It was all up. A warrant was out for the arrest of Ocky. Accusers came forward from all directions—people whom glib promises had kept silent and people who had kept themselves silent because they were friends of Barrington. Now that silence had lost its virtue, they shouted. Their numbers and the noise they made were a revelation and testimonial of a sort to Ocky’s enterprising character. He must have been skating over thin ice for years. He had almost established a record. Such a performance, so dexterous and long protracted, had required a kind of gay courage that is rarely given to honest men. And Ocky was honest by tradition, if not in practice. His nerve was admirable. No wonder he drank.
He was wanted on many charges. There were checks which he had cashed through tradesmen, drawn on banks where he had no effects. With his habitual folly, he had left tracks by negotiating some of these in London since his flight, using letters of a family nature from Barrington to inspire confidence. These began to be presented five weeks after his departure from Sandport. It seemed as though he had been doing himself well and his supplies were exhausted. His name found its way into the papers, largely because he was Barrington’s cousin. So everything became public.
The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his appearance had enquired at Cook’s in Ludgate Circus about the exchange rates for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in consequence; but he must have taken warning and altered his plans.
“He’s ineffectual even in his sinning,” said Barrington. “Why couldn’t the fool have skipped the country earlier and saved us the humiliation of a trial?”
The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the odds and ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted. So Jehane’s scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her husband’s retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose. Moreover, every thing in the house was seized by creditors—even her own possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky’s. She and her children found themselves penniless.
Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he had already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on his early objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always been wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for a time, but couldn’t put up with the younger children. Her independence had been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The first Homeric scholar in Europe couldn’t afford to have his peace of mind disturbed. He was sorry.
Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas with her four children—it was the first Christmas she had spent at Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles.
Barrington’s relations with ‘Jehane were painfully strained. He hated the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of his family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in the vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don’s daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted to be kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her feelings were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the comfort which he permitted her to share as if it were something of which he had robbed her. She spoke continually of “my poor children,” betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter.
An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father. Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked.
Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility of her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right to expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which his name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations he was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp was threatened.
And she also understood Jehane’s predicament. She was too gentle to resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from girlhood, she marveled at her friend’s fortitude—that she could still lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington’s back was turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness.
And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying her head on Nan’s shoulder, confessed her folly.
“I’m cruel,” she wept; “all the sweetness in me is turned to acid. I shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be quite impenitent. I can’t help it. Life won’t grow easier for me—— If you told the truth, you’d write over me, ‘Here lies a mother who loved too much and a wife who loved too little.’ I’m spoiling my children with my fondness and filling their heads with vanity—— And I shall often hurt you, little Nan. But you’ll stick by me, won’t you?”
Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence; manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He was furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky to be mentioned in his presence.
Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by both Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things were said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part with Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad. Glory shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of Ocky was formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he had ever made with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter—too much of a Saint Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could not be valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised her cowardice.
Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky’s name, but outside on the Terrace there was a perpetual reminder.
A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from the window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking a breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington’s nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him.
“What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won’t have it.”
The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered respectfully “Sorry, sir. H’it’s orders.”
“But whatareyou? A plain-clothes man?”
“That’s not for me to say, sir.”
Barrington slipped him a sovereign, saying, “Come, speak out You’re safe with me. I won’t tell. You know, it’s a bit thick, having you out here. The ladies are upset.” The man scratched his head. “It ain’t the ladies I’m after. It’s ‘im. You’ve got ‘is missis and kids in there. ‘E was allaws fond of ‘is kids, so they tell us. We calkilate that since ‘e cawn’t get out o’ the country, ‘e’ll turn up ‘ere sooner or later. These things is allaws painful for the family. That chap was a mug; ‘e should ‘a planned things better.”
Barrington thought for a minute. Then he asked, “Are you a married man?”
“Married, and five nippers, Gawd bless ‘em.”
“Well, look here, put it to yourself: how’d you like to have your wife made ill and your kiddies sent frightened to bed, because a stranger was always staring in at their windows?”
“Shouldn’t like it. I’d get damned peevish, I can tell yer.”
“Good. Then you’ll understand what I’m going to say. I’m a gentleman and you can trust my word. If the man you’re after comes here, I’ll hold him for you. In return I want you to be a little less obvious in your detective work. I can’t have my family scared. Go further away, and watch from a distance. Is it a bargain?”
Just then Barrington turned and saw Peter standing with his satchel across his shoulder. How much had he heard? He was awkward under his boy’s eyes; he often wondered what thoughts went on behind them.
“Run along, Peter. I’ll be with you in a second.”
Then to the man, “Is it a bargain?”
“It ain’t reg’lar,” said the man.
“But under the circumstances, you’ll do it. I’m not trying to interfere with your duty.”
“My orders were——. Awright, sir, ‘cause of the wife and kids I’ll do it.”
That night Peter thought matters out. It was he and his Uncle Waffles against the world. He did not accuse anybody, neither his father, nor Aunt Jehane; but there was a mistake somewhere. They did not understand. Whatever Uncle Waffles had done, to Peter he was still a good man.
Peter crept out of bed and across the landing to a window in the front of the house. He peered into the blackness. By the railing of the fields, at a point mid-way between two gas-lamps where shadows lay deepest, he could see a figure watching. He must save Uncle Waffles from that.
School had broken up. It was the twenty-fourth of December. There was still no news of Ocky. In their anxiety they had almost forgotten that to-morrow would be Christmas.
That morning Barrington dawdled over his breakfast, postponing his departure for business. His wife glanced down the table at him, trying to conjecture the motive of his dallying. Presently he signaled her with his eyes, raising his brows at the children. When she had excused them, he turned to her and Jehane. “Whatever’s happened or is going to happen, we don’t want to rob the kiddies of their pleasure, do we? We’ve got to pull ourselves together and pretend to forget and try to be cheerful. What d’you say, Nan?”
“I’d thought of that. But I didn’t like to mention it. Janey and I, working together, can get things ready.”
“All right, then. And I’ll see to the presents.”
He rose and laid his hand on Jehane’s shoulder. “Come, Jehane, things are never so bad but what they may mend. I’ve not always been considerate of you. Let’s be friends.”
It was one of those patched-up truces which, like milestones, were to dot the road of their latent enmity.
Kay’s and Peter’s money-boxes were brought out; their savings for the year were counted. Nan gave to Jehane’s children an equal sum with which to go out and buy presents. Peter was kept running all morning on errands; in the afternoon he was busy decorating with mistletoe and holly. The preparations were so belated that everyone was pressed into service. Tea was over and the dark had fallen when he set out to do his own shopping.
“Be careful, Peter, and come back quickly,” his mother called from the doorway. And Kay, thrusting her vivid little face under her mother’s arm, piped up, “Don’t be ‘stravagant, Peter. Don’t buy too much. ‘Member birfdays is coming.”
Peter felt happy. It was as though a long sickness had ended and a life that had been despaired of had been restored to them. He knew that nothing for the better had really happened; but, because people had laughed, it seemed as if it had. Down in the Vale of Holloway the bells of the Chapel of Ease were ringing. They seemed to be saying, over and over, “Peace and good-will to men.”
Far away, at the bottom of the Crescent, he could see the spume of gas-light flung against the dusk. All the shops were there and the crowds of jaded people who had become for one night extraordinarily young and compassionate. He began to calculate how far his money would go in buying gifts for the family. Formerly there had been just his mother, and father, and Kay, and Grace to buy for. Now there were how many? He counted. With his cousins and Aunt Jehane there were nine people. He would divide his money into ten shares; Kay should have two of them. He was passing the gateway of an empty house; a hand stretched out of the dark and grabbed him.
“Peter. Peter.” The voice was hoarse and terrified at its own sound.
Peter broke away and jumped into the road that he might have room to run. He turned and looked back. He could see nothing—only the walls of the garden, the gateway and the wooden sign hanging over it, with the words,To Let.
“Don’t do that,” came the hoarse voice, “they may see you.”
“Who are you?” asked Peter, peering into the shadows.
“You know who I am,” came the voice; “this little boy can’t have changed as much as that.”
This little boy!
“Look out. Someone’s coming.”
A heavy tread was heard. Grace’s policeman approached with the plain-clothes man. Peter bent down to the pavement and pretended to be searching.
“Hulloa!” said Grace’s policeman. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Peter. How are you?” He continued his searching, moving away from the gate.
“Wot yer doing?” asked the plain-clothes man.
“Dropped some money. Oh well, I can’t see it. It was only sixpence.”
He straightened up.
“Cawn’t we help?” asked Grace’s policeman.
“It doesn’t matter. To-morrow’s Christmas and I’ll get more than that.”
“It’s more’n the price of a pot o’ beer,” said Grace’s policeman. “If you can afford to lose it, we can. Goodnight.”
“Good-night,” said Peter, “and a Merry Christmas.”
When they were out of sight he stole back. “Uncle! Uncle! What can I do? Tell me.”
“They’re after me. I’ve nowhere to sleep. I just want to see my kids and Jehane before they get me. That’s why I’ve come.”
“They shan’t get you,” said Peter firmly.
“Oh, but they will. I once said, ‘They shan’t get me’; but when you’re cold and hungry——”
“You stop there. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Peter ran down the Crescent. It was he and Uncle Waffles against the world; but there was one man who might help—a man who wasn’t good enough to be hard and judging. Peter looked ahead as he ran, shaping his plan. Yes, there he was, dropping the reins on his horse’s back from driving his last fare.
Peter tugged at his arm as Mr. Grace heaved himself down from the seat to the pavement.
“None O’ that, me boy, or I’ll tear yer bloomin’ tripes h’out—— Oh, beg parding; h’it’s you, Master Peter.”
“I want to speak to you, Mr. Grace, somewhere where we can’t be seen or heard.”
“Yer do, do yer? Wot abart the pub?”
“Not the pub, people’d wonder to see me there.”
Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. “Not respeckable enough! That’s it, is h’it. Ah well, you take my advice. You’re young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer guts. Yer’ll ‘ave a darter one day, don’t yer worry. Gawd pity a man wiv a disrespekful hussy—— Suppose yer think I’m drunk?”
The situation required tact. “Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don’t run your words together. You’re just Christmasy, I expect.”
Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse’s back and fetched out the nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying himself against the shafts. “I am drunk. Yer know I’m drunk. I know I’m drunk. Old Cat’s Meat knows I’m drunk. Where’s the good o’ argify-ing and tellin’ lies abart it? Let’s settle the point at once. I’m damn well drunk and I’m goin’ ter be drunker.”
The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. “Mr. Grace, I want you to help me. There’s no one else in the world I would ask.”
Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on the half-shell.
“‘Elp! ‘Elp ‘oo? ‘Elp wot? Me ‘elp! I need ‘elp me-self; I kin ‘ardly stand up.”
“Oh please, not so loud! I’m serious. Something dreadful’s happening and you’re my friend—— You are my friend, aren’t you?”
Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter’s shoulder. “S’long h’as Gawd gives me breaf.”
“Then let’s sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I’ll tell you.”
“Strange h’as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don’t fancy the h’inside o’ me own keb. Know too much abart it. There wuz a bloke I druv ter the ‘orspital t’other day wrapped up in blankits. ‘E died o’ smallspecks. But anythin’ ter h’oblidge a friend.”
The door closed behind them.
“‘Ere, darn wiv that winder, young ‘un. I feel crawlly wivout air. Sye, don’t yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb.”
Peter seized the cabman’s hairy hand and held it firmly; he had to anchor him somehow. “Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle Waffles?”
“Swiped somefing, didn’t ‘e?”
“Yes.”
“Wise bloke. Honesty’s been my ruin. H’I allaws returns the numbrella’s wot’s left in me keb. I might ‘a been a rich man; there’s lots o’ money in numbrellas.—— Wot did ‘e swipe? ‘Andkerchiefs or jewels?”
“He swiped money; but he meant to give it back.”
Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings, like the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. “Yer make me larf. Wot d’yer taik me for? I ain’t no chicken—— Oh, me tripes and onions! He meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!—— Now come, Master Peter, no uncle o’ yours ‘ud be such a fool as that.”
“Well, anyway, he didn’t give it back and they’re after him.”
“Oo? The cops?”
“Yes. Grace’s policeman.”
Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient timbers. “The devil, ‘e is! A nice, h’amiable man, my Grice’s policeman! ‘E’s allaws makin’ h’enmity ‘tween me and my darter. ‘E watches the pubs and tells ‘er abart me, and ‘im no better ‘imself. H’I ‘ate’ im. So ‘e’s after yer uncle?”
“He and a tall thin man who’s been watching our house for a fortnight. My uncle’s up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of an empty house. You’ve got to help me to get him away and hide him.”
Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. “Daingerous work, Peter! Daingerous work! H’its against traffic reg’lations to h’aid and h’abet a h’escapin’ criminal. Wot yer goin’ ter do wiv ‘im if I lends yer me keb?”
Peter bent his head and whispered.
Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. “Blime! Lord love us! That ain’t ‘alf bad. That’s one in the h’eye for me darter’s young feller. H’I’m on, me lad.”
An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the pavement, looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of the cab.
“‘Ere, don’t yer do that. Yer’ll knock the paint h’orf.”
“I’ve been waiting out here for half an hour. It’s disgraceful. Drive me to Paddington.”
Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving Peter inside. “I’m h’engaged,” he said.
While he removed the nose-bag from Cat’s Meat’s head and gathered up the reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the purport of which was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license.
As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to outdo this burst of eloquence.
“None o’ yer lip, old bladder o’ lard. I know your sort. Yer the sort ‘as ain’t got no change fer a tip and feels un-’appy as ‘ell abart payin’ a fare.”
As they neared the empty house, Peter was about to thrust his head out of the window. He had the words on the tip of his tongue to say, “Stop here, Mr. Grace.” So much were they on the tip of his tongue that he almost believed he had said them. But he darted back, crouching in the darkest corner of the fusty cab. At a little distance, watching the gate, he had caught sight of a man.
Cat’s Meat crawled on, ascending the hill. At the top, where the Terrace began, Mr. Grace halted. “‘Ere, young ‘un, where are we goin’? You’ll be ‘ome direckly.”
“Turn the corner,” Peter whispered from inside the growler; “turn the corner quickly.”
Mr. Grace turned and lumbered on a little way. Again he halted. “‘Arf a mo’, Peter. Wot’s the gime? Tell us.”
“Did you see that tall lean man, standing outside the garden of the empty house?”
“May a’ done. Thought h’I saw two on ‘em, but maybe I’m seein’ double—- H’oh yes, h’I saw old Tapeworm.”
“He’s the plain-clothes man. I know, ‘cause I heard him talking with my father. My father said he’d give my uncle up, if the plain-clothes man would trust him and not make mother nervous.”
“And wery friendly o’ your pa, h’I’m sure. Let family love kintinue—— But where’s this uncle o’ yours as did the swipin’? Come darn to facts, me friend. Where h’is ‘e nar?”
Peter’s answer was like the beating wings of a moth, rapid but making hardly any sound. “He’s hidden in the garden of the empty house.”
“Jee-rusalem!” Mr. Grace whistled, cleared his throat once or twice and spat. Then he started laughing. “Leave ‘im ter me, me ‘earty. I’ll settle wiv the spotter.”
He pulled his horse round. But when Peter saw what was happening, he gave a small imploring whisper. “Oh, Mr. Grace, please, please don’t go back yet; we’ve got to think something out.”
“Think somefing h’out! Crikey! I’ve thought. H’I’m drunk, me lad, and when h’I’m drunk h’I think quicklike. You get under the seat and think o’ somefing sad, somefing as’ll keep yer quiet—think o’ the chap as died o’ small-specks.”
Peter took his friend’s advice. Oh, what a Christmas Eve he was having! He had known Mr. Grace both drunk and sober—sober, t’is true, very rarely. But sobriety is a relative term, according to your man. Mr. Grace sober was afraid of the law; Mr. Grace drunk was game for anything.
Mr. Grace jerked on the reins. Cat’s Meat flung his legs apart, fell forward, fell backward, came to rest and grunted. He was for all the world like a chair giving way and making a desperate effort to hold together; only Cat’s Meat was always successful in dodging disruption—a chair in collapse isn’t.
“I see yer, Mr. Piece o’ Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn’t ‘ide from a man as sees double. Come h’out o’ that there shadder. Come h’out inter the blessed light. ‘No shadders yonder, no temptations there,’ as they sing in the H’Army o’ Salwashun.”
When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. “Blokey, yer ain’t got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer ‘ang-dawg h’air. Yer wanted by the cops, I’ll bet a tanner. It’s Christmas h’Eve, blokey, so I won’t be ‘ard on yer; but yer’ve got ter pay fer ridin’ in me keb. Every bloke ‘as, or else I whacks ‘im on the snout.”
“Shish! Wot’s the matter?” The shadow by the wall spoke and stirred.
“Wot’s s’matter! I’ll let yer know wot’s s’matter if yer don’t pay me my fare. H’I druv yer from the Terrace and yer wuz goin’ ter King’s Cross, yer were. And yer opened the door by the pub darn there and jumped h’out.”
“You’re drunk, me man. H’I’m lookin’ fer the very chap yer blatherin’ about. Where did ‘e jump h’out?”
The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone on him.
“Kum up, Cat’s Meat. I see nar; ‘e ain’t the feller.” Cat’s Meat came up one weary step and the wheels protested.
“No, yer don’t.” The detective caught hold of the reins. “Where’d this chap jump h’out?”
“‘Ands h’orf.” Mr. Grace rose up on his box threateningly, his whip raised as if about to bring it down. “‘Ands h’orf, I sye. Leave me prancin’ steed to ‘is own dewices, le’go o’ me gallopin’ charger.”
“Where’d this chap jump out? If yer don’t tell me, I’ll arrest you instead.”
“Awright, yer Royal ‘Ighness! Don’t lose yer ‘air. Why didn’t yer sye yer was a cop at fust. H’I’m lookin’ fer ‘im as much as you are. I want ‘im wery bad. You and me’s friends.”
“Friends! I choose me own friends. I’m a respeckable man, I am. Tell me quickly, where’d ‘e jump out?”
Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. “Of h’all the fiery blokes I h’ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. ‘E h’excused hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I ‘ears the door o’ me keb a-bangin’. I looks round and, lo, ‘e’d wanished in the crards.”
The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him, “Me and Cat’s Meat’ll miss yer—so agreeable yer were. Merry Christmas, ole pal.” Then, in a lower voice to Peter, “Yer kin forget the smallspecks, young ‘un. Yer——”
But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway under the signTo Let. “Uncle. Uncle. He’s gone. Hurry.”
He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called more loudly. “Uncle. Uncle. Make haste.”
Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the steps. He ran forward and seized the man’s coat—it was sodden—dragging him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a boy should take command of a grown man.
“You won’t give me up, Peter, will you?”
Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer if he could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance’s kittens were to be drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn’t bear that anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab and, before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace.
“You remember my plan—what I told you?”
Mr. Grace digressed. He twisted round on the box, craning his neck to look in at the window. “‘E don’t strike me as much ter make a fuss abart.”
“That’s ‘cause you don’t know him.”
“Well, I ain’t pining’ fer an introduction.”
“But you’re not going back on me, Mr. Grace! He doesn’t look very grand; but he’s kind and gentle.” Peter was dismayed by this sudden coolness.
“H’I’m not the chap ter go back on ‘is friends. Hook inter the keb. I remember wot yer told me.”
At the top of the Crescent they turned to the left, crawled a hundred yards and then turned to the right, going down the mews which ran behind the Terrace. The mews was unlighted and humpy. On one side stood the high closed doors of stables; on the other, rubbish heaps and the backs of jerry-built houses not yet finished building.
The man at Peter’s side said nothing. Every now and then he shivered and seemed to hug himself. Once or twice he twitched and muttered below his breath. There was the stale smell of alcohol and wet clothes about him. To Peter it was all so terrible that he could not put his comfort into words. This man, who swayed weakly with each jerk of the cab and crouched away from him, was a stranger—not a bit like the irresponsible joking person he had known as his Uncle Waffles.
The cab stopped. Mr. Grace waddled down and blew out his lamps. Then he tapped on the window. “‘Ere we are, Master Peter. H’I’ve counted the doors; this ‘ere’s the back o’ yer ‘ouse.”
Peter stretched out his hand gropingly in the blackness and touched his uncle’s. “I’m going to hide you so you’ll never be found.”
Ocky’s voice came in a hopeless whisper. “Are you, Peter? But how—— how?”
“You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one goes there but Kay and myself—it’s our secret. It’s too cold for Kay to go there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over the wall; then you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and lie quiet. To-morrow I’ll come to you as soon as I can and bring you whatever I can get.”
“You’re a good boy, Peter. You’re a ha’penny marvel; I always said you were.”
The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless.
Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. “‘Ere, make ‘aste. Come h’out of it, you in there.”
When Peter and his uncle had obeyed orders, the cab was backed up against the tall doors which gave entrance to the yard of the stable.
“Get h’up on the roof o’ me keb, climb onter the top o’ the doors and see if yer kin drop h’over.” Mr. Grace spoke gruffly.
Ocky did as he was bidden but, either through timidity or weakness, failed to scramble from the cab on to the top of the doors. Mr. Grace growled impatiently and muttered something explosive at each failure. Now that he was in mid-act of contriving against the law, he was anxious to be rid of the adventure.
Ocky excused himself humbly. “I’m not the man I was. I’ve had my troubles.”
“To ‘ell with yer troubles! They cawn’t be no worse’n mine; if yer want ter know wot trouble is, taik a week o’ bein’ father ter my darter—— Kum on, Peter, you and me’s got ter chuck ‘im h’over.”
Standing on the roof of the cab, they each caught hold of a leg and hoisted. Ocky protested, but up he went, till in desperation he clutched at the doors and sat balancing astride them.
Now that he had something to do, Mr. Grace’s cheerfulness returned. “Like bringin’ ‘ome the family wash, ain’t it, Peter?” Then, to Ocky threateningly, “Nar Bill Sykes, yer’ve got ter tumble darn t’other side; I’m goin’ ter drar awye me keb.”
Ocky said he’d break his legs—he might need them, so he didn’t want to do that. He lay along the narrow ledge like a man unused to riding, clinging to a horse’s neck.
“Awright, yer force me to it.” Mr. Grace spoke sadly with a kind of it-hurts-me-more than-it-does-you air. Peter was told to get down. Mr. Grace having driven away a few paces, dropped the reins and stepped on to the roof, whip in hand.
“Me and Peter is good pals. Peter says ter me, ‘My uncle’s swiped somefing. The cops is after ‘im.’ ‘Righto,’ I says. Now h’it appears yer don’t want ter be saved; but h’I’ve give me word and h’I’m goin’ ter do it.—— Are yer going’ h’over?”
Mr. Grace brought his whip down lightly across Ocky’s legs; his humor made him a humane man. Ocky squirmed, lost his balance and disappeared, all except his hands which clung desperately. Once again the whip came down and a muffled thud was heard.
Mr. Grace took his seat on the box and gathered up the reins. “Any more h’orders, sir?” he asked of Peter. “Keb. Keb. Keb.—— Thirsty work, Master Peter. Poor chap lost ‘is nerve; ‘e needed a little stimerlant. We h’all do sometimes.”
But when Peter tried to pay Mr. Grace, he refused indignantly. “H’I h’ain’t like some folks as would rob a work ‘ouse child o’ its breakfust. Wot I done I done fer love o’ you, Master Peter. You buy that little gal o’ yours a present.” Then, because he didn’t want to be thought a good man, he spoke angrily. “H’I’ve got ter be drunk ter-night. Yer’ve wasted enough o’ me time awready. Kum h’up ‘ere beside me h’at once and I’ll drive yer ‘ome.”
So they drove round the mews to the Terrace and halted this time in front of the house. When Peter had rung the bell, his friend beckoned him back. “Sonny, ‘e weren’t worf it. ‘E weren’t reelly.”
Before Peter could answer, the door opened and he heard his mother’s voice saying, “Why, it’s Peter in a Christmas cab! Oh, how kind of Mr. Grace to bring you back! Were you so loaded down with presents, Peter?” And he entered empty-handed. He would need all his Christmas money to help Uncle Waffles. Kay came running to meet him and halted in bewilderment. “But, Mummy, where are Peter’s presents?”
Grace’s mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she had caught her father’s eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she passed her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, “Pa’s drunk as usual, Mam. Ain’t it sick’ning? Fat lot o’ good me prayin’!”
But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about his heart. It wasn’t because he had saved a man from Justice; he was happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the world from whom he could have asked help.—— Grace might call him a drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be something better as well, or else Peter wouldn’t have talked like that.
So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace. It wasn’t exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It expressed devil-may-care contempt for public opinion—and that was how he felt.
“Darn our narbor’ood,
Darn our narbor’ood,
Darn the plaice where I’m a-livin’ nar,
Why, the gentry in our street
In the cisterns wash their feet,
In the narbor’ood where I’m a-livin’ nar.”
Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat’s Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more work.
In the distance the lights of the public-house grew up.
Peter’s Christmas cab! Why a cab? What had he brought back in it and where had he hidden it? It must be something very grand and splendid to demand a cab. Kay coaxed him to give her just one little hint as to what it was: she went through all her love-tricks without success, rubbing her silky hair against his cheek and kissing his eyes while she clasped his neck. It was useless for him to declare that he had bought no presents; she snuggled against him laughing—she knew her Peter better than that.
In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into the yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such a timid climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was wondering how he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might not be willing to assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles “weren’t worf it.” But he was;he was.
Wild plans were forming in Peter’s brain. Would it be possible to put his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected? Would it be possible to——?
And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy he had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall—a fear which he knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining; there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination made him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed tramps, when darkness fell—tramps who climbed over the wall, just as Uncle Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should find his uncle there——. Peter shuddered.
“Peter, little man, you’ve been getting too excited,” his father said; “we don’t want you ill to-morrow. Don’t you think you’d better go to bed?”
And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would observe him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father and his family. He wasn’t at all sure that he hadn’t committed a criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother then?
In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and his mother and father whispering together.
“That’s for Glory.”
“It won’t go into her stocking.”
“Oh, yes, it will at a stretch.”
“And who’s this for?”
“That’s for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed.” Through half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair.
Nan came hurrying noiselessly. “Oh Billy, darling, you’re a rotten Santa Claus. Have you wakened him now?”
They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, “It’s all right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he’s not hung up his stocking!”
They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. “No, he hasn’t. He couldn’t have been feeling well. He’s been worrying, I’m sure he has, all this last month.”
“A boy of his age oughtn’t to worry. What about?”
Nan hesitated. “Our Peter’s very compassionate—— He loved Ocky. I’ve looked through his eyes often lately; I’m sure he’s condemning us.”
“Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt—— Well, he doesn’t understand.”
They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept.
“Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves.”
And Nan answered, “You can make anyone good by love—don’t you think so, Billy?”
He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. “I know you made me better, dearest.”
The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs.
One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours. Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes and crept to the door; his parents’ room was under his—they must not hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, his heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the light breathing of sleepers.
Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along the passage, past Riska’s room, past Grace’s, till he came to the door of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a shaft of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same streaming honey-colored hair.
He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he—should he tell Glory? She looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of his knowledge himself. And yet——. He was very troubled.
Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of music—a harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words:
“It came upon the midnight clear
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold.”
Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of legend. It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of Jesus on the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps Uncle Waffles heard it.
It ceased. A man’s voice rang out: “Fine and frosty. Three o’clock in the morning. A Happy Christmas. All’s well.”
Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching?
He stooped over her and whispered, “It was the waits, Glory.”
Her arms reached up and dragged him down. “Peter, Peter, you don’t hate me, do you? I can’t help being a coward.”
“Shish! We’ll wake Kitten Kay. Of course I don’t hate you. I try to love everybody.”
“And me just as one with the rest? Not even with the rest, Peter.—No, no, kiss me now.”
He kissed her; it was almost like kissing Kay. She held him so tightly that she took away his breath. He drew back, a little thrilled and startled. He looked down. Kay’s eyes were closed; Glory’s were smiling up at him, timid with puzzled longing. Years later he was to remember that. Then, yet more distant, the waits re-commenced, like the feet of Jesus bringing peace to sinful men. And that also he would remember.
Back in bed he lay very still. The fear had gone out of him; once again the world seemed kind and gentle. “Christ was born this morning,” he whispered; “Christ was born this morning. Oh Jesus, who came into the world a little boy just like Peter, you can understand. I’m so troubled. Oh Jesus——” But sleep was sent in answer to his prayer.
It was dark when he awoke. What was it he had been dreaming? Ah yes!—He rose stealthily and dressed. The morning was chilly. His teeth chattered and shivers ran through him; that wasn’t all due to coldness. Without looking at the packages on his bed, he stole across the landing and down the stairs. Outside the servants’ room he listened. One of them was snoring loudly; that was reassuring. As he drew further away from the bedrooms, he moved more hurriedly. All the time he was expecting to hear a door open and to see a head peering over the banisters. Having reached the hall, he ran down into the basement, taking less care to make no sound. His feet on the stone flags of the kitchen seemed as loud as those of a procession marching. Something brushed against his legs. He jumped aside with a cry of terror. It came again, a shadow following. Then he saw that it was only Romance.
What was it he must get? It was difficult to think; a hammer was knocking, in his temples. He felt along the dresser; sent a pan clattering; stood tense, listening; found what he sought; struck a match and lit the gas The light helped him to think more clearly, but it also convicted him of wrong doing. Everything he saw, even Romance looking up at him unblinking, seemed to say, “I shall tell. I shall tell.”
Things looked cheerless. Chairs were pushed back from the table, just as they had been left by the servants. The grate was choked with ashes, in which a few coals glowered red. But he must hurry. What was it he must get?
In the pantry there were sausage-rolls—so many that no one would miss a few of them. There were loaves of bread, an uncut ham from which Peter took some slices, a jug of milk from which he took a glassful, making up the deficit with water, and a dish of baked apples. He helped himself, feeling horribly thief-like. Then he thought of how cold it was out there. He crept upstairs to the cloakroom and unhooked one of his father’s coats from its peg. He returned and took a cushion from Cookie’s favorite chair in which the cane was broken and sagging. Thus loaded, he unlocked the door into the garden, closing it behind him, and shuffled out.
How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old mulberry, stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach down and clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl, pointed thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an icy breeze, which whispered, “Cut off his head. Cut off his head.” As he tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows.
He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He could still feel the shaking of his uncle’s clammy hand as he had felt it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that he saw him crouched beneath the bushes.
He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or——?
He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness—hollow sockets from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the window ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden. He had always expected to see a man’s face there. It was to be a face about which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and the eyes cavernous.—What would Kay think if she could see him now?
He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked round, hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be clutched forward. Nothing happened.
In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still, his left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he would push himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle Waffles now.
Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr, and jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was the turning of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem tricycle, with many groans and curses, a man emerged.
“Bruised all over. That’s what I am.—Hulloa! You there, Peter? Oh damn! That’s another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, I am. Nice way you’ve got of treating your poor old uncle.”
He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed and sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an occasion for jest. “Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make strange bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always told this little boy he must never swear.”
As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol. He did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior climber.
“Why, I brought you here last night—I and Mr. Grace together.—Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”
“Fell! Did I fall? I’m used to falling these days. I’m a li’le bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And nobody cares—nobody cares.”
Peter, hearing his weak self-pitying sobbing, overcame his momentary physical repulsion. “But I care, Uncle. Idocare. Glory cares.”
“Where’s the good o’ your caring, dear old chap? You’re only a boy and Glory’s only a girl—you can’t help me.”
“But I can.” He pulled at his uncle’s trembling hands. “I’m going to hide you in the loft till they’ve all forgotten to look for you, and then——”
“But, chappie, I’ve got to be fed and my money’s all spent.”
“I’ll get food for you.”
Uncle Waffles bent above Peter, trying to catch his eyes.
“You’ll get food for me—but from where? Whose food?—You mean you’re going to steal for me. No, Peter, you shan’t do that.”
Peter was perplexed. “If I don’t, you’ll go hungry. People aren’t good to you. I won’t steal, I’ll—I’ll just borrow. When you’re safe, I’ll tell them and pay it all back.”
“That’s what I said, ‘I’ll just borrow.’ That’s why I’m here. I can’t bear to let you do anything wrong for me.”
“But if I don’t they’ll take you away and lock you up. My heart would break if that should happen.”
Ocky sat down on a box and drew Peter to his knee in the darkness, putting his arm about him. “I’ve never been loved like that; if I had I’d have been a better man. If I let you do this I want to make a promise. Whether I’m caught or not, for your sake I’m going to be good in the future.—You don’t know what I am—how foolish and bad. I was drunk last night—I got drunk to forget my terror. Do you think I’m worth doing wrong for, chappie?”
Peter drew the unshaven face down to his shoulder. “You poor, poor uncle! It wouldn’t be doing wrong if you became good because I stole, now would it?—You’ll let me do it?”
They stood up. “What you got there?”
“Food. We must hurry. If we don’t they’ll find out.—And here’s some money.”
“Did you steal that?”
“I saved it for Christmas. I want you to take care of it. Now, here’s the way we go upstairs.”
Peter tried to laugh. He showed his uncle where to find a foothold in the wall and, by pushing and whispering instructions, got him through the trap-door into the room overhead. Then he handed up the results of his foraging and followed.
The loft was big and cheerless, thick with dust and hung with cobwebs. Across the roof went rafters; where they joined the wall sparrows had built their nests. Over the stalls were holes in the floor through which hay could be pitch-forked down. There was only one window at the far end, which looked out into the garden; several of the panes were broken and let in the wintry air.
Ocky shivered. For comfort he fell back on his pipe and began to fumble in his pocket for a match. When he struck it Peter saw for the first time what he was doing. He snatched it from him and blew it out. “But you mustn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“They might see you from the house.”
“Not if I’m careful.”
“You never are careful,” said Peter wisely.
“But baccy’s all I’ve got.”
“You’ve got me. I’ll come as often as I can.”
As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. “Could you manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn’t you coax ‘em into the garden? I’m longing for a sight of them. They’d never know I was watching.—It’s an odd Christmas I’m going to have.”
Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern. He could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped and broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a light sprang up; it was Riska’s—she must be examining her stocking.
He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was met by Cookie.
“So that’s it, is h’it? There’s no tellin’ wot you’ll be h’up to next. I was just goin’ ter count the forks. I thought as we’d ‘ad beargulars. Awright Grice, it’s the young master been h’out for a h’early mornin’s h’airing.” He ran past her, but she caught him. “Lor’, yer cold, boy. Come and warm yerself. If you h’ate meat three times a day the same h’as I do yer wouldn’t get blue like that.”
Cookie’s one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced into conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her different from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, afforded her a topic with which to draw attention to herself.
“You need some ‘ot chockerlit, that’s wot yer want. Not but wot meat ‘ad be better; but there, that’s where h’I’m pecooliar. ‘Never was such a gel for eatin’ meat. Lor, ‘ow yer runs my bills h’up!’ that’s wot my ma used to say abart me. She’s dead, Gawd rest ‘er bones.—Now, drink that h’up, yer little sinner. Thought h’it was summer, did yer? Went h’out to ‘ear the pretty burds. I’m only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil take me, if you ain’t pecooliar all over.”
Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. “‘Elp! ‘Elp me, Master Peter. For good luck’s sake!”
Peter helped her.
“H’it’s a wonder I didn’t break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather. But where’s me cushion? If that cat’s ‘ad it——”
Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats, he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and slaughter against all cats—especially cats who stole cushions.
In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries. “Where’s them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And ‘oo’s been cuttin’ the ‘am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can’t understand it. Never knew a cat to cut ‘am. Cats ain’t us’ally fond o’ h’apples—leastwise no cat I h’ever ‘eard of.—Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi’ yer.”
Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained that others should be blamed—even though they were only cats—for his wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also take a coat. Would they blame her for that?
He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last he had to answer, “Coming.” He went to her shame-faced, like a guest without a wedding-garment: he had no present.
She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries.
“Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And this—— But why didn’t you come sooner? I’ve been calling and calling.”
Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess?
“I didn’t come, Kitten Kay, because I haven’t anything for you.”
She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. “But the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!”
“There was nothing in it. I’ve not got anything for anybody.”
She couldn’t understand it; he could see that. She was saying to herself, “Did Peter forget me?” But her face brightened bravely. “I’ve something for you.”
“I couldn’t take it, Kay. No, really.”
He was nearly crying with mortification. “I’ve nothing for you, little Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world.”
She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood. “Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It’ll do just as well.”
He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at breakfast—especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation commenced.
Kay entered. “Coming downstairs?”
He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make him smile back.
It was their custom to go to their parents’ bedroom first thing on Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him forward.
Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a parcel. “What is it?” he asked. “Let me have it. What is it?”
“Guess. Father’s got to guess, hasn’t he, mother?”
“A fishing-rod?”
“Don’t be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?”
The guessing went on—such absurd guessing!—until the paper was torn off and a match-box was revealed.
“And now, what’s Peter brought me?”
“Nothing, father. I haven’t got anything for anybody. So, please, I don’t think I ought to take any of your presents.”
Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas stocking. “But, old boy, what became of your money?”
“I—I gave it away, father.”
“Last night? To a beggar?”
“Not—not exactly a beggar.”
“But to someone who needed it badly?”
“Yes, badly. I couldn’t give it to—to them and buy presents as well.” Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the truth at all costs. “And it wasn’t last night. It was this morning.”
His father regarded him gravely. “To someone in the house?”
“Not exactly.”
“I can’t see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It must be exactly one or the other.” Silence. “You don’t want to tell?”
“I can’t tell. But I want to so badly.”
His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. “I’m sure he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here’s what mother’s got for you.”
“Darling motherkins, I do love you—all of you. But I mustn’t take anything this Christmas.”
“Nonsense,” said his father.
“I mean it,” said Peter proudly.
At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied, so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, “Because he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs.”
There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was rather thin this morning.
When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service, they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came back.
Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word was brought of Cookie’s lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red.
He called him aside that evening. “What is it? Can’t you trust me? Can’t you tell me, little Peter?”
How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. “I can’t even tell you, father.”
During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, “So he’s not caught yet.” Peter’s responsibilities were increasing. He found it more and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle without betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of his confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he had not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The mustaches had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and climbing. Still, when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful. He was only depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory or Jehane to come into the garden. “I want a sight of ‘em, sonny. A ha’penny marvel like you ought to be able to manage that.”