The pleasant July days, so long and light, slipped speedily away, till an afternoon came when Teddy, returning from a walk with Girzie, found the nursery full of boxes, and nurse, who demanded the immediate surrender of Colin Dougal that she might pack him.The little boy clasped his doll more firmly in his arms, looked round the dismantled nursery, and grim foreboding laid a chilly hand upon his heart."What do you want to pack for?" he asked breathlessly."Because we're going by an early train to-morrow, and mummy says everything must be ready to-night.""Going!" he gasped. "Going where?""We're all going to Kingussie for August.""I'm not going, I don't want to go. I want to stay here, wiv all my fends.... Do you," he asked anxiously, "want to go to Kingussie?"Nurse looked flushed and rather cross."I'm not asked," she muttered, "what I want, nor you neither, Teddy. Give me that doll at once, and I'll pack him with the other toys."Teddy stared stonily at her, nor made the smallest effort to surrender his doll."I'm not going," he said firmly, "not to-morrow. Why, I haven't said good-bye to none of them, have you?""I don't know what you're talking about," said nurse huffily; "give me that doll at once, you know I don't allow disobedience."And as she spoke she made a grab at the doll.Teddy held on with all his strength. They were starting for Kingussie a day earlier than had been originally intended, and it had only been decided upon that morning. Mummy had taken it upon herself to send Girzie out with Teddy, leaving nurse free to pack. This had upset all nurse's plans, and left Sergeant-Major Macdonald kicking his heels during a vain wait at the bottom of the hill, while Girzie and Teddy went off in quite another direction. Therefore nurse was decidedly irritable, and rather roughly tried to pull Colin Dougal out of Teddy's arms.For a full minute Teddy held on with all his little strength, then suddenly and despairingly let go. And at the same instant nurse also let go, remembering that it was undignified to struggle with a small child for the possession of a china doll.Colin Dougal fell with a thump upon the floor, one of his china legs broke right in two, and the severed half leapt gaily under a chair.Teddy took a deep breath and yelled and yelled and yelled.Papa and mummy heard him in the drawing-room, and rushed to the nursery to see what had happened.He was standing stock still just inside the door. Nurse had picked up Colin Dougal and the bit of his leg, and was vainly trying to explain to her demented charge that it could easily be mended.But Teddy struck at her with both his hands, and refused to be comforted. He also continued to bawl with unabated vigour after his parents had entered the room."What's this? What's this?" exclaimed papa."Are you hurt, my precious?" mummy inquired tenderly, as she knelt beside her little boy.Teddy did not repulse his mother, and managed to ejaculate in the middle of a roar, "I don'twantto go to Kingussie!"The accident to Colin Dougal seemed a minor woe, caused by, and included in, this devastating news of departure."Nonsense!" papa exclaimed, looking pained; "not want to go to Kingussie! Why, it's country—real, beautiful, quiet country—far better than this place, with those infernal bugles braying from morning till night, and the horrid band, and air those tramping soldiers. You'll love Kingussie."Teddy stopped afresh in the midst of renewed efforts in the way of yells to hiccough indignantly "not—'fernal bugles!"Papa looked rather surprised, but his pained look returned as Teddy started to shout again at the top of his voice.Nurse, taking advantage of the general confusion, packed Colin Dougal, and actually wrapped up the piece of his leg in a separate bit of paper with cold-blooded detachment.Mummy reasoned, papa reasoned, and nurse, who had by this time recovered her Institutional serenity, spoke soothingly: but all to no avail. Teddy continued to scream, to lose his breath, and then roar with renewed vigour when he had got it again.He really made a great to-do.Finally papa and mummy departed in despair. Nurse went on packing, and Girzie, who had been listening at the end of the passage with her hand against her heart, came in and took the tired, miserable little figure into her kind strong arms and sat down on a chair."Eh, Master Teddy, and what'll the soldiers be thinkin' this night, to hear such an awfu' stramash in this respectable house ... an' both the windows open? They'll be fair affrontet to think the young gentleman they thought such a heap on could cry like a randy wife. They puir soldiers won't know what to make of it at all, at all."And Girzie shook her head as though overcome with care.Teddy sat up and stared at her, and though his breath still came in sobs he made no noise."Will they mind, Girzie?" he asked anxiously. "Will they 'eally mind?""Mind!" Girzie repeated. "Mind! They'll just be that upset—and you almost like one o' them.""Colin Dougal's broken his leg.""Well, he'll get over that. My brother broke his leg at the football, and look at him now!""But we're going away, Girzie, ... and I haven't said good-bye to nobody, not to your Colin Dougal nor no one.""Never fear but he'll see ye to say good-bye—but not if you cry—an' you going to be a grand officer gentleman some day. Soldiers don't cry, laddie. It would be the very last thing they'd think of doing.""Not if they're hurted in their hearts?—nor never?""Not that any other person could see or hear them, you may depend on that. And you mustn't cry either, any way not so loud that folk could hear ye right across the Esplanade. Listen, laddie, we'll no forget you. My brother's just fair taken up wi' you, and he's sent you this—for a bit keepsake. It's one o' his buttons made into a safety-pin, and when you're a wee thing bigger you'll wear it to hold down your tie ... if nurse'll let you," she added hastily, with an anxious glance at nurse, who continued to pack in absorbed silence.Eagerly Teddy untied the little packet, and there was a real soldier's button mounted as a safety-pin."When can I have a tie?" he asked eagerly.Nurse came over to them and stood looking down at the little pin. Her face softened. "I've got one rather like that, myself," she said. "You can fasten it in your blouse whether you have a tie or not. No one would notice.""Can I wear it always?" he asked."Yes, if you like," nurse said graciously, "and perhaps it will help you to remember not to cry when you fall down."Girzie said nothing, but she fastened the brooch so that the button shone resplendent just above the ribbons that tied Teddy's sailor blouse."I will remember," he said solemnly."Are you sorry you were so naughty?" nurse asked, ever desirous to improve the occasion."No," said Teddy firmly. "I hate Kingussie."But after all he didn't hate Kingussie. He would have liked it immensely but that it rained nearly all the time. July seemed to have used up all the nice weather, and August was very cold and wet. He got one chill on the top of another, and sneezed and snuffled, and snuffled and sneezed, and lost all the pretty pink colour in his cheeks that he had gained in Edinburgh.Kingussie is a beautiful place with woods and streams and a glorious golf links covered with short springy turf. Their lodgings were right on the top of a hill, and the view from the windows was very lovely, but even the loveliest view palls when it can only be seen through a veil of driving rain.Towards the end of their stay Teddy alarmed his family by falling really ill. The local doctor took a gloomy view of his case, and talked of unripe blackberries and appendicitis. Papa thereupon carried the whole family back to Edinburgh before the end of the month. This time they stayed at the Caledonian Hotel, where the noise of Princes Street and the constant trains tried papa even more than the infernal bugles in Ramsay Gardens.A great doctor, who had not yet started for his holiday, was consulted about Teddy, and he was even graver than the doctor up in Kingussie, and said there must be an operation at once.That was a puzzling day for Teddy.He was kept in bed till evening, and nurse and everybody were extraordinarily kind to him.Then mummy came and sat beside him and held his hand, and told him that he was to go that night to another house, and that the next day the great doctor would do something for him that would make him quite well."Why can't he do it here?" Teddy asked.It seemed that people didn't have these things done in hotels; that doctors were particular men who liked to make people well in specially chosen houses called Nursing Homes, and that Teddy was to go to one of those homes that very night in a taxi-cab."Will my nurse come?" he asked anxiously."I will come," said mummy, and her voice sounded as if she, too, had got one of the Kingussie colds."Not nurse," he repeated, rather puzzled. "Who will dress me?""There are lots of nice nurses in the Home who can do that, but you won't be dressed just at first, you know. The doctor will want to keep you in bed a little while after the operation.""What's a operation? What's it do to you?"But this mummy did not seem able to explain very clearly, and Teddy began to feel rather doubtful about the whole thing."Will it hurt?" he asked at last."Not at the time, my precious," said mummy, "but afterwards it may. I'm afraid it will, rather. I'm afraid it may hurt a good deal. But you will try to be brave. I know you will be brave.""A bave—Bittish—officer——" Teddy muttered. Then, turning his big, bright eyes upon his mother, he asked eagerly: "Can I wear my button?"Mummy did not understand, but nurse did, and when it was all explained he was assured that he should wear his button.Then they dressed him, and nurse packed a little suit-case, with Colin Dougal in it, and all his new pyjamas and his dressing-gown, and he and Mummy went alone together to that strange house full of nurses.A great many odd things happened that night, and Teddy simply couldn't have borne the strangeness of it all if his button had not been fastened on the pocket of the jacket of his pyjamas: they were real pyjamas, two garments, not baby ones fastened together.He didn't sleep very well that night, but as often as he woke up he touched his button and repeated to himself "Guadaloupe, Martinique, Selingapatam," which are the first three of the long list of battles fought by the Black Watch. Girzie's brother could say them all, and Teddy loved to hear him roll them out in his strong Scottish voice, and tried to learn them himself, but they are mostly very long names, and only the first three remained in his mind.Every one was most kind, but it was depressing not to have any breakfast. Mummy's cold seemed to get worse, and one of the nurses suggested that it would be better if she did not come as far as the operating-room lest she should give it to Teddy.His heart was thumping in his ears. He kissed mummy, he kissed Colin Dougal, who simpered sweetly as usual (his leg hardly showed at all) and was quite unmoved; and then, with lips that trembled, he whispered "Bave Bittish officer" to himself over and over again.He put one hand into that of the kind nurse, and held his button with the other, and together they went down a long passage into a room that was walled and floored with white tiles. It had no chairs in it, only tables, one of them long and narrow and high, right in the middle of the room. Two doctors were waiting for them, and the one Teddy had seen at the hotel had his coat off as if he was going to play some game. He looked very kindly at Teddy as they came in. "You're a man," he said. "I can see that.""I sall not ky," Teddy said in rather a shaky voice. "I sall not ky, because I'm going to be a soldier, and they don't, you know.""I guessed that, the minute I saw you," said the doctor. "We like soldiers here, they get well extra quick. Up with you, and you mustn't mind when we put that funny thing over your face."Teddy lay down on the high narrow table. He looked up anxiously at the doctor he didn't know. "You won't take my button away, will you, not when you make me go to sleep?""Keep a tight hold of it," said the doctor, "and you'll find it there when you wake up. No one would dream of touching it."A soft rubber mask was pressed on Teddy's face; it was not pleasant, but it did not hurt. Then came a roaring in his ears like the burn at Kingussie when it had rained more than usual."A—bave Bittish—Guadaloupe, Martinique——"The burn had swept little Teddy away into oblivion, but even there the small hand was closed tightly over the soldier's button.That night the doctor congratulated papa both upon the entire success of the operation and on the splendid military training he had given his little son.XVIIIPAUL AND THE PLAYWRIGHT"I was eight yesterday," said Paul to Thor, "so this week's different. I'm different. I'm older—five years older than you, dear, though you are so big."Thor wagged his tail and looked sympathetic. A deerhound contrives to express more by his looks than most humans, and Paul talked so continually to Thor that the great dog always seemed to understand."So," Paul continued, "I think it's time we went about a bit and looked for an adventure—likehim, you know. We've been awfully good for ever so long. You haven't stole anything, nor chased the sheep, nor ate anybody's slipper, and I haven't gone off for the day, or smacked Lucy, or read a book at meals. We've been sort of saints, and it's time we did something, or we'll be turning into kind of angels—and they always die, you know, and we've no time for that: we've got ever such a deal to see to. Come on, my dear, nobody wants us. Let's walk and walk till we find somethin' instastin'."Paul wasted no time in preparations. He didn't even wait to put on his boots. He was already equipped with his favourite weapon, a smooth roller-like piece of wood about a foot long, which had originally been used as a support for photographs. They had been rolled round it for postal purposes. Paul annexed it when he was about three, christened it his "chuncheon" (in those days "r's" were a difficulty,) and had treasured it ever since.Once Dorcas, the under-nurse, tidied it away in her excess of zeal, when his grief was so uncontrollable that the whole household turned out to hunt for it, and it was finally rescued from the dustbin by cook.Before setting out he would fain have divested himself of his smock, but a smock is a tiresome garment securely fastened at the back by means of treacherous little loops and buttons, quite too complex to be successfully tackled by the wearer. He did his best, however, to turn it into a doublet by tying a piece of string as tightly as possible round his waist, and through the string he thrust his trusty "chuncheon." He pulled his dilapidated cotton hat well over his eyes, and, lest any of the authorities should look out of the window and inquire his intentions, he set off down the drive very slowly, as though bound for nowhere in particular.Nurse saw him strolling towards the gate, but that was nothing; he was always strolling about the garden with Thor—the only wonder was that some five other dogs had not already joined them.Mrs. Button at the lodge saw him go by as she was hanging out sheets on the line, and they "changed the weather and passed the time of day," but she only thought he was going across to the village shop for something, so she was not curious or suspicious either.At the "Cat and Compasses" Paul stopped. Mr. Mumford, the landlord, was standing in the doorway leaning on a hoe. They greeted each other suitably, and Paul remarked, "Miss Goodlake's stopped in bed. She's got a headache——""Sorry to 'ear it, I'm sure," Mr. Mumford replied sympathetically. "Per'aps the sun 'ave been a bit too strong for she.""Janey and Fiammetta," Paul continued, unconcerned as to the causes of Miss Goodlake's headache, "are doing their lessons alone. They're hearing each other, and they said I disturbed them, so Thor and I've come off together."He paused and looked expectantly at Mr. Mumford, as though waiting for a suggestion of some sort.Mr. Mumford is shaped rather like a pair of bellows with two substantial legs instead of one slim one. He completely filled his own doorway, and perspiring and benevolent, looked down at Paul."I wish as I could ast you to come in and set a bit, Master Paul," he said apologetically, "but my missus she be a-cleanin', and when a woman gets a-cleanin', the 'ouse beant no place for the likes of we. Not a moment's peace or quiet to be 'ad.Youknows what 'a' be, doan't 'ee, Master Paul?"Here Mr. Mumford winked at Paul, who wagged his head sympathetically as the summer stillness was broken by the clashing of pails, the sound of falling brooms, and a strident voice exclaimed "Sammle! you get along down garden an' weed them there parsnips. That bed be disgrace to be'old. You take 'oe along; be off now, don't 'ee stand gossipin' there, ye lazy varmint, you!"With a groan Mr. Mumford seized the hoe, turned back into the bar, and disappeared from view. Paul, congratulating Thor on the fact that neither of them had a missus who insisted on the weeding of parsnips on such a hot morning, strolled through the village. It was not yet ten o'clock, and no one was to be seen. All the women were busy indoors, the men at work. The sky was blue, the sun was hot, and a ribbon of white road lay before them "beckoning and winding." So he and Thor set off at a good pace, and Paul muttered as he went, "He would have given his housekeeper and his niece for a fair opportunity of kicking the traitor Galabon," adding thoughtfully, "They'd be about as bad as a missus, I expect."Of course the quotation came from the Book of the Moment, which, just then, happened to be Don Quixote. He had found the Mad Knight in the attic, an old translation in four volumes, published in 1810, with a map and many steel engravings. He read it right through with his usual absorbed interest, but expressed regret that there was such "an awful lot about lovers and that." The Don's passion for the peerless Dulcinea he did not attempt to understand, and the long love stories of other people interspersed throughout bored him. But the adventures thrilled him, and Sancho Panza's was a character that he got on terms with at once. There was something dear and familiar about the sturdy Sancho: something of Mr. Mumford.For although, so far as Paul knew, Mr. Mumford never went further afield than Garchester, still he was confident that, did occasion arise, Mr. Mumford would not fail him. Paul often pictured himself, attended by this faithful henchman, riding forth on two of his father's best hunters, to seek their fortunes in an unknown world.It is true that he had never in so many words mooted the idea to Mr. Mumford in any of their more intimate conversations, but he felt assured that Mr. Mumford would never suffer him to set out alone and unaided.He was, perhaps, a thought disappointed that this boon companion had not suggested going with him that very morning, but he acquitted him of all intentional disloyalty, when he reflected on the compelling qualities of the voice that haled the unwilling Sammle to the parsnip bed. He was sure Mr. Mumford would have preferred to accompany him—which is quite likely.It was impossible to be Don Quixote without an attendant; so, somewhat regretfully, Paul fell back upon the beloved Boots, the resourceful and ever-conquering third son of his favourite Fairy Book.Here, Thor was quite in the picture.It is true that inTales from the Norsethere isn't much about dogs. Horses play all the larger parts, but "lots of animals come in," and Paul liked that. "After all," he remarked complacently to Thor, "we shan't have to keep on being in love on such a hot morning."Paul's view of love-making strongly resembled that of cook, who, when she caught Greenwood, the groom, kissing the kitchenmaid, boxed their several ears, but related the incident quite dispassionately to mother, concluding her recital with the remark, "I don't hold with it myself, but there—I suppose it's pleasing to some."Paul, too, was quite ready to allow that it might be "pleasing to some"; but his mood that morning was not attuned to the contemplation of transcendantly beautiful ladies. He pined for the society of a like-minded bachelor, a jolly bachelor of sociable habits, who would understand and sympathise with a desire to be free for a while from the tyranny of the tempestuous petticoat.So they strolled along in the middle of the winding road for nearly a couple of miles, then an open gate into an unfamiliar field invited them, and, they went in and crossed it. Paul climbed and Thor leapt the gate into the next. There were sheep in that field, but Thor resisted temptation, and rested quietly with his master under the shade of an elm. On again across more fields, meeting with no adventures whatsoever. All the trolls, giants, witches, lions, pirates, knights and princesses seemed to have remained indoors or underground that morning.A man shouted at them once, but he was too far off to discover whether his words were friendly or the reverse. Previous experience, however, led Paul to believe they were in some way "be off out of that-ish!" and he hurried away in an opposite direction. His feet ached and the soles of his shoes felt very thin. He decided that the moment they struck the road again he'd make for the very first house in sight and ask for some water for both of them.At last they reached a field bordered by a road. They pushed through a gap in the hedge and found themselves not far from four cross roads and a church. Paul made for the church, for as a rule where churches are, houses are not far off—and, sure enough, right opposite the church gate was one that led into somebody's drive with an exceedingly trim lodge on the left-hand side.He paused, undecided for a moment whether to go round to the back door, which would be certain to be open, and ask for water from the lady of the lodge, or go right up the drive and see what the people of the house were like.If he went to the back and rapped with his knuckles a woman would come out—he was sure of that. She might be washing; she might be displeased at the interruption; she would be almost certain to disapprove of Thor.He decided to go up to the house.Here, as everywhere else that morning, there was not a soul in sight and it was very still. The sun was high in the heavens, and the great lawns in front of the house stretched almost shadowless—green and shaven and smooth. It was a pretty house: irregular, long and low, covered with creepers, with sloping roofs, clustering chimneys, and kindly-looking gables—a restful house, Paul thought wistfully. Would they let him go in and sit a bit?The open, front door was hooded by a deep sunblind, but he peeped underneath and beheld a cool dark hall, absolutely untenanted; and here, too, the same soft, all-pervading silence. It was very hot out on the gravel drive; there seemed no shadows anywhere. Even a cedar-tree on the far side of a wide lawn, though it looked dark and cool, threw hardly any shade.Thor's tongue was hanging out, and he turned his beautiful grave eyes on his master with the clear question, "How long are we to stand here?"Presently Paul became conscious of a faint sound: a sharp, irregular, clipped sort of sound, that was neither a tap nor a click, but a cross between the two.The country-bred child is a connoisseur in sounds, and here was one quite new to him. Thor, too, heard it, and looked inquiring.They moved away in its direction and came upon another door. This, too, had its sunblind. This, too, was open, and the curious sound was coming from the room within that door.Paul dived underneath the sunblind and Thor followed him.They found themselves in what appeared to be a small square porch leading to the room within. It contained nothing but a fixed basin with a tap and a towel-rail. Here at all events was water.Paul ran some into the basin, and Thor put his paws on the edge, reared his great body, sloped his head, and drank greedily. And all the time that curious noise continued, that indescribable irregularly recurrent sound, that was half tap, half click, with a mysterious scrape occurring every thirty seconds or so. When Thor had finished his drink, Paul formed his own hands into a cup and drank from them; he whispered to Thor to lie down, and stood himself in the open doorway leading to the room whence the sound came.He forgot how his feet ached, he forgot how desperately hungry he was, for he felt that, at last, he had come up with the adventure he had been, questing all that long hot morning.Never had he beheld such a delightful room. It was large and high, with two big wide-open windows, which, however, were not like ordinary windows, for they started ever so far from the ground, like those in a studio. The panelling, where it could be seen for books, was white; but there was no glare, for books were everywhere, books in many-hued bindings, making irregular patches of subdued colour. Nearly all looked as though they had sat long in their shelves, and wore the pleasant faded tints that time brings to things cared-for and well-loved. There was one line of vivid red that Paul recognised with a little thrill (for we had it at home) as the "Elephant" edition of "The man who made Mowgli." But these were on a high shelf, and the steps were too far off for him to drag them over without making a noise. Besides, for once, it was not the books that most interested Paul; it was what he afterwards described as "a kind-of-man-ness" about the room."It was all such a jolly muddle and so comfortable."If there were many books there were even more papers. He didn't mean newspapers and magazines, though there were plenty of them—it was the quantities of letters that impressed him. Never had he seen so many letters, not even at Christmas. They were strewed about everywhere, and on the floor behind the great, double, knee-hole table, an open trunk was lying full of them—stuffed in pell-mell, anyhow.All the furniture was big and solid and comfortable. There were two pianos—"a big one and a little one"; a huge sofa that invited repose on the part of the slothful; great, deep chairs; steady tables; nothing to upset anywhere; no tiresome "frippy" things.And seated at the knee-hole table was a man who wore spectacles: a biggish man going bald, with grey hair, grey moustache, and short, closely-trimmed grey beard. Paul decided that he liked the look of him, and that there was something familiar in his appearance; that he had met this man before somewhere in a story. He knitted his brows and thought deeply, never taking his eyes off him, but he couldn't place him. Nevertheless he was sure of him. He was one of the understanding. "He didn't look a 'run-away-and-play' sort of a man," Paul said afterwards, "nor the sort who says 'my boy,' and he didn't ever—not once."It was he who was making that queer noise. He was playing with both hands on a kind of instrument.Paul accepted the noise as some novel and not very agreeable form of music. He guessed the man was musical from the fact that he had two pianos. But why, having two real pianos, he should play on that horrid little one, puzzled Paul extremely. It was not nearly so pleasing to the ear as one he himself possessed, which you played by thumping the keys with a hammer made of cork. It was possible to get some sort of tune out of that.Click-click—click-click-click—— the man could play very fast. He used both hands, and was so absorbed in the tune he was trying to make that he never noticed Paul. He appeared to change his music very often, and it seemed rather a business to get it fixed in the stand, and one thing that interested Paul was that when he chose a new piece he always put in a black sheet of paper behind it. Just inside the door Paul stood gazing absorbedly. Had the man looked up he must have seen him."I'll wait till he's finished practising," Paul resolved, "then we'll talk."The door was at the side, not in the middle of the end wall, and that wall was entirely covered by a huge bookcase—by stretching out his hand he could have taken a book from the shelves, and he was greatly tempted. But he thought it would hardly be polite, as the man was there. Had the room been empty he would have had no such scruples.He was tired, so he sat down on the floor and leant against the lintel of the open door."I wish he'd play a tunier tune," he thought.Thor lay full length in the little room with the basin, his nose between his paws, his speaking eyes fixed on his master. There was no sound at all except that eternal click-click."I kept thinking," Paul said afterwards, "how splendid it would have been to play 'Camptown Races' against Harry. I'd have had the biggest piano and drowned him." Harry could play "Cock o' the North" on the black notes. Paul could thump out "Camptown Races" with one finger! Occasionally, when they got the chance, they would perform against each other, one on the schoolroom the other on the drawing-room piano. Paul was envious of Harry's achievement, but the black notes were beyond him, and "Cock o' the North" skips about so.If you start "Camptown Races" on F natural it's all plain sailing; the same note is repeated so often that it is not difficult.Paul stretched out his legs luxuriously and pictured the amazing row he and Harry could produce on those two pianos in what he was pleased to call their "duet."Presently the man stopped playing on his unmelodious instrument and, looking over his spectacles across the room towards the door, saw Paul. He immediately took off his glasses, and his eyes were blue and keen and kind.Paul scrambled to his feet. "How d'you do?" he said politely. "I just called in as I was passing."The man looked rather astonished. "Where were you going?" he asked.Paul came slowly across the room until he stood close by the big desk. "Nowhere in particular. We've just come out for the day.""We!" the man repeated. "Are there any more of you?" And he looked rather anxious."Only Thor," Paul answered reassuringly. "He's sitting in the little room with the basin—I hope you don't mind. We both drank some water, but we didn't wash—not without leave. May Thor come in?""He'd better, I think," said the man."You may come in, my dear," Paul said, quietly, without raising his voice, and Thor, large, deliberate, and graceful, strolled into the room, looked inquiringly at the man, wagged his tail gently, and came and stood by his master."This is Thor," said Paul. "Do you mind him?""Not a bit!" said the man. "I like him.""Sometimes," Paul remarked, "people are afraid he'll upset things; he's so large, you know.... But it wouldn't be easy to upset things here. Would you mind telling me why you kept playing that funny tune? Do you think it's pretty?""Tune?" the man repeated. "When?""Just a minute ago—ever since I came in,andoutside. I heard you; it's what made me come. I couldn't think what it was.""Can you read?" asked the man."Read!" Paul exclaimed. "I should think so; years and years ago."The man handed him one of the pages he had been playing."That's what I was doing," he said."Why, it's print!" cried Paul."Exactly; nicer than hand-writing, isn't it?"Paul's quick eyes devoured the page."Like Shakespeare," he added.The man laughed. "I only wish it was," he said."It's a play, anyway, isn't it?""It is.""And you've been making it up as you go along?""Well, hardly that, but I scribble it down first, you know.""Does it spell for you?" Paul asked breathlessly."No, it doesn't, bother it—-that's where it's rather sniffy sometimes.""When I'm grown up," Paul said solemnly, "and rich—I hope I'll be rich—I'll have one of those, but I'll get one that does the spelling as well. I suppose theyaremade.""I haven't come across one yet," said the man; "when I do I shall buy it at once——""And you'll tell me, won't you?" Paul said eagerly."I'll let you know very first thing!""Would you like me to read some more of your interesting play?" he asked. "I can't quite make out what it's all about beginning in the miggle like this.""I don't think I'd read it just now," said the man. "You see, I want to talk to you. I want to know all sorts of things.""I came in on purpose to have a chat," Paul remarked genially. "Do you mind if I sit down? My feet do ache so—Lie down, my dear; the gentleman doesn't mind you."The man pulled up a comfortable chair for Paul. Thor lay down at his feet, and then their host, in his chair by the desk, swung round and faced them."I suppose now," said Paul, "you haven't got a missus, have you?""What makes you think that?" asked the man."Well, you see, there's such a muddle of papers, isn't there? She'd never let you keep it like that. Mr. Mumford says his missus is always cleanin' and sortin' and putting things away. Not," he added truthfully, "that Mr. Mumford gets many letters—I've never seen any in his house.""It's not always like this," pleaded the man. "Sometimes it's awfully tidy.""Oh, but I like it like this," Paul exclaimed eagerly. "Have you a housekeeper and a niece by any chance? Do they tidy for you?""Why a housekeeperanda niece?" asked the man."He had, you know—Don Quixote. I've been playing at him a good deal lately.""Do you generally play at the people you read about?""Always," Paul said solemnly. "What would be the good of reading about them else?""I suppose it's a good plan," the man said musingly; "it must lead you into many adventures.""It does," Paul said solemnly. "Thisis one of them, and you, I suppose, are a sort of magician, since you make plays. Do peoplereallyact them?""Not as often as I could wish," the man said, "... but it's great fun all the same.""Doyouplay at being the people?"The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said sadly. Then more to himself than to Paul—"That's the hardest thing of all to do; to look on is much easier.""I don't care for looking on," said Paul decidedly. "I want tobeit all the time.""I suppose we all do to begin with, and then ... we find out that lookers-on see most of the game.""I don't care much about seeing games. I'd rather play them; it's much more fun really. Truly it is," he said earnestly."Doubtless you are right," the man said courteously, "but, you see, we don't all care for the same games.""When I'm grown up—and rich," Paul announced, "I shall write books——""You're wise to be rich first," murmured the man."I shall write books," Paul continued, "with that little piano, and when I'm not writing I shall play at being all the people in my books—one after the other—at least, all the nice ones, who are successful.""Are the nice ones always successful?""In the end, always. Of course, they have trials and things.""What about Don Quixote?" asked the man.Paul looked unhappy. "It worries me," he said. "It worries me dreadfully. He was so nice and so silly and"—the corners of Paul's mouth went down—"and ... he died in the end.""I quite agree with you," said the man. "Itisworrying. Don't let us talk about it."Thor suddenly sat up on his haunches and tried to lick Paul's face."You seem," said Paul, "to be very fond of reading, you've such a splendid lot of books. Do you ever, by any chance, read at meals?"Paul held him with stern, searching eyes."Only when I'm alone," the man said primly."Never when people are there?" Paul asked, fixing him with a gaze that seemed to search his very soul."Well ... only at tea-time ... occasionally.... Why do you ask?""Because," Paul answered, "they're all so down on me for doing it. I always want to read at tea-time, and they won't let me. Now I shall tell them you do it; that'll surprise 'em.""Oh, don't!" the man urged, "don't give me away. They'd be so shocked.""Of course, I shan't say anything if you'd rather I didn't," Paul remarked magnanimously, "but I thought if I just mentioned a grown-up gentleman did it they couldn't be so down on me! ... But I truly won't if you'd rather not. I guessed you did it the minute I saw you.""I'm quite certain neither of us ought to," said the man, "but itisa temptation ... when the conversation is dull.""It's often jolly dull," Paul groaned—and at that moment a gong sounded."That's for luncheon," said the man. "Are you hungry?""I'm starving, and do you think there will be any little bits for Thor?""Sure of it," said the man. "Would you like to wash? And do you require any ... assistance?"The man looked down at Paul; he had to look rather a long way, for Paul was very small for his age. Perhaps it was that made him ask. Anyway Paul was not offended."I can wash all right," he said, "but nurse generally gives my hair a bit of a do—but if you don't mind I don't."They went up some steps and through a glass door into another room—more like other people's rooms this—tidy and arranged like other drawing-rooms, then across the hall to the dining-room, where an elderly parlour-maid with a kind face put a fat book on Paul's chair to make it high enough.He was desperately hungry, and the lunch was very good, but he couldn't have enjoyed it as much if the kind-looking parlour-maid had not brought a big plate of scraps for Thor, and spread a duster under it.Paul liked his host. He liked the sense of good fellowship, the absence of patronage, the unusual reticence that abstained from questions as to why he was there at all."Do you know my father?" he asked presently."I'm afraid not," said the man, "but if you tell me his name I dare say I may have heard of him.""He's not at all like me," Paul announced. "He's awfully sensible, every one says that, but he's a most good-natured man and kind as kind. Surely you must know Squire Staniland?"The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not, though I have heard his name.""What county are we in?" asked Paul.The man told him, and it was not our county."Then we've walked right into another shire," Paul exclaimed. "Whata way we've come! That's why you don't know father.""What about your people?" asked the man. "Won't they wonder where you are?""They'llwonder," said Paul, "and they won't be best pleased, but they won't send out search-parties till evening because I've done it before.""Oh, you're given to wandering, are you? Don't you think I'd better take you home in the motor?""And Thor?" Paul asked anxiously. "He mustn't run with it. Motors go too fast for dogs. Father says so.""And Thor," said the man. "He can come inside with us."They had coffee, which pleased Paul greatly, and he confided to his friend that he had never had a cup all to himself before, only the sugar at the bottom of other people's cups if he could get at them before they were cleared away.Motors were something of a novelty then, and Paul thought it very exciting to go in one. Thor was suspicious and refused to go in before his master, but followed him obediently when Paul got in first."We can't have a motor," he remarked, as they slid down the drive, "it would break Button's heart, father says, and we're very fond of horses, though I like the dogs best myself. Did your coachman mind very much?""My coachman got so frail and ill he couldn't drive any more, and it would have brokenhisheart to have any one else drive his horses, so I had to get a motor, because I'm such a long way from the station. He didn't mind that so much.""It's the same reason really," said Paul. "Did he get better?""He'll never be any better, but I think he's pretty comfortable."Paul was certain he was.After all it wasn't such a very long way by the road, though it was in another county. The motor stopped at the drive gate, Paul and Thor descended, for, despite entreaties, this hospitable man refused to come up to the house."You'll let me know when you've found the printing thing that spells right, won't you?" Paul called out at parting."I most certainly will," the man called back, "and if you find it first I expect you to tell me."
The pleasant July days, so long and light, slipped speedily away, till an afternoon came when Teddy, returning from a walk with Girzie, found the nursery full of boxes, and nurse, who demanded the immediate surrender of Colin Dougal that she might pack him.
The little boy clasped his doll more firmly in his arms, looked round the dismantled nursery, and grim foreboding laid a chilly hand upon his heart.
"What do you want to pack for?" he asked breathlessly.
"Because we're going by an early train to-morrow, and mummy says everything must be ready to-night."
"Going!" he gasped. "Going where?"
"We're all going to Kingussie for August."
"I'm not going, I don't want to go. I want to stay here, wiv all my fends.... Do you," he asked anxiously, "want to go to Kingussie?"
Nurse looked flushed and rather cross.
"I'm not asked," she muttered, "what I want, nor you neither, Teddy. Give me that doll at once, and I'll pack him with the other toys."
Teddy stared stonily at her, nor made the smallest effort to surrender his doll.
"I'm not going," he said firmly, "not to-morrow. Why, I haven't said good-bye to none of them, have you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said nurse huffily; "give me that doll at once, you know I don't allow disobedience."
And as she spoke she made a grab at the doll.
Teddy held on with all his strength. They were starting for Kingussie a day earlier than had been originally intended, and it had only been decided upon that morning. Mummy had taken it upon herself to send Girzie out with Teddy, leaving nurse free to pack. This had upset all nurse's plans, and left Sergeant-Major Macdonald kicking his heels during a vain wait at the bottom of the hill, while Girzie and Teddy went off in quite another direction. Therefore nurse was decidedly irritable, and rather roughly tried to pull Colin Dougal out of Teddy's arms.
For a full minute Teddy held on with all his little strength, then suddenly and despairingly let go. And at the same instant nurse also let go, remembering that it was undignified to struggle with a small child for the possession of a china doll.
Colin Dougal fell with a thump upon the floor, one of his china legs broke right in two, and the severed half leapt gaily under a chair.
Teddy took a deep breath and yelled and yelled and yelled.
Papa and mummy heard him in the drawing-room, and rushed to the nursery to see what had happened.
He was standing stock still just inside the door. Nurse had picked up Colin Dougal and the bit of his leg, and was vainly trying to explain to her demented charge that it could easily be mended.
But Teddy struck at her with both his hands, and refused to be comforted. He also continued to bawl with unabated vigour after his parents had entered the room.
"What's this? What's this?" exclaimed papa.
"Are you hurt, my precious?" mummy inquired tenderly, as she knelt beside her little boy.
Teddy did not repulse his mother, and managed to ejaculate in the middle of a roar, "I don'twantto go to Kingussie!"
The accident to Colin Dougal seemed a minor woe, caused by, and included in, this devastating news of departure.
"Nonsense!" papa exclaimed, looking pained; "not want to go to Kingussie! Why, it's country—real, beautiful, quiet country—far better than this place, with those infernal bugles braying from morning till night, and the horrid band, and air those tramping soldiers. You'll love Kingussie."
Teddy stopped afresh in the midst of renewed efforts in the way of yells to hiccough indignantly "not—'fernal bugles!"
Papa looked rather surprised, but his pained look returned as Teddy started to shout again at the top of his voice.
Nurse, taking advantage of the general confusion, packed Colin Dougal, and actually wrapped up the piece of his leg in a separate bit of paper with cold-blooded detachment.
Mummy reasoned, papa reasoned, and nurse, who had by this time recovered her Institutional serenity, spoke soothingly: but all to no avail. Teddy continued to scream, to lose his breath, and then roar with renewed vigour when he had got it again.
He really made a great to-do.
Finally papa and mummy departed in despair. Nurse went on packing, and Girzie, who had been listening at the end of the passage with her hand against her heart, came in and took the tired, miserable little figure into her kind strong arms and sat down on a chair.
"Eh, Master Teddy, and what'll the soldiers be thinkin' this night, to hear such an awfu' stramash in this respectable house ... an' both the windows open? They'll be fair affrontet to think the young gentleman they thought such a heap on could cry like a randy wife. They puir soldiers won't know what to make of it at all, at all."
And Girzie shook her head as though overcome with care.
Teddy sat up and stared at her, and though his breath still came in sobs he made no noise.
"Will they mind, Girzie?" he asked anxiously. "Will they 'eally mind?"
"Mind!" Girzie repeated. "Mind! They'll just be that upset—and you almost like one o' them."
"Colin Dougal's broken his leg."
"Well, he'll get over that. My brother broke his leg at the football, and look at him now!"
"But we're going away, Girzie, ... and I haven't said good-bye to nobody, not to your Colin Dougal nor no one."
"Never fear but he'll see ye to say good-bye—but not if you cry—an' you going to be a grand officer gentleman some day. Soldiers don't cry, laddie. It would be the very last thing they'd think of doing."
"Not if they're hurted in their hearts?—nor never?"
"Not that any other person could see or hear them, you may depend on that. And you mustn't cry either, any way not so loud that folk could hear ye right across the Esplanade. Listen, laddie, we'll no forget you. My brother's just fair taken up wi' you, and he's sent you this—for a bit keepsake. It's one o' his buttons made into a safety-pin, and when you're a wee thing bigger you'll wear it to hold down your tie ... if nurse'll let you," she added hastily, with an anxious glance at nurse, who continued to pack in absorbed silence.
Eagerly Teddy untied the little packet, and there was a real soldier's button mounted as a safety-pin.
"When can I have a tie?" he asked eagerly.
Nurse came over to them and stood looking down at the little pin. Her face softened. "I've got one rather like that, myself," she said. "You can fasten it in your blouse whether you have a tie or not. No one would notice."
"Can I wear it always?" he asked.
"Yes, if you like," nurse said graciously, "and perhaps it will help you to remember not to cry when you fall down."
Girzie said nothing, but she fastened the brooch so that the button shone resplendent just above the ribbons that tied Teddy's sailor blouse.
"I will remember," he said solemnly.
"Are you sorry you were so naughty?" nurse asked, ever desirous to improve the occasion.
"No," said Teddy firmly. "I hate Kingussie."
But after all he didn't hate Kingussie. He would have liked it immensely but that it rained nearly all the time. July seemed to have used up all the nice weather, and August was very cold and wet. He got one chill on the top of another, and sneezed and snuffled, and snuffled and sneezed, and lost all the pretty pink colour in his cheeks that he had gained in Edinburgh.
Kingussie is a beautiful place with woods and streams and a glorious golf links covered with short springy turf. Their lodgings were right on the top of a hill, and the view from the windows was very lovely, but even the loveliest view palls when it can only be seen through a veil of driving rain.
Towards the end of their stay Teddy alarmed his family by falling really ill. The local doctor took a gloomy view of his case, and talked of unripe blackberries and appendicitis. Papa thereupon carried the whole family back to Edinburgh before the end of the month. This time they stayed at the Caledonian Hotel, where the noise of Princes Street and the constant trains tried papa even more than the infernal bugles in Ramsay Gardens.
A great doctor, who had not yet started for his holiday, was consulted about Teddy, and he was even graver than the doctor up in Kingussie, and said there must be an operation at once.
That was a puzzling day for Teddy.
He was kept in bed till evening, and nurse and everybody were extraordinarily kind to him.
Then mummy came and sat beside him and held his hand, and told him that he was to go that night to another house, and that the next day the great doctor would do something for him that would make him quite well.
"Why can't he do it here?" Teddy asked.
It seemed that people didn't have these things done in hotels; that doctors were particular men who liked to make people well in specially chosen houses called Nursing Homes, and that Teddy was to go to one of those homes that very night in a taxi-cab.
"Will my nurse come?" he asked anxiously.
"I will come," said mummy, and her voice sounded as if she, too, had got one of the Kingussie colds.
"Not nurse," he repeated, rather puzzled. "Who will dress me?"
"There are lots of nice nurses in the Home who can do that, but you won't be dressed just at first, you know. The doctor will want to keep you in bed a little while after the operation."
"What's a operation? What's it do to you?"
But this mummy did not seem able to explain very clearly, and Teddy began to feel rather doubtful about the whole thing.
"Will it hurt?" he asked at last.
"Not at the time, my precious," said mummy, "but afterwards it may. I'm afraid it will, rather. I'm afraid it may hurt a good deal. But you will try to be brave. I know you will be brave."
"A bave—Bittish—officer——" Teddy muttered. Then, turning his big, bright eyes upon his mother, he asked eagerly: "Can I wear my button?"
Mummy did not understand, but nurse did, and when it was all explained he was assured that he should wear his button.
Then they dressed him, and nurse packed a little suit-case, with Colin Dougal in it, and all his new pyjamas and his dressing-gown, and he and Mummy went alone together to that strange house full of nurses.
A great many odd things happened that night, and Teddy simply couldn't have borne the strangeness of it all if his button had not been fastened on the pocket of the jacket of his pyjamas: they were real pyjamas, two garments, not baby ones fastened together.
He didn't sleep very well that night, but as often as he woke up he touched his button and repeated to himself "Guadaloupe, Martinique, Selingapatam," which are the first three of the long list of battles fought by the Black Watch. Girzie's brother could say them all, and Teddy loved to hear him roll them out in his strong Scottish voice, and tried to learn them himself, but they are mostly very long names, and only the first three remained in his mind.
Every one was most kind, but it was depressing not to have any breakfast. Mummy's cold seemed to get worse, and one of the nurses suggested that it would be better if she did not come as far as the operating-room lest she should give it to Teddy.
His heart was thumping in his ears. He kissed mummy, he kissed Colin Dougal, who simpered sweetly as usual (his leg hardly showed at all) and was quite unmoved; and then, with lips that trembled, he whispered "Bave Bittish officer" to himself over and over again.
He put one hand into that of the kind nurse, and held his button with the other, and together they went down a long passage into a room that was walled and floored with white tiles. It had no chairs in it, only tables, one of them long and narrow and high, right in the middle of the room. Two doctors were waiting for them, and the one Teddy had seen at the hotel had his coat off as if he was going to play some game. He looked very kindly at Teddy as they came in. "You're a man," he said. "I can see that."
"I sall not ky," Teddy said in rather a shaky voice. "I sall not ky, because I'm going to be a soldier, and they don't, you know."
"I guessed that, the minute I saw you," said the doctor. "We like soldiers here, they get well extra quick. Up with you, and you mustn't mind when we put that funny thing over your face."
Teddy lay down on the high narrow table. He looked up anxiously at the doctor he didn't know. "You won't take my button away, will you, not when you make me go to sleep?"
"Keep a tight hold of it," said the doctor, "and you'll find it there when you wake up. No one would dream of touching it."
A soft rubber mask was pressed on Teddy's face; it was not pleasant, but it did not hurt. Then came a roaring in his ears like the burn at Kingussie when it had rained more than usual.
"A—bave Bittish—Guadaloupe, Martinique——"
The burn had swept little Teddy away into oblivion, but even there the small hand was closed tightly over the soldier's button.
That night the doctor congratulated papa both upon the entire success of the operation and on the splendid military training he had given his little son.
XVIII
PAUL AND THE PLAYWRIGHT
"I was eight yesterday," said Paul to Thor, "so this week's different. I'm different. I'm older—five years older than you, dear, though you are so big."
Thor wagged his tail and looked sympathetic. A deerhound contrives to express more by his looks than most humans, and Paul talked so continually to Thor that the great dog always seemed to understand.
"So," Paul continued, "I think it's time we went about a bit and looked for an adventure—likehim, you know. We've been awfully good for ever so long. You haven't stole anything, nor chased the sheep, nor ate anybody's slipper, and I haven't gone off for the day, or smacked Lucy, or read a book at meals. We've been sort of saints, and it's time we did something, or we'll be turning into kind of angels—and they always die, you know, and we've no time for that: we've got ever such a deal to see to. Come on, my dear, nobody wants us. Let's walk and walk till we find somethin' instastin'."
Paul wasted no time in preparations. He didn't even wait to put on his boots. He was already equipped with his favourite weapon, a smooth roller-like piece of wood about a foot long, which had originally been used as a support for photographs. They had been rolled round it for postal purposes. Paul annexed it when he was about three, christened it his "chuncheon" (in those days "r's" were a difficulty,) and had treasured it ever since.
Once Dorcas, the under-nurse, tidied it away in her excess of zeal, when his grief was so uncontrollable that the whole household turned out to hunt for it, and it was finally rescued from the dustbin by cook.
Before setting out he would fain have divested himself of his smock, but a smock is a tiresome garment securely fastened at the back by means of treacherous little loops and buttons, quite too complex to be successfully tackled by the wearer. He did his best, however, to turn it into a doublet by tying a piece of string as tightly as possible round his waist, and through the string he thrust his trusty "chuncheon." He pulled his dilapidated cotton hat well over his eyes, and, lest any of the authorities should look out of the window and inquire his intentions, he set off down the drive very slowly, as though bound for nowhere in particular.
Nurse saw him strolling towards the gate, but that was nothing; he was always strolling about the garden with Thor—the only wonder was that some five other dogs had not already joined them.
Mrs. Button at the lodge saw him go by as she was hanging out sheets on the line, and they "changed the weather and passed the time of day," but she only thought he was going across to the village shop for something, so she was not curious or suspicious either.
At the "Cat and Compasses" Paul stopped. Mr. Mumford, the landlord, was standing in the doorway leaning on a hoe. They greeted each other suitably, and Paul remarked, "Miss Goodlake's stopped in bed. She's got a headache——"
"Sorry to 'ear it, I'm sure," Mr. Mumford replied sympathetically. "Per'aps the sun 'ave been a bit too strong for she."
"Janey and Fiammetta," Paul continued, unconcerned as to the causes of Miss Goodlake's headache, "are doing their lessons alone. They're hearing each other, and they said I disturbed them, so Thor and I've come off together."
He paused and looked expectantly at Mr. Mumford, as though waiting for a suggestion of some sort.
Mr. Mumford is shaped rather like a pair of bellows with two substantial legs instead of one slim one. He completely filled his own doorway, and perspiring and benevolent, looked down at Paul.
"I wish as I could ast you to come in and set a bit, Master Paul," he said apologetically, "but my missus she be a-cleanin', and when a woman gets a-cleanin', the 'ouse beant no place for the likes of we. Not a moment's peace or quiet to be 'ad.Youknows what 'a' be, doan't 'ee, Master Paul?"
Here Mr. Mumford winked at Paul, who wagged his head sympathetically as the summer stillness was broken by the clashing of pails, the sound of falling brooms, and a strident voice exclaimed "Sammle! you get along down garden an' weed them there parsnips. That bed be disgrace to be'old. You take 'oe along; be off now, don't 'ee stand gossipin' there, ye lazy varmint, you!"
With a groan Mr. Mumford seized the hoe, turned back into the bar, and disappeared from view. Paul, congratulating Thor on the fact that neither of them had a missus who insisted on the weeding of parsnips on such a hot morning, strolled through the village. It was not yet ten o'clock, and no one was to be seen. All the women were busy indoors, the men at work. The sky was blue, the sun was hot, and a ribbon of white road lay before them "beckoning and winding." So he and Thor set off at a good pace, and Paul muttered as he went, "He would have given his housekeeper and his niece for a fair opportunity of kicking the traitor Galabon," adding thoughtfully, "They'd be about as bad as a missus, I expect."
Of course the quotation came from the Book of the Moment, which, just then, happened to be Don Quixote. He had found the Mad Knight in the attic, an old translation in four volumes, published in 1810, with a map and many steel engravings. He read it right through with his usual absorbed interest, but expressed regret that there was such "an awful lot about lovers and that." The Don's passion for the peerless Dulcinea he did not attempt to understand, and the long love stories of other people interspersed throughout bored him. But the adventures thrilled him, and Sancho Panza's was a character that he got on terms with at once. There was something dear and familiar about the sturdy Sancho: something of Mr. Mumford.
For although, so far as Paul knew, Mr. Mumford never went further afield than Garchester, still he was confident that, did occasion arise, Mr. Mumford would not fail him. Paul often pictured himself, attended by this faithful henchman, riding forth on two of his father's best hunters, to seek their fortunes in an unknown world.
It is true that he had never in so many words mooted the idea to Mr. Mumford in any of their more intimate conversations, but he felt assured that Mr. Mumford would never suffer him to set out alone and unaided.
He was, perhaps, a thought disappointed that this boon companion had not suggested going with him that very morning, but he acquitted him of all intentional disloyalty, when he reflected on the compelling qualities of the voice that haled the unwilling Sammle to the parsnip bed. He was sure Mr. Mumford would have preferred to accompany him—which is quite likely.
It was impossible to be Don Quixote without an attendant; so, somewhat regretfully, Paul fell back upon the beloved Boots, the resourceful and ever-conquering third son of his favourite Fairy Book.
Here, Thor was quite in the picture.
It is true that inTales from the Norsethere isn't much about dogs. Horses play all the larger parts, but "lots of animals come in," and Paul liked that. "After all," he remarked complacently to Thor, "we shan't have to keep on being in love on such a hot morning."
Paul's view of love-making strongly resembled that of cook, who, when she caught Greenwood, the groom, kissing the kitchenmaid, boxed their several ears, but related the incident quite dispassionately to mother, concluding her recital with the remark, "I don't hold with it myself, but there—I suppose it's pleasing to some."
Paul, too, was quite ready to allow that it might be "pleasing to some"; but his mood that morning was not attuned to the contemplation of transcendantly beautiful ladies. He pined for the society of a like-minded bachelor, a jolly bachelor of sociable habits, who would understand and sympathise with a desire to be free for a while from the tyranny of the tempestuous petticoat.
So they strolled along in the middle of the winding road for nearly a couple of miles, then an open gate into an unfamiliar field invited them, and, they went in and crossed it. Paul climbed and Thor leapt the gate into the next. There were sheep in that field, but Thor resisted temptation, and rested quietly with his master under the shade of an elm. On again across more fields, meeting with no adventures whatsoever. All the trolls, giants, witches, lions, pirates, knights and princesses seemed to have remained indoors or underground that morning.
A man shouted at them once, but he was too far off to discover whether his words were friendly or the reverse. Previous experience, however, led Paul to believe they were in some way "be off out of that-ish!" and he hurried away in an opposite direction. His feet ached and the soles of his shoes felt very thin. He decided that the moment they struck the road again he'd make for the very first house in sight and ask for some water for both of them.
At last they reached a field bordered by a road. They pushed through a gap in the hedge and found themselves not far from four cross roads and a church. Paul made for the church, for as a rule where churches are, houses are not far off—and, sure enough, right opposite the church gate was one that led into somebody's drive with an exceedingly trim lodge on the left-hand side.
He paused, undecided for a moment whether to go round to the back door, which would be certain to be open, and ask for water from the lady of the lodge, or go right up the drive and see what the people of the house were like.
If he went to the back and rapped with his knuckles a woman would come out—he was sure of that. She might be washing; she might be displeased at the interruption; she would be almost certain to disapprove of Thor.
He decided to go up to the house.
Here, as everywhere else that morning, there was not a soul in sight and it was very still. The sun was high in the heavens, and the great lawns in front of the house stretched almost shadowless—green and shaven and smooth. It was a pretty house: irregular, long and low, covered with creepers, with sloping roofs, clustering chimneys, and kindly-looking gables—a restful house, Paul thought wistfully. Would they let him go in and sit a bit?
The open, front door was hooded by a deep sunblind, but he peeped underneath and beheld a cool dark hall, absolutely untenanted; and here, too, the same soft, all-pervading silence. It was very hot out on the gravel drive; there seemed no shadows anywhere. Even a cedar-tree on the far side of a wide lawn, though it looked dark and cool, threw hardly any shade.
Thor's tongue was hanging out, and he turned his beautiful grave eyes on his master with the clear question, "How long are we to stand here?"
Presently Paul became conscious of a faint sound: a sharp, irregular, clipped sort of sound, that was neither a tap nor a click, but a cross between the two.
The country-bred child is a connoisseur in sounds, and here was one quite new to him. Thor, too, heard it, and looked inquiring.
They moved away in its direction and came upon another door. This, too, had its sunblind. This, too, was open, and the curious sound was coming from the room within that door.
Paul dived underneath the sunblind and Thor followed him.
They found themselves in what appeared to be a small square porch leading to the room within. It contained nothing but a fixed basin with a tap and a towel-rail. Here at all events was water.
Paul ran some into the basin, and Thor put his paws on the edge, reared his great body, sloped his head, and drank greedily. And all the time that curious noise continued, that indescribable irregularly recurrent sound, that was half tap, half click, with a mysterious scrape occurring every thirty seconds or so. When Thor had finished his drink, Paul formed his own hands into a cup and drank from them; he whispered to Thor to lie down, and stood himself in the open doorway leading to the room whence the sound came.
He forgot how his feet ached, he forgot how desperately hungry he was, for he felt that, at last, he had come up with the adventure he had been, questing all that long hot morning.
Never had he beheld such a delightful room. It was large and high, with two big wide-open windows, which, however, were not like ordinary windows, for they started ever so far from the ground, like those in a studio. The panelling, where it could be seen for books, was white; but there was no glare, for books were everywhere, books in many-hued bindings, making irregular patches of subdued colour. Nearly all looked as though they had sat long in their shelves, and wore the pleasant faded tints that time brings to things cared-for and well-loved. There was one line of vivid red that Paul recognised with a little thrill (for we had it at home) as the "Elephant" edition of "The man who made Mowgli." But these were on a high shelf, and the steps were too far off for him to drag them over without making a noise. Besides, for once, it was not the books that most interested Paul; it was what he afterwards described as "a kind-of-man-ness" about the room.
"It was all such a jolly muddle and so comfortable."
If there were many books there were even more papers. He didn't mean newspapers and magazines, though there were plenty of them—it was the quantities of letters that impressed him. Never had he seen so many letters, not even at Christmas. They were strewed about everywhere, and on the floor behind the great, double, knee-hole table, an open trunk was lying full of them—stuffed in pell-mell, anyhow.
All the furniture was big and solid and comfortable. There were two pianos—"a big one and a little one"; a huge sofa that invited repose on the part of the slothful; great, deep chairs; steady tables; nothing to upset anywhere; no tiresome "frippy" things.
And seated at the knee-hole table was a man who wore spectacles: a biggish man going bald, with grey hair, grey moustache, and short, closely-trimmed grey beard. Paul decided that he liked the look of him, and that there was something familiar in his appearance; that he had met this man before somewhere in a story. He knitted his brows and thought deeply, never taking his eyes off him, but he couldn't place him. Nevertheless he was sure of him. He was one of the understanding. "He didn't look a 'run-away-and-play' sort of a man," Paul said afterwards, "nor the sort who says 'my boy,' and he didn't ever—not once."
It was he who was making that queer noise. He was playing with both hands on a kind of instrument.
Paul accepted the noise as some novel and not very agreeable form of music. He guessed the man was musical from the fact that he had two pianos. But why, having two real pianos, he should play on that horrid little one, puzzled Paul extremely. It was not nearly so pleasing to the ear as one he himself possessed, which you played by thumping the keys with a hammer made of cork. It was possible to get some sort of tune out of that.
Click-click—click-click-click—— the man could play very fast. He used both hands, and was so absorbed in the tune he was trying to make that he never noticed Paul. He appeared to change his music very often, and it seemed rather a business to get it fixed in the stand, and one thing that interested Paul was that when he chose a new piece he always put in a black sheet of paper behind it. Just inside the door Paul stood gazing absorbedly. Had the man looked up he must have seen him.
"I'll wait till he's finished practising," Paul resolved, "then we'll talk."
The door was at the side, not in the middle of the end wall, and that wall was entirely covered by a huge bookcase—by stretching out his hand he could have taken a book from the shelves, and he was greatly tempted. But he thought it would hardly be polite, as the man was there. Had the room been empty he would have had no such scruples.
He was tired, so he sat down on the floor and leant against the lintel of the open door.
"I wish he'd play a tunier tune," he thought.
Thor lay full length in the little room with the basin, his nose between his paws, his speaking eyes fixed on his master. There was no sound at all except that eternal click-click.
"I kept thinking," Paul said afterwards, "how splendid it would have been to play 'Camptown Races' against Harry. I'd have had the biggest piano and drowned him." Harry could play "Cock o' the North" on the black notes. Paul could thump out "Camptown Races" with one finger! Occasionally, when they got the chance, they would perform against each other, one on the schoolroom the other on the drawing-room piano. Paul was envious of Harry's achievement, but the black notes were beyond him, and "Cock o' the North" skips about so.
If you start "Camptown Races" on F natural it's all plain sailing; the same note is repeated so often that it is not difficult.
Paul stretched out his legs luxuriously and pictured the amazing row he and Harry could produce on those two pianos in what he was pleased to call their "duet."
Presently the man stopped playing on his unmelodious instrument and, looking over his spectacles across the room towards the door, saw Paul. He immediately took off his glasses, and his eyes were blue and keen and kind.
Paul scrambled to his feet. "How d'you do?" he said politely. "I just called in as I was passing."
The man looked rather astonished. "Where were you going?" he asked.
Paul came slowly across the room until he stood close by the big desk. "Nowhere in particular. We've just come out for the day."
"We!" the man repeated. "Are there any more of you?" And he looked rather anxious.
"Only Thor," Paul answered reassuringly. "He's sitting in the little room with the basin—I hope you don't mind. We both drank some water, but we didn't wash—not without leave. May Thor come in?"
"He'd better, I think," said the man.
"You may come in, my dear," Paul said, quietly, without raising his voice, and Thor, large, deliberate, and graceful, strolled into the room, looked inquiringly at the man, wagged his tail gently, and came and stood by his master.
"This is Thor," said Paul. "Do you mind him?"
"Not a bit!" said the man. "I like him."
"Sometimes," Paul remarked, "people are afraid he'll upset things; he's so large, you know.... But it wouldn't be easy to upset things here. Would you mind telling me why you kept playing that funny tune? Do you think it's pretty?"
"Tune?" the man repeated. "When?"
"Just a minute ago—ever since I came in,andoutside. I heard you; it's what made me come. I couldn't think what it was."
"Can you read?" asked the man.
"Read!" Paul exclaimed. "I should think so; years and years ago."
The man handed him one of the pages he had been playing.
"That's what I was doing," he said.
"Why, it's print!" cried Paul.
"Exactly; nicer than hand-writing, isn't it?"
Paul's quick eyes devoured the page.
"Like Shakespeare," he added.
The man laughed. "I only wish it was," he said.
"It's a play, anyway, isn't it?"
"It is."
"And you've been making it up as you go along?"
"Well, hardly that, but I scribble it down first, you know."
"Does it spell for you?" Paul asked breathlessly.
"No, it doesn't, bother it—-that's where it's rather sniffy sometimes."
"When I'm grown up," Paul said solemnly, "and rich—I hope I'll be rich—I'll have one of those, but I'll get one that does the spelling as well. I suppose theyaremade."
"I haven't come across one yet," said the man; "when I do I shall buy it at once——"
"And you'll tell me, won't you?" Paul said eagerly.
"I'll let you know very first thing!"
"Would you like me to read some more of your interesting play?" he asked. "I can't quite make out what it's all about beginning in the miggle like this."
"I don't think I'd read it just now," said the man. "You see, I want to talk to you. I want to know all sorts of things."
"I came in on purpose to have a chat," Paul remarked genially. "Do you mind if I sit down? My feet do ache so—Lie down, my dear; the gentleman doesn't mind you."
The man pulled up a comfortable chair for Paul. Thor lay down at his feet, and then their host, in his chair by the desk, swung round and faced them.
"I suppose now," said Paul, "you haven't got a missus, have you?"
"What makes you think that?" asked the man.
"Well, you see, there's such a muddle of papers, isn't there? She'd never let you keep it like that. Mr. Mumford says his missus is always cleanin' and sortin' and putting things away. Not," he added truthfully, "that Mr. Mumford gets many letters—I've never seen any in his house."
"It's not always like this," pleaded the man. "Sometimes it's awfully tidy."
"Oh, but I like it like this," Paul exclaimed eagerly. "Have you a housekeeper and a niece by any chance? Do they tidy for you?"
"Why a housekeeperanda niece?" asked the man.
"He had, you know—Don Quixote. I've been playing at him a good deal lately."
"Do you generally play at the people you read about?"
"Always," Paul said solemnly. "What would be the good of reading about them else?"
"I suppose it's a good plan," the man said musingly; "it must lead you into many adventures."
"It does," Paul said solemnly. "Thisis one of them, and you, I suppose, are a sort of magician, since you make plays. Do peoplereallyact them?"
"Not as often as I could wish," the man said, "... but it's great fun all the same."
"Doyouplay at being the people?"
The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said sadly. Then more to himself than to Paul—"That's the hardest thing of all to do; to look on is much easier."
"I don't care for looking on," said Paul decidedly. "I want tobeit all the time."
"I suppose we all do to begin with, and then ... we find out that lookers-on see most of the game."
"I don't care much about seeing games. I'd rather play them; it's much more fun really. Truly it is," he said earnestly.
"Doubtless you are right," the man said courteously, "but, you see, we don't all care for the same games."
"When I'm grown up—and rich," Paul announced, "I shall write books——"
"You're wise to be rich first," murmured the man.
"I shall write books," Paul continued, "with that little piano, and when I'm not writing I shall play at being all the people in my books—one after the other—at least, all the nice ones, who are successful."
"Are the nice ones always successful?"
"In the end, always. Of course, they have trials and things."
"What about Don Quixote?" asked the man.
Paul looked unhappy. "It worries me," he said. "It worries me dreadfully. He was so nice and so silly and"—the corners of Paul's mouth went down—"and ... he died in the end."
"I quite agree with you," said the man. "Itisworrying. Don't let us talk about it."
Thor suddenly sat up on his haunches and tried to lick Paul's face.
"You seem," said Paul, "to be very fond of reading, you've such a splendid lot of books. Do you ever, by any chance, read at meals?"
Paul held him with stern, searching eyes.
"Only when I'm alone," the man said primly.
"Never when people are there?" Paul asked, fixing him with a gaze that seemed to search his very soul.
"Well ... only at tea-time ... occasionally.... Why do you ask?"
"Because," Paul answered, "they're all so down on me for doing it. I always want to read at tea-time, and they won't let me. Now I shall tell them you do it; that'll surprise 'em."
"Oh, don't!" the man urged, "don't give me away. They'd be so shocked."
"Of course, I shan't say anything if you'd rather I didn't," Paul remarked magnanimously, "but I thought if I just mentioned a grown-up gentleman did it they couldn't be so down on me! ... But I truly won't if you'd rather not. I guessed you did it the minute I saw you."
"I'm quite certain neither of us ought to," said the man, "but itisa temptation ... when the conversation is dull."
"It's often jolly dull," Paul groaned—and at that moment a gong sounded.
"That's for luncheon," said the man. "Are you hungry?"
"I'm starving, and do you think there will be any little bits for Thor?"
"Sure of it," said the man. "Would you like to wash? And do you require any ... assistance?"
The man looked down at Paul; he had to look rather a long way, for Paul was very small for his age. Perhaps it was that made him ask. Anyway Paul was not offended.
"I can wash all right," he said, "but nurse generally gives my hair a bit of a do—but if you don't mind I don't."
They went up some steps and through a glass door into another room—more like other people's rooms this—tidy and arranged like other drawing-rooms, then across the hall to the dining-room, where an elderly parlour-maid with a kind face put a fat book on Paul's chair to make it high enough.
He was desperately hungry, and the lunch was very good, but he couldn't have enjoyed it as much if the kind-looking parlour-maid had not brought a big plate of scraps for Thor, and spread a duster under it.
Paul liked his host. He liked the sense of good fellowship, the absence of patronage, the unusual reticence that abstained from questions as to why he was there at all.
"Do you know my father?" he asked presently.
"I'm afraid not," said the man, "but if you tell me his name I dare say I may have heard of him."
"He's not at all like me," Paul announced. "He's awfully sensible, every one says that, but he's a most good-natured man and kind as kind. Surely you must know Squire Staniland?"
The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not, though I have heard his name."
"What county are we in?" asked Paul.
The man told him, and it was not our county.
"Then we've walked right into another shire," Paul exclaimed. "Whata way we've come! That's why you don't know father."
"What about your people?" asked the man. "Won't they wonder where you are?"
"They'llwonder," said Paul, "and they won't be best pleased, but they won't send out search-parties till evening because I've done it before."
"Oh, you're given to wandering, are you? Don't you think I'd better take you home in the motor?"
"And Thor?" Paul asked anxiously. "He mustn't run with it. Motors go too fast for dogs. Father says so."
"And Thor," said the man. "He can come inside with us."
They had coffee, which pleased Paul greatly, and he confided to his friend that he had never had a cup all to himself before, only the sugar at the bottom of other people's cups if he could get at them before they were cleared away.
Motors were something of a novelty then, and Paul thought it very exciting to go in one. Thor was suspicious and refused to go in before his master, but followed him obediently when Paul got in first.
"We can't have a motor," he remarked, as they slid down the drive, "it would break Button's heart, father says, and we're very fond of horses, though I like the dogs best myself. Did your coachman mind very much?"
"My coachman got so frail and ill he couldn't drive any more, and it would have brokenhisheart to have any one else drive his horses, so I had to get a motor, because I'm such a long way from the station. He didn't mind that so much."
"It's the same reason really," said Paul. "Did he get better?"
"He'll never be any better, but I think he's pretty comfortable."
Paul was certain he was.
After all it wasn't such a very long way by the road, though it was in another county. The motor stopped at the drive gate, Paul and Thor descended, for, despite entreaties, this hospitable man refused to come up to the house.
"You'll let me know when you've found the printing thing that spells right, won't you?" Paul called out at parting.
"I most certainly will," the man called back, "and if you find it first I expect you to tell me."