he came to the middle part where the key was sticking out, which Mr. Perrin had thought was a piece of an old spear, with which someone had once tried to kill the monster. Philip farsened one end of his rope very securely to the key. How thankful he was that Helen had taught him to tie knots that were not granny knots. The dragon lay quite still, and went on breathing like a stormy sea. Then the dragon slayer farsened the other end of the rope to the main wall of the ruin, which was very strong and firm, and then he went back to his tower as fast as he could, and struck a match and lighted his Roman candle. You see the idea, it was really rather a clever one. When the dragon woke, it would find that it was held prisoner by the ropes. It would be furious, and try to get free. And in its struggles it would be certain to get free, but this it could only do by detaching itself from its key. When once the key was out, the dragon would be unable to wind itself up anymore, and would be as good as dead. Of course Sir Philip could cut off its head with the silver-hilted sword, if Mr. Noah really wished it. It was, as you see, an excellent plan, as far as it went. Philip sat on the top of his tower quite free from anxiety, and ate a few hairy red gooseberries that happened to be loose in his pocket. Within three minutes of his lighting his Roman candle, a shower of golden rain went up in the south. Some immense Catherine-wheels appeared in the east, and in the north a long line of rockets presented almost the appearance of an aurora borealis. Red fire, green fire, then rockets again. The whole of the plain was lit by more fireworks than Philip had ever seen, even at the Crystal Palace. By their light he saw a procession come out of the fort, crossed to a pillar that stood solitary on the plain, and tied to it a white figure. The princess, I suppose, said Philip. Well, she's all right anyway. Then the procession went back to the fort, and then the dragon awoke. Philip could see the great creature stretching itself, and shaking its vast head as a dog does when it comes out of the water. I expect it doesn't like the fireworks, said Philip, and he was quite right. And now the dragon saw the princess, who had been placed at a convenient spot about halfway between the ruins and Philip's tower. It threw up its snout and uttered a devastating howl, and Philip felt, with a thrill of horror, that clockwork or no clockwork, the brute was alive and desperately dangerous. And now it had perceived that it was bound, with great heavings and throes, with snortings and bellowings, with scratchings and tearings of its great claws, and lashings of its terrible tale. It rised and fought to be free, and the light of thousands of fireworks illuminated the gigantic struggle. Then what Philip had known would happen did happen. The great wall held fast, the rope held fast, the dragon held fast. It was the key that gave way. With an echoing, grinding, rusty sound, like a good strain shunting on a siding, the key was drawn from the keyhole in the dragon's side, and left, still fast to its rope, like an anchor to a cable. Left. For now that happened which Philip had not foreseen. He had forgotten that before it fell asleep, the dragon had partly wound itself up, and its struggles had not used up all the winding. There was go in the dragon yet, and with a yell of fury it set off across the plane, wriggling its green, rattling length towards the princess. And now there was no time to think whether one was afraid or not. Philip went down those tower stairs more quickly than he had ever gone downstairs in his life, and he was not bad at stairs, even at ordinary times. He put his sword over his shoulder as you do a gun, and ran. Like the dragon, he made straight for the princess. And now it was a race between him and the dragon. Philip ran and ran, his heart thumped. His feet had that leaden feeling that comes in nightmares. He felt as if he were dying. Keep on, keep on, faster, faster, you mustn't stop. Ah, that's better. He has got his second wind, he's going faster, and the dragon—or is it fancy—is not going quite so fast. How he did it Philip never knew. But with a last spurt he reached the pillar where the princess stood bound, and the dragon was twenty yards away, coming on and on and on. Philip stood quite still, recovering his breath. And more and more slowly, but with no sign of stopping, the dragon came on. Behind him, where the pillar was, Philip heard someone crying softly. Then the dragon was quite near. Philip took three steps forward, took aim with his sword, shut his eyes, and hit as hard as he could. Then something hard and heavy knocked him over, and for a time he knew no more. When he came to himself again, Mr. Noah was giving him something nasty to drink out of a medicine glass. Mr. Perrin was patting him on the back. All the people were shouting like mad, and more fireworks than ever were being let off. Beside him lay the dragon lifeless and still. Oh, said Philip, did I really do it? You did indeed, said Mr. Noah. However you may succeed with the other deeds, you are the hero of this one. And now, if you feel well enough, prepare to receive the reward of valour and chivalry. Oh, said Philip, brightening, I didn't know there was to be a reward. Only the usual one, said Mr. Noah, the princess, you know. Philip became aware that a figure in a white veil was standing quite near him, round its feet lay lengths of cut rope. The princess is yours, said Mr. Noah, with generous affability. But I don't want her, said Philip, adding by an afterthought. Thank you. You should have thought of that before, said Mr. Noah. You can't go doing deeds of valour, you know, and then shirking the reward. Take her, she's yours. Anyone who likes may have her, said Philip, desperately. If she's mine, I can give her away, can't I? You must see yourself, I can't be bothered with princesses, if I've got all those other deeds to do. That's not my affair, said Mr. Noah. Perhaps you might have ranged a board her out while you're doing your deeds. But at present she is waiting for you to take her by the hand and give her to me. Raise her veil. Must I? said Philip miserably. Well, here goes. He took a small cold hand in one of his, and with the other lifted very gingerly a corner of the veil. The other hand of the princess drew back the veil, and the dragon slayer and the princess were face to face. Why? cried Philip, between relief and disgust. It's only Lucy! End of chapter four. Recording by Ruth Golding