\ 
 
 \ \ 
 
 THE ] IBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAL IFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 JAKES J. HC BRIDE
 
 77. 
 
 J 9 
 
 / y 7
 
 KIDDIES
 
 KIDDIES 
 
 BY 
 
 J. J. BELL 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "WEE MACGREEGOR," "JIM CROW," "BOBBY," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 ? R 
 
 TO 
 
 MISS BINKIE BELL, 
 
 WITH LOVE 
 
 712495
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. HABAKKUK i 
 
 II. LITTLE BOY 12 
 
 III. SOME ADVANTAGES OF BEING AN AUNT 31 
 
 IV. THE GOOD FAIRY 40 
 
 V. THE ANSWER 51 
 
 VI. JOCK 62 
 
 VII. MR. LOGIE'S HEART 77 
 
 VIII. THE LIMIT 94 
 
 IX. THE GHOST . 107 
 
 X. AN EARLY ENGAGEMENT . . . . 126 
 
 XI. DICKY JOHNNY . 139 
 
 XII. SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES . . . 167 
 
 XIII. THE GNOME 188 
 
 XIV. FOR A GOOD BOY 204 
 
 XV. MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR . . 229 
 
 XVI. THE UGLY UNCLE 249 
 
 XVII. THE LITTLE TYRANT . . . 266
 
 KIDDIES 
 
 HABAKKUK 
 
 "PAW," said the boy, across the table, "d'ye ken 
 what I'm gaun to be, when I'm a man?" 
 
 His father lowered the evening paper which he 
 had been reading by the fireside. "What are ye gaun 
 to be, Macgreegor?" he inquired, with an interested 
 smile. 
 
 "I'm gaun to be a plumber!" 
 
 "I thocht ye was gaun to be a penter, ma mannie." 
 Said the boy's mother, pausing in the process of thread- 
 ing a needle: "Ye'll never be a plumber, nor a penter, 
 nor onything else, Macgreegor, if ye dinna pey atten- 
 tion to yer lessons. Keep yer e'e on yer book, an' 
 dinna let me hear ye cheep again till the clock strikes." 
 Turning to her husband : "Ye shouldna encourage him 
 to speak, John, when he should be learnin' his les- 
 sons." 
 
 "Aw, the wean's fine," said John mildly. "There's 
 nae harm in speakin' aboot what he's gaun to be, 
 when he's a man. I mind, when I was a laddie like 
 him, I 
 
 "Ye dinna need to learn lessons to be a plumber," 
 Macgregor remarked, incited, doubtless, by his father's 
 partisanship. 
 
 "Haud yer tongue!" his mother commanded. "Ye'll 
 i
 
 2 KIDDIES 
 
 never get on at onything in this world wi'oot eddica- 
 tion." 
 
 "Deed, ay," assented Mr. Robinson; "yer maw's 
 richt there, Macgreegor. If ye dinna ken hoo mony 
 beans mak' five " 
 
 "I ken that fine! I ken what six times nine is!" 
 
 "Dod, ye bate me there!" laughed John, while his 
 wife frowned, and said: 
 
 "Ye micht keep yer eegnorance to yersel', man. . . . 
 What's six times nine, Macgreegor?" 
 
 "Forty-five." 
 
 John took up his newspaper. 
 
 "Aweel," said Lizzie, who would fain have checked 
 the figures on her fingers. "I daursay yer richt, but 
 I didna think ye wud ha'e kent it. But ye'll need 
 mair nor sums to get ye on at the plumbin' or ony- 
 thing else ye try. Ye maun be able to read an' write 
 an' spell " 
 
 "I can spell plenty words, maw. I can spell Habak- 
 kuk!" 
 
 "Ay: efter yer Granpaw Purdie was near a week 
 learnin' ye!" 
 
 There was a brief pause ere Macgregor inquired, 
 "Can you spell Habakkuk, maw?" 
 
 From behind his paper Mr. Robinson said, a trifle 
 unsteadily: "It'll be handy to be able to spell Habakkuk 
 when ye're a plumber, Macgreegor, for ye micht get 
 a customer o' the same name, an' folk wi' fancy names 
 dinna like to see them spelt wrang." 
 
 "I thocht a Habakkuk was a bird, or a fish," said 
 the boy. "What wey " 
 
 John guffawed. 
 
 "Whisht!" cried Lizzie, "ye should think shame o' 
 yerself, makin' fun o' a name that's in the Bible, John, 
 an' roarin' and laughin' as if ye wanted to wauken 
 wee Jeanie. . . , Macgreegor, if ye dinna improve
 
 HABAKKUK 3 
 
 at yer lessons, ye'll no' get bidin' wi' yer Granpaw 
 Purdie at the New Year." 
 
 "I'm no' wantin' to bide wi' him at the New Year, 
 when Aunt Purdie's there. I wisht Aunt Purdie wud 
 break her leg or " 
 
 "Haud yer tongue, ye bad laddie! But yer Aunt 
 Purdie'll no' be there. She's gaun to a hydropatho, 
 or some sic place, wi' some o' her gran' genteel ac- 
 quentances ' ' 
 
 "She'll be gaun to veesit the King next," observed 
 Mr. Robinson. "It's a peety I'm no' in the proveesion 
 trade, Lizzie " 
 
 "What wey are ye no' in the proveesion trade, paw?" 
 asked Magreegor. 
 
 "Dinna answer him, John," said Lizzie, "or he'll 
 never get his lessons done the nicht." 
 
 "I'll gang to Granpaw Purdie's," said her son. 
 
 "Ye'll no' gang a step if ye dinna learn yer lessons. 
 Ha'e ye learnt onything the nicht?" 
 
 "I've learnt ma ma poetry. What's the use o' 
 poetry to a plumber?" 
 
 John checked a guffaw in time. 
 
 "Everything's o' some use," said his wife. "Gi'e 
 me the book, an' I'll hear ye yer poetry." 
 
 "I dinna need to be heard it." 
 
 "Gi'e me the book! . . . Noo, Macgreegor!" 
 
 "I I've jist to say the first verse." 
 
 "Weel, say it!" 
 
 " 'Not a drum was heard,' " mumbled Macgregor. 
 
 "I canna hear ye." 
 
 " 'Not a drum was heard,' maw." 
 
 "Weel, what else?" 
 
 " 'Not a not a funeral shot' " 
 
 "Ye're wrang! John, ye're no' to tell him!" 
 
 "I wisht I could! A nice cheery pome for a wean, 
 that!"
 
 4 KIDDIES 
 
 "Come awa', Macgreegor. What comes efter 'fun- 
 eral'?" 
 
 "I meant for to say 'note,' maw." 
 
 "Weel, what next?" 
 
 " 'Not a soldier . . . hurried' . . ." 
 
 With a sigh Mrs. Robinson passed back the book. 
 "Nae wonder ye're aye at the foot o' the cless," she 
 remarked with sad severity. 
 
 "Maybe I wudna ha'e been foot the day, if Wullie 
 Thomson hadna been absent." 
 
 "Tits! Dinna let me hear ye say anither word till 
 ye've learnt it." 
 
 "I wisht I had ma holidays," said Macgregor, glow- 
 ering at the page. "I wisht they wud get measles or 
 something in the schule, an' then it wud be closed. I 
 wisht " 
 
 "Whisht! I've a rale guid mind to gi'e ye lessons 
 masel' in yer holidays " 
 
 "Yecouldna!" 
 
 "Macgreegor!" exclaimed John, with some sternness 
 in his voice. 
 
 "Poetry's awfu' ill to remember," said the boy. 
 
 "Ma laddie, if ye canna remember a wee bit poetry 
 like that," Lizzie observed, "I wudna like to trust ye 
 for a plumber. Ye wud be forgettin' hauf yer tools, 
 an' puttin' the water in the gas-pipes, an* the gas in 
 the " 
 
 "I wudna !" he protested. 
 
 "I doobt yer maw's richt, Macgreegor," put in John 
 over his paper. "I've heard it said that learnin' poetry's 
 a gran' exercise for the mem'ry. An' a plumber's no' 
 muckle guid wantin' a mem'ry, though I've come across 
 some wi' terrible sma' yins or maybe it was their con- 
 sciences that was sma'. Onywey yer maw's richt, ma 
 mannie, so jist you wire into yer poetry "
 
 HABAKKUK 5 
 
 Lizzie beamed upon her man. "D'ye hear what yer 
 paw says, Macgreegor?" 
 
 "A' the same," continued John, "if I was yer mais- 
 ter, I wud gi'e ye something cheerier nor that to learn. 
 It's no' the thing for a wean " 
 
 "Aw, whisht, John," said his wife, "or ye'll jist 
 spile a' ye said afore. . . . Come awa', laddie; see hoo 
 quick ye can learn it, an' ye'll get a biled egg to yer 
 tea the morn's nicht." 
 
 "If ye fry it an' let me gang to Granpaw Purdie's, 
 I'll learn the poetry," said her son. 
 
 "Ah, weel, learn it, an' we'll see. Oh, mercy!" 
 Lizzie rose abruptly. "There's wee Jeanie wauken. 
 I'll ha'e to gang to her. I doobt she's got a touch o' 
 the cauld. She's that restless. John, see if you an' 
 Macgreegor canna haud yer tongues for ten meenutes." 
 And, taking a spoon and bottle with her, she depart- 
 ed to the other room. 
 
 "Jeanie's gaun to get ile!" Macgregor observed in 
 a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "Learn yer poetry, ma mannie, an' try if ye canna 
 be ready to say it when yer maw comes back. It'll 
 please her." 
 
 "Ay," said Macgregor. "D'ye think she couldna 
 spell Habakkuk, paw? I'll ask her when she comes 
 back." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation "Och, she could spell 
 it easy," said John. "Yer maw was aye a famous spell- 
 er. But never heed aboot Habakkuk the noo " 
 
 "Wha was Habakkuk; what did he dae?" 
 
 "Aw, ye best speir at yer granpaw, when ye see 
 him." 
 
 "I wudna like to be ca'ed Habakkuk. What was 
 his ither name?" 
 
 "That'll dae, that'll dae. Attend to yer poetry."
 
 6 KIDDIES 
 
 Macgregor bent over his book, and John lit his pipe. 
 A short silence ensued. 
 
 "Paw, Jeanie's gettin' ile I hear her." 
 
 "Weel, dinna listen. Ye wudna like onybody to be 
 listenin' if you was gettin' ile." 
 
 "They wudna hear onything. I dinna mak' noises. 
 . . . Paw!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Will ye be pleased if I learn ma poetry?" 
 
 "Deed, ay, Macgreegor." 
 
 "Will ye be awfu pleased?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 "Will ye be that pleased that ye'll gi'e me a penny, 
 paw?" 
 
 Mr. Robinson frowned, then laughed. "We'll see 
 aboot that. But if ye can say the poetry rale weel " 
 
 "I'll learn it!" 
 
 "That's the richt sort o' laddie! Wire in, an' I'll 
 awa' an' see hoo yer wee sister's gettin' on. I'm vexed 
 to hear her cryin' like that." 
 
 "It's jist the ile. If ye was gettin' her some 
 sweeties " The boy looked expectant. 
 
 "Na, na. Yer maw doesna want sweeties in the 
 hoose excep', maybe, on Seturdays." 
 
 John left the room rather hurriedly. He had dis- 
 covered in his watch-pocket a solitary peppermint 
 lozenge, and while anxious to convey solace to his lit- 
 tle daughter, he was glad of an excuse to have a word 
 with his wife. 
 
 "Lizzie," he said in a low tone, when Jeanie's sobs 
 had subsided under the fragrant influence of the 
 lozenge, "Lizzie, can ye spell Habakkuk?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I'm askin' ye, can ye spell Habakkuk?" 
 
 "What for?" Lizzie was feeling tired. "I'm no* 
 heedin' aboot yer bit jokes the noo, John." She sat
 
 HABAKKUK 7 
 
 down on the edge of the bed. "Awa' back to the 
 kitchen, an' let me put the wee lassie to sleep. Puir 
 doo! Had she to get nesty ile, the dearie, had she? 
 But she'll be a' better in the mornin', she will that! 
 Noo she's gaun to put her handy-pandies ablow the 
 blankets, an' her maw'll tell her a wee story aboot 
 a " 
 
 "But, Lizzie, it's no' a joke. D'ye think ye could 
 manage to spell Habakkuk, if I asked ye?" 
 
 "No' if the King asked me! Ye ken I was never 
 ony use at the spellin' " 
 
 "Could ye no learn to spell it, Lizzie? Ye see, 
 I'm feart Macgreegor asks ye to spell it. I was tellin' 
 the laddie ye was a famous speller, an' it wudna be 
 very nice for you or me if ye couldna spell the word. 
 Ye wudna like it yersel', wife." 
 
 "Oh, mercy!" she groaned. "Hoo dae ye spell it, 
 John?" 
 
 "Me! I could as sune spell Nebycanezzar ! But 
 I'll get ye the Bible, an' ye can learn it afore ye show 
 face ben the hoose." 
 
 "Ay, that's it, John! Bring the Bible, though I 
 doobt if I'll mind the spellin' ten meenutes efter " 
 
 "Aw, Lizzie!" he cried in sudden dismay. 
 
 "What is't, John?" 
 
 "D'ye no' mind, we left the twa Bibles in the kirk 
 on Sunday? There's jist a New Testament in the 
 hoose, an Habakkuk's in the Auld. . . . What's to be 
 done ? It's ower late to buy a Bible." 
 
 Mechanically patting the drowsy child, Mrs. Robin- 
 son remained silent. 
 
 "If ye hadna been sae sharp wi' Macgreegor aboot 
 his lessons " began John. 
 
 "If ye had stopped him speakin' aboot Habakkuk 
 instead o' makin' fun " 
 
 "A Bible no' the kin' o' thing I wud like to be askin'
 
 8 KIDDIES 
 
 the len' o' frae ma neebours," said John gloomily re- 
 flective. "They wud think we was either awfu' bad 
 or else unco guid. ... If I kent onybody that could 
 spell the word, I wud gang to him an' bet him sax- 
 pence he couldna dae it. ... But then I couldna tell 
 if he was richt, an' I wud loss ma saxpence either 
 wey." 
 
 "It wudna be seemly to bet aboot the name o' yin 
 o' the prophets o' the Auld Testament. But I I wish 
 Habakkuk had been left oot," said Lizzie irritably. 
 "Ma fayther used to spell it to us when we was weans, 
 but I canna mind hoo he done it. I wisht I had peyed 
 attention when he was learnin' it to Macgreegor. 
 Maybe the laddie'll ha'e forgot a' aboot it by this 
 time." 
 
 "Weans never forget the things ye want them to 
 forget. Macgreegor'll maybe forget to ask ye the nicht, 
 but as sure's death he'll ask ye afore long. Could ye 
 no' try to spell it, Lizzie? an' I'll tell ye if it soun's 
 kin' o' correct. It begins wi' an' 'H.' " 
 
 "Aw, I ken that much. An' then there's an 'A' 
 ... But is't wan 'B' or twa 'BY?" 
 
 "Dear knows! Try it wi' twa, woman." 
 
 "H-A-B-B weel, what next?" 
 
 " T . . . That gi'es ye Habbi. Noo for the 
 'kuk.' " 
 
 "Kuk," she murmured thoughtfully, "kuk 
 
 John laughed. 
 
 "What's ado?" she asked crossly. 
 
 "I couldna help it, Lizzie ye was that like a hen! 
 Wud ye start wi' a V? Eh?" 
 
 " 'C,' " said Lizzie, "C-U-C-K. . . . D'ye think 
 that could be richt?" 
 
 "Try it a'thegither noo." 
 
 "H-A-B-B-I-C-U-C-K."
 
 HABAKKUK 9 
 
 John shook his head. "It seems kin' o' queer." 
 
 "But it's a queer kin' o' name." 
 
 "Ay; but I doobt " 
 
 "Weel, spell it yersel' !" she said smartly. 
 
 John signed. "I've a guid mind," he said presently, 
 "to gang doon to the druggist's an' telephone to the 
 meenister." 
 
 "Man, he wud think ye had gaed daft, or ye was 
 the worse o' drink." 
 
 "I duarsay he wud," John admitted wearily, 
 "though it wud be his business to inform me. Ha'e 
 ye nae notion yersel', Lizzie?" 
 
 She did not reply. The simplest way out had long 
 ago occurred to both, but John would not have taken 
 it, and Lizzie would not have asked him to do so. They 
 had always dealt straightly with their boy. 
 
 The sound of a chair pushed back reached their 
 ears, and a little later Macgregor put his head into 
 the room. "Maw, I can say ma poetry noo." 
 
 "A' richt, dearie. I'll be ben in twa- three meen- 
 utes," said his mother. "Wee Jeanie's near sleepin' 
 noo. Learn yer learn something else till I'm ready." 
 
 "I'll learn ma spellin'," said Macgregor, and retired. 
 
 "I wish we could learn oor spellin'," said John, with 
 a rueful grin. "Dod, Lizzie, I wudna like him to 
 think ye couldna spell Habakkuk. I wudna care for 
 masel', but he thinks you ken everything. Is there 
 naething I can dae?" 
 
 She shook her head. "There's nae use speirin' at 
 folk, for ye cudna believe unless ye seen the word in 
 print. An' I wudna ha'e onybody think we hadna 
 a Bible in the hoose. Macgreegor'll jist ha'e to fin' oot 
 that his maw canna spell Habakkuk. Nae doobt, as 
 he grows aulder, he'll fin' oot plenty o' things his 
 maw canna dae. I wisht ye hadna said onything aboot
 
 io KIDDIES 
 
 it, John. I wudna ha'e mindit, if I hadna kent it was 
 comin'." 
 
 "I done it for the best when I warned ye, wife," 
 he returned, in deep dejection. "I done it for the 
 best." 
 
 "I believe that. But we'll jist ha'e to seem to be 
 amused-like when he asks me, an' I canna spell it. 
 Maybe ye wud hear him his lessons espaycially his 
 spellin', the nicht, John; an' an' maybe ye could get 
 his mind awa' frae onything like what we've been 
 speakin' aboot. D'ye see?" 
 
 "I'll try," said John. 
 
 In a little while he went back to the kitchen. 
 
 "I'll hear ye yer poetry," he said as cheerfully as 
 possible. 
 
 "Is maw no' comin' to hear me?" the boy asked. 
 
 "Ye can say it to me for a change." 
 
 "An' ye'll tell her I could say it, so I'll get ma fried 
 egg, paw?" 
 
 ; "Deed, ay! Noo fire awa'." 
 
 Macgregor got through the stanza with as few stum- 
 bles as the average small boy would have incurred. 
 
 "Ye could say it better, if ye tried harder," said his 
 father. 
 
 "I daursay I could. . . . Are ye gaun to hear me ma 
 spellin'?" 
 
 "If ye ken it." 
 
 "Ay; I ken it." 
 
 At the end of ten minutes Mr. Robinson closed the 
 book. "I was never great on the spellin' masel'," he 
 observed, "but I think I could ha'e done a wee thing 
 better nor that when I was your age, ma mannie! 
 Ye'll ha'e to " 
 
 "Could ye spell Habakkuk when ye was ma age, 
 paw?" 
 
 "I'm sayin' ye'll ha'e to rise in the mornin' an' gang
 
 HABAKKUK u 
 
 ower the words again. An' noo, what else ha'e ye got 
 to dae. Ha'e ye ony meanin's o' words?" 
 
 "We dinna get meanin's when we get poetry. 
 There's jist the readin'. Ye dinna need to hear me 
 that." 
 
 "Ay, I'll hear ye." 
 
 Presently, "Ye're no' sic a bad reader," said John, 
 looking gratified. "Ha'e ye done yer sums?" 
 
 "Ay; but ye're no' allowed to help me wi' them." 
 
 "I ken that. It's maybe jist as weel." John relit 
 his pipe and wondered what he could tell to entertain 
 his son. 
 
 "Paw," said Macgregor, "let's hear ye try to spell 
 Habakkuk." 
 
 "Aw, never heed about auld Habby the noo. D'ye 
 ken, I was readin' in the paper aboot a ship " 
 
 Just then Lizzie entered. 
 
 "Ha'e ye feenished yer lessons, Macgreegor?" she in- 
 quired, sitting down with her seam and heaving a sigh. 
 
 "Ay," replied John. "An' he's earned that fried 
 egg! I was gaun to tell him aboot a ship that struck 
 a 
 
 "Maw, can you spell " 
 
 " a rock, an' afore the captain could " 
 
 "Habakkuk?" 
 
 "Never heed, John, ye canna save me," said Lizzie 
 resignedly. "I doobt, dearie, ye'll ha'e to tell me hoo 
 to spell it." 
 
 Macgregor smiled. "Ay; I'll spell it to ye. 
 H-A-B-A-K-U-K. . . . Habakkuk!" 
 
 "Fine," said Lizzie gently. 
 
 "Splendid!" ejaculated John, trying to look happy. 
 
 "It's a gey hard word to spell," Macgregor re- 
 marked, with not a little complacence. "I was feart 
 ye wudna manage it."
 
 II 
 
 LITTLE BOY 
 
 BILLY sat in the sunshine, a small hatless figure in 
 clothing very black against the whiteness of the lodge 
 steps. A book, open at a coloured picture, lay across 
 his knees, but it had evidently ceased to interest him, 
 for his gaze strayed from the great gates on his left 
 to the avenue on his right and back again. So it 
 had been straying for about an hour, though, to be 
 sure, he would have told you that "hours and hours" 
 had passed since the great gates had been opened 
 to let out a splendid motor-car containing a smart 
 chauffeur and a rather cross-looking gentleman who 
 stared at him for an instant and returned to reading 
 a newspaper. Immediately the car went through, 
 the gates had been closed by the lodge-keeper, who 
 was Billy's uncle, and whom Billy had not yet got 
 to know very well, except as a terribly tall man who 
 seemed to want to be kind, but didn't exactly know 
 how to go about it. After closing the gates, which 
 he did as though he were fond of them, the uncle had 
 nodded to Billy, saying: "Be a good boy, and see 
 and not get into mischief, and do what your aunt 
 bids ye." Which was just what Billy expected him 
 to say, though he had stayed at the lodge only a week. 
 Then the uncle had gone briskly up the avenue. 
 
 Since then nothing at all had happened. 
 
 Through the open door behind him Billy heard his 
 12
 
 LITTLE BOY 13 
 
 aunt moving about the little house. He heard other 
 sounds also sounds of washing, scrubbing, sweeping, 
 even the flip of a duster. It seemed to him that his 
 aunt was always cleaning something or telling him not 
 to make something dirty. He was sure he had been 
 very careful since he came to stay with her, and yet 
 the cleaning went on from breakfast-time till supper; 
 sometimes he heard it after he was in bed. Why 
 didn't she let him help her? He had helped his mother 
 about the house when he was only four, and now 
 he was six. But once when he had proffered his ser- 
 vices to his aunt she had laughed, not unkindly, say- 
 ing: "Tits, laddie, run away and play!" And he had 
 nearly replied: "But I've no one to play with"; in- 
 deed, he would have said it had not a painful lump 
 come into his throat, warning him that he must "run 
 away" quickly unless he wanted her to see him crying. 
 Billy had not asked himself whether his aunt loved him 
 or not. He took it for granted that she did, for she 
 gave him all the good food he could eat, and a pretty, 
 cosy little bed, and had seemed really sorry when he 
 had fallen off the steps the day after his arrival. But 
 he did wish she would allow him to love her. He 
 had the same feeling about his uncle, but could not 
 think of any way of "helping" him. Still, he would 
 gladly have walked up the avenue with his uncle, who 
 had work in the hot-houses and gardens, and have met 
 him coming home, and have taken his hand, if his 
 uncle had so desired. But his uncle no, perhaps it 
 was his aunt had said that Sir Henry and her lady- 
 ship would not care about a strange little boy being 
 about the grounds, and that Billy must always be care- 
 ful to stay near the lodge. 
 
 Now had Billy been a little girl he might have been 
 happy enough in the sunshine, with a doll to play with, 
 or a fairy-book to look at, or a "shop" to keep on
 
 14 KIDDIES 
 
 the steps (though that would probably have annoyed 
 the owner of the steps), or even a day-dream. But 
 the heart of a little boy is not so self-supporting ; it 
 can dance as lightly as a little girl's, only it cannot 
 so readily supply its own tune; left to itself it asks 
 too many questions. Not that Billy particularly craved 
 the company of other children just then; any com- 
 pany, so long as it were kindly, would have satisfied 
 him. In some ways he was "old-fashioned," albeit he 
 still believed in fairies and giants. You if you were 
 one of those people who are always talking about un- 
 derstanding children (as if that were a simple matter) 
 would have said that the little boy sitting solitary 
 on those white steps was not a proper boy at all, be- 
 cause he made no attempt at play, because his hands 
 and face were clean and his broad linen collar spot- 
 less; you would, possibly, after three minutes' conver- 
 sation, have called him "girlish," because his eyes were 
 beautiful, his speech soft, his manner gentle, his feel- 
 ings (if you touched them) intensely sensitive. But 
 probably, were you an ordinary person with any heart 
 worth mentioning, you would simply have wanted to 
 sit down beside Billy and put your arm round him. 
 
 Billy had been wearying for something to happen. 
 And nothing had happened. He began to feel lonely. 
 He tried his book again. He could not read, but he 
 knew the stories by heart, and he whispered them over 
 to himself as he turned the familiar pictures. The 
 book was an old friend, but somehow it failed to prove 
 a comforting companion at this time. Perhaps it even 
 made him feel lonelier. You see, his father had bought 
 it for him, and his mother had taught him the stories. 
 
 Presently he let it slip from his knee ; it fell down 
 the steps upon the gravel. He descended after it, and 
 was about to pick it up, when the painful lump came 
 into his throat. For a moment, his hand to his mouth,
 
 LITTLE BOY 15 
 
 he looked at the open door. Then he turned and ran 
 up the avenue. Only a few yards, but the sob could 
 be contained no longer. He stumbled from the gravel 
 path into the wood. A few yards more and, hidden 
 by a large rhododendron, he let himself fall on the 
 rank grass and dead leaves. And there he cried softly 
 but sorely. Even the heart of a child knoweth its 
 own bitterness. 
 
 Yet happily such bitterness though in the heart is 
 not of it, and after a season flows forth with the tears. 
 Billy's weeping came to an end at last, but he was 
 still breathing unevenly when he rose to his knees and 
 rubbed his wet eyes and cheeks with his sleeve, forget- 
 ting that he possessed a handkerchief. His grief and 
 his close acquaintance with Mother Earth had not 
 improved his appearance. His countenance was tear- 
 stained, his yellow hair tousled, his hands rather dirty, 
 and there was a grubby mark on his collar. But he 
 did not see or consider these things, and, encouraged 
 by the thought that no one had witnessed him crying, 
 he got upon his feet and looked about him. He felt 
 that he ought to return to the lodge, but something 
 suggested his taking a few steps further into' the wood. 
 Perhaps that something was the Spirit of Adventure ; 
 at any rate, Billy obeyed the impulse. After a brief 
 halt he took a few steps more. This occurred several 
 times, until he found himself standing on a narrow 
 and apparently little-used footpath. 
 
 He trotted along, his heart growing lighter and 
 lighter. Now and then he stopped and stooped to ex- 
 amine fir-cones, but did not touch them, never having 
 seen such things before. Possibly he was relieved that 
 they neither moved nor made noises, and he was care- 
 ful to avoid treading on them. Until now Billy's 
 existence had been passed in cities and towns, with an 
 occasional trip to the larger seaside resorts, for it was
 
 16 KIDDIES 
 
 among crowds that his parents had made a living. A 
 third-rate singer and a fourth-rate fiddler, they had 
 not, perhaps, been very exemplary people, but at least 
 they had loved their little boy devotedly and shielded 
 him from much that was deplorable. They had died 
 of enteric within a week of each other, and after sev- 
 eral months of residence with various relatives Billy 
 had been received by his uncle and aunt at the lodge, 
 not without many misgivings on the part of the middle- 
 aged childless couple. But so far the boy had puzzled 
 rather than troubled them. 
 
 He had not walked far when he saw before him a 
 high wall. It had a forbidding look, and he would 
 probably have turned back had he not perceived a 
 gate. Also, the gate was made of iron bars; and, as 
 everybody knows, such a gate is so designed in order 
 that little boys may peep through it. Billy, with vague 
 thoughts of a giant's castle, approached the gate on 
 tip-toe and peeped through. Then he was glad he had 
 come. 
 
 He gazed upon a big garden at least, it seemed big 
 to him with high walls all around it. In the wall 
 opposite was a green door, closed, and at a good dis- 
 tance beyond he saw the upper part of a large house. 
 The walls of the garden were covered with fruit-trees, 
 many in blossom, pink and white, but the garden itself 
 was filled with flowers, and every flower was white. 
 Some of the flowers, especially the narcissus he knew 
 them as "white lilies" were familiar to Billy, for he 
 and his mother had sometimes bought them in the Lon- 
 don streets. There was a spacious bed of them in the 
 midst of the garden. And on the path around the bed 
 walked a lady in a pale grey dress. 
 
 At the first sight of her Billy drew back, but as she 
 did not notice him he drew close to the bars once
 
 LITTLE BOY 17 
 
 more. She was a beautiful lady, and her hair was 
 yellow like his own. She walked slowly, and never 
 raised her eyes from the path, or, it may have been, 
 the narcissus bed. Sometimes she clasped her hands in 
 front of her, and Billy saw little flashes. Sometimes 
 she let them fall by her side. He wondered why she 
 never looked up. 
 
 Quite suddenly Billy was reminded of his mother 
 in her last "singing dress." He choked, turned, took 
 two steps, and collapsed, his face hidden on his arms. 
 
 The beautiful lady had looked up at last. For a 
 moment it seemed as though she were going to run 
 away. Then, with a pale face, she came swiftly to the 
 gate. 
 
 "Little boy, what is the matter?" Her question 
 was scarce more than a whisper. 
 
 Amid the sobs that would not be checked came the 
 broken, desperate cry: 
 
 "Oh, mother mother!" 
 
 And at that the beautiful lady became paler still 
 and wavered, and clutched at a bar of the gate. 
 
 "Wait, little boy; wait till I get the key," she 
 said unsteadily. "The gate has not been opened for so 
 long so long." 
 
 As she ran to a summer-house not far off she repeat- 
 ed the two words with trembling lips. 
 
 The rusted lock resisted, but at length she forced 
 the key round and drew the gate open. Billy was 
 struggling to his feet. 
 
 "Don't run away don't be afraid," she said gently, 
 noting the badly-fitting black clothes which Billy was 
 "wearing out" ere he should grow too big for them. 
 "What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself? Did 
 you fall? Tell me, little boy."
 
 1 8 KIDDIES 
 
 "Oh, mother!" he cried again, his face in his hands, 
 his shoulders heaving. 
 
 Blindly he turned to go, but her hand fell softly 
 on his arm. 
 
 "Little boy," she whispered; and there her voice 
 failed her. 
 
 She slipped to her knees, and her arm went round 
 him. She shivered as if with pain. 
 
 Then Billy felt himself being drawn close to her 
 closer yet. He did not resist. He yielded. He al- 
 lowed her to take his hands from his face. And then 
 his face was at her bosom, and both arms were round 
 him, and a hand was tenderly patting him. While 
 yet he sobbed a most wonderful peace fell upon him, 
 a most exquisite sense of comfort prevaded his heart. 
 
 But presently he became aware that the lady was 
 crying too. He didn't know what to do, and he 
 couldn't say anything. But his arms of their own ac- 
 cord went round her as far as they could reach, and 
 clung. 
 
 "Little boy little boy," she whispered. 
 
 Later, the beautiful lady invited him into her gar- 
 den, and Billy, his hand in hers, assented readily, al- 
 most blithely. 
 
 First they went to the summer-house, at the side of 
 which was a water-tap. With her handkerchief she 
 washed away the tear stains from his face, and after- 
 wards bathed her own eyes. 
 
 "For you see, little boy," she said, "we don't wish 
 other people to know we have been crying." 
 
 "No; we don't," said Billy. 
 
 She asked him his name. 
 
 "Billy. I'm six." 
 
 He had learned that grown-up people who ask your 
 name always want to know your age also.
 
 LITTLE BOY ; 19 
 
 "Six !" she said after a little while, and sighed. 
 "Why are you sorry?" he inquired anxiously. 
 "Come!" she said, touching his hair. "Would you 
 like to walk round my garden? I want you to tell me 
 about yourself, Billy. How did you find your way 
 here?" 
 
 "I was feeling sorry and I just came." He gave 
 her hand a small squeeze. "You was glad to see me, 
 wasn't you, ma'am?" 
 
 "I yes ; I was glad to see you. Perhaps you would 
 like to come here and play another morning?" 
 
 "Oh!" he cried, "play here with you? Would you 
 play with me?" 
 
 Her free hand went to her heart. 
 "Perhaps," she answered with an effort. "Oh, little 
 boy, little boy, if you only knew! But now" her 
 voice steadied "tell me where you came from." 
 
 Within the next hour she drew from him his little 
 history. 
 
 "And you like staying with your aunt and uncle at 
 the lodge, Billy?" 
 
 He nodded. He certainly liked it now. But a look 
 of alarm came into his face. 
 
 "They'll be angry " he began in distress. 
 
 She understood. 
 
 "Shall I come with you and explain? I think I 
 had better. And I could tell your aunt to let you 
 come here in the mornings when you have nothing 
 better to do until your school-days begin. I am nearly 
 always here in the mornings, when the weather is fine. 
 Sometimes I read and sometimes I sew, and some- 
 times I just walk about take care, Billy! Your boot- 
 lace is loose. Shall I tie it for you?" 
 
 He could not manage it, so once more she went on 
 her knees to help him. And Billy, his heart over- 
 flowing, flung his arms about her neck.
 
 20 KIDDIES 
 
 "You're kind; you're just awful kind," he whis- 
 pered, and was shocked when the lady cried again, 
 holding him to her breast. 
 
 But soon she reassured him, promising not to cry 
 the next time he came; and when the troublesome lace 
 had been tied, she rose and gave him her hand, and 
 they set off for the lodge. 
 
 So happy days began for Billy. He did not see the 
 beautiful lady every morning, but she always let him 
 know in advance when she would not be in the gar- 
 den, so that he should never arrive at the gate and be 
 disappointed. In fine weather they played in the gar- 
 den at first she did not play particularly well ; would 
 stop in the middle of a game and send Billy to the 
 far end of the garden to find a certain kind of flower; 
 but afterwards she did better and when the weather 
 was not quite fine she read stories to him in the sum- 
 mer-house, where now and then they had a small pic- 
 nic. Sometimes, too, they played in the wood. And 
 Billy loved her more every day. And she ah, well, 
 you shall see! 
 
 H 
 
 The trees were now in full leaf. From the avenue 
 a whispering sound came to Billy sitting on the white 
 steps, for there had been a storm in the night, and 
 though the rain was over, the wind was not yet ex- 
 hausted. Billy was no longer clad in dingy black; 
 he wore a smart sailor suit with brass buttons. The 
 suit had arrived mysteriously, and his aunt had told 
 Billy to ask no questions, but to wear it and keep 
 it clean, and not think he had got it through any 
 merit of his own; while his uncle had expressed the 
 hope that Billy would always be a good boy, do as he 
 was bid, and not get into mischief. 
 
 This morning Billy was chiefly engaged in listening
 
 LITTLE BOY 21 
 
 to the trees, admiring the glint of his buttons in the 
 sunshine, and wishing it had been a "garden day." 
 To-morrow seemed so far away. A drawing-book 
 lay on his knee, but the breeze made the pages flap, 
 and he had given up attempting to copy the squares 
 and oblongs and triangles. From the lodge came the 
 sounds of scrubbing and the slop of a wet cloth, which, 
 however, were now so familiar that he scarcely noticed 
 them. But he pricked up his ears as a humming sound 
 mingled with the whisper of leafage. The sole event 
 of the morning was about to take place. 
 
 The lodge-keeper appeared round the corner of the 
 lodge, glanced at his big silver watch, and solemnly 
 proceeded to open the great gates. Billy wished, as 
 he wished every morning, to be allowed to help, but 
 did not like to ask. A minute later the car came glid- 
 ing down the avenue. Billy prepared to touch his 
 cap now a nautical affair with H.M.S. Dreadnought 
 on the encircling ribbon as his uncle had instructed 
 him to do. But his finger stopped in mid-air, for the 
 car, instead of humming past, as it usually did, came 
 to a standstill right before him. Billy's surprise was 
 equalled only by his uncle's. 
 
 "Like to come for a ride, boy?" said the rather 
 cross-looking gentleman who was driving. 
 
 "What?" cried Billy, astounded, petrified. 
 
 "Billy!" began his uncle in a tone of reproof. 
 
 The rather cross-looking gentleman signed sharply 
 for silence. 
 
 "Come along, Billy," he said pleasantly, so pleasantly 
 indeed that the boy rose, dropping his drawing-book, 
 came down the steps, and clambered into the tonneau. 
 
 "That's right!" said the rather cross-looking gen- 
 tleman. "Will you be all right there alone?" 
 
 Billy smiled bravely. 
 
 The gentleman motioned to the chauffeur to go be-
 
 22 KIDDIES 
 
 hind, then apparently changing his mind, gave up the 
 driving-seat to him, and went behind himself. 
 
 "Back about one," he said to the lodge-keeper as the 
 car slipped through the gateway. 
 
 "Well, I'm blest!" said the lodge-keeper to himself, 
 and after closing the gates went straightway to his 
 wife. 
 
 Billy's blue eyes were big, as the car, gathering 
 speed, spun along the high road, but his wits were com- 
 ing back. And first of all he remembered that he 
 must be polite. So when he heard a voice asking 
 whether he had ever been in a car before, he replied: 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 And when asked if he liked it: 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 All the same he was not quite comfortable on the 
 leather cushion, gripping the outer edge with both 
 hands; and when the car took a curve he thought he 
 was going, and, with a cry, made a grab at his com- 
 panion and missed him. But in the same instant a 
 strong arm was round him, lifting him well on to the 
 seat and holding him there. 
 
 "That better?" 
 
 "Yes yes, sir but please hold me." 
 
 The gentleman gave a queer laugh, but held him 
 a trifle tighter. About ten minutes later, the gentle- 
 man said: 
 
 "Enjoying it er Billy?" 
 
 "Awful yes, sir." 
 
 After that they spoke very little. About noon they 
 stopped at a farm, where Billy got a glass of milk, and 
 the farmer's wife called him her "bonny boy," and 
 hugged him when he offered to kiss her. It was only 
 the little boys who get plenty of kisses who really ob- 
 ject to kissing. 
 
 They were nearly home when Billy, glancing up at
 
 LITTLE BOY 23 
 
 his new friend, in whom he had already acquired the 
 utmost confidence, inquired : 
 
 "Why are you sorry?" 
 
 "Sorry! Why do you think I'm sorry?" 
 
 "You look sorry, sir." 
 
 "Oh, never mind the 'sir,' Billy. Perhaps I can't 
 help it perhaps I always look sorry." 
 
 "No; you mostly look cross." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "But not now," said Billy leniently. "Now you 
 look sorry and nice" 
 
 "My dear little chap!" said the gentleman very 
 softly, but when Billy looked up again, his face was 
 as cross as ever. 
 
 Billy could not understand it, but he was not afraid, 
 and moved an inch closer. 
 
 "I say, Billy, would you like to come with me again 
 to-morrow morning?" the gentleman asked, when the 
 great gates were in sight. 
 
 "Oh, yes, but but I can't come!" Billy remem- 
 bered that the morrow was a "garden day." Perhaps 
 he regretted the fact, but he was not too young for 
 
 loyalty. "You see " he began; it was his way of 
 
 introducing explanations. 
 
 "Can't come?" said the gentleman in a tone that 
 might have meant amusement or disappointment, or, 
 maybe, both. "Got an important engagement, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 Billy did not understand the words and he did not 
 like the tone. 
 
 "You see " he began again and stopped help- 
 lessly. 
 
 He had promised the beautiful lady to keep the "gar- 
 den days" a secret. He thought for a moment. "But 
 I could come with you in the afternoon," he said kindly 
 and eagerly.
 
 24 KIDDIES 
 
 The gentleman laughed, and somehow Billy laughed 
 also, though he didn't know why. 
 
 "Well," said the former, "I don't usually go out 
 in the afternoon, but we might manage to have an 
 hour to-morrow, from three till four. Only you're not 
 to tell oh, well, never mind about that! Be ready 
 at three." 
 
 "Yes, sir; yes please what is your name?" 
 
 "My name, little chap, is Henry Denver." 
 
 Billy gravely nodded. 
 
 "Yes, Henry Denver; I'll be ready at three, 'cause 
 I like you awful" 
 
 "My dear little chap!" 
 
 They passed the gates; the car stopped. Sir Henry 
 got out and lifted Billy to the steps. Billy promptly 
 kissed him, as if it were the most natural thing in the 
 world to do. Sir Henry turned away quickly and 
 examined a back tyre. 
 
 "No," he said to the chauffeur presently, "it's all 
 right." He got in and waved his hand. "Good-bye, 
 Billy!" 
 
 "Good-bye Henry Denver!" cried the boy cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 The lodge-keeper paused in closing one of the gates, 
 and gaped at his nephew. But no words came, and 
 he completed his business a dazed man. 
 
 "Let be!" said his wife, when he told his tale. "It 
 near killed her when her own boy came, and it near 
 killed them both when he went." 
 
 Such was the first of Billy's motor rides. 
 
 "Billy," said Sir Henry one day, "why can't you 
 always come when I ask you?" 
 
 Billy wriggled uncomfortably. 
 
 "Rather not say?" 
 
 Billy nodded and squeezed the strong arm. He
 
 LITTLE BOY 25 
 
 would have liked to explain that he never mentioned 
 his motor rides to the beautiful lady. 
 
 Sir Henry nodded also. 
 
 "I respect your reasons, whatever they may be, for 
 secrecy, old man." 
 
 He knew the wife of his lodge-keeper to be a woman 
 of fixed ideas; doubtless she had duties for the boy 
 to perform on certain days. He was not going to in- 
 terfere just yet. 
 
 "You called it a 'portant engagement," said Billy. 
 
 "Did I ? Well, Billy, it's for both of us to remem- 
 ber that gentlemen do not inquire into each other's 
 'portant engagements." 
 
 Which remark was Greek to Billy, though he liked 
 the voice that made it. 
 
 "But I could come with you day after to-morrow, 
 Henry Denver," he said graciously. 
 
 in 
 
 In the summer-house, Lady Denver looked at the 
 watch on her wrist for the fifth time. Ten minutes 
 to twelve. She gave a straightening touch to a snowy 
 napkin covering a dish of fruit and another of sweet 
 biscuits on the small round table, glanced at an open 
 locker containing battledores and shuttlecocks, a bow 
 with arrows and folding target, a little gun, a box of 
 "alphabet bricks," and other toys, and stepped out into 
 the sunshine. She walked slowly round the centre bed 
 of the garden. The "white lilies" had gone, but other 
 white flowers had been given their place. In a little 
 while she halted and stood watching the iron gate. 
 Presently she went down to the gate. She tried the 
 handle to make sure that she had turned the key an 
 hour earlier. Of course it opened. But even had 
 it been locked Billy would not have gone away without
 
 26 KIDDIES 
 
 calling her, and she had been listening during her brief 
 stay in the summer-house. No, Billy had not come, 
 and it looked as though he were not coming. 
 
 She leaned against the gate, her eyes on the path 
 into the wood. It was the first time he had failed to 
 come at the hour appointed; frequently he had been 
 waiting at the gate for her the gate which before his 
 first coming she had thought never to open again. Even 
 now it cost her a pang to open it, but a dear sense 
 of solace followed the pang. For it was like opening 
 her heart to gladness, though sadness held the chief 
 chamber, and would do so always. 
 
 The wood and the path became blurred to her eyes. 
 Why had the little boy not come? Perhaps he had 
 grown tired of her ; perhaps he had found a new friend, 
 a boy friend, to play with. And yet he had clung to 
 her at their parting yesterday. Even yet she felt the 
 clutch of the small hands, the contact of the lithe young 
 body. Oh, God, was even the second best and loveliest 
 thing in her woman's world to be taken from her? 
 Perhaps something had happened to Billy! At the 
 thought her eyes became clear, her relaxed muscles 
 stiffened. She must go at once to the lodge, and 
 
 She turned quickly. The door in the opposite wall 
 had opened and closed, and her husband was coming 
 down the garden. She leaned back against the gate. 
 Her husband had not entered her garden for nearly 
 two years not since that September day when he 
 and she and Another had played together on the centre 
 plot, then grass. For while women cling to sorrowful 
 associations, men seek to avoid them. 
 
 She perceived that he looked uneasily from one side 
 to the other. Had he discovered her secret, she won- 
 dered the only secret she had had from him in their 
 eight years of married life? And, if so, what would
 
 LITTLE BOY 27 
 
 he think of her? With all his gentleness and tender- 
 ness, might he not feel harshly about this thing she had 
 done ? As he caught sight of her she succeeded in forc- 
 ing a smile to her lips, but for the life of her she could 
 not leave the gate and go to meet him. 
 
 He smiled also, but not naturally. There was a 
 look on his face that she had not observed for nearly 
 two years, a look of anxiety tinged with excitement 
 almost the look that doctors know on the faces of 
 men about to be fathers, or in danger of losing their 
 fatherhood. Sadness and loving solicitude these had 
 been the expressions of her husband's face most famil- 
 iar to her during that period ; but this look Sud- 
 denly she became calm. Whatever Harry had to say 
 to her, it could be nothing that would hurt. Indeed, 
 as he drew nearer, it seemed to her that he had come 
 to ask a favour. 
 
 "Lydia," he said he examined the end of a cigar 
 which had gone out some time ago, and then raised his 
 eyes to hers "Lydia, you must wonder at seeing me 
 here, but I I had to come. There is possibly you 
 know a little boy staying at the lodge at present. 
 Martin is his uncle. This morning he was climbing a 
 tree behind the lodge" Lady Denver gave a gasp 
 "when he fell. His left arm was rather badly, broken. 
 I brought the doctor in the car. He is now with the 
 boy had put him right just before I left. Have I 
 frightened you, Lydia?" 
 
 "No, no just a little go on, Harry." 
 
 "Well, the fact is, there isn't much accommodation, 
 convenience, and so on at the lodge for such a case 
 
 and I wondered if we couldn't have him removed 
 . 
 
 "Not the hospital, Harry not the hospital." 
 
 "No, dear to the house. Would you mind? Er
 
 28 KIDDIES 
 
 could you stand it? He's a nice little chap I've 
 taken him in the car once or twice perhaps oftener 
 and he's er all right. His parents are dead. His 
 mother was a sister of Martin's, who might have been 
 a great singer, and er his father, I've learned, was 
 born a gentleman, though but do you think we could 
 manage it, Lydia?" He laid his hand on her arm. 
 "It shall be just as you wish," he added. 
 
 There was a silence. Then she caught his hand. 
 "Come with me for a minute," she said faintly, and 
 led him to the summer-house. 
 
 "Look!" she whispered. "These belong to the lit- 
 tle boy you speak of, Harry. All the summer he has 
 been coming here nearly every morning. The first 
 time I saw him he was lying at the gate, crying for 
 his mother. Oh, Harry, I couldn't help it! I want- 
 ed to tell you, but somehow I couldn't. I feared you 
 might think I had forgotten our own little boy, our 
 Freddie; or that I was not content in my life with 
 you. Oh, I didn't know what you would think at all. 
 And Billy just seemed to take possession. He didn't 
 take another's place, Harry you know that, don't 
 you ? but just a little place of his own." 
 
 Denver's arm went round his wife. His eyes were 
 wet. 
 
 "I know, I know," he said softly. "The little chap 
 did the same to me and I couldn't tell you, Lydia. 
 He and I know each other so well that he calls me 
 Henry Denver, and sometimes er he hugs me." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, I'm glad!" she murmured. "It 
 doesn't make us love Freddie or each other the less, 
 does it?" 
 
 Denver cleared his throat. 
 
 "I asked the doctor to wait," he said. "Will you 
 come with me, Lydia?"
 
 LITTLE BOY 29 
 
 A little later they took the path through the wood. 
 
 Billy lay at the window of a lovely room overlooking 
 the gardens, and the beautiful lady sat beside him. 
 
 "Doctor Stark says you may get up for a little while 
 to-morrow," she was saying. "And next week we 
 are all going to Barradale." 
 
 "Where is Barradale?" 
 
 "Away in the North. We always go there in the 
 autumn, you know. At least, nearly always." 
 
 "Have you got a house there too?" 
 
 "Yes, Billy." 
 
 Billy lay quiet awhile, marvelling at the possession 
 of two houses. 
 
 "Where is Henry Denver?" he asked suddenly. "He 
 said he would come, back soon." 
 
 "So he will, dearie. Ah, I see him coming now!" 
 
 Billy looked out of the window and waved his free 
 hand. 
 
 "He's looking happy," he remarked. 
 
 "Are you sure, Billy?" 
 
 The beautiful lady's voice was eager. She rose and 
 went to the window. 
 
 "It's all right," called her husband. 
 
 The lady bent over Billy and kissed him. 
 
 "My dear, dear little boy," she whispered. 
 
 "What, mother?" 
 
 Sir Henry entered quickly. 
 
 "I've fixed it," he said to his wife in an undertone; 
 "but I was sorry for the Martins. I hadn't imagined 
 the woman had much in the way of feelings. Poor 
 soul, I left her scrubbing the kitchen table with her 
 tears." 
 
 He turned to the boy. 
 
 "Old chap," he said briskly, yet anxiously, "how 
 would you like to live with us always?"
 
 30 KIDDIES 
 
 "Yes, Billy dear," softly added the beautiful lady, 
 "how would you like to live with us always?" 
 
 Her hand trembled. 
 
 Billy looked from one to the other, as if amazed at 
 the question. 
 
 "Of course I'm goin' to live with you always!"
 
 WITH an agonised contortion of countenance the 
 middle-aged woman hurried towards the small boy 
 who, having escaped her vigilance a minute previously, 
 was not standing on the edge of the pier, his hands in 
 his trousers' pockets. 
 
 "John," she gasped, laying a hand on his shoulder, 
 "come awa' frae there, or ye'll fa' in an' get 
 droondit." 
 
 "I'll no' fa' in," he returned impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, but ye're ower near the edge, John. Ye micht 
 trip an' fa' in, an' then what wud ye dae?" 
 
 "Get saved," said John, endeavouring to shake off 
 her hand. 
 
 "Aw, but ye best come back a bit, John, ye best 
 come back a wee bit, an' be ready for the boat when 
 it comes." 
 
 "The boat'll no' be in for ages," he returned, stand- 
 ing on one foot and swinging the other. 
 
 "John, John, for ony favour dinna dae that, or ye'll 
 tummle in, as sure as " 
 
 "If I tummle in, it'll be your fault. Ye're pushin' 
 me!" 
 
 "I'm no'! I'm strivin' for to haud ye back. Oh, 
 dear me! I'll never tak' ye to the sea again, never, 
 though yer mither was to gang doon on her bended 
 knees an' ask me to dae 'it. Can ye no' be nice an' 
 quate like wee Agnes?" she inquired, with a brief
 
 32 KIDDIES 
 
 backward glance at a small girl with a fairly con- 
 tented and very sticky countenance, nursing a shabby 
 doll. "See hoo discreet yer wee sister is, John." 
 
 "She's discreet because she's fed up," remarked John 
 unkindly. He gave a wriggle, and she emitted a low 
 wail of dismay. 
 
 "John, came awa' wi' me this instant!" 
 
 "I'm fine here." 
 
 "John," she said solemnly, "what wud ye dae if ye 
 fell in the ocean?" 
 
 "There's nae ocean here. There's nae ocean till ye 
 pass Rothesay. Fayther tell't me." 
 
 "Aweel, it's jist as easy gettin' droondit at Kilmun 
 as at Rothesay, John. But " 
 
 "It's easier to get droondit at Rothesay. There's 
 mair water." 
 
 "Never heed that the noo. What wud ye dae if 
 ye fell aff the pier an' a big fish got the haud o' ye?" 
 Aunt Sarah put the question, and paused for an answer, 
 not without hope. 
 
 John transferred his weight from one foot to the 
 other, and started swinging the former. 
 
 "What sort o' a fish, Aunt Sarah?" he coldly in- 
 quired. 
 
 "A big fish a great big fish a whale, maybe!" 
 she replied in impressive tones. 
 
 A smile of pity dawned on John's face. "Did ye 
 ever see a whale ?" he asked. 
 
 "I ken it's a fearsome thing, onywey. I wudna like 
 a whale to get the haud o' me." 
 
 "Did you ever see a whale here, at Kilmun?" 
 
 "No' exactly, John, no' exactly." 
 
 "An' ye never will!" said John. "There's nae big 
 fish here, Aunt Sarah. Ye needna try to cod me. 
 I'm no' sae easy coddit." 
 
 Sarah restrained her rising temper. "Weel,
 
 ADVANTAGES OF BEING AN AUNT 33 
 
 ma lad," she said, with an attempt at sternness, "I'm 
 no' wantin' to gang hame an' tell yer mither I left ye 
 in a watery grave. So jist " 
 
 "But if I was fa'in' in, ye wudna leave me in, wud 
 ye?" 
 
 "Ay, wud I!" she replied, irritated by the imperti- 
 nence. 
 
 "Wud ye? Then ye wud get the polis! Ay, ye 
 wud be put in jail an' hanged! That's what ye wud 
 get!" 
 
 Aunt Sarah swallowed several times. "If ever I tak' 
 ye a trip again, may I be " 
 
 "Supposin' there was really a whale," interrupted 
 John, "an' supposin' it got the haud o' me, wud it no' 
 let me oot efter three days, like Jonah?" 
 
 At last Aunt Sarah saw an opportunity to impress 
 her young charge. Very solemnly she said : 
 
 "Na, John. It wud never let ye oot again." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Because, John, ye had been bad an' disobedient, 
 an' " 
 
 "So was Jonah." 
 
 "Ah, but but, ye see, John Jonah repentit," said 
 Aunt Sarah rather feebly. 
 
 "He what?" 
 
 "He repentit he was sorry." 
 
 "I could repent too," said John, without hesitation. 
 
 Though the weather was chilly, Aunt Sarah took 
 out her handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from 
 her brow. 
 
 A short silence was followed by a query from the 
 boy. "What was Jonah daein' when he was in the 
 whale? D'ye think he wud be standin' up, or sittin', 
 or lyin' doon?" 
 
 "Haud yer tongue, John! That's no' a seemly ques- 
 tion to be askin*. Come awa' noo, an' we'll see what
 
 34 KIDDIES 
 
 wee Agnes is daein'," said Aunt Sarah gently and 
 persuasively. 
 
 "She's no' daein' onything." 
 
 "Weel, come wi' me. I'm no' gaun to let you stan' 
 there." 
 
 "What wey?" 
 
 "Come, John! See hoo guid yer wee sister is, stand- 
 in' where she was tell't to stan', an' never sayin' a 
 word. Come, John." 
 
 "Agnes is gaun to be sea-sick on the boat," John 
 remarked, turning and eyeing his sister with unwonted 
 interest. "Ye shouldna ha'e let her eat twa rhubart 
 terts, Aunt Sarah." 
 
 "We Agnes is fine," returned Aunt Sarah, who 
 had given Agnes an extra tart for being "a good 
 girl." 
 
 "She'll no' be vera fine when she's on the boat." 
 
 Aunt Sarah tried not to feel anxious. "It's no* 
 stormy," she declared. 
 
 "It doesna need to be stormy for Agnes. She aye 
 gets bad wi' pastry." 
 
 "John," cried the aunt reprovingly, "it's no' nice 
 o'ye to speak like that aboot yer wee sister. A body 
 wud think ye wud like to see her sea-sick." 
 
 "I like seein' folk sea-sick. I never get sick. But 
 if Agnes doesna get bad on the boat, she'll be bad on 
 the train. She canna help it. Ye shouldna ha'e gi'ed 
 her twa rhubart terts, Aunt Sarah." 
 
 "Ye're an impiddent wee rascal!" exclaimed the 
 poor woman. "Come awa' ! See ! Thonder the boat 
 comin'." 
 
 "That's no' oor boat. Oor boat has a rid funnel," 
 returned John, as, at last, he allowed himself to be 
 dragged in his sister's direction. 
 
 Wee Agnes was certainly not looking too happy. 
 
 "Weel, Agnes," said her aunt brightly, "ye'll sune
 
 ADVANTAGES OF BEING AN AUNT 35 
 
 be on the road hame noo. Ye're enjoyin' yersel', are 
 ye no'?" 
 
 "Ay," faltered Agnes. 
 
 "Ye're tellin' a story!" remarked John. 
 
 "Haud yer tongue, John !" said his aunt indignantly, 
 "I didna gi'e her mair to eat nor she wantit did I, 
 Agnes ?'< 
 
 Agnes nodded and shook her head. 
 
 "Ye're haudin' yer doll upside doon," John ob- 
 served. "Ye'll gi'e it water on the heid, Agnes." 
 
 Agnes endeavoured to smile. 
 
 "Ha'e ye a pain?" he inquired. 
 
 "Uh-ha," she admitted. 
 
 John gave her a look of sympathy, then turned 
 triumphantly to his aunt. 
 
 "Itell'tye!"hecried. 
 
 Aunt Sarah looked distressed. "Where's the pain, 
 dearie?" she gently asked. "Is't in yer heid?" 
 
 Agnes hesitated a moment or two. "It's it's ablow 
 ma pinny," she whispered bashfully. 
 
 "That's the pastry," said John, and turned away. 
 
 Aunt Sarah was too much disturbed about Agnes 
 to follow him just then. She set herself to comfort 
 the sufferer with kind and encouraging words and 
 promises of certain rewards immediately on reaching 
 Glasgow. 
 
 "Try to forget aboot it, dearie," she whispered. 
 "Dinna brood on it when ye're on the boat an' the 
 train." 
 
 "I'll try," said Agnes bravely. 
 
 "An' we'll gang doon to the saloon," said her aunt, 
 "an' I'll tell ye stories, an' " 
 
 Just then there was a loud splash followed by a 
 cry. Aunt Sarah screeched and looked about her. 
 There was no one visible on the end of the pier save 
 Agnes and herself.
 
 3 6 KIDDIES 
 
 "Oh, where's John?" she cried, and rushed to the 
 edge. 
 
 "Kee-hoy!" yelled a voice behind her, and there 
 was John in the little signal-box at the corner. 
 
 Aunt Sarah turned on him, her mouth shaped to 
 scream "Help!" 
 
 "Oh, John!" she gasped at last, in a tone of in- 
 tense relief, "I thocht ye was awa'!" 
 
 John laughed uproariously. 
 
 "What was the splash?" she demanded, getting 
 angry. 
 
 Her nephew pointed to a heap of bricks on the pier. 
 "I thocht I wud gi'e ye a start." And he went into 
 a fresh fit of delight. 
 
 Aunt Sarah threw her arms heavenward. "Never 
 again," she cried, "never again will I tak' ither folks' 
 weans to the coast." 
 
 An elderly and rather stout lady approached her 
 as she was dragging John toward the middle of the 
 pier. 
 
 "I'm afraid," she remarked pleasantly, "your little 
 boy is rather obstreperous. Still, you know, we must 
 make allowances " 
 
 John stared stonily, and interrupted the remark with : 
 
 "I'm no' her little boy." 
 
 So impudent was his expression that the elderly 
 lady's geniality failed her, her conversation dried up, 
 and she hurried away from the group. 
 
 "A whale wud be glad to get her" said John au- 
 dibly. 
 
 Aunt Sarah's fingers itched to box his ears. 
 
 "I'll tell yer fayther aboot this!" she muttered 
 wrathfully. "He'll sort ye!" 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "What for? ye wee rascal! Fine ye ken what for! 
 Oh, ye bad boy! ye bad, bad boy!"
 
 ADVANTAGES OF BEING AN AUNT 3 7 
 
 "Ye'll mak' Agnes greet," he said warningly. And, 
 sure enough, the little girl's lip was quivering omi- 
 nously. 
 
 "Agnes is affrontit at ye she's ashamed o' her 
 brither. Are ye no', Agnes?" said Aunt Sarah, patting 
 the child's shoulder. 
 
 Agnes shook her head. "I'm no' likin' ye to scold 
 him," she mumbled. 
 
 The distracted aunt heaved a sigh of despair and 
 applied her handkerchief to her forehead. 
 
 "Never again! never again!" she murmured. 
 
 The steamer came in at last. About a dozen pas- 
 sengers were by this time waiting to embark. Aunt 
 Sarah insisted upon John's entering the gangway im- 
 mediately in front of her. She did not wish to lose 
 sight of him. Directly ahead of John was the lady 
 who had once been genial. John took the opportunity 
 to pin to her skirts a discarded label, imprinted with 
 the words "Returned Empty," which he had picked 
 from the quay. 
 
 "Come on, Agnes, an' I'll chase ye," he said when 
 they reached the deck. 
 
 But Agnes was not equal to being chased. 
 
 "YeVe got to come doon to the saloon," said Aunt 
 Sarah. 
 
 "Nae fears," said John. "I'm guan to the neb o' 
 the boat to watch it scooshin' through the water." 
 
 "Ye are not." 
 
 "I am sot!" 
 
 "Boy," exclaimed a dignified, military-looking gentle- 
 man, "obey your mother!" 
 
 "She's no' ma mither!" retorted John as he dodged 
 round the corner of the ticket office. "Sold again, 
 tin whiskers!" 
 
 It is highly probable that the dignified, military- 
 looking gentleman wished he hadn't spoken.
 
 38 KIDDIES 
 
 Aunt Sarah lost her head and gave chase to her 
 nephew. Luckily for her, he slipped and fell on the 
 iron plates surrounding the funnel. She seized him 
 and dragged him struggling across the deck and down 
 the stair leading to the fore saloon. Agnes followed, 
 weeping bitterly and exclaiming, "Dinna hurt him! 
 Oh, please, dinna hurt him!" 
 
 The voyage lasted little over half an hour, but dur- 
 ing that period John managed to escape at least ten 
 times, to the utter exhaustion of his aunt, who fled 
 wildly after him, breathing threats and prayers on 
 every occasion. 
 
 "Never again! never again!" repeated Aunt Sarah 
 to herself, when, after further anxieties and terrors, 
 she found herself and her charges on board the train. 
 "Never again will I tak' onything to dae wi' anither 
 woman's brats, even supposin' they are ma sister's," 
 she reflected. '' 'Deed, I think Bessie should be black 
 ashamed o' herself to ha'e brocht a wean up like that 
 John. I'm done wi' him, onywey." 
 
 They had the compartment to themselves, and for a 
 space John kept things lively, but at last, somewhat 
 to his aunt's surprise, he obliged her by taking a seat 
 between her and the window. 
 
 The train rumbled on. Agnes snuggled into the 
 shelter of her aunt's right arm, hugging her doll and 
 humming a little drowsy tune to herself. 
 
 "Ye're feelin' better, dearie?" asked her aunt. 
 
 "Uh-ha," Agnes replied contentedly. 
 
 Aunt Sarah closed her eyes. She was more than tired. 
 
 "Never again! never again!" she sighed. 
 
 After a little while she glanced at the boy, who was 
 so quiet that she suspected some fresh mischief. But 
 John's head was laid back against the coarse upholstery 
 and his eyes were shut, the lids very white on the cheeks 
 that the keen spring air had reddened.
 
 ADVANTAGES OF BEING AN AUNT 39 
 
 "It's a mercy he's quate at last!" she said to herself. 
 "The wee brat!" 
 
 Presently John slipped toward her till his head lay 
 against her arm. 
 
 "The wee brat!" thought Aunt Sarah. "An' to 
 look at him noo a body wud think he was a a angel. 
 He doesna look extra comfortable," she reflected a little 
 later. "His neck's twisted-like." 
 
 So she moved her arm very cautiously and made him 
 as comfortable as she could. 
 
 As the train entered Glasgow, John, still rubbing 
 his eyes, nudged his aunt. 
 
 "Here!" he said in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "Eh ?" She inclined her ear toward him. It sud- 
 denly occurred to her that he was going to say he was 
 sorry. "What dae ye want to tell me, John?" she 
 asked encouragingly and gently. 
 
 "I've decidit no' to tell on ye for gi'ein' Agnes the 
 twa rhubart terts."
 
 IV 
 THE GOOD FAIRY 
 
 THE door of the junior schoolroom was almost closed, 
 and for a few moments the small boy w r ith the red 
 head and the brown suit a good size too big for him 
 listened at the aperture. Then with the utmost cau- 
 tion he pushed it open and peeped in. Nobody there! 
 His expression of anxiety gave place to that of relief. 
 He was in time after all! 
 
 With stealthy strides he tip-toed across the floor to 
 the teacher's desk. His left hand raised the lid and 
 held it up while his right transferred something seem- 
 ingly fragile from his jacket pocket to the interior. 
 For a brief space he gazed at it, half satisfied, half re- 
 luctant, then gently closed the lid and strolled over to 
 the hearth, where he proceeded to chafe his hands in a 
 manner that suggested nervousness, if not guilt. His 
 classmates began to drop in. He received his particu- 
 lar friends genially enough, yet latterly with something 
 like condescension. 
 
 Ten minutes later school began, and not long after- 
 wards Miss Hamilton, the teacher, had occasion to 
 apply to her desk. The red-haired boy, whose name 
 was John, watched her with a sort of fascination. His 
 lips were parted; he breathed quickly. His ringers 
 gripped the seat of the form, one of his rather thin 
 legs was tensely twisted round the other. He was go- 
 ing through an experience not new, yet one which had 
 become more exciting with each repetition. Would 
 Miss Hamilton speak this time? Would she disclose 
 40
 
 THE GOOD FAIRY 41 
 
 the thing of which he alone could tell the secret? He 
 feared she would ... he feared she wouldn't. . . . 
 
 Above the desk-lid Miss Hamilton smiled to herself, 
 and he wriggled ; he almost squealed. Then, still smil- 
 ing, she let down the lid. It was all over ! She wasn't 
 going to say anything. Was he relieved or disap- 
 pointed? Possibly both. The strain relaxed only to 
 spring taut again. For stay! She was lifting the lid 
 again! . . . Oh, my, she was taking out something! 
 It was it was his secret! 
 
 Miss Hamilton was quite young as well as pretty, 
 and she let out a little giggle as she held up, in full view 
 of the classes, an egg a fine, big, delicately browned 
 hen's egg! Several little boys laughed aloud. 
 
 "Really," said Miss Hamilton, "I must know who 
 the good fairy is!" 
 
 As for John, he glowed with self-consciousness and 
 shuddered with ecstasy. A Good Fairy! Assuredly 
 he was not used to being called names like that. 
 
 Miss Hamilton continued: "This is the sixth morn- 
 ing within a fortnight that I have found a splendid 
 new-laid egg in my desk; and we all know how scarce 
 and dear eggs are at this season. Well, I am not going 
 to ask the good fairy to stand up just now, but I hope 
 that she or he" obviously an afterthought "will 
 speak to me at the close of school to-day, for, as you 
 know, it is horrid not to be able to say 'thank you,' es- 
 pecially when one wants to say it as much as I do. 
 And, as you also know, we break up to-morrow for our 
 Christmas holidays. . . . And now we must get on 
 with our lessons." 
 
 John's state of bliss lasted until the afternoon, when 
 he fell to wondering what Miss Hamilton would say to 
 him at the end of school. He hoped she would not ask 
 a certain question. After all, he thought it would be 
 better to see her, if possible, without the others
 
 42 KIDDIES 
 
 knowing. He decided that he would hide somewhere 
 and waylay Miss Hamilton after she had left the 
 school. 
 
 Alas for his hopes and plans! In the last hour Miss 
 Hamilton received a telegram telling her that some one 
 was coming to see her, and the instant her duties were 
 finished she hurried away to the station, with spark- 
 ling eyes and unwontedly warm complexion, but with- 
 out the slightest remembrance of the Good Fairy. 
 
 John was grievously cast down until, on his way 
 home, a happy thought came to him. On the morrow 
 he would just put another egg in her desk, and that 
 would surely remind her, and everything would be 
 all right! 
 
 Yet there's many a slip even for good fairies. 
 
 John lived with an aunt and uncle in a cottage about 
 a mile outside the village. For nearly a year that had 
 been his home. If he regretted the loss of his parents, 
 he never showed it. Certainly they had not been par- 
 ticularly estimable people, and John was a curiously 
 self-contained youngster. On the other hand, his aunt 
 and uncle were undeniably worthy people. If they had 
 not welcomed the orphan with cordiality, they had, at 
 least, striven to do what they deemed their duty 
 towards him. But they were a deplorably solemn 
 pair for a little boy to live with especially Aunt 
 Brown. Uncle Brown occasionally gave feeble evi- 
 dence that his suppression was not utterly complete. 
 He was an essentially mild man, whereas his wife was 
 uncompromisingly stern in all her ways. 
 
 It was morning in the cottage. The frost had gone, 
 the snow had come in force. Outside it was scarcely
 
 THE GOOD FAIRY 43 
 
 yet light. A lamp illuminated the kitchen, a model 
 of austere orderliness. 
 
 Mrs. Brown looked hard at her nephew, who was 
 making to rise from the breakfast-table. 
 
 "Feenish yer parritch," she commanded. 
 
 "I canna." 
 
 "Sit still an' feenish it!" She glanced up at the 
 clock. "Ye're far ower early for the schule." 
 
 "I'm no' hungry," said John, with a glance of appeal 
 in the direction of his uncle, who was stolidly absorb- 
 ing an enormous mass of nutriment. 
 
 "Snap it up! Wasters come to want." Mrs. 
 Brown had a great store of proverbs, all of a more or 
 less cheerless nature. 
 
 "It'll keep oot the cauld, John," said his uncle, 
 scarcely pausing. 
 
 Excitement, apprehension, and other emotions had 
 ruined the boy's appetite for this morning, yet his aunt's 
 will was law. He forced himself to "make a clean 
 plate" then rose. 
 
 "I've tell't ye, ye dinna need to leave sae early," his 
 aunt said sharply. 
 
 "Ay, I need," he returned, the least thing rebel- 
 liously. 
 
 Mr. Brown interposed unexpectedly. "Let him 
 gang. He'll ha'e some ploy on. It's the day afore 
 the holidays." 
 
 For once the woman did not argue. With an im- 
 patient and indistinct remark about the folly of holi- 
 days, she went over to the hearth, and John, with a 
 grateful glance at his uncle, who was once more too 
 busy to notice it, hustled into his coat, seized his bag, 
 and went out. 
 
 In the snowy half light he made his way round to 
 the hen-house. Mrs. Brown kept only a few fowls, 
 but they were prize ones and her greatest pride. Every
 
 44 KIDDIES 
 
 egg was a personal triumph as well as an item of profit. 
 Lately she had sold a dozen to the Manse at the great 
 price of three shillings! 
 
 John unlatched the door and hesitated. He hated 
 that gloomy, cobwebby interior, and being town-bred, 
 he was not a little afraid of the creatures he could 
 scarcely see. But he had braved it all before for Miss 
 Hamilton's sake, and now it would be for his own sake 
 as well, for he did greatly desire that she should know, 
 ere she went away for the holidays, who the Good 
 Fairy really was. So presently he was inside, and be- 
 ginning, very gingerly, to feel in the nests. 
 
 In the murkiest corner he touched feathers, and a big 
 yellow hen, with a fearsome cackle, flew over his 
 shoulder and out of doors, to continue her protests in 
 the snow. And in the same moment a puff of wind 
 blew the door shut with a bang. 
 
 John shut his mouth on a screech, but it was a long 
 half-minute before his hand went into the cosy nest. 
 This time, however, he had his reward. A regular 
 whopper of an egg the most splendid yet ! 
 
 Just then the door was opened and his aunt ap- 
 peared. With a black shawl over her head, her gaunt 
 face in the grey light looked very dreadful. 
 
 "What's this?" she cried, in a terrible voice. Then 
 "Drap that egg!" Doubtless she meant to say, "Re- 
 turn that egg to the nest!" 
 
 Whether the boy took her literally or the egg slipped 
 from his hand need not be discussed. With a sickening 
 little crash it exploded on the floor. Then without 
 a sound the boy bolted past her and away to school. 
 
 All was lost ! Yet fate had not exhausted her blows. 
 On entering the schoolroom he found it humming with 
 early-birds, some merry, others cross, while Miss Ham- 
 ilton's desk was covered with offerings mainly of a 
 baked and vegetable nature. Clearly the Good Fairy
 
 THE GOOD FAIRY 45 
 
 idea had "caught on," and the teacher on her arrival 
 wished, however graciously she expressed herself, that 
 she had held her tongue on the previous morning. 
 
 For John the day was one of misery and despair, 
 and more than once he was near to breaking down. 
 Immediately on the close of school he made for home 
 with all its terrors rather than wait with the crowd 
 to bid good-bye to the beloved teacher, who was leaving 
 by the early train next morning. For the greatest 
 blow of all had fallen. Even Miss Hamilton had been 
 wrong. He was not a Good Fairy, or anything like it. 
 Conscience had at last told him so! 
 
 It was evening in the cottage. The meal was over. 
 Everything was tidied up. On the right of the hearth 
 sat Mr. Brown, his uneasy countenance concealed by 
 a weekly paper; on the left Mrs. Brown, cold and 
 stern, knitting steadily. On a stool, set apart from his 
 relatives, squatted John. The Pilgrim's Progress was 
 on his knees, and his eyes were glued to it, but he had 
 not turned a page for half an hour. 
 
 There had been a long silence, broken only by the 
 wail of the wind in the chimney, when Mrs. Brown 
 spoke. 
 
 "Peter, the time has come." 
 
 Her husband started. Behind the paper he mut- 
 tered : "I canna dae it." 
 
 "It's yer duty." 
 
 "Weel, I'll see aboot it in the mornin'." 
 
 "It's got to be done the nicht, an' the suner the 
 better." 
 
 "Oh, woman," said Peter, in a lowered voice, "let 
 it pass this time." 
 
 "Spare the rod an' spile the child!" she retorted. 
 
 "Fudge!" Peter let fall the paper, possibly in as- 
 tonishment at his own temerity.
 
 46 KIDDIES 
 
 "What?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, as one who refuses 
 to believe her ears. 
 
 "There was plenty o' the rod afore he cam' to us," 
 said Peter, "an' what guid has it done?" 
 
 "Man, wud yee set yersel' up against Solomon?" 
 
 "Solomon had his gifts," said Peter wearily, "but 
 I never was entirely satisfied wi' the wisdom o' a man 
 that had several gross o' wives an' dear knows how 
 mony cone " 
 
 "Whisht!" 
 
 John looked up. He had been in disgrace for a long, 
 long time, and was feeling horribly lonely. Perhaps at 
 last they were going to forgive his crime, and here was 
 an opportunity of attracting his uncle's attention. 
 
 "Uncle," he said gently, "what's a conk ?" 
 
 "Haud yer tongue!" snapped his aunt, with an angry 
 look at her man. 
 
 Mr. Brown made an odd sound in his throat. Then 
 gravely he answered: "Merely a sort o' lady, John." 
 
 "Peter," said his wife, "if ye dinna dae yer duty, 
 ye'll be sorry." 
 
 Peter knew he would be sorry either way, but habit 
 reasserted itself and obedience followed. He cleared 
 his throat. 
 
 "John," he said ponderously, "I was vexed to hear 
 ye had been a tamperin' wi' yer aunt's eggs. What 
 for did ye dae it?" 
 
 John, looking wretched, answered nothing. 
 
 "Tamperin'!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "Stole is 
 the word for't! An' eggs that few an' valuable!" 
 
 "Maybe he didna ken he was stealin'," said Peter. 
 "Did ye, John?" 
 
 "I I thocht the hens wud lay plenty mair, Uncle 
 Peter." 
 
 "Ye had nae business to think what the hens wud 
 dae," his aunt said bitterly. "Peter, he's confessed to
 
 THE GOOD FAIRY 47 
 
 stealin' hauf a dizzen in the last twa weeks, but he 
 wudna confess what he did wi' them. Ask him !" 
 
 "John, what did ye dae wi' the eggs?" 
 
 No answer; for John had made up his mind that, 
 whatever happened, he would not get his teacher into 
 trouble. 
 
 "There ye see!" cried Mrs. Brown, at last. "If he 
 had confessed, I micht ha'e overlooked it. Dae yer 
 duty, Peter, as ye promised me ye wud. It's for his ain 
 guid," she paused. "I'll gang oot to the henhoose till 
 ye get it ower." She nodded in the direction of a cane, 
 commonly used on carpets, that stood against the wall 
 beside his chair, where she had placed it earlier. Then 
 taking up her shawl and a candle, she left the kitchen. 
 
 "The Lord help me!" sighed Peter, and added un- 
 der his breath: "I wish I had Solomon here!" With- 
 out looking at the boy he said: "John, will ye tell 
 me what ye did wi' the eggs?" 
 
 "I canna." 
 
 "Weel, I'm dam I mean, I'm exceedin'ly sorry, but 
 I'll ha'e to punish ye gi'e ye a lickin', in fac'. Pre- 
 pare yersel' !" 
 
 "Hoo am I to prepare masel'?" quavered John. 
 
 With a sudden inspiration the man pointed with the 
 cane to the red cloth on the table. "Tak' it an' wrap 
 it roun' yer a legs." 
 
 A new form of torture, perhaps, but John obeyed. 
 
 Mr. Brown advanced and took his victim carefully 
 by the coat collar. "Noo mind," he said, "I've got 
 to try for to hurt ye. Ma duty, ye ken," he added, 
 rather apologetically. "Are ye ready?" He flour- 
 ished the cane and brought it down gingerly on the 
 tablecloth. "Did that hurt ye?" 
 
 "Ay na, it didna, Uncle Peter." 
 
 "Honest lad!" A slightly harder stroke. "Did 
 that?"
 
 48 KIDDIES 
 
 "Na." 
 
 After several cuts the tormentor paused, looking 
 helpless. 
 
 "Uncle Peter," said John, "ye'd best lick me proper, 
 or she'll no' be pleased wi' ye." 
 
 "Tits! Ye'll break ma heart! There!" (whack). 
 "Was that no sair?" 
 
 "A wee bittie." 
 
 (Whack.) "An' that?" 
 
 John winced. 
 
 "It wud be better if ye cried oot," said Mr. Brown, 
 and struck once more. "Yell!" 
 
 John gave a squeak. Then suddenly, "Oh, Uncle 
 Peter, ye're awfu' kind," he said, and fell to sobbing 
 bitterly. 
 
 With a bad word Peter flung the cane across the 
 kitchen. "God forgi'e us a'," he muttered, and un- 
 wrapping the cloth, replaced it on the table. 
 
 "John," he said, and patted his nephew's shoulder, 
 "dinna greet. This'll be a secret atween us. An' I'll 
 tak' yer word if ye promise never to gang near the hens 
 again, excep' by yer aunt's orders. I suppose ye sooked 
 the eggs a natural proceedin' for a hungry juvenile in 
 cauld weather. An' ye'll tell yer aunt yer sorry, an' 
 try to mak' it up to her eh?" 
 
 Unable to speak, the boy nodded emphatically. 
 
 "Guid lad! Tell her the morn, n' gang to yer 
 bed noo. Oh, wait a meenute ! Here's anither secret. 
 Tell naebody." 
 
 John felt something put into his hand and himself 
 guided from the kitchen. In the passage Peter took 
 up a small safety lamp and carried it into the box of a 
 room where the boy slept. 
 
 "Guid nicht, John, an' forget yer troubles," he said, 
 and closed the door. 
 
 After a while John opened his hand expecting to
 
 THE GOOD FAIRY 49 
 
 find a ha'penny and lo and behold a shilling! It 
 was long for a little boy, at any rate before he 
 slept, but when slumber arrived it found him per- 
 fectly happy, for everything had come right and he was, 
 without the faintest shadow of doubt, a Good Fairy 
 after all. 
 
 When Mrs. Brown returned to the kitchen, her 
 husband, from behind the trembling weekly paper, 
 managed to say: 
 
 "His sufferin's was terrible, Elizabeth. I hope ye 
 didna hear him." 
 
 She sat down as though very tired and moistened 
 her lips. 
 
 "I had ma fingers in ma ears," she said. 
 
 It was morning in the cottage. 
 
 "Is John no' up yet?" inquired the uncle, gazing at 
 the steaming dish in front of him. 
 
 I thocht I wud let him rest, seein' he's got his holi- 
 s," returned the aunt. 
 
 He stared at her, and possibly she did not like it, 
 for she moved from the kitchen, remarking, "I'll see if 
 he's wauken noo." 
 
 A moment later Peter heard her cry out. 
 
 In the small room he found her standing at the 
 window, which was open, in one hand a scrap of exer- 
 cise paper, in the other a shilling. The paper bore the 
 following words pencilled in a childish hand : 
 
 "This shilling has bot the eggs I stole. With thanks 
 from John." 
 
 The man and woman suddenly looked ten years 
 older. With one accord they whispered 
 "Whaur can he be?" 
 
 The porter was slamming the doors, when a small
 
 50 KIDDIES 
 
 boy with a red head rushed from the snow into the 
 station and along the platform, his countenance ex- 
 pressing acute anxiety. 
 
 Fortunattely Miss Hamilton was looking out of the 
 open window. 
 
 "What is it, John?" she cried. 
 
 Though he could not speak just then, his desire to do 
 so was plain. 
 
 At the risk of being left behind, the girl descended. 
 
 "What's the matter? Tell me, John." She bent 
 over him and put her arm round his shoulders. "Come, 
 dearie" giving him a squeeze. 
 
 At last he got it out in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "Please, I'm the Guid Fairy . . . but but I'll no' 
 be able to fetch ye ony mair eggs."
 
 V 
 
 THE ANSWER 
 
 "MOTHER!" 
 
 A pause of ten seconds. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 A pause of five seconds. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "What is it, Teddy?" There was at least a trace 
 of asperity in Mrs. Bulward's voice as she turned, pen- 
 cil in hand, from the fire to face her small son in the 
 big bed. 
 
 "Why do you always make faces when you are writ- 
 ing in that book, mother?" Teddy was recovering 
 from one of "those nasty feverish colds," and one of 
 his privileges during the convalescent period was to 
 spend the afternoons in the big bed, looking for all 
 sorts of extra considerations as if he deserved them. 
 
 "I don't make faces!" Mrs. Bulward returned with 
 a haughtiness rather absurd in the circumstances. But 
 she was not quite herself after several disturbed nights 
 and this long, futile struggle with the housekeeping 
 accounts book. Moreover, she was young, and had not 
 yet forgotten she was pretty. 
 
 "Perhaps you don't know you are making them," said 
 Teddy mildly, "but you are. I don't think I like it." 
 
 "Oh, be quiet and keep your arms under the clothes." 
 
 "Can't breave with my arms under the clothes." 
 
 "Nonsense! Put them under at once!" 
 
 "All right" in tones of patient resignation; "I sup- 
 Si
 
 52 KIDDIES 
 
 pose you'd prefer your little boy to be stuffocated. 
 May I have a drink first?" 
 
 "You may," she replied stiffly, getting up. 
 
 "I never feel so fond of you when you speak in that 
 other lady's voice," he remarked, and took a sip. "I 
 don't think the milk's so good to-day," he added, lying 
 down again. "It's got a fish-fat taste." 
 
 "Don't be absurd ! You imagine things because you 
 are not quite well yet. Fish-fat indeed! I never 
 heard of such a thing." 
 
 "I have. You ought to speak to Mr. Boo and Mrs. 
 Moo about it." These being the worthy couple, bet- 
 ter known as Mr. and Mrs. McPherson, who supplied 
 milk in the neighborhood. "Sometimes," he added, 
 "the butter has a bow-wow taste." 
 
 "That will do, Teddy. You must take a nap now." 
 
 "I'm not sleepy. What are you going to do?" 
 
 "Never mind," she replied, the accusation of "mak- 
 ing faces" still rankling. To herself she said, "But I 
 will find out where that one and threepence has gone 
 to, before Dick comes home." It should be mentioned 
 here that prior to the war Mrs. Bulward had never seen 
 the inside of a housekeeping accounts book. 
 
 Teddy lay still for quite a long time, and she had 
 just discovered an error of fourpence, which left her 
 with the more than ever puzzling discrepancy of 
 eleven-pence to deal with when 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 She snatched the misery-making volume from her 
 knee and slammed it upon the floor. 
 
 Teddy sat up all interest. "Was it a mouse?" 
 
 Controlling herself partially she said: "You know 
 perfectly well there are no mouse in this hice!" 
 
 He laughed heartily. "Say it again, mother!" 
 
 She laughed, too, in spite of herself. "It's a silly old 
 book," she said. "But you must lie down, or you won't
 
 THE ANSWER 53 
 
 be better in time for Christmas." Having tucked him 
 in, she went back to the fire and took up some sewing. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "Yes, dear?" Evidently the recent little outburst 
 had done her good. 
 
 "Mother, has the turkey come?" 
 
 "What turkey?" 
 
 "Our turkey." 
 
 She threaded a needle before she said kindly: "I'm 
 afraid, Teddy, we are not going to manage a turkey 
 this Christmas." 
 
 "Why?" He all but sat up in his astonishment. 
 
 "Because of the war, dearie." 
 
 'Have the Germans been shooting the turkeys, too?" 
 
 "I couldn't say; but I'm afraid we can't afford a 
 turkey." 
 
 "Why can't we afford a turkey?" 
 
 "Our pennies are required for so many other things." 
 
 "I'll ask daddy." 
 
 "Well, I don't think I'd do that, if I were you. 
 You see, daddy would give us a turkey if he possibly 
 could." 
 
 "I see." Teddy gave a little sigh. "Are turkeys 
 awful dear?" 
 
 "They are very expensive, Teddy. Even little ones 
 cost " 
 
 "Couldn't we have a fearfully small, little one 
 about this size? Look, mother!" His hands came 
 above the clothes to indicate a bulk the size of an or- 
 ange. 
 
 She smiled and shook her head. "They don't keep 
 them quite so small as that, dear. Why, the fowl we 
 are going to have will be far bigger " 
 
 "I hate fowl! I simply can't stick it!" 
 
 "Oh, Teddy! You know you love fowl!"
 
 54 KIDDIES 
 
 "Not when I'm thinking of turkey." 
 
 "Well, I'm sure you will love our fowl when you 
 see it. It will be stuffed just like a turkey, you know. 
 A great many people this year," she went on, "will be 
 missing turkey " 
 
 "I'll miss it dreadfully!" 
 
 "I meant doing without it. It isn't so difficult to do 
 without things when we think of our brave soldiers 
 is it, Teddy?" 
 
 ''If I had a turkey I would give the brave soldiers 
 a great big bit of it." 
 
 "I'm sure you would. But by doing without it we 
 can help them in other ways. You see ?" 
 
 "I I think I'll have a nap now," he said, and turned 
 on his side. He was well under the clothes now, and 
 he kept his eyes shut for about a minute. He was just 
 old enough to feel that, somehow, Christmas was not 
 right without a turkey. It is not the aged, but the very 
 young who truly venerate tradition. It was not the dis- 
 appointment of a greedy nature that brought the mois- 
 ture to the young eyes; simply a sadness not to be ex- 
 plained and described in so many words. Things gen- 
 erally in his little world had gone wrong. At the end 
 of five minutes : 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "Yes, dear?" 
 
 "Have you asked God for a turkey?" 
 
 Mrs. Bulward was taken aback, but managed to 
 reply: 
 
 "I think we should ask Him only for very impor- 
 tant things just now, Teddy." 
 
 "But a turkey's a very 'portant thing. Do you 
 think He'd mind if I asked Him to-night? He 
 wouldn't be cross, would He even if He was awful 
 busy looking after the soldiers?" 
 
 "No, I'm syrp He would never be angry with a little
 
 THE ANSWER 55 
 
 boy who believed in Him. But, you know, Teddy 
 dear, He does not give everything we ask for " 
 
 "I know! I've never got that box of tools yet, and 
 I've asked for it nights and nights. But I daresay He 
 was afraid I'd hurt myself with the saw, though I 
 promised Him I'd be awful careful. . . . But don't you 
 think I might ask for the turkey?" 
 
 His mother came over and stroked his hair. "Ask 
 for everything you want, Teddy boy. Just always 
 remember that He knows best what is good for us." 
 
 Teddy reflected for a moment. Then "I'd better 
 do it now, for I guess heaps of people will be asking 
 for turkeys. Please kneel down. ..." 
 
 A little later he said: 
 
 "You're not to tell daddy, 'cause I want him to get 
 a surprise." 
 
 Just then Mr. Bulward arrived home, unexpectedly 
 early, and all doubts and melancholy departed, so far 
 as Teddy was concerned. Mr. Bulward, too, was 
 looking brighter than of late. He had been hard hit 
 by the war, but perhaps the sorest blow had been his 
 rejection for military service. 
 
 He was doing what he could in other ways, and as 
 a special constable in the small hours of the morning 
 had acquired merit if not distinction. 
 
 He brought news that pleased his wife and boy al- 
 most as much as himself. His younger brother, who 
 had been lying wounded in Malta, was on his way 
 home, and would arrive in time to spend Christmas 
 with them. 
 
 "He should be here on the 23rd, or early on the 
 24th, Milly," said Mr. Bulward. "You'll get plenty 
 of stories from your Uncle Jack, Teddy." 
 
 "I'm going to give him a present," Teddy announced, 
 with that lightning quickness of decision which only 
 children possess.
 
 56 KIDDIES 
 
 "What'll you give him ?" asked his father. 
 
 "I don't know yet. Wait till I see what's in my 
 stocking." 
 
 "Oh, but you wouldn't give away a Christmas pres- 
 ent, Teddy!" cried his mother admonishingly. 
 
 "You always give away the things you get from 
 Aunt Bella." 
 
 "I think we might give him a box of decent cigar- 
 ettes," interposed Mr. Bulward, chiefly to cover his 
 wife's confusion. 
 
 "But can we afford it?" said Teddy. "Of course! 
 I forgot he was a soldier!" 
 
 II 
 
 Captain Bulward arrived on the 23rd, but so late at 
 night that Teddy did not see him till breakfast-time. 
 Teddy was pretty much himself again, and as the morn- 
 ing was fine, there was nothing to qualify his satisfac- 
 tion when his uncle suggested a stroll round. His fa- 
 ther was bound to business as usual, his mother, in those 
 days of economy, had her hands full with household 
 affairs, and it must be confessed that his pride and 
 delight were not lessened when he realised that he was 
 to have the Captain all to himself for a couple of hours. 
 
 "Well, where are we going, old cock?" the soldier 
 cheerfully inquired, as he took his stick, which unfor- 
 tunately he required, from the stand. 
 
 Teddy had been called many odd things in his time, 
 but never "old cock." It was a lovely name ! 
 
 "I think Uncle Jack would like to see the Park," 
 said his mother, who always meant well, while she ex- 
 amined him from head to heel. 
 
 Teddy's face fell. The Park would be "awfully 
 stale," but he did not say so.
 
 THE ANSWER 57 
 
 "And I," said the captain gravely, "think Uncle Jack 
 would, on the whole, prefer an hour at the shops, and 
 then a rest in a nice tea-room, and then an hour in a 
 picture house, if one should be open so early, and then 
 a drive home in a taxi. How's that, Teddy?" 
 
 Teddy, his countenance beaming, clutched his uncle's 
 hand. "Come on !" he cried, shoving his free hand in 
 his pocket. 
 
 "But no rich cakes, mind!" Mrs. Bulward called 
 after them. A moment later she rushed out in their 
 track. "Teddy, have you got your clean hanky?" 
 
 "Of course!" 
 
 Having made him exhibit it, she retired more 
 leisurely, stopped at the gate to wave till they passed 
 round the corner, then turned towards the house, sat- 
 isfied that she had done all that a mother could do 
 and on the doorstep beheld one of his gloves. 
 
 As they neared the shops : 
 
 "I guess you're going to have a pretty merry Christ- 
 mas, Teddy," the Captain remarked. 
 
 "I guess so," said Teddy, wishing he would call him 
 "old cock" again. 
 
 "The war won't make any difference to Santa Claus, 
 I suppose. He'll come along all right, up to time, as 
 usual, won't he?" 
 
 "I hope so. The enemy couldn't keep him away, 
 could they, Uncle Jack?" 
 
 "I'm sure not! Do you ever happen to hear before- 
 hand what you're going to get in your stocking?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; some things I know all about before they 
 come." 
 
 "Really! Things you particularly want, I sup- 
 pose ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, look here, old cock" Teddy gave a small
 
 58 KIDDIES 
 
 squirm of delight "I wish you'd tell me what you ex- 
 pect to get this year. I'm awfully interested, and I 
 promise you I'll keep it a secret." 
 
 "Well, you see," said Teddy, with sudden gravity, 
 "it's sort of different this year. I know of two things 
 only, and they're just little things, and I I didn't 
 don't really want them awful much. Of course, I'll 
 be glad to get them, but " 
 
 "I see. I wonder if you would mind telling me of 
 something you did want do want awfully much. 
 You see, it's a long time since I was a little boy, but I 
 do remember some of the things I wanted awfully 
 much and never got and it would be interesting to 
 see if you and I have ever wanted the same sort of 
 things." 
 
 The idea appealed to Teddy. After a moment's 
 thought he said very confidentially, "Did you ever 
 want awful much a train, Uncle Jack, a train with 
 rails and ?" 
 
 The Captain put down his stick with a thump. 
 "Now, isn't that extraordinary?" he exclaimed. "A 
 train with rails is the thing I wanted more than any- 
 thing in the world." 
 
 "Oh! I wonder if it was a train like the one I 
 wanted? I'll show you it, if you like. It's in a shop 
 along here. Would you like to see it?" 
 
 "Rather!" 
 
 "It's rather dear, you know. Daddy said he was 
 afraid it would completely bust Santa Claus to give it 
 to me. Do you think it would ?" 
 
 "Well, you must remember, old cock, that the war 
 has made differences, and even Santa Claus may be 
 feeling the pinch you know what I mean? It's not 
 because he doesn't want to give the most splendid pres- 
 ents. I say!" cried the Captain, deeming it wise to 
 change the subject, for the time being, at any rate, "look
 
 THE ANSWER 59 
 
 at that turkey in the window there ! Isn't he a whop- 
 per?" 
 
 He was sorry he had spoken, for a most dismal ex- 
 pression dawned on the boy's face. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" sighed Teddy. "I had sort of forgot- 
 ten. And He hasn't sent one !" He came to a sudden 
 halt. "I suppose He was too busy looking after the 
 soldiers, or perhaps He didn't think it would be good 
 for us 'specially the stuffing." 
 
 The soldier bent down. "What's the matter, old 
 cock?" 
 
 "It's a secret, but I'll tell you. Whisper! Mother 
 said we couldn't afford a turkey this year, so I just 
 prayed for one." 
 
 "Oh!" murmured the Captain, a trifle awkwardly. 
 
 "I prayed pretty hard too, I can tell you, but I did 
 forget the night before last. Still, I 'membered last 
 night. But it hasn't come. I suppose it won't come 
 now, and we'll just be having fowl to-morrow and 
 fowl's very good too, Uncle Jack, only you mustn't 
 think of turkey when you're eating it." 
 
 "Are you so very fond of turkey, Teddy?" 
 
 "It it's not just the turkey, either. It's it's " 
 
 "The association, perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes, the 'sociation not the tummy, you know." 
 
 "I know. So you're afraid it won't come now?" 
 
 Teddy nodded. " 'Cause you see, I said : 'Please 
 send quickly, so that mother won't need to buy the 
 fowl.' . . . Let's go and look at the shops, Uncle Jack. 
 Perhaps the train will be away now." 
 
 "I hope not," said Uncle Jack. "I want to see that 
 train." 
 
 Well, the train was still there, and it was really a 
 very fine train, and the price on the ticket was "Only 
 1 8*. 6d" 
 
 The Captain produced a Treasury note.
 
 60 KIDDIES 
 
 "Look here, old cock! You know what this is. 
 Twenty shillings eighteen-and-six and a little bit 
 more. Now which would you rather buy the train 
 or the turkey?" 
 
 "Oh, the train !" gasped Teddy, without an instant's 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Good lad! come in and buy it!" 
 
 When the shopman began to tie up the splendid pur- 
 chase, the Captain said: 
 
 "I want to get some tobacco, so you'll wait here till 
 I come back, Teddy." 
 
 There were heaps of wonderful things to see in the 
 shop, but Teddy only hugged his parcel and looked 
 thoughtful till his uncle returned. 
 
 "Now then," said the latter, "I think we'll go and 
 have a cup of tea and a poor cake." 
 
 Teddy gave a small laugh and relapsed into serious- 
 ness. 
 
 "Anything wrong with the train ?" inquired the Cap- 
 tain when they had walked a little way. 
 
 "Oh, no! I was just thinking." 
 
 "What were you thinking?" 
 
 " 'Bout the turkey. Uncle Jack, I shouldn't be 
 awful surprised if the turkey came too." 
 
 "Wouldn't you?" 
 
 "No; 'cause it wouldn't be any wonderfuller than 
 the train." 
 
 The captain lit a cigarette. "By the way, old cock, 
 /did you er pray for the train?" 
 
 "No," answered Teddy decidedly. 
 
 The Captain seemed a little disappointed, till Teddy 
 shoved a small hand into his big one, saying: "I forgot 
 to say 'thank you/ and please, I can't carry this parcel 
 any further." 
 
 Then they proceeded to the promised entertain- 
 jtnents,
 
 THE ANSWER 61 
 
 On their return home Mrs. Bulward simply rushed 
 at them. 
 
 "Oh, Teddy, what do you think? A great mag- 
 nificent turkey has arrived!" 
 
 "Has it?" said Teddy, without much excitement. 
 "Uncle Jack bought me a splendid train !" 
 
 Presently she turned to her brother-in-law. "I be- 
 lieve it was you who sent " 
 
 "Don't!" he said gravely.
 
 VI 
 
 JOCK 
 
 "Now, my lad, don't be trying that game again," said 
 the third mate of the s.S. Neptune, as he led the boy 
 by the ear across the gang-plank to the quay. "If I 
 hadn't caught ye just now, that hatch would ha' been 
 closed, and that would ha' been an end to ye. Away 
 home wi' ye, and don't try it again." He lifted his 
 foot, and with a push rather than a kick propelled the 
 boy a couple of yards in the direction mentioned. 
 
 Recovering his balance, the boy, whose burning 
 cheeks were not so hot as his heart, went slowly from 
 the quayside and at last disappeared from the mate's 
 view round the corner of a shed. There he rubbed 
 his sleeve across his eyes, sniffed once or twice, and, 
 later, passed into the street called Broomielaw. For 
 the third time he had failed; for the second time he 
 had been ignominiously ejected from a ship, while less 
 than a week ago he had suffered a somewhat similar 
 experience after attempting to leave Glasgow by rail. 
 On the last occasion, as on the others, all had gone well 
 to begin with. Eluding observation, he had secreted 
 himself under the seat of a first-class compartment of 
 a train standing in Queen Street Station, and after a 
 long, anxious wait the train had started. At the end 
 of five minutes it had stopped and gone backwards, and 
 stopped again. At the end of an hour the boy had 
 realised that he was the sole passenger on the train, 
 and that, in fact, the train was not going anywhere; 
 
 62
 
 JOCK 63 
 
 it had merely taken him to the outskirts of the city, 
 some three miles from home. Threats of jail and a 
 cuff or two had been his portion ere he was free from 
 the vast railway yard. And he had gone home, hum- 
 bled by hunger. 
 
 He was hungry now, but he tried not to hasten, until 
 he remembered that he was very late for the mid-day 
 meal. The cook-shops in the Broomielaw made his 
 mouth water. Even the dignity of an elderly person 
 wavers at the pinch of hunger, and this boy was barely 
 eleven years old. "There is nothing," we smugly de- 
 clared, "like a good, healthy appetite." Nothing, in- 
 deed ! It is stronger than conscience. 
 
 The boy turned into a quiet, dingy street, and ere 
 long crossed roaring, rattling, clanging Argyle Street, 
 then up another quiet, dingy street, and so to the 
 house called home. It was summer and the day close, 
 but he felt chilly as he climbed the flights of grey 
 stone stairs. On the third landing he halted, and 
 after some hesitation knocked on one of the four doors 
 there. 
 
 He waited, then knocked again . . . and yet again. 
 
 At last the door was opened. 
 
 "Wipe yer feet," said a cold voice, belonging to a 
 lean, wiry, hard-featured woman of middle age. 
 
 She was the boy's aunt. His mother, her sister, had 
 been dead for six years. His father, a mate on a great 
 sailing ship, had been away for nearly twelve months. 
 
 "Jock! Where ha'e ye been?" the woman de- 
 manded severely, closing the door and following the 
 boy into the kitchen. 
 
 "Oot," said Jock briefly, his eyes roving round the 
 room. 
 
 There was no sign of a meal. The table, scrubbed 
 white, as was all the unpainted woodwork of the room, 
 had been replaced against the wall. Only a kettle
 
 64 KIDDIES 
 
 stood on the satin-black hob of the open range. Miss 
 Wishart was both cleanly and godly. 
 
 "I'm askin' ye where ye've been?" 
 
 "Doon at the docks," he answered sullenly. Within 
 the moment, however, his eyes lit up. So he had not 
 been forgotten after all ! 
 
 He moved towards the sink in the window. 
 
 "Doon at the docks!" the woman repeated. "I've 
 warned ye no' to gang there. Ye'll learn naething 
 there but bad language." 
 
 Jock seemed not to hear her. On the sink-board he 
 had spied a plate containing four potatoes which had 
 been boiled in their skins. The skins had burst, dis- 
 closing the tempting mealiness. The potatoes were 
 now cold but what of that? 
 
 The boy picked up one of them. 
 
 "Drap it!" cried his aunt. 
 
 He hesitated. "I'm hungry, auntie," he said. 
 
 "Drap it, I tell ye! I've warned ye a hunner times 
 no' to be late; I've warned ye no' to gang to the 
 docks. ... I said ye wud get nae dinner if ye was late 
 an' I'm gaun to keep ma word. . . . Drap that 
 tattie this meenute !" 
 
 Still he hesitated. 
 
 She had been standing by the hearth, but now she 
 took a step towards him. 
 
 "Jock! Dae what I tell ye!" 
 
 "But I I'm hungry." 
 
 "Serves ye richt! That's yer punishment. Drap 
 that tattie an' gang ben the hoose. I'm gaun to lock 
 ye up for the efternune. Oh, but I wish it was time 
 for the schule to tak' up again. Satan's ower free in 
 the holidays. . . .Drap it, I tell ye!" 
 
 Jock flared up. Back swung his arm, and he threw 
 the potato straight at his aunt. Against her somewhat 
 large brow it exploded in fragments.
 
 JOCK 65 
 
 The next instant he was in her sinewy grasp. From 
 the dresser she snatched a porridge spurtle, but her 
 passion died ere she could strike. Dropping the 
 weapon, she pushed the boy before her to the other 
 room, a sort of parlour with a bed in the wall, where 
 he slept. She locked him in, and returned to the 
 kitchen. There she picked up the spurtle and laid it in 
 its place, swept up the shattered potato and set the frag- 
 ments on the window-sill for the sparrows, and washed 
 her face and hands. Then by the white-scrubbed arm- 
 chair she went down on her knees. . . . Five minutes 
 later she was knitting industriously. 
 
 For a time Jock sat nursing his misery and resent- 
 ment, but at last he rose, and, after a prolonged stare 
 at the street below, the chimneys opposite, began to 
 move about the room, slowly circling the little round 
 table, on which were set a Family Bible, a copy of 
 The Pilgrim s Progress, an ancient volume of sermons, 
 several recent numbers of The Missionary Mail, and 
 a glass case containing a collection of waxen fruits with 
 exceeding garish complexions. Jock had always ad- 
 mired the collection, possibly because it was the sole dis- 
 tinct suggestion of gaiety in the house, but now some- 
 thing whispered to him, "Smash it!" He knew how 
 his aunt treasured it. He knew also that his aunt 
 would punish him for its destruction. But then his 
 aunt found fault with nearly everything he did. . . . 
 He was so hungry. . . . He lifted up the bulky Pil- 
 grim's Progress. He rather liked the pictures in it; 
 some bits of the reading also were to his taste. He 
 poised it above the glass case. He had only to let it 
 slip, and his revenge would be complete. Quite likely 
 his aunt would cry. He felt that she would, though 
 he had never seen her do so in the past. 
 
 He lifted the book a few inches higher, and just
 
 66 KIDDIES 
 
 then the clock in the kitchen struck four slow and sol- 
 emn strokes. 
 
 "Four bells!" he said to himself, and all but let 
 the book slip from his fingers. He grew hot and cold 
 as he laid it carefully on the table. He went back to 
 the window. 
 
 From one of his pockets he produced a yard or so of 
 coarse twine, and proceeded to tie it, as tightly as pos- 
 sible, about his middle, beneath his vest, wishing he pos- 
 sessed a proper belt. Possibly he derived more men- 
 tal satisfaction than physical ease from the twine, for 
 when he sat down it distinctly pained him, and he had 
 to slacken it. From another pocket he extracted a bun- 
 dle of printed paper, rubbed and tattered and soiled. 
 It had originally cost one penny, and had passed 
 through many hands. Jock had got the loan of it from 
 another boy, after promising faithfully to take good 
 care of it and return it, as the other boy was under 
 obligation to return it to a third, who may not have 
 been the original lender. 
 
 Jock unfolded the paper with great caution. The 
 first page was in a sad state, but the title was not quite 
 obliterated, while some of the pictures were still visible. 
 
 Jack Transome; or The Gentleman Pirate, was the 
 title, and under the remnant of the illustration was 
 printed : '' 'Dastard !' shouted Jack, and, waving his 
 cutlass, sprang upon the poop." 
 
 Jock had already read the story five times, but its 
 charm was as strong as ever, none the less so because 
 the names Jack and Jock were so like each other. And 
 Jack Transome was truly a most noble character; he 
 robbed only the wicked rich, and was ever ready to suc- 
 cour the virtuous poor. He was bold and honest, and 
 did not play shabby, underhand tricks on his bitterest 
 enemies. 
 
 Jock, as he began to read, was glad he had not
 
 JOCK 67 
 
 smashed the waxen fruits, for he realised that the Gen- 
 tleman Pirate would never have done such a thing, 
 even had the G. P.'s aunt refused him dinner. More- 
 over, Jock blushed with shame at the memory of the 
 potato, for had not his hero declared, on more than 
 one occasion, that the man who could strike a defence- 
 less woman must be a diabolical coward. Jock was not 
 sure of the meaning of "diabolical," but the word had 
 a medicinal sound, and must therefore mean something 
 exceedingly unpleasant. 
 
 "At four bells Captain Jack came on deck after his 
 brief and much-needed repose. He gazed long and 
 earnestly through his glass ; then, as he removed it from 
 his clear blue eye, he remarked to the steersman: 
 'We're gaining on her, Sam.' The grizzled sailor 
 shifted his quid, and, with an affectionate glance at his 
 beloved young skipper, replied, 'Ay, ay, sir!' Just at 
 that moment " 
 
 The reader crushed up the paper and stuffed it into 
 his pocket. The key turned in the lock, the door 
 opened, and Miss Wishart said quietly: 
 
 "Come to yer tea, Jock." 
 
 The boy obeyed in wonder as well as with alacrity. 
 It was not near the usual hour for tea. 
 
 "Wash yer hauns an' face," said the woman as he 
 entered the kitchen, "an' brush yer hair." 
 
 Having performed his toilet, the boy took his place 
 at the table, which was now covered with a coarse but 
 snowy cloth and laid with cheap but shining dishes. 
 
 After repeating a lengthy grace the aunt poured out 
 tea. Then from a pan on the hob she fished an egg, 
 and from the oven brought a plate of fried potatoes. 
 She set both before her nephew. 
 
 "Eat slow," she said, "or ye'll maybe hurt yersel'." 
 
 Neither her face nor her voice softened. The boy 
 gave her one awkward glance and dropped his eyes.
 
 68 KIDDIES 
 
 Again he felt glad that he had stayed the fall of the 
 Pilgrim's Progress, but shame was mingled with the 
 satisfaction. In silence he began to eat. The merest 
 hint of tenderness on the woman's part just then 
 would have started a flood of regrets from the heart of 
 the boy. 
 
 "Eat slow," she said again, and sipped the tea from 
 her saucer. 
 
 Jock pushed the fried potatoes towards her. 
 
 "Are ye no' for ony?" he asked, with an effort. 
 
 She shook her head. "I had ma dinner," she mut- 
 tered. 
 
 It was now plain to the boy that she had really made 
 the tea early for his sake. He struggled to express 
 his regrets, but 
 
 "I've had plenty tatties the day," she added grimly. 
 ... If she had only smiled then! 
 
 Jock choked slightly. 
 
 "Eat slow," she repeated once more, mechanically. 
 
 Thereafter the boy was fain to gobble his food and 
 be done with it. 
 
 He sat by the hearth while his aunt washed the 
 dishes. When that was over and the kitchen in per- 
 fect order, she called him to her at the window. 
 
 "I seen ye had gotten pent on your jayket. That's 
 what ye get wi' runnin' aboot the docks. Come here 
 till I see if terpentine'll tak' it afr. Hoo cam' ye to 
 get pent on yer jayket?" 
 
 "I got it on a boat," he replied, off his guard. 
 
 "On a boat! An' what was ye daein' on a boat? 
 Was ye no feart the boat wud sail awa' wi' ye?" 
 
 "I Iwishtithad!" . 
 
 "Ye wisht it had? Oh, ye bad, stupid boy! . . . 
 Noo, tak' the things oot yer pooches till I clean yer 
 jayket. Haste ye noo! This pooch what's in it?" 
 
 Jock hesitated and was lost. The next moment
 
 JOCK 69 
 
 his aunt jerked sharply forth Jack Transome; or The 
 Gentleman Pirate. 
 
 "What's this? . . . Oh! ha'e I no' warned ye no' 
 to read ^ic evil trash ?" She glared at the paper. 
 
 "Dinna waste it," cried Jock. "It's no' mines. I 
 promised to gi'e it back to Jamie M'Meekin." 
 
 "An' I've tell't ye no' to gang wi' Jamie M'Meekin. 
 He's no' a nice boy. But him an' you'll be better 
 wantin' this trash." So saying, she tore the paper in 
 pieces and flung them on the fire. 
 
 "I I hate ye!" screamed the boy. 
 
 If the woman winced, it was but slightly. 
 
 "Ha'e ye ony mair o' that trash on ye?" she de- 
 manded. "Aweel, dinna let me catch ye readin' the 
 like again. I tell ye, ye'll never grow to be a guid 
 man if ye stap yer heid wi' trash, an' gang aboot wi' 
 boys like thon M'Meekin laddie. Mind that!" She 
 poured a little turpentine on a scrap of flannel. "Keep 
 still till I get at the pent." 
 
 "I wisht ma fayther wud come back," he said, check- 
 ing a sob. 
 
 "I wisht he wud! But I doobt he'll be vexed to 
 hear o' " 
 
 "He wudna be vexed. He wud let me gang wi' 
 Jamie, an' he wud let me read stories, an' he wud let 
 me gang oot efter tea, an' " 
 
 "Whisht!" 
 
 There was silence until the last of the paint was 
 removed. Then Jock carelessly remarked that he was 
 going out for a little while. 
 
 "Na," said his aunt decidedly. "Ye've been oot 
 plenty the day. I'll gi'e ye the new Missionary Mail 
 to read, an' ye'll jist rest yersel' till it's time to gang 
 to the prayer meetin' wi' me. This is Wednesday, ye 
 ken." 
 
 Jock made a grimace. "I dinna want to read the
 
 70 KIDDIES 
 
 Missionary Mail; I dinna want to gang to the prayer 
 meetin'." 
 
 "When ye're a man ye'll be gled ye did baith." 
 
 "When I'm a man I'll be a pirate!" he declared 
 wildly. 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A pirate!" 
 
 "Tits, laddie! Dinna haver!" 
 
 "I'm no' haverin' ! An' I want to gang oot noo. 
 I I was to gi'e Jamie back his paper the paper ye 
 ye stole." 
 
 "Jock!" she said sternly, "dinna dare to repeat that. 
 Ye canna gang oot the nicht." 
 
 "I I'll come back in time for the meetin'." 
 
 Miss Wishart shook her head and proceeded to put 
 away the turpentine. 
 
 "If ye dinna let me gang oot," said the boy furiously, 
 "I'll I'll dae something ye winna like." 
 
 "I never break ma word," she returned without any 
 emotion. "Ye maun learn to be obedient. Some dav 
 ye'll maybe understan' that I kent best what was guid 
 for ye. See! there's the new Missionary Mail 
 
 Jock dashed the paper from her hand and rushed 
 from the kitchen into the parlour. As the Gentleman 
 Pirate had been consumed by fire, so had Jock's nobler 
 aspirations been burnt up by hate. Seizing the Pil- 
 grim's Progress, raising it as high as he could reach, 
 he let it fall upon the case of waxen fruits. To his 
 ears the moderate crash was appalling. For an instant 
 he stood stunned. Then he backed away to the furthest 
 corner of the room, and, leaning against the wall, 
 stared stupidly at the ruin he had wrought. 
 
 "What was that noise?" 
 
 Miss Wishart stood in the doorway. 
 
 "What " 
 
 Her voice failed; her face went white; her fingers
 
 JOCK 71 
 
 gripped the edge of the door. To the shivering boy 
 she seemed to swell and then collapse, to grow smaller 
 than ever he had seen her. 
 
 Slowly she lifted her eyes from the wreckage; for 
 a moment they rested on Jock, and a quiver passed 
 over her face. 
 
 "An' it was ma mither's pride," she murmured, and 
 went shuffling from the room. A minute later she 
 came back. 
 
 "Ye can gang oot, if ye want," she said in a colour- 
 less tone of voice, without looking at him. Once more 
 she retired, and Jock heard the kitchen door close be- 
 hind her. 
 
 He turned his face to the wall. Was this the sweet* 
 ness of revenge? . . . 
 
 In the kitchen Miss Wishart was on her knees. 
 
 "O Lord, I didna mean for him to hate me," she 
 muttered over and over again. 
 
 An hour dragged past. The boy got his cap and 
 stole from the house. 
 
 He avoided the usual haunts of Jamie M'Meekin 
 and the other lads of his acquaintance, not altogether 
 because of the destruction of the Gentleman Pirate, 
 for which he would have to account. He desired to 
 reach the docks unobserved to make another desperate 
 effort for what he imagined to be freedom. So far he 
 had been less lucky than the boys of whom he had 
 read, the boys who had won safely to sea at the very 
 first attempt. But he was going to try again. Most 
 of the labour at the quayside would soon be over for 
 the day, and he might manage to slip on board a ves- 
 sel. And after? Well, none of the boys in the stories 
 had died of starvation ; true, they had all been com- 
 pelled to face an angry captain and afterwards work 
 tremendously hard; but eventually they had become 
 captains themselves.
 
 72 KIDDIES 
 
 Yet Jock's reason for flight had changed though 
 perhaps he did not fully realise how much since the 
 morning. Then and previously he had sought to es- 
 cape from his aunt's restraint ; now he fled because that 
 restraint had been removed. Shame and the belief 
 that she would be glad to be rid of him took the place 
 of the old resentment, and it was with difficulty that 
 he kept a stiff upper lip as he hurried along. Indeed, 
 when he turned into the Broomielaw, and saw the tow- 
 ering masts and funnels of many hues, his eyes began 
 to blink in a most annoying fashion, and he was com- 
 pelled to halt at the barred window of a money-chang- 
 er, and pretend to be mightily interested in the coins 
 and notes on view. 
 
 Having pulled himself together, he set out once 
 more, walking quicker and quicker until unconsciously 
 he broke into a smart trot. The dock was in sight. 
 
 All at once his arm was gripped. He cried out in 
 terror. 
 
 "Jock! surely it's wee Jock!" 
 
 He looked up into the kindly brown face of a big 
 bearded man, with a great bundle on his shoulder. 
 And all his troubles vanished. 
 
 "Fayther!" 
 
 "Was ye comin' to meet me, ma mannie?" his father 
 asked presently. 
 
 Jock blushed and shook his head. 
 
 "Of course ye couldna ken," said the man cheer- 
 fully. "I dinna write, for I saw I'd be hame as quick's 
 ma letter, an' I thought I'd gi'e ye a surprise. . . . 
 Hey!" 
 
 The last observation was addressed to a cabby, and 
 a minute later, to Jock's amazement, and for the first 
 time in his experience, he was being driven in a cab. 
 His father put an arm round him and poured out ques-
 
 JOCK 73 
 
 tions, some of which Jock contrived to answer. Al- 
 ready the boy's happiness was becoming alloyed. What 
 would his aunt tell his father? 
 
 He had no words at all as they climbed the three 
 flights of stairs, and when they halted at the door he 
 was the most miserable lad in the world. 
 
 Before his father could knock, however, the door was 
 opened. 
 
 "Ye've got hame, Peter," said Miss Wishart calmly. 
 "I seen ye comin' up the street. Gled to see ye. 
 Whaur did Jock meet ye?" 
 
 "Near the dock. It was clever o' him to guess I 
 wud be there eh, Marget?" 
 
 "Mphm!" Miss Wishart replied rather drily. 
 
 "An' hoo's a' wi ye?" inquired Peter, strolling into 
 the parlour. "Save us! What a smash! Hoo did 
 ye manage to break yer mither's braw " 
 
 "Aw, never heed it," she said quickly. "It was a 
 an accident. It's o' nae consequence. Come ben to the 
 kitchen. The kettle'll be bilin' direc'ly. I pit it on 
 whenever I seen ye come roun' the corner. . . . Jock, 
 rin oot an' get twa pair o' kippers. Here's the money." 
 
 After all, it was a happy evening for Jock. 
 
 When the boy had gone to bed, the father refilled his 
 pipe and was silent for a space. 
 
 "An' so ye've got a ship o' yer ain, Peter," said Miss 
 Wishart at last. "Ye're a captain noo." 
 
 "Ay," said Peter, emitting a long puff. "She's wait- 
 in' for me at Sydney." 
 
 "At Sydney!" 
 
 "Ay New South Wales. Ye see, I didna tell ye 
 a' the news when Jock was there. He'll get the rest 
 the morn. But maybe I best tell ye noo." He brought 
 out a pocket-book and extracted some papers. He 
 handed one to his sister-in-law. "That's a pictur' o'
 
 74 KIDDIES 
 
 ma ship. She'll be tradin' between Sydney an' Japan." 
 
 Miss Wishart regarded the photograph without 
 speaking. 
 
 "An' this," went on her brother-in-law, not without 
 hesitation "this is a pictur' o' ma wife. I got mairrit 
 afore I left Sydney, but I thought the news wud keep 
 till I saw ye." 
 
 "Yer wife!" 
 
 "Marget! I hope ye're no' offendid at me mairryin' 
 again." 
 
 After a short silence she said: 
 
 "Na, I'm no' offendit, Peter. Ye're young yet, an' 
 an' I suppose it's nateral. . . . She's bonny enough." 
 
 Peter looked relieved. 
 
 "Ay, she's bonny," he said softly; "but that's no' 
 the best o' her. She's guid an' she's kind. She'll be 
 guid an' kind to Jock I'm sure o' that !" 
 
 "Kind to Jock!" 
 
 "Ay; for, ye see, Jock'll sail wi' me this day week, 
 an' " 
 
 "This day week!" 
 
 "I canna manage it sooner. I'm thinkin' ye'll be 
 gled to be quit o' the laddie," he laughed. "I ken ye're 
 fond o' peace an' quietness, Marget, an' I'm feart the 
 laddie has been a sair trouble. But I'll never forget 
 what ye've done for him an' me. . . . Are ye no' weel, 
 Marget? Ye're awfu' white." 
 
 The photographs slipped from her lap, and she 
 stooped to pick them up. 
 
 "I'm jist ma usual," she replied quietly. "But I'm 
 a wee thing wearit the nicht. I was for gaun to the 
 prayer meetin', if ye hadna come," she continued ir- 
 relevantly, handing him the photographs, and glancing 
 at the clock. "It's near twal'. Wud ye like ham or 
 haddies for yer breakfast?"
 
 JOCK 75 
 
 Peter declared his choice, and went to bed. 
 
 The week sped past. The hour of Peter's and his 
 son's departure came. 
 
 At the last moment, Miss Wishart beckoned Peter 
 into the parlour, leaving Jock, wild with excitement, 
 on the stair-landing. 
 
 "I didna need a' the money ye've been sendin' for 
 Jock," she said, and pressed a small bundle of pound- 
 notes into his hand. "Keep it for his eddication, but 
 dinna tell him." 
 
 Peter protested. 
 
 "Tak' it," she insisted, "or I'll ha'e to post it to ye, 
 an' that wud be a waste o' money. Say nae mair. I've 
 got a' I need. An', Peter " 
 
 "What, Marget?" 
 
 "Ye'll see that Jock gangs to the kirk reg'lar, an' 
 ye'll no' let him read trash nor get into bad comp'ny, 
 Peter?" 
 
 "I'll dae ma best, Marget an' so will Bessie." 
 
 "I'm dependin' on yersel', Peter." 
 
 "Weel, I promise. An' when I mak' ma fortune 
 we'll a' come hame an' see ye. An' Jock'll write to 
 ye often. An' some day he'll thenk ye better nor his 
 fayther " 
 
 "I'm thinkin' it's time ye was awa'," she said, mov- 
 ing to the door. 
 
 She took the boy's hand. 
 
 "Fear the Lord an' trust Him, an' ye'll never be 
 pit to shame." Her voice quavered slightly. "Guid- 
 bye, Jock. . . . Guid-bye, Peter." 
 
 She re-entered the house and shut the door. 
 
 "What wey did ye no' kiss yer auntie, Jock?" asked 
 Peter as they went downstairs. 
 
 "I never done that. I think she wudna like it," said 
 Jock, who had somehow got a lump in his throat.
 
 76 KIDDIES 
 
 "That's queer," remarked his father. "Maybe she'll 
 be wavin' frae the window." 
 
 They turned and gazed upwards. But the window 
 was blank.
 
 VII 
 MR. LOGIE'S HEART 
 
 "AN* instead o' sittin' there complainin' aboot every- 
 thing, ye should be praisin' Providence for a' it's done 
 for ye." 
 
 With these words Mrs. Logic concluded her re- 
 marks, the delivery of which had occupied twelve min- 
 utes exactly by the kitchen clock. 
 
 "I've heard a' that afore," retorted the big, sturdy- 
 looking old man, making vicious and unnecessary dabs 
 with the poker at the bright fire. 
 
 "Can ye no' let the fire be?" his wife exclaimed. 
 
 "I've naething else to dae," he said crossly. "An' as 
 for praisin' Providence, dae ye want me to praise it 
 because yer kizzen dee'd last year?" 
 
 "Mockery ill becomes ye, Sam," she replied sternly. 
 
 "There's nae mockery aboot it. Guid kens I wish 
 yer kizzen was leevin' yet, though I never seen him. 
 But seein' he had to dee, I wish he had left his siller to 
 the King o' the Cannibal Islands, or " 
 
 "I jist hope ma puir kizzen Weeliam canna hear ye 
 noo. Yer ingratitude wud gi'e a sair hert even to an 
 angel." 
 
 "Strikes me," said Mr. Logic, letting the poker fall 
 with a clatter on the fender "strikes me yer kizzen's 
 liker to be laughin' at you an' me." 
 
 "Laughin'?" 
 
 "Ay; at the trick his siller played on us." 
 
 "Samuel Logic!" she cried indignantly, "where 
 
 77
 
 78 KIDDIES 
 
 wud ye be the noo, if it hadna been for the siller?" 
 
 "At ma work, wife at ma work," he answered, half 
 wrathfully, half wistfully. "I tell ye, Janet, that siller 
 has been a curse, an' naething but a curse." 
 
 Mrs. Logic restrained her temper, which was rather 
 a brisk one. 
 
 "Ye ken fine ye're jist haverin', Sam. Read yer 
 novelle an' content yersel'." Glancing at the clock, she 
 added: "It's time I was makin' the tea. I'll get ye 
 yer sustainer." 
 
 Mr. Logic sent a paper-covered volume fluttering 
 across the room. "I'm sick o' novelles, an' I'm sick 
 o' meddicines, an' I'm " 
 
 "Whisht, man, whisht! Dinna excite yersel'. It's 
 bad for yer hert." 
 
 "Oh, haud yer tongue aboot ma hert," he shouted. 
 "There's naething wrang wi' ma hert, an' never was." 
 
 "Weel, weel; ha'e it yer ain way," she said, in a 
 voice meant to be soothing. 
 
 "But I'm tellin' ye there's naething wrang wi' ma 
 hert. D'ye hear me, Janet?" 
 
 "Ay, I hear ye, dearie," she murmured, hoping the 
 neighbours did not. During the past year she had had 
 frequent occasion to deal with his fractious moods ; but 
 this looked like open rebellion, and she felt unpre- 
 pared. 
 
 "An* d'ye hear me tellin' ye?" he roared, "there 
 never was onything wrang wi' ma hert never!" 
 
 "Jist that jist that," she muttered agreeably, and 
 peeped through the window screen. It was growing 
 dark, and to her relief none of the villagers appeared to 
 be abroad. "Weel, Sam," she said presently, "wud 
 ye like yer sustainer in a spune, or a gless, or a egg- 
 cup, this time?" 
 
 "I wud prefer it tied up in a bit paper," he sourly 
 replied.
 
 \ MR. LOGIE'S HEART 79 
 
 She brought it in an egg-cup the most novel method 
 of administration she had been able to invent At first 
 he made as if to throw it into the fire, but, catching her 
 eye, he grunted and swallowed the brown mess at a 
 gulp. 
 
 "Janet!" he announced abruptly, "I'm gaun oot to 
 seek a job the morn's mornin'." 
 
 Her wrinkled countenance lost some of its healthy 
 russet colour, but she retorted firmly 
 
 "Ye best no' try it!" 
 
 "But there's naething wrang wi' me," he protested. 
 
 "Ha'e ye forgot what the bookie says?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 Under his breath he consigned "the bookie" to the 
 infernal regions. 
 
 "What's that ye said, Samuel?" 
 
 "Ach! I wish we had never seen the bookie!" he 
 snapped. 
 
 " 'Deed, man, ye're awfu' crabbit the nicht," she 
 sighed. "I doobt ye'll ha'e to get a dose o' the other 
 bottle afore ye gang to yer bed." 
 
 "De'il tak' yer dirty wee bottles! What I'm needin' 
 is a big bottle o' whusky an' a pipe." 
 
 Mrs. Logic threw up her hands in horror. 
 
 "An' a day at the curlin' when the frost's here. An' 
 reg'lar work at other times," he added. 
 
 "Oh, but ye ken ye canna get thae things," she said 
 gently. "I wish ye could. But ye mind what the 
 bookie says? 'The patient must avoid all pheesical 
 strain and mental excitement.' " She had the words by 
 heart. 
 
 "Am I never to get ma tea?" he exclaimed impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 Shortly after the receipt of the legacy by his spouse, 
 Mr. Logic, who followed the trade of stonemason, had
 
 8o KIDDIES 
 
 been seized with the conviction that he was not quite 
 well. He was then in his sixty-seventh year, and, along 
 with Mrs. Logic, held in profound distrust the medi- 
 cal profession, probably because, in spite of the doc- 
 tors, every one died sooner or later. Mr. Logic diag- 
 nosed his own trouble, stated it plainly as "something 
 wrang wi' ma inside," and tried several homely reme- 
 dies, without, perhaps, giving any one of them a fair 
 trial. Mrs. Logic consulted her neighbours about her 
 man's condition, and from one of them obtained a 
 booklet which the neighbour had received from a sis- 
 ter-in-law, who had picked it up in a railway carriage. 
 To be brief, the booklet informed Mr. Logic that he 
 was the owner of a weak heart. 
 
 The grief and dismay of the old couple were intense, 
 but gradually they began to take comfort from the 
 very thing that had stricken the blow. The booklet did 
 not, to be sure, hold out any hope of a weak heart be- 
 coming strong, but it did show how a weak heart might 
 be prevented from becoming weaker. The patient, as 
 Mrs. Logic often quoted, must needs avoid "all physi- 
 cal strain and mental excitement," and, further, must 
 abstain from alcohol and tobacco. It was then that 
 the Logics blessed the cousin whose legacy made them 
 independent of Samuel's weekly wage; it was then, 
 also, that Janet bought the first of many postal orders 
 for 4$. 6d. f to be exchanged for bottles of the "Sus- 
 tainer" mentioned in large type on every page of the 
 booklet. 
 
 Despite the shock of the dread truth, however, Mr. 
 Logic took his trouble bravely, giving up his pipe and 
 modest glass in a way that won the admiration of his 
 neighbours, though he was apt to be rather irritable 
 of an evening when alone in his wife's company. He 
 went out only when the weather was very fine, and his 
 walk was cautious antf slow, For a couple of months
 
 ,MR. LOGIE'S HEART 81 
 
 or so the neighbours could not pay him enough atten- 
 tion, regarding him with a sort of awe-stricken venera- 
 tion as the man who might "drap deid" at any mo- 
 ment. They visited him at all hours of the day, and 
 kept him company by the kitchen fireside and, not in- 
 frequently, at the kitchen table. Sometimes they 
 brought little gifts of farm produce, or lent him vol- 
 umes of distant date, tattered or well-preserved, which 
 they might not have read themselves. Mr. Logic re- 
 ceived their visits and offerings with a lofty dignity, 
 and discussed his symptoms which, to tell the truth, 
 were not nearly so terrifying as his hearers could have 
 desired with something approaching satisfaction, if 
 not positive pride. 
 
 But time went on, and, as Mr. Logic went on also, 
 the fickleness of human interest became all too ap- 
 parent. His neighbours gradually ceased their visits, 
 gifts, and loans; they even forgot, when they met him 
 in the village, to inquire after his heart. And he, in 
 his turn, grew apt to forget their past kindnesses, and 
 was ready to take offence if any one ventured a joke 
 in his presence. Altogether, at the end of a twelve- 
 month from the discovery of "the bookie," he was fast 
 becoming a miserable old man and making his wife a 
 wretched old woman. 
 
 While they were at tea the postman brought a let- 
 ter directed to Mrs. Logic. As the old couple had 
 seven children, now settled in different parts of the 
 country, letters were not exactly rare occurrences, yet 
 the receipt of one always caused a little flutter. 
 
 "Whaur's ma specs?" cried Mrs. Logic. 
 
 "Never heed yer specs," said her husband, with some 
 eagerness, "I'll read it." 
 
 "Na, na. I maun read it masel'. It's for me, ye 
 ken." And she bustled about in search of the mislaid
 
 82 KIDDIES 
 
 spectacles, while Mr. Logie made impatient remarks 
 and suggestions. 
 
 "Ye're aye lossin' yer specs. Can ye no' keep them 
 aye in the same place? When had ye them on last? 
 I believe I seen ye gaun oot to the hen-hoose wi' them 
 on. Ye'll ha'e left them irf a nest likely, an' the hen'll 
 be layin' gless eggs!" 
 
 Mrs. Logie was too anxious in her search to laugh, 
 and the omission annoyed Samuel. 
 
 "A fine thing it wud be if the letter had been a 
 telegram and somebody waitin' on a reply ! Guid-sake ! 
 are ye never gaun to find them? Can ye no' mind 
 what ye did wi' them? Ye should tie them roun' yer 
 neck. It's aye the same story aye the same story! 
 
 ye never can find yer specs when Oh, ye've got 
 
 them? Weel, weel, wonders'll never cease! that's a' 
 I can say aboot it. Wha's yer letter f rae ?" 
 
 "Wait till I get them" clean, Sam," she said, seating 
 herself and breathing on the glasses. "They've got 
 something sticky on them. I canna think what it is." 
 
 "Oh, there's nae hurry for a day or twa. An', of 
 course, the proper place to keep yer specs is whaur 
 they'll get nice and sticky. Oh, ay! Ye should try 
 keeping them in the jam-pot!" 
 
 "If ye dinna haud yer tongue," she said quietly, 
 "I'll no' read ye the letter." 
 
 He was silent, and ere long she got her spectacles 
 adjusted. But she conned the letter through before 
 giving him its contents. 
 
 "It's frae Marget's man," she said at last, with ani- 
 mation in her voice. "Marget's got anither a wee 
 lassie baith weel. That's Marget's tenth, Sam. Are 
 ye no' proud?" 
 
 "It wud ha'e been better to ha'e been a boy." 
 
 "Tits, man ! . . . There's no' muckle else in the let- 
 ter, excep' that wee Johnny's no' been awfu' weel.
 
 MR. LOGIE'S HEART 83 
 
 Marget an' her man wud like if we wud talc' him for 
 a week or twa ; but," she sighed, "that canna be." 
 
 "Which is Johnny?" 
 
 "Johnny's the seeventh. He's next to Rubbert. He's 
 never been here." 
 
 "An' what way can he no' come here?" 
 
 "Oh, Samuel, ye ken fine! Ye couldna thole a 
 steerin' laddie in the hoose. Mind what the bookie 
 says : 'Avoid all pheesical ' " 
 
 "Havers! Let the laddie come. If he doesna be- 
 have, I'll punish him!" 
 
 "But that wud be pheesical " 
 
 "Ha'e I no' tell't ye that there's naething wrang 
 wi' me?" 
 
 She shook her head sadly. He had never been so 
 difficult to manage as just now. 
 
 "We canna ha'e the laddie here," she said. 
 
 Mr. Logic banged his great fist on the table so that 
 the dishes jumped. 
 
 "If ye dinna write this vera nicht, Janet, biddin' 
 the laddie to come, an' welcome, I'll I'll see aboot a 
 job the morn's mornin'," he shouted, "even if it's jist 
 breakin' stanes at the roadside." He paused, and sud- 
 denly his voice softened. "There noo, wife! Ye're 
 no' to greet. Ye ken fine ye want to see the laddie 
 yersel'." 
 
 "But but, Sam, dearie, ye'll be awfu' cautious, an' 
 no' get ony pheesical " 
 
 "It's a bit mental excitement I'm wantin' !" 
 
 "Oh, but that's jist as bad." 
 
 "Aweel, weel, I'll dae onything ye like if ye bid 
 the laddie here. I'm no' in favour o' sudden death, 
 auld wife, but I dinna want to dee o' readin' novelles 
 an' suppin' meddicine an' that's what I'm like to dae 
 the noo. Bid the laddie!" 
 
 And so the laddie was bidden.
 
 84 KIDDIES 
 
 ii 
 
 He came in the last week of the year. His grand- 
 father wanted very much to meet him at the station, 
 nearly a mile distant from the village, but his grand- 
 mother insisted on taking the duty or was it pleasure ? 
 upon herself. 
 
 "Na, na, Sam," she said. "The road's that frosty. 
 If ye was sittin' doon, ye wud never get up again." 
 She refrained from referring to the length of the road 
 and her husband's slowness of movement. "I'll jist 
 gang masel', an' you'll be waitin' at the fireside for 
 yer gran 'son. Eh?" 
 
 "Jist as ye like," said Mr. Logic rather sulkily. 
 "If I'm in the fire when ye get back, ye'll ken wha's 
 to blame; an' I hope ye'll explain the matter to ye 
 gran'son. Folk wi' wake herts whiles ha'e faintin' 
 turns." 
 
 Whereupon Mrs. Logic decided to ask a neighbour 
 to meet the boy, and her husband, having vainly tried 
 to reassure her that he had only been joking, cursed 
 himself bitterly in secret and poked the fire viciously 
 for a long dismal hour, while she made treacle scones, 
 which she had meant to hold back for another day, for 
 "the wean's tea." When the scones were made, she 
 occupied the remaining minutes by running between 
 the fire and the door, stopping occasionally to add some 
 unnecessary touch to the tea-table, and begging her 
 man not to get mentally excited, or advising him that 
 there was as yet no sign of Johnny. 
 
 When Johnny did arrive he would probably have 
 been a vast disappointment to any people save his grand- 
 parents a pasty-faced, spindle-shanked child of seven, 
 obviously city-bred Mr. Logic was seated by the fire, 
 smiling blandly and stroking his long grey whiskers, 
 of which he was, perhaps, unduly conceited.
 
 MR. LOGIE'S HEART 85 
 
 "What funny whuskers! Are they real?" was the 
 remark of the boy on escaping from his grandmother's 
 embrace. 
 
 She trembled at what might happen, but her spouse 
 laughed heartily. 
 
 "Come here, Johnny, till I gi'e ye beardie!" he 
 called. 
 
 "Nae fears! I'm ower fly for ye!" retorted 
 Johnny. 
 
 Mr. Logic laughed more heartily than before. 
 
 "Come an' shake hauns wi' yer gran'paw," he said 
 briskly. 
 
 "Are you ma gran'paw?" asked the boy, advancing 
 slowly. "I thought ma gran'paw wasna weel." 
 
 "Oh, ay, I'm yer gran'paw an' I never felt bet- 
 ter." He seized the youngster and lifted him upon his 
 knee. 
 
 "Canny, Sam, be canny," wailed Mrs. Logic. "Mind 
 what the bookie says aboot pheesical " 
 
 "Dinna fash yersel', auld wife," he replied, kindly 
 enough. "I'll be carefu'. The laddie's no' heavy." 
 
 "Stop it!" exclaimed Johnny, in aggrieved tones. 
 "Yer whuskers is ticklin' me!" 
 
 Mr. Logic roared delighted. 
 
 And so began the first really happy evening the 
 Logics had spent for a year. Nevertheless, Mrs. Lo- 
 gic had her moments of acute anxiety, as when her 
 husband started to joggle his grandson on his knee to 
 the old refrain of "This is the way the horses go" 
 which form of entertainment the youngster, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, considered several years beneath him. 
 
 Johnny celebrated his first morning in the cottage 
 by detaching the pendulum from the grandfather clock, 
 the hands of which, to his great gratification, began 
 to revolve at an amazing rate of speed, while it struck
 
 86 KIDDIES 
 
 the hours every minute. It happened, fortunately, be- 
 fore Mr. Logic was up he usually had breakfast in 
 bed, and hated it and Mrs. Logic, in a fever of ap- 
 prehension, explained to him that she had done it while 
 dusting the interior of the clock ; the first deliberate lie 
 of her wedded life. 
 
 The morning being wet, Johnny was kept indoors. 
 He was, however, equal to the occasion, and suggested 
 or, rather, insisted on playing at Pirates. His 
 grandfather, to his grandmother's dismay, assisted him 
 to turn the kitchen-table upside down, and then obliged 
 him by seating himself in it, in an attitude anything 
 but comfortable for a big, burly old gentleman. 
 
 "You're the merchantman," explained Johnny, who 
 was scraping about the floor, stride-legs on a stool. 
 "An' I'm gaun to attack ye. I'll gi'e ye a broadside 
 to begin wi'. Ready, present, fire boom!" 
 
 Mr. Logic received a ball of newspaper between the 
 eyes, and after the first surprise quaked and quacked 
 with laughter. 
 
 "Noo I'm gaun to board ye," yelled Johnny, and 
 would have cast himself bodily on the old man, had 
 not Mrs. Logic, with a screech of alarm, rushed for- 
 ward and snatched the Pirate into her arms. 
 
 "That's no' fair," complained the Pirate. "Two 
 to one's no' fair. If ye wasna ma granny, I wud gi'e 
 ye a broadside on the nose." 
 
 "Dearie, dearie," pleaded the old woman. "Ye 
 maun be canny wi' yer gran'paw. He's no' strong." 
 
 "Aw, baud yer tongue, Janet," cried Mr. Logic. 
 "I'm enjoyin' masel' fine. Let the laddie be." 
 
 "Will I gi'e her a broadside, gran'paw?" asked 
 Johnny eagerly, as he squeezed up a fresh sheet of news- 
 paper. "I'll gi'e her it saft-like." 
 
 "Na, na, laddie. Jist gi'e me the broadside." Which 
 order Johnny promptly obeyed, causing Mr. Logic to
 
 i MR. LOGIE'S HEART 87 
 
 touch the point of his nose gingerly and then examine 
 the tips of his fingers. 
 
 "Is't bleedin'?" the boy inquired, with possibly more 
 interest than anxiety. 
 
 "Oh, this'll never dae," wailed Mrs. Logic, clutch- 
 ing her grandson. "Get up on yer chair, Samuel, afore 
 ye suffer serious. It it's time for the Sustainer." 
 
 "I'll ha'e nae Sustainer the day, auld wife!" 
 
 "Oh, Sam, dearie!" 
 
 "Aw, weel, onything to please ye." Mr. Logic, with 
 unexpected agility, scrambled from the "merchantman" 
 to his easy-chair. 
 
 Johnny forgot his sulks in the pleasure of seeing his 
 grandfather swallow the egg-cupful of brown horror, 
 and his delight was not diminished when the fact came 
 out that, deceived by the unadjusted clock, his grand- 
 mother had administered the dose a couple of hours too 
 soon. 
 
 The afternoon turned out fine and mild, and Mr. 
 Logic suggested taking Johnny for a walk. His wife 
 demurred, but without avail. She, however, made 
 Johnny promise not to run away from his grandfather, 
 and Samuel not to run after his grandson. 
 
 "What wey can ye no' rin?" inquired the boy when 
 they had set forth. 
 
 "It doesna suit me to rin, laddie," replied Mr. Logic, 
 remembering his out-of-doors dignity and caution. 
 
 "But ye can jump?" said Johnny hopefully, scoring 
 a line across the road with his heel. "I'll try ye 
 which'll jump the furdest. Eh?" 
 
 "I doot I canna jump either, laddie." 
 
 "Weel, can ye hop?" 
 
 "Na, na. I canna hop." 
 
 "What can ye dae?" 
 
 "Jist walk." 
 
 "Can ye no' walk quicker?"
 
 88 KIDDIES 
 
 "Na." 
 
 "What's wrang wi' ye? Are ye ower fat?" 
 
 Mr. Logic smiled ruefully. "Maybe I am ower fat," 
 he said. "I get fat wi' no' workin'. But it's ma hert 
 that keeps me frae rinnin' an' jumpin' an' so on. Ma 
 hert's wake." 
 
 "I wudna like to be you," said Johnny. 
 
 "I hope ye'll never be," his grandfather replied dully. 
 He was beginning to wonder if he had exerted himself 
 too much during the earlier part of the day. It was 
 one thing to talk recklessly of his trouble to his wife, 
 when he knew that she would not allow him to do 
 anything dangerous ; it was quite another thing to think 
 of it while she was absent. 
 
 Johnny found the walk, taking it altogether, rather 
 uninteresting. The next day he made friends with the 
 village boys, after bleeding a nose and blackening an 
 eye on their account and getting a swollen lip on his 
 own. 
 
 Mrs. Logic was relieved at the change for her man's 
 sake, but he was more irritable and irritating than 
 ever. 
 
 in 
 
 It was the last afternoon of the year. Mr. Logic, 
 with the bribe of threepence, persuaded his grandson 
 to accompany him upon a stroll. 
 
 "I'll gang wi' ye, if ye'll gang beside the water," 
 said the boy. 
 
 Mr. Logic looked furtively around. His wife had 
 left the room. He was not allowed to take the river 
 walk. 
 
 "We'll no' say whaur we're gaun," he said under 
 his breath. "Come on, laddie." 
 
 "Ye're walkin' quicker nor usual," Johnny remarked 
 as they left the cottage.
 
 MR. LOGIE'S HEART 89 
 
 "Am I?" said Mr. Logic, and immediately slack- 
 ened his pace. 
 
 "I believe ye can gang quick, if ye like, gran'paw. 
 I'll race ye to the corner for a penny." 
 
 "Na, na, laddie." 
 
 "I'll gi'e ye a start." 
 
 "I daurna risk it," the old man replied. "Ye see, 
 ma hert's wake." 
 
 "What wud ye dae if a mad bull, or a ragin', roarin' 
 lion was efter ye?" inquired Johnny after some re- 
 flection. 
 
 "Guid kens," muttered Mr. Logic. "I doobt I wud 
 cry on yer granny." 
 
 "She wudna be able to dae onything. The mad 
 bull wud dunch her, an' the lion wud eat her up afore 
 she could whustle. Ye wud be better to scoot for it, 
 or speel up a tree." 
 
 "I dinna think that's a very nice thing to speak 
 aboot, John," said Mr. Logic, a trifle severely. "This," 
 he continued, more mildly, "is the road to the river. 
 It's gey damp. I doobt I canna risk it." 
 
 "Come on! Dinna be henny!" cried Johnny en- 
 couragingly. 
 
 "Aweel, I've promised ye, so I suppose I'll ha'e to 
 gang. But ye're to keep aside me, an' no' rin furrit 
 on yer ain accoont, mind! The water's deep wi' the 
 snaw meltin' on the hills, an' if ye was fa'in' in ye wud 
 get droondit to a certainty." 
 
 "Can ye no' soom, gran'paw?" 
 
 "I could soom when I was younger. Ay; I used to 
 gang in for a dook every day, except in the deid o' 
 winter. But I've got a wake hert, laddie. I've got a 
 wake hert noo." 
 
 They walked slowly along the bank until Mr. Logic, 
 fearing he might overtire himself, seated himself upon
 
 90 KIDDIES 
 
 the step of a stile leading to a field. The boy seated 
 himself also, but soon became impatient. 
 
 "Na, na, laddie," Mr. Logic said warningly, "ye're 
 no' to leave me." 
 
 "But I want to see if there's ony fish in the water 
 thonder." He pointed down the stream. 
 
 "Aweel, we'll gang thonder anither day. It's time 
 we was gettin' hame." 
 
 "But I want to see noo. Jist you bide whaur ye 
 are, gran'paw. I'll no' be long." Johnny laughed, and 
 ran off. 
 
 "Come back, laddie! Come back this meenute!" 
 Mr. Logic rose to follow, but already the boy was many 
 yards away. 
 
 "Come back, laddie ! It's no' safe !" 
 
 The old man moved forward. 
 
 "Stop, I'm tellin' ye! Johnny, come back!" 
 
 Johnny turned his laughing face, waved his hand, 
 tripped, fell, and rolled over the bank. 
 
 Mr. Logic halted, threw up his hands and screamed. 
 
 Then he ran ran ran. 
 
 The boy was being carried down by the current, so 
 that the man had a longish race ere he plunged into 
 the river, after clearing himself of a heavy overcoat. 
 When he struggled out with his unconscious grandson, 
 the coat came in handy for the latter. With his bur- 
 den he practically ran the whole way home. 
 
 IV 
 
 The young doctor came out of the little room where- 
 in Johnny had been put to bed. 
 
 "The boy's all right," he said cheerfully, to Mr. 
 Logi-t, who sat, a mass of blankets and shawls, by the 
 kitchen fire. "How are you feeling yourself, Mr. 
 Logic?"
 
 MR. LOGIE'S HEART 91 
 
 "No' so bad, conseederin'." He had no faith in doc- 
 tors for himself, but for his grandson it was different. 
 Still, here was a chance for an exposure of medical 
 ignorance. 
 
 "I say, doctor," he said, "can ye tell when a man's 
 hert is wake?" 
 
 "I daresay I can." 
 
 "Weel, what d'ye think o' mines?" 
 
 "Yours? Why, you don't look a heart subject 
 
 after what you did an hour ago. But if you wish " 
 
 The young doctor produced a stethoscope. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "To hear your heart with, Mr. Logic." 
 
 "Aw ! I thought ye could tell wi' lookin' at me. I 
 used to be bothered wi' a pain weel, no' exactly a pain 
 jist here." 
 
 "There? But that's more like your stomach, Mr. 
 Logie." 
 
 "Na, na! It was ma hert! . . . But fire awa' wi' 
 yer black penny trumpet, an' see what ye can dae." 
 
 The young doctor "fired away," and shortly reported 
 the heart to be as sound as a bell. 
 
 Mr. Logie said nothing at all. 
 
 "You couldn't have done what you did to-day," said 
 the other, "and not have been the worse probably so 
 much the worse that you would have known nothing 
 about it." 
 
 "Ye mean deid?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Weel, I'm no' deid onyway." 
 
 The young doctor laughed. 
 
 "If you don't mind my saying it, Mr. Logie," he 
 remarked, becoming grave, "take care of your wife. 
 You gave her a great shock when you arrived with 
 the boy, you know, and she doesn't seem to me to be 
 too strong. Wants feeding up, and perhaps a tonic.
 
 92 KIDDIES 
 
 I thought you would like to know." It was perhaps 
 not quite professional, but then the young doctor knew 
 all about Logic and his heart had known for months. 
 
 About nine o'clock that night Mr. Logic, who had 
 been unusually quiet and gentle all the evening, an- 
 nounced his intention of going out for a few minutes. 
 He returned with a bottle of whisky, a bottle of port 
 wine, some clay pipes, and a couple of ounces of tobacco. 
 
 "It's the last nicht o' the year, wife," he explained, 
 "an 5 ye maun ha'e a wee gless o' port jist to keep me 
 comp'ny while I ha'e a wee drap whusky an' a smoke." 
 
 "Oh, Sam!" she cried, "it'll be fine to see ye en- 
 joyin' yersel' again. But are ye are ye shair it's safe? 
 I ken what the doctor said, but " 
 
 "It wasna the doctor; it was the laddie that proved 
 to me that ma hert wasna wake. Is he sleepin' ?" 
 
 "Soun' as a top." 
 
 "I broocht some sweeties for him, but he'll get them 
 the morn," said the old man contentedly. "Are ye 
 feelin' better yersel', Janet?" 
 
 "Me? 'Deed, I could dance I'm that happy aboot 
 ye, Sam." 
 
 "If it wasna for fear o' waukenin' the laddie, I wud 
 dance a polka wi' ye this vera meenute, auld wife." 
 He laughed, but it was a very soft laugh. "God ! it's 
 a great relief!" he whispered. 
 
 She got up and threw her arms about him. 
 
 "But there's a thing that troubles me," he said, later. 
 "It'll be an awfu' job tellin' a' the folk that there 
 was naething wrang wi' me a' the time. I'll be that 
 ashamed, Janet, an' so will you. They'll be sayin' ma 
 hert isna in the richt place!" He laughed feebly. 
 
 "We needna tell them that. We'll jist say yer hert's 
 cured," she answered. 
 
 ' 'Deed, ye're the wise wife !" he said, and began to 
 fill his pipe.
 
 MR. LOGIE'S HEART 93 
 
 She got up and went to a drawer in the dresser. 
 From it she took a tin box, and from the box a soiled 
 and tattered booklet. She brought it over to him. 
 
 "What's this for, Janet?" 
 
 "To licht yer pipe wi', Sam!"
 
 VIII 
 THE LIMIT 
 
 THE afternoon was so wet and stormy that Mrs. 
 Burton, after she had dressed herself, made up her 
 mind that no one would call. So she looked into the 
 play-room and asked Bobby if he would like to take 
 tea with her in the drawing-room. 
 
 "You can bet your socks I would," was his prompt 
 reply. 
 
 Horrified, she exclaimed, "You must not say such 
 a thing again !" 
 
 "All right, mother; I forgot you didn't have socks. 
 But you can bet- 
 
 "You ought never to use the word 'bet' " 
 
 "I've heard you use it" 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "One night you told daddy you would bet him a 
 pound of molasses candy " 
 
 "You ought to have been sound asleep," she said, 
 blushing. 
 
 "Couldn't get to sleep for you two talking." 
 
 "I've a good mind to put you in another room." 
 (Bobby's bedroom was connected with his parents' by 
 a door oftener open than shut.) 
 
 "Then there would be no one to waken daddy in 
 the morning. I say, mother, is there a pink cake in 
 the drawing-room?" 
 
 "I have not the slightest idea," replied Mrs. Burton 
 haughtily and untruthfully. 
 
 94
 
 THE LIMIT 95 
 
 "Why do you look like that, mother? just like a 
 hen taking a drink." 
 
 "Hold your tongue!" 
 
 "Why, mother?" 
 
 "Because I say so." 
 
 There was a brief pause, and then he said : "You're 
 awful strange to-day. Have you got a headache?" 
 
 "No, I have not got a headache." 
 
 "What have you got?" 
 
 "Will you be quiet?" 
 
 There was another pause until Bobby sadly re- 
 marked: "I don't think I want awfully to have tea 
 in the drawing-room. Hope you don't mind." 
 
 "It happens that I wish you to have tea in the 
 drawing-room. I also wish you to behave as if visitors 
 were present." 
 
 "Visitors make me sick," said Bobby. 
 
 His mother made a clicking sound of exasperation. 
 
 "How do you do that noise?" he inquired with in- 
 terest. 
 
 "I intend," said Mrs. Burton, restraining herself 
 and ignoring the question, "to give you a lesson in how 
 to behave when visitors call." 
 
 "But there aren't any visitors." 
 
 "We shall pretend " she began stiffly. 
 
 "Pretend!" shrieked Bobby in sudden rapture. "Oh, 
 what fun! Come on!" And he flew past her and 
 downstairs, chortling. 
 
 It was not quite what Mrs. Burton had expected. 
 A smile dawned, and by the time she reached the draw- 
 ing-room her irritation had evaporated. After all, she 
 had been annoyed with herself mainly for allowing her- 
 self to be annoyed with Bobby. 
 
 As she entered the room he greeted her with the 
 announcement that there were two pink cakes. 
 
 "Are there? Well you shall have one if you are
 
 96 KIDDIES 
 
 very good. No, dear, not both. I'm afraid they are 
 terribly rich. But, first of all, I will give you your 
 lesson. Go and sit down on that chair no, the low 
 one." 
 
 Bobby obeyed with a plump. 
 
 "Not on the very corner. Sit in the middle, straight 
 up, and don't sprawl your legs. . . . That's better!" 
 
 "It's not so comfy." 
 
 "Never mind about that. Now you are to imagine," 
 Mrs. Burton proceeded, gracefully seating herself at 
 the tea-table, "that you and I are sitting here, enjoying 
 a little chat " 
 
 "And a pink cake!" 
 
 "That may come later. Enjoying a little chat " 
 
 "What about, mother?" 
 
 "Hush ! You must not interrupt. Enjoying a little 
 chat," she repeated, fearful of losing the thread, "when 
 Jane opens the door and shows in a lady." 
 
 "Which lady?" 
 
 "Which lady would you like to have? Well, per- 
 haps we ought to have a pretend lady " 
 
 "Yes," cried Bobby. "Ever so much nicer than real. 
 Let's call her Miss Mumps." 
 
 "Very well," his mother assented, after a little hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 "Come in, Miss Mumps, and stir your stumps!" 
 Bobby gaily cried, looking towards the door. 
 
 "No! no! no!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, and sup- 
 pressed a giggle; "you must not make fun just now." 
 
 "But Miss Mumps likes fun," said Bobby, who had 
 already formed a very definite idea of the imaginary 
 visitor. 
 
 "Well, perhaps she does, but we don't yet know 
 her well enough for that. This is her first visit. You 
 see?" 
 
 "J -see," he said more soberly. "What next?"
 
 THE LIMIT 97 
 
 "Let me think," she murmured. "Oh, yes. Whei 
 Miss a Mumps comes in, you rise not yet, dear, 
 not yet and wait until I have shaken hands with her. 
 Then, when I say, 'This is Bobby,' you come forward 
 and shake hands, and say very quietly " 
 
 "Like a mouse?" 
 
 "Perhaps a little louder than a mouse " 
 
 "A frog?" 
 
 "Oh, well, just in your natural voice 'How do you 
 do, Miss Mumps ?' " 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "Yes; what is it?" 
 
 "Why do people say 'How do you do?' when you 
 aren't doing anything?" 
 
 "Why, because well, that's a fine question to ask 
 daddy when he comes home. Now we must get on." 
 Mrs. Burton held up a warning hand. "Miss Mumps 
 is coming in " 
 
 "She's got on a green dress." 
 
 Mrs. Burton jumped up in a fright. 
 
 "A pretend-green dress," said Bobby, his imagina- 
 tion working. 
 
 Recovering some of her wits, Mrs. Burton took a 
 few steps forward and shook hands with vacancy, say- 
 ing, "Miss Mumps! How kind of you to call on such 
 a dreadful day!" 
 
 "Go on, kiss her!" cried Bobby. 
 
 "Be quiet! And you've forgotten to get up." 
 
 "I'm up now." Of his own accord he came for- 
 ward. "How do you do, Miss Mumps. How kind 
 of you " 
 
 "No, no! You don't say that. You wait until she 
 
 asks you how you are, and then you say What do 
 
 you say?" 
 
 "Quite well, thank you, Miss Mumps." 
 
 "Splendid!"
 
 98 KIDDIES 
 
 "It's quite easy," he said carelessly. 
 
 "Now you may go back to your seat." 
 
 He went back. 
 
 Said Mrs. Burton, resuming her place at the table: 
 "Miss Mumps is supposed to be sitting in the big easy- 
 chair " 
 
 "I see her!" He smiled in the direction of the chair 
 mentioned. "She's awful fat!" 
 
 "Oh, hush ! and Jane has brought in the tea." 
 
 Bobby turned again to the big easy-chair. "Miss 
 Mumps do you know? Jane got new teeth yes- 
 ter " 
 
 "You must not say such things. Besides, you ought 
 not to speak until you are spoken to. Always remem- 
 ber that. ... I don't think I shall ask you to hand 
 Miss Mumps her tea, but you may take her this plate 
 of bread-and-butter." 
 
 Bobby came over for the plate. "I don't think she's 
 bread-and-butter hungry," he remarked, "but I'll have 
 a shot " 
 
 "Be careful!" cried Mrs. Burton, as the plate tilted 
 dangerously. "Oh, gracious!" 
 
 "All right, mother," he said reassuringly, as he 
 picked a couple of slices from the carpet ; " 'twasn't the 
 buttery side." 
 
 "Bring them to me, and do try to be more neat and 
 careful." 
 
 "She won't have any," said Bobby, after shoving the 
 plate where a real visitor's face would have been. "She 
 says she wants a cake." 
 
 "Well, you may offer her a cake, but please try to 
 do it nicely. Say, 'Miss Mumps, will you have a 
 cake?' and give her time to choose one. Take this 
 dish." There were two dishes, for she had expected 
 a number of callers. 
 
 With a great deal more care than he had vouch-
 
 THE LIMIT 99 
 
 safed to the bread-and-butter, Bobby bore the dish to 
 its destination. 
 
 "Will you have a cake, Miss Mumps?" he inquired, 
 with politeness that momentarily delighted his mother. 
 In a whisper he added: "Any one 'cept the pink one, 
 "cause I've bagged it." 
 
 "What do you say, Bobby?" 
 
 "Wasn't speaking to you." 
 
 "What were you saying about a pink one?" 
 
 "Just said I had bagged it," he repeated, rather 
 crestfallen. 
 
 "Oh, dear! But you must never say such a thing 
 to a visitor." 
 
 "But what if she grabs my pink cake the way Aunt 
 Jessica once did ?" 
 
 "Well, dear, you can't help it if she does. Besides, 
 I promised you a pink cake only if you were very good. 
 Bring the dish and lay it carefully on the table, and 
 then go back to your seat." 
 
 When he had done these things, she said pleasantly: 
 "Please ring the bell, Bobby." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Really, you are trying! We are going to have tea 
 now." 
 
 "Real tea?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 He went over and pressed the button. 
 
 "Don't keep ringing like that, or Jane will be giv- 
 ing at least, she'll be cross. Sit down." 
 
 At the end of a minute he remarked : 
 
 "This is rather stale. I thought it would have been 
 more fun." 
 
 Mrs. Burton had thought, at any rate, that it would 
 have been more interesting, but somehow she had lost 
 the thread of the lesson, and many of its details seemed 
 to have faded from her memory.
 
 ioo KIDDIES 
 
 "One of the things you must learn," she said lamely, 
 "is to sit still. You see, I'm supposed to be talking to 
 Miss Mumps." 
 
 "Say something to her, then," said Bobby, with re- 
 viving interest, "and I'll sit as still as anything. Go 
 on, mother!" 
 
 "Very well ; only you must not interrupt." 
 
 "May I laugh?" 
 
 "There won't be anything to laugh at." Fixing her 
 eyes on the big easy-chair, Mrs. Burton moistened her 
 lips, and in a high-pitched elocutionary voice said: 
 "Isn't this dreadful weather we are having, Miss 
 Mumps?" 
 
 And just as the words were leaving her mouth the 
 real Jane opened the door to admit a real visitor. 
 
 What Jane thought can only be surmised from the 
 badly-stifled cackle which escaped her, as she closed the 
 door upon herself, without having announced the visi- 
 tor's name. As for the visitor, she cast a suspicious 
 glance around her, doubtless in search of Miss 
 Mumps. 
 
 Mrs. Burton started up, but her confusion was such 
 that she could not recollect the name of the lady 
 whom she had met frequently at a fortnightly sewing- 
 meeting in aid of a far-off charity. 
 
 Bobby, retreating backwards and open-mouthed be- 
 fore this apparition of a stern-looking, very tall, attenu- 
 ated person, with piercing eyes and an extremely long 
 nose, was providentially led to his own seat, into which 
 he fell heavily, bumping his head against the back so 
 that the tears rushed to his eyes though no sound left 
 his lips. 
 
 Then Mrs. Burton, producing a most inane smile, 
 shook the lady's hand with absurd cordiality, and 
 gushed : "It is so good of you to call on such a dreadful
 
 THE LIMIT 101 
 
 day isn't it? Will you have this seat? . . . Bobby, 
 come and shake hands " 
 
 "Wait till I blow my nose," said Bobby, with a 
 tremolo in his voice. 
 
 Having performed the operation and dried his eyes 
 simultaneously, he rose and advanced to the lady, now 
 seated in the big easy-chair. 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Mumps?" he gravely in- 
 quired. 
 
 It was obvious that the lady did not like it. 
 
 "Oh, please excuse him," exclaimed the hostess, who 
 had just recollected her visitor's name. "He doesn't 
 mean to be rude, Mrs. Birley. You see, Bobby and I 
 were having a little game " 
 
 "A lesson, mother!" 
 
 " pretending that a Miss Mumps had called. It 
 it was really most amusing." 
 
 "Indeed!" remarked Mrs. Birley very coldly, and 
 without taking the slightest notice of Bobby, who lin- 
 gered in front of her. 
 
 "You may sit down, Bobby," said his mother. 
 
 "But she hasn't asked how I do." 
 
 "Sit down, dear." 
 
 "But you said " Realising that his mother was 
 
 looking unhappy, he went back to his chair. A mo- 
 ment later he jumped up, ran to the table, caught up 
 the plate of bread-and-butter, carried it safely across 
 the floor, and presented it to the visitor. 
 
 "No, no, Bobby! Not yet, dear," stammered Mrs. 
 Burton. "Wait till the tea comes." 
 
 Rather dejectedly, Bobby replaced the dish on the 
 table and went back to his seat. He had done his best, 
 and had failed to please. A smile from his mother, 
 however, did something to comfort him. 
 
 Mrs. Birley, who had merely regarded him with a 
 sort of sour curiosity, proceeded to talk at great length
 
 102 KIDDIES 
 
 on the subject of a recent sale of work at which, it 
 seemed, neither sellers nor buyers had done anything 
 like their duty. She was one of those people who, 
 while crazily modern in some respects, cling stub- 
 bornly to certain antediluvian conventions. To give 
 a single instance. She had gone through fifty years of 
 life with the assumption that all boys were born rude 
 and greedy, and all girls gentle and dainty. But as 
 she had none of either, she may be excused. 
 
 Jane brought in tea, looking as though a mere touch 
 would cause her to explode. She had had great fun 
 in the kitchen, mimicking her mistress's unnatural voice 
 and declaiming to the gas-stove: "Isn't this dreadful 
 weather we are having, Miss Mumps?" But as every 
 one in the drawing-room, including Bobby, was so un- 
 utterably solemn, she set down the tray steadily enough 
 and escaped without a snigger, remarking inwardly 
 that old Slim Jim (meaning Mrs. Birley) had evi- 
 dently brought a hump with her. 
 
 For the ensuing twenty minutes Bobby's conduct 
 may be recorded in the words of the schoolmasters as 
 "very good," if not "excellent." Mrs. Birley, entranced 
 with her own conversation, took that time to consume 
 a small piece of thin bread-and-butter; and as Bobby 
 had gobbled up his allotted quantity in about ninety 
 seconds, he had a dreary period of waiting. And 
 then she took another piece and went on talking, and 
 the pink cake seemed as far away as ever. 
 
 So that it was with the greatest relief that he re- 
 ceived from his mother a signal to convey cakes to the 
 visitor, and with the utmost alacrity that he obeyed. 
 
 "Will you have a cake, Miss M-m " He stopped 
 
 barely in time. 
 
 She took a fearful age to choose; and, remembering 
 Aunt Jessica, he became nervous regarding the pink 
 cake. At last he could endure no longer:
 
 THE LIMIT 103 
 
 "That yellow one's awful good," he hoarsely whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "Indeed!" retorted Mrs. Birley, who would have 
 construed any childish suggestion into an impertinence. 
 
 "So's the brown one ; it's chocolate." 
 
 "Indeed!" repeated Mrs. Birley, while her hostess 
 writhed in silent misery. 
 
 At last, with a sort of pounce, Mrs. Birley took a 
 white one. 
 
 Bobby was never nearer saying "Hooray!" at the 
 wrong moment. With proud and beaming countenance 
 he marched back to his mother. His confidential, ques- 
 tioning smile was more than she could resist. 
 
 "You may," she said softly. 
 
 Now those pink cakes have a curious magical quality. 
 They go down in absolutely no time. Just when you 
 are thinking of one, "Oh, how delicious!" it has 
 vanished. 
 
 Bobby wanted the second pink cake, which still re- 
 posed on the other plate. 
 
 Mrs. Burton shook her head. "It would make you 
 ill, dear," she whispered. 
 
 Whereupon Mrs. Birley, whose ears were as sharp 
 as her eyes, said, in her penetrating voice: "My dear 
 Mrs. Burton, permit me to tell you that you are en- 
 tirely wrong. The cake would not make him ill." 
 
 Mrs. Burton looked as though she had not heard 
 aright. "I beg your pardon," she said feebly, while 
 Bobby turned quickly towards the visitor. Could it 
 be that she was not so rotten after all? 
 
 "I will go further," quacked Mrs. Birley, "and say 
 that all the cakes on the dish all the cakes in the 
 shop would pot make him ill." 
 
 At this astounding statment, Mrs. Burton's pretty 
 mouth fairly gaped; her son's expanded in a grin of
 
 104 KIDDIES 
 
 gratification. Undoubtedly the queer lady knew what 
 she was talking about. 
 
 "But," continued the visitor, "he would suffer suf- 
 fer punishment for his greed." She pronounced the 
 word "greed" as though there were a dozen "e's" in it. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" sighed Mrs. Burton, "I'm afraid I 
 don't understand." 
 
 "I'm not greedy," said Bobby, stoutly. 
 
 Mrs. Birley ignored him, as usual. 
 
 "The cakes are innocent, wholly harmless. One 
 cannot blame the cakes because one eats too many. 
 The pain is simply the result of one's folly and greed." 
 
 "How awful!" Mrs. Burton helplessly murmured, 
 avoiding the other's terrible eye. "I never thought of 
 that. But do you really think that one more cake 
 would make Bobby greedy I mean to say, if Bobby 
 were greedy, would one more cake or, rather, would 
 it be greedy if one more Bobby oh, you know what 
 I mean, Mrs. Birley." 
 
 "Perfectly. But only his conscience can inform him 
 as to whether it would be greedy or not." The speaker 
 complacently finished her tea. 
 
 There was a dismal pause, and then Bobby addressed 
 Mrs. Birley: 
 
 "Do you often have pains?" 
 
 "Oh, hush, Bobby!" wailed his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Birley 's stare would have and had discon- 
 certed many a child, but in Bobby's case it proved a 
 failure. 
 
 "In your turn?" he supplemented without shrink- 
 ing. 
 
 "Bobby!" 
 
 Mrs. Birley was so taken aback that before she knew 
 it she had indignantly ejaculated, "Certainly not!" 
 She was about to add that he was the rudest boy in 
 her experience, when he said:
 
 THE LIMIT 105 
 
 "Not even long ago when you was a little girl?" 
 
 "Bobby, leave the room at once!" cried Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, almost in tears. 
 
 "I'm just going," he said, keeping his gaze on Mrs. 
 Birley. "Never?" 
 
 She lost her head. "No, never !" she snapped. "And 
 I must say " 
 
 "Then you must have had a rotten time!" said 
 Bobby, with lofty pity. Then realising, perhaps, that 
 he had made a mess of things, and with an appealing 
 glance at his mother, he ran from the room. 
 
 The apologising of a mother is a sorry affair, and it 
 shall not be described here. Enough to say that in the 
 end Mrs. Birley was persuaded to accept another cup 
 of tea and another cake, while Mrs. Burton recklessly 
 promised to do all sorts of things for the next sale 
 of work. 
 
 When Mrs. Burton went up to the play-room she 
 found her son seated in a corner with a book of comi- 
 cal beasts on his knees, and with reddened eyelids. 
 
 "Oh, Bobby, how could you disgrace me so?" she 
 cried. 
 
 "I c-couldn't help it. It was her fault, too." 
 
 Mrs. Burton sighed, possibly in agreement. "I'm 
 sure I don't know how I'm going to forgive you," she 
 said presently. 
 
 "Neither do I." He blinked, and two fresh tears 
 appeared. "Unless you do it the same way as 1-last 
 time." 
 
 It would appear that she got over the difficulty some- 
 how, for at the end of fifteen minutes which is quite 
 a long time to a little boy he made a hesitating inquiry 
 respecting pink cake No. 2. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" she replied, almost guiltily, "I'm dread- 
 fully sorry though I ought not to be but Mrs. Bir- 
 ley ate it. ... But be a man, Bobby!"
 
 io6 KIDDIES 
 
 After a moment or two he said bravely: "Yes, I 
 will be a man, mother. And I'll just say what daddy 
 would say." 
 
 "What's that, dearie?" 
 
 He cleared his throat. "Well, I guess this is the 
 limit!"
 
 IX 
 THE GHOST 
 
 MACGREGOR ran up the first flight of steps, walked 
 up the second, and ascended the third and last with 
 lagging feet. While he greatly desired an interview 
 with Willie Thomson, who had failed to keep an 
 appointment the usual Saturday afternoon appoint- 
 ment he shrank from an interview with Willie's 
 aunt and sole guardian, and that not altogether 
 without reason. Still, he was the sort of boy who 
 does not easily unmake his mind. Arrived on the 
 landing, he halted opposite the door of his chum's 
 abode and gave a peculiar whistle. At intervals he 
 repeated it with increasing shrillness, but without 
 obtaining the slightest response. Strange! Was it 
 possible that Willie had had the temerity, or "neck," 
 as Macgregor would have expressed it, to go off on 
 some ploy of his ow T n? The bare thought angered 
 as well as hurt Macgregor. 
 
 With sudden resolve he advanced to the door and 
 tapped lightly. His mother had taught him to say 
 "please" even in cases where nothing tangible might 
 be forthcoming; and he generally remembered to say 
 it to the people he didn't much like. 
 
 The angular and wizened spinster who opened the 
 door regarded him with patent disapproval, and said 
 acidly: 
 
 "What d'ye want?" 
 
 107
 
 io8 KIDDIES 
 
 "Please is Wullie in?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 Macgregor's countenance expressed relief, and his 
 voice was more confident as he inquired: "Is he 
 comin' oot to play?" 
 
 "Na; he's no' comin' oot to play." 
 
 "What wey?" 
 
 "Nane o' your business." 
 
 "But but he promised," Macgregor stammered, 
 abashed. "Will he be oot in a whiley?" he ven- 
 tured. 
 
 "He'll no' be oot the day." 
 
 "What wey? Is he seeck?" 
 
 Miss Thomson's frown deepened. "He's bein' 
 punished," she said coldly. 
 
 "What wey?" 
 
 "I'll 'what wey' ye, if ye speir ony mair ques- 
 tions!" she exclaimed. "I believe it was you got 
 him into the mischief this mornin'. What d'ye mean 
 by teachin' him to slide doon a plank an' come hame 
 wi' his troosers destroyed? Tell me that!" 
 
 "I didna teach him. I didna ken there was a nail 
 in the plank." 
 
 "Oh, ye didna ken there was a nail in the plank, 
 did ye no'? Oh, indeed, quite so!" cried Miss 
 Thomson with withering sarcasm. "An' micht I tak' 
 the leeberty of speirin' hoo it cam' to pass that yer 
 ain troosers wasna damaged?" 
 
 "Maybe mine's is better cloth," said Macgregor, 
 meaning no offence. And, while Miss Thomson 
 choked with indignation, he added gently: "Could 
 ye no' keep Wullie in the morn instead o' the day?" 
 
 "D'ye no' ken the morn's the Sawbath, ye bad 
 boy?"' 
 
 "Weel, ye cauld mak' him gang to the kirk twicet. 
 That wud punish him."
 
 THE GHOST 109 
 
 "Awa' hame wi' ye, ye impiddent wee rascal!" 
 
 she cried angrily. "If I was yer mither " She 
 
 ceased with a gasp and a wild unavailing clutch, as 
 her nephew, who had stolen up behind her, pushed 
 her aside, darted forth, and clattered down the stair, 
 yelling on Macgregor to follow. So astonished was 
 the latter that he barely escaped seizure. 
 
 It was not until they had fled along several blocks 
 and turned the corner that the pair paused, panting. 
 
 "I doobt ye've done for yerseF noo," Macgregor 
 remarked sympathetically. 
 
 "I'm no' heedin'," Willie declared. "I wasna 
 gaun to bide in the hoose a' day, because I had to 
 wear ma Sunday breeks." 
 
 "She's got an awfu' bad temper." 
 
 "Ye're richt there! She's a crabbit auld thing. 
 Ye're lucky to ha'e yer paw an' maw an' to get a 
 Seturday penny every Seturday. Ha'e ye got yer 
 penny on ye?" 
 
 "Ay," was the reply given a little reluctantly. 
 "But but I'm savin' up." Many, many a Satur- 
 day had passed since Macgregor first made this 
 statement. 
 
 "Ye could begin next Seturday," said Willie 
 pleasantly. "If ye was buyin' gundy, it wud keep 
 me f rae gettin' hungry for ma tea, an' then I wudna 
 need to gang hame until she had got her monkey 
 doon again. D'ye see?" 
 
 Macgregor saw. "Come on then, Wullie," he said 
 resignedly, and, taking his friend's arm, went briskly 
 to the "gundy" shop. 
 
 "A' the same," he remarked later, as he divided 
 his purchase in the seclusion of a dusky entry, off a 
 quiet street, "Yer aunt's a bad yin." 
 
 "She's a' that. I wisht I could punish her!"
 
 i io KIDDIES 
 
 Macgregor gave a sage wag of the head. "It's no' 
 easy to punish big folk. Ye aye get the worst o' it 
 in the end. Mony's the time I wud ha'e liket fine to 
 punish ma Aunt Purdie " 
 
 "She's no' near as bad as ma aunt." 
 
 "She's no' far aff it. Did ever ye try to punish yer 
 aunt, Wullie?" 
 
 "I yinst pit an egg in her bed." 
 
 "An" what happened?" 
 
 "It didna burst, an' I got a skelpin 1 ." 
 
 "Hard cheese!" Macgregor commented. "Ony- 
 thing else?" 
 
 "I yinst lockit her into the hoose." Willie paused 
 and sighed. 
 
 "Weel?" 
 
 "She boltit the door on the inside, and she didna 
 let me in for ma dinner nor ma tea, either. An' she 
 made ham an" eggs for hersel'. I smelt them." 
 
 "Ay, it's no' easy to get the best o 1 the auld yins. 
 Ye aye get back twicet as much as ye gi'e." 
 
 "Ah, but I ken noo hoo to punish her. I've got a 
 rare plan," said Willie, with sudden hopefulness of 
 look and tone. 
 
 "What's the plan?" his friend inquired, sceptically. 
 
 "Gi'e her an awfu' fricht!" 
 
 "Hoo are ye gaun to manage that?" 
 
 "Wi' a ghost." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A ghost! She's terrified for ghosts!" 
 
 "Ach, there's nae sich things as ghosts." 
 
 "Wha said that?" 
 
 "Ma paw. An' I say it, tae." 
 
 "Weel, ye needna say it to ma aunt. She's terrible 
 fond o' readin' stories aboot ghosts afore she gangs 
 to her bed, an' then she has awfu' bad dreams. She 
 read yin the ither nicht I've got the paper at hame
 
 THE GHOST in 
 
 an' aboot three in the mornin' she commenced screech- 
 in' like fun." 
 
 "Maybe she was feelin' badly in her inside." 
 
 "Na ; she groans saftlike when she's that way. When 
 I yelled to her to ask what was up, she cried: 'Oh, 
 dinna let it catch me!' " 
 
 "An' what next?" inquired Macgregor, now keenly 
 interested. 
 
 "Oh, she waukened up then, an' gi'ed me a lectur' 
 for waukenin' her." 
 
 "Was ye no' feart yersel', Wullie?" 
 
 "Me? No' likely," replied Willie, rather too em- 
 phatically. 
 
 "I believe ye was. Did she tell ye what the ghost 
 was like?" 
 
 "Na; but the paper tell't me." 
 
 "What did the paper say?" 
 
 "I'll no' tell ye if ye say I was feart." 
 
 "Weel, maybe ye wasna. What was it like?" 
 
 Willie glanced over his shoulder. The place where- 
 in they stood was now almost dark in the December 
 twilight. 
 
 "Come ootside, an' I'll tell ye," he said, and led the 
 way to a street lamp. 
 
 "Was it a skeletin?" 
 
 "Na, na. It was a leddy. I forget her name, but 
 she was gentry richt enough. She was aboot a thoosan' 
 year auld, an' she had been a terrible bad yin in her 
 time. She cast oot wi' her young man an' stabbed 
 him wi' a dagger in his vittles. And then she stabbed 
 hersel' in her ain vittles, but she couldna really kill 
 hersel' " 
 
 "What wey?" 
 
 "I couldna say but that was the story. An' every 
 year, aboot the New Year time, she gangs aboot greet- 
 in', an' flourishin' her dagger, an' askin' folk to tak'
 
 ii2 KIDDIES 
 
 it an' kindly stab her again so as to kill her proper. 
 But she canna get onybody to dae the job." 
 
 "I believe ye! Ye wud sune get the nick if ye done 
 that. But what was she like, Wullie?" 
 
 "Oh, she was fearsome ! There was a pictur' o' her." 
 Willie hesitated. 
 
 "Hurry up!" 
 
 "She was dressed in a lang white goon, wi' a big 
 hole in it whaur she had stabbed hersel' ; an' she had 
 lang, skinny fingers; an' her grey hair was a' toosie 
 an' hingin' doon ower her face; an' her eyes was like 
 burnin' coals o' fire, an' her tears was rinnin' doon like 
 b'ilin' gravy " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I canna mind the words, but that's what they 
 meant, something awfu' hot. An' she made a wailin' 
 soun', an' whiles she gnashed her teeth. That's a' I 
 mind." 
 
 "My!" exclaimed Macgregor, "she was a corker 
 eh?" A pause. "But it's no' a true story." 
 
 Willie looked up at the friendly lamp. After a few 
 moments had gone he slowly said: "She thinks it's true, 
 onywey." Then, abruptly, "Will you be the ghost?" 
 
 His companion was taken aback. "To frichten yer 
 aunt?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Whisht! Folk'll hear ye! To punish her." 
 
 "What wey can ye no' be the ghost yersel'?" 
 
 "She wudna be sae angry wi' you as she wud be wi' 
 me, if she discovered it." 
 
 "Jings! ye've a neck on ye! Ye can punish yer ain 
 aunt, Wullie." 
 
 "But it wud be fine fun for you, Macgreegor, dress- 
 in' up for the ghost. Eh?' : 
 
 Macgregor opened his mouth, but the objection died 
 at his lips. His mind wavered. He was caught on
 
 THE GHOST 113 
 
 the weak spot of all normal youngsters. The idea of 
 "dressing up" was too tempting. 
 
 "I wudna be a ghost like the yin in the paper," he 
 said, after a little reflection. 
 
 "Ye can be ony kin' o' ghost ye like." 
 
 "I'll black ma face " 
 
 "Ah, but I never heard o' a ghost wi' a black face. 
 Ye see, it wudna dae to be comic-like." 
 
 "I'll no' be that, I warrant ye! When dae ye want 
 to gi'e her the fricht?" 
 
 "Monday." 
 
 "That's Christmas Eve. It wudna be fair to dae it 
 then. Mak' it Wen'sday. I'll be ready." 
 
 "But what are ye gaun to dae?" demanded Willie, 
 not a little annoyed at seeing his scheme so completely 
 annexed. 
 
 "Wait an' ye'll see," replied his friend, who had not 
 the slightest notion of what he was going to do. "Hoo 
 am I to get into the hoose on Wen'sday?" 
 
 "I'll no' let ye into the hoose on Wen'sday unless 
 ye tell us what ye're gaun to dae." 
 
 "I'll tell ye the morn," Macgregor compromised. 
 "Ye see, I'll ha'e to think aboot it." 
 
 "But I want to gi'e ye advice," said Willie. 
 
 "Weel, you can be thinkin' aboot yer advice till the 
 morn. Come on for a walk. I'm gettin' cauld. Hoo 
 am I to get into the hoose?" 
 
 His resentment evaporating, Willie allowed himself 
 to be conducted into the brightness of the main street. 
 
 "She gangs oot to the shops," he explained, "every 
 evenin' aboot hauf-past five, an' comes back at six. 
 Ye maun be watchin', an' whenever ye see her gang 
 oot ye maun rin up the stair, an' I'll be waitin' to let 
 ye in. We'll ha'e everything ready for the dressin' 
 up. Then ye maun hide in the coal bunker it's aye
 
 j 14 KIDDIES 
 
 near empty on Wen'sdays an' when I hear her comin' 
 I'll pit oot the gas. The fire'll be enough to let her 
 see ye." 
 
 "But what aboot yersel' ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'll pretend I'm terrified an* scoot frae the 
 hoose, an' you'll dae the same efter ye've gi'ed her the 
 fricht. Ye see?" 
 
 "I see," Macgregor slowly answered, and just then 
 a clock boomed six. "I maun gang hame to ma tea," 
 he said. 
 
 "Ye'llbeoot later on?" 
 
 Macgregor shook his head. "No' the nicht. Paw 
 an' me's gaun to ha'e a battle at the draughts." 
 
 "I wisht I was you," sighed Willie. "I daurna gang 
 hame afore nine, an' I'm gey hungry." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation Macgregor said : "Come 
 on up wi' me, Wullie, an' I'll get ma maw to gi'e ye yer 
 tea. But mind ye" impressively, almost sternly 
 "ye're no' to bide a single meenute efter ye've had it! 
 Will ye mind that?" 
 
 With a relieved expression Willie faced his friend 
 and silently and solemnly drew the edge of his hand 
 across his throat. 
 
 "Paw," said Macgregor, soon after his father had 
 permitted him to win the last of several games of 
 draughts, "d'ye ken any ghost stories?" 
 
 "Ghost stories!" exclaimed Mr. Robinson, amused. 
 "Here, Lizzie! Macgreegor's wantin' ghost stories!" 
 
 "Aweel," replied Mrs. Robinson, intent on her sew- 
 ing, "he'll jist ha'e to want them." 
 
 "Yer fayther's the boy for tellin' ghost stories, 
 Lizzie," John remarked pleasantly. "I wonder if I 
 couldna mind yin o' his." 
 
 "Na, na, John!" 
 
 "If Gran'paw Purdie tells ghost stories," Macgregor
 
 THE GHOST 115 
 
 observed, "they canna be bad for weans an' I'm no' 
 a wean, onywey." 
 
 "There ye are, Lizzie!" said Mr. Robinson, with 
 a laugh. "What dae ye say to the story aboot the 
 yellow-faced ghost that had horns like a " 
 
 "Ay, paw, tell it!" 
 
 "John, if ye commence to tell that story, Macgreegor 
 gangs stracht to his bed." 
 
 "What wey, maw?" 
 
 "Jist because." 
 
 There was a brief pause, ere John said: 
 
 "But, Lizzie, Macgreegor kens fine there's nae sich 
 thing as a real ghost. Dae ye no', Macgreegor?" 
 
 "Dod, ay!" 
 
 "Macgreegor, ye're no' to say that word!" Mrs. 
 Robinson said, with a severe glance at both husband 
 and son. 
 
 "Weel, I ken there's nae sich thing as " 
 
 "It's easy sayin' that when ye're sittin' at a cosy 
 fire, wi' the gas full on. It's anither story in the mid- 
 dle o' the dark nicht." 
 
 "Dod, that's truth," admitted John regretfully. 
 "I'll ha'e to think oot a story aboot a nice, kind, plees- 
 ant, comic kin* o' ghost." 
 
 "It wudna be a ghost if it was comic," said the boy. 
 
 "I believe ye're richt," his father agreed, all at once 
 dejected. 
 
 "Wha was pittin' ghosts into yer heid, Macgree- 
 gor?" Lizzie inquired. "Was't Wullie Thomson?" 
 
 Macgregor blushed, but contrived to answer careless- 
 ly: "Och, ay; Wullie tell't me a story he had read, 
 but I didna believe it." 
 
 "What was it aboot?" 
 
 "It was it was jist aboot an auld wife that gaed 
 aboot wi' a dagger. She had whuskers on her face,
 
 u6 KIDDIES 
 
 an' she was aye greetin', an' her tears was b'ilin' 
 gravy " 
 
 John guffawed. "The ghost o' a sheep's heid," he 
 began. 
 
 "What nonsense!" said Lizzie. "I'm sure Miss 
 Thomson wud be unco vexed if she kent Wullie was 
 readin' sic trash. She's that parteec'lar." 
 
 It was on Macgregor's tongue to enlighten his 
 parents on that point, but he suppressed the words just 
 in time. 
 
 "B'ilin' gravy," said John, "is the best yet ! Dod, it's 
 you for the comic, Macgreegor !" 
 
 The gratification of having so thoroughly entertained 
 his father went far to assuage Macgregor's disappoint- 
 ment. He accepted the invitation to a final game, also 
 the offer of a "daud o' taiblet"; and to Lizzie's relief 
 the subject of ghosts was apparently forgotten. But 
 even his father could not help him to win the game. 
 
 The consultation arranged with his fellow-plotter 
 for the following day did not come off, for Willie was 
 taken to church no less than thrice and was kept in 
 durance with a copy of the "Shorter Catechism" 
 throughout the intervals. 
 
 On the Monday afternoon, however, they met, and 
 the meeting at first might have been described as an 
 indignation one. When it had cooled down a little, 
 Macgregor produced from under his jacket one of 
 those old-fashioned round woolly mats which, along 
 with a case of waxen fruits, or other "ornament," used 
 to adorn the centre of many a parlour table. The hair 
 was long and emerald green, a trifle faded in colour. 
 
 "I got it in a drawer," he explained, "but I'll ha'e 
 to pit it back when I'm feenished wi' it." 
 
 "What's it for?" 
 
 "For ma heid. It'll look gey fearsome if I black 
 ma face "
 
 THE GHOST 117 
 
 "I never heard o' a black ghost " 
 
 "The de'il's black, ye gowk!" 
 
 "Gor!" cried Willie, recoiling, "are ye for pretendin' 
 ye're the de'il? Has he got green hair?" 
 
 "I dinna say I was gaun to be him" Macgregor said 
 impatiently; "but maybe she'll think she's come for." 
 
 Willie brightened. "That'll be a fine punishment 
 for her! Are ye gaun to ha'e a dagger?" 
 
 The answer to this query was delivered in a hoarse 
 whisper. "We've a great big toastin'-fork in the hoose. 
 I'll ha'e that." 
 
 "My!" 
 
 "An* I'll black ma ban's an' face a' except ma 
 nose. An' I've got a squeaker thing oot o' wee Jean- 
 nie's cahootchy sheep to pit in ma mooth it'll mak' 
 her jump! But you'll ha'e to get me claes. I wish we 
 had a big black hairy rug like Aunt Purdie has " 
 
 "We've got yin ! There's a lot of hair wan tin'. 
 She bocht it at a jungle sale." 
 
 "It'll dae fine, Wullie. I jist wish I hadna spent 
 ma penny on Seterday." 
 
 "What wey?" 
 
 "I could ha'e bocht a firework to set off when I 
 was jumpin' frae the coal bunker." 
 
 "Aw, ye'll manage fine wantin' the firework, Mac- 
 greegor," said Willie, who was becoming slightly un- 
 easy at the elaborateness of his friend's scheme. 
 
 "It's a peety I spent it," repeated Macgregor mourn- 
 fully. "If it wasna for the squeaker I could mak' 
 smoke come oot o' ma mooth!" 
 
 "She wud smell the tobacca." 
 
 "I wudna dae it wi' tobacca. I wud roll up ashes 
 in_a bit paper, like a ceegarette, an' blow through. It 
 wud look like smoke in the dark." 
 
 "Aw, I think the squeaker's best onywey. We'U
 
 u8 KIDDIES 
 
 need a heap o' string to tie on the rug, eh?" Willie 
 remarked, becoming practical. 
 
 "Ay, we best gang roun' the grocers noo an' ask 
 for the len' o' some." 
 
 Which they did. 
 
 II 
 
 Miss Thomson, clad in her respectable but rusty 
 outdoor garments, gave a final tidying touch to the 
 hearth and set the kettle in that position which, long 
 experience had informed her, would allow of its all 
 but reaching "the boil" by her return. She put up 
 her hand to lower the gas, hesitated and looked at 
 her nephew who, seated in the arm-chair, was appar- 
 ently lost in one of his school-books. Unusual sight! 
 And in his Christmas holidays too ! 
 
 "Are ye no' gaun oot afore tea, Wullie?" 
 
 He shook his head without raising his eyes, for all 
 the world like a devoted student impatient at being 
 disturbed. 
 
 For a moment or two the woman regarded him. 
 Her harsh features seemed to soften a little. Was it 
 possible, she wondered, that her scapegrace nephew 
 had benefited by the three sermons of Sunday? Cer- 
 tainly he had been strangely subdued during the last 
 three days. Could it be that this unwonted studious- 
 ness was intended to please her? She said nothing, 
 however, and, with a final glance at the fire, went out. 
 
 At the closing of the door Willie got up, leaving 
 his book on the chair, and proceeded to extract sundry 
 pieces of string from his pockets, which he laid in 
 readiness on the table already set for a frugal meal. 
 No grin appeared on his face, but it is to be feared that 
 his sobriety was due to dread rather than to conscience. 
 He made a hurried visit to the other apartment of the
 
 THE GHOST 119 
 
 house, and returned with the hairy rug already men- 
 tioned. And then the expected tap reached his ears. 
 
 The arrival of the second conspirator dispersed the 
 gloom, and fears vanished in the blaze of excitement. 
 Macgregor was in first-rate spirits, and Willie began 
 to envy him his leading part in the business. He even 
 went so far as to suggest that, after all, it might be 
 advisable for him to play the ghost, especially as he 
 had some past acquaintance with the coal bunker; but 
 Macgregor blithely if bluntly told him to go and chase 
 himself; and being the weaker character he was fain 
 to submit to continue with a good grace in his very 
 secondary role. While Macgregor was burning a cork, 
 and also a finger, at the firebars, he amused himself 
 with the unusually large toasting-fork and the squeaker 
 until commanded to put down the latter. 
 
 "If ye swallowed it," Macgregor remarked, "ye wud 
 jist spile the ghost. Here's anither cork. Ye can be 
 gettin' it ready on the fork. I'm gaun to dae ma face 
 in a meenute." 
 
 "Hoo are ye gaun to clean yer face efter ye win 
 oot the hoose?" Willie suddenly inquired. "Ye canna 
 gang through the streets wi' a black face." 
 
 "I've got a wat clout in ma pocket, in a bit o' paper." 
 
 "Mylye'refly!" 
 
 Macgregor smiled, rather cockily. "Hoo are ye gaun 
 to pit back the black rug wi'oot her catchin' ye?" 
 
 "Oh, ye'll ha'e to keep it till I get a chance. But 
 maybe ye could manage the ghost wantin' it. It wud 
 be safer if ye could." 
 
 "Did ye ever see a ghost in or'nar' claes?" 
 
 Reluctantly Willie admitted that he never had. 
 "But ye'll ha'e to tak' extra guid care o' oor fine rug," 
 he said admonishingly. 
 
 Macgregor was now at the little mirror at the side
 
 120 KIDDIES 
 
 of the sink, blowing on a fuming cork. "D'ye think 
 I should leave ma nose white?" he inquired. 
 
 "Hoo wud it dae," said Willie, with an effort to be 
 original, 4< to black yer nose an' leave the rest o' yer 
 face white?" 
 
 "It wudna dae ava'! I think I'll jist dae it a' black. 
 It'll save time." 
 
 "Weel, ye best hurry up. She'll be back in twinty 
 meenutes." 
 
 "Richt ye are, Wullie!" And Macgregor applied 
 himself to his make-up. 
 
 The result was quite satisfactory to himself. 
 
 "It'll no' be comic when the gas is oot," he said in 
 reply to his friend's criticism. 
 
 And later on Willie was disposed to agree with the 
 prophecy, for the completed "ghost" in rehearsing its 
 emergence from the bunker, with the light lowered, 
 was grotesque enough to be almost fearsome. 
 
 The "dressing up" was accomplished with few 
 hitches and only two mishaps of any consequence. Mac- 
 gregor ruined his white collar and, owing to inad- 
 vertence, the hairy rug got pretty badly singed, which 
 caused the air to reek with a horrid odour. Happily, 
 Willie recollected having heard that "the de'il" gener- 
 ally went about diffusing a smell of sulphur. At the 
 same time, he opened the window. 
 
 The clock struck six as Willie nervously assisted his 
 woolly friend into the bunker for the last time. 
 
 "Ye'll no' forget to turn oot the gas when ye hear 
 her comin'?" said Macgregor, who was perspiring 
 freely. 
 
 "I'm no' seeck o' life," Willie retorted, quoting the 
 reply, overheard at a street corner, of a young woman 
 to her swain's invitation to partake of a twopenny 
 pie.
 
 THE GHOST 121 
 
 "An* ye'll be sure to leave the door open when ye 
 dae a slope?" 
 
 "Ay," said Willie. "An' you'll no' forget the way 
 to get oot o" the bunker? Push the lid up wi' yer 
 heid, an' then shove doon the front, an' " 
 
 "Ach, I ken fine hoo to get oot. Shut me in, quick! 
 But mind ye dinna fasten the hook!" 
 
 "Nae fears! I'll see to the hook. Keep doon yer 
 heid!" 
 
 Willie proceeded to close up the hinged flap and to 
 lower the lid. The hook which had caused the inmate 
 anxiety hung loosely from the edge of the latter and 
 would, in the natural course of events, drop into its 
 "eye" on the former. Willie, however, carefully placed 
 it with the back of its curve against the eye, and after 
 giving the lid a thump or two with his fist, announced 
 to Macgregor that he was "as safe as a kirk." 
 
 "The coals is awfu' dirty," the ghost remarked. 
 
 "Doesna matter when yer face is black. Mind ye 
 dinna hurt yersel' on the shovel. An' dinna mak' ony 
 noise, for I've got to listen for her comin'. An' Mac- 
 greegor !" 
 
 "mat, Willie?" 
 
 "If she catches ye, ye're no' to say I pit ye up to it." 
 
 "No' likely! We'll jist ha'e to pretend it was a joke. 
 But she'll no' catch me. Oh, dear, it's terrible warm 
 in here!" 
 
 "Whisht! I think I hear something!" Willie flew 
 back to the hearth, ready to turn out the gas. 
 
 A false alarm. At the end of a minute he said 
 softly : 
 
 "Macgreegor, hoo are ye gettin' on?" 
 
 "Oh, fine! Listen, an' I'll gi'e ye a tune on ma 
 squeaker. Oh, dash! I've drapped it! Here, Wullie! 
 Open the lid a meenute till I see whaur it is." 
 
 "Can ye no' tak" better care o' yer squeaker?" com-
 
 122 KIDDIES 
 
 plained Willie, more in nervousness than annoyance. 
 He went over, and lifted the lid. "Hurry up ! Ha'e 
 ye no' got it yet?" 
 
 "It fell among the coals. I couldna help it. Ha'e 
 ye a match?" 
 
 "Sh! She's comin'!" gasped Willie, and letting the 
 lid fall with a bang, rushed back to the hearth, turned 
 out the gas, and fell into the arm-chair, shuddering 
 with apprehension. He heard the sound of a turning 
 key, then the opening of the outer door. He wished 
 he had never had anything to do with ghosts. And he 
 suddenly decided to pretend he had fallen into a swoon. 
 He sank back, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. 
 
 "Wullie," called the voice of his aunt. 
 
 Involuntarily he sat bolt upright, amazed at the un- 
 wonted mildness of her tone. 
 
 "Wullie, come here, I want ye." Her tone was still 
 milder almost diffident. 
 
 Evidently she was waiting at the outer door, which 
 she had not closed. But why? 
 
 Willie found himself unable to move. A scuffling 
 sound, ending in a thump, came from the bunker, and 
 he nearly screamed. Presently he heard his aunt ap- 
 proaching. He did not move when she opened the 
 door. 
 
 "Mercy! He's gaun oot, efter a'," she said and 
 sighed. 
 
 Then she caught sight of him in the firelight. 
 
 "What's ado, Wullie? What for did ye pit oot the 
 gas? Was ye sleepin'?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 A creak came from the bunker ; but her hearing was 
 indifferent. 
 
 "Areyeno'weel?" 
 
 "I I'm fine." 
 
 She peered at his averted face.
 
 THE GHOST 123 
 
 "Wullie," she said slowly, "was ye trying for to 
 to save the gas?" 
 
 He wriggled uneasily, a movement of modesty it 
 might have been, and she accepted it as such. 
 
 "Ye're a guid laddie," she said, and turned to lay 
 several flimsily covered parcels on the table. "I'm gled 
 I thocht to gi'e ye a treat,"- she went on, somewhat 
 haltingly. "When I was oot I gaed into the baker's 
 an' bocht three mutton pies an' three Christmas pies 
 an' three cheesecakes. An' so ye best rin as hard as 
 ye can an' bring yer frien' Macgreegor Robi'son here 
 for his tea." 
 
 She went over to the hearth and from the mantel- 
 shelf took a box of matches. Yet she appeared to be 
 in no hurry to light the gas. 
 
 "Haste ye, Wullie," she said kindly, yet with a touch 
 of her old impatience. 
 
 But Willie sat still, as good as paralysed. 
 
 "Dae ye no' want Macgreegor?" she inquired pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "Naw," the hapless one blurted. 
 
 A distinct sound came from the bunker. 
 
 "What was that?" cried Miss Thomson, peering 
 across the room. 
 
 "A a moose, maybe." 
 
 "A moose? There's nae mice in this hoose." 
 
 "Maybe it was a c-c-cat." 
 
 "Hoo could a cat get there?" She struck a match 
 and applied it to the gas, and blinked at the bunker. 
 "The hook's catched," she said, relieved. "It wud jist 
 be a bit o' coal slippin' doon." Again she turned her 
 attention to her nephew. 
 
 "Mercy, Wullie, what ails ye?" 
 
 "Naething." 
 
 "If ye're no' weel, ye canna get eatin' the pastries." 
 
 "I'm fine," muttered Willie, his gaze glued to the
 
 124 KIDDIES 
 
 treacherous hook. And yet he was not sorry it had 
 caught. 
 
 "An' what wey dae ye no' want Macgreegor?" 
 
 "He he'll maybe no' be at hame the nicht." 
 
 "Gi'e him the chance. I was thinkin' I had maybe 
 been rayther severe on him the ither day espaycially 
 seein' it's New Year time. Rin an' see if ye can get 
 him. Tell him I've got pastries for him." 
 
 It was here that Willie's few remaining wits de- 
 parted. 
 
 "Macgreegor doesna like pastries," he said. 
 
 From the bunker came a clatter, a rumble, and a 
 voice, choking with indignation : 
 
 "Wullie Thomson, yer a leear!" 
 
 Then an awful silence. 
 
 Miss Thomson, who had gone pale, was the first 
 to recover. 
 
 "Wha's in the bunker?" she sternly demanded of 
 her unhappy nephew. 
 
 "It's jist a a ghost," he mumbled. 
 
 "A goat? Hoo daur ye tell me sic a falsehood?" 
 
 "I said a ghost. It's Macgreegor Robi'son. We 
 only done it for f-fun." 
 
 "Oh, ye only done it for fun, did ye?" Miss 
 Thomson's voice had lost all its recent kindliness. "An' 
 ye thocht to terrify me, did ye ?" 
 
 Willie was about to reply in the negative, but Mac- 
 gregor was before him. 
 
 "Ay, we did," he cried. "But I'm gled we didna 
 manage it " 
 
 "Oh, ye're gled ye didna manage it, are ye? Ye'll 
 be stoppin' there for the nicht, I suppose eh ?" 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "Weel," she went on, "I'll just tak' the pastries roun' 
 wi' me to Miss Jordan, an' her an' me'll enjoy them. 
 But first I'll send the ghost hame. An' as for you,
 
 THE GHOST 125 
 
 Wullie, ye wee deceit, ye'll gang stracht to yer bed! 
 Frichten me, wud ye? an' me that nervous!" 
 
 She advanced to the bunker, undid the hook, and 
 lifted the lid. 
 
 In the words of Hamlet, alas, poor ghost! Mac- 
 gregor looked what he was a dismal failure. We do 
 not always realise how keenly a child feels the collapse 
 of his scheme, nefarious though it may be. His eyes 
 fell, his lip quivered. 
 
 "Ma guid rug!" exclaimed Miss Thomson in awful 
 tones. 
 
 Yet worse was in store for the poor ghost. Next 
 moment Miss Thomson stepped back to the nearest 
 chair, fell into it, and began to quake in an extraordi- 
 nary manner. Presently she emitted a sound so strange 
 to Willie that the tears stopped short in his eyes. 
 
 His aunt, whom he had seldom witnessed smiling, 
 was actually laughing. 
 
 She laughed and laughed, with frequent exclama- 
 tions of "Oh, dear ! Oh, dear!" until she was well-nigh 
 exhausted, while the object of her mirth writhed and 
 almost wept with humiliation. 
 
 But the laughter stopped as abruptly as it had 
 started. Still breathless she said: 
 
 "Macgreegor Robi'son come oot an' clean yersel', 
 an' we'll ha'e oor tea. Wullie, pit the pies in the 
 oven. Ye can say ye're sorry efter ye've had yer 
 pastries. I forgi'e ye baith, though ye dinna deserve 
 it." Then she went off again. "A ghost wi' green 
 hair! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I ha'ena laughed like 
 this since ma sister had the whoopin'-cough, seeven- 
 an'-thirty year back ! Oh, dear !"
 
 X 
 
 AN EARLY ENGAGEMENT 
 
 ALL the little girls were more or less impressed by the 
 announcement made by Miss White, their favourite 
 teacher, to the effect that she would not be with them 
 after the holidays, because (blushing) she was going to 
 be married ; but none was quite so impressed as Gladys. 
 
 Gladys would have preferred to walk home alone 
 that afternoon; however, Mabel overtook her before 
 she had gone far beyond the school gate. They could 
 not have been called close friends, but their homes 
 happened to lie in the same direction. Mabel often 
 said things that hurt and shocked Gladys. She was 
 a rather sophisticated young person, though only a year 
 older than Gladys, who was eight. Her parents were 
 rich; her father owned several motor-cars, and he and 
 her mother were restless people, forever touring or 
 visiting. Mabel was not much more familiar with 
 them than with the servants. 
 
 "Why did you blub when she kissed you?" she de- 
 manded now, with startling abruptness. 
 
 "I I don't know," stammered Gladys. She might 
 easily have answered that the tears had come because 
 Miss White was going away for ever; but that would 
 not have been the whole truth, and Gladys was still a 
 stranger to the incomplete sort. She really did not 
 know altogether why she had wept; she had not been 
 awfully miserable; she had, in fact, experienced an ec- 
 126
 
 AN EARLY ENGAGEMENT 127 
 
 static thrill when Miss White had uttered the word 
 "married." 
 
 There were certain hymn tunes that produced a 
 somewhat similar effect upon Gladys when the organ- 
 ist played the melody on the vox angelica and the light 
 was dull; they made her heart feel warm and big and 
 her eyes wet, and sometimes her throat lumpy though 
 it was all delicious. 
 
 "You oughtn't to blub without knowing why," re- 
 marked Mabel. "I never do." 
 
 "I couldn't help it," said Gladys, wishing she were 
 home, with all her five dolls to cuddle. "It must be 
 lovely," she ventured, "to be going to be married." 
 
 "I don't think," Mabel returned coldly. "Besides, 
 Miss White is miles too old. She has got grey hairs!" 
 
 "She hasn't!" 
 
 "Heaps of them, though she tries to mix them up 
 with the others. And she has a red nose." 
 
 "It's only the least little tiny bit pink." 
 
 "Well, it'll soon be red red like a tomato." 
 
 "I think you're simply horrid," cried Gladys with in- 
 dignation. "If it was extra pink to-day, it was only 
 because she was blushing." Defiantly: "And I'm 
 fearfully glad she is going to be married!" 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind her getting married," said Mabel 
 carelessly, "but I'm jolly glad I'm not her." After a 
 brief pause: "I wouldn't get married for a million 
 pounds. Catch me chasing a man all over the shop!" 
 
 "Oh, Mabel!" Gladys exclaimed, her resentment giv- 
 ing place to shocked distress. 
 
 "I say, Gladys," said the other suddenly, "let's take 
 a noath." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A noath. You are stupid! Let's promise each 
 other never to marry."
 
 ia8 KIDDIES 
 
 "But we couldn't marry each other," said Gladys, 
 not without relief in her voice. 
 
 "Goosey! I meant marry men, of course! Let's 
 take a solemn noath. I'll begin if you like." 
 
 Gladys shook her fair head gently but firmly. "Oh, 
 I couldn't," she softly declared. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I am going to be married. It's to be on 
 my twenty-first birthday." 
 
 Mabel laughed sceptically. "How do you know?" 
 
 "Mother said I might. At first I thought of my 
 sixteenth birthday, but mother said that was too soon, 
 and, besides, I'm perhaps going to college then." 
 
 "But how do you know you'll get any one to marry 
 you?" 
 
 Gladys was neither offended nor dismayed. "I just 
 know." 
 
 "Are you engaged?" 
 
 "N-no. But I shall be." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Some day." 
 
 "I expect it will be smother evening," said Mabel, 
 quoting the last housemaid but one. 
 
 "I think it will be in the evening," simply replied 
 Gladys, who quite recently, in her mother's absence, 
 had read the final chapter of an old-fashioned novel, 
 and had thereby gained a faint inkling of a betrothal 
 by moonlight. 
 
 Mabel was so taken aback by the calm confidence 
 that she overlooked the density of her companion. 
 
 "Who are you going to get engaged to?" she in- 
 quired. 
 
 "I think," said Gladys hopefully, "it will be Bobby 
 Burton." 
 
 "He's not well off," remarked Mabel, and seeing
 
 AN EARLY ENGAGEMENT 129 
 
 that her words failed to have the slightest effect, she 
 added: "Why do you think it will be him?" 
 
 "I know him better than any other boy." 
 
 "But does he admire you?" 
 
 The conversation had become so intimate that 
 Gladys, with all her innocence, blushed. But she an- 
 swered the question bravely though modestly "I 
 think he does." 
 
 "Why do you think?" 
 
 "Once, when I was much younger, he told his mother 
 that he liked the colour of my hair, and she told mine ; 
 and just before last Christmas he told me that he didn't 
 like skinny legs and mine aren't, even when I've got 
 on my silk stockings." 
 
 "No, your legs aren't skinny," admitted Mabel, "but 
 very likely you'll have a long illness, and then they'll 
 get like sticks " 
 
 "I won't have a long illness " 
 
 "And you'll most likely be bald when you grow up 
 before you're twenty because fair hair like yours 
 always comes out nurse says so in handfuls and she 
 says, too, that men always know when you wear those 
 wiggy things so you had better get engaged as quickly 
 as you can, for nobody will look at you when you are 
 grown up." And Mabel paused in breathless triumph. 
 
 "I don't believe it," Gladys almost screeched. "And 
 I wouldn't have your black hair for anything." 
 
 "You'll wish you had it some day. So you had bet- 
 ter ask Bobby Burton as soon as possible to be engaged 
 to you, and then perhaps you'll be safe. If you don't, 
 you will die an old maid!" 
 
 Tears were rising to her blue eyes when it occurred 
 to Gladys that she had caught Mabel tripping. With 
 recovered confidence she said: 
 
 "I don't believe what your nurse says, and I 
 think you're a silly, Mabel, because ladies never ask
 
 130 KIDDIES 
 
 gentlemen to be engaged to them. So there!" 
 
 "It used to be like that," Mabel coolly rejoined; "but 
 nowadays cook says, you can't possibly catch a man 
 unless you blooming well chase him into a corner. I've 
 heard her say it often, and she's married to the gardener 
 the one with the wooden leg." 
 
 "Well," said Gladys distractedly, "I think she was a 
 horrid thing to chase a poor man with a wooden leg." 
 
 "He seems to like her well enough, but she says 
 marriage is a frost." With an abrupt change of man- 
 ner Mabel pleasantly added : "Perhaps you would like 
 to take the noath now?" 
 
 Gladys could struggle no longer. For the first time 
 in her life she positively hated. The emotion was too 
 much for her. With an inarticulate cry of rage and 
 grief she fled for home, which was fortunately near, as 
 fast as her plump little limbs would carry her. 
 
 Her mother chanced to be out, and she ran straight 
 to her play-room, seized her five dolls, and clasped them 
 to her bosom. Gradually they gave her comfort and 
 resignation, and she was drying her eyes on the dress 
 of the shabbiest one, when a most dreadful thought 
 struck her. 
 
 Must her five beloved children be for ever fatherless ? 
 
 II 
 
 On her mother's return Gladys lost no time in con- 
 sulting her on the subject of falling hair. Mrs. Mar- 
 shall, naturally annoyed and indignant, only partially 
 reassured her little girl, at the same time advising her 
 not to speak to Mabel again if she could possibly avoid 
 doing so. Gladys had prepared other questions, but 
 somehow they would not come to her lips. She feared 
 lest her mother might be still more annoyed, which 
 shows that Mabel's sting had left a tiny drop of the
 
 poison of self-consciousness. She managed, however, to 
 ask a little later if she might invite Bobby to tea on the 
 following evening. 
 
 "Certainly, dear. Shall I write a note, or will you 
 run round in the morning?" 
 
 "If you write the note, mother, I'll take it round in 
 the morning," Gladys replied, after a moment's con- 
 sideration. 
 
 "Very well; but you must make it clear to him that 
 it isn't a party." 
 
 "Yes, mother. Will you please have some meringues 
 pink ones?" 
 
 Mrs. Marshall laughed. "If you promise not to tell 
 Bobby that he is going to have them. You don't want 
 him coming here out of cupboard-love, do you?" 
 
 Gladys was puzzled as to what might be meant by 
 cupboard-love, but she had an aunt who sang a pretty 
 song about "Love in a Cottage," and she had also a 
 cupboard in her play-room, and she thought of both un- 
 til she became rather confused, and did not go to sleep 
 that night so quickly as usual. 
 
 Now Gladys, for nearly a year, had had her mind 
 made up that on her twenty-first birthday she and 
 Bobby would marry. She could not have told you a 
 reason for her belief. Certainly Bobby had never given 
 her one. On the other hand, it had never occurred to 
 her, until Mabel intervened, that any reason was neces- 
 sary. She was not a very imaginative child, but she 
 believed in fairies and fairy tales, and she found the 
 good old tag "And so they were married and lived 
 happily ever after" entirely satisfying. 
 
 She was fond of Bobby, but at times she was fonder 
 still of the idea of marriage, so that, after all, Bobby 
 may have been merely a means to an end. Yet she had 
 associated Bobby with marriage for so long a year 
 is an age to childhood that to doubt him was to fore-
 
 132 KIDDIES 
 
 see herself an old maid (it did not seem the least in- 
 congruous to Gladys) with her five children semi- 
 orphans. No other possible husband entered into the 
 dismal picture. Wherefore in sheer desperation, she 
 determined to follow, to a certain extent, the unpalat- 
 able teaching of Mable. She would ask Bobby very 
 nicely if he would be kind enough to be a father to her 
 children, or at least become engaged to her; but on no 
 account would she blooming well chase him into a cor- 
 ner. It was at this point that she fell asleep to dream 
 that all her dolls had changed heads with one another, 
 and that her toy-cupboard was stuffed full with pink 
 meringues that groaned, while seven little girls with no 
 hair sang loudly to an old man whom they called 
 "Mother," and who was really a pussy-cat, and Miss 
 White, the teacher, pointed out mountains on the wall- 
 paper with a wooden leg. 
 
 She awakened in the morning none the worse, and, 
 according to childhood's blessed nature, did not re- 
 member Bobby until, at breakfast, Mrs. Marshall men- 
 tioned that she had written the note. Then she felt 
 more excited than worried, though no less determined. 
 
 The note was addressed to Mrs. Burton, and the 
 writer instructed the bearer not to go into the house at 
 such an early hour, unless she were specially bidden. 
 Within a few minutes, however, she was in Bobby's 
 play-room, conducted thither by Mrs. Burton, who pro- 
 ceeded to read the note. 
 
 "Hullo!" was Bobby's greeting. "Have you got 
 your Christmas holidays?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, a little shyly. 
 
 "So have I. What did you come for?" 
 
 "Don't be rude, Bobby," murmured Mrs. Burton. 
 "Gladys has brought you a very kind invitation to tea 
 for to-night." 
 
 Bobby did not look supremely delighted.
 
 AN EARLY ENGAGEMENT 133 
 
 "Is it a party?" he inquired. 
 
 "No," replied Gladys, who was apt to become formal 
 when not quite at ease. "Mother said I was to make 
 it clear to you that it wasn't to be a party. Just you 
 and me," she concluded, more freely. 
 
 "Bobby will be charmed," began Mrs. Burton. 
 
 "But I wanted to have Leslie " 
 
 "Hush! I'll write a note for you to take back to 
 mother, dear. Would you like to stay and play with 
 Bobby this morning?" 
 
 "Look here, mother!" cried Bobby. 
 
 "Mother said I was to go back at once," Gladys said 
 regretfully, with a look at Bobby that would have 
 melted anything human but the heart of a boy of eight. 
 
 "Well, well, if that is so, I must not try to keep 
 you," said Mrs. Burton, and hurried from the room. 
 
 After a long silence Gladys, seated at the window, 
 ventured to ask Bobby, who was working busily at the 
 table, what he was doing. 
 
 "Making a sailing boat into a steamer." 
 
 "How clever you must be!" 
 
 "It's pretty difficult," he admitted, with a wag of 
 his head. "It'll take ages to do it. I'd have finished 
 it to-night if I hadn't been going to your house." 
 
 "You could bring it with you to our house." 
 
 "But you don't care for boats, Gladys," he said, 
 conquered by her magnanimity. 
 
 "I'm sure I could get to like them. May I look at 
 that one close?" 
 
 "Rather! But please don't touch anything." 
 
 She came beside him, and if she did not understand 
 his explanations she was attentive enough to satisfy 
 his conceit in his handiwork. At the same time, she 
 was hoping he would ask a certain question. Uncon- 
 sciously she snuggled against him. 
 
 "Don't push !" he muttered. But a minute later he
 
 134 KIDDIES 
 
 did ask the question. "Are there to be meringues for 
 tea?" 
 
 She nodded joyfully. She had not told him ! 
 
 "Pink ones?"' 
 
 Again she nodded, and gave a pleased little giggle. 
 
 "Why are you so glad," he inquired, "when you 
 aren't allowed to eat meringues?" 
 
 "I like you to have them." 
 
 "Well, I think you're jolly decent the decentest girl 
 I know," he said warmly. 
 
 At that moment Gladys felt so fond of Bobby that 
 marriage did not seem so vital. And yet, if she had 
 proposed to him then, he would probably have said 
 "Yes" right away. 
 
 Mrs. Burton returned with her note, and Gladys re- 
 luctantly departed. It was not until she was with her 
 dolls that marriage became once more the important 
 thing. And she was still a little afraid of premature 
 baldness. 
 
 in 
 
 Bobby's behaviour at the tea-table would doubtless 
 have gratified his mother, who liked his going to the 
 home of Gladys, if only for the lessons in good manners 
 set by that dainty little maiden. He did not knock 
 over anything, and took only two of the three me- 
 ringues, although Mrs. Marshall offered him the third. 
 (Parents have an amazing disregard for the interiors of 
 other people's children.) Bobby felt pretty virtuous at 
 his refusal. 
 
 When they retired to the play-room, Gladys gra- 
 ciously insisted on his proceeding with his marine engi- 
 neering, and produced for his assistance sundry tools 
 which she had borrowed, without permission, from her 
 father'? chest. Fortunately none of them were very
 
 AN EARLY ENGAGEMENT 135 
 
 dangerous, but Bobby had never handled such splendid 
 tools before. 
 
 He retold her that she was the decentest girl he 
 knew, which once more had the curious effect of caus- 
 ing the end to change places with the means. Next 
 moment he brought about a fresh reversal by inquiring 
 what she was going to do. 
 
 "My children !" she cried, and flew to them. "They 
 must be put to bed." 
 
 Bobby was used to hearing her refer to the dolls as 
 her children, and it was long since he had hurt her 
 feelings with unkind comments, though often tempted 
 to make them. Becoming absorbed in his job, he for- 
 got both dolls and Gladys. 
 
 She, seated primly on the old sofa, prepared her be- 
 loved ones for the night. But her mind was busier 
 than her fingers, and now and then she cast furtive 
 glances at the boy. 
 
 All at once she gave a little jump and a gasp. She 
 realised that Bobby was sitting in a corner of the room, 
 with his back against the cupboard. A gust of ideas as- 
 sailed her. Two questions were finally evolved. Did 
 it mean that she could gain him without blooming well 
 chasing him? Could this be cupboard-love? 
 
 In a breath, she felt that the time had come! She 
 was afraid, yet nothing would have deterred her then. 
 Gathering her five dolls, dressed and undressed, to her 
 breast, she rose, wavering a little, and crossed the floor 
 until she was within a few feet of Bobby. There she 
 halted. 
 
 "Bobby," she said, in scarce a whisper. 
 
 "What?" he returned absently. 
 
 "Bobby!" 
 
 He looked up rather impatiently. 
 
 "Bobby, will you be a father to my children?" 
 
 He stared.
 
 i 3 6 KIDDIES 
 
 "Bobby," she faltered, "I mean will you marry me 
 when we're grown up?" 
 
 "I don't know," he replied, with small interest. 
 
 "Well shall we be engaged now?" 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "I I want to be safe." 
 
 Naturally he did not comprehend. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to be engaged to me, Bobby?" 
 she ventured, after a pause. 
 
 "What would be the use?" 
 
 "D-don't you like me?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, well enough." 
 
 "Don't you think I'm rather nice?" She had 
 meant to say "pretty," but something made her substi- 
 tute the other word. 
 
 "I think you're jolly decent. Only you're silly too." 
 
 "Silly !" she echoed, in a sort of wail. "How ?" 
 
 "Well, you're a girl but you can't help that. I 
 think you're silly not to take meringues when you get 
 the chance." 
 
 "But, Bobby, I'd get a pain !" she exclaimed reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 "That's sillier." 
 
 For a moment she seemed stunned. Then she went 
 back to the sofa, deposited the dolls thereon, and with- 
 out a word left the room. 
 
 Bobby put in an uncomfortable couple of minutes, 
 and was much relieved by her reappearance. Her 
 countenance wore a look of grave triumph. 
 
 "I say, I didn't mean " he began. 
 
 "It's all right," she told him, "I've eaten it!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The meringue. I stole it, and ate it every crumb! 
 Now will you be engaged?" 
 
 "You might have given a chap a bite." 
 
 Her face fell; tears rushed to her eyes.
 
 AN EARLY ENGAGEMENT 137 
 
 "Oh, Bobby, you are cruel!" she sighed. 
 
 At that he sprang to his feet. "Please don't cry, 
 Gladys. I I'll do anything you like." 
 
 "Then say we're engaged." 
 
 "Oh, all right." A pause. "Is that all you want?" 
 
 "I think," she said, already demure, "you ought to 
 kiss me and give me a ring." 
 
 "Haven't got a ring." 
 
 She had it ready. "I got it out of a cracker. Put 
 it on this ringer." 
 
 "Silly kid!" said Bobby, doing as he was told, how- 
 ever. "Is that all?" 
 
 "You haven't kissed me." 
 
 "Don't want to." 
 
 "But you must, because you've said we were en- 
 gaged, and engaged people always do it." 
 
 "Oh, bother!" He kissed her chin. "You smell of 
 meringue, greedy!" 
 
 She was far too happy to take offence. 
 
 "Now come and kiss all the children," she said 
 briskly, taking his hand. 
 
 "Not likely!" 
 
 "Bobby!" 
 
 "Kiss rotten dolls ? Not much !" 
 
 "Bobby! And I ate a meringue to please you, and 
 I'll be so ill! Oh, please!" 
 
 "I hope you won't be ill. It's horrid," he said, in 
 more sympathetic tones. "You were a brick to eat 
 it only I'd have eaten it for you. Well, I'll do it 
 if you won't tell anybody." 
 
 He ran over to the sofa and hastily saluted the 
 heads of the five in turn. 
 
 "You're a dear!" exclaimed Gladys. 
 
 "Now is that all?" he demanded shortly, looking 
 ashamed of himself. 
 
 "That's all," she answered cheerfully. "Now you
 
 138 KIDDIES 
 
 can go and finish your boat, and I'll finish putting our 
 children to bed." 
 
 "They're not " Bobby hesitated, then shut his 
 
 lips firmly, and strode back to his corner. No use ar- 
 guing with her! 
 
 And Gladys felt safe, also proud that she had not 
 blooming well chased him. 
 
 "Aren't you glad, Maud," she whispered to her 
 eldest child, "I didn't take a noath?"
 
 XI 
 DICKY JOHNNY 
 
 AFTER but little delay the total earthly possessions of 
 Richard Temple and Joanna, his wife two of the vic- 
 tims of the Urania disaster on the Australian Coast 
 had been found to consist of forty thousand shares in 
 the Hero Copper Mining Company, and a little boy 
 called Dicky Johnny. It had further been discovered, 
 after the least possible additional delay, that nobody 
 wanted to buy the shares at any price, and that no one 
 seemed desirous of taking the little boy as a gift. 
 
 The lawyer in charge, an old friend of the dead 
 man's, had locked the unsaleable scrip in his safe and 
 had written a letter to Mr. Winston Temple, the boy's 
 oldest uncle. The ultimate result of that letter was 
 the present gathering of the boy's uncles and aunts 
 they did not make a large company in Mr. Winston 
 Temple's library, a somewhat gloomy storehouse of 
 learning. 
 
 The host sat at his writing-table, his left hand in 
 his trousers pocket, his right toying with a spring pa- 
 per-clip. He was a man of near fifty, big, powerful, 
 almost handsome. His coldish grey eyes surveyed his 
 relatives a brother, two sisters, two brothers-in-law 
 and a sister-in-law, also a cousin, a widower. 
 
 "Well," he said, breaking a silence, "has no one any 
 suggestions to offer? Henry, you had better speak 
 first." 
 
 139
 
 140 KIDDIES 
 
 Henry Temple, a meagre person compared with the 
 elder brother, moved uneasily on his chair, cleared his 
 throat, glanced at his wife, and shook his head. His 
 wife spoke. She was a fair, slim woman with a cer- 
 tain hard beauty. 
 
 "I do not see that we can suggest anything, Win- 
 ston," she said. "I presume you wish to find a home 
 for the poor unfortunate boy, but you know that 
 Henry's health " 
 
 "Agatha," said Winston, "have you anything to 
 propose?" 
 
 His elder sister hesitated and looked at her husband, 
 John Rogers. 
 
 "So far as I am concerned," said he, "the boy would 
 be quite welcome to stay with us, for a time ; but as 
 you are aware, Agatha and I have no abiding place at 
 present. It is almost certain that we shall have to 
 make a trip to Ceylon before many weeks have passed. 
 I had hoped to settle at home for good, but things out 
 there are not moving just as one could desire, 
 
 and " His voice trailed off through a mumble 
 
 into silence. 
 
 "And you, Adela, have your own five children," 
 said Winston. "No doubt your hands are full 
 enough." 
 
 "I don't see why the poor little beggar shouldn't 
 come to us," said Adela's fat and cheerful consort. 
 
 Adela frowned at him. "I shouldn't mind the trou- 
 ble a bit," she said to her brother, "but the boy has 
 been brought up in a way that I never could approve 
 of, and even for poor, dear Richard's sake, I do not 
 see that I should be justified in letting my own chil- 
 dren run serious risks of of " 
 
 "Quite so," said Winston quietly, allowing the pa- 
 per-clip to shut with a snap. "I shall take the boy here 
 until I can send him to school."
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 141 
 
 Several of the company nodded, and some one said, 
 "That is very good of you, Winston." Then every- 
 body sat up in the way that people sit up in church 
 after a very long prayer. The matter had been nicely 
 settled, and their consciences could take a nap. And, 
 after all, Winston was only doing his duty as the head 
 of the connection. 
 
 "How old is the boy?" the question was asked softly, 
 though abruptly, by the widower. His presence had 
 caused some wonderment at the beginning of the meet- 
 ing, but had thereafter been ignored, and Winston had 
 not thought it worth while explaining that his cousin 
 had invited himself to the meeting. 
 
 "Between five and six, I believe, Thomas," Winston 
 replied. 
 
 "Have you any idea of what he is like?" The cou- 
 sin, a dark, sad-eyed man of perhaps forty, glanced 
 rather shyly round the company. He had nothing in 
 common with the Temples save relationship. 
 
 No one had any idea. Richard Temple and his wife 
 had been wanderers and had broken modern conven- 
 tions pretty freely. Moreover, Richard was adjudged 
 to have married beneath him ; his relatives had received 
 his choice but coldly on the only occasion of meeting 
 her, and had presumed Richard to be ashamed of his 
 choice because he had not brought her to see them a 
 second time. As a matter of fact, Richard had been 
 ashamed of his relations, or, at all events, of their 
 manners. 
 
 There was a silence until the cousin inquired when 
 the boy was expected to arrive. 
 
 "The steamer is due to-morrow about noon," Win- 
 ston replied. "I have arranged to meet it and thank 
 those people I forget their names for bringing Rich- 
 ard John from Australia. I have already written to
 
 142 KIDDIES 
 
 thank those who took care of him there after the 
 wreck." 
 
 "Poor little chap! He must have had an awful 
 time," murmured Adela, and the other women and one 
 of the men made sympathetic sounds. 
 
 "With your permission," said the widower, "I shall 
 be glad to give the boy a home and do my best to bring 
 him up." 
 
 He paused for a moment, but no one spoke; even 
 Winston was unprepared. 
 
 "I can promise for him only the plainest of living, 
 but I will endeavour to secure his health, give him a 
 decent education, and some happiness." 
 
 Winston laid the paper-clip carefully on his desk. 
 
 "This is exceedingly good of you, Thomas," he said, 
 with a kindness that scarcely covered the surprise and 
 relief in his voice. 
 
 Without giving time for further remarks, Thomas 
 continued: "But if you accept my offer, I must ask 
 you all to entrust me with the guardianship the sole 
 guardianship of the boy. I I wish him to be just 
 as if he were my own. Now I shall go into the next 
 room, and you can let me know when you have come 
 to a decision." He rose and passed to the door. There 
 he halted. "You quite understand," he said, in a low 
 voice, "that I require entire charge of the boy." He 
 bowed slightly and went out. 
 
 They did not keep him waiting long in the next 
 room. 
 
 II 
 
 Seven years ago Thomas Nairn had succeeded, 
 chiefly for his wife's sake, in becoming a fairly prosper- 
 ous man of business. But even as he was beginning to 
 realise his success, his wife died ere their child was
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 143 
 
 born. Energy failed as at the snapping of a live wire ; 
 ambition collapsed like a rent balloon. For a few 
 years longer Thomas continued in the City, buying 
 and selling in a listless, half-hearted fashion, unmoved, 
 barely interested by his clerk's reports and statements 
 of steadily dwindling profits ; then, lest he should bring 
 about the ruin of others as well as himself, he caused 
 his affairs to be wound up and, with what little capital 
 remained to him, left the City, neither glad nor regret- 
 ful. 
 
 In a far county, near the drowsy village of Alvarley 
 that he had known slightly in his boyhood, he estab- 
 lished himself in a little cottage possessed of a large 
 garden. His early youth had been lived among gar- 
 dens; years of town life had not stifled his love and 
 knowledge of flowers; throughout all his struggling 
 after money he had never relinquished the hope of mak- 
 ing for his wife, and for his children, a home in the 
 midst of a great -garden away from the stir and stress 
 of modern existence. Then, to be sure, he had not 
 thought of Alvarley; had he thought of it then, he 
 would now have made his hermitage elsewhere. But 
 Alvarley contained in itself no poignant memory of his 
 beloved, and offered such peace as is possible for those 
 who must ever find memories in a blue sky, a perfume 
 of violets, a bird's song. 
 
 At first it was enough that he should behold lovely 
 things responding to his own labour and that of the 
 assistant whom he employed. But as time went on, 
 as he perceived how excellent was the soil, how suitable 
 the exposure of his garden, he began to ask himself if 
 he might not go farther and sell flowers as well as 
 grow them. The idea gripped him, though it was the 
 desire to extend his operations rather than the wish 
 to make money that prevented his shaking it off. So 
 when the first winter came he invested a portion of his
 
 144 KIDDIES 
 
 capital in additional ground and a cluster of glass- 
 houses. Perhaps he sank too much money, for the 
 three summers that followed resulted in losses more 
 serious than he could well afford. Yet he gradually 
 secured a sure market for his wares, and the present 
 summer, so far as it had gone, gave promise of at least 
 a tiny balance on the right side. 
 
 "I've got to make a profit now, anyway," said 
 Thomas to himself as he filled his pipe by the door of 
 the cottage. 
 
 It was near eight o'clock, and he had been out since 
 five that fine July morning. But he had done less 
 supervision and work than usual. In one of the glass- 
 houses he had allowed a whole hour to slip by without 
 touching the job he had intended to complete ; and then 
 he had gone to the sweet-pea garden to give the man 
 there certain instructions, and had come away without 
 delivering any instructions whatsoever. And now he 
 suddenly realised that he was filling his pipe without 
 any intention of smoking it. He returned it and the 
 pouch to his pocket, and, moving to the cottage door, 
 opened it cautiously. 
 
 Presently he entered the little hall and went on tip- 
 toe to the kitchen. In answer to his whispered in- 
 quiry, Mary, his housekeeper, who had known him 
 from boyhood, shook her head. He turned, but hesi- 
 tated at the door. 
 
 "Won't ye go up, sir?" she said. "He's maybe stir- 
 rin' now, though he was sound ten minutes back." 
 
 "It would be a pity to wake him," said Thomas; 
 "he must be very tired after the long journey yester- 
 day." Nevertheless, he bent down and unlaced his 
 heavy boots and, having removed them, went softly 
 up the narrow stairs. On the landing there were two 
 doors. That on the left was ajar, and, after peeping 
 in, he pushed it open ana 1 entered,
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 145 
 
 "Good morning, Dicky," he said, and there was a 
 deal of diffidence in his voice, although he and the per- 
 son addressed had become good friends the previous 
 afternoon. 
 
 "I hope you have slept well," he went on. "I I 
 hope I didn't disturb you." 
 
 The little boy in the big bed sat up; his bewildered 
 stare became a smile of welcome. 
 
 "I forgot you was Mr. Thomas," he said; "I mean 
 Uncle Tom." He put his hand in the man's and 
 lifted his face. 
 
 Rather bashfully, Thomas kissed the rosy cheek and 
 said, "Are you hungry? Would you like to get up 
 now?" 
 
 "It's a nicer bed than on the steamer," the boy re- 
 plied, looking reflective; "but I'm awful hungry, too." 
 
 "Would you like to eat something before you get 
 up, Dick?"' 
 
 The boy nodded. "But you promised to call me 
 Dicky Johnny if I called you Uncle Tom." 
 
 "So I did. What would you like to eat?" 
 
 "Something very nice." 
 
 "I don't want you to spoil your proper breakfast," 
 said Thomas, touching the tousled yellow hair. "I 
 believe Mary has picked some strawberries. How 
 would that do, Dicky Johnny?" 
 
 "Oh, jolly! With sugar and cream?" 
 
 "Certainly." Thomas went to the stairhead and 
 called some instructions to his housekeeper in a some- 
 what apologetic tone of voice. Only the day before 
 he had arranged with her that the young guest's food 
 should be wholesome, but as plain as possible. "And 
 we must begin with plain things," he had said, "so that 
 the boy won't expect anything else." But now Mary 
 chuckled as she abstracted the cream-jug from the
 
 146 KIDDIES 
 
 breakfast-table, and it was with a sort of triumphant 
 air that she bore the tray to the bedside. 
 
 Dicky Johnny insisted on giving her a kiss, and she 
 retired in more subdued fashion than she had come, for 
 she knew his story. Yet for the present the boy's blue 
 eyes were clear and his red lips smiling. The long 
 voyage with its incidents and kindly people had been 
 the most merciful thing possible after his bereavement, 
 and Thomas, who had dreaded meeting a poor little, 
 grief-worn creature at the landing-stage, had been un- 
 speakably relieved, only, however, to be assailed by mis- 
 givings as to his ability to make the immediate future 
 entertaining enough for the child. For that the grief 
 was only dormant Thomas could not doubt; a single 
 hour had been long enough for him to discover the in- 
 tensely affectionate nature under the boyish exterior, 
 and until Dicky Johnny was sound asleep he had feared 
 for a breakdown. 
 
 The boy, listening to a description of the flower- 
 nursery, made short work of his feast, and announced 
 his desire to get up. 
 
 "Can you put on your clothes by yourself?" asked 
 Thomas. 
 
 "Of course! All but some." 
 
 "I'll tell Mary to come up and help you." 
 
 "No, no," said Dicky Johnny. "You." 
 
 Thomas felt pleased. "And what about your bath? 
 Shall I " 
 
 The boy slipped out of bed. "Come on! I'll not 
 splash you, Uncle Tom." 
 
 "You had better not!" said Thomas almost gaily, 
 and led the way to the pretty litle bathroom which he 
 had added to the cottage. 
 
 It was a merry five minutes that followed. But 
 when the small body was wrapped in the big towel,
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 147 
 
 preparatory to being dried, something seemed to clutch 
 painfully at the man's heart. 
 
 "Don't squeeze me so hard," protested Dicky 
 Johnny. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Thomas awkwardly. 
 "You see I I'm not used to bathing little boys," he 
 went on with an effort, "though I'm very glad to 
 learn." 
 
 "Are you? I don't think you'll take very long to 
 learn, Uncle Tom." 
 
 "Thank you. Are you sure you wouldn't rather 
 have Mary?" 
 
 "No, no," replied Dicky Johnny, throwing moist 
 arms round the other's neck. "You." 
 
 "I I think I've always wanted to bathe a little 
 boy," said Thomas, with an unsteady smile, "and I'm 
 very glad you're going to stay with me, Dicky 
 Johnny." 
 
 "So am I. I'm glad I'm not going to stay with my 
 other uncle the real uncle that came to meet me at 
 the steamer." 
 
 "I shouldn't say that if I were you. Your Uncle 
 Winston could give you far nicer things than I can. 
 You don't know him, or you might prefer him to me." 
 
 Dicky Johnny shook his head. "I don't think I 
 could love him very dearly," he said gravely. "Now 
 I'm dry." 
 
 They went back to the bedroom and had great fun. 
 Thomas's mistakes partly intentional with regard to 
 the donning of the small garments tickled the boy, 
 whose laughter set the woman downstairs chuckling 
 and murmuring, " 'Tis a different house already!" 
 And Thomas, behaving in a perfectly distracted fash- 
 ion, added absurdity to absurdity, till the little chap 
 fairly reeled with amusement. But at last everything 
 was put on the right way, and they went downstairs,
 
 i 4 8 KIDDIES 
 
 the boy riding pick-a-back (his own suggestion) to 
 breakfast. 
 
 After a cheerful meal Thomas proposed a visit to 
 the flowers. 
 
 "Have you got any water-tanks in the glass-houses?" 
 his guest inquired. "And water-hoses?" 
 
 "I have. You shall see them also." 
 
 "Shall I get playing with them?" 
 
 "I dare say that can be arranged," said Thomas, 
 who a couple of hours earlier had definitely made up 
 his mind not to allow any "messing about" with water. 
 "I am going to give you a little garden of your own, 
 too," he added. 
 
 "But I want to help you, Uncle Tom." 
 
 "I've no doubt you will, my boy," said Thomas 
 gently. "We'll help each other, eh?" 
 
 Dicky Johnny nodded. "Right you are!" he said 
 brightly. 
 
 They passed into the sunny garden, the small hand 
 in the big one. 
 
 "Which flowers do you like best?" the boy inquired. 
 
 "Do you know, I never can be quite sure; I'm fond 
 of so many. Which do you like best, Dicky Johnny?" 
 
 Dicky Johnny surveyed the part of the garden visible 
 from where they stood. "Come," he said, "and I'll 
 show you." He led his host to a great bed of pansies. 
 
 "Ah," said Thomas, "sometimes I think they are 
 my favourites, too! Take a few if you would like 
 them." He had intended warning his guest against 
 plucking any flower without permission. 
 
 "I'll just take one." After some deliberation the 
 boy made his choice. He brought the flower to his 
 host. "Do you know," he said, "that a pansy has three 
 small faces in it?" 
 
 "I believe I've heard of such a thing," Thomas re- 
 turned, smiling. "Yes; I can see them."
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 149 
 
 "Well, it's just a small family. There's the mother, 
 and there's the daddy, and there's the little one. And 
 
 they're always together, and " The pansy fell to 
 
 the ground. 
 
 Thomas saw the change come upon the young face ; 
 he saw it quiver as though actually smitten ; he saw it 
 whiten with memory and redden with grief. And ere 
 the cry of desolation burst forth he was on his knees 
 beside the child. But Dicky Johnny refused the kindly 
 arms, tore himself from them, and cast himself upon 
 the earth. Oh, agony in a garden ! Oh, bleak sorrow 
 under a brilliant sun! Oh, man and child, alike help- 
 less helpless as flowers before a tempest! 
 
 Thomas Nairn, his heart seeming to break, almost 
 as it had broken seven years before, knelt by the small 
 heaving body, a light hand upon it. Perhaps words 
 would have been useless then. Even so, Thomas had 
 none to utter. 
 
 Not very long as clock-ticks would have recorded it, 
 but age-long as heart-beats told it, was this storm of 
 childish grief; and it left the boy exhausted. He of- 
 fered no resistance when Thomas, himself white and 
 shaken, took him in his arms and bore him to the cot- 
 tage and to his own (Thomas's) bed. The sobs had 
 died to gasping breaths when Thomas, having drawn 
 the green blinds, seated himself by the bedside and ten- 
 derly sponged the tear-stained face. That finished, he 
 began to talk softly, soothingly, of he things they 
 would do and see in Alvarley ; of the picnics they would 
 go, of the little creatures of wood and moor and stream, 
 also of an occasional trip to the neighbouring town and 
 its shops. He did not cease until he deemed his charge 
 asleep. 
 
 But Dicky Johnny was still awake. He stretched 
 out his hand to touch the man's. 
 
 "Are you lonesome too?" he whispered.
 
 150 KIDDIES 
 
 Thomas drew in his breath. Then he bowed till 
 his black head, streaked with grey, lay on the pillow 
 beside the fair one, and put his arm round the lithe 
 body. 
 
 "Not so lonesome as I was, dear little man ; not so 
 lonesome," he murmured. 
 
 A short pause, and then the faint question. "It is 
 'cause of me, Uncle Tom?" 
 
 "Because of you, Dicky Johnny. It's just as if I 
 had been wanting you always." 
 
 "I'm glad it's 'cause of me. This is a nicer bed 
 than mine." 
 
 "D'you think so?" Thomas tried to blow his nose 
 and wipe his eyes at the same time. 
 
 "Yes. Don't you like having a little boy to sleep 
 with you? I don't kick much, Uncle Tom." 
 
 "You don't care about sleeping alone?" 
 
 "Not when I'm lonesome." 
 
 "Ah! but you and I are not going to be lonesome 
 any more. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm 
 going to get you a new little bed for yourself, and I'll 
 put it beside this one, so that you can climb into this 
 one whenever you like. Will that do?" 
 
 Dicky Johnny's arms went round his neck. 
 
 "I think I love you very dearly," he said. 
 
 A little later he fell asleep, for he had not got over 
 the excitements and journeyings of the previous day. 
 
 Thomas left him in Mary's care and went out to 
 seek his foreman. Having found him, he took him 
 over to the pansy bed. 
 
 "Peter," he said, "I wish you to have them all re- 
 moved at once. Do what you like with them, but 
 there must be no pansies in the nursery this season." 
 
 The man stared at him. "Ye don't mean " he 
 
 began. 
 
 "By two o'clock," said Thomas, and hurried away
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 151 
 
 to look out a new length of hose for Dicky Johnny's 
 delectation in the afternoon. 
 
 m 
 
 But Thomas, with all his big, soft heart, was not a 
 fool; nor was Dicky Johnny, with all his affectionate 
 nature and winsome ways, anything but an ordinary 
 human boy, prone to mischief and capable of rebellion. 
 The twain had loved at first sight, so to speak, but 
 they had still to get to know and understand each 
 other. Not vague but very definite were the responsi- 
 bilities which the man had put upon his conscience; he 
 had taken charge of the child, body, mind, and soul ; he 
 had set himself the task of guiding and protecting 
 Dicky Johnny for many years to come, and of provid- 
 ing, in some measure, for his future. And it was the 
 least he could do, he told himself, in return for the gift 
 of the boy, whose coming had uplifted his whole being, 
 whose presence made his house a home and his garden 
 a nursery indeed. It was not possible that Dicky 
 Johnny should be uninfluenced by the intense love and 
 unwavering care surrounding him; though perhaps 
 their effect was less visible in a decrease of misdeeds 
 than in the penitence, often passionate, which surely 
 followed. Happily, the easy indulgence of his lost 
 parents had not rendered him either greedy or selfish, 
 and he was quick to perceive another's hurt. The not 
 infrequent clashinga of will between Thomas and him- 
 self involved no ugly wounds. 
 
 The summer was a bright and busy one for both. 
 By labouring early and late Thomas contrived to de- 
 vote himself to Dicky Johnny's health and happiness 
 without neglecting other interests. Moreover, he came 
 out of his hermitage and made friends with the doctor 
 and minister so that the boy might make friends with
 
 152 KIDDIES 
 
 their children, and ere long he surprised the villagers, 
 and himself, by undertaking, single-handed, the charge 
 and entertainment of half a dozen boisterous young- 
 sters at picnics and other outings. As for Mary, the 
 housekeeper, she hugged her bulky self and chuckled 
 because of the light that had come into the life of the 
 man whom she had served from boyhood, and praised 
 God because Dicky Johnny graciously allowed her to 
 take her master's place at the bath once a week. 
 
 Yes, it was a bright and busy summer at Alvarley 
 while in their homes or holiday quarters, a couple of 
 hundred miles away, Dicky Johnny's aunts and real 
 uncles concerned themselves with their own affairs; 
 while a bundle of scrip reposed in a City lawyer's safe; 
 while in far North Queensland men toiled in a mine 
 and a manager grew sick of his job. . . . 
 
 When autumn came and the rush of outdoor work 
 slackened, Thomas found time to go into his accounts. 
 It was late one night when he struck a balance, and 
 the first thing he did after verifying his figures was 
 to go softly upstairs. As was only to be expected, 
 Dicky Johnny was sleeping soundly ; nevertheless, 
 Thomas sighed because he could not share the good 
 news there and then. 
 
 In the morning Thomas announced a holiday. They 
 would take train to the nearest town, and 
 
 "And what shall we do there?" inquired Dicky 
 Johnny, who, like other children, preferred definite 
 anticipations to possible surprises. 
 
 "You shall buy anything you like, and choose what 
 we shall have for dinner," said Thomas recklessly. 
 "And I want to buy some little books," he added, "be- 
 cause soon I'm going to begin to give you lessons, so 
 that you'll be ready for school next year." 
 
 It was a merry day. The only part of it that did 
 not much interest the boy was a visit to the bank, where
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 153 
 
 Thomas opened an account, in the name of Richard 
 John Temple, with a hundred pounds, the bulk of the 
 season's profits. 
 
 "You've brought me luck, Dicky Johnny," he said 
 at dinner. "There is no reason why we should not 
 have a fine florist business before long." 
 
 "Yes," said Dicky Johnny, "and you'll help me to 
 sail my new steamer in the big tank, won't you, Uncle 
 Tom?" 
 
 "Rather!" assented Thomas, who was in high spirits. 
 "We have good times together, don't we, old man?" 
 
 The boy, his mouth being full, nodded emphatically. 
 
 "And you don't wish you lived with any other un- 
 cle?" 
 
 A vigorous shake of the yellow head almost satis- 
 fied Thomas. 
 
 "And we're going to stick to each other always, eh, 
 Dicky Johnny ?" he asked softly. 
 
 Dicky Johnny laid down his spoon and shoved his 
 hand into Thomas's. 
 
 Which was all that Thomas wanted. 
 
 With the exception of one childish ailment, which 
 troubled Thomas far more than the patient, life at the 
 cottage went on smoothly and cheerfully, and the year 
 drew to its close. Christmas, of course, had to be 
 properly celebrated, and Thomas took delight in pro- 
 viding treats for the boy and his young friends. 
 
 On Christmas Eve there arrived by post several par- 
 cels directed to Master Richard John Temple. They 
 were from aunts and uncles whose names even were 
 not familiar to him; but they contained handsome 
 presents for a little boy to receive. Thomas was sur- 
 prised, but gratified. He wrote warmly grateful 
 acknowledgments on the boy's behalf and his own. 
 Ere the year ended he got a reply from his cousin
 
 154 KIDDIES ) 
 
 Adela, inviting Dicky to spend a few weeks at her 
 home; she, her husband and her children would be 
 delighted to have the little fellow and would make his 
 stay as happy as possible. Again Thomas was sur- 
 prised, but now he was more troubled than gratified. 
 The visit might be good for Dicky Johnny; it might 
 mean much happiness. He, Thomas, had no right to 
 refuse it, though the very idea of it hurt him. He told 
 the boy all he knew which was not a great deal 
 about Aunt Adela, her home, and her children, being 
 very careful to say nothing that might seem unattrac- 
 tive to the young mind. But Dicky Johnny refused 
 absolutely to visit Aunt Adela or anybody else. 
 Wherefore Thomas, his heart relieved but his mind 
 not altogether easy, sent the nicest answer he could 
 write in the circumstances. 
 
 A week later came a note from Winston Temple, 
 mildly remonstrative. Had Thomas considered Rich- 
 ard's interests in giving way to Richard's childish in- 
 clinations? It had been exceedingly good of Adela to 
 invite the boy, and he, Winston, was sure the boy 
 would enjoy himself once he were in her home. 
 Adela, he understood, left the invitation open. Would 
 not Thomas reconsider the matter, and write within a 
 week? 
 
 Thomas, while resenting this letter, did honestly 
 reconsider the matter, and sought to induce Dicky 
 Johnny to do the same. But now Dicky Johnny be- 
 came alarmed. 
 
 Late one night Thomas found him sobbing. 
 
 "What is it, old man, what is it?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Tom, don't send me away from you; 
 don't let them take me away." 
 
 "Not likely!" said Thomas, husky with the lump 
 in his throat.
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 155 
 
 Far away in North Queensland men still toiled in a 
 mine, but a manager gave a dinner to an engineer. 
 And not so far away a City lawyer stood at his open 
 safe, holding nay, clutching a bundle of scrip. . . . 
 
 IV 
 
 "Yes," said Winston Temple, stretching his feet to 
 the parlour fire, "it's a weary journey, but I felt a 
 talk with you, Thomas, would be better than much 
 writing. You got my wire, of course." 
 
 "Thank you. You might have allowed me to offer 
 you some hospitality. Mary is quite capable, you 
 know." 
 
 "I'm sure she is. However, I didn't want to dis- 
 turb your arrangements more than I could help, so I 
 dined on the express." 
 
 "Must you go back to-night?" 
 
 "Unfortunately, yes. But I shall sleep on board. 
 Is Richard John gone to bed?" 
 
 "Nearly two hours ago." 
 
 "I should like to have seen him," said Winston, 
 lighting a cigar, after offering his case to Thomas, who 
 shook his head. "Yes; I should like to have made his 
 better acquaintance. I must hope to do so in the near 
 future, Thomas." 
 
 Thomas stooped from his chair and poked the fire 
 which was not requiring attention. Ever since the 
 arrival of the telegram he had been possessed by inde- 
 finable forebodings, tormented by the question, "What 
 can Winston want with me that he should take such a 
 journey?" 
 
 "We all hope to make his better acquaintance 
 shortly," the smooth voice of the visitor continued. 
 "And we shall not forget how exceedingly good you 
 have been to Richard John."
 
 156 KIDDIES 1 
 
 Methodically Thomas put the poker in its place, 
 and raised himself slowly till his eyes rested on the 
 other's bland countenance. Moistening his lips, he 
 said: 
 
 "What exactly are you speaking about, Winston? 
 I think my letters made it quite clear that Dicky 
 Johnny could not pay any visits in the meantime, at 
 any rate. When he is older, and when I have more 
 leisure, we shall be very glad to take a trip to your 
 city and see you all. It will be only right that he 
 should make the acquaintance of his relatives as soon 
 as possible. But at present ' 
 
 Winston gave his cigar a little wave in the air: 
 "My dear Thomas," he said, "my object in this visit 
 is to induce you to let Richard come to us with the 
 least possible delay say within a week " 
 
 "That is impossible!" 
 
 "Any outfit he requires shall be provided on his ar- 
 rival. It is not necessary for you to trouble 
 
 "Stop, if you please!" There was a curious light in 
 the eyes of Thomas. "I am sorry you have taken such 
 a journey on such a mission, Winston, for I must tell 
 you quite frankly that nothing will induce me to let 
 Dicky Johnny go against his desire ' 
 
 "He is too young to be allowed to decide such a 
 matter." 
 
 "He is old enough to know when he is happy. Be- 
 sides, he is in my charge." 
 
 Winston flicked the ash from his cigar. 
 
 "My dear Thomas," he said calmly, "there is really 
 no necessity for either of us to show any heat in this 
 discussion. I have come here as your friend and as 
 the boy's friend also. If you will listen to me for a 
 few minutes " 
 
 "Why do you want the boy now ?"
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 157 
 
 "If you will listen to me, I shall try to explain." 
 Thomas threw himself back in his chair. 
 
 "Go on," he said shortly. 
 
 "In the first place," began Winston, eyeing the 
 glow of his cigar, "I am ready to admit we are all 
 ready to admit that eight months ago we agreed 
 that you should have charge of Richard. But I hope 
 you will be equally ready to admit that such an agree- 
 ment such a simply verbal and friendly agreement 
 need not be continued in the face of er altered 
 circumstances." He paused, but his cousin merely 
 tightened his lips. 
 
 He proceeded : "In the second place, Thomas, you 
 will admit that we have got to consider the boy's fu- 
 ture in a practical fashion; we have no right to let 
 sentiment interfere " 
 
 "I have considered the boy's future in a practical 
 fashion, and shall continue to do so," said Thomas 
 stiffly. "I am not a rich man, Winston, but I have 
 enough for us both. My private income is small, 
 but the nursery has begun to pay. Already I have 
 been able to set aside money for Dicky Johnny; and 
 I may add that when he came to me I increased my 
 life insurance, so that whatever happens to me, he 
 shall be provided for." 
 
 "You have been exceedingly generous," murmured 
 Winston. "As I said, we shall not forget " 
 
 "It was the least I could do," Thomas interrupted, 
 "the least I could do after your giving Dicky Johnny 
 to me." 
 
 Winston bowed. "Is it not putting it a little 
 strongly to call it giving?" he inquired softly. "But 
 even if you insist on the word, you will not deny 
 the possibility of a er gift being made without 
 due reflection and consideration. You remember how 
 hurriedly everything was done, Thomas? Please un-
 
 158 KIDDIES 
 
 derstand that we take all responsibility for the error, 
 and that none of us shall ever forget how you " 
 
 "Man," cried Thomas, "what are you driving at? 
 Do you, or the others, fancy that Dicky Johnny is not 
 safe with me? Have I not shown you that he is 
 provided for sufficiently, if not handsomely? And 
 here he has the best life a child could have. He has 
 his young friends to play with, and Mary is almost a 
 mother to him; his existence is spent among clean 
 and lovely things. And his education is not going to 
 be neglected. I have begun it myself in a small way. 
 Next year he will have lessons with the doctor's and 
 the minister's children. The year following " 
 
 "My dear Thomas, I have never doubted your 
 doing your utmost for Richard. At the same time, 
 I must bid you ask yourself whether such an up- 
 bringing is the right one for a boy in Richard's 
 position?" 
 
 Under his cousin's stare the eyes of the speaker 
 dropped. 
 
 "Richard's position !" 
 
 Winston's smile was bland. "You do not read 
 the papers carefully, so I must explain. Perhaps I 
 ought to have explained at the outset, but I desired 
 to learn how much you knew." He cleared his 
 throat. 
 
 "When my poor brother was lost, he left practically 
 nothing but forty thousand shares in the Hero Copper 
 Mining Company, which " 
 
 "Were not worth the paper they were printed on. 
 I know all about that, Winston. I am quite aware 
 that anything else that the boy's father left barely 
 covered his liabilities." 
 
 "Yes; as you say, the shares were not worth the 
 paper they were printed on then; now, however,
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 159 
 
 they are worth considerably more. The mine has 
 turned out remarkably well as much as twenty per 
 cent, copper, I've been told. Before Christmas the 
 shares had touched nearly ten shillings; to-day they 
 were done at sixty-five. We are of opinion that they 
 ought to be sold now, and a suggestion has been sent 
 to Kerman, the lawyer, whom my brother had made 
 his executor. No doubt he will agree that it is the 
 right thing to do. He seemed to have private in- 
 formation of the mine, otherwise we should have 
 pressed him to sell before now. But as things have 
 turned out, the delay has been quite advantageous. 
 They will fetch over a hundred thousand pounds. 
 That, Thomas, is Richard's position, to-day. By the 
 
 time he comes of age " With a small laugh, 
 
 Winston threw out his hands. 
 
 Thomas was pale. "It is very wonderful," he said 
 softly, as if to himself. "I must see to it that Dicky 
 Johnny becomes a man capable of bearing such a 
 great responsibility. Very wonderful!" he whispered, 
 and sat gazing at the fire as though he were alone in 
 the room. 
 
 Winston frowned in a puzzled manner. It was 
 hardly the reception he had anticipated for his startling 
 news. But possibly his cousin was stunned. "So of 
 course you must see," he said at last, "that the posi- 
 tion, not only of Richard, but of us all, has altered 
 tremendously since that meeting in my house. We 
 must all take our share in fitting Richard for the im- 
 portant future that lies before him. You agree with 
 me, do you not, Thomas?" 
 
 Thomas passed his hand across his forehead. Then, 
 suddenly, he seemed to take a grip of himself. He 
 faced his cousin. 
 
 "No," he said firmly, "I do not see that any one's 
 position, save Dicky Johnny's, has changed,"
 
 160 KIDDIES 
 
 "You mean," said Winston, "that you do not accept 
 the proposals of the boy's nearest relations?" 
 
 "I mean to hold to the agreement which the boy's 
 nearest relations made with me eight months ago." 
 
 There was a silence. The faces of both men had 
 hardened, but Winston's was hard to harshness. He 
 spoke first. 
 
 "You had better take time to realise the situation. 
 You have nothing to gain by attempting to keep the 
 boy here have you?" 
 
 Thomas flushed. "You have neither right nor 
 reason to make such a suggestion. So far as the boy's 
 fortune is concerned, the sooner you have it placed in 
 charge of the Public Trustee the better I'll be pleased. 
 Dicky Johnny is my care until he comes of age. Man, 
 you drive me to remind you of how easily you all 
 parted with him eight months ago. Do you think I 
 am going to let you have him now?" 
 
 All blandness had departed from Winston Temple. 
 
 "I'm afraid it is not a matter for you to decide," 
 he began viciously. "There is the law " 
 
 Thomas stiffened. "There is justice, too, I hope. 
 But I'll fight you to my last farthing " 
 
 "It will probably cost you that before you lose." 
 
 There was no reply, for fear fell upon Thomas. 
 After all,' what claim had he over Dicky Johnny? 
 Even had he a claim, would he be justified in exercis- 
 ing it? 
 
 "Yes," said Winston coldly, "you had better take 
 time to think it over say a week from to-day 
 though I imagine you will see things in a more reason- 
 able light by to-morrow. I regret that you should 
 not have received my proposal in a more friendly 
 spirit, but I must endeavour to make allowances " 
 
 "Man," cried Thomas, "don't you understand 
 that that the boy is everything to me?"
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 161 
 
 The other's face softened slightly. "Well, Thomas, 
 you must not let your heart get the better of your 
 head for the boy's sake." He rose. "I trust every- 
 thing may be amicably settled this day week. You 
 can either bring Richard to us, or, if it suits you 
 better, his Aunt Adela will come here for him." He 
 held out his hand. "Let us end this painful inter- 
 view. I shall sit in the inn until my train is due." 
 
 "I cannot ask you to stay, nor can I shake hands 
 with you," said Thomas hoarsely, and turned away 
 to open the door. 
 
 Without further words they parted, these two 
 cousins who had never been real friends. But to- 
 night they had got a glimpse of each other's souls, 
 and there was hatred and contempt between them. 
 
 Dicky Johnny lay snug in his little bed, cuddling his 
 bear. In the dim illumination of a night-light Thomas 
 gazed upon him. 
 
 "My God!" whispered the man. "What am I 
 to do?" 
 
 And throughout the week that followed he did 
 nothing. Stay, he wrote a letter to an old friend in 
 the City who had always remembered him at Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 Happily spring that year was early, the weather 
 brilliant, and Dicky Johnny could spend most of his 
 waking hours out of doors. Nevertheless, the boy 
 was perplexed. 
 
 On the morning of the eighth day he came to 
 Thomas, who was writing a letter. He snuggled 
 against the man's side. 
 
 "Uncle Tom, please?" 
 
 "Yes, Dicky Johnny?"
 
 162 KIDDIES 
 
 "Are you feeling lonesome?" 
 
 Thomas winced. "What makes you ask that, 
 Dicky Johnny?" 
 
 " 'Cause I'm feeling lonesome, too." 
 
 Thomas dropped the pen, and took the boy on his 
 knee. 
 
 "Don't you think it would be a good plan," he 
 said steadily, "for us to go away in the train to see 
 all your aunts and uncles?" 
 
 Dicky Johnny burst into tears. Perhaps he could 
 not have told why he wept. But it had been a per- 
 plexing week, and a child's trouble is not necessarily 
 small just because it happens to be vague. He did 
 not know what was wrong. He clung to his pro- 
 tector. 
 
 "I would take you safely to them," said Thomas, 
 miserably, "and perhaps later on " 
 
 "No, no; I don't want to go. I want to stay 
 here." 
 
 Just then the only mail of the day arrived. Mary 
 entered with the letters, and went out with tears in 
 her eyes because Dicky Johnny had had tears in his. 
 
 Thomas made a hasty inspection of the three 
 envelopes. Nothing from Winston! Another day of 
 suspense another night ! 
 
 "I don't want to go, Uncle Tom," sobbed the boy. 
 
 Thomas held him close. "Dicky Johnny," he 
 whispered, "supposing you and I went away together 
 in a big steamer, not to see anybody, but just to 
 enjoy ourselves how would that do?" 
 
 After a short silence Dicky Johnny mumbled, 
 "You wouldn't ever leave me, would you?" 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 "Then I think I'd like going in the big steamer." 
 Dicky Johnny dried his eyes on Thomas's shoulder. 
 "When shall we go, Uncle Tom?"
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 163 
 
 "Perhaps quite soon. And neither of us must feel 
 lonesome now, eh?" 
 
 "I won't, if you don't," said the boy, " 'cause I 
 love you so very dearly. Was you crying too?" 
 
 "All right now," said Thomas, setting him down. 
 "Run out to the garden, and I'll be after you as soon 
 as I finish this letter." 
 
 "Don't be long," the youngster replied cheerfully, 
 from the door. 
 
 It was a wild idea that had come to Thomas. 
 Suerely his heart had got the better of his head. For 
 now he was determined that Dicky Johnny should 
 not be taken from him a day sooner than he could 
 help, and he was prepared to run away with the boy 
 to the uttermost parts of the earth in order that he 
 might possess his treasure a little longer. Nay; he 
 would not surrender his charge until captured, or 
 until his money was all spent. And so he completed 
 his letter to a shipping firm that ran steamers to New 
 Zealand. 
 
 But when he went out to the garden, Dicky Johnny 
 caught his hand and begged that they should not go 
 anywhere. 
 
 "Why do you want to go away, Uncle Tom, when 
 it's so nice here?" 
 
 Poor Thomas had nothing to say. Yet he posted 
 the letter, w r ondering desperately what he should do 
 if Adela arrived w r ithin the next four days. Then he 
 went and told Mary, who broke down completely 
 and so disheartened him that he sent a second letter 
 to the shipping office cancelling the first. 
 
 He was powerless, he told himself utterly power- 
 less. 
 
 Three days more went past, without bringing any 
 communication, threatening or otherwise, from Win- 
 ston. Nor did another letter which Thomas had
 
 164 KIDDIES 
 
 expected, or hoped for, come to hand. The man was 
 distracted. 
 
 "Dicky Johnny," he said on the evening of the 
 third day, "would you mind if Mary bathed you 
 to-night? I I don't feel very fit." 
 
 "Don't be lonesome again," said Dicky Johnny, 
 kissing him ; "it makes me cry inside." 
 
 "All right, old man ! I'll come up and see you 
 after you're in bed." 
 
 "And we don't need to go away anywhere after 
 all?" 
 
 "No; we shall stay at home as long as possible. 
 Off you go to Mary." 
 
 Left to himself, Thomas went out to the garden, 
 where already the promise of the year was apparent. 
 What promise had it for him? What were a million 
 flowers to the face of a child? The dusk was falling. 
 Thomas felt beaten and utterly broken. In all 
 probability there would be word from Winston in the 
 morning, and Adela would follow. Certainly the 
 parting could not be much longer delayed. 
 
 As Thomas strolled towards the gate to the main 
 road, it was opened by a man whom he took to be a 
 gardener coming to tend the firing of the hot-houses. 
 A few seconds later he was holding out his hand and 
 exclaiming in astonishment: 
 
 "Why, Gordon, is it really you?" 
 
 "Just me," said the other, a little stout man, giv- 
 ing him a hearty grip. "Good of you to recognise me 
 after all those years. I had been away and only got 
 your letter yesterday. I I thought I had better 
 answer it in person." 
 
 "Man, I'm grateful, but what a distance to come!" 
 said Thomas, hurrying his guest to the house. "We'll 
 have supper immediately." 
 
 "The fact is," said Gordon nervously, "the thing
 
 DICKY JOHNNY 165 
 
 was too big to write about. And I say, look here, 
 Nairn, let me tell you my story before we do any- 
 thing else." 
 
 "Bad news, I suppose?" murmured Thomas wearily. 
 
 "Yes; it's pretty bad." Then after a pause, Gordon 
 went on: "Well, as I said, I didn't get your letter 
 till yesterday. It asked me to see Kerman, the lawyer, 
 and, if possible, find out certain things about your 
 cousin, the late Richard Temple, and the legal posi- 
 tion of an orphan- 
 
 "Yes, yes, Gordon; but please tell me- 
 
 "Well, I couldn't see Kerman, because he has he 
 has absconded." 
 
 "Absconded !" 
 
 "Appears to have been gambling for years. Lost 
 everything his own fortune and other people's. They 
 talk of a million of liabilities and no assets. He had 
 one of the best practices in the City. There was a 
 big story in the papers this morning." Gordon 
 paused, and looked at his host in amazement. "What's 
 the matter, Nairn? Pull yourself together, man! 
 Don't laugh! I just want to say that if you or 
 your friends have been really badly hit by this busi- 
 ness, I'm not without a bit to spare. That's why I 
 came." 
 
 Thomas did not seem to comprehend the words 
 that might have been of such particular moment to 
 himself. 
 
 "Has Kerman lost everything?" he gasped, his face 
 working. 
 
 "Well, I I'm afraid so. There's a rumour that 
 the last of his clients' securities he got rid of was a big 
 parcel of shares in a copper mine now booming, but 
 he sold at about five shillings." 
 
 Thomas clutched the back of a chair, wavering. 
 "Oh, God bless him!" he whispered; then with a
 
 166 KIDDIES 
 
 sudden mental vision of the fugitive wretch, "God 
 help him!" 
 
 Gordon sprang up to catch and support the swaying 
 figure. But at that moment the door opened, and 
 in ran a little rosy boy in pyjamas. 
 
 "Did you forget to come up?" cried Dicky Johnny, 
 ignoring the stranger. 
 
 Thomas steadied himself and caught up the child, 
 holding him close. 
 
 "Shake hands with our good friend, Mr. Gordon," 
 he said. "He's not an uncle." 
 
 The boy put out his hand readily. 
 
 "And who are you?" asked Mr. Gordon pleas- 
 antly. 
 
 A wondrous sweet smile illuminated the counte- 
 nance of Thomas as he carried the boy to the door. 
 
 "He is my son!"
 
 XII 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 
 
 THE young girl stood in the unkindly glare of the two 
 incandescents with which the ugly five-branched 
 gasolier was fitted. Saving herself and the lights 
 there was nothing in the room suggestive of freshness 
 or modernity. Austerity, solidity, stolidity were 
 everywhere, on the walls, in the furnishings, in the 
 other occupants. The parlour was old-fashioned 
 without any of the charm sometimes pertaining to 
 such an apartment; it had an air of harsh respecta- 
 bility ; a big fire might make it uncomfortably warm, 
 but never cosy. 
 
 The fingers of the young girl were knit in front of 
 her slim body, against the plain navy blue frock. 
 Her dark eyes moved eagerly, anxiously, between the 
 man and woman who occupied the hair-cloth arm- 
 chairs on either side of the hearth, the uncle and aunt 
 who had given her a home three years ago. Clearly 
 she was awaiting their verdict on a matter of no little 
 importance to herself. 
 
 A glance at the countenances of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Brash would have satisfied you that they were honest 
 people ; which is not to say that the countenances 
 were bright and open ; rather were they inclined to 
 dulness and aloofness. They suggested a puritanism 
 capable of enduring all manner of suffering for con- 
 science's sake and, perhaps, of inflicting it too; for 
 167
 
 1 68 KIDDIES 
 
 it is difficult to be quite so righteous as were the 
 Brashes, without being a little self-righteous also. 
 
 Mr. Brash completed his perusal of the list of local 
 subscriptions to the Puntas Arenas Mission in which 
 he was deeply and practically interested, closed the 
 pamphlet, laid it upon his knees, and took up the 
 envelope which his wife had silently laid on the table 
 at his elbow, five minutes previously. The envelope 
 had been opened, apparently in haste. 
 
 As he withdrew its contents, a card partly printed 
 and partly written on, the young girl quivered, and 
 her white teeth closed on her scarlet under lip. A 
 frown appeared on Mr. Brash's shaven face. 
 
 Just then the door was opened and a man, heavily 
 built, hairy and grizzled, and rather shabbily clad, 
 entered. With a glance round the room he crossed 
 to the window and seated himself on the hair-cloth 
 sofa, picking up, as he did so, the morning's paper. 
 No one in the room paid the slightest attention to 
 the new arrival, who forthwith became immersed in 
 the shipping news. 
 
 Mr. Brash's frown deepened. His keen grey eyes 
 turned to the girl. 
 
 "Surely you do not expect your aunt and me to 
 grant permission for you to attend this gathering, 
 Hilda," he said. 
 
 Hilda's face relaxed for a moment as if she would 
 speak. Then her lips met in a straight line. 
 
 "I have already told Hilda," said Mrs. Brash, 
 without pausing in her crocheting, "that we do not 
 approve of dancing-parties; but she insisted on hav- 
 ing your opinion." 
 
 "It is out of the question," he said, not harshly but 
 very firmly. "No doubt your friends the Bensons 
 mean kindly, but it would please me more were you
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 169 
 
 to associate with less light-minded girls the Smalls, 
 for example." 
 
 "The Smalls are awful stodges," said Hilda in- 
 voluntarily. "At least" quickly "I don't get on 
 with them. And Kitty Benson " 
 
 "That is not the way to talk of the Smalls," 
 Mrs. Brash interrupted. "Their father and 
 mother " 
 
 "Darned old hypocrites!" came in a grunting voice 
 from the man behind the newspaper. 
 
 "William!" said Mrs. Brash, "shall I leave the 
 room, or will you?" 
 
 "Sorry," said the grunting voice. "I'll dry up. 
 But the bare mention o' them Smalls always makes 
 me sick." 
 
 "Be good enough to hold your tongue, sir," said 
 Mr. Brash. He returned the card to the envelope, 
 which he replaced on the table. 
 
 "Uncle Robert," cried Hilda; "why won't you let 
 me go? I'm nearly fifteen, and it's for Christmas 
 Eve, and it's my first dance " 
 
 "My dear child, you must allow me to judge for 
 you in this matter. I am willing to allow for dis- 
 appointment on your part, though I must say I had 
 hoped that by this time your aunt's views and my 
 own on such amusements as dancing and theatre- 
 going would have been clear to you." 
 
 "But what harm " 
 
 "You are too young to demand explanations, but 
 you are old enough to obey those in whose charge you 
 are." 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 "My white frock would do, though it's miles too 
 short," pleaded the girl. "Oh, Aunt Frances, couldn't 
 you " 
 
 "You have heard what your uncle has said, my
 
 170 KIDDIES 
 
 dear," replied the lady stiffly. "Besides, what would 
 you do at a dancing-party when you cannot 
 dance?" 
 
 "Can't dance! Why, Aunt Frances, I can dance 
 like like anything! I had heaps of dancing-lessons 
 
 when I was a little thing, and father and mother " 
 
 She stopped short. In a vague way she had ere now 
 gathered that many things in her parents' lives had 
 not been "approved of" by her aunt and uncle. But 
 though she had suffered veiled hints, she had never 
 been straightly informed that her mother, her aunt's 
 sister, had been "flighty and extravagant," whilst 
 her father had quitted the world without leaving any- 
 thing to his credit as we understand the phrase in 
 these practical days. "Aunt Frances, didn't you 
 dance when you were a girl?" The question was 
 entreating. 
 
 The woman flushed. "I had no one to show me the 
 sin of it, as you have," she replied. 
 
 "But but you haven't shown me the sin of it." 
 Hilda looked from one to the other. 
 
 "That will do, Hilda that will do," said Mr. 
 Brash, his voice harder. 
 
 "It isn't fair," she cried, near to tears. "All the 
 girls at school are allowed to dance except those 
 Smalls fat-legged . . . pasty-faced . . . goody-goody 
 things !" 
 
 A "hear, hear!" came from behind the news- 
 paper. 
 
 "Leave the room; go to bed, Hilda," said Mrs. 
 Brash wrathfully. "And pray to God to pardon you 
 that rebellious and pleasure-loving spirit." 
 
 "I'll go to bed," the girl returned passionately, 
 "but I don't believe God is so so hard as you make 
 Him out to be!" Her eyes filled, she choked, and 
 fled.
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 171 
 
 With something approaching horror Mr. and Mrs. 
 Brash regarded each other. 
 
 "I don't know what she is coming to," the latter 
 said at last. 
 
 "She's coming to what you're driving her to," said 
 the man on the sofa, throwing aside his paper. 
 
 "You have not been asked to speak, William," said 
 Mr. Brash, scowling at his brother. 
 
 "True. I'd be a dummy if I waited for invitations 
 in this happy home. I'm not given to interferin' in 
 your arrangements, as you well know, Robert, but 
 on this occasion I must cough it up, or bust. Let 
 Hilda go to her dancin'-party. It's natural for a 
 maid to want to kick her heels " 
 
 "Do you wish me to leave the room, William?" 
 Mrs. Brash frigidly inquired. 
 
 "Not at all. I want you to back me up against 
 Robert. Let Hilda say she's sorry for her tantrum 
 though 'twas only natural and then tell her she can 
 go to the party. She's growin' up. She'll soon be 
 a woman. Why do her out o' sweet and youthful 
 pleasures? She's not the sort to enjoy the Smalls' 
 kind o' party, wi' its tiddley-winks and Simon-says- 
 thumbs-up muck! I tell you, she's not. And she'll 
 eat her young heart out if you keep on rubbin' in the 
 holiness as you've been doin'. There, I've said my 
 say, Robert, and I don't believe I've said so much in 
 five years. Let her go." 
 
 It was nearly a minute ere Mr. and Mrs. Brash 
 found their voices. William's temerity had fairly taken 
 away their breaths. For what right had William to 
 offer an opinion, even with all humility and diffi- 
 dence? William's history may here be given in a 
 few words. Robert's senior by a couple of years, he 
 had been the black sheep of Robert's family. His 
 early manhood had been spent at sea, but an accident
 
 172 KIDDIES 
 
 to his left arm, by rendering it almost powerless, had 
 sent him ashore to waste several years in more or 
 less riotous living. Eventually Robert, who had pros- 
 pered, started him in a small business. He failed. 
 Robert started him again, and again he failed. He 
 was not a toper, but he would have his bouts. While 
 his manners were kindly, his speech was, to put it 
 mildly, careless. Robert decided that he was hope- 
 less for business, and he readily agreed. He was fit 
 only for the sea-life. Robert secured him a light job 
 (at a light salary) in a warehouse at the docks. And 
 on the third night he went on the spree with some old 
 shipmates. Robert hardened his heart and closed 
 his purse. He allotted the erring one an attic-room 
 in his house and made him do the lighter work of the 
 garden. He allowed him one shilling per week, 
 deeming that he could not go far wrong on that. 
 William preferred tobacco to drink, so he kept sober 
 and performed his duties fairly well. Unfortunately, 
 with all his patience and justice, Robert could not 
 help adopting, along with his wife, a superior and 
 contemptuous attitude towards his brother, which 
 went far to killing the latter's sense of gratitude. 
 William was never permitted to forget that he was 
 a pauper dependent on the bounty of his brother and 
 sister-in-law, or that he was a creature lacking alike 
 in religion and respectability. So it had been for 
 seven years. 
 
 "You forget yourself, William," said Mr. Brash 
 at last, freezingly. 
 
 "Maybe, Robert, I do. The little maid moved 
 me. I thought the days for a petticoat to move me 
 were over. Sit still, Mrs. Brash. I didn't mean a 
 flannel one." William smiled. "Come now, for- 
 give my roughness impudence, if you like but let 
 Hilda go to the party and dance her pretty feet 
 sore,"
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 173 
 
 "Pah!" muttered Mr. Brash, and picked up the 
 pamphlet which had fallen on the rug. 
 
 Mrs. Brash resumed her crocheting. 
 
 A couple of minutes passed. 
 
 "Robert," said William softly, "you're entitled to 
 treat me like dirt, but you're foolish to treat Hilda as 
 if she was clay. Don't think you can mould her 
 just as you please, or you'll make a mess of the job. 
 I know her better than you do. She wants to love 
 you, but now you won't let her ; your godliness freezes 
 her. Don't break her young spirit. Poor little maid, 
 d'you think you'll ever get her to believe that all 
 folks who dance are bound for Below? Darn it, you 
 don't believe that yourself!" 
 
 "Silence, William!" 
 
 But William was not to be suppressed. "I haven't 
 asked you for anything for seven years, Robert. No 
 doubt, I've had no right to ask for anything after all 
 I owe you. Still, the fact remains that I haven't 
 asked. Now I'm asking. Let Hilda feel you're 
 human, after all, by lettin' her go to the dancin'- 
 party." He paused and sighed. 
 
 Mrs. Brash gave him a quick, cold glance, but her 
 husband's eyes remained on the page. 
 
 "You're hard," said the grizzled man at last, 
 "very, very hard, and you're drivin' me to this. 
 Look!" 
 
 So sudden, so peremptory was the command, that 
 the husband and wife incontinently obeyed. 
 
 William had got up and from his waistcoat pocket 
 drawn a piece of paper. He unfolded it and held 
 up between his broad finger and thumb a shining 
 sovereign. 
 
 "Where did you get that?" Mr. Brash's question 
 was involuntary. He stared at the coin. 
 
 "The savin's o' two years," said William quietly.
 
 174 KIDDIES 
 
 "I was goin' to try to save another and then leave 
 you for a week just to see if the sea was still blue. 
 But maybe I can put this pretty quid to a better 
 use." He cleared his throat, and continued. "Since 
 I came to this little town, seven years ago, I've be- 
 haved myself pretty well. I've done nothin' to dis- 
 grace you, Robert, except be your brother and not 
 go to church. But now I feel like goin' on the razzle- 
 dazzle skite spree or whatever you prefer to call 
 it." He glanced at the clock. "Still two and a half 
 hours till the pubs close plenty o' time for me to 
 paint this little place magenta. I'll guarantee to get 
 blind, miraculous and roarin', also to get run in and 
 have my name in the paper to-morrow. Care for 
 the advertisement, Robert?" 
 
 "If you dare," began Mr. Brash, whilst his wife 
 gave a gasp of horrified disgust, and cried, "You shall 
 never enter this house again." 
 
 William looked sadly from one to the other. "I'm 
 afraid you would never be happy so long as you knew 
 I had such a fortune in my pocket. Well, would you 
 like me to drop it into the mission-box on the mantel- 
 
 piece 
 
 They stared at him as he walked to the door, and 
 halted with his fingers on the handle. 
 
 Slowly and distinctly he said: "Let Hilda go to 
 the party, and my fortune goes to the mission. 
 
 Otherwise Well, I'll give you five minutes to 
 
 think it over. I'll go out and have a smoke" (smok- 
 ing was not permitted in the house), "but make up 
 your minds for the little maid's sake." 
 
 And he left the room. 
 
 Let no one sneer at the Brashes. Respectability 
 like theirs knows no dread like the dread of scandal.
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 175 
 
 On his return to the parlour, William found his 
 brother alone. 
 
 "Well, Robert?" 
 
 "I have never known you tell a lie," said Robert 
 bitterly, "and I presume you are capable of carrying 
 out your unseemly threat." 
 
 William nodded, but said nothing. 
 
 The other coughed once or twice. "Hilda may go 
 to the dance on condition that she leaves at nine- 
 thirty." 
 
 "No conditions, Robert no conditions, please," 
 said William gently. "It'll be just as big a sin to 
 dance till nine-thirty as till eleven." He brought out 
 the sovereign, stepped to the mantelpiece and held 
 it over the black box. "Hilda goes to the dance 
 without anything bein' said or done to spoil her 
 pleasure in it is that so, Robert?" 
 
 Presently the gold chinked upon silver and copper. 
 William glanced at his brother's averted face and 
 passed to the door. 
 
 "I'm goin' upstairs, so I'll tell Hilda she has your 
 permission. The rest's our secret, I hope, Robert. 
 I I'd be mighty glad if I could do something to 
 please you after this." 
 
 He ascended rather heavily, not so much delighted 
 with himself or his victory after all. He tapped on 
 the girl's door. She had not yet undressed, and she 
 came promptly. 
 
 "You're to get to your dancin'-party, Honey," he 
 said. "Be good to your aunt and uncle." 
 
 Her arms flew round his neck. "Dear, dear Uncle 
 Bill!" 
 
 Well, perhaps that was his reward.
 
 1 76 KIDDIES 
 
 ii 
 
 Not in law alone may we win our case without 
 gaining full satisfaction. Hilda had no sooner dis- 
 patched a painfully neatly written response to the 
 invitation than she began to worry about her raiment 
 for the great occasion. Mrs. Brash (who had ac- 
 cepted the situation neither heartily nor resentfully, 
 but as one who simply keeps a bargain) was quite un- 
 moved by the sighs over the length of the white frock. 
 
 "It is quite long enough for your age," she said at 
 last. 
 
 "But I'm too long for my age," returned Hilda, 
 who was certainly a tall girl. "Couldn't it be let 
 down just one inch?" She had dreamed one night 
 of a new long dress in apple-green silk, but about 
 four a.m. the dream had turned into a nightmare, 
 wherein she had seen herself condemned to play 
 "consequences" with the Smalls for ten thousand 
 years, garbed in a "fish-wife" costume which she had 
 worn at the age of seven. "Just one inch, Aunt 
 Frances." 
 
 "You are an exceedingly vain girl," was the reply. 
 "I cannot have it altered. But I had better buy you 
 a new pair of stockings." 
 
 With a very little encouragement Hilda would have 
 fallen on her neck. 
 
 "And gloves," said Mrs. Brash. 
 
 "Oh!" cried the girl, her arms ready. 
 
 "I'll see about them this afternoon." And Mrs. 
 Brash hurried away. 
 
 Afternoon school that day did not add much to 
 Hilda's education. Visions, distracting yet delicious, 
 of black silk (would they be transparent?) and white 
 suede (how many buttons?) floated between her eyes 
 and the blackboard, her books, her very teachers. She
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 177 
 
 just escaped being "kept in" for gross inattention and 
 carelessness. 
 
 She arrived home before her aunt, though she had 
 discussed dress with friends on the way, and it was a 
 long, long hour until Mrs. Brash appeared. 
 
 "You may put them in your drawer until required, 
 Hilda. They are your Christmas gift from me," she 
 said, and went out again to a Zenana tea-meeting ere 
 the trembling girl could thank her. 
 
 Up to her room flew Hilda, and tore open the flimsy 
 parcel. 
 
 Why didn't the heavens, or at least the ceiling, fall 
 when these bitter moans issued from the quivering 
 scarlet lips of this young creature? 
 
 "Cashmere! . . . Cotton!" 
 
 She cast them from her, and threw herself on the 
 bed, hands clenched, eyes streaming. 
 
 Two hours later she managed to say to her aunt: 
 "They are very nice ; thank you so much." If Hilda's 
 insincerity be unpardonable, then are we all con- 
 demned. 
 
 Despair was upon her. She could not go to the 
 Benson party, where every girl would be wearing silk 
 stockings and suede (or, at worst, silk) gloves. Cash- 
 mere and cotton ugh! they were impossible, espe- 
 cially with her terribly short skirt and plain slippers. 
 And yet to give up the dance! the dance on Christ- 
 mas Eve, with its professional musicians, its grown-up 
 programmes, its conservatory hung with Chinese 
 lanterns, its nice boys who could dance properly, some 
 of them in real dress-suits! . . . 
 
 That was a bad night for Hilda, in more senses than 
 one. Age, toasting its toes at the last of the evening 
 fire, is apt to assume that healthy Youth has no 
 worries after ten p.m. Age, with all its experience 
 and wisdom, its sense of justice and propriety, its
 
 178 KIDDIES 
 
 care and anxiety, ay, and its love, may sit there in 
 communion with Heaven, while through a wall, or up 
 a stair, Youth, for lack of a thought of understanding 
 sympathy, writhes in a little hell and perchance makes 
 a little deal with the devil. Mrs. Brash had not 
 sought to save money that afternoon; she had sought 
 to discourage vanity. And she had succeeded in 
 wounding a child's natural and proper pride to 
 desperation point. For, after all, what we call wom- 
 an's vanity is not so seldom just her sense of the 
 fitness of things. Mrs. Brash herself owned specially 
 fine boots and gloves for Sundays, and it may not 
 be presumed that either vanity or superstition made 
 her put them on, or that she knew not the parable of 
 the wedding garment. It is hard to be good, but it 
 is not necessarily good to be hard. 
 
 When Hilda had turned her damp pillow for the 
 tenth time she lay still, and her wits went to work. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The young man at the counter deftly tied the parcel 
 and scribbled the bill. 
 
 Hilda who had been going pink and white for the 
 past five minutes, opened her purse. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" she murmured, and again "oh, 
 dear!" She felt that her confusion was very badly 
 done. 
 
 The young man thought it very pretty. Also, he 
 knew who Hilda was, and he said pleasantly: "It 
 will be all right, miss. Any time you're passing will 
 do nicely." 
 
 "I I'm so sorry," she stammered, now pale, "I've 
 only a shilling with me. But please take it." 
 
 "Oh, it isn't worth while. You can settle the 
 account another time."
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 179 
 
 But she put the shilling on the counter, and, taking 
 her purchase, hastened, with burning cheeks, from the 
 shop. The young man's "good afternoon" fell on 
 deaf ears. 
 
 How glad she was that it was raining heavily, so 
 that she had her waterproof to conceal the parcel 
 so that few people were abroad. Presently her 
 nervousness gave place to a certain reckless excite- 
 ment. She could almost have skipped along the wet 
 pavement. How clever she had been! How happy 
 she felt! Something was sure to happen so that 
 she would be able to put everything all right. Oh, 
 yes, something was sure to happen especially at 
 Christmas time. And how she was going to enjoy the 
 dance! Only a week now till the glorious evening! 
 
 It was not until bed-time that she ventured to 
 unwrap her purchases and oh, rapture ! to try 
 them on. There was an old-fashioned long cheval 
 mirror in her room a vain thing surely, in the house 
 of Brash! 
 
 She stood before it in her simple white petticoat, 
 her slender shapely limbs clad in the coveted black 
 silk. She admired them; she moved them in little 
 stealthy dancing-steps ; she admired them again. . . . 
 Very carefully she tried on the gloves oh, so long, 
 so crumply, such beauties! Now it didn't really 
 matter if her frock was a little wee bit short, if her 
 slippers were quite plain. She wished she had them 
 also to put on then and there her corals, too but 
 they were in a wardrobe that made noises when you 
 opened it. However, she had plenty to admire, plenty 
 to dream about before the mirror, and though the 
 room began to feel chilly, she lingered, dusky hair 
 loose, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, mouth smiling
 
 i8o KIDDIES 
 
 as pretty a creature as ever thrilled with innocent 
 desire of innocent pleasure. 
 
 Ah ! All at once the light went out, for it was Mr. 
 Brash's custom to shut off the gas at 10.30. 
 
 Up in the attic, William, who had been browsing on 
 a sensational novelette, borrowed from the gardener, 
 muttered "Darn it," and composed himself for 
 slumber. But it was long ere sleep came to Hilda. 
 For with the going out of the light her jubilance had 
 departed. 
 
 With her finery under her pillow, and her head 
 under the sheet, she lay awake, a victim of guilt and 
 dread. She owed the draper eight shillings, and she 
 had not a penny in the world, nor any prospects of 
 receiving even that modest sum. The Brashes did 
 not believe in young people having money. Every 
 Saturday morning Hilda was given a sixpence, but in 
 the evening, after prayers, it went into the mission- 
 box. The shilling she had paid on account of her 
 debt had been a present from Uncle Bill on her last 
 birthday. She had been so unused to spending money 
 that it had lain in her purse for months. 
 
 The hopefulness of day became the hopelessness of 
 night. Eight shillings! What was she to do? The 
 sum danced and writhed before her in a figure of fire. 
 What would happen when the account came, as it 
 surely would, before long? What would her aunt and 
 uncle say? All the wisdom in the world cannot 
 return satisfactory answers to such questions, but 
 Hilda wrestled with them as the hours dragged past. 
 She thought of taking the goods back to the shop, 
 with the explanation once used by a lady in her hear- 
 ing to the effect that they were not at all what she 
 had expected; but she realised that she could not face 
 the young man again. She decided not to go to the 
 dance, and in the next breath prayed tp Heaven for
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 181 
 
 the sum of eight shillings. She continued to repeat 
 the petition until an answer came in the shape of 
 sleep. 
 
 As the days passed she lost colour. William was 
 the first to notice this. She came to him one after- 
 noon when the others were out and begged him to 
 take charge of a parcel for her until she asked for it. 
 The parcel was tied with string, worsted and thread. 
 He agreed without questionings, but remarked on 
 her pale cheeks. She said she was all right, and ran 
 away. He did not pursue. He was as used to "the 
 ways o' petticoats" as he was convinced of the 
 futility of trying to understand them. ' 'Tis maybe 
 the excitement, poor little maid," he reflected, as he 
 locked the parcel in the drawer where he kept tattered 
 novelettes and old pipes. But he mentioned the pale- 
 ness to Robert, who reported it to his wife. 
 
 "The holidays have upset her," was Mrs. Brash's 
 verdict, and at bed-time she presented her niece with 
 a cup of a peculiarly repulsive, old-fashioned physic. 
 Hilda took it in the hope that it might be part of her 
 penance. 
 
 The twenty-fourth of December came at last, yet 
 too soon. She was a creature of apprehensions till 
 the afternoon, when sheer excitement took possession 
 of her. She relinquished her secret prayers for the 
 sum of eight shillings. A girlish equivalent of "Eat, 
 drink and be merry" would have expressed her 
 then. 
 
 The dance was at seven, and she went up to dress, 
 declaring that she didn't want any tea, at four. Uncle 
 Bill never took afternoon tea, so she was able to 
 secure her parcel from his keeping. 
 
 About six o'clock her aunt came to her room with 
 a glass of milk. Perhaps the woman's eyes softened a.
 
 1 82 KIDDIES 
 
 little at the sight of such sweet, fresh, restless beauty, 
 but her lips kept firm. 
 
 "Your frock is quite long enough," she remarked as 
 she fastened it behind. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Aunt Frances." 
 
 "Your left stocking is twisted." 
 
 "Oh! I I'll put it right." Hot all over, Hilda 
 adjusted the cashmere which concealed the silk. 
 
 "Have you tried your gloves on?" 
 
 "Yes yes, thank you. They're all right. Every- 
 thing's all right," the girl said hurriedly,' with a curi- 
 ous hatred of herself. 
 
 "I do not care for the way you have arranged your 
 hair," Mrs. Brash said. "If you would learn to wear 
 it the way Martha Small wears hers but never mind 
 now." 
 
 At any other time Hilda would probably have re- 
 torted that Martha Small, being the possessor of 
 about three hairs, could not wear them any other way, 
 even if she stood on her head ; but now she only 
 inquired humbly whether she might don her corals. 
 Mrs. Brash, who did not object to corals and jet, 
 gave the required permission. 
 
 "It is a fine clear night, so you do not need a cab 
 going," she said. "Your Uncle William shall see 
 you to the door. Now drink your milk and come 
 downstairs when you are ready. I must see that 
 your Uncle Robert gets his dinner properly." 
 
 Hilda, though fully prepared, delayed her descent 
 until the last minute, cloaked and clutching the 
 velvet bag containing her slippers and gloves (suedes). 
 She was feeling reckless and elated again. Uncle Bill 
 was waiting for her in the hall, and as she reached his 
 side her aunt came out of the dining-room. There 
 were some awkward moments until William opened 
 the door. He and the girl were at the bottom of the
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 183 
 
 steps when Mrs. Brash did an odd and perhaps rather 
 a difficult thing. 
 
 She said slowly and distinctly: "Your Uncle 
 Robert and I hope you will enjoy yourself to-night" 
 and shut the door. 
 
 "That's better!" muttered Uncle Bill, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Hilda, without a laugh. 
 
 Beyond the garden the road was dark. 
 
 "Honey," said William, in sudden consternation, 
 "what's the matter?" 
 
 With a sob, Hilda caught his arm. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, with exceeding gentleness. 
 
 At last, somehow, she managed to tell him. "And 
 oh, Uncle Bill, what am I to do?" she ended. 
 
 He did not answer her all at once, and before he 
 did so he drew her hand close to his side. 
 
 "What are you to do, Honey? Why, you're to 
 enjoy your dancin'-party and your silk stockin's and 
 your your pretty gloves! They're as good as paid 
 for; because, you see, I've been wonderin' what I 
 could give you for your Christmas present, and now 
 I'll just give you the price of your fal-lals, and the 
 fal-lals'll be my present to you, and I'll explain to 
 the folks at home. And now you're not to weep a 
 tear, Honey, nor say a single word. But if you like 
 to give me a kiss when I give you the pennies to- 
 morrow well, I'll not say no. For it was a shame 
 that you shouldn't have silks and so on, if your heart 
 was set on them; but now you've got them for your 
 very own and that's the end of the story. Aren't 
 we lucky to get such a fine night, too? And don't 
 you hurry away if they keep up the fun. I'll see that 
 the cab waits for you." 
 
 She could do nothing but squeeze his arm till they 
 came to their destination. And when the door of
 
 184 KIDDIES 
 
 Delight had closed behind her, William strolled home- 
 wards, his hand in his pocket fingering his total 
 assets fourpence. 
 
 IV 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Brash retired to their chamber at the 
 usual hour, though Mrs. Brash intended to come 
 downstairs to greet Hilda on her return. For the 
 first time in many years the gas was not shut off at 
 ten-thirty. About that hour, however, Mr. Brash, 
 who feared that he would not be able to sleep, came 
 down to the parlour for a book. He had not troubled 
 to put on his slippers. As he crossed the hall a slight 
 rattling noise struck upon his ear. It was followed 
 by the unmistakable chink of cash. The sounds came 
 from the parlour, the door of which was open an 
 inch or so. Mr. Brash came to a standstill, but the 
 next moment he heard a cough which he recognised as 
 his brother's. He went silently to the door and peeped 
 through the narrow opening. 
 
 William was sitting at the table with a knife in one 
 hand and the mission-box in the other. On the cloth 
 lay a few pieces of silver and some coppers. William, 
 who was perspiring, inserted the blade in the slot of 
 the box and cautiously manipulated the former. At 
 the end of a minute a coin slipped out. It was a 
 half-penny. 
 
 "Darn it!" grunted William, " 'tis one o' my own." 
 
 He was luckier next time, for a half-crown flopped 
 on the table. 
 
 "Thank God!" said William devoutly, if not 
 piously. "Old Small's! He put it in last Saturday 
 night, takin' care to let us see it first. Now how 
 much have I got?" Adding fourpence from his 
 pocket to the little cluster, he reckoned it up. "Seven- 
 and-six and a ha'penny darn it! All right, little
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 185 
 
 maid, your fal-lals'll soon be paid for. Here's luck!" 
 And in went the knife. 
 
 Out came a shilling. 
 
 "Good!" said William, and he proceeded to return 
 sixpence-ha'penny to the box. 
 
 Robert, very pale, entered. 
 
 "William, what is this? What are you doing?" 
 he said hoarsely. 
 
 The grizzled man was taken aback, but quickly 
 recovered himself. He looked his brother straight in 
 the eyes. 
 
 "I was borrowing eight shillings, to be paid back 
 by a shilling a week," he said quietly. "You don't 
 suppose I would steal, Robert?" 
 
 Mr. Brash leant against the mahogany sideboard 
 and put his hand to his head. 
 
 "You don't suppose I would steal, Robert?" 
 William repeated. "My sins are many, as you know, 
 but you're not to include stealin'. Don't you hear 
 me, Robert?" 
 
 Robert wet his lips. "Why," he said, with an 
 effort "why do you wish to borrow the money? 
 Could you not have trusted me so far as to ask me 
 for it?" 
 
 "Could you have trusted me so far as to lend it?" 
 William spoke softly. 
 
 After a pause "For what do you want the 
 money?" said Robert, in a voice that was new to his 
 brother. For it held no superiority, no hardness nor 
 bitterness, no contempt; only a half-stifled agony of 
 appeal, the utterance of a man who feels a poignancy 
 he cannot name or even understand. William was 
 not to know how his brother's mind had been troubled 
 since that night, a fortnight ago, when his sovereign 
 had gone into the box, but instinctively he felt that 
 a crisis had come.
 
 1 86 KIDDIES 
 
 "I'll tell you all about it," he said abruptly. 
 "Yes if you'll sit down, Robert, and promise not to 
 think ill of the little maid I'll tell you." 
 
 "What has Hilda to do with it?" Robert asked, 
 though somehow he had thought of Hilda the instant 
 he looked upon the scene at the table. 
 
 "Hilda has more to do wi' things than we thought. 
 She still belongs to you to us but 'tis easy to lose 
 her. Robert, I can't tell you, if you don't sit down." 
 
 Robert hesitated, then took the nearest chair. "Go 
 on," he whispered. 
 
 He did not interrupt while William told the brief 
 story; and when it was ended he made no comment. 
 After a long silence he said, "It's time you were going 
 to fetch her home," and got up to leave the room. 
 
 "You'll not be hard on her, Robert?" said 
 William. "She's had a bad week a cruel bad week. 
 Can't you believe that?" He was about to plead 
 further, but he caught a glimpse of the other's face, 
 and lo ! it was enough. He nodded to the departing 
 Robert, and returned the money to the box. There- 
 after, with a new warmth in his heart, he set out to 
 meet Hilda. 
 
 It was Uncle Bill who was silent on the drive home, 
 for the girl was athrill with the delights of the even- 
 ing, and conscience was still stunned and inert. But 
 at last he got saying that which was on his soul to 
 say. 
 
 "Honey," he whispered, "do you trust me? ... 
 You do? Sure? Then slip off your outside stockin's 
 and put on your best gloves. Quick! Your Uncle 
 Robert knows all about it don't be frightened he's 
 not angry wi' you somehow I think he's sort o' 
 angry wi' himself but everything's all right at home 
 only I think 'twould hurt him sore if you tried to
 
 SILK STOCKINGS AND SUEDES 187 
 
 deceive him to his very face. Honey, to please your 
 old Uncle Bill, do what I ask you. I know 'tis cruel 
 to startle you so, but you'll be a happy girl in five 
 minutes. Darn it! I believe we're all goin' to be 
 happy! There now, don't worry yourself; just do it, 
 Honey." 
 
 Hilda had great faith in Uncle Bill, but dismay 
 overwhelmed her. Nevertheless she acceded to his 
 request without waiting for answers to her questions. 
 But she had still one cashmere stocking on when the 
 cab drew up at the house. 
 
 Mr. Brash opened the door. 
 
 "I hope you have had a pleasant time, Hilda," he 
 said, as if repeating a lesson. Then as she halted, 
 trembling and fearful, before him, he added, "We 
 must try to to understand each other better, Hilda. 
 Now go to your aunt, my dear." Bending stiffly, per- 
 haps timidly, he touched his lips to her forehead. 
 
 Hilda, silk stockings and suede gloves forgotten, ran 
 upstairs. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Brash, as though speaking to him- 
 self, "we must try to understand each other better." 
 He laid his hand on his brother's arm just as he might 
 have done thirty years before.
 
 XIII 
 THE GNOME 
 
 HILARY, being deeply conscientious, as most little 
 girls are, tried very hard to feel sorry that her Aunt 
 Rachel had got such a bad headache; but, all the 
 same, she enjoyed having lunch by herself in the big, 
 old-fashioned dining-room, and noticed that the maid, 
 who brought her the delicious cold chicken and an 
 unusually large supply of strawberries, seemed to be 
 enjoying herself too. 
 
 And afterwards, sitting in the garden with her doll, 
 Hilary found it quite impossible to be truly miserable, 
 and soon gave up stealing pitying glances at the 
 blinded window of her aunt's bedroom. It is difficult 
 to be unhappy in a lovely garden, especially if you 
 are young, as Hilary was, and believe, as Hilary did, 
 that the flowers and birds, and butterflies and bees, 
 and even the wasps, are all there to be happy and to 
 wish you happiness. Hilary would have liked her 
 father and mother to have been there also, but that 
 morning she had had letters from them, written on 
 board the yacht, and so they did not seem so very far 
 away after all. Besides, the letters had told her that 
 her mother was ever so much better, which was the 
 gladdest thing in the world to think of just then. 
 
 Somehow Hilary did not feel lonely in the garden 
 
 with no one except her doll to talk to. The day before 
 
 she had felt very lonely, although her aunt had been 
 
 with her; but now and then grown-ups have a way of 
 
 188
 
 THE GNOME 189 
 
 making little people feel more solitary than solitude 
 itself can do. 
 
 Aunt Rachel, who seemed quite old, never meant to 
 be unkind, but she always meant to be practical and 
 precise and proper, which at times is almost as trying 
 as being positively disagreeable. Perhaps she hurt 
 Hilary most by her cold unbelief in Fairies. 
 
 She shocked the little girl by bluntly expressing 
 the awful opinion that Fairies were all "stuff and 
 nonsense." 
 
 Not that Hilary's belief was likely to be shaken. 
 Her parents believed in Fairies, else why had they so 
 often told her about them? Her favourite books, 
 moreover, which she could almost read, especially the 
 passages she knew by heart, also told of Fairies in a 
 manner that carried conviction. No; it was vain for 
 Aunt Rachel to deny the existence of Fairies and 
 call them nasty names; but it was horrid of her to 
 say that Hilary was too old to believe in them. 
 
 Hilary, during her stay with her aunt in the beauti- 
 ful country, had often wished she could find a Fairy 
 somewhere, just to show her aunt how wrong were 
 her ideas. Hilary did not greatly care what sort of 
 Fairy, although she would prefer a "good" one, in 
 shimmering cobwebby robes, with a star-tipped magic 
 wand in her hand. She did not deem that any 
 Fairies could be positively bad. Even the Wicked 
 Fairy in the "Sleeping Beauty" had had much reason 
 for being annoyed. 
 
 On this particular afternoon, in the sunny garden, 
 Hilary told her doll a fairy-tale that her aunt had 
 once called "quite absurd." She had just come to the 
 beginning of the happy ending, when one of her aunt's 
 maids appeared on the scene. 
 
 "Miss Wallis sent me to tell you, Miss Hilary, 
 that she thinks it is too hot for you to go for a walk
 
 190 KIDDIES 
 
 this afternoon," said the maid, "and she wants you to 
 be sure to stay in the garden, but not to make a noise, 
 because her head aches." 
 
 "All right, Kitty," the little girl returned. "I 
 shan't make a noise." 
 
 "I'm cleaning the silver to-day, or I would stop 
 and play with you, Miss Hilary." 
 
 "I could help you !" said Hilary eagerly. 
 
 "I'm afraid Miss Wallis wouldn't like that. Shall 
 I get you a book your nice fairy-tale one?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Kitty. I'd rather just think about 
 Fairies now," Hilary replied soberly. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure you are a queer child!" said Kitty, 
 turning away reluctantly, for she was young, and 
 enjoyed a game with the little girl. 
 
 When she had gone, Hilary got up and began to 
 walk about the garden, her doll having fallen asleep 
 in her arms. 
 
 It was a large garden, and Hilary had not yet 
 explored all the paths. She thought it would be 
 great fun to get lost in the garden, chiefly because she 
 would be quite sure to be found by tea-time. Then 
 she wondered if there were any Fairies anywhere in 
 the garden. Of course she did not expect to see them 
 by daylight. She wondered for a long time, but came 
 to the melancholy conclusion that probably Fairies 
 would not be seen in the garden of a person who 
 did not believe in them. At the same moment she 
 came to a little gateway in a high hedge. 
 
 Hilary had not previously observed this gateway, 
 and the gate looked as if it had not been used for a 
 long time. But she managed to open it, although the 
 handle scared her with the screech it made. 
 
 She found herself standing on the verge of a wood. 
 Clasping her doll a little tighter, she lingered, gazing. 
 A narrow footpath, thick with pine-needles, led from
 
 THE GNOME 191 
 
 her very feet away among the trees; her eyes could 
 follow its course for some distance amid the dim 
 shades and bright splashes of sunlight. Afar off it 
 seemed to take a sharp bend, and she wondered what 
 might be round the corner. She had never been so 
 near to a wood, but some of her favourite stories were 
 about woods and likewise Fairies and Elves, and 
 Brownies and Gnomes. Already she began to people 
 this wood with sprites of her imagining. A cuckoo 
 called it was like a sweet summons; the pretty path, 
 too, invited her tread. 
 
 She took one step forward, and halted, holding her 
 doll still closer not afraid, but rather excited. Be- 
 sides, she remembered her aunt. Would her aunt be 
 angry? 
 
 The cuckoo called again. 
 
 Aunt Rachel had said she was to stay in the garden. 
 Still, perhaps, the wood was part of the garden. She 
 took another step forward, then looked back. She 
 could see nothing of the house except its chimneys 
 above the shrubbery. Aunt Rachel had never said 
 she must not go into the wood; and Aunt Rachel had 
 told her so many, oh ! so many, things she must not 
 do! Surely Aunt Rachel would have mentioned the 
 wood, had it been a forbidden place! 
 
 Once more the cuckoo called. 
 
 This time Hilary took several steps forward, and 
 immediately the bird repeated its notes. 
 
 Hilary hesitated no longer. If afterward she should 
 feel guilty, she could confess to her father and mother, 
 who understood things better than any one else. She 
 would not tell her aunt at all. And she would only 
 go as far as the corner, and then return to the 
 garden. 
 
 She passed into the wood, glancing from side to 
 side, upwards and downwards, stepping lightly, as
 
 192 KIDDIES 
 
 though she sought to avoid disturbing a sleeping Elf. 
 At times she could see large spaces of blue sky, at 
 others the merest traces. Now and then she looked 
 behind, and was not sorry to discern the old gate, for 
 the adventure was making her young heart beat faster, 
 her breath come quicker. 
 
 How still it was! There was no sound at all. 
 Even the cuckoo had fallen silent. Perhaps the 
 cuckoo, she thought, was now satisfied because she 
 had entered the wood there was no need for him to 
 call longer. She had never seen a cuckoo; she would 
 like very much to spy one. Perhaps 
 
 Hilary looked behind her once more; but this time 
 the garden-gate was not to be seen. Evidently she 
 had turned the corner without noticing that it was a 
 corner. She stopped with the intention of going back, 
 but in the same moment, a patch of green, not very far 
 ahead, attracted her. It was a bright patch, so vivid, 
 indeed, that it seemed to be set in darkness, so lovely 
 that Hilary thought of dancing Fairies in the moon- 
 light, of course. Could it be that she would find a 
 Fairy-ring there? 
 
 She went towards it slowly, yet eagerly. Uncon- 
 sciously she began to step on tiptoe, holding her breath. 
 By this time her mind was all in Fairyland. 
 
 On the edge of the bright patch stood a great tree. 
 Hilary drew level with it, then halted with a gasp. 
 
 There was something some one lying on the 
 grass, almost at her feet. In some ways it was like a 
 man, thought Hilary, but so short and squat. It was 
 lying with its hands supporting its chin, peering into 
 a dusky hollow of the wood. It was clothed in a 
 rather unpleasing shade of brown; its cap, of a shape 
 unfamiliar to Hilary's eyes, and its soft shirt-collar 
 were brown also. It had thick black hair; and its 
 face, which looked old and wizened, was dark-hued
 
 THE GNOME 193 
 
 and ugly big nose, big ears, big mouth, big teeth. 
 She could not see its eyes. 
 
 Fascinated, Hilary gazed at the recumbent figure. 
 She wanted to run away, but could not. And all at 
 once a wondrous idea made her heart leap. 
 
 "Oh !" she exclaimed involuntarily. 
 
 "Tut! Now you've frightened it," said the strange 
 being, without turning its head. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Hilary again, and dropped her doll. 
 "Oh!" she said a third time. 
 
 "Never mind. Perhaps it will come back again. 
 Keep still, if you want to see it." 
 
 The being spoke ordinary language, but, Hilary 
 noticed, in a queer croaking voice. 
 
 She did not know what it was talking about, but 
 she kept stiller than ever she had done in her life. 
 
 "Sh!" whispered the being at last. 
 
 "Oh, what?" said Hilary aloud. 
 
 "Tut! You've frightened it again." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "A squirrel, of course! Weren't you watching it? 
 I thought you were, when you came on tiptoe." This 
 time the speaker turned. "Oh, I see!" he went on. 
 "You are frightened yourself. Well, you needn't be. 
 I shan't eat you, little girl." And he sighed so sadly 
 that Hilary's fear diminished. 
 
 "I I'm not really frightened," she whispered. 
 "I'm sorry I frightened your squirrel, Mr. Brownie." 
 
 "Eh, what?" 
 
 "I meant to say Mr. Gnome," she stammered. 
 "Oh, aren't you a Gnome, please?" 
 
 At this the strange being gave a laugh. 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes!" he cried. "Of course I'm a Gnome! 
 Why, certainly! Pray, how did you guess it, little 
 girl?"
 
 194 KIDDIES 
 
 "I just guessed it," replied Hilary, satisfaction in 
 her cleverness putting her more at ease. "You see, 
 I've read about Gnomes, and father and mother have 
 told me lots about them." 
 
 "And aren't you afraid of er Gnomes?" 
 
 "N-n-no." 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "Not now, Mr. Gnome." 
 
 He smiled. And Hilary saw his eyes clearly, and 
 forgot his mouth. 
 
 "Then, if you are not afraid," he said, "come and 
 sit beside me for a little while, and watch for the 
 squirrel." 
 
 Hilary hung back. 
 
 "Ah, you are afraid, little girl!" 
 
 He looked so disappointed that, after picking up 
 her doll, she went cautiously towards him. 
 
 "Father says that Gnomes would not hurt any one," 
 she remarked shyly. 
 
 "I am obliged to your father," he returned. "Here 
 is a nice bit of grass for you ; and if we keep quiet, we 
 may see the squirrel again." 
 
 "Please," said Hilary, after what seemed to her 
 an exceedingly long silence, during which she noticed 
 that his face was not so old as she had first thought 
 "please, won't you tell me about Gnomes?" 
 
 "About Gnomes? What shall I tell you?" He 
 looked amused in a sad way. "Suppose you ask me 
 questions, and I'll try to answer them. But you are 
 a Fairj', aren't you?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Hilary, feeling pleased all the 
 same. "I'm just a little girl. My name is Hilary 
 Malory Steele, and I'm living with my Aunt Rachel 
 in the house you .can't see from here, because father 
 and mother are away on the yacht. Mother has been 
 so ill all winter, but she is almost better now. Have
 
 THE GNOME 195 
 
 you got a name, or do you wish me to call you just 
 Mr. Gnome?" 
 
 "If you please. We Gnomes have not got pretty 
 names like you, Miss Steele." 
 
 "But I'm always called Hilary." 
 
 "Miss Hilary, then." 
 
 "Just Hilary. Now I'm going to ask you a ques- 
 tion, Mr. Gnome. How did you get here?" 
 
 "Here? I didn't know I was trespassing." 
 
 "I don't know that word. Is it a Gnome word? 
 But, please, how did you get here when the sun was 
 shining, and when Gnomes should be under the 
 ground or hiding in the mountains?" 
 
 "Ah, well, let me see, now. How did I get here?" 
 
 He appeared to think hard. 
 
 "Did the King of the Gnomes allow you out for a 
 treat?" 
 
 "Yes, that's it. You see, we Gnomes get certain 
 holidays every year " 
 
 "That isn't in the book, Mr. Gnome." 
 
 "But, you see," he replied hurriedly, "no book is 
 always correct. The cleverest writing people forget 
 something now and then. Besides, you can't expect 
 mere human people to know everything about Gnomes, 
 can you?" 
 
 "No," Hilary slowly admitted. "Please go on, Mr. 
 Gnome." 
 
 "Well, little girl, the King said I might have ten 
 days' holiday; and that's how I came here. And, of 
 course," he went on quickly, "I had to get these 
 human clothes for the occasion. The clothes we wear 
 er underground are different, you know." 
 
 "I know. You wear leather clothes. They must 
 be uncomfy. Do you like being here, Mr. Gnome?" 
 
 "Very much."
 
 196 KIDDIES 
 
 "Do you go under the ground at night, or stay and 
 play with the other Gnomes when they come up ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I daren't answer that question." 
 
 "Would the King be angry?" 
 
 "Very likely." 
 
 "What do you do when you are not having holi- 
 days?" 
 
 "Work." 
 
 "But what do you work at?" 
 
 "Quill-driving," he said, with a smile. 
 
 "What is that, Mr. Gnome?" 
 
 "Nothing very fine, Miss Hilary, but better than 
 doing nothing." 
 
 "Do all Gnomes do it?" 
 
 "Oh, no! But a good many do. By the bye, you 
 must not tell anybody that I'm a Gnome. It's one 
 of the laws that we have to look as little like Gnomes 
 as possible during our holidays. You see, I have 
 even learned your language." 
 
 "But you are very like a Gnome, Mr. Gnome. I 
 knew you at once." 
 
 He gave a short laugh. 
 
 "So you did, little girl so you did." 
 
 "But you don't mind my knowing?" she said gently. 
 "I promise not to tell anybody, Mr. Gnome." 
 
 "Thank you ! No, I don't mind your knowing. 
 But your aunt might not like your speaking to a 
 Gnome." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Hilary, jumping up. "I must run 
 home." 
 
 "Must you go?" 
 
 Hilary nodded regretfully. 
 
 "And you've told me so little about Gnomes." 
 
 "I could tell you more if But I've got only 
 
 three days of my holiday left, and I don't suppose I'll 
 see you again before I go."
 
 THE GNOME 197 
 
 "Under the ground. Poor Mr. Gnome! Perhaps 
 I could come here again if Aunt Rachel would have 
 another headache. But I'm afraid she won't." 
 
 Mr. Gnome smiled. 
 
 "Well, I come here every afternoon," he said. "I 
 should like to see you once more, before I go under 
 the ground, little girl. Will you shake hands with me 
 now?" 
 
 Hilary did so, noticing that his fingers were very 
 long and thin. 
 
 "But you must not get into trouble by staying too 
 long with me. Good-bye, Miss Hilary!" 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Gnome! I'll try to come another 
 day." 
 
 She ran down the path, stopping once to wave her 
 hand to him. 
 
 It was difficult to keep her wonderful secret that 
 night. 
 
 The next afternoon she was taken by Miss Wallis 
 for a dreadfully long, dull drive; but the next again 
 she found an opportunity, thanks to visitors, to slip 
 away to the wood. 
 
 Sure enough, Mr. Gnome was there in the self-same 
 spot, and appeared so glad to see her that her shyness 
 vanished at once. He seemed in good spirits and told 
 her far more about Gnomes, without her asking, than 
 ever she had heard or imagined. Some of the things 
 he told her were not in agreement with the book; 
 but, as Mr. Gnome pointed out, there was nothing 
 surprising in a Gnome knowing more about his own 
 people than a mere human being could ever hope to 
 discover. 
 
 When he had talked of Gnomes for half an hour or 
 so, he suddenly changed the subject by asking her if 
 she liked sweets, at the same time producing a packet 
 pf Russian toffee.
 
 ig8 KIDDIES 
 
 Hilary was a trifle disappointed that the dainty, 
 though desirable, was so familiar. After thanking him 
 prettily, she said : 
 
 "Do Gnomes have sweets of their own different 
 from these?" 
 
 "No; they haven't any sweets, Hilary. They 
 haven't any money to buy sweets with, or anything 
 else that's nice." 
 
 "No money?" 
 
 "No money." 
 
 Hilary, at considerable risk, swallowed the cake of 
 toffee she was just beginning to enjoy, and regarded 
 Mr. Gnome inquiringly, if not suspiciously. 
 
 "How did you buy the toffee, then, if you have no 
 money?" 
 
 Mr. Gnome's dark, ugly face reddened. He 
 laughed feebly. 
 
 "Where did you get this toffee, Mr. Gnome?" 
 demanded Hilary. 
 
 "In a little shop, kept by an old woman, in the 
 village. I got it last night." 
 
 "When she was asleep? Oh, Mr. Gnome, did 
 you did you steal it?" 
 
 Mr. Gnome tried to smile, but the child's grey eyes 
 were too serious. 
 
 "I suppose you didn't know any better, but it was 
 very naughty of you, Mr. Gnome," she said at last, 
 more in sorrow than in anger. "Oh, fancy stealing 
 toffee from an old woman when she was asleep ! 
 Aren't you ashamed?" 
 
 "But you must remember I'm only a Gnome," he 
 said, after a pause. 
 
 "Yes; that does make some difference, But, oh, 
 how could you? And oh!" (her eyes opened their 
 widest), "you've got a watch and chain, and boots 
 and stockings, and clothes and a collar" (Mr. Gnome
 
 THE GNOME 199 
 
 had on a white one now) "and a tie! How could you 
 get all these things when you had no money?" 
 
 Mr. Gnome was now in a fearful tangle of his own 
 making. 
 
 "How, indeed?" he murmured helplessly. "Per- 
 haps they were given to me as presents, Hilary." 
 
 "Aren't you sure?" 
 
 "Not quite. It's rather difficult for a Gnome to 
 be sure of anything, you know." 
 
 Hilary wagged her head till her dark curls danced. 
 
 "Who gave you your watch and chain? Does 
 your watch have a key, or just a little thing for turn- 
 ing round?" 
 
 "It has a key. Would you like to see me wind it, 
 Hilary?" 
 
 "Yes oh, no! You haven't told me who gave 
 you your watch and chain," she said severely. 
 
 "What would you say if I told you I had stolen 
 them, like the toffee?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Let us assume that I stole them." 
 
 "Assume! That's surely a Gnome word. What 
 does it mean?" 
 
 "Suppose I stole them." 
 
 "But did you?" 
 
 Mr. Gnome was silent. He hardly knew what to 
 say. 
 
 "It isn't so bad to be naughty when you con- 
 fess," urged Hilary, not unkindly. 
 
 "Gnomes hardly ever confess." 
 
 "Oh! That's dreadful! If I didn't confess often, 
 I'd burst. You mustn't laugh, Mr. Gnome. I'm 
 so sorry for you ; and I'm so sorry for the old woman in 
 the village. Oh, how could you steal her toffee when 
 she was asleep? Did you get in through the key- 
 hole or down the chimney?"
 
 200 KIDDIES 
 
 Her frown gave place to an expression of pure 
 curiosity. 
 
 "I don't remember. Are you sorry I'm a Gnome, 
 little girl?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" she answered quickly. "I'm glad you 
 are a Gnome, Mr. Gnome." 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 "But I wish you could behave better." 
 
 He sighed again. 
 
 "Are you sorry?" she inquired, gently. 
 
 "Yes, I'm sorry, Hilary." 
 
 After some thought, she said softly: 
 
 "Then I mustn't scold you any more. But you 
 must try hard to be a better Gnome." 
 
 She fumbled in her pocket, and fished out a tiny 
 purse. "I have some money that father gave me. It 
 won't pay for all the things you've got, Mr. Gnome, 
 but it will pay for the toffee (I know that sort of 
 toffee costs sixpence), and you can leave the money 
 in the shop when the poor old woman is sleeping. 
 You needn't confess to her, since you've confessed to 
 me. Here, Mr. Gnome I Take it, please." 
 
 She held out the sixpence. 
 
 He drew back. 
 
 "Oh, I can't take your money, little girl ?" 
 
 "But you must, Mr. Gnome." 
 
 Presently, to save her from tears, he took the coin, 
 meaning to return it somehow. 
 
 "And now," said Hilary, brightening "now we 
 can eat up the toffee!" 
 
 Which she did. 
 
 When it was finished, she remembered her aunt. 
 
 "I'm going away to-morrow," he was saying. "I 
 wish we had met sooner." 
 
 "So do I. I like you, Mr. Gnome, though you are
 
 THE GNOME 201 
 
 not very good. But then you don't know any better. 
 Do you go under when you go away from here?" 
 
 "Yes under." 
 
 "Under this very place?" 
 
 "No; far from here. But I'll be here to-morrow 
 afternoon." 
 
 Hilary gave him her small hand. 
 
 "I'll try to come, Mr. Gnome. You never finished 
 the story about the Gnome that fell in love with a 
 Fairy." 
 
 "Ah, that's a long story, because, Hilary, the Gnome 
 never fell out of love with the Fairy." 
 
 "But they lived happily, ever after?" 
 
 He smiled almost tenderly. 
 
 "At any rate, the Fairy made the Gnome happier 
 than he had ever been before. Good-bye, little girl." 
 
 Hilary ran till she saw the garden-gate. Then she 
 went slowly, and hugged her doll. She could not tell 
 why, but there was a lump in her throat that really 
 hurt her. 
 
 The next afternoon rain fell heavily. Miss Wallis 
 had to go out, and came home with a touch of 
 rheumatism, which made her cross. "What are you 
 brooding over, child?" she exclaimed, a little while 
 before Hilary's bed-time. 
 
 "I'm reading, Aunt Rachel," corrected Hilary. 
 
 "That Fairy nonsense again?" 
 
 "I'm reading about a Gnome, Aunt Rachel." 
 
 "Rubbish!" 
 
 The little girl's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "There are Gnomes!" she sobbed. 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 Hilary opened her mouth, and then shut it tightly. 
 She would keep the secret. 
 
 In her white bed that night she wept for the poor 
 Gnome who had got to go under.
 
 202 KIDDIES 
 
 She could not resist going to the wood on the fol- 
 lowing afternoon, although in order to get away she 
 had to dodge her aunt round the garden. She wanted 
 just to see where the Gnome had lain. She would not 
 wait a minute. But the Gnome was there, on the 
 patch of vivid green. 
 
 "The King has allowed me to stay for one after- 
 noon extra," he explained. "I go under to-night." 
 
 "What a nice King!" she remarked, delighted to 
 see Mr. Gnome once more. 
 
 But somehow he proved a dull companion. To get 
 him to talk she had to ask many questions, and some- 
 times he told her things about Gnomes which she could 
 not possibly accept as true. 
 
 And when she gave him the bunch of pansies she had 
 picked in the garden for her doll, he thanked her in a 
 way that made her feel miserable. 
 
 "Are you sorry you are going away under, Mr. 
 Gnome?" 
 
 "Very sorry. Are you a little sorry, little girl?" 
 
 "I was sorry last night." 
 
 "Not to-day?" 
 
 "Are you going to try to be a good Gnome?" she 
 asked, after a moment's consideration. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He fell silent, his eyes on the dusky hollow. He 
 did indeed look sorry, dreadfully sorry, she thought. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Gnome," she said, impulsively, "I wish 
 you weren't going away. I wish I could see you 
 every day." 
 
 "Dear, kind little girl!" he murmured. 
 
 The faint sound of a bell reached her ears. It was 
 the summons to tea, rung at the open door of her 
 aunt's house. 
 
 "Oh, I must run home fast!" she said, quickly ris- 
 ing. "Good-bye, Mr. Gnome. I hope you won't be
 
 THE GNOME 203 
 
 very unhappy where you are going. Good-bye! I'm 
 so glad you are a Gnome. I'll tell father and mother 
 all about you when they come home next week." 
 
 He smiled resignedly. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear little Hilary." 
 
 He did not get up, not because he was rude, but 
 because he was sensitive. 
 
 She took a couple of steps from him and came 
 back. 
 
 "Would you like me to kiss you, Mr. Gnome?" 
 
 "If you would, Hilary." 
 
 Soon she was out of his sight. 
 
 Two mornings later, the post brought Hilary a 
 beautiful book of fairy-tales. Her own name was very 
 neatly written upon the fly-leaf, but nothing else. 
 
 The dwarf clambered upon the high office-stool, and 
 unlocked his desk. 
 
 "Had a good holiday, Morgan?" inquired his neigh- 
 bour clerk, wondering what sort of holiday such a 
 poor, misshapen, lonely chap could possibly have. 
 
 "Very good indeed, Francis," was the quiet answer. 
 
 Towards the afternoon his neighbour jocularly re- 
 marked : 
 
 "Feeling it a bit slow after your holiday, Morgan? 
 That's the tenth time within the hour you've looked at 
 your watch!" 
 
 "Perhaps I do feel it a bit slow, Francis." 
 
 Morgan, however, had not been looking at his 
 watch, but at a sixpence attached to the ring of it.
 
 XIV 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 
 
 "AwFu' little news in the paper," remarked John 
 Robinson to his wife, who had been in one of her silent 
 moods since tea-time. 
 
 "I wisht Macgreegor was in." Lizzie lifted her 
 eyes from the pinafore she was repairing to the clock. 
 "It's time he was in his bed, an' he's got a' his lessons 
 to learn for the morn." She turned to her man, shirt- 
 sleeved and taking his ease by the kitchen hearth. "It'll 
 no' dae, John. Ye'll ha'e to speak to him serious-like ; 
 
 an' if speakin' doesna gar him improve, ye'll jist ha'e 
 . 
 
 "Aw, the wean's fine, Lizzie." John smiled, 
 dropped the paper and took out his pipe. 
 
 "He isna fine ! He gets waur every day. An' it's 
 his fayther's fau't. He thinks he can get daein' ony- 
 thing he likes. I tell ye, he's got to be checkit, an' if 
 you're no' gaun to dae yer duty " 
 
 "Weel, weel, I'll gi'e him a word o' comfort when 
 he comes in, wife," said John, between puffs. "But 
 it's a fine nicht for playin' ootbye, an' I mind when I 
 was a wean masel' " 
 
 "That's easy mindit, for ye've never been onything 
 else!" 
 
 At this Mr. Robinson laughed heartily. "Aweel, 
 ye've wisdom for the twa o' us, woman." Becoming 
 204
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 205 
 
 graver "Wud ye like me to gang oot an' seek Mac- 
 greegor?" 
 
 Ere Lizzie could reply, the bell tinkled. "That'll 
 be Mrs. McOstrich. I promised to lend her the bew 
 (blue) vases an' twa-three tidies for her pairty the 
 morn's nicht," she said, rising. 
 
 "I thocht the party wasna till next week." 
 
 "So it was. But an auld aunt o' Mistress McOs- 
 trich was ta'en badly yesterday, an' Mistress McOs- 
 trich's thocht she'd better hurry on the pairty in case 
 
 onything serious happened Whisht, man ! It's 
 
 naething to laugh at." Lizzie disappeared, and pres- 
 ently showed in Mrs. McOstrich, the wife of a baker 
 in the vicinity, a weary-looking, elderly, little woman. 
 She carried a large basket. 
 
 "Fine nicht, mistress," said John, pleasantly, get- 
 ting up and nodding. "An' hoo's the guidman the 
 nicht?" 
 
 "Aw, thenk ye," replied Mrs. McOstrich, in melan- 
 choly tones, "he's jist aboot his usual. He gets that 
 wearit efter he's had his tea, he wouldna heed an 
 earthquake." She turned to her hostess. "It's rael 
 kind o' ye, Mistress Robi'son, to lend me yer maist gor- 
 geous ornaments, an' I'll tak' terrible guid care o' 
 them " 
 
 "Will ye no tak' aff yer shawl an' sit doon?" said 
 Lizzie kindly. 
 
 "Na, na, I daurna bide, thenk ye a' the same. Ye 
 see, ma man's that wearit, an' he'll be wantin' to gang 
 til his bed." Brightening for a moment "Yer guid- 
 sister Mistress Purdie's comin' the morn's nicht!" 
 
 "Oh, is she?" murmured Lizzie, who found it hard 
 to keep friends with her moneyed sister-in-law. 
 
 "That'll be a cookie extra!" said John, and guf- 
 fawed. 
 
 "John!" exclaimed his wife.
 
 206 KIDDIES 
 
 "Oh, let yer man ha'e his bit joke," sighed the vis- 
 itor. "Ma man hasna made a joke for seeven-an'- 
 twinty year no* since he tell't me I was like a giraffe. 
 'Deed, it's nae fun bein' a baker, an' it's less bein' mair- 
 rit on yin. If folk thocht what it meant to be mair- 
 rit on a baker, their mornin' rolls wud choke them. 
 Mistress Purdie's unco lucky to be mairrit on a grocer. 
 It's wonderfu' hoo folk in the grocery trade flee up in 
 the world nooadays. Ma man's aye wishin' he was a 
 grocer espaycially at three o'clock on a cauld frosty 
 mornin'. Oh, dear! I never seen a man like him for 
 sleepin'! An' whiles he has the maist terrible bad 
 dreams. The ither nicht, he dreamed he was a cake o" 
 gingerbread that wudna rise, an' his struggles was 
 something awfu'." 
 
 "D'ye tell me that?" said Lizzie sympathetically, 
 while John put his hand to his mouth. "But could 
 he no' change to the grocery trade ?" 
 
 Mrs. McOstrich wagged her beshawled grey head. 
 "Na, na. It's ower late noo. The Ethiopian canna 
 change his spots, nor " 
 
 "There's Macgreegor!" cried John, going to the 
 door in response to a knock. 
 
 When father and son appeared, Mrs. McOstrich 
 was packing the borrowed ornaments in her basket and 
 profusely thanking the lender. 
 
 "Here's his lordship!" John announced proudly. 
 
 "Macgreegor," said Lizzie, "what d'ye mean, stop- 
 pin' ootbye till this time o' nicht? I've a guid mind 
 
 i-ru___" 
 
 Mrs. McOstrich gently interposed. "Aw, the wee 
 man! D'ye no' ken me?" 
 
 "Fine! Ye're Mistress McOstrich. I'm comin' to yer 
 pairty the morn's nicht. Ha'e ye got our bew vases there? 
 
 "Macgreegor!" Lizzie whispered warningly.
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 207 
 
 The boy, on the safe side of his father, continued: 
 
 "I like your pairties. Ye've aye plenty pastries. I 
 wisht ma paw was a baker." 
 
 "Whisht!" cried his mother. "If ye canna behave 
 yersel', ye'll no' get to the pairty " 
 
 "Toots, Lizzie! the wean's fine," said John. 
 
 Thus encouraged, Macgregor proceeded: "I'm 
 gaun to ha'e a pairty, tae, on Hogmanay. Will ye 
 come, Mistress?" 
 
 Curbing herself Lizzie said quietly : "Never heed him, 
 Mistress McOstrich. He's gaun to ha'e nae pairty." 
 
 Macgregor met his mother's eyes. "But paw said 
 I was," he said, speaking as one who knows he is in 
 the right. He turned to his father. "Did ye no', paw?" 
 
 There was a pause ere Mr. Robinson said, rather 
 sheepishly: "Let him ha'e his pairty, Lizzie. Jist 
 twa-three o' his wee frien's, ye ken." 
 
 "I never heard sich nonsense!" said Lizzie. "Get 
 yer lesson book, laddie, an' learn " 
 
 Mrs. McOstrich's sad voice came in. "It wud be 
 rael nice for the laddie to ha'e a pairty, Mistress 
 Robi'son." 
 
 "Na, na! He canna ha'e a pairty," said Lizzie, in 
 a tone of finality. 
 
 "But," said Macgregor, "I've askit Wullie Thom- 
 son, an' Peter Ross, an' Jessie Mary " 
 
 "Aweel, ye had nae business to ask onybody." 
 
 Awkwardly, John rose to the occasion. 
 
 "It's me that's to blame, Lizzie. I was gaun to 
 speak to ye aboot it when when I got a chance," he 
 explained haltingly. 
 
 After all, Lizzie was not the woman to abash her 
 good man before a third person. 
 
 "Weel, we'll see aboot it," she said at last, kindly 
 enough. "Noo, laddie, awa' an' get yer book. John, 
 try if ye cannot help him wi' his lesson^"
 
 ao8 KIDDIES 
 
 " 'Deed, ay, Lizzie, I'll dae that," quoth Mr. Robin- 
 son, and he and Macgregor moved with relieved coun- 
 tenances to the fireside. 
 
 "It's a' richt eh, paw?" whispered the boy. 
 
 "Ay, ay," muttered John, grinning. "But we'll pey 
 attention to yer lesson in the meantime, ma mannie." 
 
 Said Lizzie to Mrs. McOstrich: "Ye maun excuse 
 Macgreegor; he means weel." 
 
 "'Deed, ay; 'deed, ay," the baker's spouse replied; 
 "a* weans means weel, an' whiles I think they wud 
 dae weel, if it wasna for us auld yins." With which 
 deplorable heresy she took her departure, just pausing 
 at the door to assure Macgregor that there would be 
 a sufficiency of pastry on the following evening. 
 
 Mrs. Robinson, having succeeded in stemming the 
 torrent of gratitude which poured forth afresh at the 
 outer door, bade the borrower of vases a friendly good- 
 night, and then paid a brief visit to the room wherein 
 her little daughter was sleeping. On her return to 
 the kitchen she surprised father and son in a pleasant 
 discussion on the subject of the latter's prospective 
 party. Her expression hardened. 
 
 "John! Ha'e ye nae sense? See the time, and 
 Macgreegor's lessons no' learnt yet! . . . Macgreegor, 
 bring me the book, an' I'll hear ye yer spellin'." She 
 seated herself at the table. "I tell ye, Macgreegor, 
 if ye dinna pey attention to yer lessons, ye'll never 
 grow up to be a Lord Provost." 
 
 "I'm no' wantin' to be a Lord Provost, maw. I 
 want to be a plumber." 
 
 Whereupon Mr. Robinson chuckled, and, hearing 
 the same, the boy grinned. 
 
 Happily for them both, and perhaps for Lizzie also, 
 the door-bell rang again. 
 
 "I'll gang, Lizzie." John jumped up and hurried 
 out.
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 209 
 
 "Noo, laddie," said Lizzie, restraining herself, "spell 
 misery" 
 
 "Ye're lookin' at the wrang page, maw. That was 
 in yesterday's lesson." 
 
 Lizzie cleared her throat. "Spell dungeon." 
 
 "D ... U ... N " 
 
 "Tak' yer time. Spell it in bits. Dun-geon. 
 Dun?" 
 
 "D ... U ... N." 
 
 "Geon." 
 
 "J ... O ... H ... N Geon Dungeon!" said 
 
 Macgregor smartly. 
 
 Lizzie groaned. "Tak' the book an' learn it. An* 
 if ye canna say it " 
 
 The door was pushed open, and John's voice cried: 
 "He thocht he wud surprise ye." 
 
 Lizzie turned. "Fayther!" 
 
 "Gran'paw Purdie," Macgregor shouted, dropping 
 his book and running to the old man. 
 
 "Weel, ma dochter, an' hoo's a' wi' ye," said Mr. 
 Purdie heartily. "An' ma auld frien' Macgreegor!" 
 He took the youngster's hand. "I was feart ye wud 
 be awa' to yer bed." 
 
 "No' likely!" 
 
 "Macgreegor," his mother interposed, "pick up yer 
 book, an' awa' ben aside wee Jeanie an' learn yer les- 
 sons. But see an' no' wauken her." 
 
 "But I want to bide " 
 
 "Preserve us!" ejaculated the old man, taking the 
 chair proffered by his son-in-law. "Is the laddie no' 
 feenished wi' his lessons? I doobt he's bein' ower hard 
 wrought. I'm no' agreein' wi' weans ha'ein' ower 
 mony lessons to learn at nicht." 
 
 "Macgreegor didna come in when he should ha'e 
 come in," said Lizzie. "It's a' his ain fau't that he's 
 no' feenished wi' his lessons,"
 
 210 KIDDIES 
 
 "Och, Lizzie, never heed aboot that," said John, 
 with an insinuating glance at his wife. "The ween's 
 fine. An' he'll be gettin' his holidays in twa-three 
 days." 
 
 "I'm gaun to ha'e a pairty on Hogmanay, gran'- 
 paw," the boy announced. "Will ye come?" 
 
 "Dae what I bid ye, Macgreegor," his mother com- 
 manded. 
 
 "Maybe," Mr. Purdie mildly interrupted "maybe 
 he wudna tak' very lang to learn his lessons." 
 
 Lizzie was tired that night; her wrongs got the bet- 
 ter of her. "It's no' jist his lessons, fayther," she 
 said. "It's his disobedience. Ay, an' he's gettin' that 
 impiddent." 
 
 "I'm no' impiddent, maw," her son protested. "I'm 
 no' impiddent excep' to Aunt Purdie, an' she's im- 
 piddent to me." 
 
 Once more John made matters worse by sniggering. 
 The colour rose in Lizzie's face. 
 
 Mr. Purdie, who, it must be confessed, had come 
 near to sniggering himself, held up his hand, and said 
 soothingly. "Jist a moment, Lizzie. I've a word or 
 twa to say to Macgreegor." He dropped his hand on 
 the boy's arm and drew him gently against his knee. 
 
 "Listen, laddie. I was thinkin' aboot ye comin' up 
 in the steamboat the day, and I was wonderin' what 
 I wud gi'e ye for yer Ne'erday, 1 if " 
 
 "What are ye gaun to gi'e us. gran'paw?" 
 
 "Patience, patience! What I wud gie ye for yer 
 Ne'erday if ye was guid, an' diligent, an' obedient, 
 an' weel-behaved till the end o' the year. Noo it's 
 no' vera lang till the end o' the year jist ten days 
 an' I've nae doobt ye could please yer paw an' maw 
 rael weel for that time, if ye was tryin'. D'ye see?" 
 
 1 Ne'erday = New Year's Day (gift).
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 211 
 
 "Ay, I see I'll try . . . What are ye gaun to gi'e 
 us?" 
 
 "It'll be a prize for guid conduct." Mr. Purdie 
 smiled on the parents, and turned again to his grand- 
 son. "Weel, I was thinkin' o' a watch an' chain." 
 
 "Dod, that'll be fine!" cried John delightedly. 
 
 "A watch an' chain!" murmured Lizzie. "Oh, 
 fayther!" 
 
 Macgregor looked straight in the old face. "D'ye 
 mean a penny yin, gran 'paw?" 
 
 "Macgreegor!" a warning whisper from Lizzie. 
 
 Mr. Purdy laughed. "Na, na, laddie. A real sil- 
 ver watch an' chain!" 
 
 "Wi' a key to wind it? I like the sort wi' a key 
 same as your auld yin. I dinna like the sort " 
 
 "Macgreegor," Lizzie exclaimed, "haud yer tongue 
 an' say 'thenk ye' to yer gran'paw." 
 
 "But I ha'ena got it yet, maw. Wi' a key to wind 
 it, gran'paw?" 
 
 "I'll tak' a note o' the key, ma mannie," was the 
 good-humoured assurance of Mr. Purdie. "But ye'll 
 no' forget ye've got to win the prize," he added, at 
 a hint from his daughter. 
 
 "I'll no' forget," Macgregor said confidently. 
 
 There was a pause that lasted till Lizzie managed 
 to catch her son's eye. 
 
 "I'll awa' an' learn ma lessons," said Macgregor 
 cheerfully, and picking up his book left the room. 
 
 "A guid beginnin'," remarked Mr. Purdie, smiling, 
 and bringing out his pipe. 
 
 "Oh, he'll win the prize easy," said John, with a 
 laugh. ^'Eh, wife?" 
 
 Lizzie's expression softened. "I wonder hoo wee 
 Jeanie made that big hole in her pinny," she said, tak- 
 ing up her sewing.
 
 212 KIDDIES 
 
 ii 
 
 When we come to think of it, ten days is a long time 
 to be good, and diligent, and obedient, and well-be- 
 haved. Which of us would venture to promise sta- 
 bility in these qualities over that period? Which of 
 us would deserve a prize at the end thereof? As 
 Gran'paw Purdie said on the last night of the year 
 but stay; Gran'paw Purdie shall speak for himself 
 presently. 
 
 No boy worthy of the name can win a prize for 
 good conduct. At best, a boy may be awarded a prize 
 for conduct less bad than that of his fellows. The 
 phrase good conduct, however, hath a smugly pleasing 
 sound to very young children and also to adults who 
 affect to have forgotten their own youthful pecca- 
 dillos. 
 
 It was only to be expected that Macgregor would 
 plunge from failure into failure. Nevertheless failure 
 involves the existence of endeavours to succeed. And, 
 curiously enough, the more outstanding failures of 
 those ten days were not so much due to Macgregor's 
 badness, idleness, disobedience, and ill-behaviour as to 
 certain circumstances, examples of which ought in com- 
 mon fairness to be recorded. 
 
 Macgregor would certainly not have started to climb 
 that lamp-post in the dark had his friend Willie Thom- 
 son, instead of daring him to perform the feat, in- 
 formed him that the lamp-post was freshly adorned 
 with green paint. 
 
 Nor would he have been foot of his class on the 
 last day of the term had Willie Thomson, whose turn 
 it was to occupy that seat of dishonour, refrained from 
 taking an unlawful holiday. Nor, during the Satur- 
 day visit to the Zoo with his parents, would he have 
 permitted a monkey to take his new hat (which his
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 213 
 
 mother had insisted on his wearing), however "daft" 
 he miserably felt it to be, had not the monkey snatched 
 it from his head while he was busy telling his mother 
 how he hated it. Nor, finally, would he have left the 
 little jam tart, purloined from Mrs. McOstrich's sup- 
 per-table, upon a certain chair, had he foreseen that 
 his most severe and superior relative Aunt Purdie 
 would sit thereon. 
 
 But without these extenuating circumstances, which 
 grown up people could hardly be expected to appre- 
 ciate, the four misdeeds were surely sufficient in them- 
 selves to blot out the vision of a shining prize. They 
 did so, undoubtedly, so far as Lizzie was concerned, 
 though she disguised her despair in exhortation and 
 encouragement until the eleventh hour, until which 
 hour Macgregor replied that the watch must have a 
 key. John continued, or professed to continue, san- 
 guine, pointing out that they were not called upon to 
 report all their son's misdeeds to the grandfather, and 
 that Aunt Purdie was hardly likely to report the jam 
 tart incident for fear of ridicule. 
 
 "Honesty," Lizzie, said, with the heavy sigh of one 
 deploring a dreary fact, "is the best policy ; an' if Mac- 
 greegor doesna deserve the prize, he's no' gaun to get 
 it." 
 
 "He'll deserve it yet, wife," returned John, and 
 reeled off a long list of crimes which Macgregor might 
 have but had not committed. 
 
 "An' he doesna deserve to ha'e a pairty, neither," 
 she said. "Ye ken that yersel', John." 
 
 "No* bein' a prize, it doesna matter," he replied 
 lightly. "Cheer up, Lizzie! He's nae waur nor I 
 was when I was his age." Here followed a fearful 
 list of John's juvenile delinquencies. 
 
 "Man," she interrupted at last, "I've got a con- 
 science!"
 
 214 KIDDIES 
 
 "Weel, ma dear, that's no' your fau't, an' I'm no' 
 blamin' ye." 
 
 So it came to Hogmanay. 1 
 
 John, ignoring his wife's many protests, all more 
 or less to the effect that he was aping "the gentry," 
 had decorated the kitchen with diagonals of paper 
 flowers, slung from the four corners of the roof, a 
 couple of Chinese lanterns hung from the drying pole, 
 and sundry sprigs of holly stuck in likely places. 
 
 The "company" consisted of Gran'paw and Gran'- 
 maw Purdie, Willie Thomson, Macgregor's chief 
 chum, two other small boys, three little girls, whom 
 Macgregor had not been particularly keen on inviting, 
 and a bigger girl, Jessie Mary, aged fourteen, who 
 acted as Lizzie's lieutenant in organising games and 
 keeping order generally. Aunt and Uncle Purdie 
 were expected later, when the juvenile entertainment 
 was over, to assist the elders in bringing in the New 
 Year at which ceremony, by the way, Macgregor's 
 presence was to be permitted on condition that he 
 was "extra good" throughout the evening. Mrs. Mc- 
 Ostrich had been unable to accept Macgregor's in- 
 vitation. Despite the fact that New Year's Day was 
 a holiday in the bakehouse, Mr. McOstrich insisted 
 on retiring at his customary hour, eight o'clock, and 
 consequently his spouse must stay at home. But the 
 kindly woman had sent a large assortment of buns and 
 pastries, which Macgregor and his young friends wel- 
 comed without any apparent regret at the donor's ab- 
 sence. It was unanimously agreed, however, that to 
 be closely related to a baker was the most desirable 
 thing in the world. 
 
 For the space of a couple of hours all went so 
 brightly, so smoothly, and Macgregor behaved so 
 nicely towards even the little girls that hope, mori- 
 
 1 December 31.
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 215 
 
 bund for days, stirred softly in the mother heart. The 
 watch and chain might yet be the laddie's property 
 and her pride. Mrs. Robinson was roused from such 
 a reverie by her husband's voice above the childish 
 din. 
 
 "Here, Lizzie, what's next on the programme?" 
 
 Joining the little throng, she appealed to Jessie 
 Mary. "Something they can a' play at, lassie." 
 
 "Bee-baw-babbity," said Jessie Mary, and was 
 echoed by the smaller guests. 
 
 "Ach, that's a daft game," said Willie Thomson, 
 contemptuously. 
 
 "Ay," Macgregor agreed. "It's a daft " 
 
 Lizzie was swiftly upon him, a gentle hand on his 
 shoulder. "Mind what yer gran'paw's maybe got for 
 ye if ye're a guid laddie, dearie," she whispered. 
 
 Macgregor hesitated. "Ye're sure it'll ha'e a key? 
 Wullie Thomson, come on an' play, or I'll gi'e ye a 
 bat on the nose." 
 
 "Gaun! hit me!" said Willie truculently, stepping 
 forward in an attitude of defence. 
 
 John interposed, laughing, and presently the game, 
 which is of the kiss-in-the-ring order, was set agoing. 
 
 It fell to Macgregor to be first in the centre. He 
 didn't like the part, but was determined to go through 
 with it. With a self-conscious smirk he knelt to the 
 words : 
 
 Kneel down, kiss the crown, 
 Kiss the crown, kiss the crown, 
 Kneel down, kiss the crown, 
 Kiss a bonny wee lassie. 
 
 The singing ceased, the dancers halted. The small 
 boys sniggered, the little girls looked modestly ex- 
 pectant. Macgregor looked very unhappy. 
 
 "Come awa', Macgreegor," his grandfather called 
 encouragingly from the fireside.
 
 2i6 KIDDIES 
 
 "The dear!" murmured his grandmother. 
 
 Macgregor took a step in Jessie Mary's direction. 
 
 "That's the boy!" cried John. 
 
 Macgregor took another step. 
 
 "Haw, haw!" laughed Willie Thomson. "He's for 
 the big yin!" 
 
 Ere Macgregor could turn, Jessie Mary, doubtless 
 to end his embarrassment ran forward and kissed him 
 lightly on the cheek. 
 
 "Haw, haw!" laughed Willie again. 
 
 Threateningly, Macgregor went close to him. 
 "What are ye laughin' at?" 
 
 "Haw, haw! Ye kissed her. Haw!- 
 
 "I didna! If ye say that again, I'll gi'e ye a- 
 
 Jessie Mary put herself between the threatening 
 fists. 
 
 "Wullie Thomson," she said indignantly, "if ye 
 dinna behave vessel' " 
 
 "I believe ye kissed him first," cried Willie, with 
 more guffaws. 
 
 With a toss of her head Jessie Mary retorted: "I 
 wudna kiss you if ye was the only man in the world !" 
 
 "I wudna gi'e ye the chance!" yelled Willie, and 
 fell upon Macgregor. 
 
 "Tits! tits!" cried John, separating the combatants. 
 "This'll never dae. Wullie, shake hauns wi' Mac- 
 greegor, an' tell Jessie Mary ye're sorry." 
 
 After some persuasion the boys shook hands rather 
 limply, it must be allowed. 
 
 "Noo, Wullie, tell Jessie Mary ye're sorry." 
 
 Said Jessie: "He can keep his sorry. I'm no' in 
 wi' him ony mair." And, with another toss of her 
 head, moved away. 
 
 Next moment Lizzie's arm went round her neck. 
 "Lassie, ye've been a terrible help to me the nicht. 
 Dinna let onything spile Macgreegor's pairty noo."
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 217 
 
 She led the girl back to the cause of the disturbance. 
 "Wullie, here's Jessie Mary ready to forgi'e ye." 
 
 "I'm no' heedin'," returned the boy sullenly. "I 
 mean, I'm sorry. Onything for peace." He walked 
 off to the table against the wall, and presently he and 
 Macgregor were sharing an orange, while Gran'paw 
 Purdie, with a chuckle of relief, relit his pipe, and 
 gran'maw, still nervous, pretended to resume knitting. 
 Jessie Mary's proposal to play at "spin-the-plate" was 
 hailed with general approval. 
 
 "I'll get a plate," cried Macgregor, and, with the 
 aid of a chair, scrambled upon the dresser. 
 
 "Stop, laddie!" exclaimed Lizzie, starting to cross 
 the floor. 
 
 "I can manage fine, maw," he replied, taking a 
 large plate from the rack. 
 
 "Na, na. Pit it doon this meenute!" 
 
 A dismal crash was followed by a more dismal 
 silence. Macgregor's knuckles went to his eyes. "Ye 
 shuldna ha'e tell't me to pit it doon, maw." 
 
 With a choking sound Mrs. Robinson stooped to 
 collect the fragments of one of her "best." 
 
 John and the grandparents hastened to the scene of 
 disaster. 
 
 "Dinna greet, dearie," said gran'maw. 
 
 "I'm no' greetin'," mumbled Macgregor. 
 
 His father lifted him down and patted his shoulder. 
 "Never heed, Lizzie. He didna mean to break it. 
 An' an' it's Hogmanay," he said. "I'll sune get ye 
 a plate, Macgregor." He mounted the chair. . . . 
 "Here's yin." 
 
 Mrs. Robinson rose swiftly to her feet. "No' that 
 yin, John!" she screamed. 
 
 Crash ! 
 
 John followed the plate to the floor, looking less 
 crestfallen, perhaps, than might have been expected.
 
 218 KIDDIES 
 
 With something like a sob Lizzie fell on her knees 
 beside the new wreckage. 
 
 There was a silence. Macgregor turned from one 
 parent to the other. Then he went to his mother, and 
 touched her rather diffidently. 
 
 "Never heed, maw," he said in a low voice. "He 
 didna mean it. An' it's Hogmanay." 
 
 "Aw, the wee man!" Gran'maw Purdie softly ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 At this point John slipped from the room. 
 
 Gran'paw Purdie created a diversion by toddling to 
 the dresser and declaring his intention of "trying his 
 luck." This set the company smiling, and brought 
 Lizzie to her feet. 
 
 "Na, na, fayther," she cried, half laughing, half 
 crying, as she restrained his arm. 
 
 "Weel, Lizzie," he said, drawing Macgregor to his 
 side, "never heed aboot the plates. Ye can get plenty 
 mair like them, but ye'll never get anither Hogmanay 
 like this." 
 
 Lizzie said nothing, but proceeded to take down 
 one of her old plates which she handed to Jessie Mary. 
 
 The game went merrily until Willie Thomson hav- 
 ing got the plate, called Macgregor, who in turn called 
 Willie, who again called Macgregor, who once more 
 called Willie, who for the third time called Mac- 
 gregor 
 
 "That'll no' dae," Jessie Mary interrupted, seizing 
 the plate. "Ye maun cry somebody else." 
 
 Trouble seemed imminent when the door was 
 thrown open and John came in, flourishing a bunch 
 of gaily coloured rubber balloons on strings. 
 
 "See what Mistress McOstrich has sent ye a'," he 
 cried, and was forthwith mobbed by shrieking children. 
 
 There was a balloon for each one, and joy seemed 
 to have reached its climax, and Jessie Mary was re-
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 219 
 
 turning the plate to the rack, when from the smallest 
 boy arose a most doleful wailing. He was immedi- 
 ately surrounded by sympathetic inquirers. 
 
 "Naebody cried on me to spin the p-plate," he 
 sobbed at last. 
 
 "Never heed, Johnny," said Macgregor. "I'll let 
 ye bash ma heid wi' yer balloon." He obligingly bent 
 his poll. "Gaun! Bash it!" 
 
 A grin puckered Johnny's wet features and he 
 promptly let fly. So did Willie Thomson. So did the 
 rest of the children. A general scrimmage ensued. 
 The air was full of balloons and yells of delight. 
 Gran'paw slapped his knee and chuckled. Gran'maw's 
 smile was wavering and anxious. The bell rang, but 
 no one heard it save Lizzie, who went quietly out. 
 
 "But it was rael nice o' Macgreegor to let the wee 
 laddie bash his heid," said Gran'maw to her spouse. 
 "Ye'll ha'e to mind that when ye're decidin' aboot 
 the prize." 
 
 Despite the din John caught the latter remark. 
 
 "D'ye think Macgreegor 's got ony chance noo, 
 Maister Purdie?" he inquired of his father-in-law, 
 with assumed carelessness. "I ken he hasna been as 
 guid as he micht ha'e been " 
 
 "Weel, John," the old man said, rubbing his hands, 
 "I'm no' gaun to be severe on yer son. Efter a', there's 
 nane o' us ha'e been as guid as we micht ha'e been 
 even in the last ten days. An' so I've decided to gi'e 
 Macgreegor the prize if he's guid frae noo till the 
 end o' the year!" 
 
 John beamed his satisfaction. "I think Macgree- 
 gor'll manage that!" he said, and seizing a balloon 
 joined in the fray. 
 
 The door opened. Entered Aunt Purdie in all her 
 haughtiness and grandeur.
 
 220 KIDDIES 
 
 A hush fell upon the merry-makers. They with- 
 drew with one accord from the field of fun. 
 
 Aunt Purdie halted and surveyed the scene with a 
 severe eye. 
 
 "Sich a pandemolium!" she exclaimed, and looked 
 round coldly for an explanation. 
 
 Lizzie, who had followed her, replied rather ner- 
 vously: "Oh, it's jist Macgreegor ha'ein' a wee 
 pairty for his Hogmanay." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" The visitor undid a button of her 
 crimson cloak. "My friend Mrs. McCluny's children 
 are having a party on the tenth of January. Mrs. 
 McCluny's paying a man to play the pianoforty. Of 
 course, in her position " 
 
 "Will ye no' tak' a chair, Mistress Purdie?" ven- 
 tured John, who was looking particularly red and 
 foolish. 
 
 Aunt Purdie joined the old folks at the fireside, 
 but declined a seat. 
 
 "I am thankful to say that my friend Mrs. Mc- 
 Cluny's nervous breakdown has been perverted, though 
 last night she was trembling like an ashpan leaf," she 
 announced. "I jist dropped in to tell you that Rob- 
 ert and me would not be able to arrive here till near 
 midnight. Robert is extremely busy at the empo- 
 rium " 
 
 "Paw," said Macgregor, who had been listening, 
 "is that whaur they keep livin' fish swimmin' aboot 
 in tanks?" 
 
 "Whisht!" whispered Lizzie. 
 
 John laughed and checked himself. "Na, na, Mac- 
 greegor, she means yer uncle's shop." 
 
 Ignoring the interruption, though the word "shop" 
 was almost more than she could bear, Aunt Purdie 
 proceeded: "And I am going to the theatre with 
 the doctor and Mrs. McCluny, and afterwards to
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 221 
 
 supper at their house. Mrs. McCluny and me . . ." 
 A long story of social functions of superior quality 
 followed. 
 
 Meanwhile the children were grouped round the 
 kitchen, wondering when they were going to be happy 
 again. Willie Thomson drew Macgregor into a cor- 
 ner. The two boys began to converse in whispers. 
 
 "Did ye ever try sittin' doon on yin o' them?" in- 
 quired Willie, indicating his balloon. 
 
 "Naw. What does it dae?" 
 
 "It male's a rare bang." A pause. "I wud like fine 
 to see yer aunt sitting doon on yin." 
 
 "So would I," Macgregor admitted. "But I wudna 
 try it on till efter Ne'erday, Wullie." 
 
 Willie's smile was pitying. "Aw, ye're thinkin' o' 
 yer watch an' chain, Macgreegor. But ye've nae 
 chance noo. I heard what ye did at Mistress Mc- 
 Ostrich's pairty an' at the Zoo. Oh, ye canna win 
 the prize." 
 
 "Maybe maybe I'll get it for for lettin' Jessie 
 Mary kiss me." 
 
 "My! ye're green! Ye'll never get it for that. 
 But" Willie's lips went closer to his friend's ear 
 "I'll tell ye hoo ye micht get it." 
 
 "Hoo?" very eagerly. 
 
 "If ye was pittin' forward thon chair" Willie 
 pointed "an' askin' yer aunt to sit doon, polite-like, 
 that wud maybe please yer aunt, an' she wud maybe 
 tell yer gran'paw to gi'e ye the prize. D'ye see?" 
 
 "Ay, I see. But I never did onything that pleased 
 her yet." 
 
 "Weel, there's yer chance." 
 
 Macgregor took a glance at his superior relative. 
 "She's lookin' awfu' crabbit, Wullie." 
 
 "She canna halp that. She'll no' look crabbit if
 
 222 KIDDIES 
 
 ye're polite-like to her. Ha'e a shot at it, onywey. 
 I'll come wi' ye." 
 
 Macgregor plucked up courage for the desperate 
 venture. "Come on, then. You keep ma balloon." 
 
 Followed by his friend, Macgregor advanced sol- 
 emnly towards the old people. 
 
 Said gran'paw: "Here's Macgreegor comin' to 
 shake hauns wi' ye, Sarah. Come awa', ma mannie." 
 
 Aunt Purdie regarded her nephew condescendingly. 
 "So you're having a party, are you? Well, I'm sure 
 I hope you're all behaving yourselves." 
 
 His courage wavering, Macgregor pushed forward 
 the chair. "Are ye no' for a sate?" he asked, barely 
 audibly. 
 
 "The dearie!" exclaimed gran'maw. "Was that 
 no' nice o' him? Sit doon to please him, Sarah." 
 
 "Well, upon my word!" Aunt Purdie was plainly 
 taken aback. "Thank you, Macgregor," she said at 
 last, almost graciously. "I did not intend for to be 
 seated at this junction ; still " 
 
 And she sat on the balloon which Willie, stealing 
 behind his friend, placed like a flash beneath her. 
 
 Only Macgregor saw the action. 
 
 in 
 
 Four hours had passed way. The old clock point- 
 ed to ten minutes to midnight. A heavy silence brood- 
 ed upon the kitchen. It was broken only by an oc- 
 casional sigh from the people gran'paw, gran'maw, 
 John round the fire. 
 
 Lizzie entered quietly, sombre of countenance, as 
 though the house held some one seriously ill. 
 
 "Is he sleepin' yet?" asked John dismally. 
 
 His wife shook her head. 
 
 "Puir lamb!" sighed Gran'maw Purdie.
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 223 
 
 "His heart was that set on bringin' in the New 
 Year wi' us a'," said John. "Is is he greetin', Liz- 
 zie?" 
 
 "No' the noo." 
 
 Gran'paw spoke. "Did he say onything?" 
 
 "Na." Disconsolately Mrs. Robinson took her 
 chair. "Aweel, Macgreegor's had his chance, an' he's 
 lost it." 
 
 "The temptation, wife, was great," said John. 
 "When I was a wean " 
 
 "I ken, John. Ye wud ha'e done the same. But 
 ye wud ha'e got punished. . . . Weel, if he's pun- 
 ished noo, he'll maybe be a better laddie in the year 
 that's comin'." 
 
 "If we was lettin' him bring in the New Year, it 
 micht remind him to be a better laddie. ... Eh, 
 Lizzie?" 
 
 Lizzie held her peace. 
 
 Gran'paw sat up in his chair. He drew from his 
 pocket a small box. "What I want to ken is: What 
 am I to dae with this watch an' chain?" 
 
 A sharp ring took Mrs. Robinson from her place. 
 "It'll be Mrs. Purdie. I was feart she wud be ower 
 offendit to come back." 
 
 Gran'paw handed the watch to John. For a space 
 there was no sound save the click of winding as John 
 toyed moodily with the stem. He uttered a word or 
 two of feeble admiration and passed the watch to the 
 old woman. "Nae doobt there's young folk in the 
 world that deserves prizes for guid conduct, Maister 
 Purdie," he said, sarcastic for the first time in his 
 life. 
 
 At that moment Lizzie showed in not Aunt, but 
 Uncle, Purdie, a big, bearded, genial, successful mer- 
 chant, without an ounce of affectation in his com- 
 position.
 
 224 KIDDIES 
 
 "An' hoo's a' wi* ye?" he cried. "My! ye're as 
 quiet as mice!" He looked about him. 
 
 "Whaur's Macgreegor? I thocht he was to get 
 bringin' in " 
 
 "Macgreegor's in his bed for misbehavin' hissel', 
 Rubbert," said Lizzie, with ponderous solemnity. 
 
 "Oh! That's bad for us yins. Weel, he didna 
 misbehave hissel' sae faur as I'm concerned, so" 
 unwrapping a parcel and taking out a huge glass-jar 
 "ye can gi'e him them sweeties wi' his Uncle Pur- 
 die's compliments." And the big man planted the jar 
 on the table and seated himself beside his mother. "I 
 thocht Sarah wud ha'e been here " 
 
 "Oh, thenk ye, thenk ye, Rubbert!" cried John, 
 and snatching up the sweets, made for the door. 
 
 Lizzie caught him just in time. She secured the jar 
 and returned with it to the company, followed by her 
 man, who looked abashed and possibly a little angry. 
 
 "Rubbert," she said heavily, "I canna gi'e yer sweet- 
 ies to Macgreegor." 
 
 "Eh? They're the best in the market. They'll no' 
 hurt him. Tell him no' to eat maire nor a pun' a 
 day," said Robert, laughing. 
 
 "But its no' that, Rubbert. . . . I I maun tell ye 
 hoo Macgreegor misbehaved hissel'." 
 
 John touched her arm. "Aw, Lizzie, ye dinna need 
 to tell Rubbert the noo." 
 
 "Puir lamb!" sighed Gran'maw. 
 
 "Ye needna tell me," said Robert, bringing out his 
 pipe, "excep' it's funny." 
 
 "Funny!" groaned Lizzie. . . . "But I maun tell 
 ye, Rubbert. . . . He he got Sarah to sit doon on 
 his balloon." 
 
 There was a dreary pause. 
 
 Then Robert, in a solemn voice, said: 
 
 "I'm rael vexed for the balloon,"
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 225 
 
 Whereat Gran 'paw smote his knee and gleefully 
 repeated the words to Gran'maw. 
 
 John's face relaxed. "There, ye see, Lizzie! It's 
 no' as serious as ye thocht it was. Rubbert'll pit it 
 richt wi' Sarah." 
 
 "Leave that to me," said Robert heartily. 
 
 "So I'll jist gang an' bring Macgreegor," John went 
 on. "I ken he canna win the prize, but " 
 
 "What wey can he no' win the prize?" Uncle Pur- 
 die demanded. 
 
 "An' what's to be done wi' this?" asked Gran'maw 
 gently, holding up the watch and chain. 
 
 "Ay!" said Gran'paw. "An' there's anither thing 
 we should mind, Lizzie!" 
 
 "What?" asked Lizzie, wearily. 
 
 "The laddie lost his balloon!" 
 
 "Dod, ay!" exclaimed John. "I'll awa' an' bring 
 him to ye." 
 
 "Na, John," said Lizzie. She turned to the oth- 
 ers. "Ye're a' against me, an' it's no' fair o* ye. Ye 
 ken fine I was jist as anxious as onybody for Mac- 
 greegor to win the prize. But richt's richt, an' wrang's 
 wrang." 
 
 "While's it's no' easy to split the difference," Uncle 
 Purdie observed. "He's but a wean, an' it's Hog- 
 manay. Was that the bell, Lizzie?" 
 
 "Ay. It'll be Sarah at last. We best no' say ony 
 mair aboot it. But Macgreegor understand as weel 
 as me what wey he canna get the prize." 
 
 The bell rang again, and she hurried away. 
 
 "What wey," said Uncle Purdie, twinkling, "what 
 wey dae ye no' turn the prize into a present?" 
 
 Gran'paw slapped his knee. "Man, Rubbert, ye've 
 hit it!" 
 
 Gran'maw clapped her hands. "My! is that no' a 
 fine notion, John?"
 
 226 KIDDIES 
 
 John hesitated. "Na," he answered sadly. "Lizzie 
 wudna like that." 
 
 Once more Lizzie showed in a visitor, but not yet 
 Aunt Purdie. 
 
 A thin, wizened female, garbed in rusty black, en- 
 tered, dragging rather than leading a small boy of 
 abject mien and woebegone visage. She was unknown 
 to the company, but the small boy was still recognis- 
 able as Willie Thomson. 
 
 "I'm Wullie's aunt," she explained, refusing the 
 chair proffered by John. "I'm vexed for disturbin' ye 
 at this time o' nicht, but Wullie cam' hame an' said 
 he had a pain in his inside " 
 
 "He got naething to hurt him here," put in Lizzie, 
 doubtless forgetful of Mrs. McOstrich's pastries. 
 
 The visitor assented with a nod, and proceeded rap- 
 idly: "But efter I had gi'ed him a dose o' meddicine, 
 he said it wasna exactly in his inside. He said it was 
 furder up, an' I was for pittin' on a poultice, when I 
 discovered it was his conscience." 
 
 "His conscience!" exclaimed Gran'paw. 
 
 "Ay; jist that." She drew the boy in front of her. 
 "Noo, Wullie," she said firmly, though not unkindly, 
 "noo, Wullie, tell the truth." 
 
 "I I canna," mumbled Willie, and sobbed freely. 
 
 "But ye've got to dae it. Ye promised me." 
 
 Thus adjured Willie spoke, though' very indistinctly. 
 
 "It was me that that pit the balloon ablow her. 
 Macgreegor k-kent naething aboot it." 
 
 "Weel, weel!" muttered Gran'paw. 
 
 "Puir lamb!" sighed Gran'maw. 
 
 "Gang on, Wullie!" said the aunt, inexorably. 
 
 "I I tell't Macgreegor he wud maybe get the prize 
 if he askit her to sit doon, p-polite-like. I want to 
 gang hame," And the hapless youngster sobbed afresh.
 
 FOR A GOOD BOY 227 
 
 The aunt looked from one to the other. "Did 
 Macgreegor no' tell ye? I thocht he wud, but Wullie 
 said Macgreegor wasna a tell-tale." 
 
 "Wullie's richt there!" said John, proudly. 
 
 "Aweel, Wullie, we best get awa' hame. Ye can 
 tell Macgreegor ye're sorry the morn." 
 
 They were moving to the door when Uncle Purdie 
 stepped forward. "I'll get Macgreegor anither the 
 morn," he muttered to John, as he took the jar of 
 sweets from the table. He placed it in the arms of 
 the astounded Willie. "There, laddie! Ye've done 
 no' sae bad. Tak' them for yer Ne'erday. They'll no' 
 gi'e ye a pain in yer conscience, onywey." 
 
 While he was speaking Aunt Purdie entered, Lizzie 
 having omitted to fasten the outer door. No one 
 paid any attention to her. 
 
 Suddenly John cried : "I'm gaun to get Macgree- 
 gor, Lizzie." 
 
 "Oh, John, let me gang!" 
 
 And as they both turned to go, behold! Macgregor, 
 in his scarlet flannel night-gown, stood blinking un- 
 certainly in the doorway. 
 
 And the clock struck the first note of midnight. 
 
 "Wait a wee!" exclaimed Gran'paw, rising in great 
 excitement. "John! Lizzie! let me first!" He took 
 the watch from Gran'maw's hands and almost ran 
 to the boy. 
 
 "Ma wee man, ma wee man," he said happily, 
 leading Macgregor to the centre of the room, while 
 jovial sounds began to come up from the street. 
 "Ye've won yer prize!" He placed the watch and 
 chain in the young hands. "Ye've won yer prize!" 
 
 Speechless, Macgregor stood gazing gravely at the 
 watch. 
 
 All gathered round, Lizzie the happiest of them all. 
 Even Aunt Purdie's countenance seemed to soften.
 
 228 KIDDIES 
 
 It was as though, one and all, they awaited the words 
 of an oracle. 
 
 And as the last stroke of midnight fell, Macgregor's 
 eyes went from the watch to his grandsire's face. 
 
 "But whaur's the key?" he demanded.
 
 XV 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 
 
 As a rule, the streets of a city are more or less sug- 
 gestive of the people who walk them. At first sight, 
 they declare prosperity or failure, progress or decay, 
 gaiety or gloom. Here and there, however, we chance 
 upon a street that cannot be fairly classified, though 
 we may judge it hastily according to the weather. 
 Such a street is St. George's in the city of Glasgow. 
 If it harbours riches or poverty, it advertises neither. 
 It is walled chiefly by shops with dwelling-houses above 
 them ; at each end it is guarded by lofty blocks oc- 
 cupied by drapery or furniture firms, for it connects 
 two streets of considerably more importance than it- 
 self. For many years it has been like a middle-aged 
 man who goes on earning a poor but honest living 
 while clinging fast to the gilded dreams of his youth. 
 As it was in its beginning, so it is now a street with 
 possibilities. 
 
 Among those who trod its greasy pavements, one 
 Saturday afternoon in January, was a comely woman 
 accompanied by two children, girl and boy. The three 
 looked tired and cross, especially the boy, whose age 
 might have been six or seven. The girl was his 
 senior by, perhaps, a couple of years. Mother and 
 children were what is commonly termed "respectably 
 dressed." As a matter of fact, they were wearing 
 their best clothes. 
 
 229
 
 230 KIDDIES 
 
 "Haste ye, John," said the mother to the lagging 
 boy "haste ye, or I'll never tak' ye to yer auntie's 
 
 again 
 
 'I'm no' wantin' to gang to ma auntie's again," 
 he retorted sulkily. 
 
 "Oh, ye bad boy for to say that," exclaimed his 
 sister, who, like many little girls of her age, was 
 inclined to be priggish, "when yer auntie was that 
 kind!" 
 
 "She wasna that kind !" 
 
 "She was!" 
 
 "She wasna! If ye say she was again, I'll gi'e ye 
 a bat on the ear!" 
 
 "Whisht, John!" the mother interposed. "Behave 
 yersel' !" 
 
 "I'll behave masel'," said John, "if ye gi'e me a 
 penny." 
 
 "A penny! What for dae ye want a penny?" 
 
 "To buy a macaroon." 
 
 "I've nae pennies to spend on macaroons 
 
 Haste ye! If ye're hungry, I'll gi'e ye a nice sugar- 
 piece when we win hame." 
 
 "I want a penny. I seen plenty in yer purse." 
 
 "Haste ye, John!" 
 
 "I want a penny. If ye dinna gi'e me a penny 
 I'll I'll sit doon in the dirt." 
 
 "If ye dae that, I'll sort ye." The threat was de- 
 livered mechanically as the wearied woman plodded 
 onward. 
 
 "Oh, maw!" cried the little girl, "see what John's 
 daein'!" 
 
 John, having stepped off the pavement, was mak- 
 ing as if to seat himself upon a mud-heap. He grinned 
 wickedly. 
 
 His mother made a frantic grab at his arm, and 
 with a screech he lost his balance and sat down.
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 231 
 
 "Ye shoved me!" he wailed, and burst into tears. 
 
 The woman dragged him to his feet. For several 
 seconds she was speechless. Then she said wrathfully: 
 
 "Come hame till I sort ye!" 
 
 "Ye ye shoved me! I was jist pretendin'." 
 
 "I'll pretend ye!" 
 
 At this moment an elderly man, who had been 
 smoking his pipe in the doorway of a tobacco shop, 
 crossed the pavement. 
 
 "See, mistress," he said pleasantly, "bring him into 
 the shop, and I'll gi'e him a scrape. He canna gang 
 hame like that." 
 
 The mother regarded her offspring with rage and 
 grief. 
 
 "Thenk ye," she replied at last, "but " 
 
 "This way, mistress, if ye please." 
 
 He led the way into the shop, past the counter, and 
 then into an apartment which was a combination of 
 kitchen, parlour, and bed-chamber. 
 
 "Excuse the condeetion o' ma room," he remarked, 
 adding, "I'm a bachelor but I ken what boys are. 
 Wait till I get a knife." 
 
 "I'm vexed to trouble ye like this," said the woman. 
 "But I'll sort him when I get him hame." 
 
 "Ye shoved me!" muttered John, rubbing his eyes 
 with a grimy paw. 
 
 "Oh, the story!" put in the little girl. 
 
 "Frae ma pi'nt o' view," said the tobacconist, a 
 table-knife in one hand, and a newspaper in the other, 
 "the unhappy event seemed to be the result o' a 
 sort o' misunderstandin'. Come here, laddie, an' stan' 
 as steady as ye can. I'll jist remove the superfluous 
 glaur, an' yer mither can brush aff the rest when it's 
 dry. This is a nice suit ye've got on," he remarked 
 in a soothing voice as he set to work.
 
 232 KIDDIES 
 
 "It's the first day he's had it on," said the woman 
 ruefully. 
 
 "Weel, weel, it'll no' be the last. A proper brush- 
 in' '11 mak' it as guid as new Mistress Fergus. Ye'll 
 excuse me mentionin' yer name but I ken ye weel 
 by sicht, an' Mr. Burnside, yer lodger, is a reg'lar 
 customer o' mines. (Steady, ma laddie !) A nice man, 
 Mr. Burnside something to dae wi' theaytres, I sup- 
 pose frae his conversation, but no' exactly a play-actor." 
 
 "He's no' on the stage, but he's connectit wi' the 
 stage. He's lodged wi' me for three year noo, an' 
 he's aye behaved like a gentleman. He kent ma hus- 
 band, an' when he heard ma husband was deid an' 
 I had to keep a lodger, he cam' an' offered hissel'. 
 It was rael kind o' him, because, ye see, I had nae 
 experience o' keepin' lodgers. But I've did ma best 
 to suit him." 
 
 "An' I've nae doobt ye've succeeded, Mistress Fer- 
 gus. If he's a parteeclar aboot ither things as he 
 is aboot his tobacco (the left leg, laddie!), ye maun 
 be clever to ha'e suited him for three year. I was 
 gaun to venture to say that ma name was Caw 
 John Caw, to be exact. It's ower the door, but it's 
 got faded, an' I'm waitin' for better trade to get it 
 regilded." 
 
 "Ma name's John," said the little boy, who, under 
 the man's kindly touch, was rapidly recovering. 
 
 "Haud yer tongue, John," his mother said sharply. 
 
 "Oh, he doesna mean ony harm," said Mr. Caw 
 mildly. "Boys will be boys, as the sayin' is. Ye'll 
 be prood o' him yet, Mistress Fergus. An' as for yer 
 lassie, I've nae doobt she's a great help to ye, though 
 she's young." 
 
 At this the little girl, who had been inclined to sulk, 
 beamed brightly at the speaker, and seemed inclined 
 to regard her brother more tolerantly.
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 233 
 
 Followed a short silence, during which Mr. Caw 
 completed the scraping process. 
 
 "There!" he said, rising from his knees, and keep- 
 ing his hand on the boy's shoulder, "that's a wee 
 thing cleaner. But dinna sit in the dirt again, ma 
 laddie." 
 
 John opened his mouth to explain that he had been 
 shoved, but thought better of it. 
 
 "I'm greatly obleeged to ye for yer kindness," said 
 Mrs. Fergus, "but is that no' somebody in the shop?" 
 
 "So it is," said the tobacconist regretfully, although, 
 to be sure, trade was wretched. 
 
 He shook hands hurriedly with the children, and 
 guided them to the door. Then he offered his hand, 
 somewhat awkwardly, to the mother. 
 
 "Dinna punish him this time," he whispered. 
 
 "Oh, but he deserves it. He was rael bad." 
 
 "Aw, let him aff this time, if ye please. He'll no' 
 dae it again." 
 
 Mrs. Fergus shook her head, smiled faintly, and 
 nodded. After all, she was not given to punishing 
 her children. 
 
 "Thenk ye," he murmured gratefully, and hastened 
 to attend to the customer. 
 
 "That's an awfu' nice man," remarked the little 
 girl on the homeward way. "He gi'ed me a penny." 
 
 "Same here," said John. 
 
 "Weel, I never!" Mrs. Fergus exclaimed. 
 
 "What did he gi'e you, maw?" her son inquired. 
 
 "Me!" she laughed. "Naething, of course!" 
 
 "Oh!" John considered for a few moments ere he 
 said generously, "I'll gi'e ye a taste o' ma macaroon, 
 maw. Here's the baker's 1"
 
 234 KIDDIES 
 
 ii 
 
 Oh the following Monday afternoon the tobacconist, 
 having nothing more profitable to do, was seated be- 
 hind his counter, reading his halfpenny morning pa- 
 per for the second time, when he became possessed by 
 a feeling that he was being watched. Looking over 
 the edge of his paper, he caught a glimpse of a small 
 figure in retreat from the doorway. 
 
 "Here!" he called, but got no response. 
 
 Presently, however, a small face peeped round the 
 corner. 
 
 "Come in," said Mr. Caw in a mild voice. 
 
 The small face disappeared. 
 
 Mr. Caw sighed, and was about to resume his read- 
 ing when one half of the small face became visible. 
 
 "Come in, laddie, come in." 
 
 Very slowly the remainder of the small face came 
 into view, and was followed by the small body of a 
 small boy. 
 
 "Is that you, John?" 
 
 Halting on the threshold, the small boy grinned in 
 a peculiarly foolish fashion. 
 
 "I see it's jist yersel', John," the man said in 
 friendly tones. "I hope yer nice suit was nane the 
 waur o' the scrapin' eh ? . . . Are ye no' comin' 
 in-by?" 
 
 John shuffled his feet, but remained dumb, while 
 his grin became, if anything, more foolish. From sheer 
 embarrassment Mr. Caw began to grin also, and con- 
 tinued doing so until he caught sight of his counte- 
 nance in a mirror which advertised somebody's "prize 
 cigars." He then felt a prize idiot, and might have 
 said something cross, had not a biggish boy, passing 
 along the pavement, given John so violent a push that 
 the youngster was propelled right into the shop.
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 235 
 
 Clutching at the nearest object for support, the 
 hapless John, to the accompaniment of a fearsome 
 rattle, fell prone beneath an avalanche consisting of 
 Mr. Caw's entire stock of "superior walking sticks." 
 
 "Great Jupiter!" ejaculated the tobacconist, hurry- 
 ing round the counter. "Are ye hurt, laddie?" 
 
 John, emerging from the wreckage, rubbing a knee 
 with one hand and the top of his head with the other, 
 glanced at the inquirer's face. Doubtless because 
 he saw no anger there, only concern, he decided, after a 
 sniff or two, not to cry. 
 
 "Somebody shoved me," he complained. 
 
 "Ay ! I seen him," said Mr. Caw, with indignation. 
 
 "What was he like? If I catch him, I'll knock the 
 face aff.him!" 
 
 "Na, na! ye wud never dae a thing like that, 
 John." 
 
 "Ay, wud I! If I catch him, I'll " 
 
 The biggish boy peeped round the corner of the 
 doorway. 
 
 "Catch me!" he yelled, and, guffawing, disappeared. 
 
 John looked disconcerted. 
 
 "I didna ken he was that big," he murmured. 
 
 "Help me to gather up the sticks," said Mr. Caw, 
 as if he had not noticed anything. 
 
 Between them they set up the stand and replaced 
 the sticks in it. Then they gazed at each other. 
 
 "I helped ye," said John cockily. 
 
 "So ye did," Mr. Caw cheerfully admitted. 
 
 "I'm gey clever." 
 
 "So ye are." 
 
 Once more they gazed at each other the stout, 
 bearded man, the skinny, pale-faced boy. 
 
 "I think I'll ha'e to gi'e ye a penny," said Mr. 
 Caw at last. 
 
 John grinned expectantly, but said nothing.
 
 236 KIDDIES 
 
 "What'll ye buy, if I gi'e ye a penny?" 
 
 "A macaroon." 
 
 "Aw. . . . Pastry's no' vera guid for wee laddies." 
 
 "I like pastry. . . Are ye gaun to gi'e us a penny?" 
 
 Mr. Caw went behind the counter and opened the 
 till. He sighed as he slid a coin across the wood. 
 
 "There's yer penny, John," he said dejectedly. 
 
 John grabbed it and departed. 
 
 Mr. Caw sighed again, seated himself, and took up 
 his newspaper. The news, though stale to him, must 
 have been sad, for he sighed repeatedly. 
 
 John reappeared. 
 
 "I bought chokelet instead," he explained, pushing 
 a halfpenny packet towards the tobacconist. "D'ye 
 like chokelet?" he inquired rather anxiously. 
 
 Mr. Caw awkwardly returned the packet with the 
 remark that, while he never touched chocolate, he 
 was extremely obliged to John. Whereupon John, 
 with a bright smile, repossessed himself of the dainty. 
 
 Such was the beginning of their friendship. In 
 time John forgot to expect a penny; Mr. Caw forgot 
 that pennies were any consideration to John. The 
 man told stories; the boy listened. The man made 
 tea and toast; the boy shared the meal. Frequently 
 the boy's mother or sister came to take him home. 
 
 "He's jist a bother to ye," the mother would say. 
 
 "Bother?" Mr. Caw would return; "he's a plees- 
 ure!" And he would regard the widow with an eye 
 so kindly that she, having no thoughts of a second 
 husband, became uncomfortable. 
 
 As time went on, Mr. Caw grew so bold as to 
 suggest Sunday afternoon excursions on the electric 
 cars. Mrs. Fergus had her misgivings, but gradually 
 he overcame them, and trips were made to the coun- 
 try once as far as Loch Lomond. Sometimes the 
 man and boy went alone.
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 237 
 
 "Wee nic-pics," Mr. Caw humorously termed them, 
 and no one could have suspected that he half-starved 
 himself during the week in order to provide for the 
 Sunday feasts. Business was anything but good; the 
 profit derived from keeping the shop open fifteen 
 hours, six days a week, was little more than a labour- 
 er's wage. 
 
 But a new interest had come into Mr. Caw's ex- 
 istence, and his regular customers began to notice 
 a new cheerfulness in his conversation, a new brisk- 
 ness in his service at the counter. The neighbours, 
 too, began to observe the boy's frequent visits to the 
 shop and the Sunday excursions, and decided that the 
 tobacconist was courting the mother through the son. 
 Further, they agreed that he had little or no chance. 
 
 "He's ower auld for her, an' he hasna the siller to 
 tempt her, an' his face is awfu' like a goat's," said 
 a woman who had once been employed to clean the 
 shop at what she considered an insufficient fee. Un- 
 fortunately, the last clause of her statement was taken 
 up by her son, who repeated it jeeringly to John, as 
 the latter was about to enter the shop the following 
 afternoon. 
 
 John promptly hit out, and a fight ensued, which 
 was ended only by the efforts of the tobacconist. 
 
 "I bled his nose, onywey," panted John, while his 
 elderly friend, having conducted him to the living- 
 room, applied butter to a bruise on his forehead. 
 
 "But ye shouldna quarrel, laddie. What was it 
 aboot?" 
 
 "He said ye had a face like a goat." 
 
 "Aw, did he?" Mr. Caw tried not to look an- 
 noyed. He had always been rather proud of his beard. 
 With a feeble smile he inquired: 
 
 "Dae you think I'm like a goat, John?" 
 
 John shook his head emphatically.
 
 238 KIDDIES 
 
 Mr. Caw tried not to look delighted. 
 
 "Ye're liker a sheep," said John; adding, "It's a 
 nicer beast nor a goat." 
 
 Whereupon Mr. Caw, not being entirely without a 
 sense of humour, startled the boy by laughing up- 
 roariously. 
 
 "Maybe I am liker a sheep, John," he said at last, 
 "but we'll keep that a secret, if ye please. Are ye 
 gaun to tak' yer tea wi' me the nicht?" 
 
 "Ay thenk ye kindly," said John, obeying for 
 once his mother's injunction to remember his "man- 
 ners" before Mr. Caw. 
 
 "I'm vexed I've nae jam the nicht; the pot's empty." 
 
 "I'll gang oot an' buy jam for ye," replied the 
 cause of the pot's emptiness, with great promptitude. 
 
 " 'Deed, I never thocht o' that," returned Mr. 
 Caw, producing one of his hard-earned shillings. 
 "Mind an' dinna fa' wi' the jam." 
 
 "No' likely." 
 
 During the boy's absence Mr. Caw set out the tea- 
 things. 
 
 "Aweel," he reflected, "it maun be a grand thing 
 to ha'e a laddie even when he is impiddent." 
 
 in 
 
 On a night in spring, more than a year after his 
 first meeting with the Fergus family, Mr. Caw was 
 thinking of putting up the shutters, when a smartly 
 dressed man of between thirty and forty entered the 
 shop. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Burnside," said the tobacconist, looking 
 pleased, "I was fearin' ye had deserted me." 
 
 Mrs. Fergus's lodger laughed pleasantly. 
 
 "Been away for a week. When I do desert this 
 locality we must arrange to do our business by post.
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 239 
 
 I couldn't live happy without that special mixture of 
 yours." 
 
 "But but are ye thinkin' o' leavin' this this lo- 
 cality?" 
 
 Mr. Burnside laughed again. 
 
 "Fact is," he said, with elaborate carelessness, "I'm 
 getting married shortly." 
 
 "Weel, weel!" said Mr. Caw blankly. Then, as if 
 recollecting himself, he held out his hand. "I'm sure 
 I congratulate ye heartily." 
 
 "Thanks! I've just been appointed chief secretary 
 to Music Halls, Limited an enormous concern, with 
 headquarters in Manchester." 
 
 "That's great news! I wish ye every happiness. 
 Eh does yer intended belong to to Glasgow? Ex- 
 cuse me askin' sic a question." 
 
 "To Edinburgh. We've been engaged for some 
 time, but I thought it better to wait till I managed 
 to hit this off." 
 
 "Jist so." Mr. Caw held out his hand once more. 
 "I'm vera pleased indeed to hear yer news, Mr. 
 Burnside." 
 
 Mr. Burnside broke a short silence by saying: "I've 
 another bit of news which may interest you only 
 you must keep your thumb on it. May I ask you 
 whether you have a lease of this shop?" 
 
 "A lease? Na, na; I jist tak' it frae year to year. 
 Whiles I think I'd be better to gi'e it up a'thegither." 
 
 "I think you should try to get a lease and a good 
 long one as soon as possible." 
 
 The tobacconist gaped. 
 
 "Do you think you could get a lease, Mr. Caw?" 
 
 "Easy! Look at the empty shops here! The term's 
 next week " 
 
 "That's lucky!" 
 
 "But I canna see "
 
 240 KIDDIES 
 
 Mr. Burnside was not an actor, but he had the 
 dramatic instinct. He pointed across the street. 
 
 "D'you see that building exactly opposite?" 
 
 "Ay, I see it." 
 
 Mr. Burnside's middle finger tapped the counter 
 slowly, impressively. 
 
 "In a few months that building will have disap- 
 peared." 
 
 "Disappeared ?" 
 
 "Yes. ... In a few months more the site will be 
 covered by a magnificent, up-to-date music-hall. . . . 
 And, my friend, you and I are the only two people 
 at present in Glasgow who have the information. 
 How does it strike you? Better business eh? pro- 
 vided, of course, they don't put up your rent. But, 
 if you're quick, you may avoid that for years to 
 come." 
 
 "Better business!" muttered Mr. Caw. "Why, sir, 
 it'll be grand business!" he cried. "It'll change the 
 street entirely." 
 
 "I thought so," said the other, smiling. 
 
 A slight moisture came into the eyes of the elderly 
 man. He was not accustomed to people going out of 
 their way to do him a kindness. 
 
 "Man !" he said abruptly, "what made ye tell me?" 
 
 "There's no reason why one man shouldn't do an- 
 other man a good turn especially when it costs noth- 
 ing," Mr. Burnside lightly replied. "Blame it on the 
 goodness of your special mixture, if you like! Besides, 
 you've been good to that young rascal John and his 
 mother and sister. I don't love John, I can tell you, 
 but his father and I were boys together. His father 
 never had the luck he deserved. Perhaps he ought 
 to have stuck to country life. But that's all in the 
 past. Will you see about that lease? I think your 
 best plan would be to call on your landlord and
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 241 
 
 complain bitterly of the rent as it stands at present; 
 then suggest a ten years' lease, if he will agree to 
 knock a pound or two off the rent. That should 
 fetch him. Try it. You might also get him to paint 
 the shop. A year hence I'll expect to see you with sev- 
 eral assistants. Now give me two ounces of the 
 usual." 
 
 Mr. Caw weighed out the mixture and wrapped it 
 up with a shaky hand. "I canna thank ye," was all 
 he said; but he said it several times, the last time in 
 response to his customer's "good night." 
 
 IV 
 
 With gloomy interest Mr. Caw regarded the build- 
 ing opposite his shop. The building itself was gloomy, 
 being in process of demolition. Until a few hours 
 earlier than this autumn afternoon the tottering, fall 
 and crash of each mass of masonry had been a de- 
 light to the tobacconist; his hopes had risen with each 
 cloud of dust. It is a fine thing to have "prospects," 
 even at fifty-three. 
 
 Yet having the prospects, one may find that one 
 has no particular use for them. That was how John 
 Caw felt as he watched the destroyers. He was the 
 possessor of a ten years' lease of his shop at a ridicu- 
 lous rent, as his landlord declared; he was justified 
 in anticipating himself the owner of a flourishing little 
 business; his lean years were all but over. Indeed, 
 his affairs were already improving. And yet he was 
 a miserable man. 
 
 "Hullo!" said a young voice suddenly. 
 
 Mr. Caw turned from his observation and smiled. 
 The boy had certainly been neglecting him of late. 
 The evenings had been fine and there were other 
 boys. But the man's regret did not include resentment.
 
 242 KIDDIES 
 
 "I'm gled to see ye, John. Are ye for a cup o' 
 tea the nicht?" 
 
 "Ay. But I'll ha'e to hurry up. I've to meet 
 Willie Patterson at six." 
 
 "Jist that," said Mr. Caw agreeably. "I'll get it 
 ready. Come ben, laddie." 
 
 They went into the back room, and the host set 
 about preparing the meal. There was a longish 
 silence. 
 
 At last, in what he imagined to be a careless tone of 
 voice, the man remarked: 
 
 "I've jist been hearin' that yer mither's thinkin' 
 o' removin' frae this place." 
 
 "Ay," the boy answered. "Are they biscuits the 
 sweet sort?" 
 
 Mr. Caw nodded. "An' whaur is she thinkin' o' 
 settlin'?" 
 
 "Crossbill." 
 
 "Oh, Crossbill!" Mr. Caw, with much deliberation, 
 measured the tea from the battered tin to the brown 
 pot. "Crossbill's a lang road frae here," he observed, 
 returning the tin to the mantelshelf. "Is she wearied 
 o' this place, think ye?" 
 
 "She's got the promise o' a rale guid lodger, if 
 she tak's a hoose in Crossbill. He's a frien' o' Mr. 
 Burnside's." 
 
 "I see. But can she no' get a guid lodger here?" 
 Mr. Caw was well aware that Mrs. Fergus had been 
 doing badly since Mr. Burnside's departure. 
 
 "I dinna ken," said John, without much interest. 
 "Is that a new book?" he inquired, pointing at a hang- 
 ing shelf. 
 
 "Ay. It's a' about wild beasts. I got it for yer- 
 sel'. When ye can spare the time, John, I'll read 
 ye some o' the stories." 
 
 "I'll come the morn if it's rainin'."
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 243 
 
 Mr. Caw could not shake off his depression. Even 
 the boy noticed that something was wrong, and at 
 the end of the meal he said : 
 
 "Are ye no' weel?" 
 
 Mr. Caw hastily replied that he had never felt bet- 
 ter. 
 
 "Ye look awfu' sorry," said John. 
 
 Just then the tobacconist was called to the receipt 
 of custom. On his return he said : 
 
 "I'm maybe feelin' a bit low, John. But we'll no' 
 speak aboot it. Will ye be gled to gang to Crossbill?" 
 
 "Aw, I'm no' heedin'." 
 
 "I I'll miss ye, John." 
 
 The boy said nothing. 
 
 "Of course, I dinna expect you to miss me, though 
 you an' me ha'e been rael guid frien's. . . . But I 
 daursay I'm ower auld a frien' for you. Eh? . . . 
 It's no' to be expectit that you could like me as weel 
 as I like you." 
 
 "But I like ye," said John uncomfortably. "It's 
 time I was gaun to meet Willie." He slid from his 
 seat and held out his hand. 
 
 "Ye like me?" whispered Mr. Caw, holding it. 
 " 'Deed, John, that's guid hearin'. Pit a' the bis- 
 cuits in yer pooch. ... I was feart ye had got tired 
 o' yer auld frien'. Ye see, laddie, I like ye rael weel 
 better nor onybody, I'm thinkin'. . . . Noo, awa' to 
 yer play. I'll no' detain ye." 
 
 John hesitated. 
 
 "If it was rainin'," he mumbled, "I wud stop till 
 ye read aboot the wild beasts." 
 
 "It'll maybe rain the morn," the other said, and 
 conducted the boy to the door.
 
 244 KIDDIES 
 
 Glasgow folk declared that, for the time of year, they 
 had never seen such a long spell of fine weather. 
 
 On the evening of the ninth dry day Mr. Caw, 
 garbed in his Sunday clothes, which he had donned 
 in spasms, due more to the possibility of customers 
 than their actuality, might have been observed locking 
 his door and affixing an envelope to its panel. Ner- 
 vous handwriting on the envelope proclaimed that 
 the shop would be 
 
 "OPEN SHORTLY." 
 
 A few minutes later he was ringing the bell of Mrs. 
 Fergus's abode. 
 
 The widow opened the door. She was surprised to 
 see him on a week-day, but hospitably invited him to 
 enter, leading the way to the parlour, which was still 
 awaiting a lodger. 
 
 "Tak' a sate, Mr. Caw," she said, wondering un- 
 easily what had brought him. 
 
 Mr. Caw seated himself. 
 
 "Lovely weather," he said, with an effort. 
 
 "It is that." 
 
 "I hope ye're weel, Mistress Fergus." 
 
 "Thenk ye, I canna complain." 
 
 "An' yer lassie?" 
 
 "She's fine, thenk ye." 
 
 "An' an' John?" 
 
 "Oh, John's oot as usual. He's fine. I doobt he's 
 a bother to ye, Mr. Caw." 
 
 "He hasna been near me for a week. But he's 
 never a bother. He's a clever laddie," continued Mr. 
 Caw jerkily. "Ye'll be rael prood o' him yet." 
 
 Mrs. Fergus smiled.
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 245 
 
 "John's like ither weans whiles bad and whiles 
 guid but I doobt he's no' clever. He hasna been 
 lang at the schule." 
 
 "Ah, but he's clever! Some day ye'll be for sendin' 
 him to the University to be a doctor or, maybe, a 
 meenister." 
 
 The woman's smile became tinged with bitterness. 
 
 "I'll be sendin' him oot to earn his livin' as soon 
 as the law'll let me." 
 
 Mr. Caw, gazing at his highly polished boots, for- 
 got that they pinched. 
 
 "I never seen a mair intelligent boy," he said, in 
 a low voice. "When I read stories to him he misses 
 naething an' ye should hear the questions he askes. 
 Oh, I think John should get a chance when he grows 
 up a bit." 
 
 "An' d'ye think I wudna gi'e John a chance if 
 I could, Mr. Caw?" 
 
 "I ask yer pardon, Mistress Fergus. I I'm no' 
 clever at expressin' ma feelin's." 
 
 Mr. Caw, leaning forward, pressed his clasped 
 hands bet\veen his knees. His beard, which he had 
 recently trimmed, wagged ; but no sound came from 
 his lips. 
 
 Mrs. Fergus reddened and looked miserable. 
 
 "I'm no' offended, Mr. Caw," she murmured, "but, 
 if ye please, we'll no' speak aboot it." 
 
 The man pulled himself together and spoke in a 
 hoarse whisper, the words tumbling over one another. 
 
 "Mistress Fergus, I maun speak! Things is lookin' 
 weel for me in the future; things is already improvin'. 
 If if ye'll marry me, I I'll dae ma best for you 
 an" an' yer bairns." 
 
 "Oh, na, na!" she cried. "I couldna marry ony- 
 body." 
 
 And there was a dead silence.
 
 246 KIDDIES 
 
 "Could ye no' conseeder it?" he urged at last. "I'm 
 awfu' easy pleased." 
 
 She shook her head and put her hands to her face. 
 
 Mr. Caw got up and walked unevenly to the door, 
 where he halted. 
 
 "Thenk ye for no' laughin' at me," he said gently, 
 and went out. 
 
 On his way to the shop he met the boy. 
 
 "Hullo!" said John. 
 
 "Weel, laddie. Ha'e ye been enjoyin' yersel'?" 
 
 "Fine!" 
 
 "Are ye gaun hame noo?" 
 
 "It's no' late yet. What wey did ye shut yer shop? 
 I was comin' to hear a story." 
 
 "Was ye? Will ye come noo?" 
 
 "Ay." The boy put his hand into the man's. The 
 next moment he would have withdrawn it, lest any of 
 his fellows should see and chaff him ; but the man's 
 grasp tightened. 
 
 "John, I wish ye wasna gaun to leave me." 
 
 "I wish I wasna." 
 
 "Dae ye?". 
 
 "Ay, I dae! I wish maw could get a guid lodger 
 here." 
 
 Mr. Caw dropped the young hand. 
 
 "John," he said, "there's a penny. Rin an' buy 
 what ye like, an' wait for me at the shop." 
 
 On opening the door for the second time, Mrs. 
 Fergus gave a gasp. 
 
 "Will ye ha'e me for a lodger?" panted Mr. Caw. 
 "I'll be oot a' day, an' I can eat onything." 
 
 "Oh, but, Mr. Caw " 
 
 "I ken what ye're thinkin'," he said rapidly. "But 
 ye micht try to forget what I said a wee while back. 
 I I'll no' say I didna mean it. But I'll never re-
 
 MR. JOHN CAW'S LOVE AFFAIR 247 
 
 peat it. It it's deeficult to explain. I've a a great 
 regaird for ye, Mistress Fergus a great regaird 
 but I culdna think to loss John. I I wud dae ony- 
 thing afore I wud loss John. . . . D'ye see?" He 
 paused, and continued: "I was certain ye wudna ac- 
 cep' me, but I was kin' o' desperate. D'ye under- 
 stan'? . . . Dinna tak' John awa' frae me. Ha'e me 
 for yer lodger, in Mr. Burnside's place, an' then ye'll 
 no' ha'e to remove." 
 
 His anxiety was pitiful. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Fergus laughed. 
 
 "Oh, I'm no' laughin' at you, Mr. Caw," she said. 
 "I'm laughin' at masel'. . . . But it's an awfu' re- 
 lief!" 
 
 "What's a relief, mistress?" 
 
 "Ah, weel, I think we best no' speak aboot it." 
 
 "But ye'll gi'e me a chance to be yer lodger! Jist 
 mention yer terms, an' " 
 
 "Mr. Caw," said the woman seriously, "ye've a big, 
 warm heart. But think it ower for twa-three days." 
 
 "But I want to tell John. He's waitin' at the shop 
 for me," he pleaded. 
 
 Mrs. Fergus considered. 
 
 "If ye're o' the same mind the morn, I'll be gled 
 to hear frae ye, Mr. Caw." 
 
 Mr. Caw went down the stone stairs like a young 
 man. 
 
 Presently he came to his shop, where John was 
 waiting, his mouth full. 
 
 "Laddie, hoo wud ye like if I was yer mither's 
 lodger an' bided in your hoose?" 
 
 "That wud be nae fun," said John, with frank dis- 
 may. "I like comin' to the shop best. Are ye gaun 
 to be oor lodger?" 
 
 "No' if ye dinna want me." The tobacconist opened 
 the door and led the way into the darkish shop. "Ye
 
 248 KIDDIES 
 
 can come here every day," he added. He picked up 
 a box of matches, but delayed striking a light. 
 
 "John," he said, a little huskily. "Dae ye no' like 
 me weel enough to hae me in yer hoose? Wud ye 
 rather gang awa' an' never see me again ? Eh, laddie?" 
 
 John did not answer, but all of a sudden he clutched 
 the man's hand and pressed his face against the man's 
 sleeve.
 
 XVI 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 
 
 IN these days it would seem to be almost inevitable 
 that a teller of tales should allow his most unpleasing 
 personage at least one redeeming feature. Whether 
 such generosity springs from charity, or is but one 
 of the conventions of a too-anxious-to-please age, mat- 
 ters little no more, indeed, than whether the re- 
 deeming feature itself consists of a pair of eyes of 
 peculiar charm, or a rare smile that lightens up and 
 transforms the whole unlovely visage. The present 
 teller frankly admits that he did his best to discover 
 something attractive in the countenance of Mr. God- 
 frey Robb, and it is with reluctance that he records 
 the complete failure of his investigations. 
 
 Mr. Godfrey Robb must have been born ugly one 
 does hear of beautiful babies and time arid himself 
 had done their worst. His was neither a fearsome nor 
 a repulsive ugliness rather was it that miserable, un- 
 distinguished sort which evokes far more contempt 
 than pity. At fifty he was the possessor of a semi-bald 
 head, over-grown eyebrows, little muddy blue eyes, a 
 lump of a nose with a reddish tip, a sour-looking 
 mouth, and a quantity of untidy, grizzled whiskers 
 and beard. Moreover, he was disposed towards obes- 
 ity. 
 
 He was a bachelor which is not saying that he 
 could not have found a wife had he tried. He was not 
 249
 
 250 KIDDIES 
 
 so ugly as all that. He dwelt with his sister, his 
 senior by a few years, in a pretty villa situated on a 
 hillside overlooking an unimportant country town. 
 He had retired from a fairly successful business at the 
 age of thirty-two, with the help of a legacy, and with 
 the idea of becoming an author. It would be grossly 
 unfair to infer that this idea constituted his whole 
 stock-in-trade, simply because he never got beyond the 
 title of his first book. We do not know how he may 
 have wrestled and struggled in the privacy of that 
 comfortable room still known as the "study." To be 
 sure, poverty was not present to prod him on; yet 
 surely ambition must have beckoned, for a season at 
 least. But to the naturally sluggish man who does not 
 need to work, what enemy is there like Ease? 
 
 The cosy lounge-chair, the luxurious couch, the 
 pleasant pipe or cigar these were his; also the books 
 of other authors, which, however, he neglected more 
 and more as the placid years slid past. In an amaz- 
 ingly short space of time Godfrey Robb became a 
 confirmed sluggard. His sister grieved in secret, but 
 did not attempt to interfere. She was industrious in 
 many ways, a slave to the petty duties of life. Ere 
 long she ceased to deem it "awful" that her brother 
 should be content to spend the hours between break- 
 fast and early dinner in his chair, with nought to 
 occupy his attention save the morning paper and his 
 pipe. She accepted it as a matter of course that he 
 should doze on the couch throughout the afternoon, 
 and she would probably have been alarmed had he 
 failed, at seven p.m., to leave the house in order to 
 spend a couple of hours in the smoke-room of the 
 Stag Hotel, where, in the company of acquaintances, 
 he drank not more than he could carry, but more, 
 certainly, than healthful for a man of his inactivity. 
 Well, it was life so far as he knew it. He neither
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 251 
 
 wished nor did any one any harm, and he did nobody 
 or himself any good. 
 
 On an afternoon in early June he drowsed as usual 
 on the couch. The atmosphere of the study was stale 
 and stuffy, for it had not occurred to him to open the 
 window. He was entirely comfortable and at peace 
 with all the world. 
 
 The entrance of the elderly servant, an almost 
 unprecedented event during the sacred hour of siesta, 
 might have been part of his hazy dream, so little did 
 it disturb him. 
 
 "What is it?" he mumbled. 
 
 "A telegram, sir!" cried the servant, who was in 
 a high state of excitement. Mr. Robb had not re- 
 ceived a telegram within her recollection, and her 
 length of service under his sister exceeded ten years. 
 
 Godfrey grunted and sat up. He felt annoyed with 
 his sister, who, he was sure, had sent the telegram. 
 She might have delayed its despatch a couple of hours. 
 Miss Robb had travelled to London the previous day 
 to bid adieu to her youngest sister, who, with her 
 husband, was about to depart on a long sea voyage 
 for the benefit of the latter's health. 
 
 "Putting off her return till to-morrow, I suppose," 
 Mr. Robb muttered, clumsily rending the envelope. 
 Blinking, he read the message: 
 
 "Coming home this afternoon. Bringing Charlie. 
 Prepare spare room. Elizabeth." 
 
 Mr. Robb stared. "Who the mischief is Charlie?" 
 he stammered. Then he handed the message to the 
 servant. "Make what you can of it. The train is 
 due at six, I believe. That's all." 
 
 The servant went out, and he lay down again. 
 But slumber did not return. 
 
 "Who the mischief is Charlie?"
 
 252 KIDDIES 
 
 It never occurred to him to go to meet his sister at 
 the station, and not until she called to him from the 
 hall did he leave his couch, prepared to growl at 
 having had to wait for tea a whole hour beyond the 
 proper time. 
 
 He opened the door and stood there a frowsy, un- 
 dignified figure of middle age. "Well?" he demand- 
 ed sulkily. 
 
 Miss Robb, whose excessive primness rendered her 
 plainer than she might otherwise have been, moved to 
 one side, disclosing a little boy, who appeared to have 
 already discovered something to interest him in the 
 garden, for he was standing, sailor hat in hand, gazing 
 through the doorway by which he had lately entered. 
 At the sight of him the man drew back a pace. 
 
 "What the mischief " he began, and the boy 
 
 looked round. 
 
 "He is Mary's son," said Miss Robb. "He has 
 come to stay with us for a few weeks. I'll explain 
 afterwards." She turned to the boy. "Charlie, go 
 forward and shake hands with your Uncle Godfrey." 
 
 The little boy advanced obediently, but half-way 
 to the study door he halted. He had never seen a 
 person so odd-looking as this uncle of whom he had 
 scarcely even heard. 
 
 Mr. Robb did not move, and there was an un- 
 comfortable silence till the lady said, sornev/hat im- 
 patiently: "Come, come child! shake hands with 
 your Uncle Godfrey." 
 
 Astonishment rather than fear had caused the halt, 
 and once more Charlie advanced. 
 
 His small hand was awkwardly accepted by a large 
 and flabby one, and retained for a mere instant. 
 
 Mr. Robb gave a sort of grunt, which may have
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 253 
 
 been what Charlie expected, for the boy smiled and 
 looked up frankly at the hairy countenance. 
 
 "H'm! How are you?" said the man, with an 
 effort. 
 
 "Quite well, thank you, and how are you?" 
 
 Whether Mr. Robb would have replied to the genial 
 inquiry is doubtful. His sister's interposition relieved 
 him from any necessity for further conversation. 
 
 "Come now, Charlie, and make yourself tidy for 
 tea," she said, taking his hand. 
 
 The boy turned reluctantly. He had caught sight 
 of a quaint clock on the study mantelpiece, which he 
 would fain have inspected at closer quarters. 
 
 "Tell what's-her-name to bring my tea here," said 
 Mr. Robb, and closed the door. 
 
 As Charlie went upstairs with his aunt he put the 
 question: "But w 7 hy did he make a face at me all 
 the time?" 
 
 "His face is as God made it," she replied, with cold 
 gravity. 
 
 "But not the whiskers," said Charlie with convic- 
 tion. 
 
 "Hush!" Miss Robb was shocked. "Here is your 
 room," she went on presently. "I hope you will be 
 comfortable and orderly. Sarah is bringing up your 
 box. She will help you, if you ask her politely." 
 
 It was not Miss Robb's fault that the boy, left to 
 himself, was overcome by a sudden sense of loneliness, 
 that the sunny garden beneath his window became 
 blurred to his sight. She was doing her best. Her 
 knowledge of children was confirmed to their capacity 
 for mischief. It is true that she was deeply inter- 
 ested in certain little black savages half the world 
 away; but it was their souls rather than their hearts 
 that gave her concern. In placing Charlie in charge 
 of the elderly servant, Sarah, a pious and wholly
 
 254 KIDDIES 
 
 stolid person, she was not conscious of shirking any 
 responsibilities. On the contrary, the arrangement in- 
 volved additions to her own household labours, al- 
 ready manifold, the villa being her secular temple, so 
 to speak. 
 
 And when Charlie came to the tea-table, a very 
 subdued and silent little fellow compared with her 
 travelling companion of the afternoon, her only sen- 
 sation was one of relief, for she had dreaded noisy 
 talk and unseemly behaviour. But his young spirit 
 was chilled for the time being his young body tired. 
 So when the sombre meal was over, he took both to 
 bed without demur, and there, happily, the weariness 
 of the flesh soon had its way. 
 
 At half past nine, as was his wont, Mr. Robb re- 
 turned from the Stag Hotel for supper, and his sister 
 took the opportunity to explain the boy's arrival. 
 
 "He was to have stayed with the Richardsons dur- 
 ing his parents' absence it was all arranged but at 
 the last moment Mary had a message saying that the 
 Richardson children had taken measles. I could hard- 
 ly have refused when Mary asked me to take him until 
 the Richardsons were clear of infection. That means 
 weeks, I understand." Miss Robb sighed, and took 
 a sip of extremely weak tea. 
 
 Mr. Robb, his mouth full of Welsh-rarebit, merely 
 grunted. 
 
 "I hope he may be well-behaved, and not make a 
 mess of the house and garden and break my good 
 things," she continued. 
 
 "I hope he won't make a noise," her brother re- 
 marked, after clearing his utterance with a copious 
 draught of stout. "If he could break some of your 
 drawing-room trash quietly 'twould be a good rid- 
 dance." 
 
 Miss Robb swallowed her indignation at this rude
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 255 
 
 reference to her countless beloved knick-knacks, whose 
 dusting occupied her about five hours every Tuesday, 
 summer and winter. 
 
 "I shall forbid him to enter the drawing-room," she 
 said, almost calmly. "And, of course, he will put on 
 his slippers before he enters any room." 
 
 Mr. Robb grunted again, and applied himself to 
 what remained of the Welsh-rarebit. 
 
 "I suppose," said his sister, with some asperity, "I 
 need not reckon on any assistance from you during his 
 stay." 
 
 To this remark she received a look which said as 
 plainly as words: "What the mischief do you take 
 me for?" 
 
 in 
 
 Charlie woke betimes renewed in the joy of living. 
 The sun shone, and when he looked down on the 
 garden he smiled a smile of anticipation. He was 
 accustomed to receive a little help in his dressing, but, 
 after opening his door and listening for a minute or 
 so, he decided to go ahead with the operation single- 
 handed. What he could not do he cheerfully left 
 undone. There were several quite impossible buttons, 
 including the one on the right wrist of his small 
 shirt. What did they matter? 
 
 As he went downstairs he heard sounds in the 
 kitchen, and also saw that the front door stood open. 
 Had he been at home he would have visited the 
 kitchen for something to eat, but he doubted his re- 
 ception there, and went straight and perhaps stealth- 
 ily to the garden. The profusion of flowers appealed 
 to him more than the evidences of the abundant atten- 
 tion bestowed upon the plots. The Robbs were no 
 gardeners themselves, but Miss Robb, who desired
 
 256 KIDDIES 
 
 orderliness everywhere, did not grudge the price of 
 hired labour on this half-acre of ground, though, as 
 a matter of fact, she preferred her drawing-room to 
 any garden in the land. 
 
 It was not long ere Charlie, to his high satisfaction, 
 came upon a trowel plunged in the soil. Withdrawing 
 it gladly, he looked around for a place to dig. This 
 was not so easy to find; but at last, at the bottom of 
 the garden, he discovered a spot that had not, ap- 
 parently, been planted with anything. Squatting, he 
 began to make a hole which in time would have a 
 tunnel from it to another hole. Charlie was a town- 
 bred boy, but his summer stays at the coast and in 
 the country had developed a taste for such work as 
 now lay before him. He was warming to his task 
 when hurried footsteps caused him to pause and turn 
 his head. 
 
 It was Sarah, but he was now so buoyantly happy 
 that he smiled at her, saying: "You see, I'm going 
 to make a deep pit and then " 
 
 "You mustn't do that," panted Sarah. 
 
 His face fell he assured her that there was nothing 
 to harm where he was working. 
 
 "You'll dirty your clothes," she said. 
 
 His smile came back. "Oh, that doesn't matter. 
 It's only my old jersey, and " 
 
 "Your aunt says you mustn't touch the garden, 
 Master Charlie, and you'd better come in now; your 
 porridge is ready." 
 
 "Am am I not to get digging anywhere at all?" 
 
 "That's it. Now come along and have your por- 
 ridge. You'd better give it to me." She indicated 
 the trowel. 
 
 He surrendered it quietly, then he turned away. 
 "I I don't care for p-porridge, thank you." 
 
 "What! Not like porridge!" exclaimed Sarah, who
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 257 
 
 would have resigned her situation rather than eat 
 the stuff. Her annoyance, however, was excusable, 
 seeing that she had been put to some extra trouble that 
 morning to make the porridge. "But all little boys 
 ought to like porridge." (O Wisdom, what absurdi- 
 ties are uttered by our elders in thy name!) "Your 
 aunt will be displeased," she went on. "Mind, you 
 mustn't touch anything in the garden." Suddenly she 
 remembered her kitchen duties, and, admonishing him 
 to come indoors the moment he heard the bell, hurried 
 back to the house. 
 
 When her footsteps had ceased to sound on his ear, 
 Charlie wiped his eyes on his jersey-sleeve he had 
 forgotten his handkerchief. Then he turned from the 
 scene of his too brief labours, and walked slowly up 
 the garden. In a shady spot he encountered a belated 
 frog, which interested him ere it disappeared among 
 some heavy growth. Later, he spent a little while 
 watching a bee take his toll from a cluster of pink 
 blossoms; but the bee also disappeared. There were 
 many things to see in this beautiful garden, but there 
 was nothing for him to do. He was feeling very 
 lonesome and disconsolate when the breakfast-bell rang. 
 
 On his entrance to the house his aunt met him, and 
 cried out in horror at his earthy slippers. He ought 
 not to have gone out in them. He must change them 
 for his clean shoes at once. While he made his change, 
 she told him a few of the things he must not do 
 in the future. Thereafter she witnessed him wash 
 his hands, and then they went into the dining-room. 
 
 Mr. Robb was already at table, devouring hot toast 
 and fried fish. He took no notice of the boy beyond 
 emitting a grunt when the former in response to his 
 aunt's command, said dutifully: "Good morning, 
 Uncle Godfrey." 
 
 Miss Robb took her seat, and, after giving her
 
 258 KIDDIES 
 
 brother a pointed look, which he ignored, said grace 
 in an austere voice. Charlie, balancing himself on 
 highly polished, unyielding leather, closed his eyes 
 and prayed God to take away the plate of porridge 
 set before him. But when he opened his eyes the 
 porridge was still there, and he perceived that there 
 was a thick, shiny skin on its surface. 
 
 He glanced at his aunt, hesitated, and took up his 
 spoon, then hesitated once more. 
 
 "Come, eat your porridge, Charlie," she said, not 
 unkindly. "You know you ought to have come in for 
 it when Sarah first called you." 
 
 Charlie touched the porridge with his spoon. But 
 how can a little boy eat porridge with a big, sore lump 
 in his throat? 
 
 "Don't you like porridge?" his aunt inquired. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 She looked her surprise. "Don't you have it every 
 morning at home?" 
 
 He shook his head again. "Home!" he bit his 
 lip at the thought. 
 
 "Well, it is very good for you," she went on. "All 
 little boys ought to like porridge. Eat it before it 
 gets cold. I cannot have good food " 
 
 She was going to say "wasted," when her brother 
 rose clumsily from his place, picked up the plate of 
 porridge, and carried it to the sideboard. Ere she 
 could protest, he was back in his place, and presenting 
 the boy with a slice of buttered toast. 
 
 "Like fish?" he demanded abruptly. 
 
 Charlie's wet gaze of gratitude was short-lived. 
 Bristling with dignity, his aunt rose, marched to the 
 sideboard, and, returning with the porridge, replaced 
 it before him. She said: 
 
 "Godfrey, I will not have you interfere. Charlie, 
 eat up your porridge!" and went back to her seat.
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 259 
 
 There was an uncomfortable silence, broken at last 
 by a half-suppressed sob from the boy. 
 
 Something like a grin appeared on Mr. Robb's 
 countenance. With a grunt he got to his feet, and 
 possessed himself of the offending nourishment. With 
 another grunt, he stepped deliberately to the open win- 
 dow, and flung it forth, plate and all. His sister sat 
 still, stupified. He came back to his place, helped 
 Charlie to a goodly portion of fish, and told him, 
 shortly, to "go ahead." 
 
 Miss Robb recovered her voice if not her wits. 
 "Do you think I will endure such treatment in my 
 own house?" 
 
 "It's my house," he answered bluntly. 
 
 Whereupon she got up and left the room. 
 
 Mr. Robb got up also and went to the window. 
 "Go ahead!" he said over his shoulder, "or your 
 fish'll be cold, too." 
 
 It cannot be said that Charlie enjoyed his breakfast, 
 but, being hungry, he ate what was before him and 
 finished his mug of milk. He wished his uncle would 
 say something, and at last he ventured to remark to 
 the silent figure at the window: 
 
 "I expect the dicky-birds will like it," he said softly, 
 diffidently. 
 
 With a grunt that might have meant assent or the 
 reverse, the figure turned. "Had enough?" it asked. 
 
 "Yes, thank you. It it w r as very nice fish, Uncle 
 Godfrey." 
 
 "Humph!" muttered Uncle Godfrey, and went off 
 to his study. 
 
 Charlie moved to the window, and remained there 
 until Sarah appeared to clear away. He summoned 
 courage and inquired: 
 
 "Where can I play, please?"
 
 260 KIDDIES 
 
 Sarah, taken aback by the novel question, referred 
 him to his aunt. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the study Miss Robb was having an 
 interview with her brother. For twenty years at 
 least he had not interfered with her in any way she 
 had been sole director of all the household arrange- 
 ments. Now she poured forth a torrent of protests. 
 
 He affected to read the morning paper until the 
 torrent had spent itself. Then he said coolly: "You 
 seem to have porridge on the brain, Elizabeth. It's 
 not the only food. Find out what he likes, and give 
 him it. Also find out what he wants to do, and let 
 him do it." 
 
 "Do you wish to quarrel " 
 
 "That is precisely what I don't wish to do. Now 
 kindly go away." 
 
 She went there was nothing else for it. She had 
 had no practice in argument with Godfrey. 
 
 It is to her credit that she did not permit resentment 
 to affect her future dealings with the boy. She pro- 
 vided the food he preferred, which, after all, was with 
 few exceptions after her own ideas. She could not, 
 however, obey her brother's second injunction. Death 
 before dirt and disorder might have been her motto. 
 Between her and Sarah, Charlie was subjected to an 
 intermittent bombardment of "don'ts." 
 
 It was rather a dull life for a little boy. After 
 breakfast his aunt, if she were not too busy, read him 
 pious, old-fashioned tales until eleven o'clock, when 
 he accompanied her on her marketing to the sleepy 
 town in the valley. On their return he was permitted, 
 in fine weather, to walk round the garden, after 
 promising not to touch anything. Then came dinner, 
 as solemn as the other meals. His uncle occasionally 
 glanced at him, but rarely spoke. 
 
 The fine afternoons the wet ones were too dismal
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 261 
 
 to record held more attraction than might have been 
 expected. Sometimes his aunt, sometimes Sarah, con- 
 ducted him to an unfrequented pine-wood near the 
 house, and while his guardian sat and sewed, or 
 read an improving work, he would be left pretty 
 much to his own resources, and the "don'ts" would 
 almost cease from troubling. 
 
 At the foot of a tall pine on the edge of a clearing 
 he set about building a "house" of twigs and moss 
 and cones and stray pebbles. In the beginning, he 
 made friendly requests for assistance chiefly for com- 
 panionship's sake but neither Miss Robb nor Sarah 
 seemed to understand that the matter in hand was 
 serious in its intention; and when he informed them 
 that a frog would be eager to reside in the house as 
 soon as completed, their gloomy scepticism wounded 
 his feelings, and put an end to his gentle invitations. 
 
 But he wrought, happily enough, by himself, and 
 day by day the "house" became more elaborate in 
 construction, more extensive in accommodation. This 
 was, indeed, the treat of the day, and it must be 
 confessed that the hour for going home often found 
 him rebellious. Yet when Miss Robb once threatened 
 to come no more to the wood, his grief was so intense 
 that she recanted hastily, and merely pleaded with 
 him to be more obedient in future. 
 
 So the weeks passed away, and in their course 
 doubtless many a little boy had much less to be 
 thankful for than Charlie. 
 
 rv 
 
 It was the custom of Miss Robb to spend every 
 Thursday evening at the meeting of a missionary 
 circle which met in a friend's drawing-room. A num- 
 ber of ladies drank tea together, and afterwards en-
 
 262 KIDDIES 
 
 gaged in sewing articles which were sold at periodic 
 sales of work in aid of a certain overseas mission. 
 Miss Robb had not missed a meeting for many years, 
 and there was no reason why Charlie's visit should 
 interfere with her attendance. Sarah was always at 
 hand should the boy require attention between the 
 hours of five and nine. 
 
 On the fifth Thursday of his stay, Sarah had seen 
 him to bed as usual, and read him sundry Old Testa- 
 ment verses which she herself did not half compre- 
 hend, and was about to bid him good night, adding 
 the usual warning not to put the clothes over his head 
 unless he wanted to be suffocated to death. 
 
 "I wish you would tell my Uncle Godfrey to come." 
 
 Sarah, greatly astonished, demurred. She was one 
 of those people who seem to believe that if a thing 
 hasn't happened before, it ought never to happen at all. 
 
 But Charlie persisted, and at last, remarking that 
 Mr. Robb would be going out immediately, she went 
 downstairs with the request. 
 
 Mr. Robb was lifting his hat from the stand, and 
 was so taken aback that he let it fall. Presently he 
 went slowly upstairs. 
 
 In the doorway he halted. "What is it?" he asked 
 uneasily. 
 
 "Please come in, Uncle Godfrey. Come near!" 
 
 Mr. Robb shuffled forward. "I was feeling a little 
 lonely," the boy went on. "I would like very much 
 if you would sing me a small song, Uncle Godfrey." 
 
 "God bless me!" 
 
 "And everybody," supplemented Charlie. "But you 
 can say your prayers afterwards. I would like a 
 song about a frog, because a frog is going to live in 
 the house I've built in the wood, when it's finished, 
 you know. It's nearly finished now." 
 
 "Oh, is it?"
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE . 263 
 
 "Yes. Now sing a song." 
 
 "But but I can't sing songs," Mr. Robb stam- 
 mered. 
 
 "Not even the one about a froggie would a-wooing 
 go?" 
 
 Mr. Robb shook his head. "I can't." 
 
 Charlie's face clouded, then lightened. "Well, tell 
 me a story instead." He looked up expectant. 
 
 "I can't tell stories," said Mr. Robb, feeling as 
 though a rusted door were being prised open some- 
 where. 
 
 "Oh, surely you can tell some stories! I don't mind 
 if they're not very good, Uncle Godfrey. Please try." 
 
 Once more the uncomely head wagged refusal. 
 
 "Did no one tell you stories and sing songs when 
 you were a little boy?" 
 
 "I suppose so," admitted Mr. Robb, with a grunt, 
 "but I don't remember any just now." The last two 
 words were inaudible. 
 
 "Oh, perhaps if you waited and thought, you would 
 remember one." Poor Charlie ! He did not want to 
 be left alone that evening. 
 
 "No, I couldn't. Perhaps" the man hesitated 
 "another time. Now you ought to sleep." He turned 
 towards the door. 
 
 "But stay stay and talk about things." 
 
 "I'm no good at talking." 
 
 Charlie's mouth quivered, but he made one more 
 effort. "Would you would you not like me to tell 
 you about the house I am building in the woods?" 
 
 "Well," began Mr. Robb, and paused. "Yes," he 
 concluded, in a shamefaced manner. 
 
 The young face became wreathed in smiles. "Please 
 sit down, and I'll tell you all about it, Uncle Godfrey." 
 
 Uncle Godfrey awkwardly took a chair at the win- 
 dow, and grunted.
 
 264 KIDDIES 
 
 "Please come nearer come quite near. Nearer yet. 
 Yes, that's nice and near." 
 
 Then Charlie began. He talked for half an hour 
 talked till his voice sounded sleepy, till his eyes blinked. 
 
 "Would you like to come and see the house, Uncle 
 Godfrey?" he asked at last, lying back and slipping 
 under the clothes. 
 
 The man nodded. 
 
 "Shall I take you to-morrow?" 
 
 "All right!" The tone was a trifle gruff. "Will 
 you sleep now?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The man rose slowly was it reluctantly? 
 
 "Smooth my pillow and tuck me in," said Charlie. 
 
 Mr. Robb went scarlet, but did his best to obey 
 orders. The touch of the boy's hair gave him a queer 
 feeling. He grunted a good night. 
 
 "A kiss!" said Charlie. 
 
 Mr. Robb stared and glanced round him. Then, 
 for an instant, he bent over the lad. Then he went 
 quickly from the room and downstairs, looking as 
 though he had seen a ghost. 
 
 At the hotel that night, they thought him even 
 duller than usual. 
 
 Charlie never quite finished his house in the wood, 
 nor did he take his Uncle Godfrey to view it. The 
 morning after their conversation the weather broke 
 the wind and rain lasted for three days. And on 
 the fourth day it was time for Charlie to go to his 
 London relations, who had taken a house at the coast. 
 
 Under his aunt's escort, he went gladly in the train 
 to the home where there were other children, and 
 grown ups who understood. He was far too excited
 
 THE UGLY UNCLE 265 
 
 when he bade a hasty good-bye to his Uncle Godfrey 
 to notice the latter slip a sovereign into the pocket 
 of his sailor suit. And his uncle said nothing at all 
 didn't even grunt. 
 
 The summer passed, the autumn came. On a 
 Thursday evening in September, afraid of being late 
 for her circle meeting, Miss Robb was hastening 
 through the pine-wood, which happened to supply a 
 short cut to her friend's house. She remembered that 
 she had not been in the wood since her nephew's 
 visit. From the beaten path she looked between the 
 trees in the direction of the favourite clearing. The 
 air was mild and still, but there had been a brisk gale 
 during the previous night. 
 
 Of a sudden Miss Robb came to a standstill. There 
 was some one in the clearing some one she knew. 
 
 An uncouth figure was kneeling at the foot of a 
 tall pine. With patient, careful hands that seemed 
 to have had considerable practice, it was methodically 
 repairing the "house" which had suffered damage from 
 the gale. Now and then it grunted. 
 
 Miss Robb stumbled to the nearest tree, and, lean- 
 ing against it, fumbled for her handkerchief.
 
 XVII 
 THE LITTLE TYRANT 
 
 MRS. JACKSON leaned from the window of the rail- 
 way carriage and smiled upon her husband and child. 
 "Now, baby," she said playfully, "take care of daddy 
 till mother comes home." Baby showed two tiny 
 teeth, remarking, "Ah!" several times, after which 
 he said "Bah!" as if he meant it. 
 
 "Remember, Lucy," said Mr. Jackson, "that the last 
 train on Saturday for this part of the world leaves 
 town at six-five. For heaven's sake, don't miss it!" 
 
 "When did I ever miss a train?" cried Mrs. Jack- 
 son. "Wave handy, baby!" 
 
 The husband refrained from enumerating the trains 
 missed, to his own confusion, by his charming wife. 
 
 "Besides, I've my lovely birthday watch, Billy," 
 she continued sweetly. "It is bound to keep me right, 
 for I'm always looking at it! And oh, by the bye, as 
 soon as you get back to the cottage, give baby to Jane. 
 Jane promised to be ready to take him a walk. And 
 she has some nice cold tongue for your lunch. Don't 
 let baby worry you, but if you can, take him with you 
 on the grass for half an hour in the afternoon, it will 
 
 allow Jane to Oh, goodness, the train is starting! 
 
 Ta-ta, baby! Tell Jane to mix some fresh mustard. 
 Wave handy to mother! Ta-ta, darling. There are 
 pickles in the sideboard . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson said much more, but it only reached 
 the ears of the porter who was standing further up 
 jhe platform. By the time she had discovered her
 
 THE LITTLE TYRANT 267 
 
 handkerchief to wave to her loved ones, the train 
 was in the tunnel. 
 
 Mr. Jackson, shouldering his son and heir, left the 
 little wayside station and bent his steps in the direc- 
 tion of the cottage which he had rented for August. 
 It was beautifully situated, but lonely, the village 
 after which the station was named being two miles 
 distant, and the stationmaster's house the only other 
 dwelling in the near neighbourhood. But the Jack- 
 sons enjoyed the solitude. Mr. Jackson had been over- 
 worked in the city for nearly two years. 
 
 Chattering merrily to the infant, Mr. Jackson en- 
 tered the porch. Although he had taken Saturday 
 "off," he had a parcel of business books to look over 
 before he returned to town early on Monday morn- 
 ing, and he therefore decided to place baby in Jane's 
 charge at once, and get his task done by lunch-time. 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Jane!" he called again. 
 
 A groan came from the direction of the kitchen. 
 Thither he went without delay, and discovered the 
 maid sitting on the scullery floor in a peculiar atti- 
 tude, her face very white. 
 
 "Good gracious! What's the matter?" 
 
 "Please, sir, I I fell off a chair and I've hurt my 
 foot, and I can't get up. I think it's my ankle." 
 
 "Hard lines!" said Mr. Jackson, sympathetically. 
 "Wait, and I'll help you." 
 
 He hurried into the sitting-room and set baby on 
 the floor, propping him round with the sofa cushions. 
 Baby began to cry lustily. 
 
 "Back in a minute, old man," said baby's father, 
 and returned to the kitchen. "Now, Jane." He at- 
 tempted to raise her. 
 
 Jane let out a scream. It was clearly a severe sprain.
 
 268 KIDDIES 
 
 "Holy Moses!" muttered Mr. Jackson, "this is 
 awful! I'll be back in a minute," he said aloud. 
 
 Baby was howling his best. Jackson picked up the 
 child and hurried down to the station. 
 
 The stationmaster willingly offered his help, and 
 ten minutes later they had placed the sufferer on her 
 bed, while baby waked all the echoes of the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 "I'm sorry my wife went away in the same train 
 as your lady," said the stationmaster. 
 
 "I'm sorry too, but we must do our best. I wish 
 I knew something about sprains," said Jackson. 
 
 "The porter might do something. I'll whistle him 
 up. He once attended the ambulance class." 
 
 The porter came, eager to be of service, but the 
 modest Jane declared she would rather have her foot 
 cut off than be touched by a strange young man. No 
 persuasion could induce her to change her mind, and 
 at last Jackson, who may be forgiven a muttered swear, 
 dismissed the porter with an apology and a shilling. 
 
 "Come into the parlour," he said to the station- 
 master. "The little boy does not like being left to 
 himself. ... Well, I suppose it's necessary to have 
 a doctor. Where is the nearest?" 
 
 "Ingleton, sir. Seven miles. I can send him a 
 wire from the station; he has a motor cycle." 
 
 "That's better," said Jackson. "A thousand thanks 
 for your help." 
 
 "Right, sir," said the friendly stationmaster. "You 
 don't wish to wire to Mrs. Jackson?" 
 
 Jackson hesitated. "No," he said at last. "No 
 use spoiling her day by bringing her back early. I'll 
 manage somehow. The boy ought to be taking a 
 nap shortly." 
 
 The stationmaster departed, proffering any further 
 aid that might be required, and Jackson, after telling
 
 THE LITTLE TYRANT 269 
 
 the maid, kindly enough, that the doctor was coming, 
 sat down with his son on his knee at the parlour 
 window. Baby was disposed to be unreasonable. He 
 now desired to sit on the floor; soon after being 
 placed there he demanded to be taken up. This 
 happened many times. 
 
 "I suppose it's another tooth coming/' the father 
 reflected, as he wiped his brow. The weather was 
 exceedingly warm. 
 
 Presently baby began to wail bitterly. 
 
 "Mr. Jackson!" 
 
 "Good Lord! what next?" Billy groaned, and went 
 to the maid's door. 
 
 "I think baby is hungry," said the girl. "I made 
 up his food just before I fell. It's in a little pan on 
 the kitchen table, and it has just got to be warmed and 
 put in his bottle. Mrs. Jackson has been trying him 
 with a spoon, but you'll be safer with the bottle, sir." 
 
 "Thanks. I'd forgotten all about his food. How 
 often does he get fed?" 
 
 "Every three hours, sir." 
 
 "Oh, Christmas!" muttered Jackson, as he turned 
 towards the kitchen. 
 
 Baby had barely settled down to his meal when 
 the doctor arrived. He was an elderly bachelor, 
 and did not hide his amusement at Jackson's predica- 
 ment. 
 
 "How are you going to manage?" he asked, after 
 he had attended to Jane. "When does Mrs. Jack- 
 son return?" 
 
 "About eight o'clock." 
 
 "And it's now eleven-thirty. You might get some 
 one from the village, though the annual fair is on. 
 If I can do anything " 
 
 "Thanks, doctor, but I'll manage somehow till my 
 wife comes home."
 
 270 KIDDIES 
 
 "Brave man! I'll look in to-morrow." 
 
 The doctor took his leave, and shortly afterwards 
 baby drained his bottle. 
 
 "Now, old man, you're going to have a nice nap," 
 said Jackson, cheerfully, as baby rubbed his eyes. 
 
 Baby cried sleepily for twenty minutes or so, but 
 did not slumber. 
 
 "Aha!" said Jackson, with an inspiration, "you 
 want that black doll thing to chew. I wonder where 
 it is. Better ask Jane." 
 
 "Missus likes it to be boiled every morning, sir, 
 and I left it on the hob just afore I fell," said Jane. 
 
 Jackson made for the kitchen, and was met by an 
 appalling smell. There was a pan on the range which 
 contained a horrible, evil-fuming mess. The pan had 
 evidently boiled dry. Jackson pitched it out of the 
 window. 
 
 "Missus had another one, but I don't know where 
 it is," said Jane, weeping with sympathy. 
 
 After a frantic search among his wife's belongings 
 he discovered the desired article in a box labelled 
 "Voice Jujubes." He presented it to baby, and baby 
 gave a sigh of satisfaction and fell sound asleep. 
 Jackson laid the child in the cot, gave a weary glance 
 at the floor strewn with contents of drawers, and 
 left the room. It was now too late to send a wire 
 summoning his wife by the afternoon train, otherwise 
 he would have sent it. 
 
 He supplied Jane with nourishment, and took a 
 little himself. He relit the kitchen fire, which had 
 gone out, and did something which caused the smoke 
 to come forth in clouds. Jane screeched instructions, 
 and the household was saved from suffocation. Then 
 he made up two bottles for baby, according to Jane's 
 directions. That done, he sat down to get cool. Baby 
 allowed him exactly five minutes to do so.
 
 THE LITTLE TYRANT 271 
 
 "He'll stop crying," said Jane, on being appealed 
 to, half an hour later, "if you take him out in his 
 pram, sir. He usually goes out now, and comes in 
 for a bottle at three, and then goes out again till 
 bedtime. He gets his bath at six." 
 
 "He'll have to wait till his mother comes home," 
 said Jackson shortly. 
 
 But the outing cheered him up. Baby was as 
 merry as could be, and only cried when his father ob- 
 jected to his watch being thrown on the road. The 
 three o'clock meal was duly consumed, and the after- 
 noon passed happily till baby got sleepy. 
 
 "Good biz!" said Jackson to himself. "I'll give 
 him the other bottle now, and he'll sleep till Lucy 
 comes back." 
 
 Baby went to sleep readily enough, and Jackson 
 made tea for the maid and himself. Afterwards he 
 lit his pipe and sat down in the porch with a novel, 
 to while away the time till eight o'clock. He had 
 not managed so badly, he reflected, and he looked 
 forward, not without pride, to relating the day's 
 adventure to Lucy. 
 
 At six-thirty he took in the milk, and felt better 
 pleased with himself than ever. At six-forty the sta- 
 tionmaster appeared with a telegram. 
 
 "Fearfully sorry. Missed train. Staying with 
 mother. Hope you will manage till Monday morning. 
 Love. Lucy." 
 
 "This," said Mr. Jackson, with a great effort to 
 speak calmly, "is rather a crusher. My wife can't 
 be here till Monday." 
 
 The stationmaster, however, was determined to be 
 helpful. 
 
 "Well, sir," he said, "there's a train passes here
 
 272 KIDDIES 
 
 about noon on Sunday, and I believe they would stop 
 
 "You're a friend in need!" exclaimed Jackson; "I'll 
 write out a wire at once." And he did so, explaining 
 the situation pretty fully. 
 
 "How do you think you'll get along to-night, sir?" 
 inquired the sympathetic official. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose I'll manage somehow," said Jack- 
 son, with an attempt at a laugh. "The doctor is 
 coming to-morrow, and if he finds me dead or dotty, 
 I've no doubt he'll inform you. I don't suppose you 
 know a woman who is willing to come and tidy up 
 things to-night at her own price and come again in 
 the morning?" 
 
 "The porter is going to the village now, and I'll 
 tell him to do his best. But it's the fair, you know, 
 and - " 
 
 "He can try, anyway. Thank you." 
 
 "No thanks required, sir. Good evening, and good 
 luck to you." 
 
 Nothing occurred till nine o'clock, when the porter 
 called to declare his errand fruitless. 
 
 "Can't be helped," said Jackson to himself, with a 
 sigh. "Must manage somehow. Better concoct more 
 bottles, I suppose. But how the dickens I'm going 
 to bathe the boy I don't know." He went into the 
 kitchen, washed some dishes and broke others. 
 
 Billy Jackson was a mild-tempered man, but for 
 once his wrath had been roused against his helpmate. 
 
 "Why on earth couldn't she have caught the train?" 
 he muttered. "When women get cackling with their 
 relations, they wouldn't notice the last trump." 
 
 At nine-thirty he lifted the child from the cot, in- 
 tending to undress him. But his courage failed.
 
 THE LITTLE TYRANT 273 
 
 "I daresay I could take his clothes off, but I'd 
 never get them on again. Don't cry, old man. I'll 
 do what I can for you, but you'll have to do without 
 your bath to-night and sleep in your clothes." 
 
 He paid the little one certain necessary attentions, 
 clumsily, no doubt, but tenderly. Baby cried drearily. 
 
 "Cheer up, old man. Have a bottle. What? Not 
 thirsty I mean hungry? All right, there's no hurry. 
 Sorry to annoy you." 
 
 Baby continued crying. 
 
 "Want your mother? Eh? I suppose that's it. 
 Thought she might have made sure of the train, for 
 your sake! Have a drink, now? No? Perhaps I 
 had better consult Jane." 
 
 He found Jane moaning with a severe headache, 
 and procured her a couple of tabloids. 
 
 "If you hush him, sir, he'll drop off, I think," said 
 the girl. "And when he's almost asleep he'll take 
 his bottle, and then he'll sleep all night. I wish I 
 could help you, sir, I do, indeed." 
 
 "Don't worry. Try to go to sleep. But er 
 how do you hush him exactly?" 
 
 "Sing to him, sir. Not loud, sir." 
 
 "Oh, I see," he said, rather doubtfully. "Well, 
 good night. I expect your mistress will be back to- 
 morrow. Is there anything cold in the larder?" 
 
 "Yes. Cold lamb, sir." 
 
 "Thank goodness." 
 
 Meantime baby had been sustaining a peevish cry. 
 Jackson took him up to the bedroom and began 
 pacing the floor, roughly kicking aside the things with 
 which it was littered. 
 
 "What shall I sing, old man?" he asked, as if he 
 expected the infant to reply. 
 
 Baby cried a little louder. 
 
 "All right, all right. Here goes."
 
 274 KIDDIES 
 
 Jackson was not musical, and one tune to him was 
 very like another. But he remembered some nursery 
 rhymes of his childhood, one or two of his wife's baby 
 songs, the refrains of "Two Lovely Black Eyes" and 
 "Dolly Gray," and the first verse of the National 
 Anthem. And he did his best. By eleven o'clock 
 baby's complaint had sunk to a mere muttering, and 
 the bottle, which had been kept warm under the 
 blankets, was applied with the most satisfactory re- 
 sults. Baby finished it and fell asleep. 
 
 Baby's father went downstairs for something to 
 eat, after which he sought the easy-chair, lit his pipe, 
 and dropped into a doze. 
 
 He was roused by the voice of Jane, and went 
 sleepily towards her door. 
 
 "Please, sir, baby's been crying for ages." 
 
 He bolted upstairs. 
 
 Baby was roaring with rage, and it was some time 
 ere the distracted father's efforts were rewarded. Then, 
 quite suddenly the puckered face smoothed and beamed 
 in an angelic smile, as if with generous pardon for 
 the parent's gross neglect. 
 
 "Hooray!" cried Jackson, overjoyed. "Now, old 
 man, sit there and play with daddy's watch till daddy 
 gets into bed." 
 
 Daddy got into bed in quick time to the tune of 
 baby's chuckles. 
 
 "Now, old man, daddy will put out the candle, and 
 we'll go to sleep." 
 
 Out went the candle and out came a burst of in- 
 fantile disapproval. Something fell with a crack on 
 the floor. 
 
 "Holy Moses, my watch!" groaned Jackson, and 
 lit the candle again. 
 
 Baby beamed. 
 
 "Now, my boy," said Jackson firmly, when he had
 
 THE LITTLE TYRANT 275 
 
 recovered his watch, which had stopped, "you've got 
 to go to sleep. No more nonsense!" Baby chuc- 
 kled. . . . 
 
 Two hours later Jackson put out the candle. 
 
 Half an hour later he lit it again. Baby was moan- 
 ing and wriggling in obvious discomfort. Jackson 
 was touched. 
 
 "Perhaps, old man, I'd better take off your clothes, 
 after all. You must be feeling wretched. I wonder 
 where your night things are." He found them at 
 last, and a fearful struggle ensued. Baby wanted 
 clothes off, but not clothes on. Jackson began to feel 
 as if his brain were giving way. At last he got on 
 sufficient garments, some upside down, including a 
 pelisse, to prevent the child's catching cold. It was 
 now daylight. He tried more singing. But baby 
 desired to kick and play and chuckle, and did so till 
 near five o'clock. 
 
 Both slept till seven, when baby did his best to de- 
 clare himself ravenous. Jackson warmed a meal over 
 a spirit lamp, which he discovered after vainly con- 
 suming the heat of seven tapers and a bit of candle. 
 The meal made baby as bright as the proverbial but- 
 ton so long as he was not left to himself. 
 
 Jackson, giving up the idea of making tea, pre- 
 pared a breakfast of cold lamb and water. He had 
 no appetite, and felt fagged beyond description. He 
 would not risk changing baby's clothes again. How 
 he got through the long morning he could never after- 
 wards tell. 
 
 The doctor came at eleven, just as baby, after a 
 long fit of fractiousness, dropped asleep. 
 
 "I'm half crazy," said Jackson, when they had 
 talked a little. 
 
 "No wonder. Your wife will be dreadfully cut up 
 about losing her train last night."
 
 276 KIDDIES 
 
 Jackson suddenly wondered if she would, really. 
 She had lost her train so often before. In his weaned, 
 topsy-turvy brain the idea came into being that she 
 required a lesson. He imagined he saw her stepping 
 from the train, sweet, fresh, apologetically smiling; 
 he imagined her making prettily exaggerated pro- 
 testations of .sorrow and wild promises for the future. 
 He wondered how he could teach her a lesson out of 
 his own discomfort. He did not believe she had suf- 
 fered much during the night spent at her mother's. 
 Doubtless he misjudged her there, but he was too 
 fagged and feverish to look at any side of the ques- 
 tion save his own. 
 
 "If you like to go to meet Mrs. Jackson," said the 
 doctor, "I'll stay here till you come back. I daresay 
 I can manage baby if he wakens. The train is due." 
 
 "Thank you, but I'll take baby with me. Please 
 wait. I may want to see you presently." 
 
 The doctor smiled as he saw the father and son 
 pass the window. The latter looked a most disrep- 
 utable infant. 
 
 "It'll give her a lesson," laughed the doctor. 
 
 
 
 Lucy stepped from the train, smiling a little shame- 
 facedly, but ready with a real wifely greeting. At 
 sight of her child, however, her face changed. 
 
 In consternation she began "Oh, Billy, how 
 how " 
 
 Mr. Jackson grinned vacantly, and murmured 
 
 "How doth the little busy bee 
 Improve the shining hour, 
 And " 
 
 "Billy! What has happened to baby?" she cried. 
 Her husband went on grinning. "Baby?" he re- 
 peated
 
 THE LITTLE TYRANT 277 
 
 "Why, Baby, Baby Bunting 
 Set the cat a-hunting 
 To gather honey all the day, 
 And snapped off " 
 
 Mrs. Jackson stared at her husband. "What are 
 you saying? Don't sing " 
 
 "Sing a song of sixpence, 
 A rocket full of pie, 
 Four and twenty blackbirds 
 Coming through the " 
 
 "Billy! For heaven's sake, hush!" 
 
 \ 
 
 "Hush-a-bye, baby, 
 
 On the tree top! 
 When " 
 
 Lucy was now pale. "Give me baby, and come 
 home at once," she whispered imploringly. 
 
 "Come home, dear father, 
 
 Come home to us now, 
 The cow jumped over the clock, 
 
 The little dog laughed 
 When the old man died, 
 
 Hickory-dickory-dock !" 
 
 She could not get him to stop. Smiling fatuously, 
 he walked with her to the cottage, humming jumbled 
 rhymes all the way. 
 
 "My dear madam, there is no need to distress your- 
 self," said the doctor to the shivering Lucy, a little 
 later. "I have given your husband a powder, and 
 after a good sleep he will be himself again. The try- 
 ing experience of the past twenty-four hours on an
 
 278 KIDDIES 
 
 already tired brain accounts for the slight temporary 
 mental derangement. It was a pity," added the doc- 
 tor gravely, with a twinkle in his eye "a great pity 
 you lost the train." 
 
 "Ill never miss a train again," sobbed Lucy. "I'll 
 make a point of catching the one before it."
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9-50m-ll,'50 (2554)444
 
 PR 
 
 Bell - 
 
 6003 Kiddies. 
 Bli06ki 
 
 PR 
 6003