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 MY FRIEND PHIL
 
 Page 236 
 
 As I reached shallow water, and staggered up the beach, my 
 knees felt weak
 
 MY FRIEND 
 PHIL 
 
 BY 
 
 ISABEL MAUD PEACOCKE 
 
 RAND McNALLY & COMPANY 
 
 CHICAGO NEW YORK
 
 Copyright, 1913, 
 By RAND MCNALLY & COMPANY
 
 THE CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. IN WHICH I BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH 
 
 PHILIP AND SUNDRY OTHERS .... 7 
 
 II. IN WHICH WE MEET THE "SKETCH" GIRL 
 
 AGAIN 32 
 
 III. IN WHICH WE RECEIVE AND WRITE A 
 
 LETTER 54 
 
 IV. IN WHICH PHILIP GOES A-GADDING ... 75 
 V. IN WHICH PHIL MAKES A NEW FRIEND . . 85 
 
 VI. IN WHICH WE IMPROVE OUR ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 WITH THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN . . 102 
 
 VII. IN WHICH THE SPINSTER PLAYS THE PART 
 
 OF THE GOOD FAIRY 114 
 
 VIII. IN WHICH "THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES" 
 
 FIGHT FOR ME 125 
 
 IX. IN WHICH PHIL AND I HAVE A NIGHT OUT . 135 
 X. IN WHICH PHIL AND I ENTERTAIN . . .158 
 
 XI. IN WHICH THERE ARE "REWARDS" AND 
 
 "FAIRIES" 186 
 
 XII. IN WHICH PHIL HAS A " DOWN-RIGHT-BAD " 
 
 DAY 207 
 
 5
 
 6 THE CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIII. IN WHICH PHIL AND I FIND WOMEN WANT- 
 
 ING 223 
 
 XIV. IN WHICH PHIL AND I TAKE TEA IN TOWN . 244 
 XV. IN WHICH PHIL AND I BLOW BUBBLES . . 259 
 
 XVI. IN WHICH WE COME VERY NEAR TRAGEDY 276 
 XVII. IN WHICH MY FRIEND PHIL APPROACHES 
 
 THE VALLEY 292 
 
 XVIII. IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS D. A. REVEALS 
 
 HIMSELF 315 
 
 XIX. IN WHICH WE "ALL LIVE HAPPY EVER 
 
 AFTER" 324
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN WHICH I BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH 
 PHILIP AND SUNDRY OTHERS 
 
 "DHILIP and I became acquainted under un- 
 usual and somewhat painful circumstances, 
 but my interest in and affection for Philip, 
 dating from that hour, have never been shaken. 
 My first estimate of his character of his 
 admirable coolness under nerve-shaking ordeals, 
 of his absolute integrity and uncompromising 
 attitude to humbug of all kinds, of his practical 
 common sense and calm logic has remained 
 unchanged. I am proud to name him one of 
 my friends. That he thinks as highly of me I 
 hardly dare hope. He has, I know, an interest 
 in and affection for me, but I rather suspect in 
 him a contempt for certain of my weaknesses. 
 I try to explain away these weaknesses by 
 telling Philip that when one is "grown up" one 
 must unfortunately act as other "grown-ups" 
 
 7
 
 8 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 do, stupid as it may appear. And Philip looks 
 at me with his very solemn gray eyes and asks 
 directly, "Why?" 
 
 Philip is so very direct. And without going 
 round in a circle and repeating myself I have 
 no answer unless it be the March Hare's 
 famous and obvious retort, "Why not?" and 
 then I know Philip would floor me badly with 
 his very superior logic. But to return to our 
 first meeting. It took place at a dentist's, or 
 rather in the dreary ante-room to the torture 
 chamber, common to dental establishments, 
 which invariably contained a center table, of 
 mottled bamboo for preference, bearing an 
 untidy collection of dilapidated and out-of-date 
 magazines and day-bef ore-yesterday's paper; 
 several chairs and a couch with its springs 
 thinly covered; a pot-bound palm on a rickety 
 stand, a picture or two on the wall, and a 
 framed certificate stating the full right and 
 capability to torture, of the President of the 
 Torture Chamber beyond. 
 
 Well, there we sat in a heavy silence, 
 relieved only by an occasional yawn or sigh. 
 There were four of us. There was an elderly 
 gentleman with a red face and spectacles, 
 who, having picked up a newspaper from 
 the table and perused it for ten minutes with
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 9 
 
 every sign of impatience, had suddenly dis- 
 covered it to be three days old, and cast it 
 from him in indignant disgust, so that it now 
 lay in a crumpled heap on the faded carpet. 
 There was a spinster of uncertain age and 
 somewhat severe aspect, who sat bolt upright 
 and worked at a piece of white work, and 
 occasionally cast impatient glances at the 
 closed door. There was a pretty girl sitting 
 on the springless couch and listlessly turning 
 the pages of a Sketch, who now and again 
 addressed a remark to an Irish terrier, curled 
 up on the edge of her skirt, the dog responding 
 with a thump of a stumpy tail and very speak- 
 ing looks from a pair of beautiful cairngorm 
 eyes. Last.y* there was my humble self, pre- 
 tending to be interested in a small treatise 
 (picked up from the table) dealing with 
 "Cause and Effect of Decay in Teeth." 
 The effect I knew well enough, to my sorrow; 
 the cause I was not concerned with, and I 
 was becoming frankly bored, and had taken 
 to studying my boots with an intent scrutiny, 
 while working industriously at a small hole 
 in the carpet with the point of my cane, when 
 a diversion occurred. This was no more nor 
 less than the advent of Philip. Yes, it was 
 more, for with Philip was Philip's mother. I
 
 io MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 have forgotten her name never mind it. 
 Beside Philip she fades into insignificance. I 
 never thought, or think, of her but as Philip's 
 mother. That circumstance alone constitutes 
 her claim to attention, as an adjunct (entirely 
 superfluous, it seemed to me, but I believe 
 Philip has a kindly and tolerant interest in the 
 woman) as, in short, a background a very 
 hazy, shifty background to Philip's very solid 
 personality. 
 
 Well, into the silence of that room, charged 
 with all the sighs of boredom, nervous expecta- 
 tion, and shrinking anticipation, came the 
 sound of pattering feet, the sharp tinkle of 
 an electric bell, and then, on an almost visible 
 breeze, curiously compounded of violet powder, 
 Divinia perfume, new kid shoes, and dying 
 roses, Philip's mother floated into the room, 
 to the adjoining accompaniment of bangles 
 and chains, the rustling of silken petticoats, 
 and the tapping of high heels. With her was 
 Philip, in a very small compact costume of the 
 shirt and knickerbocker style, belted in trimly 
 at the waist. He wore no hat, and his thick 
 blond hair was cropped boyishly above a very 
 square forehead, from under which a pair of 
 honest gray eyes looked steadily at all the 
 world. His small square face was determined;
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 11 
 
 his lips red and very firm above a strong 
 little chin; a few freckles ornamented a non- 
 descript nose and positively that was all. No 
 woman would think of calling Philip a "beauti- 
 ful child," or of dressing him in Lord Fauntleroy 
 costumes, or of training his hair into long 
 ringlets. Philip's crop of obstinate, abundant 
 light hair had not the suspicion of a wave in 
 it, a fact which I afterwards often heard his 
 mother lament. But dogs always took to him 
 naturally, and old ladies never fidgeted when 
 he was in the room. He now gazed about 
 him very steadily for a moment, and apparently 
 finding nothing of interest (he had not yet 
 spied the dog), took a length of knotted string 
 from his pocket and fell to untying the knots 
 with an air of detached calm, enviable under 
 the circumstances. At the tinkle of the bell 
 the white-capped attendant of the High Priest 
 of Pain had appeared, and Philip's mother at 
 once swept round upon her, and I discovered 
 (what an enormous hat had concealed) that I 
 was acquainted with the lady, and with a sudden 
 spasm of feverish interest in the "Cause and 
 Effect" I retired precipitately behind its pages. 
 "I wish to see Mr. Pullem at once, please," 
 said Philip's mother in a high-pitched voice, 
 repeating "at once" very firmly.
 
 12 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "You have an appointment, madam?" asked 
 the attendant. 
 
 "No, but I wish my little boy's tooth pulled, 
 and I have a very important engagement at 
 three-thirty." 
 
 She glanced impatiently at a tiny gold wrist 
 watch. 
 
 "I am afraid, madam, in that case you will 
 have to wait your turn. All these ladies and 
 gentlemen are before you." 
 
 "Oh, but I am sure, under the circum- 
 stances an important engagement and my 
 little boy in pain with an aching tooth 
 
 "It 's not aching a bit, mummy," interjected 
 Philip, looking up a moment from his string, 
 but his mother swept on "Under these 
 circumstances, I say, I feel sure that none of 
 these ladies and gentlemen will mind waiting 
 as they have waited so long already." 
 
 She smiled sweetly round, but a discourag- 
 ing silence met this rather remarkable bit of 
 reasoning. 
 
 "If you can arrange it then with the other 
 patients ' she too looked round. 
 
 The young lady became immediately absorbed 
 in her Sketch; the spinster gave one very 
 expressive look, but said nothing; and the 
 elderly gentleman, with a snort, muttered
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 13 
 
 something about "too much time wasted as 
 it is," and a "parcel of children." As for me, 
 I steadily absorbed the information that the 
 "milk teeth usually loosen at the early age 
 of six or seven," which recalled to mind the 
 pathetic history of little Willie, who went to 
 heaven at the same interesting age, but I 
 was really listening to Philip's mother. 
 
 "Dear me," she remarked, "how very dis- 
 obliging and inconsiderate ! Then I am to miss 
 my appointment, I suppose," in a tone of 
 injured resentment implying that the responsi- 
 bility of that was certainly on the company. 
 "An important engagement, too," she went on 
 "very and I was to be there at three o'clock 
 sharp." 
 
 "No, mummy," corrected Philip calmly, with- 
 out looking up (I could not sufficiently admire 
 the concentration with which he worked at 
 his string), "Cousin Dick said four o'clock, and 
 I 'spect he '11 wait. He always does, you know, 
 and the cakes are sure not to be all gone at the 
 tea shop, if you are a bit late." 
 
 She had the grace to redden, and I heard a 
 stifled sound from behind the Sketch, and some- 
 thing suspiciously like a sniff from the spin- 
 ster. At the same time I caught the Sketch Girl's 
 eye. It was brimming with merriment, but at
 
 14 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 this moment, having incautiously lowered my 
 "Cause and Effect," the worst happened. 
 
 Philip's mother saw me. Instantly her look 
 of pettish perplexity changed -to a beaming 
 smile, and she sailed across the room with 
 outstretched hand, crying: 
 
 "Mr. Lingard, how very fortunate. Who 'd 
 have thought of meeting you here, of all places 
 in the world?" 
 
 I endeavored to explain, somewhat stiffly, 
 that I was by no means exempt from the 
 natural ills that flesh is heir to, and the cir- 
 cumstances of finding me at a dentist's was 
 not so very singular, any more than in any one 
 else. But she was not listening. In a little 
 gust of confidence she inclined toward me. 
 
 "Well, now, will you do me a favor a great 
 favor? My little boy shake hands, Phil has 
 been crying with toothache " 
 
 "Mummy," said Phil reproachfully, after 
 giving me his hand. "I didn't cry not ex- 
 actly cry, you know. I only shut my teef and 
 made a little noise and and there was a 
 little water in my eyes that 's all." 
 
 "Was that all, darling? Well, anyhow, the 
 poor darling was in agony all night 
 
 "Not all night! It didn't begin till 'leven 
 o'clock," explained Phil. "I know, 'cos I 'm
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 15 
 
 learning to tell the time, and when the pain 
 woke me I fought I might as well pracsit the 
 time, so I got out of bed an' looked, an' the 
 big hand was on " 
 
 "There, there, dear," said his mother, adding, 
 to me, "Phil has a passion for accuracy." 
 
 "No, I haven't, 'scuse me," said Phil, rather 
 red in the face, though not knowing in the least 
 with what he was charged. 
 
 "But my favor, Mr. Lingard. You won't 
 refuse me, I know. I have a most I have an 
 engagement for three-thirty for four o'clock. 
 Would you be so kind as to take charge of Phil 
 till I return? He won't be the least trouble. 
 You '11 stay with Mr. Lingard, dear, won't 
 you? He is going to look after you till mother 
 comes back from from the business she has 
 to see to." 
 
 " The tea, you mean," said Phil, adding rather 
 wistfully, "You promised I could have the cake 
 with the pink sugar and the cherry on top." 
 
 "I '11 save it for you." 
 
 "Thank you," adding very heroically: "If 
 you want that one very much or Cousin Dick 
 takes it 'fore you can get a chance (but it 's 
 ladies first, you know, so he ought n't) save me 
 the curly one with the cream. There are 
 always six," he explained to me, the "two
 
 16 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 sammidges with jam and cream, a curly one 
 with cream not much cream you 'd think 
 it was full, but it never is," with the sad, wise 
 air of one with one more illusion shattered; 
 "then there 's a round one with cream, and one 
 with lots of bits stuck together with jam, and 
 one with pink sugar and a cherry on top, 
 and that 's all." 
 
 "Well," said his mother, "I promise I '11 save 
 a nice one, and now I must go. A thousand 
 thanks, Mr. Lingard. So delighted to have 
 the chance of seeing you, and so kind of you to 
 offer to mind Phil. Be a good boy, darling. 
 Good-byl" 
 
 She was hurrying away when I stopped her 
 in alarm. 
 
 "But but ' I cried in alarm, "I can't 
 What shall I do if you 're not back in time 
 for the boy's turn to go in?" 
 
 "Oh, in that case," she said, her face cloud- 
 ing, "we '11 have to put it off till another day. 
 You wouldn't mind very much, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, I would, 'scuse me," said Phil promptly, 
 1 'cos daddy has given me a shilling to have 
 it out to-day." 
 
 "Well, you could keep that, couldn't you?" 
 
 Phil considered, then shook his head very 
 decidedly.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 17 
 
 " No," he said, " 'cos this shilling was to make 
 me feel happy when the pain was aching me, 
 and if I have it now, when I do have the tooth 
 out I '11 have not nothing to comfort me, and 
 I '11 have forgot how nice I felt with this 
 shilling." 
 
 "Then I'll give you another, little merce- 
 nary!" cried his mother, whose patience was 
 plainly going. "Will that do?" 
 
 Philip looked sad, but determined. 
 
 "No," he said slowly, " 'cos then I 'd have 
 daddy's shilling for not doing nothing, and 
 that's not fair, is it?" He appealed to me, 
 as to a man's nicer sense of honor, to uphold 
 him. 
 
 "Well," said his mother, "I can't waste any 
 more time. If I should n't be back, Mr. Lingard 
 I 'm certain to be though" (as I jumped 
 visibly) "tell the dentist I insist on Philip's 
 having gas. He is very brave, but extremely 
 high-strung and sensitive, poor darling, all 
 nerves." 
 
 I looked at the "poor darling," still busied 
 with his string, at which during the whole 
 colloquy he had never ceased to work, and 
 thought I had never seen a more unlikely 
 subject for "nerves," one more unruffled, 
 calm.
 
 1 8 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Then good-by, darling. Good-by, dear Mr. 
 Lingard so many thanks. You won't mind 
 mummy leaving you, Phil?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Phil cheerfully, submitting to 
 be kissed. 
 
 "And you 11 like being with kind Mr. 
 Lingard?" 
 
 "I don't know yet," returned Phil honestly, 
 and I liked him for that. 
 
 In a moment she was gone, perfumes and 
 jingles and all. For five minutes Philip was 
 very quiet with his string, but finally, having 
 it all smoothed out to his satisfaction, he rolled 
 it into a neat ring, put it in his pocket with a 
 sigh of relief, leaned back in his chair, tilted 
 his chin back, and studied the ceiling intently. 
 
 Then he remarked to the Elderly Gentle- 
 man: 
 
 "Bet you don't know how many boards 
 in this ceiling?" 
 
 The Elderly Gentleman, with a grunt, im- 
 mediately snatched up the discarded paper 
 and ostentatiously buried himself in its pages. 
 Hints were wasted on Phil. 
 
 "Try!" he said encouragingly. "I would n't 
 of guessed my own self if I had n't counted 
 them first." 
 
 No reply. Phil slipped down from his chair
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 19 
 
 and laid his hand on the Elderly Gentleman's 
 knee. 
 
 "It is n't twenty-free," he said insinuatingly. 
 
 As much to his own surprise as to that of 
 any one else, the Elderly Gentleman lowered 
 his paper and said: 
 
 "Twenty-four, then." 
 
 " No," said Phil, "but you 're pretty ' warm.' " 
 
 Thus encouraged, the Elderly Gentleman 
 responded promptly: 
 
 "Twenty-five!" 
 
 Phil shook his head mournfully. 
 
 "You're getting cold again," he said, and 
 the Elderly Gentleman plunged wildly. 
 
 "Twenty-six." 
 
 "Colder 'n colder," said Phil solemnly. 
 
 "Then, my boy, I'm sure I don't know," 
 said the Elderly Gentleman, apparently nettled 
 at his failure. 
 
 "Give in?" cried Phil delightedly, but at 
 this the Elderly Gentleman suddenly exhibited 
 symptoms of backbone. 
 
 "No, I won't," he said. "I'll have another 
 shot." 
 
 "Very well," said Phil, disappointed, "but 
 they gen 'ally give in, you know, after free tries." 
 
 "7 don't," said the other obstinately. "Let 
 me see, now, I'll say "
 
 20 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Don't look!" cried Phil warningly. 
 
 "I wasn't," cried the Elderly Gentleman 
 indignantly. 
 
 "I thought p'r'aps you might be just squint- 
 ing. I do sometimes," added Phil manfully. 
 "But I'll help you a teeny it isn't twenty- 
 one, and it is n't twenty-free, but it 's something 
 between." 
 
 "Twenty-two," cried the Elderly Gentleman 
 instantly. 
 
 "Right!" cried Phil, clapping his hands, 
 "I knew you'd guess it. You couldn't be 
 as quick as me, of course. You're like my 
 gran 'pa, so old, you see about a hundred 
 I s'pose?" 
 
 The Elderly Gentleman became apoplectic; 
 the Sketch Girl, who had been listening shame- 
 lessly to an entirely private conversation, gave 
 a sudden trill of laughter, and then imme- 
 diately bent over her book and pretended 
 somebody else had done it. And as no one 
 could have possibly suspected the severe 
 Spinster of such an indiscretion, the onus was 
 left on me, and I felt annoyed until I reflected 
 that I'd rather like to be suspected of such a 
 musical laugh as that. 
 
 "God bless my soul," sputtered Phil's new- 
 found friend, "I was sixty last birthday."
 
 21 
 
 "I was six on my birfday," said Phil, "an' 
 I had a cake with my name an' how old I 
 was in pink sugar. Did you have one with 
 with all that?" 
 
 The Elderly Gentleman shook his head. 
 
 "No! no! I couldn't afford such extrava- 
 gance as that." 
 
 Phil looked concerned, and then he and 
 his friend entered into an interesting conver- 
 sation as to how much the latter earned in a 
 week, what his chief items of expenditure were, 
 and whether he thought, if he saved, he might 
 be able to have a pink-sugared cake next 
 birthday, and the Elderly Gentleman, who 
 had been snapping open a gold watch every 
 few minutes, and glaring at the closed door 
 of the torture chamber, now looked quite 
 sorry when he was summoned. He shook 
 hands with Phil, and hoped they might meet 
 again, and Phil politely echoed the wish, but 
 added cheerfully he "didn't think they ever 
 would, though," and further proffered the 
 advice that if it "hurts very much, keep on 
 thinking about the shilling, and what you're 
 going to buy with it." 
 
 Phil next spied the Sketch Girl's dog, and 
 literally fell upon him with cries of delight, 
 and the dog, with that delightful free-masonry
 
 22 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 of dogs and boys, responded in like spirit. 
 They rolled over and over for a bit, and then 
 Phil sat up, with his arm about the dog's 
 neck, and asked its mistress: 
 
 "Is he yours?" 
 
 The girl smiled and nodded. 
 
 "What's his name?" 
 
 "His name is Gyp." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Don't you like it?" 
 
 "I don't think it's a very nice name for a 
 dog 'specially such a nice dog." 
 
 "What would you call him then?" 
 
 "Terry that's a proper dog name." 
 
 "And what is your name, little boy?" 
 
 "Philip what's yours?" 
 
 "Mine is Millicent," said the Sketch Girl, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Millersint," repeated Phil slowly. " That 's 
 a nice name it makes me feel jolly." 
 
 "Jolly? How do you mean?" 
 
 "Millers, you know. There was the 'jolly 
 miller' lived on the river D, you know, an' he 
 cared for nobody, no-nott-i, an' nobody cared 
 for him, and there was the other 'jolly miller' 
 with 'one hand in the copper and the other in 
 the bag' how could he make a grab, with both 
 of his hands in the copper and the bag?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 23 
 
 ' ' I don't know, I 'm sure, Philip. It does seem 
 pretty impossible." 
 
 "I think I'll call you Miller." 
 
 "Very well," laughed the Sketch Girl, "and 
 now tell me, have you a dog?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Phil, rolling his canine friend 
 over. "His name is Terry." 
 
 "O! I see!" her eyes were dancing. 
 "And what kind of a dog is he a collie?" 
 
 "No, he 'snot!" 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 "Just a dog," replied Phil gravely, adding 
 quickly, "What are you laughing at?" 
 
 "I'm not laughing, Phil, really," declared 
 the Sketch Girl, with the suspicious quaver of 
 some recent emotion in her voice. 
 
 "You were laughing inside," said Phil accus- 
 ingly. "I saw you chin shiver." 
 
 At this the laugh would have its way, and I 
 joined in the merriment. 
 
 "Isn't he delicious?" said the Sketch Girl to 
 me with dancing eyes. They were the dearest 
 brown eyes. Phil turned red. It seems he 
 hates to be laughed at. Scrambling up from 
 the floor, he turned his attention to the Spinster. 
 
 "What are you making?" he asked. 
 
 The Spinster made no reply, but continued 
 her work.
 
 24 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Phil advanced his face to within an inch 
 of hers. 
 
 " 'Scuse me shouting," he said very loudly, 
 "but I think you must be a bit deaf, like my 
 gran 'pa. I ast you what was you making?" 
 
 " Little boys should n't ask questions," rapped 
 out the Spinster, but her glance was a little 
 softer as it rested on the boy. 
 
 "But you would n't never of told me, if you 
 did n't know I wanted to know," urged Phil, 
 very sensibly. "Is it a little fishing net?" 
 
 "No it isn't a fishing net." 
 
 "You're making it very nicely," said Phil 
 politely, and the Spinster actually smiled. 
 He went on hopefully, "If it is n't a fishing net, 
 it must be something else." 
 
 Phil is nothing if not persistent, I noted, and 
 the lady suddenly capitulated. 
 
 "It's a piece of lace see," she explained, 
 "to trim a little boy or girl's frock." 
 
 "Have you any little boys?" asked Phil. 
 
 "No, indeed," responded the Spinster with 
 energy. 
 
 "Any little girls?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Not even a dog?" There was a world of 
 commiseration in his tones. 
 
 "I should think not," said the Spinster.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 25 
 
 "Then I'm very, very sorry for you," said 
 Phil sincerely, "an' I would come an' be your 
 little boy if I had n't of belonged to some one 
 else 'fore I saw you." 
 
 "You're a dear little boy," said the Spinster 
 suddenly, and inclined impulsively toward him, 
 but, recollecting herself, sat bolt upright, look- 
 ing with a certain air of proud suspicion at 
 the Sketch Girl and myself. But the former 
 was bending over her dog she had just done 
 so suddenly and I was apparently absorbed 
 again in "Cause and Effect," so the Spinster 
 said, low and hurriedly: 
 
 "Would you would you give me a kiss, 
 my dear?" 
 
 Philip considered. I held my breath. Phil 
 did not look like a "kissing" child, and I 
 stiffened to hear the refusal which would congeal 
 the melting heart of the old maid to ice again. 
 But Phil has a heart of gold and the instincts 
 of a gentleman I trust any gentleman in his 
 situation would have been no more churlish 
 and he said slowly: 
 
 "Yes, I think I will if you like," I heard 
 a sigh, it seemed of relief, from the Sketch 
 Girl. "I don't gen 'ally kiss strangers." Two 
 sturdy arms went round the withered neck, 
 a round warm little cheek and two soft lips
 
 26 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 were pressed against the faded cheek. Then 
 Phil said gently, with a little wriggle. "Now 
 put me down, please. You've cried all over 
 my face," adding hastily, "but it doesn't 
 matter, though." 
 
 It was as well that, at that moment, the 
 Spinster got her summons, for I saw the tears 
 on her cheeks as she hurried away. Phil 
 planted himself in front of me in a stooping 
 position, his hands on his knees, and seemed 
 intently studying my collar stud. 
 
 "What on earth are you doing?" I asked 
 him, to which he replied with a counter-question. 
 
 "Do yours stay in all the time, or do they 
 take out and in like gran'pa's?" 
 
 "What are you talking about?" 
 
 "Your teef," he explained. "Gran 'pa 
 says they give you two sets for nothing, but 
 the next lot you must pay for. Did you pay 
 for yours?' 
 
 "Well," I said laughing, "these were a 
 presentation lot, but I have to pay pretty 
 heavily to keep them." 
 
 Just then the Sketch Girl rose to go into the 
 next room. 
 
 "Good-by, Philip," she said. 
 
 "Good-by, Miller," he responded, holding 
 out his hand.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 27 
 
 "Won't you give me a kiss?" she asked, 
 holding his hand tenderly. 
 
 "No, thank you," he answered gravely, 
 "but I'll pat your dog." 
 
 "Oh, but you gave the other lady a kiss." 
 
 ' 'Cos she was lonely, and had no one to kiss 
 her but you are n't like that plenty of 
 people '11 kiss you." 
 
 "Oh! I don't know about that," she replied 
 with a laugh and a very charming color in her 
 cheeks. Phil turned to me. 
 
 "You'd kiss her, wouldn't you?" he asked 
 anxiously, but before I could make a suitable 
 response, she was gone. 
 
 "Philip," I said, "I'd very much like to 
 know that young lady's name." 
 
 "Why?" said he. 
 
 "Well er I might meet her again, and I 
 should n't know what to call her." 
 
 "Call her Miller," he suggested easily. 
 
 "She mightn't like that my not being an 
 old and privileged friend like yourself. What 
 shall I do about it?" 
 
 "Ask her," suggested Phil, with his sound 
 common sense, and I might have acted on his 
 suggestion had not the Sketch Girl, very meanly, 
 left by another door. 
 
 The attendant came then, and said that Mr.
 
 28 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Pullem thought it better to attend to the little 
 boy's extraction first, as my gold-filling might 
 take some time. I assented, but with rather 
 a sinking heart, Phil's mother, after the perfid- 
 ious manner of women, still being absent. 
 
 "Would you like to come and see it being 
 substracted?" asked Phil of me, very solemnly. 
 
 "No, thanks, Phil," I said briskly. "I'll 
 wait here." 
 
 "You can come if you like, you know," 
 he said magnanimously. 
 
 "Not for worlds, old chap," said I. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to see me in the red 
 velvet chair being screwed up to the highest 
 screw of all?" he put forward as an inducement. 
 I shook my head, and Phil became very silent 
 a while. Finally I heard a small voice: 
 
 "Please won't you come in with me?" 
 
 His gray eyes were very wide and steady, 
 but there was the faintest tremble in his tones 
 and I thought the suspicion of a quiver in his 
 lower lip, though he strove manfully to steady it. 
 I could have kicked myself for my obtuseness. 
 
 "Why, old fellow," I cried, "why, certainly. 
 I did n't think. There 's nothing I 'd like better 
 than to see you in the big chair." 
 
 He beamed gratefully, and slipped a small 
 hand confidingly in mine. I felt the friendly
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 29 
 
 pressure of those warm, soft fingers long after 
 they had left mine, and somehow it was a good 
 feeling. 
 
 "Now, young fellow," said the dentist briskly, 
 and swung him off his feet on to the big red 
 velvet chair. 
 
 "Screw it up to its very highest screw, 
 please," said Phil importantly, and there he sat 
 and beamed at me as the chair rose, his silent 
 beatific smile growing wider with each inch of 
 ascent. 
 
 "Now open your mouth," said the dentist. 
 "See this funny little glass I'm going to pop 
 into it." 
 
 But Phil sat with closely locked jaws, very 
 solemn now. 
 
 "Heavens," thought I, "is he going to kick 
 and scream?" 
 
 "Come, now," said the dentist persuasively, 
 "I'm not going to hurt you. Open." 
 
 Phil's teeth were firmly clenched, but he 
 looked at me and I thought I detected reproach 
 in his eye. I shifted uneasily. 
 
 "Come, old man!" I said weakly, trying 
 unsuccessfully to infuse authority into my tone. 
 Then Phil spoke. 
 
 "You haven't turned on the gas," he said 
 pointedly.
 
 30 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "The gas but it's broad daylight," cried 
 the dentist. 
 
 "Oh," said I hurriedly, "his mother wishes 
 him to have an anesthetic. He's so er 
 sensitive and er all that." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the dentist, catching Phil 
 off his guard and tilting his head back. "A 
 touch will have it out. There! It's all over," 
 and he flourished a small pair of forceps in 
 which a diminutive white tooth was firmly 
 held. Surprise held Phil dumb. I think he 
 was rather in the position of the young lady 
 who was asked if she had screamed when kissed 
 by surprise. He did n't know it was going to 
 be done, so he did n 't scream then, while it 
 was being done he could n't scream, and when 
 it was all over there was no use in screaming. 
 Suddenly, however, he cried, with his eyes 
 like saucers: 
 
 "Oh, it's bleeding! It's bleeding! Is it 
 pouring?" 
 
 There was a tiny trickle of blood on his 
 chin, and deeming the event warranted it, he 
 opened his mouth for a good roar, but in doing 
 so made an interesting discovery, and shut it 
 again without roaring. 
 
 " I can put my tongue in it !" he cried. " My 
 whole tongue look! Can you do that?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 31 
 
 He demonstrated his new accomplishment 
 several times, and then said: 
 
 "Now put a gold toof in not the ones that 
 won't come out like mummy's, but a take- 
 in-and-out-one, 'cos if I got very poor an' 
 wanted to buy a dog, I could give my gold 
 toof for it." 
 
 He was rather disappointed to hear this 
 was not practicable, and together we went 
 out into the waiting room. 
 
 Phil's mother had just rustled in. 
 
 ' ' It 's out, mummy ! " he cried. ' ' Look ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh, my poor darling!" cried his mother. 
 " Did he suffer much, Mr. Lingard? Don't fret 
 any more. There! There! Did you miss me, 
 Phil?" 
 
 "No, thank you," said Phil truthfully. 
 
 "But you 're glad to see me, sweetheart?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" answered he dutifully. "Did 
 you bring the one with the pink sugar on it?"
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN WHICH WE MEET THE "SKETCH" GIRL AGAIN 
 
 TDHILIP has a very passion for numbers, 
 for knowing exact quantities, dimensions, 
 "length, breadth, depth, and height." 
 
 If I am walking with Phil as I am very 
 often, I am pleased to say and find him in 
 preoccupied mood, I know he is counting the 
 paving blocks as we go, taking the nicest care 
 not to set foot on any of the cracks. He 
 knows to a nicety how many steps it takes to 
 reach the foot of the stairs from the hall, and 
 can tell you off-hand such interesting facts as 
 how many street lamps one passes in a given 
 distance, or how many collective legs there are 
 in the team of horses we have just passed. 
 This little idiosyncrasy of his makes it rather 
 a labor to tell him a story, which he loves 
 me to do. For instance, "The Three Bears," 
 a favorite of his, runs somewhat in this style. 
 
 I: "Once upon a time there lived near 
 a wood " 
 
 Phil (who has evidently a private scale of 
 distinction): "A wood or a forest?" 
 
 I: "A wood just a plain wood." 
 
 Phil: "A big wood?" 
 
 32
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 33 
 
 I: "Yes, a big, dark wood." 
 
 Phil: "How big? 'S big as this garden an* 
 the next door an' the next?" 
 
 I: "Bigger than that!" 
 
 Phil: "How much bigger?" 
 
 I: "As big as all the gardens in the street." 
 
 Phil: "Oh! G'won." (He thumps me in 
 the waistcoat.) 
 
 I: " near a wood, a little girl called 
 Goldenhair and " 
 
 Phil: "Why?" 
 
 I: "Why what?" 
 
 Phil: "Goldenhair?" 
 
 I: "You know perfectly because of her 
 hair because her corn-colored locks " 
 
 Phil: "What?" 
 
 I : " Her corn-colored locks ' ' 
 
 Phil: "What's 'at mean? corn-colored 
 clocks?" 
 
 I (hastily): "Just that! 'her golden hair 
 was hanging down her back' let us proceed." 
 
 Phil: "All right. G'won!" 
 
 I: "She lived with her grandmother for 
 many years, because her parents had died in 
 her infancy." 
 
 Phil: "How did they get in there?" 
 
 I: "Oh, bother! They were dead, anyhow, 
 
 and she " 
 
 3
 
 34 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Phil: "Was her gran'pa dead too?" 
 
 I: "Yes, they all died when she was a little 
 child." 
 
 Phil: "How old about?" 
 
 I: "Oh! five or six, and so " 
 
 Phil: "How old was she when she lived 
 with her granny?" 
 
 I : " About your age. ' ' 
 
 Phil: "Six and a bit then she couldn't a* 
 lived there many years." 
 
 I: "Well, well! Let me get on with the 
 dashed with the story. One day she went 
 away into the wood, though she 'd been told 
 never to go there because of the wild beasts 
 
 Phil: "Then it was a forest there aren't 
 no wild beasts in a wood." 
 
 I: "There were in this wood. It was an 
 enchanted a fairy wood." 
 
 Phil: "Oh! G'won!" 
 
 I: "And she came to a teeny house with 
 teeny teeny windows." 
 
 Phil: "About as big as a looking-glass?" 
 
 I (thinking to please a child's sense of propor- 
 tion): "Yes, about that." 
 
 Phil (who of course knows the whole thing 
 by heart much better than I do): "Then, 
 however 's she going to jump out of the window 
 when it comes?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 35 
 
 I (hastily) : ' ' Oh ! for the same reason as the 
 wild beasts. It was a fairy house." 
 
 Phil (silenced, but not convinced): "Oh! 
 G'won!" 
 
 I : ' ' When she saw the bowls of porridge ' ' 
 
 Phil (severely): "You 're missing out a lot." 
 
 I (weakly): "Oh, was I?" 
 
 That is the worst of Phil, skip but one word, 
 change but one line of the accepted version and 
 he is down on you at once with a word-for-word 
 correction. I come again without much inter- 
 ruption to the bowls of porridge. 
 
 I : " There she saw some bowls of porridge ' ' 
 
 Phil: "How many bowls?" 
 
 I: "I don't know." 
 
 Phil: "There were three bowls you knowed 
 quite well." 
 
 I: "But so did you. Three bowls " 
 
 (I pause dramatically.) 
 ' Phil: "Yes. G'won!" 
 
 I proceed without much further interruption, 
 except for details asked and supplied as to the 
 exact dimensions of Baby Bear's chair, the 
 amount of porridge niched from Father Bear's 
 bowl, and the number of stairs, and then we 
 come to the really thrilling part of the story. 
 Phil's eyes grow bigger, his interested face 
 comes closer and closer to mine, his lips part
 
 36 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 a little more as the tale unfolds, and so ab- 
 sorbed is he, he even refrains from asking how 
 many pillows Baby Bear's bed has. At the 
 conclusion, he gives a long sigh and a short 
 wriggle, and remarks: 
 
 "Now tell me another." 
 
 "No, no! It 's your turn. You tell one." 
 
 "I don't know any." 
 
 "Yes, you do, lots! I '11 not tell another till 
 you tell me one." 
 
 "I only know one, then." 
 
 "Then let's have it." 
 
 Phil sighs, wriggles, gazes abstractedly at the 
 ceiling, frowns, and finally recites at a rapid 
 rate, and in a style of condensation, yet omitting 
 no telling points, which should be the envy of 
 the modern fiction writer. 
 
 "Once upon a time little girl Goldenhair 
 near a forest Grandmother runned away 
 teeny house, looks in the window goes inside 
 three bowls of porridge tastes them too hot! 
 too cold! just right three chairs too high 
 too low just right chair breaks upstairs- 
 three beds too hard too soft just right 
 falls to sleep. Bears come home: Somebody 's 
 been eating my porridge somebody 's been 
 eating my porridge somebody 's eaten all my 
 porridge" (faithful imitation of voices).
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 37 
 
 "Somebody's been sitting in my chair - 
 somebody 's been sitting in my chair some- 
 body 's broked my chair to pieces. Go 
 upstairs somebody 's been lying in my bed 
 somebody's been lying in my bed here's a 
 little girl on my bed. Come, an* let 's eat her 
 up" (Ditto Ditto.) "Little girl wakes 
 up jumps out of window (could n't 've been 
 teeny as a looking-glass) runs home, an' that 's 
 all what are you laughing at?" 
 
 "I 'm so pleased to have you tell me such a 
 nice story," I say, trying hard to steady my 
 voice, and hiding my streaming eyes at the 
 back of Phil's collar as he sits on my knee. 
 
 "Don't breave down my neck," he says 
 briefly, with a wriggle, and then he is silent, 
 and I know he is counting the buttons on my 
 coat. 
 
 "Six," says he, "and four on the sleeves, 
 counting one that is teared off. Why does n't 
 some one sew on your buttons?" 
 
 "I Ve no one to do it, Phil." 
 
 "Why don't you get your mother to do it?" 
 
 This, I know, refers to one whom Phil politely 
 calls "the lady what washes up." 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "I 'm afraid she would n't do it." 
 
 "Then why don't you get another mother?"
 
 38 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "I really think I '11 have to. Let 's go for a 
 walk, and we might find one." 
 
 "Yes, let 's," cried Phil, slipping off my 
 knee with alacrity. 
 
 "Where shall we go?" 
 
 "To the Gardens!" 
 
 "Very well, and we '11 take Terry, eh?" 
 
 Phil's face shone, than fell suddenly and he 
 said reprovingly: 
 
 "You forget!" 
 
 "Forget what?" 
 
 "Dogs not omitted' on the gate, you 
 know." 
 
 "Oh, oh, yes! Well, we '11 give Terry a run 
 later. Come on!" 
 
 This is one of my happy Sundays, when 
 Phil's mother lends me Phil for the whole day. 
 Other days, when I run home for lunch to my 
 bachelor quarters, Phil looks in about that time. 
 He says: 
 
 "Mummy says I 'm not to ask, but I could 
 stay to lunch if you was to ask me." 
 
 But Sundays are very good days. We under- 
 stand, Phil and I, that these Sunday foregather- 
 ings are doomed to be soon ended, for Phil is 
 to go to Sunday school. Already, on five 
 mornings of the week, he goes to what he calls 
 "Kindergarter," where he makes weird and
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 39 
 
 wonderful objects out of some putty-like sub- 
 stance, animals whose tails and legs invariably 
 fall off at the joining, and flowers the like of 
 which never bloomed on this terrestrial sphere; 
 and strange things, called by familiar names, 
 from bits of colored paper cunningly folded. 
 Heaven knows, now that he is becoming such 
 a man of affairs, what new occupations will 
 encroach upon his time. To-day has been wet, 
 and I have been to the door many times, fearing 
 my friend will not come, but he arrives, very 
 rosy and damp, in a wet little greatcoat, and 
 because he loves to run barefoot he assures me 
 anxiously that his boots are wet and wet boots 
 give people "ammonia." I teased him a bit, 
 ruffled up his thick, damp hair, and finally took 
 him on my knee and tugged at the damp laces. 
 Soon Phil was sitting up on my knee, curling 
 his bare pink toes in an ecstasy. 
 
 Then, slipping off, he turned head over heels 
 several times, and finally, coming right side 
 uppermost, inquired: 
 
 "What shall we do now?" 
 
 "What?" said I. 
 
 "Let's play hidy-go-seek," said Phil. 
 
 "Let's!" said I. 
 
 "Bones-I first hide," Phil said quickly, add- 
 ing anxiously, "unless you want it very much."
 
 40 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "No, you have it," I said with a show of 
 unselfishness, and Phil beamed and ran out of 
 the room, calling as he did so: 
 
 "I '11 tell you when I 'm ready." 
 
 He was back in an instant, to whisper 
 mysteriously : 
 
 "Don't look in the stair cupboard." 
 
 So, in obedience to his little piping "Ready!" 
 I looked everywhere but in the stair cupboard 
 under the couch, under the table, behind the 
 door and the curtains, and then every place 
 else being exhausted, threw open the stair 
 cupboard. 
 
 "Ha!" said I, "now it 's my turn!" 
 
 "That's not fair," said Phil. "I told you 
 not to look here. But you can have your 
 turn," adding off-handedly, "under the table 's 
 a good place to hide." 
 
 In an astonishingly short space of time Phil 
 found me under the table. He was very pleased 
 at his acumen, and hid in the bathroom next, 
 and as he called out warningly: "Don't come 
 here!" every time I approached his hiding 
 place, I pretended to be unable to find him, 
 and had to shout out, "I give in!" which 
 pleased him very much and he came out. Then 
 I hid in the broom cupboard, but time passing 
 and it being very stuffy in there, I emerged
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 41 
 
 rather fluey, and with dust in my eyes. I 
 found Phil curled up in a big chair, nursing the 
 cat and looking rather bored. 
 
 "Why!" said I. "Couldn't you find me?" 
 
 "You weren't under the table," he said 
 indifferently, "and Pussy came in, so I've 
 been playing with her instead." 
 
 Phil, as I might have remembered, invariably 
 goes to my last hiding place, and never gets 
 over his surprise at not finding me there. 
 
 "You 're a nice boy!" I said indignantly. 
 
 "Isn't it nearly dinner time?" he asked 
 wistfully, and we repaired to the kitchen. It 
 was Mrs. Binks' "Sunday out," so we had to 
 get our own dinner. 
 
 Phil set the table, and I cooked the sausages. 
 
 They always give me indigestion, but Phil 
 loves them and especially he loves pricking them 
 with a two-pronged fork, and seeing little 
 sizzles of fat come out, and if one bursts its 
 jacket, and writhes inside out, he is delighted. 
 
 The cloth was very long on one side, and short 
 on the other, and the knives and forks were 
 set back to front as it were, and Phil forgot to 
 put saucers to the cups, but none of these 
 things spoiled our appetites. And afterwards 
 we washed up, and Phil broke a plate, but he 
 pointed out gently but firmly that it was really
 
 42 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 my fault, as the plate was so wet "no wonder 
 it slipped." Then, as it was still raining, I 
 suggested we have a nap, and we went and 
 lay down on my bed. Phil rolled all over me, 
 thumped me in the chest once or twice, drew 
 out my watch and informed me it was "half 
 past, twenty past," and after trying unsuccess- 
 fully to open the back of it, yawned, rolled 
 over on his back, shut his eyes very tight, and 
 suggested "whoever went to sleep first" should 
 let the other know. I assented gladly, and 
 sweet peace reigned for exactly three seconds. 
 Then Phil very cautiously opened one eye, 
 but catching mine, shut his again quickly, and 
 lay very still a moment, sighed, fidgeted, and 
 sat up, remarking he was tired of being asleep, 
 and "let's play horses." Being on the point 
 of succumbing myself, I merely grunted, half 
 opened my eyes, and shut them again. Then 
 followed a period of torment, while small 
 fingers endeavored to prop my eyes open, 
 pulled my face this way and that, and rumpled 
 my hair, while lips breathed into my ear an 
 unintelligible jargon which I was too far gone 
 to gather the import of. I made vague and 
 blurred replies very wide of the mark, I dare 
 say (for once I distinctly heard an " It's so silly, 
 you know"), groaned, and grunted, and the last
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 43 
 
 thing I remember is Phil astride of my chest, 
 his fingers in my shirt collar. When I awoke 
 the rain had ceased, and Phil was sound asleep, 
 his fingers clutched in my watch chain, his bare 
 legs disposed gracefully across my waistcoat. 
 As I watched him, his eyes opened slowly. He 
 rubbed them with his two little fists, yawned, 
 stretched like a kitten, and sat up, remarking 
 with no reference to the lapse of time: "Now 
 what '11 we do?" 
 
 Then, as the sun was shining in a cloudless 
 sky, followed our walk to the Gardens. The 
 Gardens looked all the brighter for the rain; 
 the grassy terraces, twinkling with a thousand 
 gems in the sunlight, sloped down to the blue 
 harbor waters. Nurse maids and mothers and 
 fathers sat about on the green-painted seats, 
 and children ran races on the grass. We found 
 a seat which, being in the shade of a thickly 
 leafed tree, was quite dry, and Phil's boot lace 
 having worked loose I had to kneel on one knee 
 in the damp grass to fix it. It was an obstinate 
 lace, wet and knotted, and Phil proffered advice 
 in his cool clear little voice as to its undoing. 
 A young lady on the same seat, apparently 
 absorbed in a book, turned quickly and ex- 
 claimed: "Why, it is Philip! How do you 
 do, Philip?"
 
 44 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 I lifted my hat hastily, and scrambled awk- 
 wardly to my feet. 
 
 It was none other than the Sketch Girl, looking 
 charming in a white frock and large hat, and her 
 eyes were alight with pleasure at the meeting. 
 But alas, it was at Phil she smiled, and only 
 returned a careless nod to my greeting. 
 
 "Have you forgotten me, Phil?" she asked. 
 
 "No," said Phil, but no amount of pressing 
 could induce him to name her, and she said, 
 with a little sigh: 
 
 "Children's memories are so short. I sup- 
 pose I could n't expect a little fellow like that 
 to remember me at all." 
 
 "I dare say," I said cunningly, "if you were 
 to recall your name to him he 'd remember 
 where he met you." 
 
 "I dare say he would," she rejoined coolly, 
 and then Phil remarked, apropos of nothing 
 in particular, "How is your dog?" 
 
 She gave a little shriek of delight. 
 
 "He remembers me all the time, the darling! " 
 she cried. "Phil, what is my name?" 
 
 "Miller you told me your own self," he 
 answered. "Didn't she, Ruddy? This is my 
 friend Ruddy you know him, too," he added, 
 giving the meeting the familiar flavor of a 
 reunion of three old friends long parted.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 45 
 
 I may mention here that my name is Clifford 
 James, but for reasons of his own Phil prefers 
 to call me ' ' Ruddy . " I do not know his reasons . 
 He is reticent about them, but knowing him 
 as I do, I make no doubt he has reasons, for 
 he is an eminently reasonable soul. I once 
 asked him, as a favor, to explain, and after a 
 long silence he murmured, "It seems like Ruddy 
 to me," so I pressed him no further. 
 
 "Well, I 'm delighted to see you again, Phil," 
 said the Sketch Girl. 
 
 "Ruddy wants awfully much to know your 
 name," said Phil, and while I reddened con- 
 fusedly the girl laughed heartlessly, I thought. 
 
 "He doesn't want your own name," went 
 on this enfant terrible, "but your properly name. 
 But why can't he call you Miller? He says 
 you would n't like it, but you would n't mind, 
 would you?" 
 
 "Well, Phil," she returned, "I like to keep 
 that name for my very great friends, like your- 
 self, you see." 
 
 "Will you be Ruddy's mother then, and sew 
 on his oh, oh, ugh! Ruddy what you 
 holdin' me upsides down for?" For I had 
 swept him off his feet and flung him across my 
 shoulder in the endeavor to stem the tide of 
 his indiscretions. When I set him right side
 
 46 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 up again the Sketch Girl was nodding good-by 
 to me, and after an affectionate farewell to Phil, 
 moved away. 
 
 Then I made a discovery. On the seat she 
 had left the book she had been reading. With 
 an entire lack of principle (and thanking my 
 stars it was not a circulating-library book) I 
 shamelessly opened it at the flyleaf. The 
 Fates were kind. On the page, written in a bold 
 hand, was the inscription: "Millicent Lynn, 
 from her devoted D. A." My satisfaction was 
 much qualified by the unmistakably masculine 
 style of the handwriting, and I immediately 
 conceived a violent dislike to D. A. 
 
 "Here, Phil," said I, "run after your friend 
 with this book." But the moment he had 
 trotted off I blamed myself for a fool. Had I 
 kept that book, on our next meeting (it was 
 bound to happen sooner or later) what an 
 opening it would have been for me ! I pictured 
 myself drawing the book from my pocket 
 and saying: 
 
 "Allow me to restore you your property, 
 Miss Lynn and let me make a confession. I 
 read a page or two and became so absorbed 
 
 No, that would n't do. As the gift of D. A. 
 the book must be trumpery, trashy, or better 
 still, in bad taste, even unprincipled. I would
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 47 
 
 delicately hint as much, and that would lead 
 to a discussion on books which would reveal 
 our mutual tastes (I felt sure they would be 
 mutual), and I would offer to lend her books. 
 "Books are such a bond," I would say, and 
 she would hesitate, blush prettily, and invite 
 me to call with the books, and I would 
 immediately have to go and buy some books, 
 as the only ones I possessed were one shelf of 
 battered law books, a pile of dilapidated paper- 
 backed novels, Webster's dictionary, a Shake- 
 speare, and my mother's Bible. 
 
 I was deep in these pleasant thoughts when 
 I chanced to look up, and saw Phil and Miss 
 Lynn again saying good-by. Phil is a lucky 
 fellow, and yet see with what callous insensi- 
 bility he wipes off the sweet salute of those 
 lips with the back of his hand, and jauntily 
 swings my stick with which he has been playing 
 horses ! At that moment, a dog, a lean, vicious, 
 wolfish-looking creature, which, as Phil after- 
 wards explained to me, could not have seen the 
 notice on the gate about "omitting" dogs, 
 leaped up from beneath a bush, and with snarl- 
 ing jaws sprang straight at the boy and his 
 companion. The girl shrieked, and snatched 
 at Phil's hands, while I started to run toward 
 them, my heart in my mouth. But Phil, with
 
 48 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 admirable coolness, brandished his stick and 
 faced the snarling brute. 
 
 "Get out!" he shouted energetically, and if 
 there was a slight tremor in his tones it only 
 showed the stoutness of his heart. And he 
 actually hit the dog a sharp blow across the nose. 
 The creature, cowardly like all such canaille of 
 the streets, gave a surprised yelp of pain, turned 
 tail, and fled. When I came up Phil was a 
 little pale but very calm, and the girl was 
 laughing hysterically and hugging him. 
 
 "You're not hurt, Phil?" I cried anxiously, 
 snatching him up. 
 
 "No," said Phil wriggling. "Don't squeeze 
 me so hard." 
 
 "Did you ever see anything so brave?" 
 cried the girl. "He stayed to face that raging 
 brute simply to protect me. Were you afraid 
 the wicked brute would hurt me if you went 
 away, darling?" tenderly. 
 
 " No ! " said Phil truthfully. ' ' That was n't it . " 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, a little taken aback. ' ' Then 
 why did n't you run away?" 
 
 "'Cos," Phil explained gravely, "dogs can 
 gen'ally run faster 'n little boys." 
 
 A moment's stunned silence followed, which 
 was broken by a simultaneous peal of laughter 
 from the Sketch Girl and myself. The hero
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 49 
 
 walked away, very red and offended, and the 
 girl called after him merrily: 
 
 "I insist on looking on you as my preserver, 
 nevertheless, in spite of all modest disclaimers." 
 
 And Phil muttered, "I don't care I didn't 
 so there!" 
 
 This was like Phil ; not a timid child, or a fool- 
 hardily valiant one, he chose the cautious path, 
 if possible, but if necessary, faced danger with no 
 fuss or ostentation. I once asked him what he 
 would choose as his profession, and after weigh- 
 ing the question he intimated that he was 
 divided in his mind between a bishop and a 
 car conductor. 
 
 "Not a soldier?" said I, surprised, for he had 
 a regular little armory of weapons in his play- 
 room, and a crimson helmet. He shook his 
 head. 
 
 "Too dangerous!" he said gravely. 
 
 On the following Sunday Phil and I again 
 went to the Gardens, and on the next after that 
 Phil hinted that a change of pleasure ground 
 might be pleasant. He said the beach at Manly 
 was a very nice place on Sundays. But I had a 
 purpose, of which, of course, he could suspect 
 nothing, and on the third Sunday we again 
 wended our way to the Gardens. On this 
 occasion I had to bribe Phil with a promise of 
 
 4
 
 50 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 feeding the tortoise and the cassowary. Accord- 
 ingly we had watched the slow meanderings of 
 the tortoise in its hard-shell mail, which Phil 
 rather aptly compared to the "lid of a 'normous 
 oyster with hinges." It turned its flat head 
 from side to side in a decided negative to Phil's 
 ofler of biscuits and chocolates, as it crept up 
 and down the bare track it had worn in the grass 
 with its in-turned toes. We had looked at the 
 cassowary from a respectful distance, and fed the 
 amber-eyed, red-billed, black swans with bis- 
 cuits. They gave little plaintive squeaking 
 cries which Phil said meant "Thank you, kind 
 little boy ! " but I was inclined to think they were 
 like the daughters of the horse leech, crying 
 ' ' Give ! Give ! ' ' Then we visited the bird house, 
 and afterwards walked three times round the 
 wishing tree, and Phil could by no means be 
 prevailed upon to tell his wish, though he said 
 it was something to do with his birthday and 
 a motor car "that would go." 
 
 He allowed me three guesses, and when I hit 
 upon the truth, he said in surprise, "Who told 
 you?" and wanted to know my wish, but I 
 was firm and would not confess. Then we 
 strolled down to the ornamental water, and 
 there my wish "came true." I found her 
 sitting in the shade, gazing pensively at the
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 51 
 
 throng of skimming yachts and gay little 
 launches passing up and down, and at the same 
 moment I found I had much underrated the 
 perspicacity of my young friend. For, as I 
 lifted my hat with a rather hypocritical air of 
 surprise, Phil ran forward, crying: 
 
 "Oh, here you are at last! Ruddy an' me 
 has been looking for you every Sunday for 
 monfs haven't we, Ruddy?" 
 
 Then, to cover the momentary awkwardness, 
 I said: "Phil is anxious to thank you for the 
 toy you so kindly sent him. He has started 
 many letters to you " 
 
 "Ruddy made me," interjected Phil, and I 
 went on hurriedly: 
 
 "He has ruined two of my best pens and at 
 least six sheets of my best notepaper, but as he 
 did n't know your address, you see " 
 
 I waited, but she only turned to Phil with a 
 mischievous smile. 
 
 "Did you like the little toy dog, dear?" 
 
 "He was a very nice dog," replied Phil 
 diplomatically. 
 
 "And you liked him?" 
 
 "I liked every bit of him except his tail." 
 
 "His tail! but that was the best part of 
 him, I thought," she cried, "it wagged so 
 beautifully."
 
 52 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "It didn't wag when I had him," said Phil 
 positively. 
 
 "Oh, it must have. Why shouldn't his 
 tail wag?" 
 
 "He didn't have no tail to wag," said Phil, 
 finally disposing of all argument. 
 
 "Broken!" cried the Sketch Girl. "What a 
 pity! But never mind, I '11 send you another." 
 
 "Thank you, but I 'd rather have a motor 
 car this time." 
 
 "And, Phil," I put in craftily, "you 'd better 
 ask the address, as you '11 certainly want to 
 write a letter of thanks." 
 
 "I '11 send it with my present, to you, Phil," 
 said the Sketch Girl. Checkmate for me! 
 
 I sat down on the seat beside her, and in 
 defiance of all park regulations I wrote with 
 my cane in the newly turned mould of a flower 
 bed, certain initials. 
 
 "I know those letters!" cried Phil officiously. 
 "I learn them at the Kindergarter. That 's D 
 for dog, and that 's A for for something else." 
 
 "They don't please me at all," I said, gazing 
 at them disparagingly. "Do they strike you 
 as pleasing, Phil?" 
 
 "No," said Phil promptly; "you've made 
 D for dog very bad." 
 
 "And what do you think, Miss Lynn?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 53 
 
 I asked boldly, and had the satisfaction of 
 seeing her start. 
 
 "I think," she said deliberately, "that over- 
 curious people must not expect to be always 
 pleased with their discoveries." 
 
 Soon after she left us, but she had pledged 
 herself to write to Phil very soon. If I don't 
 get the reading of that letter, and have a finger 
 in the answering of it, may I never walk with 
 Phil again! 
 
 I carried Phil home after tea, and as he was 
 very tired, and it was dark, he did not feel 
 his manhood outraged, but laid a sturdy arm 
 about my neck, and worked his fingers well 
 down inside my collar band and chatted sociably. 
 
 "I like you awfully, Ruddy," he said in a 
 moment of expansiveness. 
 
 "Do you, old chap? That 's good!" 
 
 "Nearly 's well as I like Terry." 
 
 "As well as you like Millicent?" I asked for 
 the pure pleasure of repeating the name, which 
 I could do to Phil without fear of censure. 
 
 "Oh, better but I love her dog." 
 
 By and by his little voice trailed off sleepily, 
 his head drooped on my shoulder, and he only 
 roused up once to say gently: 
 
 "I know you love me very much, Ruddy, 
 but don't squeeze me so hard."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN WHICH WE RECEIVE AND WRITE A LETTER 
 
 TT was Saturday, and a half -holiday, and 
 Phil's mother had said he might "come 
 over and play" with me. He arrived as I 
 was finishing my solitary lunch, just in time 
 for the last helping of apple pie. After finishing 
 it off, and turning his emptied cup upside down 
 on his chin to drain out the sugar, he slid down 
 from his chair, played with the cat till she 
 saw her opportunity and bolted through the 
 window, counted all the tiles in the grate and 
 the collective chair legs, and then said: 
 
 "What 11 we do now?" 
 
 "Oh, you just trot round a bit," said I. 
 "I 'm going to have a smoke and a think." 
 
 "Are you going to smoke first and then think, 
 or are you going to think first and smoke after- 
 wards, or are you ' 
 
 "Yes, yes, that 's just exactly what I am 
 going to do, Philip," I interrupted firmly. 
 
 "Bet you can't guess what I 've got." 
 
 "No, I can't indeed." 
 
 "It 's a letter." 
 
 My indifference vanished, and as I stretched 
 out my hand for it I cried so reproachfully: 
 
 54
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 55 
 
 "Why ever didn't you say so before?" that 
 Phil looked up in surprise, and observed very 
 justly: 
 
 "I needn't not have told you at all, if I 
 did n't want. I '11 give you free guesses where 
 I keep it." 
 
 At the same time his little brown hand closed 
 tightly over the pocket of his jumper. 
 
 "In your pocket," said I instantly. 
 
 "Who told you?" he asked, disappointed. 
 
 "No one. I guessed. Come, give it me," 
 I said impatiently. 
 
 "It 's my letter," he reminded me, and pro- 
 duced it very slowly, and I knew he was re- 
 flecting and feeling rather injured that I 
 had broken the chief law of the game of guessing, 
 the etiquette of which provides that in three 
 shots one must, in courtesy, make at least 
 two misses. 
 
 Yet when I opened the letter I found that 
 aggravating girl had given as her address, 
 G. P. O., City. I could fancy the mischievous 
 glint in her eyes as she wrote it, knowing it 
 would come into my hands. 
 
 I remained silent so long, and pulled at my 
 pipe so hard, that at last Phil ventured: 
 
 "You 've thunk a long while, Ruddy." 
 
 The wistfulness in his tones pierced my
 
 56 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 abstraction, and I shook myself together, for 
 he had been very good and quiet. 
 
 "Well, yes," I said; "the fact is, I 'm really 
 in a nasty hole, Phil." 
 
 "Where?" he cried, and walked twice round 
 my chair, adding coldly, "Don't you know 
 it 's wicked to tell stories?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, old chap. I was speak- 
 ing figuratively." 
 
 "Oh!" said Phil, in a tone implying that 
 this put things in quite another light, and he 
 was now satisfied. 
 
 "Come here," I went on, and when he was 
 seated on my knee, "You 're a wise little chap, 
 Phil," I said, "and I want your advice." 
 
 "Certainly," said Phil gravely, which is a 
 grown-up little trick of his, picked up from 
 some one. I sometimes talk wise nonsense to 
 Phil, and far over his head, for the pleasure of 
 seeing that look of serious attention and polite 
 interest, and sometimes, because I am a lonely 
 sort of a chap, and it pleases me to air my 
 thoughts before one who will listen, and grasp 
 the words, but not the significance. 
 
 "Now, Phil," said I, "what would you do if 
 you had been rather badly burned, at a flame 
 that had heat, but more brilliance than living 
 warmth, I fear?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 57 
 
 "I 'd go to the doctor," said Phil promptly, 
 "an* get him to put some griceline ointment 
 on it." 
 
 "Ah, but," said I in perverse triumph at the 
 hopelessness of my case, "supposing the hurt 
 and the healing came from the same source, that 
 the doctor and the flame were the same person? " 
 
 "That," said Phil, rather disdainfully, as he 
 got down and walked away, "isn't true, of 
 course. Some sauces do burn, like 'marter 
 sauce, but a doctor could n't be a brazing 
 flame, 'cos if he came near to make sick people 
 well he 'd burn them up and make them worser, 
 and then no one would have that doctor any 
 more." 
 
 Phil's illuminating logic is always difficult 
 to combat, so I remained silent a moment. 
 Then I murmured, half to myself but eying 
 Phil abstractedly, "All's fair in love and war. 
 I wonder there is an afternoon clearance at 
 one-thirty. Would she consider it legitimate, 
 or otherwise? Would she, touched by my 
 devotion, my vigil on the post-office steps, 
 graciously relent and smile, or would she flare 
 up in wrath, freeze into cold dignity, and 
 never look at me again?" 
 
 Said Phil, "What are you talking about?" 
 
 Said I, "The complex the abstract the
 
 58 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 altogether inscrutable the elusive and mutable 
 the riddle of the Sphinx a woman's mind. 
 Phil, what can we make of it? Advise me, 
 dear friend, advise me." 
 
 Phil had been looking at me very intently 
 during this inspired harangue, which, privately, 
 I thought rather fine. Now he said bluntly: 
 
 "I don't know what you mean. I 'm going 
 to play with the cat." 
 
 It served me right. My conscience smote me, 
 and I sprang up. 
 
 "What do you say to a game of draughts?" 
 I asked, and Phil became responsive. Phil 
 rather fancies himself at draughts. Now, when 
 I am in my right senses, and thinking what I 
 am about, Phil always beats me badly, but 
 to-day, being in a preoccupied mood and 
 culpably absent-minded, I won two games in 
 succession, swept Phil's poor little forces from 
 the field, and was mechanically setting out the 
 board again, when I glanced at my opponent. 
 He was very flushed, and as he met my eye 
 he tried to smile bravely, but his lower lip 
 quivered ever so slightly as he said: "I 'm 
 not quite becustomed to this way of playing 
 draughts." 
 
 After that my blunders became quite fre- 
 quent, but not so frequent as to arouse Phil's
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 59 
 
 suspicions, which I had done once by willfully 
 neglecting to take his king. To my surprise, 
 Phil had pushed away the board, and refused 
 to play any more because, he said, I was "not 
 trying." 
 
 However, on this occasion he beat me hollow 
 and his equanimity quite restored, he said with 
 gracious patronage: 
 
 "It's very nice for you to win sometimes, 
 Ruddy." 
 
 "Phil," said I, "we must n't forget to answer 
 our letter." 
 
 "My letter," corrected Phil with decision. 
 
 "Well, yes," I admitted; "but you 're going 
 to let me help you to answer it, I hope." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he replied with cheerful indiffer- 
 ence; "you can do it all, if you like, Ruddy. 
 I don't mind." 
 
 "Oh, but that won't do at all. Millicent 
 expects a letter from you. Thank her for that 
 jolly boat she sent, and tell her it was the 
 very thing you wanted." 
 
 "Oh, but it isn't," said Phil. "It was the 
 motor car I wanted, but she said she had n't 
 enough pennies. I 'm sorry for her, Ruddy. 
 Could n't you give her some of your money out 
 of the bank? She said she " 
 
 "She! She!" I interrupted testily, in my
 
 60 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 irritability reverting to a vulgarism of my 
 nursery days. "She's the cat's mother." 
 
 "Is she?" asked Phil, staring at me in such 
 extreme surprise that I hurried on. 
 
 "Look here, wouldn't you like to answer 
 that letter now?" 
 
 "I 'd rather go to the Zoo." 
 
 "Another time we '11 go. But now, what 
 about the letter?" 
 
 Phil gave a wriggle. 
 
 "I don't know what to say." 
 
 "But I can tell you." 
 
 "Then that 'd be your letter. You don't 
 know what I want to say." 
 
 On the condition that if the letter was written 
 within the half -hour we should spend the rest of 
 the day at the Zoo, Phil reluctantly consented. 
 
 I pushed a chair up to the table, placed two 
 cushions on it, and there throned my scribe, put 
 pen, ink, and paper before him, and, lighting 
 my pipe, sat down to give help, encouragement, 
 and instructions. I need not have troubled. 
 
 "I '11 show you how to begin," I said. 
 
 "I know how," returned Phil confidently. 
 "I 've writ lots of letters to gran'pa." 
 
 "You write your address in the right-hand " 
 
 " I know! " he said with a preliminary wriggle, 
 and dipping his pen very deep.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 61 
 
 "And when you've done that, write 'Dear 
 Millicent.'" 
 
 "I know," he returned discouragingly. 
 
 "Oh, very well," I said, and was silent, 
 watching him; his small earnest face, his head 
 on one side, his small pink tongue protruded, 
 and quivering in sympathy with delicate up- 
 strokes, and curling decisively at the corners, 
 with firm down-strokes. He dipped very fre- 
 quently and very deeply, dropped blots gener- 
 ously, breathed hard, spelled audibly and 
 generally incorrectly, letter for letter, as he 
 wrote, and after three attempts Phil never 
 gave up a thing once attempted handed the 
 finished effusion to me with an air of modest 
 pride. This was his letter, minus phonetic 
 spelling, which was managed rather ingeniously, 
 and punctuated by myself: 
 
 "DEAR MILLICENT 
 
 "How are you getting on? I hope you 
 are quite well. I am quite well thank you. 
 Ruddy is quite well. We are all quite well. 
 How is your dog? I hope he is quite well. 
 Thank you for the jolly boat. It is the very 
 thing I wanted, but I'm sorry you have not 
 got enough pennies for the motor car. I 
 will give you some of mine when I break open 
 my bank, and Ruddy will give you some of 
 his. His bank is bigger than mine. It is
 
 62 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 that one near the post office, with the curly 
 iron windows. It is a very nice one, but it is 
 the kind what floats on to its side when you 
 put it in the bath, but Ruddy will fix it one 
 of these fine days. I send love and lots of 
 kisses" (here followed the orthodox symbols), 
 "and Ruddy send lots too from 
 
 "Your loving grandson, 
 
 "PHILIP" 
 
 Phil was watching me intently, and in the 
 stress of my emotion I was obliged to lift the 
 sheet of paper between my face and his earnest 
 eyes. I held the paper so long thus, that 
 Phil lost patience, and remarked: 
 
 "You must read very bad to take so long." 
 
 Even yet I could not trust my voice, and 
 the paper shook. 
 
 "Is it good?" he asked with the complacent 
 air of a favorite pupil waiting for his accus- 
 tomed meed of praise. 
 
 "Yes," I said weakly, and my treacherous 
 voice broke. 
 
 Phil jumped up. 
 
 "You're laughing!" he said accusingly. 
 
 "No, no, I'm not." With an effort I 
 mastered my unseemly levity. "But see, old 
 man, you must n't sign yourself like this." 
 
 "Oh, I always end my letters that way," 
 said Phil airily.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 63 
 
 "Yes, but then you were writing to your 
 grandfather." 
 
 "That's the way I write letters," he re- 
 marked, quite gently but with obstinate finality. 
 
 "But, hang it all, Miss Lynn is not Great 
 heavens! your grandfather, boy!" 
 
 "Shall we go to the Zoo now?" As one 
 who tactfully waives useless discussion. 
 
 "Oh, have it your own way," I said. "Stick 
 it in an envelope and write the address." 
 
 He did so, licking the envelope flap exten- 
 sively, and writing the address on a very up- 
 hill gradient. He carelessly brushed aside 
 Millicent's note, and it fell to the floor. Think- 
 ing myself unobserved, I picked it up and 
 slipped it into my pocket, and took Phil to 
 the bathroom to wash his face and hands 
 and brush his thick obstinate hair, and from 
 behind a damp sponge he gave me an account, 
 unavoidably disjointed, of how his mother's 
 maid washed his face in moments of emer- 
 gency, concluding the edifying recital with the 
 perfectly reasonable remark that he "didn't 
 mind" it being her "handkershif," but he'd 
 rather it was his own "lick." 
 
 We caught a car, and after counting the 
 windows he spelled out the advertisements, 
 as thus:
 
 64 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "O b a n. What 's that spell, Ruddy?" 
 "Oban." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Oban, an advertisement for a tie fastener." 
 
 "What's the man making that ugly face 
 for? Has he just had a dose of eucalyptus?" 
 (Eucalyptus is Phil's bete noir.) 
 
 "No! No! He can't fasten his tie right." 
 
 "I wouldn't make a face like that if I 
 could n't fasten my tie." 
 
 "What would you do?" 
 
 "I'd get my mother to fasten it for me. 
 What 's the next one about? I t. I know 
 that word it! It c h a s e s 
 
 "Chases," I prompted. "It chases 
 d i r t. What's that spell, now? Come. 
 It chases " 
 
 "The cat," hazarded Phil in a flash of 
 inspiration, his own experience probably sug- 
 gesting the quarry. Then a little later, in a 
 very audible voice, he asked: 
 
 "What 's that man pull up his trouser legs 
 for when he sits down?" 
 
 "Hush!" 
 
 "What for hush? Why does he for, Ruddy? " 
 
 "He does n't want to bag 'em at the knees." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "He does n't want them to get out of shape."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 65 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, he does n't, that 's all. He likes them 
 to be neat " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Phil interpolates "what" and "why" at 
 intervals simply to gain time to formulate 
 another question before the matter shall drop. 
 
 "Don't keep on saying 'what'," said I. 
 
 "Wha beg your pardon?" 
 
 "Nor beg your pardon, either. It 's a habit 
 you 've got." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "A habit there you go again." 
 
 "What's a habit?" 
 
 "What you've got." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Heaven knows I don't!" 
 
 "Tell me a story, Ruddy." 
 
 "I can't! Not here. Hold on; I will, 
 though, a short one." And I began in a low 
 voice, conscious of two giggling girls opposite. 
 "There was once a little boy " 
 
 "What? I can't hear you." Phil thrust his 
 face closer to mine. 
 
 "A little boy," I resumed hurriedly. 
 
 "Why can't you talk louder? Have you got 
 a sore froat?" 
 
 "Who asked a tremendous lot of questions." 
 
 5
 
 66 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "How m " began Phil, but I anticipated 
 
 him. 
 
 "Seven hundred and forty-nine," I said 
 quickly. "I'll tell you the rest another time." 
 
 Soon after I heard Phil, who insisted on 
 buying the tickets with coppers borrowed from 
 me, telling the conductor that we were going 
 to the Zoo, a fact of which he informed all 
 and sundry that came within range of his 
 speaking voice. Then, to my surprise, he 
 leaned over to a lady with a piece of white 
 work in her hand, and asked sociably, "Is it 
 the same or another piece?" 
 
 The lady started, and disclosed the features 
 of our Spinster. 
 
 " Why, it is the little boy from the dentist's, 
 isn't it?" she asked with a rather eager smile. 
 
 "Yes," replied Phil, adding hastily, "but 
 we don't never kiss ladies on cram cars, do we 
 Ruddy? You and me don't?" 
 
 "Never!" said I gravely, and Phil ran on 
 sociably: 
 
 "I've still got that tooth out," displaying 
 a tiny gap at the corner of his small jaw. 
 
 He and the Spinster chatted amiably for a 
 while, and then the latter pointed out one in 
 a row of houses we were approaching, as her 
 home. It bore a sign on the door which set
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 67 
 
 forth "Miss Ellis, Pianoforte Teacher," and 
 Phil, pointing it out, inquired its meaning. 
 
 "That, my dear," said the Spinster rather 
 complacently, "is my occupation." 
 
 "Oh," said Phil! "I thought it was a brass 
 plate. It looks like one what the doctor has 
 on his gate." 
 
 As we alighted at our destination Phil 
 remarked with affectionate pleasure: 
 
 "Here it is, in just the same old place," 
 which, considering it was less than a fortnight 
 since our last visit, was not very remarkable. 
 There was the same old woman with her basket 
 waiting on the curb; it seemed as though the 
 very bags of peanuts were identical. We 
 purchased largely of these, and then came the 
 delight of the turnstiles, in which Phil took 
 his place with supreme satisfaction. He always 
 firmly resolves on going twice round in this 
 device, and is unfailingly surprised to find 
 himself, with apparently no volition on his own 
 part, on the other side. First we visited the 
 brown bear in his pit. It is the ambition of 
 our lives to see bruin climb his pole, an am- 
 bition that has never been realized. Another 
 animal in which Phil is profoundly interested 
 is the llama, or what he calls the "spitting 
 camel."
 
 68 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "What's it say?" he asks, pointing to the 
 notice board, though he knows perfectly well. 
 
 "Beware: this Animal Spits," say I very 
 solemnly. 
 
 Phil looks delighted. 
 
 "Say it again," he urges. 
 
 "But you know it as well as I do." 
 
 "Yes but say it again, please. I like 
 to hear it." 
 
 Having done so, I hear him repeating softly: 
 
 "Beware this animal spits this animal 
 spits beware!" 
 
 For some reason it fascinates him, and as 
 we move off he remarks: 
 
 "It 's a very rude animal, isn't it, Ruddy? 
 But p'r'aps it has a nasty taste in its mouf 
 like when I take eucalyptus." 
 
 At the monkey house we pause, to watch 
 the weird half -human little wretches mouthing 
 and chattering, and springing back and forth. 
 Phil feeds them liberally with nuts, and we 
 pass on. The huge good-natured elephant, 
 laden with children, is perambulating slowly 
 about the grounds. Phil is very interested, 
 but declines a ride, as he thinks it might make 
 him "elephant-sick." 
 
 Then comes the real business of the day 
 the feeding of the wild beasts and long before
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 69 
 
 there is any sign of the keeper, the iron rail 
 in front of the cages is thronged with a jostling 
 crowd of children, mothers, fathers, and nurse- 
 maids. Something of the following conversa- 
 tion goes on with more or less acrimony: 
 "Now, Willie, keep close up, can't yer? Yer '11 
 lose yer plice, stupid!" 
 
 " 'Ere, Georgie, Mary, Maggie, keep close to 
 me, and Tom where 's Tom? 'Ere, Tom, you 
 keep alongside of me or I '11 skin yer." 
 
 "I say, Missus, I '11 trouble you not to let 
 that boy push in like that. My boy was there 
 'fore 'e was." 
 
 "Ow! Was 'e? Reely! I s'pose 'e 'as as 
 much right to see the animals fed as your boy." 
 
 "Mine was there first. 'Grace, you 'ang 
 on to the rail tight an' don't let nobody push 
 you off. Stick up for yer rights, I say." 
 
 "Or' right, mumma. You git out." The 
 two boys jostle and elbow one another harm- 
 lessly. "I was 'ere first." 
 
 "You wasn't!" 
 
 "I was." 
 
 "You He." 
 
 "Look 'ere, ma'am, I '11 box that boy's ears, 
 if 'e so much as lays a finger on my boy. Come 
 'ere, 'Grace, 'ere 's a better plice lower down. 
 I would n't lower meself standin* by that scum,
 
 70 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 dear." Aside, with a shake, to Horace: "You 
 little fool, wotjer let 'im push you out for?" 
 
 Chorus of children: "When 's the man with 
 the meat coming? I can't see 'im. I can't 
 see nothing." 
 
 "Oo! I 'm so squeezed 'ere. Can't yer let 
 me see as well as you? Ma, Tommy 's standin' 
 right in front of me. Will the man git right 
 inside the cages?" 
 
 "Oo! ain't 'e fierce though?" and so on, 
 and so on. 
 
 Two little street arabs arrive, breathless. 
 
 First Arab: "Aw! 'taint no good! Too 
 many bloomin' kids. Chuck it, an' let 's go and 
 snavel some peanuts from the monkey's cages." 
 
 Second Arab: "We '11 get in. Dodge under 
 this fat bloke's arm." 
 
 They dodge, worm, and wriggle until, in 
 spite of protests, they secure a place next the 
 railings. 
 
 Chorus of women : ' 'Ere, 'oo 're yer pushin' ? 
 No, yer don't." 
 
 "You don't push by me that easy. 'Old on, 
 Kitty and Johnny; take care o* little Bobbie, 
 Mabel. Can you see all right there, Charlie? 
 What! Lost yer place? Serve yer right for 
 gapin' stupid! 'Ere, come in front o' me, the 
 gentleman won't mind. My little boy, sir
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 71 
 
 What? You Ve as much right to see as 'im? 
 Well, keep it, and much good may it do yer, 
 but if you was lookin' for yer brothers, you Ve 
 made a mistake the monkey 'ouse is lower 
 down" (appreciative titters). "What yer 
 cryin' for? No, you little fool, o' course 'e 
 won't put 'is 'ead in the lion's mouth. This 
 ain't a circus. Stop pushin' Mary, Alice. Wait 
 till I get you 'ome, my girl, jest you wait," 
 and so on. 
 
 Philip, enthroned on my shoulder, had his 
 own store of question and comment, and so 
 we whiled away some time until the keeper, 
 with his barrow laden with rather grisly 
 looking red joints, appeared, and after watch- 
 ing the great cats prowling, and sniffing or 
 snarling over their meat, we threw biscuits to 
 the little bears, who walked about on their 
 hind legs and caught our offerings cleverly in 
 mouths or paws, and whimpered and quarreled 
 among themselves like a pack of greedy children. 
 It was while waiting for the city-bound car that 
 we saw the Elderly Gentleman. Philip saw him 
 first, and accosted him in a friendly way. 
 He turned sharp round, and fumbled for his 
 spectacles, and having adjusted them, surveyed 
 my young friend keenly over the top of them. 
 
 "Hello!" said Phil, after the manner of
 
 72 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 your young colonial, without a shadow of 
 disrespect, yet without a shade of awe. 
 
 "Hello, young man! God bless my soul! 
 Is it is it now where have I seen this boy? 
 Is it I wonder Jones' boy?" musingly. 
 
 "No, it isn't," said Phil; "it's just me. 
 Don't you remember me? At the dentist's, 
 you know having a tooth out?" 
 
 And having supplied all the data that could 
 be reasonably expected of him, he waited 
 confidently. 
 
 "God bless my soul, yes," cried the Elderly 
 Gentleman, "and how are we, young sir?" 
 He shook hands briskly. 
 
 "I 'm quite well, thank you. This is my 
 friend, Ruddy. He was at the dentist's, too, 
 that day. He said he guessed you were a 
 peppery old chap." 
 
 "Philip!" I cried. "I assure you, sir," to 
 the Elderly Gentleman, "our young friend has 
 a lively imagination" which was an injustice 
 to Phil, his report having been quite a true one. 
 
 The Elderly Gentleman laughed very heartily, 
 however, and begged me not to apologize. 
 
 "Children and fools, you know," he said 
 jocosely, "and I put it to you, sir, if a visit to 
 the dentist is not sufficient license for any 
 amount of bad temper."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 73 
 
 Having cordially agreed, we got into conversa- 
 tion, in the course of which I gave him my name. 
 
 "Not a son of Bob Lingard?" 
 
 "A nephew," said I. 
 
 "God bless my soul!" cried he. "Bob was 
 a good friend of mine in the old days. My 
 name is Wimple William Wimple." 
 
 "Like Wee Willie Winkie," observed Phil 
 to himself. Mr. Wimple, it seems, was Wimple, 
 K.C., the Wimple of the famous case of Rex 
 v. Doherty, which he carried through victo- 
 riously in the face of strong circumstantial 
 evidence, and three apparently proved alibis. 
 That was long before my time, but I, a 
 struggling barrister, was glad to have the honor 
 of shaking hands with the eminent lawyer, 
 retired some years now and, it was reputed, 
 rather wealthy. He, on his part, hinted vaguely 
 at "putting things in my way," and finished 
 up by an indefinite invitation to come and 
 visit him at his home at Tambourine Bay, 
 which I promised to do, without much prospect, 
 I thought, of ever doing so. But Phil, on 
 his general principle of always grasping the 
 bull by the horns, and leaving nothing in 
 doubt, clinched the matter in his own masterly 
 style, there and then. 
 
 "When shall we come?" he asked.
 
 74 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Eh!" said Mr. Wimple. "What's that, 
 young man? Who said anything about your 
 coming?" 
 
 "Well," said Phil, rather offended, "I saw 
 you first, you know." 
 
 "Quite right! Quite right!" agreed Mr. 
 Wimple, and he named a day there and then, 
 so that I had Philip to thank for any chances 
 that might be coming my way. He shook 
 hands with us both. 
 
 "Good day to you, Mr. Lingard," concluded 
 our old "new" friend, "and good day to you, 
 sir good day, Humphrey." 
 
 It was a little idiosyncrasy on his part, we 
 found, to forget names and bestow others of his 
 own, and no amount of correction ever put him 
 right. He always called Philip "Humphrey," 
 and beyond once remarking to me that he 
 wondered why the old man called him Humpty- 
 Dumpty, Philip accepted his new name without 
 any demur.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN WHICH PHILIP GOES A-GADDING 
 
 TT was Bmks' "day out," and that excellent 
 creature had sought and obtained per- 
 mission to take Phil with her in search of 
 recreation. The next day I had a full, true, 
 and particular account of this "outing" from 
 Phil, and I cannot do better than give this 
 account in his own words, with my own un- 
 important interjections as a running com- 
 mentary thereon. Phil, having subsided into 
 the depths of my biggest armchair, with both 
 hands in his breeches pockets, and his legs 
 stuck straight out in front of him, and having 
 tried unsuccessfully several times to turn heels 
 over head, because his attitude seemed to 
 invite such effort, consented at last to "sit up 
 and behave," and tell his story. 
 
 "Well," he said, "Binks said, 'be here at 
 twelve twelve sharp, mind!' What's twelve 
 sharp, Ruddy?" 
 
 "The apex of time," said I, feeling quite 
 "sharp" myself. These flashes come to a 
 fellow at times. 
 
 "Well, I was here," continued Phil, "on the 
 
 75
 
 76 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 abex what you said, you know and would 
 you believe it, she wasn't even dressed?' 1 
 
 "Ah, Phil," said I, "your experience is 
 beginning early, but they are all alike, these 
 fair ladies. But how do you know that she 
 was n't dressed?" 
 
 " 'Cos I looked through the keyhole," he 
 answered simply. 
 
 "Oh, Phil at a lady in dishabille?" 
 
 "She wasn't, Ruddy it was her petticoat, 
 and on her top part she 
 
 "Hush! hush! I decline to hear any more. 
 Let the mysteries of B inks' toilet be sacred 
 for me. What happened next?" 
 
 "Well, after a' nawful time she came out, 
 smelling so nice, Ruddy, and she had the dearest 
 little rooster in her hat, an' she said, ' You 're 
 all eyes, an' now what do you think of me?' 
 an' I said, ' You smell berry nice, but you Ve 
 forgot to wash the flour off your nose, Binks,' 
 and she said, quite cross-sounding, that I 
 talked too much an' did I think I could fasten 
 up the back of her blouse. I tried and tried, 
 but it was such a silly blouse, Ruddy, with 
 hundreds of buttons, and more buttons than 
 buttonholes at the top and more buttonholes 
 than buttons at the bottom, so at last she said 
 she 'd manage for herself, 'cos boys' ringers
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 77 
 
 were all thumbs, but I looked and looked at 
 mine, an' they 're just the same as anybody 
 else's." 
 
 Finally, it appeared, they got off and boarded 
 a "cram car," which, in view of the over- 
 crowding which goes on in our cars, is the well 
 earned if unconsciously just name which Phil 
 gives them. 
 
 "So we went along, an' we went along," 
 proceeded Phil, "an' then we got off of the 
 cram car, an' went down a funny little street, 
 with houses all ezackly the same, an' then we 
 were there." 
 
 "Where?" I asked. 
 
 "At Aunt 'Liza's. M'ria lives with Aunt 
 Liza, and Gram'ma, an' Pa, but Pa was in 
 bed 'cos he has to work all night. He gets 
 up with the howls, and he goes to bed with 
 the howls. Aunt Liza said so, but he must 
 be a crybaby to be howling like that just for 
 getting up and going to bed, must n't he? 
 Why, I 'm only six, an' it 's years and years 
 and years since I cried for going to bed. What 
 are you laughing at?" 
 
 "Was I laughing? I didn't mean to. 
 Go on." 
 
 Phil looked at me suspiciously, but proceeded. 
 
 "Gram 'ma's as deaf as a postman. What
 
 78 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 makes postmen deaf? Their loud whistles, 
 I 'spect. Still, I 'd love a postman whistle, 
 Ruddy. Do you think you could buy me one? 
 I 'd only blow very softly if you did." 
 
 "Perhaps, but get on now." 
 
 "Well, Gram'ma she 's silly, too, you know. 
 She had a kind of a tin crumpet-thing in her 
 lap, and she tried to blow it with her ears." 
 
 "With her ears?" 
 
 "Yes. I would have just loved to blow it. 
 It was such a dear little crumpet, an' I said I 'd 
 show her how, but Binks said not to touch it. 
 'cos it was for hearing, not for blowing, but, 
 course you could n't hear it, if nobody blowed 
 it, could you? But every time anybody said 
 a word Gram'ma snatched up the little crumpet 
 and stuck it in her ears, one after the other, and 
 said: 'That's it mumble, mumble, mumble. 
 You would n't dare say it to my face, 'cos of 
 my money, but I '11 take care of that. ' ' 
 
 "What a dear old lady!" 
 
 "Not very," admitted Phil, dispassionately; 
 "when we first got there she said to Binks, 
 1 Gadding again, Emma Binks, an' does that child 
 b'long to the young feller you do for?' An' 
 Binks said just like this, Ruddy here Phil 
 elevated his small nose and screwed up his lips 
 superciliously 'the gentleman what I keeps
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 79 
 
 house for, is a battledore.'' I think she said 
 battledore." 
 
 "Bachelor, perhaps," said I, trying to hide 
 my mirth by pulling fiercely at my pipe. 
 
 "Yes," said Phil, "that was it, an' then 
 Gram'ma said (an' she kind of snorted), 'More 
 shame for him, then, keepin' some girl out of 
 a home.' Why don't you let the girl go home, 
 if she wants to, Ruddy?" 
 
 "She won't come home, Phil, charm I ever 
 so wisely," said I. "But go on!" 
 
 "Then Gram'ma said to me, 'Come here, 
 little boy; would you like to kiss an ugly old 
 woman?' and I said, 'No, thank you,' 'cos I 
 would n't, you know, Ruddy, and she asked 
 me. But Binks said, 'Mercy sakes!' an' Aunt 
 Liza said, 'An' Gram'ma's that touchy!' And 
 M'ria said, 'Oh, lor!' and began to laugh." 
 
 "And what did Gram'ma say?" 
 
 "She said, 'Go it! Go it! Waitin' till I'm 
 dead an' gone to laugh over my poor old bones, 
 an' dance on my grave, too. But you shan't 
 get my money in a hurry. I 'm sittin' tight 
 on that." So I went up to her an' said, 'Do 
 you sit on it all the time? It must feel very 
 hard sometimes, does n't it? An' what do you 
 do when you go to bed?' But Binks made 
 me come away, an' said, 'Gram'ma was too
 
 8o MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 much for flesh and blood.' What 's flesh and 
 blood mean?" 
 
 "Well, and what next?" said I successfully 
 evading the point. 
 
 "Then M'ria took Gram'ma a bowl of soup, 
 an' she 'set it all down poor M'ria's blue dress, 
 and it was is. 8fd. at the sales, an' worth every 
 penny of half-a-crown. M'ria cried, an' 
 Gram'ma laughed in a horrid kind of way, an' 
 said, 'Dear me, what a sad axibent. What a 
 sad axibent, but pride must have a fall, my 
 girl,' but it was n't an axibent at all. She did 
 it on purpose, an' I told Binks, an' she said, 
 'Hush, Sharp eyes!' An' then Binks an' Aunt 
 Liza begged M'ria to put on another dress, 
 'cos Binks said she would look just like a bell 
 in it, an' I wanted to see her looking like a 
 bell, so I begged her, too, so she did, but she 
 did n't look a bit like a bell, after all. After 
 that we all had a smack." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A smack; you know, that 's what Binks says; 
 it means a bit of bread an' cheese an' beer." 
 
 "You had no beer, I should hope." 
 
 "Yes, I did hot beer." 
 
 "Hot or cold," said I indignantly, "Binks 
 ought to have known better than to give a 
 child beer."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 81 
 
 "You've often given me some, you know the 
 kind that fizzles up at the back of your nose." 
 
 "Oh! ah! hop beer. That's all right." 
 
 "I said hot beer," said Phil with dignity, 
 "and after we'd finished I had the last bit 
 of cheese, 'cos I told them I was the visitor 
 M'ria's feller came in." 
 
 "Ye gods! Maria's what?" 
 
 "Her feller! She told Binks that she'd 
 been ' going with ' him so long she s'posed she 'd 
 'go the whole way to church this time.' She 
 told me he was her 'feller." 
 
 "Phil, Phil," said I, shaking my head, "what 
 company have you been keeping? Evil com- 
 munications ' ' 
 
 "Yes, and his name's H'alf," said Phil 
 innocently, "and she an' H'alf were going for 
 a walk, an' M'ria said I could come, but H'alf 
 said, 'Who wants a gooseberry?' and I said, 
 'I do, please,' an' then they all laughed, an' 
 Gram'ma woke up, an' said, 'Cackle! Cackle! 
 Cackle!' but nobody gave me a gooseberry 
 after all." 
 
 Phil drew a nail and a piece of string from his 
 pocket and remarked in a detached way: "I 
 did n't go with them 'cos Binks said better not, 
 and Aunt Liza, she said, 'All little picshers have 
 long ears,' but that 's not true, 'cos I 've seen 
 6
 
 82 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 hundreds of picshers, an' none of them have 
 ears at all. Have yours?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know," I said. "You know 
 it is said that walls have ears, and as pictures 
 hang on walls they might possibly - But 
 
 there I stopped, ashamed of my levity in the face 
 of Phil's innocence, and continued, "Go on!" 
 
 "That's all," said Phil, clinking his nail 
 monotonously against the fender rail. "Look! 
 this nail is a fish I 've caught, an' " 
 
 "But," I interrupted, "what happened next?" 
 
 " Nothing did n't happen at all. We just sat 
 and sat and sat, until Binks said time to go 
 home. This fish pulls like anything." 
 
 "Come," I persisted. "Something else must 
 have occurred." 
 
 ' ' What 's 'occurred ' mean ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, for instance, poor old Granny - 
 didn't she say some more kind things?" 
 
 "She wasn't 'a poor old' at all. She was a 
 horrid, cross old skinned something Binks 
 said so." He returned to his fishing, hanging 
 head down over the chair-arm. 
 
 "Well," said I impatiently. 
 
 "What?" said he, jerking at his line. 
 
 "Tell me about Gram'ma!" 
 
 With a sigh he sat up, returning the nail 
 and string to his pocket. He sat silent for a
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 83 
 
 moment with knit brows. Then, "Something 
 happened," he said slowly. "Gram'ma fell off 
 her chair on to the stove." 
 
 "Good Heavens!" I said "A judgment. 
 Then, I suppose, there was a great commotion." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "Commotion a fuss. Binks and Aunt Liza 
 rushed, I suppose." 
 
 "No," he returned coldly; "they didn't do 
 nothing. They went on talking, only Binks 
 said, 'Serve her right/ an' I said so too, and we 
 did n't take a bit of notice." 
 
 "Monsters!" said I, who had my suspicions. 
 "And wasn't poor Gram'ma burned?" 
 
 "Just a little at the edges," he said. "An' 
 bime-by M'ria picked her up, an* put her in 
 her chair again." 
 
 "But M'ria was out with with H'alf?" 
 
 For a moment Phil looked a bit flurried. 
 
 "Yes, but she she came back when she 
 heard Gram'ma screaming." 
 
 "Phil!" said I, in a warning voice. 
 
 "What!" said he, brazening it out. 
 
 "Look me in the eye, Phil." 
 
 He did so, steadily enough, but the pink began 
 to creep up and deepen in his round cheeks. 
 
 "You've been telling fibs, Phil," said I 
 gravely.
 
 84 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Yes," he confessed in a small voice, "just 
 that part about Gram'ma falling on the stove." 
 "Oh, Phil! Why did you tell me fibs?" 
 "You you made me, Ruddy," Phil's voice 
 shook slightly. "I told you that was all, but 
 you keeped asking and asking what happened, 
 what never happened at all, and so so 
 he gulped, and suddenly a big tear splashed on 
 to his little brown fist, and I, recognizing justice 
 in his defense, jumped up and cried: 
 "Let's play burning houses, Phil." 
 "Let's," cried Phil, his tears banished for 
 that occasion.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN WHICH PHIL MAKES A NEW FRIEND 
 
 TDHILIP has found a new friend. I am not 
 quite happy about it. I feel that this 
 means a rupture in our pleasant relationship, 
 that this new friend will thrust in, and upset 
 the perfect understanding that Phil and I 
 have enjoyed, with claims that will clash 
 with my claims on Phil's time and attention, 
 with demands, caprices, and exactions innum- 
 merable. I have confided my fears to Philip, 
 but he very kindly says, No ! that he will always 
 like me best, and furthermore he points out 
 that, owing to the many engagements of his 
 new friend, there will be still many hours 
 which he proposes to devote to me. Of course 
 it will be gathered that this new friend is a 
 woman, a slight thing, pretty if you will, quite 
 amazingly pretty in fact, with a thick cloud of 
 ruddy hair, and shell-pink ears, and unabashed 
 blue eyes. Her name is Olivia Mary Harland, 
 and her age is six years. She is a fellow- 
 student with Philip at the "Kindergarter," and 
 is possessed of some real or fancied superiority 
 over him, inasmuch as she is up to "big pig" 
 while he is still struggling with "fat cat." 
 
 85
 
 86 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Why this should constitute a claim to superior- 
 ity I know not, but she is very arrogant indeed 
 about it, and Philip himself humbly admits 
 her claim, except when he is goaded too far, 
 when he very justly says, "A cat is better than 
 a pig, because you can never take a pig to bed 
 with you." 
 
 On Saturday afternoons now, she and Philip 
 play together and I have to dig my garden, and 
 mow my pocket-handkerchief lawn, without 
 my young friend's help. It makes me very sad. 
 Philip was so industrious and helpful. Once, 
 when he was weeding, he pulled up all my young 
 asters, but accidents like that might happen to 
 any gardener, and I never told him. Meeting 
 Phil in the street, I confessed my loneliness to 
 him, and he volunteered to bring Olivia Mary to 
 see me. I was not very jolly about it, but as it 
 seemed he would n't come without her, I con- 
 sented. He was as good as his word, and the 
 next Saturday they both turned up. I was first 
 made aware of their approach by hearing a high- 
 pitched, incisive, feminine voice: "I'm going 
 to open the gate, Phil. Don't you do it. Yes, 
 I do know how. Mother says it's ladies first." 
 
 Then Philip's voice: "You're not a lady 
 you 're just a little girl. I want to open the 
 gate my own self. You 're littler 'n me."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 87 
 
 I 'm in pig but- 
 
 It was the first I had heard of the wretched 
 porker, but it was not to be the last. It silenced 
 Phil, and ended the squabble. I saw a little 
 blue-sleeved arm slipped through the rails. 
 The latch clicked, and two small figures came 
 hurrying up the path, the feminine in advance, 
 a slim, graceful figure in a blue frock, with an 
 enormous bow of blue ribbon tied to one side 
 of a mass of short bright hair. She wore no 
 hat, had elbow sleeves, and a square-cut low 
 neck, and long legs, with open-work white 
 socks and white shoes to inadequately clothe 
 them. I was in my dining room, and without 
 any formality she swept in upon me, Phil 
 bringing up the rear. In one sweeping, dis- 
 dainful, comprehensive glance she seemed to 
 me to find out the weak spots in my room, 
 which Philip and I had ignored or never noticed, 
 and I was suddenly horribly conscious of the 
 worn place in my linoleum which Phil and I 
 has so often absently tripped over, of the 
 sagging of one lace curtain which Phil had torn 
 from the rings when hiding one day, of the 
 confusion of pipes, old tobacco tins and match 
 boxes and dusty odds and ends on the mantel- 
 shelf. That is the worst of a woman. Phil 
 and I had been under no delusion concerning
 
 88 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 this room of mine, but it had always seemed 
 to us a jolly sort of place, cozy, cheery, sub- 
 stantial, but now under the appraising eye of 
 this woman it became small and dusty and 
 shabby, and I was hoping she had not noticed 
 the very large rent in the tablecloth which was 
 partially concealed by a particularly hideous 
 blue and green vase, a gift from Philip. All 
 this took place in the moment it took for her to 
 come forward. 
 
 "How do you do?" said I, holding out my 
 hand. "You are Phil's little friend?" 
 
 "I 'm Olivia Mary Harland," she returned in 
 clear, high tones. "Sometimes I 'm his friend 
 and sometimes I 'm not. What 's them?" 
 
 An imperious small finger indicated a sheaf 
 of pipe-spills in a cracked vase. 
 
 "Those," said I, "are for lighting my pipe." 
 
 "I made them," put in Phil, proudly. "I '11 
 show you how to make some for your daddy." 
 
 "My father," observed Olivia Mary, dis- 
 tinctly and chillingly, "lights his pipes with 
 real matches out of a silver match box." 
 
 Phil and I glanced at each other, feeling 
 depressed. Then I felt a comforting small hand 
 in mine, and heard Phil's voice whispering, 
 "Never mind, Ruddy; I '11 buy you a silver 
 match box."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 89 
 
 "Thank you, old man," I said, much cheered. 
 
 Then followed a depressed silence, Phil and 
 I and Olivia Mary gazing solemnly at each 
 other, all of us shy and self-conscious. As 
 usual, the woman's self-possession asserted it- 
 self first. She slipped down from the chair 
 where she had been sitting, one slim leg swinging 
 and the other doubled under her. 
 
 "We'd better be going now, better n't we, 
 Phil?" she said. 
 
 "No, no!" I said, my latent hospitality 
 aroused. "If you 're going so soon, what was 
 the use of coming?" 
 
 "Phil made me," she answered succinctly. 
 
 "Oh!" I rejoined weakly. 
 
 "We'll have to bemuse her, Ruddy," Phil 
 whispered audibly. "I said if she came we 'd 
 bemuse her, an' I had to give her the bit of 
 choc. I had saved for you." 
 
 I looked helpless. Phil and I could amuse 
 ourselves in a thousand ways, but would this 
 small fine lady count it amusement to mow 
 my small square of grass, to poke about under 
 the dusty bushes for hen's nests we never found, 
 to rearrange the tools, that is, one rake, one 
 Dutch hoe, one chipped spade, and a hammer, 
 and kindred enjoyments which made a busy, 
 happy afternoon for Phil and me? Then I
 
 90 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 was conscious of Phil nodding at me, his chubby 
 face screwed up, and his smooth forehead 
 puckered into a very meaning frown. 
 
 "In the cupboard!" he breathed. 
 
 "Eh?" I said, mystified. 
 
 "You know ! " nodding still more mysteriously, 
 over my head. 
 
 "I don't, I'm sure," for Phil was very direct 
 in his methods as a rule. 
 
 "Pink sugar," he prompted, and a light 
 broke in on me. 
 
 "Oh, ah, yes!" I sprang up, and going to 
 the cupboard produced a tin of sweet biscuits, 
 special favorites of Phil's. As the right-of-way 
 to a child's heart lies through its stomach, and 
 sugar biscuits level all differences, we were soon 
 all sociability, biscuit crumbs, and pink sugar. 
 
 "Now, what '11 we do?" asked Phil, when 
 we were all surfeited, a crumb of pink sugar on 
 the tip of his small nose not detracting from 
 the beatitude of his expression. 
 
 "What?" said I, conscious of four very 
 sticky little paws, and two equally sticky little 
 faces pressing close to me. 
 
 "Let's swing in the hammock," suggested 
 Phil. 
 
 "Let's," said I. 
 
 Accordingly, after I 'd taken them to the
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 91 
 
 bathroom and washed hands and faces rather 
 a pleasant operation, I thought, as I rubbed 
 the soft pink, damp cheeks with a clean towel 
 and dried dimpled hands, ringer by finger 
 we repaired to the back porch. We all tumbled 
 into the old hammock with much laughter and 
 settling down, and rather a wordy wrangle 
 between Phil and Olivia Mary as to whose 
 fault it was they both kept sliding down into the 
 middle and on top of me, a discussion in which 
 I very discreetly took no part, having a very 
 good idea as to who was to blame. My Lady 
 cut short this argument with a very decided : 
 
 "I 'm the visitor well," a quaint habit she 
 had of ending her sentences. She had a rather 
 engaging stammer, too, which in moments of 
 excitement or urgency was apt to trip her up, 
 and the blood would fly into her face and she 
 would stamp her small foot with annoyance. 
 We swung industriously for a time, but after 
 having rescued both children several times, 
 by frantic grabs, from pitching out head first, 
 first on one side and then the other, I found the 
 thing getting on my nerves, so I helped them 
 out and suggested a game. Instantly the fun- 
 sprites danced into Phil's bright eyes. 
 
 " Hidy-go-seek, and don't look in the bath- 
 room," he cried eagerly, and was off. So we
 
 92 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 played for a while, but Olivia Mary retired so 
 often with an offended air, saying "It isn't 
 fair," or "I won't play any more," or "I 'm 
 not speaking to you," that Phil and I became 
 bewildered, and a little damped in spirits. 
 We were not, to use Phil's expression, "be- 
 customed" to playing that way, having always 
 played with a degree of heartiness and good- 
 fellowship. I suggested a rest, and we all sat 
 down to grow cool again. 
 
 "These are not my b-best shoes," remarked 
 Olivia Mary. (Phil called her "Livy," but to 
 me she was always so tremendous, nothing 
 but her full title seemed to do her justice.) 
 She regarded her slim crossed ankles with 
 complacency. 
 
 "Aren't they?" said I coolly. 
 
 "I Ve got white k-kid one for S-Sunday with 
 free straps," she continued, "an* an' s-s-silk 
 s-socks." 
 
 "That 's nothing," said I, refusing to be im- 
 pressed, for the remembrance of Phil's slighted 
 pipe-lights rankled, and I felt it to be my turn. 
 She looked at me, amazed. 
 
 "I 've got a white silk frock with 's-sertion 
 let in for S-Sunday." 
 
 "I know a little girl," said I mendaciously, 
 "who wears a white silk frock every day."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 93 
 
 "Not to school?" she breathed, incredulous. 
 
 I was enjoying myself, and getting some of 
 my own back. 
 
 "Yes, "I nodded. "All the time always." 
 
 "With 's-sertion let in but?" 
 
 "All over it," I said recklessly, quite ignorant 
 as to what she referred, and elated with her 
 evident empressement I overreached myself 
 by adding, "and it has beautiful bows and 
 flounces all over it, too." 
 
 "Then that little girl must look very old- 
 fashion. They are not worn now," said this 
 amazing child, with the air of supercilious 
 finality and contempt with which the fashionable 
 dame refuses to consider last season's hat. 
 I was crushed and silenced. 
 
 Phil, very properly having grown tired of this 
 inane conversation, begged for a story, and for 
 the first time I saw the child wake up in Olivia 
 Mary, for two very engaging dimples appeared 
 in her pink cheeks, and she climbed on to my 
 knee at once. Phil's face fell, for he had been 
 preparing to take his usual seat, and he gazed 
 at the interloper very hard. Phil is a gentleman, 
 but he has a lively sense of his rights, and I do 
 not know what might have happened had I not 
 very hastily made room for him also. I told 
 them stories for half an hour, and discovered
 
 94 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 in this strange, hard little piece of porcelain 
 femininity an unexpected streak of the softer 
 attributes of her sex. For having hit on the 
 story of David and Goliath, a favorite with 
 Phil, and been at pains to describe with much 
 graphic detail the timely demise of the giant, a 
 recital which always gives Phil unholy satisfac- 
 tion, my feminine auditor suddenly startled us 
 both by bursting into roars and wails of grief, 
 burying her pink cheeks against my shoulder. 
 Phil, much taken aback, misunderstood her 
 entirely. "Don't cry, Livy dear," he said 
 consolingly. "It was only horrid old G'liath 
 that was killed he did n't hurt dear little 
 David a bit, did he, Ruddy? David hit him 
 bang on the temper with a little weeny stone, 
 and the great, big, ugly old giant dropped 
 down killed dead you tell her, Ruddy." 
 
 But Olivia Mary was understood to gurgle 
 between her sobs that "David was a nasty 
 cruel little boy" -"and the p-p-poor giant." 
 
 Then she suddenly dried her eyes on my 
 coat sleeve, sat up with a sniff, and said, "Tell 
 another." 
 
 I was sore put to it to find a non-harrowing 
 subject, for the wells of her sympathy flowed 
 afresh very readily, but even in this commend- 
 able softness she showed a queer feminine
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 95 
 
 perversity, for it was the wolf that climbed 
 down the chimney, and not the persecuted pig 
 that got her sympathy, while the pathos of 
 poor abandoned Joseph in the pit, over which 
 Phil had been known to wink his bright eyes 
 very hard, left her cold, while she wept over 
 the slaughter of the kid in the blood of which 
 the gay coat had been dipped. It was then, 
 in search of a sufficiently innocuous and un- 
 moving tale, that I discovered Olivia Mary's 
 raison d'etre, why a kind Providence had 
 suffered her to grow and thrive and come 
 between me and Phil, and inflict herself upon 
 me that particular afternoon all means 
 working to an end. 
 
 For having concluded the story of the loaves 
 and fishes, and calculated to Phil's satisfaction 
 the amount of crumbs left over, by giving him 
 a quite unwarranted estimate of the size of the 
 seven baskets, Olivia Mary remarked rather 
 disparagingly and quite casually, just as though 
 it were not the most precious and important 
 utterance that had fallen from her remarkably 
 pretty mouth since she was born: 
 
 "That 's not the way M-miss Lynn tells it." 
 
 "Miss Lynn," I cried, and clutched her to 
 me so violently that she cried sharply: 
 
 "Don't; you'll crush my frock."
 
 96 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Miss Lynn," I repeated. "What do you 
 know about Miss Lynn?" 
 
 "I she 's my Sunday school teacher. Not 
 my properly one that 's Miss Davis. Do you 
 you know her?" 
 
 "Yes," said I, thinking how deliciously 
 demure Millicent must look trying to banish 
 the fun sprites from her brown eyes in the 
 midst of her little class. 
 
 "Is n't she sweet?" in quite a grown-up tone. 
 
 "She is indeed!" 
 
 "I love her, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," I said boldly. 
 
 "She looks so 1-lovely in that gray frock 
 an' her blue hat." 
 
 "I like her in white," I said dreamily, "or 
 pink, I think, pale pink, and her big hat turned 
 up at the side with little rosebud things." 
 
 "S-she hasn't g-got a hat like that." 
 
 "She has indeed," I said positively. "I 
 saw her wearing it. Phil will corroborate me." 
 
 "No, I won't," said Phil instantly, and on 
 principle. 
 
 "Won't she look pretty being married on 
 Wednesday?" continued Olivia Mary with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Married!" I gasped. "On Wednesday?" 
 and started so violently that I nearly unseated
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 97 
 
 both children, who clutched at me wildly and 
 I at them. 
 
 "You did it on purpose," said Phil reproach- 
 fully, but I heeded him not. 
 
 "Tell me, I said feebly to Olivia Mary, 
 "who is she going to marry?" 
 
 "Somebody she calls D. A.," she said, and 
 I groaned inwardly. The hated D. A. come 
 to light at last! 
 
 "He's the gentleman what t-taps the desk 
 for the hymns," she explained, adding dis- 
 paragingly, "He is n't very p-pretty, you know. 
 Nearly all his hair's wore off an' his teeths 
 s-stick out like 'at," clenching a set of pearls 
 on a red under-lip by way of illustration. 
 
 My dainty Millicent to marry a monster of 
 this type! I felt hot under the collar, and 
 my little tormentor, looking at me critically, 
 remarked : 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to marry her?" 
 
 "Yes," I confessed abjectly. 
 
 "Why d-don't you then? You're not very 
 pretty either, but you 're n-nicer than him." 
 
 "Thank you, I said, "but it looks as if 
 Miss Lynn likes him better, you know." 
 
 "I don't think Miss L-lynn 1-likes him at 
 all." 
 
 A light a blessed light broke in upon me, 
 
 7
 
 98 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 and in my huge relief I hugged Olivia Mary so 
 hard that she wriggled off my knee, and re- 
 settled her hair ribbon with dignity. 
 
 "Philip," said I severely, "you really ought 
 to go to Sunday school. If your mother has 
 not the time to take you, I '11 take you along 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Considering I had always been the most 
 strenuous opponent of the Sunday-school idea, 
 it was no wonder that Phil looked surprised 
 at such a very sudden right-about-face on my 
 part. He protested loudly he would not go; 
 his father had promised to take him out to 
 La Perouse, to see the Aborginals and the Snake 
 Charmer. What inducement could I offer in 
 the face of such superior attractions? When 
 the children were leaving I whispered to Phil: 
 "She's very nice, Phil. You must bring her 
 again some day but not for a long time." 
 
 The next afternoon I strolled along toward 
 the Sunday school, patronized literally, for 
 she patronized everything by Olivia Mary. 
 On second thoughts I was glad to be alone, 
 for Phil, dear fellow as he is, has a fatal habit 
 of distracting the attention of fair ladies from 
 myself. I Ve taxed him with it, but he says 
 he can't help it they will kiss him and I 
 believe him, but the fact remains. The school
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 99 
 
 was being dismissed as I came within sight 
 of the gates, and little boys and girls were 
 pouring forth in a spreading stream, as I have 
 seen young chicks stream out of the doors of 
 an incubator at feed time. Yes, and there she 
 was, dressed as if, sweet soul, she knew my 
 preference, and I liked to think so, in the pink 
 frock and big hat with the rosebud things. 
 She was surrounded by little girls, tripping 
 along with that little hoppety-skip peculiar to 
 the gait of little girls, and never to little boys, 
 who simply run blunderingly like young 
 puppies. Some were clinging to each hand, 
 at which I felt aggrieved, as, when, with a 
 fine air of nonchalance I stopped and raised 
 my hat, she had not a hand to offer me. 
 The following conversation ensued: 
 
 I: "Good afternoon!" 
 
 She: "Good afternoon!" 
 
 I: "Glorious weather!" 
 
 She: "Isn't it?" (Pause.) 
 
 I: "This your little flock?" 
 
 She: "Yes." 
 
 I: "Seen our mutual friend lately?" 
 
 She: "No!" 
 
 I: "He's very fit." 
 
 She: "Give him my love, will you?" 
 
 I: "I will."
 
 ioo MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 She: "Good-by." 
 
 I: "Good-by." 
 
 Then I passed on, only wishing I had the 
 effrontery to follow and find out where she 
 lived. Still, I had seen her, had had converse 
 with her something on which to chew the cud 
 of sweet reflection. And through the remainder 
 of my stroll, and all that evening, as I sat, 
 solitary, smoking on the veranda, I rehearsed 
 our conversation. "Good afternoon! Good 
 afternoon! Glorious weather! Isn't it? 
 This your little flock? Yes! Seen our mutual 
 friend lately? No! He's very fit! Give 
 him my love, will you? I will. Good-by! 
 Good-by!" 
 
 Again and again I turned these words over 
 in my mind, returning to them as a boy squeezes 
 a sucked orange, surprising fresh drops of 
 sweetness out of its flacid rind, with every 
 lingering pressure, until gradually I eliminated 
 my own inane remarks, and the conversation 
 ran thus in the sweetest of voices: "Good 
 afternoon. Is n't it? Yes. No. Give him my 
 love, will you? Good-by!" 
 
 Few enough, these words, but it is surprising 
 what meaning and sweetness can be read into 
 the monosyllables "Yes" and "No" when 
 delivered from fresh red lips, with a little
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 101 
 
 upward curl of sweet mockery at the corners 
 and the way she said that word "love," linger- 
 ing deliciously on its sweetness. Bear with my 
 sentimental meandering. I was in love, for the 
 first time and with Millicent Lynn! And 
 then suddenly the whole episode seemed empty, 
 bald, and meaningless, most unsatisfactory, and 
 the bottom dropped out of my content. Why 
 had I been such a fool? Why, when I had the 
 chance, had I not pressed my advantage? No 
 doubt she resented my stopping her at all, or 
 why had she been so frigid and short? "Yes" 
 "No" almost tantamount to saying politely 
 I was taking a liberty. I went to bed, thor- 
 oughly chilled and dissatisfied.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IN WHICH WE IMPROVE OUR ACQUAINTANCE 
 WITH THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN 
 
 A FEW more days brought round our appoint- 
 ** ment to call on the Elderly Gentleman, 
 and I told Phil to call for me at two-thirty. 
 He suggested that he should come to lunch 
 "to save time," but I negatived that, as 
 I had a letter to write before going out. At 
 one-thirty however, he turned up, looking very 
 fetching in a white duck suit, heather-mixture 
 stockings and brown boots, bare-kneed and 
 bare-headed, his thick light hair neatly brushed 
 and parted. 
 
 "I'm ready," he announced. "Come on." 
 
 "Well, I'm not!" I said, adding unmannerly, 
 "Why did you come so early?" 
 
 "Mummy said to run along I bovered too 
 much asting about the time. I 've had my lunch 
 though egg and b'ren-butter. What d' you 
 have?" 
 
 "I don't know I forget. Run into the 
 kitchen now and help Mrs. Binks." 
 
 Three times in twenty minutes he popped his 
 fair head in at the door, to say "I'm here still. 
 Isn't it time yet?" 
 
 102
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 103 
 
 Finally he got me off half an hour too early, 
 and we had to wait for the Lane Cove Ferry, 
 which time Phil beguiled by counting the boards 
 of the wharf, and the masts of the shipping, and 
 in spelling out what advertisements met his eye. 
 Then I gave him a penny for a penny-in-the- 
 slot machine, and to his immense surprise he 
 received back a pencil with a rubber end, 
 instead of the chocolate he expected. 
 
 "How did the choc'lit turn into the pencil?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Oh, it didn't. There was no chocolate 
 in that machine." 
 
 "But I always get chocs from it." 
 
 "From what?" 
 
 "From the the chemine. What are you 
 laughing at? You said it." 
 
 Just then, with puffing and splashing, the 
 little snub-nosed Lane Cove boat sidled along- 
 side the wharf, and we went on board. How 
 the blue water danced and sparkled as we cut 
 our way through it, and churned across the 
 broad stretch of harbor, turning up the lovely 
 estuary with its steep cliffy banks, thickly 
 wooded with red-stemmed feathery-foliaged gum 
 trees. At Tambourine we alighted, and Phil 
 danced along beside me, his hand in mine, 
 or ran ahead, calling to me to come on, he'd be
 
 104 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 there first. So we mounted the picturesque 
 slope which led upward from the tiny jetty. 
 Mr. Wimple's house was a delightful old- 
 fashioned place in the midst of neat lawns and 
 shrubberies. Phil rang the bell, and I had great 
 difficulty in restraining him from ringing again 
 before an elderly woman in black opened the 
 door to us. 
 
 "Hello," he said sociably, "is your father 
 in? but he must be 'cos he said to come to-day, 
 didn't he, Ruddy?" 
 
 I handed my card to the amused but slightly 
 bewildered maid, and we were shown into Mr. 
 Wimple's study, where that gentleman in 
 smoking cap and slippers sat reading. He shook 
 hands with us both. "So you've brought your 
 nephew," he said. "Well, I'm very glad to 
 see you both." 
 
 "Philip is not my nephew," I remarked, 
 smiling, "but a great friend of mine only." 
 
 "I see I see. Well, sit down, sir, and 
 you, Humphrey, take that chair." 
 
 " My name is Philip," explained Phil patiently. 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course. And how are you, 
 Philip?" ' 
 
 "Quite well, thank you. I saw your mother 
 when I came in. Where is she now?" 
 
 "God bless my soul!" cried Mr. Wimple,
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 105 
 
 startled. "My mother? Dear soul! In heaven 
 these twenty years." 
 
 Phil looked skeptical, but made no comment 
 on this, merely remarking: "That's a funny 
 cap you've got on. My father says gentlemans 
 don't wear hats in the house, but I 'spect it 
 does n't matter about old ones." 
 
 We had a long chat while Phil sat swinging 
 his legs, yawning and sighing. His host had 
 given him a book, but, as I found out later, had, 
 absent-mindedly, given one with no pictures. 
 It was, therefore, an obvious relief when, with 
 a preliminary tap at the door, a rosy plump old 
 lady in black silk and white scarf came in 
 with a tea tray in her hands. 
 
 "Tea, at last!" cried Phil with a relieved 
 sigh. "I was wondering how long." 
 
 In two bounds he was over at the old lady's 
 side. 
 
 "I'll pass the sugar and hand round the little 
 cakes oh! there aren't any," he said after a 
 hasty inspection. 
 
 But there were cakes following, and hot scones 
 and golden-brown gingerbread quite a feast, 
 and as Phil is a normal boy, with a boy's normal 
 appetite, which sometimes seems quite abnormal, 
 he showed his delight by clapping his hands 
 and crying "Hurray!" and the old lady smiled.
 
 106 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 This was Mrs. Brett, Mr. Wimple's house- 
 keeper; as he explained when he introduced 
 us, in a loud voice, as Mrs. Brett was deaf. 
 
 "Will you not stay and pour tea for us, 
 Mrs. Brett?" asked our host, adding, "Mrs. 
 Brett has been in this house many years. How 
 long is it you have been at 'Warialda,' Mrs. 
 Brett? " 
 
 Mrs. Brett replied with a beaming smile 
 and a nod: 
 
 "Four lumps, of course, sir. I never forget." 
 
 1 ' Deaf, poor soul ! ' ' said Mr. Wimple. ' ' Now, 
 Humphrey, draw up your chair, my boy." 
 
 "He's forgot again, Ruddy," whispered Phil 
 to me, and I whispered back hurriedly: 
 
 "Yes yes never mind!" 
 
 "And what does the young gentleman take?" 
 asked Mrs. Brett, and we all looked at Phil. 
 
 "Phil," said I, "Mrs. Brett is speaking to 
 you." 
 
 "Oh!" said Phil. "What? I mean, I beg 
 y f pardon!" 
 
 "I said what will the young gentleman take? " 
 
 "I don't know where is he?" said Phil 
 innocently, and when things had been explained 
 he said he took the "color of tea," and might 
 he put the sugar in himself? After tea, at the 
 suggestion of Mrs. Brett, Phil went, rather
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 107 
 
 unwillingly, to wash his hands, and remained 
 away a good half -hour. They returned to- 
 gether, Phil's pocket bulging, and a bunch of 
 gay flowers, very tightly arranged and with 
 very short stalks, in his hand. 
 
 "Ha!" said Mr. Wimple. "Who's been 
 picking my flowers?" 
 
 "One of your mothers told me I could," 
 said Phil rather doubtfully. "They're for poor 
 little Livy. I ast her to come, but her mother 
 would n't let her come," for which I was thank- 
 ful, as I had known nothing of it. 
 
 "A fine little fellow, your little boy, sir," 
 said Mrs. Brett to me. 
 
 "Oh, he's not my boy," I endeavored to 
 explain, but she nodded and said she "could 
 see that as like as two peas, you are, and that 
 proud of his daddy!" 
 
 "His nephew, Mrs. Brett," shouted Mr. 
 Wimple to her, adding, with a chuckle, "Awk- 
 ward mistakes these deaf folks make." 
 
 I did n't bother to explain, reflecting, after 
 all, that it was rather a pleasant thing to be 
 thought Phil's father, or even his uncle. We 
 left soon after, and I felt very well content with 
 my world. Mr. Wimple had definitely promised 
 me a helping hand; a great many opportunities 
 of recommending clients came in his way, and
 
 io8 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 in my sanguine mood my future seemed assured. 
 In natural sequence my thoughts flew to 
 Millicent Lynn, and even the thought of the 
 hated initials could not depress me. We ran 
 up to my office for some papers I wanted, and 
 though it is quicker for me to take the stairs 
 three steps at a bound than to wait for the lift, 
 Phil loves the lift so much that we waited. He 
 rang the bell in a continuous peal till the lift 
 came rushing down, and the lift-man, who is 
 of a crabbed disposition, dashed the door open 
 fiercely, all agog to give some one a piece of his 
 mind, but when he saw Phil's friendly smile and 
 heard his cheerful greeting, he swallowed his 
 wrath. 
 
 "What makes it go up?" said Phil to him. 
 
 "'Idrollick pressure," said the man glibly. 
 
 "Oh," said Phil, "does the high-rollick 
 pressure make it come down too?" 
 
 "I s'pose so it's the er water power, 
 you see." 
 
 "Who's pulling the ropes at the top?" 
 asked Phil. 
 
 "Wot ropes?" 
 
 "To make us go up to the high-rollick 
 pressure." 
 
 "Why, it's this way, y'see the water does 
 the trick."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 109 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, y' see that's the use of it." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Oh, I dunno," said the man testily, and 
 stopped the lift with a jerk and flung the door 
 back. 
 
 "How many times a day do you go up?" 
 asked Phil, as he stepped out. 
 
 "Oh, 'undreds!" 
 
 "You are lucky, and how many " 
 
 But the door was banged to, and the lift was 
 rising to the floor above us. 
 
 "Oh," said Phil, regretfully, "I did want to 
 ask him how many peoples went in his lift. 
 Why do they call it a lift, Ruddy?" 
 
 "Because it lifts us up, I suppose." 
 
 "Daddy calls it a harder name than that 
 a a evelator, that's it! Why does he, Ruddy 
 and why don't you?" 
 
 "Oh, bother!" said I, and at that moment 
 the boy I had given five shillings to, to play at 
 being my office boy for the afternoon, met me 
 and informed me that a lady was waiting for 
 me, and then made a horrible face at Phil. A 
 lady ! My heart leaped. But the lady who rose 
 from one of my office chairs to greet me was 
 small and elderly, and it was only when Phil 
 ran forward in his friendly way that I recognized
 
 I io MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 the little Spinster. I could see she was rather 
 nervous, so I told Phil to run out and talk to the 
 office boy, on the landing. 
 
 "No, thank you, Ruddy. I'd rather stay 
 with you and this lady," he said composedly. 
 "She's my friend too." 
 
 But I persuaded him, and he held out his 
 little bunch of rather wilted flowers to Miss Ellis. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," said the Spinster, 
 gratified. "It is very kind of you to give 
 me your flowers." 
 
 "Oh, I'm tired of carrying them," said Phil 
 frankly. "'Sides, they're pretty nearly dead. 
 Livy'll have to get some her own self." 
 
 Miss Ellis then launched into her story. It 
 concerned a small legacy to which she was 
 entitled, and which some conscienceless individ- 
 ual was trying to divert into his own pockets. 
 She was fiercely proud, but she managed to let 
 out the facts of her life, though with no com- 
 plaining attitude of mind. She was a music 
 teacher with, she said, others dependent on 
 her, and looking at her neat, severe clothing 
 I felt instinctively that "others" were a drain 
 on her slender resources. Then, quite casually, 
 she mentioned that it had been Miss Lynn 
 who had advised her to consult me. I glowed. 
 Miss Lynn! Dear glorious girl! Though she
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL in 
 
 had seemed quite unaware of my existence, 
 except when the fact of it was thrust upon her 
 notice, she had proved herself not so oblivious 
 after all, since she had thought of me and 
 sent me a "client," an actual client, with 
 the tender thought, perhaps, of being a help to 
 me. She should never know that her kind 
 intention was defeated because I could not find 
 it in my conscience to take a fee from this 
 heroic little worker. 
 
 "Miss Lynn?" I said eagerly. "You know 
 her well?" 
 
 "Not well oh, no. But she is taking a few 
 finishing lessons from me. I assure you, sir, 
 that at one time in Sydney, Clarissa Ellis had a 
 large connection among the best families, but 
 my methods, no doubt, have grown out-of- 
 date, but they are sound, sir, sound, and Miss 
 Lynn had heard of me from one of my old 
 pupils, and she she is peculiarly sympathetic, 
 and somehow I found myself telling her of my 
 difficulties, and she advised me to consult you." 
 
 "Quite right," I said heartily. "And what 
 day does Miss Lynn take her lesson?" 
 
 "Wednesday, at three-thirty," she answered. 
 But she looked naturally very much surprised, 
 and I realized my unprofessional attitude, and 
 blushed. I endeavored, unsuccessfully, to waive
 
 ii2 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 the question of fees, but found myself falling 
 foul of her stiff-necked pride, and had to listen 
 to a rather severe homily on unprofessional 
 quixotism and un thrift, but in the middle of it 
 I surprised a sudden tear on the little lady's 
 cheek. And at this moment Phil came bouncing 
 in. He stopped, looked at Miss Ellis, and then 
 at me reproachfully. 
 
 "Had Ruddy been making you cry?" he 
 asked. " Never you mind, Missis Ellis, I '11 give 
 you my sixpence what Ruddy's going to give 
 me for not telling he loves Miss Lynn bestest of 
 any one in the world. Oo! I've told! Does 
 that count, Ruddy? It was an axibent." 
 
 He looked at me anxiously, and you could 
 have lit a candle at my face by the feel of it. 
 Fool that I had been! In a late game of 
 "Who you love best in the world," a game Phil 
 and I often indulged in together, I, in a moment 
 of weakness, had allowed him to surprise my 
 precious secret, and then, in a panic, more 
 fatuously still, had bribed him to secrecy. 
 And now the murder was out, and a paralyzing 
 silence held the three of us. Venturing at last 
 to glance at Miss Ellis, however, I saw on her 
 face a look of understanding, sympathy, and 
 demure amusement, which told me there had 
 been a possible romance in the history of the
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 113 
 
 faded spinster. And then she did a very 
 beautiful thing, which made me her friend for 
 life. For, holding out .her hand, she said 
 imperturbably : 
 
 "You may perhaps wish a little further talk 
 with me on this matter. If so any Wednesday 
 afternoon you will find me at home." 
 
 I stammered out some fervent thanks and 
 pressed her hand. Then Phil offered to conduct 
 her to the lift, and assured her, on her saying 
 she was nervous and preferred the stairs, that 
 she "must not mind"; it was only when you 
 "first started that your stomach did fall down 
 a little." 
 
 When he returned I snatched him up, and 
 tossed him into the air. 
 
 "Oh, Phil," I cried, "your bold methods 
 have won for me L'audace, L'audace, toujours 
 L'audace, mon ami/ 11 
 
 "You need n't be calling me names, Ruddy," 
 said Phil in an offended tone. "Is it about 
 the sixpence?"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN WHICH THE SPINSTER PLAYS THE PART OF 
 THE GOOD FAIRY 
 
 T SPENT the greater part of the next 
 twenty-four hours trying to concoct some 
 remarkable excuse, on the strength of which 
 I might ask an interview with Miss Lynn. 
 And the following morning, Fate being kind, 
 I met the girl face to face on the post-office 
 steps. So surprised was I that, hastily lifting 
 my hat, I had passed her and was kicking 
 myself for a fool before I had well realized 
 my chance had come and gone. Looking 
 back, I saw her buying roses from one of the 
 flower sellers, and hurried after her. 
 
 "Miss Lynn," I said, "a moment," and she 
 turned to me with that smile I was beginning 
 to know, which, charming as it was, was so 
 aggravatingly like the kind of smile she might 
 give to anybody. 
 
 "Yes!" she said, and waited. 
 
 "I saw your friend, Miss Ellis," I began. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she said brightly. "I believe 
 she did think of asking a little legal advice from 
 some one. So she went to you?" 
 
 114
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 115 
 
 "Yes," I said quietly. "It was kind of 
 you to think of me." 
 
 I had the satisfaction of seeing her redden 
 slightly. She had evidently not meant me to 
 know of her move in the business at all, but 
 she punished me by saying airily: 
 
 "Not at all! Poor little Miss Ellis has very 
 little money, and I knew that beginners like 
 yourself cannot afford to be such gobbling 
 sharks over fees as the others." 
 
 It was cruel in one stroke dispelling my 
 illusions as to her wish to help me, and reveal- 
 ing her airy contempt as to my pretensions of 
 press of business. But the next moment she 
 was earnest and sweetly serious while she told 
 me of Miss Ellis' struggle to support herself 
 and an elderly brother, half -hypochondriac, half- 
 hypocrite. How sweet she looked standing 
 there, her bright face above the bright roses 
 just shadowed with seriousness, as background 
 the blaze of color on the flower-heaped stall and 
 the huge green-lined umbrella like a tent above 
 it, and she in her white frock and shady hat look- 
 ing as fresh and dewy as any rose of the morning. 
 
 I wanted to ask her to come to Sargent's for 
 a cup of morning tea, but had n't the courage, 
 and asked her if I might put her in her tram 
 instead.
 
 ii6 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Oh," she said with her little mocking smile, 
 "I'm quite capable of looking after myself. 
 Good-by." 
 
 And with a nod she left me. After a moment 
 I followed and saw her get into a Watson's Bay 
 car. Feeling quite like a Sherlock Holmes, I 
 set about proving to my own satisfaction my 
 deductions that she was bound for home; 
 her flowers, her parcels, the time allowed for 
 getting home to lunch, and so on. The next 
 Wednesday I took Phil with me and set out to 
 visit Miss Ellis, ostensibly on business. The 
 Spinster herself opened the door to Phil's 
 imperative ring, and as his eye was still glued 
 to the keyhole, both got something of a surprise. 
 
 We entered the narrow hall. Somewhere 
 within we could hear the strains of the piano, 
 and I pictured to myself Millicent with her 
 white ringers sweeping the keys. Excusing 
 herself, Miss Ellis invited us to wait for a few 
 moments in a room on the right, and hurried 
 away. But as I noticed she entered a room on 
 the other side of the hall, and through a door- 
 way within, I judged that the piano player must 
 pass out that way. I immediately became 
 restive lest the elusive Millicent might meanly 
 slip away, and with incredible effrontery I 
 transferred myself and Phil to the opposite
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 117 
 
 room; a kind of waiting room for pupils, I judged 
 it. In a few minutes Miss Ellis and Miss Lynn 
 came in. I doggedly ignored Miss Ellis' air 
 of faint surprise, and as Phil was busy counting 
 the chair legs he said nothing. Miss Lynn 
 greeted me with a smiling nod and Phil with 
 effusion. He submitted to her kiss, but wiped 
 it off immediately, and after a few minutes' 
 chat she said she must go. 
 
 "Oh, don't go, Miller," said Phil sociably. 
 "We'll be having some tea soon," a pure as- 
 sumption on his part, but like most of his 
 assumptions, destined to become fact. Miss 
 Ellis glanced at her pupil. 
 
 "If," she said in her stiff way, "you would 
 stay and take a cup of tea, Miss Lynn, I should 
 be pleased." 
 
 It was plain this was an invitation for the first 
 time, that Miss Ellis' fierce pride feared a possi- 
 ble rebuff. Millicent, however, was not of that 
 mettle, and with a charming smile she replied: 
 
 "Thank you. Indeed, Miss Ellis, I should 
 love a cup of tea, and I want a talk with Phil, 
 too. Phil," she added, "when are you going 
 to write me another letter?" 
 
 "Oh, some day to-morrow," answered Phil 
 easily. "Did you like that one I writed 
 before?"
 
 ii8 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "I should think so. I have it still. I hope 
 you have kept mine." 
 
 "No," he said; "old letters aren't no good 
 to me, but Ruddy likes them Ruddy has 
 kept it." 
 
 "Phil," I said feebly, "you you don't 
 know what you are talking about." 
 
 "Yes, I do," he declared. "Don't you re- 
 member, Ruddy, you put it in your pocket?" 
 
 And I had fondly dreamed he had never 
 noticed my action, or would, at least, have 
 forgotten it, since he had made no comment 
 thereon. 
 
 "That day," proceeded Phil, intent on estab- 
 lishing a case, "you said Miller was the cat's 
 mother." 
 
 A paralyzed silence followed this which I 
 feebly endeavored to break up by saying with 
 rather a ghastly laugh: 
 
 "Children have such extraordinary imagina- 
 tions." 
 
 "Children and fools," remarked Millicent 
 maliciously. 
 
 At this moment, fortunately, Miss Ellis 
 created a diversion by rising to get tea, and 
 Phil volunteering to help, they went off together. 
 
 "What a delicious kiddie," said Miss Lynn. 
 "So frank and straightforward."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 119 
 
 11 A fiend," I groaned, "willfully perverting 
 my most innocent remarks and actions." And 
 then I added, "You you don't believe about 
 that letter?" 
 
 "Give it me," she said imperiously. 
 
 "Never!" I said, and my hand went to 
 my breast pocket. 
 
 She laughed a low laugh of complete satis- 
 faction at the success of her ruse. On an 
 impulse I took out the letter, and handed it to 
 her, but I watched it jealously. She took it, 
 smiling, but as we heard Miss Ellis and Phil 
 approaching she suddenly handed it back to 
 me, and before I could express my thanks the 
 other two entered. 
 
 "There's some cake and some br'e'n-butter," 
 announced Phil. "A piece to go round and 
 one piece over I've counted them and no- 
 body must n't take too much milk 'cos the 
 milkman has n't been yet, so tiresome of him, 
 Miss Ellis thinks, an' if no one wants the last 
 slice of cake I can have it, but I must n't ask 
 for it." 
 
 At this moment the cakes he was carrying on 
 a perilously slanted plate, slid, stiffly starched 
 little napkin and all, on to the floor. Miss Ellis 
 looked distinctly annoyed, but I secretly sympa- 
 thized with Phil, as the same thing had happened
 
 120 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 to me in fair ladies' drawing rooms. Phil was 
 not much disconcerted. 
 
 "They've all fell on the piece of rag, 'cept 
 one," he said cheerfully, and took out his 
 handkerchief to wipe that one, and looked much 
 surprised when Miss Ellis caught it from his 
 hand indignantly. We all had tea, and then 
 sugar having given out in consequence of Phil 
 sitting next to Miss Lynn, with the sugar basin 
 between them, Miss Ellis rose to replenish 
 the bowl. Miss Lynn sprang up, however, 
 and said coaxingly: 
 
 "Let me get it, Miss Ellis, do. Come, Phil, 
 you will show me where the sugar lives." 
 
 She held out her hand, which Phil took, but I 
 said complainingly : 
 
 "It's not fair; it's my turn to help with 
 the tea." 
 
 Phil's little face fell, but he is the soul of 
 honor, and he said with regretful heroism: 
 
 "It is his turn, Miller." 
 
 "But he does n't know where the sugar lives, 
 and I want you." 
 
 "I can't help it if she chooses me, Ruddy," 
 said Phil anxiously, and I, assenting, off they 
 went. Soon after, Miss Lynn rose to go, and I 
 at once followed suit. We strolled along to the 
 tram stop in company.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 121 
 
 "Do you often pay an afternoon call on 
 Miss Ellis?" asked the girl, and dimpled at 
 me mischievously. 
 
 "N no," I said. "I had some business" 
 and there I stopped with the disconcerting 
 consciousness that I had completely forgotten 
 the alleged reason of my visit. Miss Lynn 
 gave a little insulting laugh. 
 
 "You men are so transparent," she said, 
 "and so so truthful.'" 
 
 "There are exceptions," I said stiffly, accept- 
 ing the inference. 
 
 "Oh, yes, perhaps some," she conceded. 
 
 " D. A. for instance," I proceeded with gloomy 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "Ah, yes, to be sure," she returned. "D. A. 
 a dear fellow." 
 
 I savagely set my foot upon a line of ants 
 deploying across the footpath, and just then 
 a tram swung round the bend. 
 
 "Now, Phil," I cried briskly, "here's the car. 
 Look alive! I'll take your music, Miss Lynn." 
 
 "Thank you, no," she said laughing. "I'll 
 take it myself, and say good -by." 
 
 "Good-by?" I stammered. "But but 
 this is the car to town." 
 
 "Exactly but I don't want the car to 
 town, if you don't mind."
 
 122 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "But," I persisted, "you can't get the 
 Watson's Bay car here." 
 
 "Well who said I wanted the Watson's 
 Bay car?" 
 
 "You took it last time," I said rather feebly. 
 
 "So you followed," she laughed. "Oh, Mr. 
 Lingard!" 
 
 By this time the car had stopped, and Phil 
 was hopping into it, so I had perforce to follow, 
 stung by her mischievous laughter. But I 
 had my revenge. For, as we were taking our 
 seats she called out, merrily malicious: 
 
 "Good-by, Philip; I'm so sorry I'm not 
 going back to town with you, dear." 
 
 I leaned forward, taking off my hat again. 
 
 "So am I, indeed'' I cried fervently. u Good- 
 by!" And had the satisfaction of seeing her 
 redden furiously as she bit her lip. No one 
 in the car knew my name was not Philip. 
 
 When we reached home I said to Phil re- 
 proachfully : 
 
 "You shouldn't have told about the letter, 
 old chap. That's not cricket, you know." 
 
 "But you did take it, Ruddy, you know," 
 he said accusingly. 
 
 "Guilty!" I conceded. "But but you 
 don't want it back, do you, old man?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said he, "it isn't no good to me.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 123 
 
 You can have it, and I can get you lots an* lots 
 more of old letters, Ruddy. There's lots of 
 daddy's and mummy's at home, an' they don't 
 want them you can have them all if you like." 
 
 "Thanks, awfully!" I replied gratefully. 
 "But this one will do me nicely, if you're sure 
 you can spare it." 
 
 "Course I can; 'sides, Miller '11 write me 
 another letter whenever I want it." 
 
 "Lucky dog!" I sighed enviously. 
 
 "What dog? Where?" cried Phil, running 
 to the door with every sign of interest, and 
 casting rather a reproachful glance at me as 
 he returned. 
 
 " Merely a figure of speech, my son," I replied. 
 
 "Oh," said Phil. "I can make figures, too, 
 becept the three will come wrong way round. 
 Have you got a pain, Ruddy? You're making 
 such a face." 
 
 "Right here, sonny," said I with a porten- 
 tous sigh, and laid my hand on my left-hand 
 waistcoat. 
 
 "My pain is always lower down," said Phil 
 with sympathetic concern. "You should take 
 some eupalyptus. It's very nasty; but you 
 mustn't mind, it'll do you good." 
 
 "I will, Philip, I will," I said. "And now 
 what about a game at Wild Indians?"
 
 124 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Instantly the fun sprites were in Phil's gray 
 eyes, and he gave the howl of pure inarticulate 
 delight with which the small boy expresses 
 his feelings best.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN WHICH "THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES" 
 FIGHT FOR ME 
 
 '"PHE gods were surely on my side, the 
 "stars in their courses" fought for me, 
 for a week later, entering a restaurant, I sat 
 down, purely by chance, at a table at which 
 sat Millicent and a tall soldierly looking man 
 whom she introduced as her father. We entered 
 into conversation, and I found him a genial 
 companion, and as we were parting he did the 
 great service of inviting me to "look in" on 
 him and his daughter any Sunday afternoon. 
 It appeared they lived in one of the big board- 
 ing houses in Macquarie Street, right under 
 my nose as it were, and I, all the time, had 
 been imagining my divinity as being located at 
 Watson's Bay or the wilds of Cooges. I looked 
 at her reproachfully, and she looked back at 
 me with a ripple of frank amusement. 
 
 ' ' Well, good-by , ' ' she said demurely. " We 11 
 see you some Sunday then. Bring Phil with 
 you and don't make the mistake of taking the 
 Watson's Bay car." 
 
 The next day I saw Phil, and extended the 
 125
 
 126 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 invitation to him. He was aggravatingly luke- 
 warm about the whole thing. 
 
 "Let's go to Manly instead," he suggested 
 coaxingly. "We'll have bosker fun. You can 
 bury my legs in the sand." 
 
 "Oh, no, Phil," I said. "Millicent expects 
 us, you know." 
 
 "You go then, Ruddy. I '11 play with Livy." 
 
 But, rightly or wrongly, I fancied I relied 
 for my welcome on Phil's presence, and I 
 wheedled him into a promise to accompany me. 
 
 "There's her dog, you know," I reminded 
 him. 
 
 Ye gods! What a Goth to be tempted by the 
 dog and ignore the paramount claims of the 
 mistress, for at the mention of the animal he 
 was won over. I am afraid in these times I 
 was not an inspiriting companion for Phil, 
 my mind running a good deal on the one topic. 
 For instance, falling into a reverie on this 
 occasion, I was recalled by Phil rather plain- 
 tively remarking: "You've got that pain 
 again, Ruddy?" 
 
 "No, Phil," I replied; "on my honor, no." 
 
 "You look sick," he persisted. 
 
 "Love is a disease, Phil," I said. "If you 
 loved er some one very much, what would 
 you do about it?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 127 
 
 "I'd go and tell her," answered Phil, dis- 
 daining abstractions, and as usual his advice 
 was so clearly not to be gainsaid that I wondered 
 why I did not follow it. Yet I hesitated. 
 
 "What then?" I said hollowly. 
 
 "Then," he replied, "I'd go and give her a 
 big, big love, and free kisses." 
 
 "A thousand and three," I amended with 
 fervor, thrilling with the ecstasy of that thought. 
 
 "Goodness, that's a lot!" cried Phil. 
 
 "Not one too many," I said positively. 
 
 So disgracefully eager was I that the very next 
 Sunday "as ever was," I presented myself 
 with Phil at the house in Macquarie Street. 
 We were shown into a private sitting room, 
 over which the stiff gentility of the boarding 
 house had left its trail, but various pretty 
 feminine touches (which I unhesitatingly 
 ascribed to Millicent, though for aught I knew 
 they might have been the visible expression of 
 the esthetic yearnings of a landlady's daughter) 
 did their best to discount it. 
 
 Here, after an appreciable interval which 
 Phil occupied in counting the pictures on the 
 wall, we were joined by Mr. Lynn. He was 
 wearing carpet slippers, on which Phil made 
 instant and admiring comment, being violently 
 enamored of a dog's head worked on each
 
 128 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 of them. These slippers, in conjunction with a 
 haziness about the eyes and a general abstrac- 
 tion of manner, led me to the unwilling con- 
 clusion that we had roused Mr. Lynn from his 
 Sunday afternoon nap, an unpardonable offense 
 in the eyes of an elderly gentleman. My 
 discomfiture, too, was not decreased by our 
 host casually remarking that Millicent was still 
 at "that Sunday school folly," acting as a kind 
 of locum tenens to a friend who had taken 
 a holiday for the purpose of getting married, 
 and that he, meantime, was neglected. That 
 "Sunday school folly"! Positively I had 
 forgotten all about it, and so in my school- 
 boyish precipitancy I had overreached myself, 
 and should probably not see her at all, for 
 already my visit was approaching the limits 
 allowed for first calls. In calculating how 
 much longer in decency I might remain, con- 
 versation lagged, and Phil sighed and yawned 
 at intervals, extremely bored and taking no 
 pains to hide it. At last in desperation I rose. 
 
 "Come, Phil," I said, "I think we must 
 be getting along." 
 
 "Oh, no," he replied; "we haven't had 
 tea yet." 
 
 With Phil, tea, at the hour set apart for it, 
 is a sacred rite, not to be lightly set aside;
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 129 
 
 an afternoon visit without tea, then, is a 
 ceremony shorn of its chief observance, and so 
 meaningless. 
 
 '"Sides," he continued, "you haven't seen 
 Miller yet. You know," turning to our host 
 with engaging candor, "Ruddy didn't come 
 to see you at all. He " 
 
 " Philip ! " I cried in an awful voice of warning. 
 
 "It's all right, Ruddy," he answered reassur- 
 ingly, with a series of broad winks and nods, 
 intended to convey that I might certainly rely 
 on his discretion, " I 'm not going to tell about 
 you know. 1 ' 
 
 Still seeing doubt in my gaze, he tiptoed 
 across to me, and with elaborate precaution 
 putting his lips close to my ear, hissed audibly: 
 "About your loving Miller best of everybody. 
 Don't you listen" (to our host) ; "it's a secret." 
 
 I prayed Mr. Lynn might be afflicted with 
 deafness. 
 
 Phil turned again to him: 
 
 "Ruddy came to see your girl," he said. 
 
 "That's what they all do," chuckled Mr. 
 Lynn. "The old man is of very little account. 
 But that's a very good idea of the boy's about 
 tea, so just you wait awhile. Milly will be 
 in soon." 
 
 I needed no pressing, but could not help 
 
 9
 
 130 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 peopling this room with dozens of eager men, and 
 wondered gloomily if D. A. had the effrontery 
 to come every Sunday. Soon after, Millicent 
 came in, and, fortunately, unattended. She 
 greeted me, as usual, in her non-committally 
 friendly manner, and Phil with warmth. Then 
 tea was brought in, and we all had a delightful 
 talk, and I quite forgot the limits of my call 
 were long since passed till Phil said, abruptly: 
 
 "I'm tired of being here, Ruddy; let's go 
 home." 
 
 "Oh, Phil, I am hurt!" cried Millicent. 
 "Do come and sit on the couch with me, and 
 tell me all about yourself." 
 
 Phil went unwillingly, with many wriggles 
 and much dragging of feet, and she slipped an 
 arm round his ungracious neck, and cuddled her 
 cheek down on to his thick shock of blond hair. 
 
 "I'm telling Phil he should go to Sunday 
 school," I remarked, and Phil shot an uneasy 
 glance at me. 
 
 "No, I won't," he said hastily. "I know 
 all about the Bible." 
 
 "Do you really, Phil?" cried Millicent. 
 "Then tell me. What do you know about?" 
 
 "I know about Jophes and his little goat of 
 many colors that died of the blood of a kid. 
 What are you laughing at ? Ruddy told me that . ' '
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 131 
 
 "Only at your revised version, dear," said 
 she in a voice that trembled. 
 
 "I haven't got one of those," answered Phil 
 seriously, as though it were a new stamp. 
 
 "Well, go on. What else about Joseph?" 
 
 "He had a sheep and there were 'leven other 
 sheep, and they all bowed down to his sheep an' 
 so he that's all I know about Jophes you're 
 laughing." 
 
 " I 'm not I 'm not tell me some more, do." 
 
 "I don't know any more," said Phil, and sat 
 kicking the leg of the couch while Millicent 
 exerted all her powers of sweet persuasion in 
 vain. 
 
 "I wonder," she said to Phil, "if your mother 
 would lend you to me for an afternoon and 
 we could go and have tea somewhere." 
 
 "And Ruddy, too," said Phil. 
 
 "Please!" I said imploringly, and wanted 
 to hug Phil. 
 
 "Oh, but Ruddy" how pretty it sounded 
 on her lips "Ruddy has his work to do." 
 
 "Oh, Ruddy doesn't do any work," cried 
 my friend. "He only sits in his ossif and talks 
 to people." 
 
 We both laughed, and Phil, conceiving he had 
 said something funny though he had n't intended 
 to be humorous, laughed loudly also, and said:
 
 132 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Wasn't I funny?" 
 
 Phil stuck to his guns stanchly, to my secret 
 delight and gratitude, and finally Millicent 
 gave in, which I think the dear rogue had meant 
 to do all along. 
 
 "Oh, well, bring your friend too," she cried 
 in pretended pettishness, "since you are such 
 inseparables." 
 
 "No, we're not," Phil denied. 
 
 "Not what?" 
 
 "Not that," said Phil shyly. 
 
 "What's that?" asked Millicent teasingly. 
 
 "What you said." 
 
 "What did I say?" 
 
 "You know." 
 
 And there the matter stood. Accordingly, 
 the next afternoon Phil and I stood under the 
 wishing tree in the Gardens, waiting for Milli- 
 cent, to whom we extended the time-honored 
 privilege of her sex of being half an hour late 
 and no questions asked. During this period 
 of waiting I had to decidedly negative Phil's 
 disinterested plan for amusing Millicent, which 
 was to go to Foy's and travel up the moving 
 staircase, a fearful pleasure very dear to him. 
 We had a pleasant tea on the broad veranda of 
 the Garden Kiosk. At its conclusion the 
 attendant sprite of the tea tray placed the little
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 133 
 
 ticket, folded in a spirit of ostentatious delicacy, 
 beside my plate. 
 
 "Mine, please," said Millicent, holding out 
 an imperious hand. 
 
 "Allow me! said" I, firmly clinging to 
 the ticket. 
 
 "But it was my treat," she said mutinously. 
 "And you have no right." 
 
 "Don't be quallering," said Phil reprovingly; 
 "let Miller pay if she wants' to, Ruddy, and 
 you'll have your pennies left for some chocs." 
 
 And so it was arranged. But I had one 
 moment of exquisite revenge when, on Millicent 
 turning to come back to our table, the girl at 
 the pay desk cried: 
 
 "Your husband has gone on, madam, with 
 the little boy." 
 
 I had sauntered down the steps, and 
 affected to be quite deaf, but when Millicent 
 joined me there was still a trace of burning rose- 
 color in her cheek, and after walking on in 
 complete silence for a time she spoke with 
 sudden vehemence: 
 
 "That's a horrid place. I'll never go to 
 the Kiosk again." 
 
 "Why?" said I innocently. "I thought it a 
 very nice place, and such jolly girls." 
 
 For a time the sun of prosperity shone for me.
 
 134 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 The offers of assistance from Mr. Wimple had 
 materialized, and a small flow of business 
 began to come my way. Added to that, I quite 
 frequently met Miss Lynn, and I persuaded 
 myself she was kinder than of yore. The 
 detested D. A. never crossed my path, luckily 
 for us both. I felt sure we should have 
 disagreed.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN WHICH PHIL AND I HAVE A NIGHT OUT 
 
 "TDHIL," said I one day when Phil, having 
 dropped in sociably about lunch time, 
 had consumed a light luncheon of three sardines, 
 a slice of bread and honey, the end of a cold 
 plum duff, half a banana, and a pickled cucum- 
 ber, "Phil, I have a brand-new proposition for 
 you." Phil dropped the banana skin which he 
 had been scraping with his teeth, and in a bound 
 was at my side, his eyes dancing. 
 
 "Show it to me," he demanded. "Does it 
 live in a cage?" 
 
 "Tut, tut, my son, you misunderstand me. 
 I mean a plan, a project, an idea." 
 
 "What's a I-dear?" 
 
 "A happy thought a suggestion." 
 
 "I know what a 'gestion is. It's a pain you 
 get here," he laid his hand on his small chest, 
 "when you've had too much dinner." (I 
 wondered if he spoke feelingly.) 
 
 "Well, hardly," said I. "That's more in the 
 nature of a reflection." 
 
 "What's a reflection." 
 
 "A sadder and a wiser thought," I replied. 
 135
 
 136 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Phil looked at me sadly, and heaved a patient 
 sigh. 
 
 "Sometimes you talk so silly, Ruddy," he 
 said wearily. "And now please show me what 
 you said you'd got for me." 
 
 "Well," said I, feeling a little foolish, "it's- 
 er nothing I've er exactly got for you. 
 It's only, as I said a a plan a dash it 
 all! Look here, have you ever been to a 
 circus?" "A circus?" Phil's eyes grew a size 
 larger. "Where there's lions an' tigers an' 
 an' ephalants? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An* monkeys in cages?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' ladies dancing on one leg on horses 
 with their dresses all blown out?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' where you give the clown your hat, 
 Ruddy, an' he breaks a lot of eggs into it an' 
 then jumps on it?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know about that. But I 
 mean a circus." 
 
 "No, I've never been," said Phil, "but I'd 
 love it! I'd love it! I'd love it!" 
 
 "You seem to know all about it, however," 
 I said. 
 
 "I just know about that 'cos of seeing the
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 137 
 
 pictures on the fences an* things, but I want to 
 go. Oh! do take me, Ruddy, please! I'd 
 rather see a circus than have that that 
 opposition you promised me first." 
 
 "Well, perhaps, if your mother has no 
 objection " 
 
 "She hasn't not one," said Phil positively. 
 
 "Not one what?" said I. 
 
 "Not one one what you said just now." 
 
 "Objection. Now, how do you know she 
 hasn't?" 
 
 "Cos I've never seen one in our house any 
 time ever, an* I'd be sure to see it if it was 
 there. I see everything. Beenie says I must 
 have eyes in the back of my head. Have I?" 
 
 He turned his little blond poll for my inspec- 
 tion. "I don't see any," said I, "but run 
 along home now and ask your mother, and I '11 
 look in for you about seven this evening." 
 
 He skipped away to the door, but came 
 back again to say solemnly: 
 
 "You're my bestest friend, Ruddy. You're 
 not like a friend. You're nearly as good as 
 God, I think." Then approaching his lips to 
 my ear he whispered, "I have to only say 
 nearly, 'cos He hears everything Beenie says 
 so." And with that he trotted off. 
 
 Later in the afternoon the telephone bell
 
 138 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 rang and I went to it. Phil's brisk little voice 
 hailed me. 
 
 "Hello, Ruddy!" 
 
 "Hello, Buster!" 
 
 "I'm still thinking about that circus." 
 
 "Yes, that 's all right ; but I 'm busy now." 
 
 "Livy'shere." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes, an' she wants awf'ly much to come 
 to the circus, too." 
 
 "Oh, does she? But perhaps Livy's 
 mother " 
 
 "No! she wouldn't, not a bit," Phil antici- 
 pated me. "She said if Livy won't be a bother 
 she can go an' welcome. Will she be a bother? 
 Livy's mother's here, too, you know." 
 
 "Well, you see, old man, I love her very 
 dearly, as you know," I said with gentle irony, 
 "but, between us, I find her a bit of a handful." 
 
 "Livy's mother, you mean." 
 
 "No! No! No!" 
 
 "Well, Livy's waiting, an' she says " 
 
 Phil's further remarks were cut short ab- 
 ruptly, and I guessed what had happened. The 
 despotic Olivia Mary had come on the scene, 
 and there was now a free fight for possession of 
 the telephone. Even at this distance I could 
 catch faint, far echoes of the fray.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 139 
 
 "Stop that!" I said so loudly and impera- 
 tively that even over the wire I imagined I could 
 feel both children jump. Then Olivia Mary's 
 high-pitched little tones floated over the wire. 
 
 "Hello, Ruddy! I can come. You an' me '11 
 have f-fun." 
 
 "The lions roar very loudly," I said mean- 
 ingly. 
 
 "B-but they can't g-get out of their c-cages. 
 Shall I wear my b-brown velvet coat an' an' 
 my white hat?" 
 
 "I wouldn't!" I said discouragingly, feeling 
 rather a churl, but sincerely not wanting Olivia 
 Mary. 
 
 "An' an' my white shoes with b-buckles?" 
 
 "The monkeys '11 get them," I said. 
 
 "I'll hide them under the seat my feets, 
 I mean." 
 
 "I perceive, then, that hints are quite wasted 
 on you, madam," I said with elaborate irony. 
 
 "Yes," she said cheerfully. "W-what time 
 will you b-bring the car?" 
 
 (Olivia Mary is a very grand little person, 
 and does most of her traveling in motor-cars, 
 of which luxuries she owns two, she will tell you.) 
 
 "In that case, all I can say," I proceeded, 
 "is that I shall be charmed to escort you to 
 the arena."
 
 140 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 To my surprise she exhibited temper. I felt 
 sure that, could I see her, she was stamping 
 her foot. 
 
 "I won't! I won't! I won't!" she said. 
 "I don't want to go there. I want to go to 
 the circus w-with you and Ph-Phil." 
 
 "Seven, then, and be sure you're ready," I 
 said, and rang off. At seven then, I rang the 
 bell at Phil's hall door. There was an instan- 
 taneous scrambling rush inside, the excitable 
 tones of Olivia Mary mingled with Phil's more 
 deliberate tones, and over it the voice of Beenie, 
 vainly urging good behavior, and quietness. In 
 another moment both children were hanging 
 on to my legs or coattails, both talking at once, 
 questioning, clamoring, shouting. With great 
 difficulty Beenie induced them both to go to the 
 bathroom to have hands and faces sponged, 
 and lingered a moment to say to me : "Oh, them 
 children! Scarce a bite of tea would they take 
 for running to the window to see if you was 
 coming. And as for that Oliverer the times 
 and again I 've had to tie her hair-bow, and all 
 the time passing the most disparishing remarks 
 about the way her own nurse ties it. Well, 
 I'm thankful to goodness that mine's a boy- 
 child, and does n't need no bows and ribbons 
 on his hair."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 141 
 
 And with that, in answer to repeated calls 
 of "Beenie!" from the bathroom, she departed. 
 She brought the children back with shining 
 faces and brushed hair, buttoned Phil into his 
 little greatcoat, and put on Olivia Mary's 
 velvet coat and white hat with ribbon bows. 
 Olivia Mary, seeing my eyes on her white shoes, 
 flushed a little guiltily. 
 
 "Monkeys!" was all I said. 
 
 "I can hide them under my frock," she said 
 instantly, and then deftly, to change the subject, 
 she added: "Have you b-brought a taxi, or 
 are we going in your car?" 
 
 " My car," said I firmly, "my trusty tram car." 
 
 "Oh, a tram car!" she said superciliously. 
 
 "I love cram cars," said Phil generously. 
 "You can pick up hundreds of tickets in them." 
 
 "D-d-dirty people have these t-tickets," said 
 Olivia Mary. 
 
 "They're not all dirty," objected Phil. 
 "And 'sides " 
 
 "Here, come along, you two," said I. 
 
 "Good-by, Beenie," said Phil, lifting a beam- 
 ing face to be kissed. 
 
 "Good-by, Phil," said Beenie, "an' be'ave 
 like a little gentleman, even if those around you 
 don't" (which seemed a distinct reflection on 
 me).
 
 142 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Good-by, Beenie," said Olivia Mary care- 
 lessly. "Do I look p-pretty?" 
 
 "As a picture," confided Beenie, and in an 
 aside to me, "and well she knows it," adding 
 to the little girl improvingly, " 'Andsome is 
 what 'andsome does, Oliverer, you know," a 
 remark which was construed by that young 
 person into meaning that a hansom had come for 
 us. She danced out on to the steps to see for 
 herself, and danced back again to say accusingly: 
 
 "Oh, you big story, Beenie!" 
 
 "Did you ever hear?" cried the scandalized 
 Beenie. "Well, give me a boy-child ' 
 
 The closing of the hall door, as both children 
 dragged me bodily through it, cut short further 
 reflections. I walked to the tram, a child on 
 either hand, both chattering on entirely different 
 subjects, only interrupting themselves, now and 
 then, to contradict or challenge a statement of 
 the other. So we went through the pleasant, 
 lamplit dusk, and only once had threat enings 
 of friction, when in the car both children wished 
 to be the one to take the tickets. I decided in 
 favor of the lady, and Phil sat back with 
 flushed face, murmuring under his breath: 
 
 "Ladies first again, I s'pose! God didn't 
 make ladies first, anyhow." 
 
 We arrived at last at the circus, which covered
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 143 
 
 a good space of ground, with an immense circular 
 marquee, and various outbuildings. The place 
 was garish with flaring naphtha torches, and a 
 brass band was blaring away manfully and very 
 brassily. 
 
 "Is it the S-s-salvation Army?" asked Olivia 
 Mary, and Phil replied: "The Salvation Army 
 has red shirts, and these men haven't got no 
 shirts, so they can't be it." 
 
 We walked along a covered way and then the 
 first familiar whiff of the circus smote us. Who 
 does not know this distinct and peculiar min- 
 gling of odors, and recognize it instantly for what 
 it is, has missed one of the chief joys of child- 
 hood. Even now the thrill clutches me by the 
 throat, and I feel a distinct desire to hurry into 
 the midst of those varied odors of dampened 
 sawdust, oranges and peanuts, rubber and 
 escaping gas, and the rank smell of wild beasts. 
 And just as we gave up our tickets at the door 
 there burst forth a pandemonium of sonorous 
 roars and shrill yelpings, at the sound of which 
 Olivia Mary's little pink fingers burrowed deeper 
 into mine, and even Phil's sturdy fist tightened 
 its hold a little. Soon we were walking about 
 among the stoutly barred cages in the menagerie, 
 within which lowered the sullen brows of a lion, 
 or the glittering eyes of a tiger or leopard
 
 144 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 glared steadily at the gazing people. In one 
 cage was the famous "fighting" lion, a feature 
 of the show, which had been taught to box. 
 When Phil had spelled out the inscription he 
 walked up and down in front of this cage for 
 some time, and at last turned to me somewhat 
 impatiently : 
 
 "Where 's the unicorn? " he demanded. " 'Cos 
 that's what lions fight with. But I 'spect this 
 lion's killed him dead. Good job, too! But 
 what's they want the crown for, Ruddy? Only 
 kings an' queens an* things like that wear 
 crowns." 
 
 "I'm going to have a c-crown when I g-grow 
 up," said Olivia Mary, "a real gold one with 
 beautiful glass diamonds in it." 
 
 "Pooh! You're not a queen," said Phil. 
 
 "B-but I might b-be when I grow up. I 
 might grow into one, mightn't I, Ruddy?" 
 
 "Possibly," said I. 
 
 "What's possibly mean?" 
 
 "Not probable; a very unlikely bird," said I. 
 
 At this moment we missed Phil, and after 
 some search found him in front of the kangaroos' 
 cage, staring intently at these creatures, which 
 looked intensely bored. As we came up we 
 heard him murmur with a faint sigh, "It's no 
 good they won't do it."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 145 
 
 "Do what, old man?" I asked, and he 
 answered: 
 
 "You know, these these things have dear 
 little pockets in their trousers. Beenie told me 
 that, an' I've been waiting an* waiting to see 
 them put their hands in their pockets an' take 
 out their babies. They have n't done it once. 
 Perhaps their pockets are worn out." 
 
 "What are them?" asked Olivia Mary. 
 "They don't smell nice," and she wrinkled her 
 dainty nose in disgust. 
 
 "Phil will tell you what they are," I said. 
 
 "He doesn't know," said she disdainfully. 
 
 "I do," retorted Phil. 
 
 "What are they well?" 
 
 Phil turned rather pink, and shifted un- 
 comfortably. 
 
 "They're they're I know, but it takes a 
 good long time to say it. You have to say it 
 slowly. There's nothing to laugh at, Ruddy." 
 
 Phil was obviously trying to gain time, while 
 he racked his small brains. 
 
 "Course you don't know it," said the little 
 girl teasingly. 
 
 "I do. They they they're kangaroos- 
 ters," he shouted triumphantly, and looked 
 severely at two ladies who giggled. 
 
 "That isn't what my teacher calls them," 
 10
 
 146 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 said Olivia Mary. "S-she s-says them are 
 something else. There is a p-picsher of them 
 on the letter W page, an' it says: 
 "W for Wallaby, wild and wise, 
 She was borned 'neath the Ostrich Skies (probably 
 
 Austral). 
 0! Wabbaly! Wabbaly! do not fear " 
 
 She knitted her pretty brows, and thought a 
 moment. "I can't remember the next b-bit, 
 but it goes on this way: 
 
 "And lo! the W-w-w-abbaly wild has fled, 
 And d-dashes onward to scrub ahead." 
 
 "Why does she scrub her head?" asked 
 Phil thoughtfully. "An' what does the Wab- 
 baly do it with, Livy?" 
 
 I guffawed, and Olivia Mary answered with 
 disdain: "Phil hasn't any more sense than 
 a-a catapult." 
 
 She uses these inappropriate similes freely 
 and as they occur to her, but Phil chose to be 
 mightily offended. 
 
 "I have," he said indignantly, "I have lots 
 of senses, haven't I, Ruddy?" 
 
 "If you have a sense of smell, Phil, which I 
 have," I said, "we'll move on from these 
 malodorous beasts." 
 
 "What's malodorous?" 
 
 "It's what my little v-voice is" said Olivia
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 147 
 
 Mary, complacently. "I heard daddy tell 
 m-mummy so one day." 
 
 We all moved on and rather timidly proffered 
 buns to the elephants, a line of which stood 
 twitching their great ears and waving their 
 trunks in the air. Then we visited the monkey 
 cages, which Olivia Mary could not be persuaded 
 to come near, though I had long since explained 
 that I had been joking about her shoes. 
 Instead, she wandered across to the cage of a 
 solitary and mournful specimen of a bald- 
 headed eagle, and there waited for us. 
 
 "What's Livy looking at?" asked Phil, 
 and I answered, "That's an eagle. Let's go 
 and look at it." 
 
 "Let's creep up very softly and see if we 
 can hear it praying," suggested Phil. 
 
 "Praying? What do you mean, old chap?" 
 
 There was incipient amusement in my voice 
 which he instantly detected. 
 
 "That's what it says in the book at school," 
 he said doggedly. 
 
 "E is for Eagle, a bird of pray 
 What carries the farmers' lamb-skins away." 
 
 "Lambkins!" said I. "Look look at that 
 little girl ha! ha! ha! Isn't isn't she 
 funny? Ha! Ha!" 
 
 I had to give some excuse for my laughter,
 
 148 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 and in deference to Phil's feelings, invented one, 
 but I don't think he was deceived in the least. 
 We approached the miserable and mopy bird 
 and Olivia Mary called to us: 
 
 "Look at its funny little b-blinky eyes, an' 
 it's c-c-claws." 
 
 "Yes, look at its talons, Phil," I said. 
 
 "L-let me see them," cried the little girl, 
 pushing Phil aside. "I haven't seen them, 
 but I 1-learned about them at Sunday school. 
 A man had ten talons an' he buried them in 
 in a t-table napkin, or he buried one, I f-forget 
 which." 
 
 " 'Cos what for? " demanded Phil. "Was n't 
 his mother angry about the napkin?" 
 
 "'Cos he wanted to, I s'pose. Don't bother, 
 Phil," she replied. 
 
 After that we wandered about among the 
 cages, and the children, of course at Phil's 
 instigation, counted and recounted the animals 
 until Olivia Mary wearied of his enthusiasm 
 and said fretfully we 'd better be getting in to see 
 the "rest of it." 
 
 "Did you preserve the seats?" she asked, 
 importantly. 
 
 Of course I had not thought of doing so, and 
 confessed as much, guiltily. Phil and I would 
 have been content to sit and dangle our feet
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 149 
 
 from one of the narrow wooden planks which 
 ran in tiers round the tent, feeling the drafts 
 play round about our ankles, and dropping pea- 
 nut shells and banana peels into the void 
 beneath, but with this small fine lady it would 
 not do at all. 
 
 Fortunately, we managed to obtain three 
 "preserved" chairs in the front row, and sat 
 there with the pleasant consciousness of being 
 the envied possessors of the best seats in the 
 house. For some time we watched three clever 
 fellows in tights who ran about on invisible or 
 almost invisible wires, and contorted themselves 
 into weird positions, and drank water while 
 standing on their heads, and did other strange 
 feats. 
 
 These acrobats always bore me, and I was 
 quite in sympathy with Phil's remark: "Those 
 men in singlets do good tricks, but when is 
 the circus going to begin?" 
 
 Then came in Tommy, the Clown, and the 
 audience burst into instant applause, though, as 
 Phil remarked to me, he had n't "done a single 
 thing yet," and there seemed no call for such 
 enthusiasm. But it seemed that there was, 
 and that the audience, better informed than we, 
 knew their Tommy. From the very beginning 
 of things, even while the men in tights were
 
 150 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 giving their display, there had been a lank 
 cadaverous creature in seedy "blacks" wander- 
 ing, or rather shuffling, aimlessly about the 
 ring. He wore a preposterous red wig, and 
 an enormous white bow tie and his expression 
 was nicely blended of imbecility and melancholy. 
 This creature the young members of the audience 
 hailed as "Dummy" and "Angus," pelted him 
 with orange peel and peanuts, and laughed 
 heartily at his painful grimaces and speechless 
 gestures, but Phil regarded him with unwinking 
 solemnity, evidently puzzled as to his use or 
 purpose in the circus-scheme. He then dis- 
 missed him with the single remark: "He 
 seems as silly as a ijjiot," and thenceforward 
 ignored his presence. But "Tommy" was 
 different. He was the orthodox clown in baggy 
 white blouse and pantaloons, with an extra- 
 ordinarily closely cropped cranium, a white- 
 floured face, a wide-painted grin, and a mulberry 
 nose. He wore an absurdly tiny steeple-crowned 
 hat on the top of his head, and he was full of 
 quips and questions and antediluvian jokes at 
 which Phil squirmed with laughter, with the 
 rest of the audience. He was a clever chap, too, 
 and after making many bungling efforts at 
 imitating the men on the trapeze, succeeded 
 in the end in quite eclipsing their performances.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 151 
 
 "Oh, good, good!" cried Phil, who had 
 been feeling rather sorry for Tommy in his 
 failures, and now clapped encouragingly. 
 "What makes his nose like that, Ruddy?" 
 
 "Oh! that hall-marks the good clown," 
 said I. 
 
 " 'Cos what for did he?" asked Phil instantly. 
 
 "Oh, nothing!" said I absently, thinking of 
 something else. 
 
 "Fancy!" said Phil, and leaned forward to 
 say to Olivia Mary, "That Hall marked that 
 good clown's poor nose like that for nothing." 
 
 "I don't care," said she, hard-heartedly. 
 "He's so ugly." 
 
 Tommy was now riding a donkey round the 
 ring, sitting face to tail and pretending the brute 
 was his ship and its tail the tiller. So all 
 went merrily until, unfortunately, Tommy and 
 the ring-master had quite a row. 
 
 A very hectoring, bullying fellow, that ring- 
 master, with a long whip which he kept cracking 
 within an inch of Tommy's nose, and daring 
 Tommy to answer him back. Everybody's 
 sympathies were with Tommy. The quarrel 
 came about in this way. The ring-master 
 drew a rather magnificent looking handkerchief 
 with a broad border of blue spots, rings and 
 horseshoes, out of his tail-pocket, and flicked
 
 152 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 the dust off his coat sleeve with it, replacing it, 
 after a bit of a flourish, in his pocket. In a 
 moment Tommy had crept up and sneaked the 
 handkerchief and thrust it into the front of his 
 blouse. When the ring-master discovered his 
 loss he was in a fine rage, I can tell you, and 
 though Tommy, trying to look innocent, went 
 down on his hands and knees, pretending to help 
 him look for it, it was for no use. The ring- 
 master (whom Phil had settled in his own mind 
 was Hall) instantly suspected Tommy, and in a 
 very short time had his property back again. 
 Tommy got it again, however, and several 
 times, hiding it variously in the ankle-string 
 of his pantaloons, his pockets, and even his 
 steeple-crowned hat, which the angry ring- 
 master cleverly whisked off his head by lassooing 
 it with the lash of his long whip. Then the 
 clown began to get quite worried. He appealed 
 to the audience. The handkerchief was his, he 
 said, a keepsake given to him by his mother-in- 
 law on her dying bed, and was made extra large 
 to hold all his tears on such a joyful he should 
 say miserable occasion. 
 
 "What's a keepsafe?" said Phil to me. 
 "And what's a dying-bed? Beds don't really 
 die, do they?" 
 
 I hurriedly explained, and bade him watch
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 153 
 
 Tommy. The ring-master had not yet dis- 
 covered that the clown had again got possession 
 of the handkerchief and was busily scratching a 
 hole in the sawdust in which to hide it. His 
 back was toward the ring-master, and Phil was 
 watching him anxiously, with a roving eye 
 occasionally directed toward the other man. 
 Suddenly the ring-master felt his tail-pocket 
 hurriedly, and turned angrily toward the un- 
 conscious Tommy. At the same moment Phil 
 in uncontrollable excitement scrambled up on to 
 his chair and yelled lustily: 
 
 "Look out! He's coming again! Stick it 
 inside your shirt, you silly ijjiot!" 
 
 An absolute roar of laughter went up from 
 the whole house, laughter in which the ring- 
 master and the clown joined heartily. Phil's 
 clear penetrating tones carried well and far, and 
 few had missed his warning cry. He looked 
 rather embarrassed, and a good deal surprised, 
 and sat down hurriedly. 
 
 Tommy, with the disputed handkerchief in 
 his hand, stopped opposite our chairs, and bowed 
 profusely. "Well spoken, little man," he said. 
 "In one act you've got the laugh I've been 
 waiting and working for, for twenty years. 
 Not a dry eye in the house," he concluded 
 whimsically.
 
 154 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Phil leaned forward and said confidentially: 
 
 "I'll mind your hankershif for you. I know 
 a place," he nodded mysteriously. 
 
 "Where ever!" said Tommy, just as mys- 
 teriously. 
 
 "I'll sit on it," whispered Phil cautiously. 
 
 "The very thing," said Tommy enthusiasti- 
 cally. "Why didn't I think of that? But 
 stay; I can't sit all my life. I'm not a barn- 
 door fowl, and even a hen only sits three weeks 
 at a time. Tell you what, you keep it for me; 
 keep it altogether in memory of me." 
 
 He held out the handkerchief. 
 
 "What!" gasped Phil. "For a keepsafe, 
 you mean?" His eyes sparkled. It was 
 certainly a handsome handkerchief. Tommy 
 nodded. But suddenly Phil's face fell. 
 
 "What about your mother-of-laws?" he 
 asked. ' ' Won 't she mind ? ' ' 
 
 "Not a bit, dear old lady. She'd like it." 
 
 "Then," said Phil, gratefully, "thank you 
 very much, and I'm so sorry Hall hurt your 
 poor nose so." 
 
 Tommy gave me a half-knowing, half-in- 
 quiring wink, and answered vaguely: 
 
 "Yes, a bit of a bruiser, old Hall, isn't 
 he?" 
 
 Then he was called away, for which I was
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 155 
 
 rather glad, for Olivia Mary was whispering 
 urgently and none too inaudibly: 
 
 "Make him go away, Ruddy. He's so ugly 
 with his face. He f-frightens me." 
 
 Phil, seeing the ring-master very much oc- 
 cupied, was smoothing out his new possession 
 admiringly. 
 
 "It's a lovely hankershif, isn't it, Ruddy? 
 I'll give it to you on your next birthday, I 
 think, but you won't mind me using it, until 
 your birthday comes, will you?" 
 
 After that the fun grew fast and furious. 
 There were beautiful painted ladies on galloping 
 chargers with flowing manes and tails, and men 
 who hung head downward in giddy heights, 
 holding little boys in their teeth, and a tiger 
 that rode a bicycle, and the famous fighting 
 lion which did a little sparring with a little 
 pug-faced man in tights and boxing gloves, and 
 anything less like a unicorn could hardly be con- 
 ceived. In short, there were many marvels, and 
 watching Phil's absorbed face, I heartily wished 
 myself back at my first circus once again. 
 
 "How do you like it, old fellow?" said I 
 to him. 
 
 "Decent," he replied briefly. In the school- 
 boyish vernacular of the period, praise can no 
 farther go. I turned to My Lady.
 
 156 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "And how do you like it, Mistress Mine?" 
 I asked. 
 
 She sighed sentimentally. "I'd give the 
 w-world to be a real circus girl like that one in 
 the b-blue dress an' goldy shoes. There's 
 n-n-nothing to laugh at," she answered. 
 
 I purchased a box of chocolates from the boy 
 who went up and down with a basket, crying 
 with monotonous reiteration: 
 
 "Oranges, bananas, ginger beer, nuts, cakes, 
 sweets, and lemonade." 
 
 "Bag's-I, the silver paper," said Phil, and 
 seeing objection struggling for utterance on 
 Olivia Mary's halting tongue, I hastily bought 
 another box which I handed her, giving the first 
 to Phil. Phil's box, however, had some real 
 or fancied superiority over hers, and she said so 
 discontentedly, whereas Phil, in his good nature, 
 so readily offered to exchange that she grew 
 suspicious, and decided to keep her own, after all. 
 
 After the show was all over we hailed a taxi- 
 cab, and started for home. Both the children 
 were sleepy, but Phil was cheerfully garrulous, 
 if a little rambling in his utterances, and Olivia 
 Mary merely cross. 
 
 "That circus is a b-big story-teller," she 
 complained. "On the picshers there was all 
 sorts of ladies flying about in the air, and in the
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 157 
 
 circus there there w-was n't one 1-lady what 
 flew." 
 
 "The difference between the real and the 
 ideal," I said sententiously, and Phil roused up, 
 scenting a riddle. 
 
 "I give in, Ruddy," he said, "an' an' 
 it was a lovely circus." His head drooped 
 against my arm, and I gave him a surreptitious 
 squeeze, glad, like Beenie, for the time, that 
 mine was a "boy-child."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN WHICH PHIL AND I ENTERTAIN 
 
 wet Saturday, when Phil was spending 
 the afternoon with me, I broached a plan 
 I had been revolving in my own mind. 
 
 "Phil," said I, "what do you say to having 
 a party?" 
 
 "A party?" Phil started up. "Oo, yes, 
 bosker!" 
 
 That is the best of Phil. He is always so 
 whole-hearted and sanguine in entertaining any 
 pleasant project. I had been conscious of many 
 doubts as to the possibility of my plan, but 
 Phil never even took one into account, and 
 his unquestioning acceptance heartened me 
 considerably. 
 
 "You think it a good idea, then?" 
 
 "Yes, I love parties, but, Ruddy, who's 
 going to have the presents?" 
 
 "What presents?" 
 
 "What the little boys and girls bring?" 
 
 "There are not going to be any little boys 
 and girls." 
 
 Phil's face fell considerably. 
 
 "But how can there be a birthday without 
 158
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 159 
 
 boys and girls and cakes and jelly, an* with 
 your name on in hundreds an' fousands?" 
 
 "Oh, the cakes and jelly '11 be there all right 
 but not the others. This is not a birthday 
 it's a party. My party will be Mr. Lynn and 
 Millicent and Miss Ellis, and you can have 
 Olivia Mary, that is, if Mrs. Binks will let us 
 have a party, so you be off and see if you can 
 get on her soft side." 
 
 "Which is it?" he asked. "All her sides 
 seem the same when you lean against her, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 "I've never taken such a liberty, Phil," 
 I answered. 
 
 Phil departed to the kitchen, and I purposely 
 left the door open to profit by his masterly 
 tactics. 
 
 As usual, his methods were direct and to the 
 point. 
 
 "A party's coming, Binks." (He never 
 accorded her the prefix, and from him she 
 never resented its omission.) 
 
 ' ' Drat it ! " she cried. ' ' Always coming when 
 a body's extra busy. Where's he coming, 
 back or front?" 
 
 "All over the house," said Phil cheerfully. 
 "They always do at a party, you know 
 nobody cares."
 
 160 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Oh, I thought you meant a lady or a gentle- 
 man, a party like that. You mean a swarry - 
 Wesleen Mission?" 
 
 Mrs. Binks has a weakness for tea-fights and 
 entertainments of this description, a taste which 
 Phil shares, for they have many interests in 
 common, and hold long confabs. 
 
 "It's here, in this house," said Phil with 
 intrepidity I should not have dared. 
 
 "What!" cried Mrs. Binks. "A party? 
 Here? And who's going to do the cooking and 
 the cleaning up after? Just tell me that, will 
 you?" 
 
 "You, I s'pose," suggested Phil hopefully. 
 
 "Well, if that is n't like a man - -" 
 
 Closing the door softly, I left them to argue it 
 out. I had every confidence in Phil, and half 
 an hour later he came to me, with pastry crumbs 
 on the front of his blouse and a dab of jam 
 on his chin. 
 
 "Well?" said I. "The enemy repulsed with 
 great slaughter?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean." 
 
 "Vanquished, all the Tartar horde, I say." 
 
 "I never did," said Phil, very pink, "only 
 one that was burned on one side, and she said I 
 could have that, and that 's the most aggravating 
 hoven Binks ever saw in her born days."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 161 
 
 During the week I had some difficulty in 
 restraining Phil's hospitable inclinations, for he 
 issued invitations broadcast, and on the very 
 day of the party I had to buy off two raga- 
 muffin friends of his I found on the doorstep 
 by his invitation. 
 
 My invitations were all accepted. On Phil's 
 suggestion I had included Mr. Wimple, who, 
 to my surprise, promised to come. Phil and 
 I took immense pains to have everything 
 very nice, and we were rather complacent over 
 the result, but waited somewhat anxiously for 
 the opinion of Olivia Mary, who arrived first, 
 in a very fluffy creation of white embroidery, 
 and lace socks. She surveyed the whole with a 
 coldly critical eye. 
 
 "Isn't it pretty, Livy?" asked Phil ad- 
 miringly. 
 
 "It isn't as p-pretty as my p-party," she 
 answered. "I had a cake with b-birthday 
 greetings writ with pink sugar." 
 
 "I think it's very nice, Ruddy," said Phil, 
 slipping a consoling hand in mine. 
 
 Soon after, the other guests arrived, and Phil 
 kindly took, in a great measure, the duties of 
 host off my shoulders. 
 
 "Do you like it, Miller?" he asked with a 
 beaming face. "I put those flowers there. 
 11
 
 1 62 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 The piano is n't ours ; a kind man at the shop 
 lent it to us; we have to pay ten shillings. 
 We did n't have enough cups and plates to go 
 round, so another lady lent us those, and we 
 have to pay a shilling every cup we break, and 
 you '11 have to, too, if you break one, so be berry 
 careful, everybody." 
 
 He subsided breathless, and everybody 
 laughed except Olivia Mary, who had been 
 accommodated with one of our own cups and 
 now remarked severely: 
 
 "I-I've got a cracked c-cup." 
 
 We had a delightful afternoon. Miss Ellis 
 played on the kind man's piano a long classical 
 selection to which we all listened politely. Mr. 
 Wimple started to sing "A Life on the Ocean 
 Wave," but forgot most of the words, and 
 filled up the blanks with a " tummity-tum-tum- 
 
 tum " in lieu of the verse, which contented 
 
 us just as well. Then Millicent, stripping off 
 her long groves, sat down at the piano and 
 played and sang several sweet little songs. I 
 sat in blissful content. To have Millicent here 
 in my room, playing on my piano well, mine 
 for the time, anyhow filled me with a dreamy 
 pleasure. After she had left the piano, Olivia 
 Mary volunteered to say a "piece" she had 
 learned at the "Kindergarter."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 163 
 
 "With actions," she added importantly, and 
 we politely assenting, she asked: 
 
 "Shall I say 'I s-saw a ship a-s-sailing' or 
 'A Froggy when he wouldn't go?" 
 
 "A donkey, don't you mean?" I suggested. 
 
 "No, mine was a frog with a op'ra hat. I'll 
 s-say that no, I won't yes, I will. N-no, 
 I'll say C-c-cock Robin." 
 
 "Say 'Birds in their Nesters," suggested 
 Phil, who has an odd habit of forming his 
 plurals, thus: " nest-nesters, desk-deskers." 
 
 "Shan't. You p-put me out, Phil ! N-n-now 
 I'm going to begin." 
 
 She started off in a high, rapid voice with an 
 up-and-down intonation: 
 
 "I s-saw a ship a-s-sailing 
 Sailing on the sea 
 An! no! the ship was lading 
 With p-pretty things f-for me. 
 There was apples in the cabing 
 And crumpets in the hole," 
 
 ("Comfits," translated Millicent to me, with 
 a spasm of laughter, and Olivia Mary went on.) 
 
 "The masts was made of s-silk, 
 The sails was made of gold. 
 The four and twenty white mice (I mean) 
 The four and twenty sailors 
 That stood ." 
 
 "No!" with a little stamp of her foot, "I'll
 
 1 64 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 begin from the beginning again." Which she 
 did, ending with a little triumphant rush: 
 "The capting said K-k-k Quack-quack." 
 
 "Shall I say another?" 
 
 "I'd like to say one now, Ruddy," said Phil 
 to my surprise, for he is usually very reluctant 
 to "show off." 
 
 "Very well, old chap," I said. "If the 
 company is not bored." 
 
 "He doesn't know any," remarked Olivia 
 Mary. 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Phil hotly. 
 
 "You're only in 'f-fat cat,' well!" 
 
 "I don't care. I know some potery as 
 well as you." 
 
 "If Hermia," thus had Mr. Wimple re- 
 christened Olivia Mary, "would be silent, we 
 might be able to listen to Humphrey." 
 
 Millicent made Olivia Mary sit beside her, 
 and allowed the child to despoil her of bangles 
 and rings, with which the small coquette 
 adorned her own slim little hands, and pea- 
 cocked with vanity. 
 
 Meanwhile Phil, very red in the face, stood 
 up like a soldier, very rigid, cogitating deeply, 
 a frown on hi3 forehead. 
 
 "Go on, Phil!" encouraged Millicent. 
 
 The silence was becoming painful.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 165 
 
 "What shall I say, Ruddy?" appealed Phil 
 to me, wriggling uncomfortably. 
 
 "Whatever you like, old man. You know 
 some piece, surely." 
 
 " I know ' Ding-dong-dell, Pussy's in the well,' 
 only I forget it." 
 
 "He knows 'Once there was a little kitty," 
 volunteered Olivia Mary, "only he says it 
 wrong." 
 
 "No, I don't!" 
 
 "Yes, you do." 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 "You do so." 
 
 "I don't!" 
 
 "You do." 
 
 "Hush!" said Millicent. "Tell about the 
 kitty, Phil," and thus encouraged Phil sighed, 
 wriggled, stood on one leg, cast up his eyes, 
 giggled, and then plunged into that classic of 
 our childhood: 
 
 "Once there was a little kitty, 
 Whiter as the snow; 
 In a barm she used to floric, 
 Long time ago. 
 
 Nine soft paws had little kitty, 
 All in a row " 
 
 Phil stopped, evidently troubled by this some- 
 what remarkable natural fact, while Mr. Wimple
 
 1 66 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 shook his head, murmuring sotto voce, "Some- 
 thing wrong there," and Olivia Mary shrilled 
 triumphantly: 
 
 "He's said it wrong. He " 
 
 Millicent's soft palm closed resolutely over 
 her mouth, and Phil began again doggedly: 
 
 "Four soft paws had little kitty, 
 Paws as soft as dough, 
 And they bit the little mousie, 
 Long " 
 
 "That 's wrong! " up bounced the irrepressible 
 again. "I'll say it! I'll s-say it; I know it. 
 Let me say it." 
 
 "No, we don't want to hear you," said 
 Millicent firmly. "Go on, Phil. Of course we 
 all know the little kitty, and can help. This 
 is the way it goes : ' Four sharp teeth had - 
 
 "Wrong!" said Olivia Mary positively, and 
 Millicent looked annoyed. "Nine pearl teeth 
 that's what it is." 
 
 "Nine pearl teeth," began Phil again doubt- 
 fully, and stopped. 
 
 "White as the snow," prompted Mr. Wimple. 
 "How well I remember learning that when I 
 was eh, what? " for Miss Ellis had broken in: 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Wimple, but you are in- 
 correct; it is 'sharp and white,' I know. I 
 learned it as a child."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 167 
 
 "I think not, madam. God bless my soul! 
 I was just such another little shaver as 
 Humphrey. We must appeal to Miss Lynn." 
 
 "Well, both seem wrong to me," said Milli- 
 cent. "I think it is something about 'running 
 to and fro." 
 
 "Not the teeth, surely," I murmured, and 
 Millicent retorted with warmth: 
 
 "Well, what is your version?" 
 
 "I refer the whole thing to Olivia Mary," I 
 said. "But I have an impression that some 
 one, or something, cried out, 'Oh!' Am I not 
 right, Olivia Mary?" 
 
 "I'm sure you're not," said Millicent de- 
 cisively, and Miss Ellis smiled in a superior way, 
 and Mr. Wimple said, "I stick to my guns." 
 
 We all turned to Olivia Mary for judgment. 
 
 "You are all wrong," said that young lady 
 crushingly, and then we became aware that 
 Phil had discovered the right version for him- 
 self, and regardless of our preoccupation he was 
 getting through it at a great rate, and now came 
 triumphantly to the end of the stanza. We 
 all applauded, and Phil, looking very pink and 
 complacent, was just sidling on to my knee when 
 Olivia Mary remarked chillingly: 
 
 "You w-went wrong, you know. I t-told 
 you you would."
 
 1 68 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Well, I collected myself," answered Phil 
 with dignity, and with a little smothered 
 sound, between tenderness and mirth, Millicent 
 snatched him to her, crying: 
 
 "So you did, you darling, and your piece 
 was much the nicer. ' r 
 
 "B-b-better'n mine?" asked the outraged 
 Olivia Mary in amazement. 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" nodded Millicent, caressing 
 Phil's hair. 
 
 "I'm inp-pig, but!" 
 
 "I don't care." 
 
 "An' I can say free t-times only I can't 
 remember free eights are twenty-seven." 
 
 "An' I can say two times 'cept I don't know 
 
 "Trice tens are twenty, 
 Trice 'levens are twenty-two, 
 Trice twelves are twenty-four," 
 
 cried Phil, in singsong. 
 
 After this our tragedy happened. Phil 
 whispered to me, and, in defiance of etiquette, 
 I whispered back to Phil, and we both had 
 an air of mystery which excited Olivia Mary's 
 curiosity to a fever point, till she danced with 
 impatience. Then we formally invited Millicent 
 to come and see our garden, and Phil stipulated 
 she must keep her eyes shut till he told her to 
 open them. He then led her by the hand. I
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 169 
 
 wanted to pretend it was necessary that I should 
 take her other hand, but she said, "Not at 
 all," she would trust Phil to take care of her 
 anywhere. 
 
 "I'll s-shut my eyes too, Phil," said Olivia 
 Mary. 
 
 "You can if you like," said Phil coldly. 
 "But it is n't nothing about you. It 's a s'prise 
 for Miller." 
 
 "If you mean about the garden," said the 
 distractingly pretty fiend, "I'll just t-tell her 
 all about it. They've went an' " 
 
 Phil's look of appeal to me was coincident 
 with my clapping my hand, not too gently, over 
 Olivia Mary's lips, while Millicent, putting her 
 hands over her ears, cried out: 
 
 "I'm not listening, Phil, dear!" 
 
 "Now," cried Phil, in triumph, and Millicent 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 Phil looked at her, his face alight with 
 delighted expectancy. 
 
 Down the length of the garden, brave and 
 green and sturdy, in the tiny multiple flourish- 
 ing heads of mustard and cress, ran the inscrip- 
 tion, "Millicent Lynn," clear on the brown 
 soil. But no cry of delight and surprise broke 
 from Millicent's lips in answer to Phil's impa- 
 tient looks. Only a deep flush sprang to her
 
 170 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 cheek, and she gave me one look of indignant 
 surprise and hauteur. And in that moment 
 of strained silence my heart sank with horrible 
 misgiving nay, certainty. What a blunder 
 I had made! What a crass bungling, imperti- 
 nent fool I had been! How should any girl 
 not feel resentment at the sight of her name 
 sprawling across a man's garden under the 
 curious eyes of any stranger, or grinning trades- 
 man, who chanced to cross it? 
 
 "Don't you like it?" asked Phil wistfully, 
 his face clouding with disappointment. She 
 did not answer him, but turned to me. 
 
 "I am surprised, Mr. Lingard, that you 
 should take such a liberty." 
 
 "I am sorry, Miss Lynn. Phil thought 
 that you " 
 
 "Oh, don't shelter behind the child, please," 
 she broke in with a low vexed laugh. "Of 
 course you suggested it." 
 
 "No, he didn't," cried Phil eagerly, not 
 understanding, but loyal in my defense. "Not 
 a bit. He just told me to do it, did n't you, 
 Ruddy?" 
 
 "You see!" said Millicent, with another 
 cruel little laugh. 
 
 "He buyed the seeds, too," proceeded Phil, 
 unconsciously damning my cause with every
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 171 
 
 word he spoke. "And drawed the letters with 
 a stick, but he let me scatter the seeds 'cos I 
 wanted to, berry much. It took a n'awful 
 lot of seeds, too," he added mournfully, "and 
 there was n't enough left to write my properly 
 name, so I had just to write Phil," and he 
 pointed to his own abbreviated name, rather 
 patchy, in straggling, uneven characters. 
 
 "Why," exploded Olivia Mary, "that's not 
 the way to spell Ph-Ph-Phil. F-i-1-1, Phil," she 
 chanted, "an' he's went an' spelled it with a P." 
 
 But no one paid any heed to her. With some- 
 thing of an effort, Millicent called up a smile, 
 and, slipping her arm round Phil's neck, turned 
 his little earnest face up to hers. 
 
 "I think it was lovely of you, Phil dear," 
 she said, "and thank you ever so much, little 
 boy," and she kissed him. 
 
 "Thank Ruddy, too," said Phil. 
 
 "Ruddy asks for no thanks but pardon," 
 I said, half-jesting, half-earnest. But to this 
 she returned no answer, changing the subject 
 neatly, and though, for the rest of the afternoon 
 she was pleasant and gay, I felt that I was 
 in disgrace, and that our pleasant bond of 
 camaraderie had yielded to the strain and 
 snapped. Old Mr. Wimple, who had practically 
 monopolized Millicent all the afternoon, on that
 
 172 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 most unjustifiable plea that elderly gentlemen 
 are fond of advancing, " I 'm only an old fellow," 
 was the first of my guests to leave, and as I 
 was bidding him good-by he exclaimed in 
 his loud, hearty voice, "Lingard, my boy, I 
 like your fiancee very much. Nice girl, very, 
 Miss Lee congratulations ! ' ' 
 
 Then he rushed off, and just behind me stood 
 Millicent. How much had she heard? What 
 would she think? She could know nothing of 
 Mr. Wimple's fatal habit of jumping to con- 
 clusions. I thought her manner was, if any- 
 thing, a shade colder as she said good-by. 
 
 When the last of them had gone, Phil and I 
 and Olivia Mary, who said she would be 
 "allowed" to stay to tea, if she was asked, 
 returned to the dining room, which looked 
 indeed a banquet-hall deserted, with its litter 
 of soiled china, and its chairs pushed here and 
 there. While the children wrangled over the 
 remains of the colored jelly in the glass dish, 
 and drained the lemonade bottles, I stood in a 
 rather dismal reverie, sucking at my pipe and 
 thinking deeply. Then we took Olivia Mary 
 home, and at her gate she recited her little 
 set speech of thanks, evidently drilled into her. 
 
 "Thank you very much for a pleasant evening 
 afternoon, I mean."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 173 
 
 "That's all right," I said. "Glad you 
 enjoyed it." 
 
 "I did n't enjoy it very much," she answered 
 disparagingly. "I had only one cream puff 
 and Phil had two, an' all the p-parties I've 
 been to, we fish for toys in a tub full of brandy." 
 
 "Indeed!" I cried, for this extravagance 
 savored of the freak-banquets of American 
 millionaires, but Phil lightened my bewilder- 
 ment by explaining: 
 
 "She means brand, like what you give fowls 
 for dinner." 
 
 "Phil," said I plaintively, on our homeward 
 way, "I can't love Olivia Mary!" 
 
 " It 's very wicked to hate any one," he replied 
 in a highly moral tone. "I don't hate any one, 
 'cept only the butcher's dog 'cos he bit Terry 
 in two places, and God would n't mind that, 
 would He, Ruddy?" 
 
 Phil was to remain all night with me, and as 
 he was very sleepy I carried him off to bed as 
 soon as he had had a bite to eat. He explained, 
 between yawns, that he always had his warm 
 bath on Saturday night, but as he was so tired 
 we waived that rite. As he stood before me, 
 blinking sleepily, while I pulled his jersey over 
 his head, rumpling his hair very much in the 
 process, or sat him on my knee to unbutton his
 
 174 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 stout little boots and admire his sturdy scratched 
 knees and firm brown calves, I felt a delight in 
 his strong boyish beauty, as though he had 
 been my own, but when in his ridiculous little 
 pink-striped pajamas he cuddled his cheek 
 against my shoulder, and I felt the warmth and 
 weight of his firm little body and strong arms, I 
 began dimly to comprehend, in my blundering 
 man's way, why mothers so yearn to keep their 
 boys babies as long as possible. We had made 
 up a bed out of a short couch and two chairs, and 
 all day Phil had been delighted with this novel 
 style of bed, and had even wanted to exhibit 
 it to our guests, but now, after looking at it very 
 closely, he confessed a desire to sleep in a 
 "properly" bed. So I popped him into my 
 bed, reflecting that I could move him when he 
 slept. And now this sleepy, blinking, and yawn- 
 ing boy became perversely wide awake. He 
 coaxed me to lie beside him and tell him stories, 
 demanding another and another, until at last 
 I said: 
 
 "I'll tell one more, Phil; but mind, it's the 
 last, the very last, so choose your own." 
 
 After some deliberation, he chose the story 
 of Daniel in the den of lions, and asked how 
 many lions there was. I had n't the least idea, 
 so I said "Seven," and hoped Scripture might
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 175 
 
 not confound me. But Phil seemed disappointed 
 and said, "Only seven?" in such a dissatisfied 
 tone that I answered brazenly, "I mean seventy- 
 seven," and he seemed much more content. 
 What are a paltry few score lions to stand 
 between Phil and his sense of the fit? 
 
 He made me roar for the lions until he 
 clutched me, and burrowed into my chest with 
 his head, in an ecstasy of mingled terror and 
 delight. It was in the midst of formulating 
 a somewhat complicated problem as to how 
 much of Daniel I thought each lion would get, 
 if "God had loved the lions better 'n He loved 
 Daniel, and had let him be etten up," that his 
 voice trailed off sleepily, and quite suddenly he 
 fell asleep, as I knew by his soft regular breath- 
 ing. It was a relief to me, as I had grave doubts 
 as to whether Daniel would have "gone round" 
 my seventy-seven lions, to any satisfactory 
 degree. I had work to do, so I gently dis- 
 engaged Phil's strong little hands. They made 
 one feeble semi-conscious clutch after me, then 
 relaxed, and with a sleepy sigh the boy rolled 
 over and settled down. It was perhaps an 
 hour later that I, deep in papers and in a halo 
 of tobacco smoke, was startled by a small 
 voice from across the hall. 
 
 "Ruddy!"
 
 176 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Yes, Phil." 
 
 "Are you there?" 
 
 "Yes here for hours yet. Go to sleep." 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 "Turn over and try." 
 
 A moment later: "I've turned over, and 
 I can't." 
 
 "You will soon. Shut your eyes tight." 
 
 "All right. Good night, Ruddy." 
 
 "Good night, Phil." 
 
 Five minutes later: "Ruddy!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You there still?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, goodnight!" 
 
 "Goodnight." 
 
 A few minutes' silence and then: "Ruddy 
 the clothes are slipping off of me." 
 
 "Pull 'em up, then." 
 
 "I have, an' now I can't find the pillow. 
 Oh, here it is, I had my feets on it. Good 
 night, Ruddy." 
 
 "Good night, boy!" rather shortly. 
 
 Fifteen minutes filled with deep breathings, 
 sighs, and creakings of the spring-mattress 
 from across the hall. Then came softly, 
 "Ruddy?" 
 
 No answer.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 177 
 
 "Ruddy" (pause) "Ruddy" 
 
 "Ruddee/" RUDDY!" The last a positive 
 roar. 
 
 "Look here, Phil," I cried, "this won't do, 
 you know. You must go to sleep like a good 
 chap." 
 
 "Ruddy, I want to tell you something." 
 
 "Oh, it'll keep till the morning." 
 
 "I want a drink, Ruddy, I'm so thirsty!" 
 
 "Not really, Phil?" 
 
 "Yes, I am I'm so thirsty!" 
 
 "Very well, old chap." 
 
 I took him in a brimming glass of water, 
 which he barely sipped at before handing it 
 back to me. He moved across the bed. 
 
 "Lie down by me," he said, wheedlingly. 
 
 "I can't, Phil; I've work to do. Good 
 night." 
 
 I had got as far as the door when I heard 
 reproachfully, "You haven't said good-good 
 night." 
 
 "I have, little chap," I said, wheeling about, 
 the candle in my hand showing his pink cheeks, 
 tousled hair, and wide eyes above the sheets, 
 "lots of times!" 
 
 "Not not properly you never kissed me." 
 
 "Dear little chap!" 
 
 I was back in a moment, and kissed him 
 
 12
 
 i;8 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 very heartily, rearranged the bedclothes, and 
 turned away. 
 
 "God bless you!" he said gravely, and I 
 echoed, "God bless you, Phil!" and went 
 away with softened thoughts. 
 
 Across these thoughts broke a small persistent 
 voice : 
 
 "Ruddy!" 
 
 "Ah ! h h ! " I swallowed a word unuttered. 
 
 "I haven't said my prayers." 
 
 "Well, say them in the morning; I guess 
 the Lord will forgive you this once." 
 
 "He can't take care of me if I don't ast Him. 
 There's so many little boys, He might forget 
 if I don't remind Him." 
 
 I rose resignedly, and went to the other room 
 in no mood for conducting prayers, but Phil's 
 little devout face and folded hands, as he knelt, 
 disarmed me. He rambled conscientiously 
 through a great many private petitions, among 
 which he was good enough to include my name 
 for blessing, opening his eyes to remark in a 
 conversational tone, "This is my friend Ruddy, 
 dear God. I 've often told you about him, and 
 now here he is." He concluded all with a very 
 sonorous "Ah-men!" but just at the end 
 murmured something under his breath. My 
 curiosity was aroused.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 179 
 
 "What did you whisper, Phil?" I asked. 
 
 He colored, wriggled a bit, and began 
 ostentatiously counting the fringes on the 
 counterpane, by way of changing the subject. 
 On being pressed, however, he said his whisper 
 concerned Terry and his chances of ultimately 
 reaching Heaven. 
 
 "Beenie says it's wicked to pray about dogs, 
 but God made him as well as me, and Heaven's 
 the nicest place of all, nicer even than the 
 Gardens, and it would be just the same, if it 
 had 'Dogs not omitted' on the gate. And 
 'sides, God can do anything, can't He?" 
 
 "I I believe so," I returned. 
 
 "Frow the world into the sea, and fly up to 
 Heaven in an airing-plane, could He?" 
 
 "It's to be hoped He wouldn't want to do 
 anything so silly!" I replied evasively. 
 
 "No, but could n't He, though?" 
 
 "Now you go to sleep, Phil." 
 
 "Could He though Ruddy? Could He? 
 Could He, Ruddy?" 
 
 "I suppose so," I said testily, driven to bay. 
 
 "Yes," murmured Phil in a satisfied tone, 
 "God can do anything. He could make little 
 pigs' tails grow out of their noses if He liked. 
 He would n't though, 'cos He 's kind, and the 
 little pigs could n't feed theirselves if He did."
 
 1 8o MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "I'm going back to my work," I said, "and 
 you're going right off to sleep like a man." 
 
 "How does a man go to sleep?" he asked. 
 
 I picked up the candle, and Phil remarked 
 wistfully : "I w wonder what it 's like at daddy 
 and mummy's place now!" 
 
 As I detected incipient tears in the quaver- 
 ing tones, I put down the candle hastily. 
 
 "See here, little chap, how'd you like me to 
 lie down with you?" 
 
 The grateful beam that answered me was 
 enough. I blew out the light, lay down beside 
 him, and in five minutes my guest was asleep. 
 I cautiously slipped away, and when later I 
 came to bed myself, I found him stretched 
 right across the bed, and most of the clothes 
 on the floor. As I gently removed him to his 
 own couch, and felt the quiet rise and fall of 
 his childish breast, and marked the innocent 
 sweetness of his face, I thought Peter Pan 
 must have enticed away the sturdy, restless, 
 chattering boy of waking hours, and left some 
 lovely changeling in his place. If so, he re- 
 pented of his bargain, and returned him before 
 morning, for about 5 A.M. I was rudely awakened 
 from a dream of Millicent, particularly kind, 
 by something hard and heavy striking me full 
 in the face.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 181 
 
 "Ugh! ah! um um who the deuce threw 
 that?" I cried angrily, starting up. 
 
 "Me!" shrilled Phil's delighted voice, and 
 there, dancing precariously on his improvised 
 couch, I saw the imp of the day. The missile 
 was the cushion from the couch in the dining 
 room, which, being short of pillows, we had 
 dressed in a white slip and utilized for Phil's 
 bed. 
 
 "Look out, Phil!" I cried, but the warning 
 came too late; chairs and couch parted com- 
 pany in the middle, and Phil disappeared in 
 an avalanche of bedclothes. When he rose to 
 the surface again it was with a red and angry 
 face, which deepened in tint when I burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 ' ' Mad old bed ! " he cried resentfully. ' ' Why 
 can't I sleep in a properly bed like you?" 
 
 I cut further reflections short with a well- 
 aimed pillow, which bowled him over again, and 
 he struggled to his feet redder than ever, and 
 looking undecided whether to laugh or cry. 
 Finally laughter conquered, and seizing the 
 pillow, he flung it at me, and then the feathers 
 flew. Then he came into my bed, and rode on 
 my knees, and laughed himself nearly hysterical 
 when they suddenly collapsed under him, and 
 kept crying, "Do it again," even unto seventy
 
 1 82 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 times seven. Then, hearing Mrs. Binks stirring, 
 I said: 
 
 "Now tumble up and help Mrs. Binks with 
 breakfast." 
 
 "What are we going to have for breksfus?" 
 
 "What'd you like?" 
 
 " Baking an' eggs. Let's!" he cried, dancing. 
 
 "Very well; and two boiled eggs for me. 
 Off with you." 
 
 I heard his little bare feet go pattering down 
 the passage. Half an hour later, when I came 
 down for my cold tub, I heard from the bath- 
 room an edifying conversation. 
 
 "And I says to my good man, I says," said 
 Mrs. Binks, breaking eggs into the pan, "I've 
 never stood such goings-on in my maiden home 
 so to speak, and I ain't agoin' to now, an' my 
 good man " 
 
 "Was he very good, Binks?" 
 
 "Good? 'Oo? Me pore dear 'usbin? Oh, 
 good enough as they go (No, Phil, you can't 
 break no more eggs into the pan; you let the 
 last mess on to me clean range) but you see, 
 good man is just a manner of speaking, so to 
 speak. Any'ow, he's gone now, pore dear, an' 
 this I will say (don't be fingerin' the bacon) 
 you would n't believe the number of wreafs 
 on 'is corfin."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 183 
 
 "Yes, I would," said Phil, "if you tell me. 
 How many, Binks?" as usual, athirst for nu- 
 merical details. 
 
 "Oh, I can't exactly say 'ow many." 
 
 "Was there five hundred?" 
 
 "Five hundred? Good life! 'E wasn't the 
 King of England!" 
 
 "Wasn't he? Where's he gone now? You 
 said he'd gone." 
 
 "Oh, 'e was took off, pore dear, quite 
 sudden-like." 
 
 "Did the p'leeceman take him, Binks?" 
 
 "No, no; he died, I mean, of peumonia, 'e 
 did ! It was his sister as I could n't abide, 
 though. Oh, my dear, that woman! It was 
 all owin' to 'er that me and Aunt Susan fell 
 out." 
 
 Phil was breathlessly interested. I could see 
 through the crack in the door. 
 
 "Oo! was it a cram or a boat?" he asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Tram or boat? What yer mean?" 
 
 "What you fell out of? 'Cos both is very 
 dangerous. If you fall out of a cram, you break 
 all your bones an' a motor car runs over you 
 'fore you can get up; and if you fall out of a 
 boat, a shark eats you up, and then you're 
 drownded, an' p'raps your aunty could n't
 
 1 84 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 swim. Lots of aunties can't, 'cos they don't 
 learn when they're little boys little girls, I 
 mean but I can, Binks, with Ruddy's hand 
 under my chin, and both legs like a frog. I '11 
 show you." 
 
 "Bless the boy!" cried Mrs. Binks. "How 
 you do run on. No, we never fell out of nothing, 
 but it was a disagreement, so to speak, and her 
 name was Amelia, and since that time I never 
 could abide the name, though you may call 
 me predijuiced." 
 
 "No, I wouldn't, Binks, really," Phil re- 
 assured her politely, and then I called him for 
 his tub. We had a delightful time. Phil 
 succeeded in getting us both thoroughly wet, 
 and in splashing the bathroom from floor to 
 ceiling, and then, after helping him to dress, 
 and changing into dry clothes myself, we sat 
 down to breakfast with sharpened appetites. 
 Phil ate a surprising amount of bacon and 
 eggs, and when I had eaten one boiled egg, and 
 was reaching for the other, Phil's eyes began 
 to twinkle. 
 
 "Don't look for a minute, Ruddy," he said, 
 and I obediently stooped down to offer the cat 
 a piece of bacon rind. 
 
 "Now," said Phil, and his small face was 
 dimpling, his dancing eyes fixed on me. Before
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 185 
 
 me was my plate and an egg something odd- 
 looking about that egg in my egg cup. Then, 
 calling for the pepper and salt, and with much 
 preparation, I chipped the top off my egg to 
 find only the empty shell, and the time-honored 
 joke was on me. The room rang with Phil's 
 delighted laughter. He never tires of this joke. 
 After breakfast, before the church-goers began 
 to stream past, Phil and I had work to do. 
 Armed with a Dutch hoe and giving him a small 
 short-handled spud, we carefully eliminated 
 all trace of Millicent Lynn from the garden. 
 
 "Bother!" said Phil, wiping his hot brow. 
 "I wish we had n't planted Miller in our garden. 
 There's not a bit of her now. It's a good job." 
 
 But I knew there was another garden where 
 she bloomed perennially, and it was not twenty 
 minutes' labor, a man and a boy, a Dutch hoe 
 and a spud that would root her out of that 
 garden ground.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IN WHICH THERE ARE "REWARDS" AND 
 "FAIRIES" 
 
 TDHIL came in one day with a large square 
 missive in his hand, its immaculate white- 
 ness only slightly marred by several smudgy, 
 small thumb marks. This missive he handed 
 with an air of some importance to me, and I 
 opened it solemnly and read in the best school- 
 mistress copper-plate: 
 
 "The Principal and pupils of the Morning- 
 side Kindergarten request the pleasure of Mr. 
 . Ruddy's company at their classrooms on 
 the occasion of the annual prize-giving. Songs, 
 recitations, and exercises by the children. 
 
 R.S.V.P." 
 
 "Will you come, Ruddy?" asked Phil as I 
 finished reading. 
 
 "Rather! Thanks awfully!" I replied grate- 
 fully. "Do you perform?" 
 
 "Form what?" said he. 
 
 "Never mind," I said. "How was it I came 
 to receive this flattering invitation from er 
 Miss er Schoolmarm?" 
 
 "That's not her name," said Phil. "She's 
 Miss Dampier, an' she said we could ask three 
 
 1 86
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 187 
 
 people besides our parents, but I said I had so 
 many parents, an' she laughed an* said to tell 
 who I wanted to come most. So I said you, 
 an' she said 'Is he a little friend?' an' I said 
 no, a big one, bigger 'n her, an' then she said I 
 should call you 'Mister' fancy calling you 
 'Mister' an' then she asked me how to spell 
 you, but Ruddy, don't you think a teacher 
 should know how to spell everything an' not 
 have to ask little boys?" 
 
 "Well," said I, as I reached for my pipe, 
 "did you ask any one else?" 
 
 "I couldn't think of any one but Beenie, 
 and Miss Dampier said I had to think hard, 
 and some one would be sure to come into my 
 head, so I thinked and I thinked, and that old 
 lame man that sells papers in Pitt Street came 
 into my head, so I told her." 
 
 "But you don't know him, do you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor his name even?" 
 
 "No, I don't; but she said to think, an' I 
 thinked him. I could n't help it. I did n't 
 make my think come to him. What makes your 
 thinks come, Ruddy?" 
 
 "Now, now, Phil," said I hastily, "you've 
 lots of friends, I know. Did n't you 
 think," I added with a fine air of attempted
 
 188 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 nonchalance, "of er Miss Lynn, for 
 instance?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; she's another parent of mine, of 
 course, but I forgot about her," he answered. 
 "Could I have that apple?" 
 
 "Yes," said I, "take it. But about Millicent 
 there 's still another invitation left, is n't 
 there?" 
 
 "No," said he, examining the empty fruit 
 stand. "Not one, if you mean the apples." 
 
 "No, no," said I impatiently; "I mean an 
 invitation like the one you brought me asking 
 me to go to the prize-giving." 
 
 "Oh, you mean another letter," he answered, 
 as he bit thoughtfully into his apple. "No, 
 I gave you the last one I had. There's none 
 left for poor old Miller at all." 
 
 "Well, but you could get another," I sug- 
 gested insinuatingly. "Tell your teacher 
 you've thought of another friend, and get her 
 to write a letter to Miller." 
 
 "Oh, all right," he answered carelessly. 
 "Ruddy, where's the cat? I haven't seen 
 him for nours an' nours, an' I think he 's lonely 
 without me." 
 
 "I imagine not, old man," I answered. 
 "I fancy he saw you coming, and has dis- 
 creetly retired."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 189 
 
 "What's screetly tired mean?" he asked. 
 "Too tired to play with me?" 
 
 "That's about it," I answered. "And now 
 you run along, Phil, and don't forget about 
 Millicent." 
 
 He promised, but seemed so neutral in the 
 matter that I had not much faith that he would 
 remember. However, a day or two later, he 
 remarked : 
 
 "I told Miss Dampier about Miller an* that 
 you wanted her awfully badly to come, and 
 Miss Dampier laughed and said it would be all 
 right, 'cos Miller was a friend of hers." 
 
 "Oh, Phil," I groaned, "why did you say 
 that?" 
 
 "You told me to," he said in indignant 
 astonishment. " Don't you want Miller, now? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course I do, but but oh, 
 well, never mind." 
 
 I fervently trusted Miss Dampier would not 
 repeat Phil's innocent remark to Millicent Lynn, 
 but these girls, with their shy love of mischief 
 in such matters how far they can be trusted 
 is open to doubt. 
 
 "You'll like seeing me get my prize, won't 
 you, Ruddy?" said Phil cheerfully. "I won- 
 der will it be a red book like the one Livy 
 got for her birthday."
 
 190 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 A sudden pang of misgiving seized me. Phil, 
 though the dearest fellow in the world, and the 
 most congenial little companion and full of cold- 
 drawn common sense, does not altogether shine 
 in scholarship. He has still a difficulty in 
 distinguishing between b's and d's on the 
 printed page; his g's, s's, and y's are invariably 
 made back to front; he is never quite sure 
 that four eights are not thirty-six, or nine fours 
 thirty- two, and he has only just left off spelling 
 d-o-g = puppy, because the picture corres- 
 ponding to d-o-g was that of an unmistakable 
 puppy of uncertain breed. On the other hand, 
 he will tell you that he can read any lesson in 
 his book with his eyes shut, and can make paper 
 boats and crowns with any one. Still, I was 
 uneasy. 
 
 "Phil," said I with some hesitation, trying 
 to be diplomatic, "you know every one does n't 
 always win a prize. Perhaps you may not 
 
 But at the mere suggestion Phil gave me such a 
 look of surprised reproach that I faltered into 
 silence. 
 
 "Of course I'll get a prize," he said emphati- 
 cally; "of course I will. Littler boys than me 
 get them sometimes." 
 
 I held my peace, sincerely wishing him to be 
 a true prophet. But the more I thought of it
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 191 
 
 the more doubtful I felt, and since Phil counted 
 on it so confidently I could not bear that he 
 should be disappointed. I even had more or 
 less serious thoughts of writing privately to Miss 
 Dampier, offering a special prize to be given to 
 Phil, the anonymity of the giver to be strictly 
 preserved, but that austere word Principal 
 deterred me. Goodness knows what penalties 
 one would make oneself liable to from the 
 educational authorities of New South Wales 
 if one should attempt to tamper with the pro- 
 fessional integrity of a lady Principal. But 
 Phil went his way serenely, with no doubts to 
 trouble his confident complacency. 
 
 At last the great day arrived. The ceremony 
 was timed to begin at three o'clock, and I left 
 my office at two-thirty, jumped into a car, and 
 was whirled away. When I arrived at the 
 schoolroom I found it humming with light chat. 
 It was fairly full of proud mammas, lady cousins 
 and big sisters in pretty frocks, and a sprinkling 
 of no less proud but more self-conscious papas, 
 and away at the end was a broad shallow plat- 
 form crowded with children. It was a pretty 
 sight; dainty little misses in a mist of millinery, 
 frills, and laces, and curls and ribbon bows, and 
 a solid phalanx of small boys, fine sturdy chaps 
 in white jumpers; shock heads, sleek heads,
 
 192 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 and curly heads and all these little heads 
 restlessly turning and moving like a field of 
 bonny flowers, with bright faces nodding and 
 swaying in the wind. 
 
 I had no sooner entered, however, than all 
 these children, in response to a sharp tap -tap 
 somewhere, rose en masse, and to the cracked 
 strains of a tinkling piano sang a lusty song of 
 welcome at me. I was overwhelmed. Though 
 deeply sensible of the honor, I am a modest 
 man, and thus having public attention drawn 
 to me filled me with confusion, and I sank into 
 a seat at the back of the hall. As the applause 
 which followed this effort, and the rustling 
 subsidence of thirty or more children into their 
 seats, died into silence, however, reflection 
 convinced me that it was only accident that 
 my entry should have coincided with that song, 
 and though feeling more insignificant I felt 
 less embarrassed. Then I began to look about 
 me for friends. 
 
 On the platform I had no difficulty in picking 
 out Olivia Mary's ruddy nimbus, and I felt sure 
 from the energetic nodding of the huge golden- 
 brown bow, which perched like a great butter- 
 fly on her curls, that she was laying down the 
 law jto some one, and stammering badly. Then 
 my roving eye lighted on Phil, and I waved my
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 193 
 
 hat at him, but he gave me only one furtive 
 smile, and then became very solemn and im- 
 mediately looked away, so I conceived I had 
 probably violated the etiquette of Kindergarten 
 gatherings, and also became solemn. But all 
 the time I was keeping my eyes open for a pink 
 frock and a large hat with pink rosebuds. 
 And at last, between the fat shoulder of a portly 
 mamma and the thin, bare, collarless neck and 
 all-too-evident collarbones of the lady beside 
 her, I found her I sought, but on this occasion 
 she was dressed in soft blue with a delicious 
 saucy little hat, with a blue plume on it, perched 
 at an angle on her gold-brown hair. As the 
 fates would have it, there was a vacant chair 
 behind, and one also at her side, and I hesitated. 
 Dare I? 
 
 The children were now on their feet again, 
 going through a series of extraordinary con- 
 tortions, with writhings and gaspings; most 
 alarming had I not seen Phil at it often, and 
 knew it to signify "breathing exercises." A 
 fresh, fair, slender young thing was in charge of 
 this demonstration, and I gasped when I heard 
 some one address her as "Miss Dampier." 
 This the austere Principal? But just then a 
 small boy in the front rank of the children 
 was seized with an irrepressible fit of the giggles, 
 
 13
 
 194 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 and Miss Dampier turned and froze the de- 
 linquent into solemnity with a glance, and I 
 saw the Principal surely enough. I rose when 
 I saw every one's attention engaged, and 
 tiptoed down the room and slipped into the 
 vacant seat behind Miss Lynn. 
 
 "Good afternoon," I breathed, just to the 
 right of a pink ear shaded by a brown tendril. 
 
 I swear these women have eyes in the back 
 of their heads, and an intuitive sense at the 
 end of every hair, for she answered me in a low 
 collected voice, and with not an atom of sur- 
 prise, and yet I had been watching her, and 
 she had never once turned her eyes in my 
 direction. 
 
 "Is n't it beautiful?" I said, indicating 
 the children but thinking of something very 
 different. 
 
 "Wonderful!" agreed Millicent briefly. 
 
 "Look at Phil gasping like a fish out of 
 water." 
 
 "Hush, don't whisper. It puts the chil- 
 dren out." 
 
 "I won't if I may sit beside you," I said. 
 "May I have that chair?" 
 
 There was no answer. Millicent's eyes were 
 intent on the stage. 
 
 "May I?" I persisted in a louder voice.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 195 
 
 "Oh, do be quiet. The chair is not mine 
 to give or refuse," she returned in a guarded 
 whisper. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want the chair," I said cheer- 
 fully, "but only the permission to sit beside 
 you. Please! Oh, don't frown like that, for 
 I shall go on whispering until you say 'Yes,' 
 and when all the mammas turn round and 
 'Hsh' at us, they'll blame you as well as me." 
 
 "Come on then, for goodness sake!" 
 
 "For my own sake," I said thankfully, and 
 transferred myself. 
 
 "Hsh!" said a tall woman in front of us, 
 and Millicent said "There" in a reproachful 
 and indignant voice. 
 
 "There ! " said I. "It was you she glared at." 
 
 "Your fault!" she said accusingly, and I 
 agreed cheerfully. A prim-looking little boy 
 with a rather large head and large round 
 spectacles now came forward and recited a 
 highly moral "piece" about two little kittens 
 which "began to quarrel and then to fight," 
 and when he had primly concluded, and primly 
 walked back to his seat, a small, rotund, pink 
 person arrived, by a series of wriggles, at the 
 front of the platform. 
 
 "The darling!" exclaimed Millicent under 
 her breath, while the Principal said that
 
 196 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Marjory Ware would now give us a short 
 recitation. Marjorie is three, and our baby." 
 The plump, pink person aforesaid dimpled 
 and blushed, tucked a fat little chin sideways 
 into a delicious fat neck, and remarked hurriedly 
 to the wings: 
 
 "Thwim. thwan thwim! 
 
 Thwim thwan thwim! 
 
 Thwim in th' thwamp; thwim in th' thee 
 
 Ower the thee an' bakka dain 
 
 Well thwum thwan." 
 
 After which she stood and beamed at us, until 
 the Principal called her down. I looked, be- 
 wildered, at Millicent, but she was applauding 
 heartily, with every one else. "Wasn't she 
 sweet?" she cried. 
 
 "Y-yes," I said, "but what was it? Is it 
 Chinese or or Esperanto, or merely Australian 
 English?" 
 
 "As if you couldn't tell!" 
 
 "No, indeed," I said earnestly. "Did you 
 understand it?" 
 
 "Understand it? Of course!" she said, with 
 the air of implying that any one who did not 
 must be a fool. 
 
 "Well, I didn't," I said bluntly. 
 
 "Do you really mean," she said in a superior 
 way, "that you don't know the old nursery 
 rime 'Swim, swan, swim'?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 197 
 
 "I must plead guilty," I said. "My nursery 
 education must have been sadly neglected. 
 Won't you take pity on my ignorance, and tell 
 me how it goes?" 
 
 "Why, every one knows it," she said disdain- 
 fully. "The old thing: 
 
 "Swim, swan, swim! 
 Swim, swan, swim! 
 Swim in the thwamp thwim " 
 
 "Aha!" said I. "You're tripping!" 
 
 "Well," she said exasperatingly, "you try 
 it; you could never say it." 
 
 "I'm sure I could n't," I said, "and I have a 
 new respect for Miss Marjory Ware, but as for 
 that Principal it could not have been mere 
 accident, but malice prepense which set that 
 lisping baby at that particular rime, and now 
 me thinks, when I observe her, that she hath a 
 roguish eye for all her principality. Pooh! 
 A fig for these Principals and their principles!" 
 
 "Be quiet!" Millicent whispered again, and 
 this time it was Olivia Mary who came out, 
 with great airs of consequence, to sing a song, 
 and acquitted herself quite odiously well, and 
 preened herself accordingly. 
 
 "Look, here's dear old Phil," whispered 
 Millicent, and unconsciously her voice had taken 
 on a warmer, friendlier, more intimate tone,
 
 198 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 so that once more I blessed Phil in my heart 
 as the one bond of comradeship (between us. 
 
 Phil and three other little boys, smiling 
 broadly, came forward to tell us they were 
 ''jolly, jolly sailor boys," with appropriate 
 "actions" to confirm the statement. But from 
 the first there seemed to be a serious discrepancy 
 between Phil's gestures and those of the first 
 boy. Phil was the fourth boy in the line, and 
 my eye kept traveling from him to the leader, 
 and back again, with much doubt, for when the 
 first boy hauled on the pulley ropes, Phil cheerily 
 danced a hornpipe, and when the former turned 
 the windlass, Phil hoisted the "grand old flag." 
 
 "There's something wrong," I murmured to 
 Millicent, and she agreed, and a moment later 
 whispered indignantly: 
 
 "I see what it is. It's the fault of that third 
 boy dear little Phil keeps watching him, and 
 he is doing it wrong all the time, silly little 
 donkey!" (Yes, she did say "donkey.") 
 
 However, no one seemed to mind very much, 
 and they all applauded very heartily when the 
 jolly sailor boys went back to their seats. 
 After that, rather a painful incident occurred. 
 A little girl, very much befrilled and beribboned, 
 came to the edge of the platform to recite. And 
 there she stood, mute as a fish, for some two
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 199 
 
 minutes. She was given some encouraging 
 applause and then she giggled, but still she 
 said nothing. 
 
 "Go on, Margaret," whispered a very audible 
 voice from the front seats, and the Principal's 
 cool voice broke in, prompting: 
 
 "I once had a sweet little doll, dears " 
 
 "I once had" -(giggle) "a sweet little 
 doll" (giggle) said Margaret, and stopped 
 again. And there she stood and giggled and 
 blushed and blushed and giggled, until the 
 Principal, still with admirable coolness, said: 
 
 "You'd better come down, Margaret." 
 
 But Margaret would not budge, but still stood 
 the picture of red-faced hysterical distress, 
 until the Principal crossed the stage, took her 
 hand, and led her off in tears. 
 
 "Stage fright a bad case," said I, and 
 Millicent murmured sympathetically, "Poor 
 little soul." 
 
 This closed the first part of the performance, 
 and then came the event of the day the 
 awarding of the prizes. All this time a table 
 had been standing in front of the platform, 
 on which were ranged two rows of books, brave 
 in scarlet and blue and green bindings. Many 
 a bright eye had wandered in that direction, 
 many a speculative one, and now all eyes were
 
 200 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 turned there as by mutual consent. The 
 Principal tapped on the edge of the table, and 
 made her little introductory speech, and then 
 took up the first prize, which went to the 
 little boy in glasses. Two or three others 
 were handed out to as many children, and 
 every time a book was taken up from the table 
 I could see a half -movement from Phil, as if 
 he expected his summons at any moment. I 
 felt more and more uneasy. 
 
 "Well, if he doesn't " I caught myself 
 
 murmuring. 
 
 "He's sure to," snapped Millicent, without 
 looking at me, which betrayed that her thoughts 
 were much the same as mine. 
 
 "I hope so," I said meekly, and just then a 
 very resplendent book was carried off by Olivia 
 Mary, coquettishly shaking back her curls. 
 
 At first Phil's smile had been one of con- 
 fident anticipation and at every disappoint- 
 ment he had still beamed cheerfully. He was 
 content to wait. As the pile of books rapidly 
 diminished, however, I thought that the smile 
 grew a little strained, the look a little more 
 anxious. Doubt was creeping in, and I found 
 my heart beating almost as rapidly as his must 
 be doing with suspense and longing. I kept 
 glancing at my little friend, and away again
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 201 
 
 hastily, lest he should detect the doubt in my 
 face. Millicent, too, I noticed, kept looking at 
 him anxiously and back at the table. The 
 sudden removal of a huge hat in front of me 
 gave me a fuller view of the table. 
 
 "Hello!" I exclaimed in dismay. "Only 
 three books left!" 
 
 "Isn't it awful?" burst out Millicent. "If 
 Phil does n't get a prize I '11 never speak to 
 Mabel Dampier again." 
 
 "Nor I," said I, although I had never yet 
 done so. "This thing is getting on my nerves," 
 I continued. "Could n't we send round and 
 and offer a special prize that Phil would be sure 
 to win? for for the boy with the nicest 
 smile, for instance, to be decided by vote?" 
 
 Millicent looked at me with pitying disdain. 
 
 "Don't you know," she said, "that every 
 mother, aunt, big sister and cousin would vote 
 for her own particular boy, and believe it, too?" 
 
 "I suppose so," I assented with a sigh. 
 "Oh, I say!" 
 
 The last prize but one was being carried 
 off by the boy in spectacles again. 
 
 "Insufferable prig!" muttered Millicent vin- 
 dictively, as that inoffensive youth passed, 
 beaming through his large round lenses. I 
 glanced again at Phil. His eyes were fixed
 
 202 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 hungrily on the one remaining book, and as the 
 Principal took it up from the table he half rose 
 in his seat. Hope was dying hard. It could 
 not be possible there was no prize for him! 
 Sanguine to the last, he waited. The name 
 uttered by the Principal was not Philip's. 
 
 Millicent was murmuring at my side, "A 
 shame! A shame!" 
 
 There were actually tears in her eyes. For 
 a moment I dared not look at Phil. When I 
 did, I saw that he was very pale, with a slightly 
 bewildered look on his small face, as though 
 he could not yet believe it, but when he caught 
 my eye he smiled determinedly and bravely, 
 with only a slight quiver of the lip. 
 
 "That's all over then," I said to Millicent. 
 "It is a shame, poor little chap. But don't 
 take it so to heart, Miss Lynn. I'll take him 
 down town, or we will, and buy him " 
 
 "That wouldn't be the same thing at all," 
 she broke in. "But it's very nice of you to 
 mind so much for him, and to understand just 
 how much it means. Most men would n't." 
 
 I glowed at this crumb of praise from one who 
 was not lavish with it as a general rule, and the 
 next moment she clutched my arm excitedly: 
 
 "But look!" she cried. "Look at Mabel 
 Dampier."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 203 
 
 Miss Dampier was untying a parcel, and this 
 parcel undoubtedly contained books, not such 
 large and gorgeous books, perhaps, as the 
 others, but still books. There was still hope. 
 
 Miss Dampier rose and explained that this 
 second installment might be termed "consola- 
 tion" prizes, inasmuch as they were to be 
 presented to those children who had won no 
 award for actual merit in their work. 
 
 The first of these prizes was awarded to Phil 
 Wyndam. Like a flash the red color streamed 
 back into Phil's white cheeks; in a couple of 
 bounds he was at the Principal's side, and all 
 over the hall could be heard his fervent little 
 voice : 
 
 "Oh, thank you, berry much! I thought I 
 would, somehow." 
 
 In the laugh that followed this I could not 
 resist crying out, carried away by excitement 
 and fervor: 
 
 "Hurrah, Phil!" and I heard Millicent, as 
 excited as myself, cry "Bravo! Bravo!" 
 
 Phil had been making his way back to his 
 seat, but his delight was too much for him, and 
 suddenly he turned and dashing down off the 
 platform, ran to me, waving his book over his 
 head, crying: 
 
 " I've got one, Ruddy, I 've got one, after all."
 
 204 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 And in a moment Millicent and I were shaking 
 his hands, and hugging him, and all three of us 
 were talking at once. 
 
 "I am glad, I am glad, little Phil," cried 
 the girl. 
 
 "Well done, little chap," said I. 
 
 "Yes," said he, laughing excitedly. "I got 
 one, you see. First I thought I would, and 
 then I thought I would n't, and then I I 
 did, an' I- 
 
 And suddenly he burst into tears, the reaction 
 proving too much for his gallant little spirit. 
 Millicent drew him down between us, pressing 
 his little wet cheek against her pretty dress. 
 
 "There, there, dear heart!" she murmured. 
 "Don't cry." 
 
 In a moment, however, Phil had command 
 of himself. 
 
 "Gim Gim'me a hankershif," he muttered, 
 with only a slight catch in the breath, and 
 Millicent put a dainty bit of lace and muslin 
 into his hand. He scrubbed his eyes with this, 
 and then returned it. 
 
 "It it seems funny," he said, with rather 
 an uncertain smile, "to be crying when you've 
 got a prize, but I I just couldn't help it." 
 
 "I know, I know, dearest," she said. "I 
 nearly cried, too."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 205 
 
 "None of the boys saw me, did they?" he 
 asked anxiously, and we both reassured him. 
 We were turning over the leaves of his book 
 when Olivia Mary sauntered up, her big bril- 
 liantly-bound book under her arm. 
 
 "Hello, Livy!" cried Phil, in a friendly 
 tone. "I got a prize, too." 
 
 "Yours is only a conversation prize," said 
 little Miss Disdain. "Miss Dampier said so." 
 
 "Yes," said Phil beaming. "That's what 
 it is. What's a conversation prize, Ruddy? 
 Mine's a conversation one." 
 
 "Mother told me," said Olivia Mary. "It's 
 the k-kind what " 
 
 "It's the loveliest kind of prize of all, dear," 
 said Millicent. "The kind that one gets, after 
 waiting patiently and cheerfully for a long time, 
 and when one has almost given up hope." 
 
 "The kind of prize I am trying for, Phil," 
 I said. 
 
 Olivia Mary looked a little doubtful, and 
 then remarked to Millicent: 
 
 "You can look at my prize, if you like. It's 
 b-better'n Phil's." 
 
 "No, thank you," returned Millicent coldly; 
 "I'm looking at Phil's." 
 
 "You look at it then, Ruddy." 
 
 "No, thanks," said I, and bent over Phil's
 
 206 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 book also. A moment later Olivia Mary 
 sauntered off. 
 
 Millicent murmured something under her 
 breath : 
 
 "Little " 
 
 I am not sure whether it was "prig" or 
 " pig " she said. I like to think it was the latter. 
 
 "You're not really trying to get a prize, are 
 you, Ruddy?" asked Phil of me. 
 
 "I am, indeed, Phil," I returned. "The 
 one all-consoling prize." 
 
 "But mens don't go to school, do they, 
 Miller?" 
 
 "Don't they, Miller?" said I in a low voice. 
 "Are n't we in school all the time, suffering the 
 necessary discipline, practicing the necessary 
 patience, hoping against hope that in the end 
 the mistress will relent, and confer the prize 
 which means reward and consolation in one?" 
 
 But never a word said Millicent Lynn.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IN WHICH PHIL HAS A "DOWN-RIGHT-BAD" DAY 
 
 TF I have led any one to suppose that my 
 Phil is a boy of unfailingly exemplary 
 behavior I have done his versatility scant 
 justice. Like the rest of us, he has what his 
 nurse Beenie calls his "down-right-bad" days, 
 and it was on one of these days my fate to have 
 the charge of him. Phil is well able to come 
 to my house unescorted, and usually does, but 
 according to Beenie he had been so bad that 
 he was n't to be trusted, so she brought him 
 to my door, since it seemed "no one couldn't 
 do nothing with him" at home. 
 
 Phil refused to kiss Beenie, and ran and hid 
 in the broom cupboard, but came out a few 
 moments later and wept, because he said he 
 wanted to kiss Beenie good-by, and she had 
 gone. 
 
 "Well, it's too late now," I said. 
 
 He sat, the picture of crossness, kicking the 
 leg of my armchair, and to cheer him up, I said : 
 
 "Let's play draughts." 
 
 "Don't want to play draughts." 
 
 "What about mowing the lawn, then?" a 
 207
 
 208 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 courtesy-title for my strip of grass in the 
 back garden. 
 
 "Too hot." 
 
 "What shall we do, then?" 
 
 "Nothing don't want to do nothing." 
 
 "Oh, very well," said I, and opened a book 
 for myself. Phil threw himself on the floor, and 
 kicked his toes idly on the drugget. 
 
 "Why can't I play with your chessmen?" 
 he asked, apropos of nothing. 
 
 "Because you left two in the garden last 
 time, and they are ivory valuable." 
 
 "No, they're not. I want them, Ruddy." 
 
 "Well, you can't have them, Phil." 
 
 "But I want them." 
 
 I made no answer, but continued to read. 
 Phil sat up. " I 'm going home," he announced. 
 This was one of Olivia Mary's tricks of temper, 
 which Phil would never have originated himself. 
 
 "I'm going home," he repeated. 
 
 "Good-by!" I said cheerfully, turning a page. 
 
 "Are n't you sorry?" he asked in an 
 astonished tone. 
 
 "Why?" said I pleasantly. He rose and 
 walked very slowly to the door, his eye on me, 
 but seeing me apparently oblivious, he came 
 back, flung himself disconsolately into an arm- 
 chair, and remarked:
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 209 
 
 "I want your chessmen, Ruddy." 
 
 "No, Phil." 
 
 "Then I'm going to climb on the roof of 
 the fowl-house." 
 
 "You mustn't do that, old man. I don't 
 want any broken arms and legs, you know." 
 
 "But I want to." 
 
 I made no answer, and then he spoke again: 
 
 "I'm going to, Ruddy." 
 
 "No, you're not!" 
 
 " I 'm going I 'm going now," moving slowly 
 to the door. 
 
 "If you do," said I, exasperated now, 
 "you'll know what to expect." 
 
 "What?" said he, faintly interested. 
 
 "A thrashing," said I recklessly. 
 
 A moment later I looked up, and he was gone, 
 but judging him to have gone to work his 
 ill-humor off on Mrs. Binks, I felt no anxiety, 
 until about ten minutes later I heard a scream 
 from that good lady. Flinging my book down 
 I rushed out in the direction of the scream, 
 and beheld Phil hanging head down, from the 
 roof of the fowl-house, his clothing having 
 luckily caught on a nail and so prevented a 
 nasty fall. I got a ladder and rescued him 
 from his somewhat perilous position, and having 
 set him on his feet, exclaimed: 
 
 14
 
 210 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "You're a disobedient young rascal." 
 
 His small mutinous face was not a whit 
 abashed. 
 
 "He wants a good whipping, that's what," 
 said Mrs. Binks, agitatedly shaking him to 
 rights in his small 'varsity suit "you naughty 
 boy, you." 
 
 A thought struck me. 
 
 "A very good idea of yours, Mrs. Binks," 
 I said, and cutting a switch from a bush close 
 by swished it through the air suggestively. 
 Mrs. Binks looked anxious. 
 
 "You think it would really do him good?" 
 I continued. 
 
 "Well," said she, nervously pleating her 
 apron, "in a manner of speaking, so to speak, 
 suppose for this once he promises 
 
 "We must be firm," I interrupted judicially, 
 "eh, Mrs. Binks?" 
 
 She fidgeted uncomfortably. Torn between 
 her feeling of flattered pride that I should 
 appear to defer to her judgment, and her very 
 real anguish at the thought of Phil chastised, 
 she was in a painful flutter. 
 
 I marched my small culprit to the house, 
 and into the dining room, and closed the door. 
 
 "Phil," said I solemnly, "you've been very 
 wicked."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 211 
 
 "Yes," said he without a tremor, but eye- 
 ing the switch hard. 
 
 "And you're sorry?" I said hopefully, quite 
 meaning his admission to end the matter. 
 
 "No!" said he gravely. 
 
 "Tell me you're sorry," said I, "and we'll 
 say no more about it." 
 
 "I'm not," said he, in a muffled voice. 
 
 "Now, Phil," said I, wishing myself .well 
 out of this, "have you ever had a hiding?" 
 
 "Once when I drawed things on daddy's 
 papers he he " 
 
 "Gave you a whacking?" I said. 
 
 "No, but he said he would if I did it again." 
 
 "Oh! Well, you're sorry about your dis- 
 obedience. Come now?" I said persuasively. 
 
 He shook his fair head obstinately. "No!" 
 he said. 
 
 He was standing before me, rather pale and 
 big-eyed, but very collected. I was nonplussed. 
 
 "See, sonny," I said. "You know what a 
 bad thing it was to do " 
 
 A knock interrupted us. I opened the door. 
 Mrs. Binks, very flushed, was standing on the 
 threshold, breathing stormily. 
 
 "You're never," she said, a mixture of plead- 
 ing and defiance in her tone, "going to beat that 
 little feller, an' him not your own, so to speak?"
 
 212 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Mrs. Binks," said I with dignity, "discipline 
 must be maintained," and shut the door. I 
 made one last appeal to Phil. 
 
 "You're sorry for what you did?" 
 
 "No!" The murmur was almost voiceless 
 now. The steady eyes were defiant, the faintly 
 quivering lips set hard. I was at my wits' 
 end how to retire with dignity. Needless to 
 say, I had never the least intention of using 
 the weapon of chastisement, but how to grace- 
 fully get out of the business without leaving 
 Phil undisputed master of the situation, I did 
 not know. 
 
 "Well," I said slowly, "you know what 
 happens to boys who won't say they're sorry." 
 
 I was restlessly drawing the switch through 
 and through my fingers, and at that movement 
 I saw the last spark of hope die out of the boy's 
 eyes. But he stood up like a little soldier, and 
 at a sudden movement of mine, never doubting 
 the hour had come, advanced and held out a 
 diminutive palm bravely. For a moment he 
 stood thus, and then his eyes wavered for a 
 moment, and he said, with a gulp: 
 
 "An' there's the lovely v-vase I gave you 
 an' an' all the pipe spillers I made you." 
 
 "Phil!" I cried, and the switch was flung 
 into a corner. A rush of color crimsoned the
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 213 
 
 small square face, and a rush of tears drowned 
 the great gray eyes. The next moment he 
 was sobbing on my shoulder, declaring he was 
 "sorry sorry sorry," and he loved me. The 
 door opened an inch, closed abruptly, and I 
 heard the pad, pad of list slippers going down 
 the hall. Ten minutes later Phil was marshal- 
 ing all my ivory chessmen on the doorstep. 
 Later on Olivia Mary happened in, and the 
 two children "played house" under the pepper 
 tree with the cat to act as the baby, a role which 
 that very wise animal refused to conform to, 
 escaping out of Phil's arms and taking refuge in 
 the pepper tree, with Olivia Mary's diminutive 
 handkerchief still tied round its head for a 
 baby bonnet. Phil gazed ruefully at sundry 
 pink scratches on his wrist, and Tommy, the 
 cat, peered cautiously down through the 
 branches, and Olivia Mary, who had been out 
 shopping, and was now returning with some 
 leaves and shells, the result of her expedition, 
 stamped with exasperation at finding the baby 
 fled. No coaxing, however, would lure Tommy 
 to earth again, and Phil suggested playing 
 motor cars. The two of them made such an 
 unconsciously pretty picture on an up-ended 
 wheelbarrow that I stole inside for my camera, 
 hoping to snap them unawares. But no sooner
 
 214 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 was Phil in a favorable position than Olivia 
 Mary was not, and vice versa, so I was obliged 
 to tell them what I was about, and immediately 
 self-consciousness set in. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Olivia Mary. "L-let me run 
 home an' put on m-my s-silk s-socks, an' my 
 pale b-b-blue frock." 
 
 "No; you'll do just as you are. Now, Phil, 
 don't look so like a wooden image." 
 
 "What's a woody nimage?" 
 
 "You are, just at present. Sit up with your 
 hand on the wheel, as though you were really 
 steering a car. Olivia Mary, what are you 
 wriggling like that for?" 
 
 She was smoothing down her short skirts, 
 settling her hair ribbon, pulling up her socks, 
 and generally preening her plumage, and then 
 she turned her attention to Phil, who was 
 innocently ready to be snapped from any point 
 of view, though his sock was down over his shoe, 
 and his tie halfway round to his ear. 
 
 "Phil is disgraceful," remarked the young 
 lady severely. 
 
 1 ' Never mind ! ' ' said I . " Leave Phil' s jumper 
 alone and stay as you are. There! Capital 
 cap ah, Phil! What did you do that for?" 
 
 "My nose was tickling," remarked Phil, 
 rubbing it vigorously.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 215 
 
 "Well, we'll have another shot. Now, don't 
 move! Olivia Mary, you spoiled that one." 
 
 "W-w-well, Phil was hiding my new shoes 
 so I thought I'd put them in the f-f -front." 
 
 "And come out all feet?" 
 
 "Come out where?" 
 
 "Never mind, you'll do nicely now. Now 
 one two " 
 
 At this precise moment Phil spied Mrs. Binks 
 at the kitchen door, and turned and waved a 
 friendly hand. 
 
 "Come on, Binks, quick, come an' have your 
 photo took . Plenty of room move up ' Li via ! ' ' 
 
 "For the Lord's sake" said I. "can't you 
 be still?" 
 
 "For God's sake," said Phil in paraphrase, 
 "can't you keep still, 'Livy?" 
 
 "Have you got my shoes in? An' my 
 ribbon b-bow?" 
 
 "You've moved again, Phil, you little duffer," 
 I cried. 
 
 "Well, I was only stretching my legs. I 
 did n't think it mattered. Hurry up, Ruddy, 
 haven't you done it?" 
 
 "You haven't showed us the bird, yet," 
 said Olivia Mary. 
 
 "What bird?" said I irritably. 
 
 "What 1-lives in the little b-box. The man
 
 216 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 at the photograph shop has one an' it whistles, 
 b-but I've never s-seen it yet." 
 
 I took a couple of snaps, and while getting 
 ready for a third Phil suddenly lost interest 
 in the proceedings, and strolled away. Olivia 
 Mary would have posed for a week with pleasure. 
 The light was failing. 
 
 "Here, come back, Phil," I cried. "I want 
 to take another." 
 
 "I'm tired of that game," said Phil, shaking 
 his head. "I'd rather play bears. Let's!" 
 
 It was hard to resist Phil when he said 
 "Let's," his big eyes alight with a mixture of 
 entreaty and fun, but I only said: 
 
 "Come, I want to take you in the barrow." 
 
 With a bound Phil was back, under the mis- 
 taken impression I intended to take him for a 
 barrow-ride. When the ordeal was over they 
 both wished me to open the "box," as they 
 called it, and show the pictures. When I 
 explained to them, they were both disappointed, 
 and Olivia Mary was chilling. 
 
 "My d-daddy," she remarked, "could make 
 p -pictures in a minute if he tried." 
 
 "So could Ruddy," said Phil, instantly on 
 the defensive, "if he liked. Couldn't you, 
 Ruddy?" 
 
 "Well, you see," said I, "they have to go
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 217 
 
 through certain processes er I mean 
 
 "How do they get through?" asked Phil 
 interested. 
 
 "Well, I mean we'll have to wait a few days." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "To get 'em developed and all that." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Run away and play," I said tiredly. 
 
 "I'm going to ask Binks for some cake, 
 I'm so hungry. Binks," in a shout, "I want 
 something to eat." 
 
 "Come along, then," came from the open 
 doorway, and the two children scampered off. 
 
 That evening Phil coaxed me to take him 
 to "Paddy's Market." Saturday night at 
 "Pad's" is the greatest delight to Phil, and 
 he is astounded that I should not avail myself 
 of the exceptional opportunities offered there. 
 Time and again has he urged we should take 
 our pennorth of sausage and green peas, 
 smoking hot, or an appetizing packet of hot 
 "chips," liberally peppered, and he thinks it 
 plain foolishness on my part that I don't invest 
 pennies for myself and him in slabs of pink 
 ice cream, sandwiched between two biscuits. I 
 have never yielded to his solicitations, however. 
 There is a fascination in this big, drafty, garish, 
 many-odored market of the poor for me as well
 
 2i8 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 as for Phil. As we enter, and the familiar noises, 
 sights, and smells strike upon our various senses, 
 Phil's hand tightens on mine in delight. He 
 never tires of watching the men and boys, and 
 women with shawled babies on their knees, 
 sitting at the long benches eating their 
 "pennorths" while the greasy-haired "dago," 
 in his shirtsleeves is kept busy, and his wife 
 likewise, in fishing up from the depths of a huge 
 metal can, sausages and green peas, and piling 
 up the never-ending stream of plates; nor of 
 seeing the enormous shallow pans of sizzling 
 fat, in which the potato chips simmer and turn 
 a delicate golden-brown, then are whipped out, 
 poured like sweets into a rolled up paper, and 
 handed across to the waiting customers, after 
 being dosed with strong black pepper, in a way 
 to make one's eyes water only to behold. 
 
 Then there are a thousand other charms. 
 Joy to squeeze through the warm, chattering, 
 chewing, loudly dressed crowd, and poke the 
 sleepy parrots in their cages, and to linger at 
 that fascinating stall where the most lovely 
 articles, made of colored beads, painted glass, 
 shells, and plaited straw, are going so cheaply, 
 and the soda fountain with its nickel taps, which 
 for a penny will yield of their delectable store 
 and gush and drizzle a semi- warm, gaseous,
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 219 
 
 ruby-colored liquid, dear to the palate of small 
 boys. The heat and the clamor, the mingled 
 cries of the venders, the mingled smells of old 
 clothes, boots, overheated humanity, oranges, 
 fried chips, sausages, gas escapes, green vege- 
 tables, birds, beasts, and sawdust were becoming 
 a little too much for me, when suddenly Phil 
 dragged his hand from mine, and darted through 
 the crowd. 
 
 Following him, I perceived he was making 
 his way to a stall of green vegetables, where a 
 trim little figure, with a trim market basket, 
 was turning over a pile of cabbages. It was 
 Miss Ellis, and though she did not see me, 
 the sudden start and flush with which she 
 turned at Phil's friendly greeting told me of the 
 little sordid tragedies in her life, which drove 
 her to market here among the very poor. I 
 would have kept out of sight for her sake, had 
 not Phil hailed me in his hearty young voice. 
 
 "Here, Ruddy! Ruddy! Where are you, 
 Ruddy? Here 's Miss Ellis." 
 
 To silence him, I stepped quickly forward 
 and lifted my hat. The little Spinster, still 
 flushed, bowed primly. 
 
 "She was buying some cavages," said Phil. 
 ' ' Why don't you buy cavages, Ruddy? They 're 
 very nice ones."
 
 220 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "By Jove, they are!" said I. "But I 
 have n't a basket." 
 
 "The lady '11 put them in paper, won't you, 
 please? " he added politely to the woman serving. 
 
 I interposed hastily to Miss Ellis. 
 
 "I believe you get the pick of good vegetables 
 at Paddy's." 
 
 "You get them cheaply," said she with a 
 sort of defiant pride. 
 
 "And that's a consideration that appeals to 
 me," said I. "Let me take your basket, 
 Miss Ellis." 
 
 "Not at all," she said, showing it bulging 
 with green vegetables; and then added, 
 "Where's the little boy?" 
 
 Phil was missing, but in a short time we 
 discovered him in front of an ice-cream stall, 
 absorbedly gazing at a small girl aged about 
 ten or eleven, who was partaking of refreshment 
 in the shape of pink ice cream served in a small 
 cup-like arrangement with fluted sides. 
 
 "This is Clara," said Phil, briefly intro- 
 ductory. 
 
 Clara seemed clothed in a series of misfits. 
 Her right foot was encased in what had once 
 been an elegant button-up boot, in which three 
 buttons now did duty, and her left in a service- 
 able boot of the style called Blucher, both much
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 221 
 
 the worse for wear. Her skirt did not match 
 her blouse, and her hat did not match either. 
 She took no manner of notice of us, being 
 occupied, except that her eyes, very small, 
 and bright as a bird's, surveyed us steadily 
 over the ice-cream cup, in which her lower lip 
 and most of her chin were buried. We watched 
 her, fascinated, while with admirable thorough- 
 ness, and the aid of a very prehensile tongue, 
 she scraped and sucked the very last morsels 
 out of the cup, and then very solemnly devoured 
 the cup itself. Phil gasped. "She's et the 
 cup," he cried in strong excitement. "Did it 
 hurt, Clara? Didn't the china cut your froat?" 
 
 "Wot jer givin' us?" said Clara. "'Taint 
 china. It's meant ter be scoffed." But as 
 Phil had never heard of an edible cup, he still 
 continued to regard Clara with wonder and 
 admiration. 
 
 "Eat another," he said, to which Clara 
 responded : 
 
 "Bloomin' well wish I 'ad the charnst, but 
 I ain't got another penny." 
 
 "What would you do if I gave you sixpence? " 
 I asked, smiling. 
 
 "Scoff six ice creams," she promptly re- 
 sponded, and I handed it over. With amazing 
 celerity she was as good as her word, and I was
 
 222 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 about to give her another sixpence, when Miss 
 Ellis interposed. 
 
 "For mercy's sake, no!" she cried. "Think 
 
 of the child's st . I'm sure they must be 
 
 harmful in such quantities." 
 
 "Garn! I could eat a cartload. They won't 
 do me no harm," broke in Clara. "They're 
 bosker." 
 
 But not wishing to have juvenile murder on 
 my conscience, I compromised by buying her a 
 box of chocolates instead, and we passed on. 
 
 "Let's get out of this, Phil," said I. Phil 
 suggested pictures, and I invited Miss Ellis 
 to accompany us. This, after some hesitation, 
 she agreed to do, as Phil pressed her earnestly. 
 
 "You know," said I, "I'm just as much a 
 boy as Phil where pictures are concerned" 
 and Miss Ellis admitted that she found them 
 instructive and entertaining, and of real educa- 
 tional value. But I noticed that she followed 
 the amazing exploits of Nick Winter with as 
 much interest, and laughed, if not so boister- 
 ously, with as real an enjoyment over the antics 
 of Foolshead and Tontolini as either Phil or 
 myself. And, after it was over and we saw 
 her into her tram, there was a soft color on her 
 cheek, and a light in her eyes that made her 
 look ten years younger.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IN WHICH PHIL AND I FIND WOMEN WANTING 
 
 TN the weeks which followed I saw Millicent 
 from time to time, but though she was 
 gay and friendly enough, I thought I detected 
 a difference, a subtle constraint. I went one 
 Sunday to call, and found a young man there, 
 apparently on quite friendly terms with the 
 family, for whom I immediately conceived a 
 violent dislike until I discovered his initials 
 were not the abhorred ones, when he seemed 
 to me just generally tiresome and boring, but 
 harmless. However, he did me a service, for 
 a brass band passing by, he took Phil out on 
 to the balcony and so left me a precious few 
 moments alone with Millicent. After a few 
 polite skirmishings, Millicent said with a pretty 
 little would-be air of "by the way" in her 
 tones: "Oh, Mr. Lingard, I believe I am to 
 congratulate you!" 
 
 "On what?" said I. 
 
 "Well, first I must apologize for overhearing 
 a remark not intended for me, but your friend, 
 Mr. Wimple- 
 
 "Oh, that!" I burst out, coloring furiously. 
 223
 
 224 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "You must let me explain you really must 
 I would not for worlds have had you so annoyed. 
 It seems " 
 
 "Me annoyed?" cried Millicent. "Mr. 
 Lingard, whatever can you mean? Why on 
 earth should / be annoyed? Why ever should 
 you think it necessary to explain to me?" 
 
 There was a soupcon of haughtiness in her 
 manner, and her cheeks were hot. 
 
 "Why why " I muttered abashed. "I 
 thought you might it seemed a an 
 impertinence ' ' 
 
 I floundered into silence. 
 
 "I assure you," she said smoothly, "I am 
 very pleased very pleased indeed, and I only 
 hope that you and and the young lady 
 Miss Miss Lee, I think Mr. Wimple said, 
 will be very, very happy." 
 
 She held out her hand, which I took me- 
 chanically. 
 
 Miss Lee! I sat stunned. She had not, then 
 recognized Mr. Wimple's blunder as to the 
 name, and for one mad moment I felt actual 
 relief that she should so understand the posi- 
 tion. Then, next, in a revulsion of feeling, I 
 cried out: 
 
 "Miss Lee! There is no Miss Lee. I don't 
 know any Miss Lee, nor wish to. He Mr.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 225 
 
 Wimple meant meant you, Miss Lynn. Oh, 
 forgive me for an idiot!" For, too late, I saw 
 my fatal error. 
 
 "Meant me?" she cried. "On what au- 
 thority did he presume to refer to me as 
 as your fiancee?" 
 
 A most exquisite blush passed in a rosy 
 wave right up to the pretty soft hair on her 
 temples, and her eyes were accusing. 
 
 "I I don't know," I said lamely. 
 She looked at me severely. 
 
 "It's very strange!" she said. 
 
 "It is," I acquiesced meekly. 
 
 "Perhaps he got it from Phil," she remarked 
 with irony. 
 
 "Perhaps," I said boldly, "as with me 
 for he took a great fancy to you the wish was 
 only father to the thought." 
 
 "But still farther from the realization," 
 she retorted smartly, which was no doubt witty 
 but hardly kind, and at that moment that 
 wretched young man came in, with Phil cling- 
 ing to his coattails. 
 
 "They was blowing on about 'leven crumpets, 
 an' a great big drum!" cried Phil excitedly, 
 "an' p'r'aps if we go now, Ruddy, we might be 
 able to march along with them." 
 
 We went, but needless to say we did not 
 
 15
 
 226 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 overtake them, though we saw them afar off, 
 their red coats and brass fittings twinkling 
 through a cloud of dust, small boys, and yap- 
 ping curs. Phil was aggrieved that I was firm, 
 and declined to "run just a little," which I 
 would not do even to please my Fidus Achates. 
 
 After this, whenever I met Millicent I felt 
 the chill in the atmosphere. It seemed to me 
 that, in her resentment at the thought of any 
 undue friendliness on her part having given 
 rise to the idea that there was anything between 
 us, she took pains to treat me with special 
 coldness, and I, on my part, anxious not to 
 presume on the mistake for her sake, refrained 
 from seeking her out and ceased to pay her the 
 attentions I had been accustomed to do. So 
 we "drifted apart." My Sunday visits to 
 Macquarie Street ceased entirely, and though 
 we met occasionally, the old friendly bond had 
 snapped. 
 
 About this time, too, Olivia Mary made a 
 new friend. This was one Elizabeth Aschman, 
 aged seven and three quarters, chiefly remark- 
 able for an entire but temporary absence of top 
 front teeth, and a lively imagination. Elizabeth 
 now played with Olivia Mary, and, according to 
 Phil, they walked about with arms round each 
 other's necks, whispering things about him,
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 227 
 
 and looking, as he expressed it, "out of their 
 corners" at him. Sometimes, too, they told 
 him to "go away," or said he "could n't play," 
 or else they "played house" all the time, and 
 made him be the father, while they took all 
 the children for a walk. This negative role did 
 not suit Phil, and Elizabeth and Olivia Mary's 
 eternal secrets bored him, and being an in- 
 different speller, Elizabeth's habit of spelling 
 things she did not wish him to know (and some 
 remarkable effects in orthography were achieved) 
 especially enraged him. Therefore, it will be 
 seen, we were thrown very much upon each 
 other for company. 
 
 Phil had another friend, doing his last term 
 at the "Kindergarten" This was Reggie Blair, 
 who was nearly nine, and possessed, Phil would 
 have told you, a real "string" bat to play 
 cricket with, and could bowl over-arm, and had 
 a knife with a corkscrew in it. Phil was in- 
 clined to make a bit of a hero of Reggie Blair, 
 and I perceived dimly that, in the nature of 
 things, this rival was more to be feared than 
 twenty Olivia Mary's. Blair, however, being 
 a man of affairs who played cricket and 
 "footer," and didn't care for "kids," but 
 went about with "big blokes" (all Blair idioms 
 faithfully quoted by Phil), did not, as yet,
 
 228 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 claim an undue proportion of my friend's 
 time, luckily for me, and one Saturday afternoon 
 Phil and I planned to have a dip in the surf. 
 As a promenade Phil loves Manly, to stroll up 
 and down among the gay crowds, and listen 
 to the band play, or sit in the deck chairs and 
 royally hand the man a penny to ride the don- 
 keys, when, as sometimes happened, donkeys 
 were there to ride, and to watch the old man 
 that modeled sand-pictures. But for surfing, 
 real fun and frolic in the briny, Manly was a too 
 fashionable resort for us, and we preferred 
 Bondi or Coogee. 
 
 On this particular afternoon we chose Coogee, 
 and arrived early. It was a melting hot day, 
 but on the beach there was a crisp, exhilarating 
 breeze blowing that cut the foamy crests from 
 the waves, and blew the sand up against Phil's 
 bare knees. And how blue the waves were 
 ridge beyond ridge, battalion behind battalion, 
 snow-capped, chasing each other in eternally, 
 falling on the yellow sandslope with deep, 
 regular thunder, spuming and foaming, and 
 curdling and creaming up the beach, and 
 draining back again in a grinding churning 
 back-wash of foam-bubbles and sand and shells. 
 Phil laughed with delight as the wind tossed his 
 thick, uncovered hair into bright confusion.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 229 
 
 "Quick, Ruddy, quick!" he cried, as though 
 he feared the sea might suddenly take it into 
 its head to decamp. We picked our way 
 through a number of sprawling, half-clothed 
 ''sun-bakers," stretched on the hot sands and 
 burned brown as mahogany, and so, to the 
 dressing sheds. We emerged again, clad for 
 the cool embraces of Neptune. Phil looked 
 stunning in an absurdly small neck-to-knee 
 costume of blue, with white facings. We ran 
 down to the water's edge, Phil crowing with 
 glee, but there I paused and glanced with some 
 disfavor at the laughing, screaming, kicking, 
 sprawling crowd of men, women, and children 
 that disported themselves in the roaring surf, 
 that plunged headfirst into breakers, that sat 
 waist-deep in water while spent waves swirled 
 around them, or were borne resistlessly shore- 
 ward on the shoulders of some mammoth wave, 
 in a wild confusion of kicking legs, heads, and 
 arms, all shouting, screeching, gasping, laugh- 
 ing, while two dogs on the water-line added to 
 the uproar by ceaseless barking and scurrying 
 up and down in senseless excitement. 
 
 "Come on in!" cried Phil, plucking at my 
 hand impatiently. 
 
 "It looks a bit thick, Phil," I said doubtfully, 
 and glanced along the beach. Almost at the
 
 230 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 other end I observed a solitary bather, evidently, 
 like myself, disinclined for the social amenities 
 of the surf. Quite in sympathy with his desire 
 for solitary enjoyment of the rare delights of 
 surfing, which is made intolerable by the sense- 
 less mob of frenzied, scrambling humans that 
 infest the surf from morn to dewy eve, I hesi- 
 tated whether to thrust my probably unwelcome 
 company on him. But selfish counsels pre- 
 vailed. Why should he think to monopolize 
 any one portion of the ocean? 
 
 "Come, Phil!" I said, and with his little 
 legs racing beside my long ones we trotted 
 along the firm wet sands at the water's edge, 
 where the creamy spent wavelets came curling 
 and crisping delightfully round Phil's bare toes. 
 It was only when we were quite close to the spot 
 that I discovered, by a very coquettish scarlet 
 cap our swimmer wore, her sex. I stopped in 
 some dismay, but Phil had already rushed into 
 the surf, and still murmuring my right to any 
 area of ocean not directly occupied, I followed. 
 The girl gave one quick glance over her shoulder, 
 and swam away, so evidently resentful that I, 
 who had made up my mind to give her a wide 
 berth, was nettled and swam in that direction 
 too, in mere bravado. Phil was dancing crazily 
 in about two inches of water, being constantly
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 231 
 
 bowled over by playful waves, and rising again, 
 his face radiant with fun. 
 
 "Oo! it's loverly it's loverly!" he kept 
 gasping. 
 
 Then I made a discovery. The girl, turning 
 with a graceful sweep of her bare white arms, 
 displayed to me the face of Millicent Lynn. 
 
 "Millicent! Miss Lynn!" I gasped, and being 
 in comparatively shallow water, I got to my 
 feet. She did the same, looking distinctly pro- 
 voked, and certainly very pretty in her trim, 
 smart costume and scarlet cap, her wet, rosy 
 face and pinky-white neck and arms glistening 
 with sea water. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Lingard?" she said 
 discontentedly. 
 
 Our subsequent conversation was, of course, 
 shouted. 
 
 "I say, Miss Lynn," I cried, "I'm awfully 
 sorry. We did not mean to intrude, I assure 
 you. I hope you don't mind?" 
 
 "I suppose it 's no use," she said, and shrugged 
 her shoulders petulantly. "Of course I have 
 no right to monopolize the sea. I had just 
 swum along here, hoping for a little privacy, 
 and it does seem a little singular that even 
 here " 
 
 "You find the inevitable fly in the ointment,"
 
 232 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 I interrupted stiffly; "but Phil and I can soon 
 rid you of our obnoxious presence." 
 
 "Oh, no!" she answered. "I have no right 
 to forbid you this portion of the sea. / shall 
 go. I can finish my dip later." 
 
 Her unreasonable petulance so exasperated 
 me that I answered coolly, even cheerfully: 
 
 "Well, yes, perhaps that would be the best 
 arrangement. As you say, no one has the 
 monopoly of the waves, but if you find too little 
 room for three here, Phil and I will just finish 
 our frolic, and you can come in again later." 
 
 She started, and flushed angrily. 
 
 "Thank you," she said sarcastically. "No! 
 I shall certainly not leave the water till I have 
 quite finished my swim," and her pretty chin 
 went into the air defiantly. I wanted to kiss 
 her, with her pretty mutinous face all wet and 
 rosy, but instead, I said, with as dignified a bow 
 as I could compass under the half -momentary 
 impact of several tons of salt water against my 
 form: 
 
 "Just as you please, of course." 
 
 She was turning away haughtily, when Phil 
 called out: 
 
 "Miller, how do you think I look in my new 
 neck-or-nothing? It cost free-and-sixpence at 
 Hordern's."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 233 
 
 Millicent's face softened. She could never 
 resist Phil, and a smile dimpled her face all 
 over, as she cried, with a ripple of laughter: 
 
 "You darling ! you and your neck-or-nothing 
 (I reflected with satisfaction that it was really 
 my joke quoted by Phil, but it would never 
 have won a smile had she known), you look 
 just sweet." 
 
 "An' Ruddy, too does he look sweet?" 
 
 Our eyes met, and despite ourselves we both 
 burst out laughing, to hide which, she instantly 
 turned away. 
 
 "Come an' take me an' Ruddy's hands, and 
 let's all dance in the water an' tumble down 
 flop!" cried Phil, enticing. "Come on, Miller, 
 it's such bosker fun." 
 
 "Do!" I urged boldly. "It would be 
 bosker!" 
 
 She looked at me coldly. 
 
 "I can't, Phil!" she cried and instantly dived 
 away, floating as tranquilly as a sea bird in the 
 trough of a great green wave. I devoted 
 myself to Phil. We ducked and dived and 
 tumbled, and shot a breaker at least, I did, 
 while Phil watched delightedly and we let 
 the great waves hustle us shoreward, and it was 
 good to see Phil's face radiant and dripping, to 
 hear his gasps and gurgles and chuckles of
 
 234 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 enjoyment, and even when a wave suddenly re- 
 treated and deposited him with disconcerting 
 force on the hard-packed sands, his face lost 
 its smile only for an instant, and then he was 
 again wallowing and kicking in the foamy 
 smother. Turning suddenly, I saw with anxiety 
 that Millicent had foolishly allowed the waves 
 to carry her beyond a point which I considered 
 safe, but she was, as yet, quite serene and was 
 adventuring even farther out. I watched 
 anxiously. Rank behind rank, the magnificent 
 surges came ceaselessly riding in, with monoto- 
 nous thunder, darkly blue, laced with foam, and 
 that little figure all alone out there, with its 
 flash of scarlet cap and gleam of white up-lifted 
 arms, looked pathetically small and lonely, 
 rising and falling, appearing and disappearing 
 in that immensity of dark water. A sudden 
 panic seized me, seeing her so helpless yet so 
 fearless in the grip of the cold merciless seas, 
 that might at any moment snatch her away, 
 and toss her, their sweet broken plaything, far 
 beyond reach or aid. 
 
 "Stay there, Phil!" I cried briefly. 
 
 The girl was not, in reality, very far from 
 the shore, and keeping my gaze, as well as I 
 could, on the bobbing scarlet cap, where it 
 rode bravely high on a wave crest or sank in
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 235 
 
 the hollow, I forged my way to her, buffeted 
 and flung here and there. Reaching her, I 
 shouted over the thunder of the surf: 
 
 "Miss Lynn, it is not safe here. Come 
 nearer shore!" 
 
 She shook her head willfully, and there and 
 then ensued a wrangle. We must have looked 
 sufficiently ridiculous, buffeted by waves, oc- 
 casionally submerged altogether, our words 
 often cut from our lips by the slap of racing 
 waves, shouting at each other, she furious, 
 and I grimly determined, my hand on her wrist, 
 for, finding her obstinate, I had taken the law 
 into my own hands and was firmly piloting her 
 to shore. 
 
 "How dare you?" she cried distinctly, in a 
 lull of the roaring surf, and I shouted back, as 
 angry now as she: 
 
 "Because I dare to offend you rather than 
 face your father if I did not." 
 
 "Let me go!" she cried. "No man has ever 
 dared " 
 
 "No man has ever treated you so before?" 
 I said angrily. "I dare say not." 
 
 "No man would," was her answer, screamed 
 in my ear. 
 
 "D. A. would not, no doubt," I sneered, 
 impelled by some demon of foolish spite.
 
 236 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 " Neither D. A. nor any other gentleman! 1 '' 
 she retorted, and then in an instant I saw the 
 scarlet anger in her face blanche to horrified 
 fear, while her staring eyes were fixed shoreward. 
 "Phil!" she shrieked. "He's gone!" 
 I dropped her wrist as though it had stung me, 
 and struck madly, blindly, through the smother- 
 ing confusion of foam and broken water, now 
 lifted high on a wave, now dropping into a 
 hollow. My brief glimpses of the shore showed 
 it empty of the little dancing figure I had left 
 there. And at that instant a great receding 
 wall of water, drawing back from the sands, 
 flung between us something dark and small 
 and helpless. We both made a frantic clutch 
 at it, but the treacherous wave, that had been 
 his playfellow, whisked it away from us. I 
 was after it as swift as light, and though it 
 seemed an age it was, in reality, not a second 
 before I had the little burden in my arms. 
 As I reached shallow water, and staggered up 
 the beach, my knees felt weak, and trembled 
 under me queerly. I sat down on the sand, 
 but the yellow sunshine had faded, it seemed; 
 the air seemed black about me, and cold; and 
 very, very far off, like voices in a dream, 
 sounded the roaring waves and shouting surfers. 
 I was conscious only of something in my side
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 237 
 
 that beat and pounded with sickening force, 
 and filled my ears with dull jarring throbs, and 
 of Phil's little warm wet body pressed close to 
 mine Phil, very much alive, and very in- 
 dignant, roaring with self-pity and rage, the 
 sweetest of music to me. 
 
 "Why did n't you take care of me, Ruddy?" 
 he wept. "You said you 'd take care of me, and 
 then you did n't." 
 
 "I know I know, little chap!" I cried 
 remorsefully. "I ought to be kicked." 
 
 "A shark might have etten me," he sobbed, 
 and a sickening vision came to me of the great 
 Gray Nurses cruising stealthily, out in the bay, 
 with their long evil snouts and vicious eyes. 
 
 "Don't!" I cried sharply. "Oh, Phil, don't!" 
 and a gasp that was like a woman's sob took 
 me by the throat. Then beside me I heard a 
 voice, sweet, tremulous, contrite, a voice with 
 tears in it. 
 
 "Don't grieve so!" it said. "Please! It 
 was all my fault!" 
 
 I had forgotten her utterly, but I was angry 
 with her, and still more furious with myself, 
 and I answered coldly: 
 
 "Nonsense! I am entirely to blame for 
 allowing a woman's folly to make me forget 
 my real duty for an instant."
 
 238 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 I heard the little sharp intake of her breath, 
 and felt her wounded surprise, as though I had 
 suddenly struck her, and the rising indignation 
 which she bravely mastered. 
 
 "Yes," she said patiently; "you are right 
 it was folly and obstinacy." 
 
 I was considerably mollified, but not yet 
 appeased, and her pretty unaccustomed hu- 
 mility, which somehow lent her a sweet new 
 dignity, only made a prig and an ass of me, for 
 thinking to improve the occasion I remarked 
 sententiously : 
 
 "If only you women would realize that a man 
 acts for the best on these occasions, and not for 
 a whim. Of course I do not blame you for what 
 occurred, but if anything had happened to 
 Phil " 
 
 "You'd never have forgiven me," she sup- 
 plied quickly and proudly, and receiving no 
 reply, added softly, "nor I, myself, indeed." 
 
 She knelt suddenly down on the sands, and 
 held out her arms. 
 
 "Let me have him," she said coaxingly, 
 "just a moment in my arms." 
 
 But I made no movement to yield him up to 
 her, and when I looked up she was gone. I was 
 my normal self again now, and was feeling once 
 more the heat of the sun, and the burning sands
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 239 
 
 on my chilled limbs, and the sunlight, that had 
 been a shifting jerky glare of black on yellow, 
 yellow on black, had now settled into its usual 
 dazzling flood of gold, dancing on the sparkling 
 waves and glittering sand particles, and the 
 steady rhythmic roar of the surf, and the cries 
 of the bathers, who had been all unconscious of 
 imminent tragedy, came to me clearly. 
 
 "Oh, little chap, you scared me badly," I 
 whispered. And then I carried him to the dress- 
 ing shed, though he was well able to walk, but 
 I felt as though I could not bear him out of my 
 arms yet. 
 
 Later, clothed, and in our right minds, Phil 
 and I sat on the beach together; Phil, his 
 sturdy brown legs stretched out, was drumming 
 holes in the soft sand with his heels and munch- 
 ing buns. He had quite got over his late 
 adventure, but I sat, with one arm round him, 
 thinking over the affair in all its aspects. And 
 my thoughts ran thus: I had been a bit of a 
 brute, and how sweet she had been. She had 
 been in the wrong, no doubt, but that new mood 
 of humility sat so sweetly on her that I must 
 not hasten too precipitately to assure her of that 
 forgiveness which, in reality, I had already 
 extended to her. She would come presently, 
 prettily downcast and wistful, like a child in
 
 240 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 disgrace, and I would kindly beg her to think 
 no more about it, nay! would do the thing 
 handsomely, even hoping I had not been too 
 imperious and masterful. 
 
 I kept my eye on the ladies' inclosure, but 
 Phil, having wrested my walking stick from me 
 to dig holes with, now landed a considerable 
 quantity of sand in my eyes, and when I had 
 relieved my mind on the point, and cleared my 
 vision, she was already standing beside us. 
 She looked delightfully fresh and cool in a 
 seaside frock of white and blue, and was dainty 
 and trim from her smart little sailor hat down 
 to her small white shoes. I scrambled up 
 awkwardly, lifting my hat, but she passed me, 
 and spoke to Phil. 
 
 "All right now, Phil?" she asked. "You 
 did give us a fright, you scamp!" 
 
 "Yes," returned Phil, turning his bun every 
 way to find a favorable spot for the next bite 
 "I've been drownded, you know, but I'm not 
 drownded any more now. Ruddy saved me. 
 Ruddy saves every one don't you, Ruddy? 
 He saved you first, Miller, an' then me." 
 
 "Saved me?" cried Millicent. "Oh, no, 
 indeed, Phil." 
 
 "He was saving you," persisted Phil, "an' 
 I thought I 'd better go an' help save you, 'cos
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 241 
 
 we like you berry much, Miller, Ruddy an' me 
 do, don't we, Ruddy? but a nasty big wave 
 jumped up and knocked me over, an' so " 
 
 "Oh, Phil, Phil, was it to save me?" Milli- 
 cent was down on her knees beside him. " Dear 
 little boy kiss me, Phil." 
 
 Her arms were round him, and his, with half 
 a bun clasped in a sticky fist, tightly round her 
 neck, but presently he fought himself free with 
 a sigh, and took a large bite of bun. 
 
 "Don't cry, Miller," he said kindly. "I'll 
 give you a bite of my bun." 
 
 "Miss Lynn!" I said, and Millicent, with 
 rather an unsteady laugh, rose and faced me. 
 But where was my pretty penitent, low- voiced 
 and plaintive? The young lady who faced me 
 was very cool and self-possessed, with steady 
 dry eyes, and a faint mocking curve to her red 
 lips. And where was my gracious speech of 
 forgiveness and encouragement? Instead, I 
 found myself idiotically mumbling something 
 about a "rough brute," and "could she ever 
 forgive?" 
 
 And she, serenely cool, remarked airily: 
 
 "It is Phil's forgiveness we should both ask 
 for our shameful neglect of him," and with a 
 friendly good-by to Phil, and a cool unembar- 
 rassed nod to me, she passed on. I stared 
 
 16
 
 242 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 after her, seeing my visions of a pretty reconcilia- 
 tion, tea for three in the tea rooms, and a ride 
 back to town together, vanish into thin air. I 
 sat down beside Phil again, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 "So," I murmured, "the breach widens!" 
 
 "Say beach, Ruddy," corrected Phil kindly, 
 "not breach. Even the littlest boys in the 
 Kindergarter can say beach." 
 
 I was silent so long that Phil, nibbling round 
 and round his bun, in ever-lessening circles, so 
 as to preserve to the last the bit of candied peel 
 on top, looked up in surprise. 
 
 "Ruddy," he asked anxiously, "do you 
 want me to a' vise you again?" 
 
 It is a pleasant fiction, taken quite seriously 
 by Phil, that I seek his advice on all occasions. 
 
 "Why, yes, old man," I answered, "I'd be 
 glad if you would." 
 
 "Go on," said Phil, with asigh, " I'm listenin'." 
 
 "Phil," I said, after a pause, "suppose you 
 loved some one very much 
 
 "You mean Millicent," put in Phil, calmly 
 disdaining subterfuge. 
 
 "Well er Millicent, or another. Say 
 Millicent for argument's sake." I fumbled in 
 my speech somewhat. "Well, if you er 
 loved her some one, very much, and you had 
 hurt her without wanting to at all, and
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 243 
 
 " If you mean standing on her toe in the water, 
 that does n't count, 'cos you did n't mean to. 
 You've often trod on mine, but you can't help 
 it, your feet are so big, Ruddy." 
 
 "Thanks!" I said, half laughing, half exasper- 
 ated. "But that 's not the kind of hurt I mean. 
 I mean hurt her when I was trying to be kind." 
 
 "Like planting her in our garden? But 
 she's all dug up now, every bit." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," said I with a sigh. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he returned in surprise, "don't 
 you bemember we planted French beans there. 
 Why are they called French?" 
 
 "Because they can't speak a word of English," 
 said I absently. 
 
 "Oh! but what " 
 
 Scenting a string of interrogations, I inter- 
 posed hurriedly: 
 
 "But what would you do, Phil?" 
 
 "I'd go an tell her I was sorry," said Phil, 
 who was becoming very bored, "an' then if she 
 would n't love me, I 'd go an' love another lady. 
 Can I have another?" 
 
 "There is no other, no, not one," I quoted 
 gloomily. 
 
 "Oh, yes, there is. I saw you put the bag in 
 your pocket," said Phil instantly, but I had not 
 been thinking of buns.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN WHICH PHIL AND I TAKE TEA IN TOWN 
 
 E afternoon Phil and Olivia Mary paid 
 me a visit. It seemed that one of Eliza- 
 beth's and Olivia Mary's frequent feuds was 
 on, and they were "not speaking," and so the 
 latter had fallen back on Phil for company, and 
 he, not at all stiff-necked about it, had accepted 
 her return gladly enough, and brought her 
 over to me, as he had promised to help me 
 in the garden. There was a hot wind blowing, 
 however, and though it seemed to affect the 
 children little enough, I was disinclined for 
 strenuous exertion, and sat awhile in the porch, 
 smoking, and watching the youngsters run 
 about, up and down the bricked pathway, which 
 seemed to positively ooze ants from every crack 
 and cranny. The trees swirled and groaned 
 uneasily in the sultry puffs of wind that were 
 growing steadier, and more continuous, like 
 the hot breaths from an opened furnace, and 
 above, a hazily yellow sun stared with a brassy 
 glare from a deep blue sky, over which raced 
 great white masses of ragged cloud. Finally I 
 persuaded the energetic ones to come indoors 
 
 244
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 245 
 
 for a brief spell, as I had no mind to leave them 
 to work their wicked will on my young plants, 
 and I was feeling hotter than was comfortable. 
 With closed windows and drawn blinds, it was 
 slightly cooler indoors. I lit my pipe and threw 
 myself, half -lounging, on the couch, and with 
 one spring Olivia Mary landed in the hollow 
 of my arm. 
 
 "I'm going to sit by Ruddy," she announced. 
 
 "It's my place," said Phil, flushing. 
 
 "I got it first but!" 
 
 "Luckily I have enough sides to accommo- 
 date everybody," I said with a sigh, "but 
 personally I think it would be much more 
 comfortable if every one kept his distance." 
 
 My mild hint was, however, quite lost upon 
 them, and they coiled up on either side of me. 
 
 "You're a naughty girl, Livy," said Phil 
 severely, "and God does n't love naughty girls, 
 does he, Ruddy?" 
 
 "No!" said I, dutifully. 
 
 "Doesn't He love me, Ruddy?" demanded 
 Olivia Mary. 
 
 "Not when you're naughty," said I, in duty 
 bound. 
 
 'That doesn't matter," she returned philo- 
 sophically, "not a bit. Father Christmas will 
 do me."
 
 246 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 I turned away my head, as I was taken un- 
 awares by such a candid confession. 
 
 Olivia Mary's imperturbable self-satisfaction 
 is always so unanswerable. Phil opened his 
 mouth. 
 
 "Tell us a- 
 
 But I saw what was coming, and tickled him 
 in the ribs so promptly that, between gurgles 
 of laughter and squirms and wriggles, the 
 request for a story he was trying to formulate 
 again and again, never got past "oo! Ruddy 
 tell us oh! Ruddy tell us a oh!" and 
 spasms of laughter. And in the meantime 
 Olivia Mary suggested asking riddles, a sug- 
 gestion which found favor with us all ; with me, 
 because it seemed a peaceable occupation, that 
 one might indulge in with little exertion. Poor 
 innocent ! 
 
 "I'll ask f -first," said Olivia Mary. "Made 
 in Germany s-sold in York s-s-stuff a bottle 
 and am called a a I won't tell you the rest 
 'cos you'll guess too easy. What is it?" 
 
 "What, I wonder! " said I, with a mystified air. 
 
 "Something you put in b-bottles," she 
 prompted. 
 
 "Milk," I said, on an inspiration. 
 
 "No!" she cried with scorn. "Give in? It's 
 a cork, of course."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 247 
 
 "Now it's my turn," cried Phil impatiently, 
 " forty red horses on a white hill no! forty 
 white horses on a red hill " 
 
 "I know that," interrupted Olivia Mary 
 instantly; "it's teef in your mouf." 
 
 Phil's face fell so grievously that I said to 
 Olivia Mary: "Now Phil must have another 
 turn to punish you for being so clever," and 
 Phil's brow cleared. But he cogitated so long 
 that she became impatient, "I know one, 
 Ruddy 1-let me say mine now," she begged, 
 but Phil came to light suddenly. 
 
 "Little Miss Etticoat with a white petticoat 
 an' a red nose, longer she stands shorter she 
 grows; it's a candle," this last added hurriedly, 
 to prevent the possibility of Olivia Mary's 
 interposing. 
 
 "Pooh! that old riddle!" she said. "Any 
 one knows that. Wh-what's a difference be- 
 tween a little boy an' a stamp don't you say, 
 Phil on a letter?" 
 
 "Various," I said, "a stamp does not kick up 
 a terrible row, and yell like a Red Indian, nor 
 ask two hundred questions in half an hour, nor 
 ask for stories, nor jump on a man's chest when 
 he wants to sleep Sunday afternoons, nor " 
 
 "That's not the answer," said Olivia Mary, 
 "will you give in?"
 
 248 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Well, yes, I suppose so." 
 
 "You 1-lick a stamp and put it on a letter, 
 and you whip a little boy it's a naughty boy, 
 of course." 
 
 "So much the worse," said I. 
 
 "An' make him stand in the c-corner and 
 now I'll ask another. Phil asked two times." 
 
 " I 'm going to ask one now," said I. "When 
 is a door not a door?" 
 
 This is positively the only riddle I remember, 
 because of my utter failure, as a child, to com- 
 prehend why our hall door, which was the 
 particular door that suggested to my father's 
 mind the asking of the riddle, should be likened 
 to a jar, or anything approaching to a receptacle 
 for jam, which was the only jar I knew. Neither 
 of the children knew the answer, and when I 
 told them it gave Phil an idea, for when his 
 next turn came, he began "When is a - ' his 
 eye roved, but lighting on me became illumi- 
 nated- "pipe not a pipe?" he concluded 
 triumphantly. 
 
 "When it's alight," I said, pleased with my 
 smartness. 
 
 "No, will you give in?" 
 
 "I w- won't," cried Olivia Mary. "When 
 it 's a weeny cigarette with a g-gold b-band like 
 daddy s-smokes."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 249 
 
 Phil shook his head gleefully. 
 
 "Give in?" he repeated, pummeling me out 
 of pure lightness of heart. Finally we con- 
 sented to, and he said instantly: 
 
 "When it's a jar. I made that one my own 
 self. Is n't it a bosker one? " 
 
 "Huh, you c-c-copied that one!" said Olivia 
 Mary. "Now, I'll make one. What's the 
 difference of a cake of soap, an' a cake with 
 plums in it?" 
 
 "All the difference, I should say," I remarked. 
 
 "That's not right," she returned, "you can 
 eat the plum one, but you can't eat the soapy 
 cake. Now I'll say another. What's " 
 
 "What's the difference I started first " 
 cried Phil, but Olivia Mary cut in. 
 
 "What's the difference of a table an' a chair? 
 Will you give in? 'Cos you sit on a chair and 
 you don't on a table." 
 
 "Ruddy does," objected Phil. 
 
 "He's not ladylike, then," returned Olivia 
 Mary primly. "My nurse says so. I'll ask 
 another riddle." 
 
 "No, I will! Can't I, Ruddy?" 
 
 "It's my t-turn well!" 
 
 "What's the difference ' shouted both 
 
 children simultaneously, but at this I rose, a 
 child under either arm, and bore them kicking
 
 250 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 and laughing down the hall, and handed them 
 over to Mrs. Binks. 
 
 "That's enough!" I cried. "Give 'em some- 
 thing to eat, please, Mrs. Binks, and not a child 
 is to come near me for at least half an hour. 
 I'm going to have forty winks." 
 
 "Pooh! I can do that," shouted Phil, and 
 began blinking rapidly, "you count, Livy!" 
 I shut the kitchen door, and made good my 
 escape. I threw myself on a couch, where I 
 lay idly watching the smoke rings rise and 
 delicately thin to blue-white wisps and shreds 
 in the air. Gradually, out of the pearly haze, 
 peeped a face I knew, arch, charming, smiling. 
 It nodded at me, approached, came closer, 
 closer, then receded, fading, fading, and 
 vanished away. I awoke, hearing the sharp 
 peal of the doorbell, followed by the rush of 
 the children's feet up the hall. There followed 
 the usual wrangle. 
 
 "Let me open it, Phil. I-I got here f -first." 
 "I know how to open it better 'n you." 
 "It's 1-ladies first. M -mother says so." 
 "Gentlemens always open doors for ladies." 
 This I thought very clever of Phil, as I got 
 to my feet leisurely and strolled into the hall. 
 The bell was sounding an almost continuous 
 peal, and Olivia Mary and Philip were both
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 251 
 
 hanging on to the handle of the door. From 
 without came a small insistent voice. 
 
 "Open the door at once!" 
 
 Phil put his mouth to the keyhole. 
 
 "Who's there?" he breathed. 
 
 "It's me," returned the voice. 
 
 "It's 'Lizabeth," exclaimed Olivia Mary, 
 and by a strategic movement got possession of 
 the door handle, and the next moment Miss 
 Elizabeth Aschman strolled into my hall. I 
 had met her several times, but this was the first 
 occasion on which she had honored my poor 
 abode. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Miss Aschman," I said, 
 and she put a small, limp, somewhat sticky 
 hand in mine. 
 
 "Quite well, thank you!" she returned. 
 
 Miss Aschman is always so correct that, no 
 doubt, in the circles in which she moves, this, 
 though irrelevant, is the rejoinder polite, pre- 
 supposing, as is natural, that one's friends are 
 going to be civil enough to inquire after one's 
 health. 
 
 -"What d'you come for?" inquired Olivia 
 Mary bluntly. 
 
 "My mother said you could come to tea if 
 your mother would let you." 
 
 "Am I allowed?" asked her friend eagerly.
 
 252 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Yes; your mother told me you were playing 
 at Phil's, and Phil's Beenie told me you and him 
 were here." 
 
 "All right! I'll come, then," said Olivia 
 Mary. "Good-by, Ruddy." 
 
 These dear women, who can forget their feuds 
 so promptly be daggers drawn all morning, 
 and bury the hatchet in afternoon tea and 
 scones at three o'clock! 
 
 "Can't I come, too?" asked Phil wistfully. 
 
 "No," returned Miss Aschman promptly, 
 "you can't. You're only a boy." 
 
 The accident of sex seemed so inadequate a 
 reason that he said hopefully: 
 
 "I'll play father an' mind the house." 
 
 "No, you can't come, Phil," said Olivia Mary. 
 "Come on, 'Lizabeth. We don't want him, 
 do we!" 
 
 I started to speak, thought of the hot blast 
 permeating the out-of-doors world, and sighed 
 irresolutely, but Phil's disconsolate face smote 
 me. 
 
 "Never mind, Phil," I said, "you and I will 
 go down to town and have tea at the A. B.C." 
 
 Phil's face beamed radiantly, and Olivia Mary 
 looked thoughtful. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I think I'd like that b-best. 
 I can go to your place another day, 'Lizabeth."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 253 
 
 "Oh, we'll all go with Mr. Lingard," said 
 Elizabeth sociably. 
 
 "No," said I, cruelly enjoying the turn of 
 the tables, "we don't want you. You're only 
 girls so run along." 
 
 "Once," said 'Lizabeth dreamily, "a gentle- 
 man" (all Miss Aschman's acquaintances are 
 ladies and gentlemen) "took me to tea at the 
 A. B.C., and I had fifteen cakes an' two ice 
 creams." 
 
 "Did you eat them all? 19 asked Phil, awe- 
 stricken. 
 
 "Yes; and after we went to the Fresh Fooda 
 Nice, and I had some more." 
 
 "How many?" asked Phil breathlessly. 
 
 "Oh, 'bout six or seven!" returned she 
 airily. 
 
 "Were you littler 'n you are now?" pursued 
 Phil, gazing in wonder and awe at ' Lizabeth 's 
 slim proportions. 
 
 ' 'Bout the same," she answered imperturb- 
 ably, and Olivia Mary observed: 
 
 "Once I went to the Civil Servers, I did." 
 
 "Is this your droring room?" inquired 
 Elizabeth of me, but as usual Olivia Mary 
 saved me the trouble of replying. 
 
 "No!" she said volubly. "He hasn't got a 
 draw'n room. He's only g-got this, an' two
 
 254 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 b-bedrooms an' Mrs. Binks', an' a k-k-kitching, 
 an' a b-bathroom." 
 
 "He's got a nice-chest," said Phil, instantly 
 on the defensive. 
 
 "We've got three," said Elizabeth crushingly, 
 a statement I had every reason to discredit. 
 
 "Oh," said Phil, slipping a consoling hand 
 in mine, a habit of his in moments of mortifica- 
 tion for me that so endears him to me, "we 
 don't want more'n one we wouldn't have 
 enough food to put in three, would we, Ruddy? " 
 
 "We always have heaps of food," said 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 "So do we," chimed in Olivia Mary. 
 
 At last we got rid of them, and sallied out. 
 The streets were hot and dusty. Miniature 
 whirlwinds of straw and dust, and odds and ends 
 of papers, eddied and spiraled here and there, 
 and the sultry breathing wind sprang out on us 
 from every corner, with a hot noisy sigh. Phil, 
 too, was rather trying, for it seemed he had 
 registered a vow to touch every veranda post 
 we passed, so great was his care to do so. I 
 felt limp and sticky and grimy, and rather 
 regretful of my good-natured impulse. But 
 once in the cool, spacious tea room, with its 
 white tables and its flowers and its electric fans, 
 or "windmills," as Phil called them, spinning
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 255 
 
 round like quivering vortices of air made 
 visible, I relaxed. It was pleasant to watch 
 Phil sucking through a straw some sweet 
 sticky, ruby-colored compound, in which a 
 lump of ice clinked musically against the glass. 
 I had no ice in my squash, but Phil had asked 
 for a piece, and when the girl had said rather 
 tartly that ice was not included in what she 
 called the "mee-new," he had said so sweetly, 
 "I don't mind a bit; I'd like a little piece, 
 please," that she had suddenly relapsed into 
 smiles, and fetched him some. 
 
 He made the drink last as long as possible, for 
 the pleasure of drinking through a straw, and 
 told me confidently that when he had finished 
 it he was going to eat his lump of ice. He 
 was immensely surprised to find there was no 
 ice, and looked carefully at the bottom of his 
 glass, wondering audibly if the girl had taken it 
 out when he was n't looking. 
 
 "Why is it rude in a house to drink through 
 a straw an' not rude here? " he asked. " Beenie 
 won't never let me drink my tea that way." 
 
 Then he ordered a strawberry ice when the 
 girl appeared. 
 
 "Strawberry ice off," she answered glibly. 
 
 "Did you drop it?" he asked with concern. 
 "I s'pose it's all dirty, then."
 
 256 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 I explained, and he was accommodated with 
 a vanilla ice. 
 
 He gasped with mingled cold and ecstasy 
 through a generous glassful, and nibbled at 
 his pink wafer biscuits, and then, the inner 
 man satisfied, he leaned back and kicked the 
 table leg while he surveyed the groups at the 
 other tables. There was a fair sprinkling, 
 and the band happened to be playing, and the 
 heart of Philip was content. But suddenly 
 he said to me: 
 
 "Why don't we never see Miller any more? 
 I like Miller ever so much. I miss her." 
 
 "Hear, hear!" I cried softly. 
 
 "Where?" asked Phil, turning right round in 
 his chair, and adding rather reproachfully: 
 
 "Was that a story, or only having fun?" 
 
 "Phil," I said earnestly, for a tremendous 
 idea had struck me, "you'd like to see Miller 
 again?" 
 
 "Yes an' I'd love to see her dog." 
 
 "Suppose," I said wheedlingly, "you write 
 her a letter." 
 
 It seemed that Phil did not want to see her 
 quite so much as all that. 
 
 "You write it," he said. "I writ the last. 
 It's your turn." 
 
 "But I've a bone in my finger," I objected.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 257 
 
 "Binks has one in her leg. Does it hurt 
 most in your finger or in your leg?" 
 
 "In you ringer," I said promptly, "when 
 you have a letter to write." 
 
 "But I don't know what to say," objected 
 Phil. 
 
 "Say we're sorry, and won't do it again," 
 I prompted. 
 
 "But I'm not I haven't done nothing." 
 
 "Well, I am awfully!" 
 
 "Then you write it." 
 
 However, I bribed Phil to write the letter 
 after we got home. It was in his words, but at 
 my instigation. I had great difficulty in re- 
 straining him from telling her that "Ruddy 
 told me to say" this, that, and the other. It 
 was, in brief, an intimation that we would so 
 much like to see her again, that on such an 
 afternoon we would be at the tea-kiosk in the 
 Gardens, and how we wished she would also 
 be there, and we were "her loving little friend, 
 Phil," followed by several crosses. 
 
 After that we went out and sat in shirtsleeves 
 on the back porch. The sun had set in a haze of 
 dusty gold, but the heat still held. There seemed 
 to hang in the air stagnant now, save for fitful 
 lukewarm gusts that shook the limp-looking 
 pepper trees like the expiring respirations 
 
 17
 
 258 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 of a dying monster a dim yellow haze. 
 It was the dust, raised in clouds by the hot 
 wind, and slowly settling again. A cicada with 
 a note like a steam siren was shrilly rasping 
 in the garden, and the busy ants were, as ever, 
 up and doing. The last fitful puff of wind sub- 
 sided, and the stillness of the sultry air could be 
 felt. There was a hush a pause. Earth was 
 waiting man was waiting expectant of the 
 blessed wind from the south that would soon 
 pour, cool and fresh and life giving, down 
 upon the gasping city. And at last it came. 
 There was a sudden joyful rustle of life in the 
 motionless, hanging leaves of the dust-laden 
 trees that communicated itself to the tiniest 
 twig and leaflet and died away ; within the house 
 a door banged another and another, a canvas 
 shelter began to belly and flap, and with a rush 
 and a swirl the "southerly" was upon us, 
 bending and tossing the branches, and streaming 
 about us with delicious coolness, like a wave of 
 pure flowing water.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN WHICH PHIL AND I BLOW BUBBLES 
 
 TT was a day or two later that Phil brought 
 me Millicent's answer. I had rushed home 
 for a hasty lunch before going out to Lewisham 
 on business, and was in the midst of it when 
 Phil arrived. When I saw a pale lavender- 
 colored envelope in his hand I laid down my 
 knife and fork, my nicely browned cutlets 
 suddenly losing their savor, but I read the 
 letter with outward composure. It ran: 
 "DEAR PHIL, 
 
 "I'd love to see you again, but I cannot 
 possibly come to the Gardens as suggested 
 (underlined). You know the way to Mac- 
 quarie Street, and Gyp and I will be delighted 
 to give you tea any afternoon you can come. 
 Get your nurse to bring you. 
 
 "Your friend, 
 "MILLER." 
 
 "P.S. Next time, I'd like a little letter 
 just from yourself." 
 
 In the postscript lay the sting for me, though 
 Phil was innocent of it. 
 
 "We'll go this afternoon," he said, prompt 
 as ever. 
 
 259
 
 260 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "But I'm not invited," I said despondently. 
 
 "That doesn't matter a bit," he returned 
 cheerily; "when I'm not invited I just go, and 
 then I 'm there, you see, and Miller always has 
 plenty cakes, so there'll be enough to go round." 
 
 But when I had persuaded him that I really 
 could not go under the circumstances, he stoutly 
 declined to go also, like the loyal comrade he 
 is. Finally we obtained permission for Phil 
 to accompany me, and we dashed into a tram, 
 and buzzed and clanged away up to the Central 
 Railway Station. This is always a vastly 
 fascinating place to Phil, the huge, drafty, 
 glass-domed barn it is, with its many platforms, 
 its bookstalls, penny-in-the-slot machines, and 
 refreshment stalls, and the buzz and chatter 
 and clatter of hurrying crowds coming and going, 
 and here and there a brave green palm growing 
 sturdily between the gleaming network of rails, 
 in a foreign environment of smut and dust and 
 steam clouds from the snorting engines. 
 
 Inside the carriage, Phil, after narrowly 
 escaping jammed fingers in letting down the 
 sun screen, looked as usual for something to 
 count or spell. It was not a "smoker," out of 
 deference to Phil's tender years, and there 
 was but one notice, which read in large letters: 
 
 "DO NOT SPIT. PENALTY 2."
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 261 
 
 "It says that everywhere," said Phil, running 
 his finger along a dusty slat of the screen and 
 alluding to the prohibition, by which a paternal 
 government designs to check the spread of 
 disease. "It's in the trains an' the trams an' 
 the boats an' the streets. They should have put 
 one in the place what the Spitting Camel lives 
 in, and then it might stop." 
 
 Just then the train started with a jolt and a 
 rumble and a creaking of coupling chains, and 
 Phil, being flung with some violence back into 
 his seat, occupied himself with staring out of 
 the window at the incomparably mean and 
 grimy hovels of Redfern and its purlieus, and 
 at the huge yard where the engines live when 
 they are not at work great sooty monsters 
 without so much as a brilliantly polished copper 
 bonnet to relieve their somberness. 
 
 A very engaging girl-baby, aged about two, 
 made violent love to him on the return journey, 
 leaning against his knees and endeavoring to 
 put her two fat little arms about his neck and 
 force a rather damp and nibbled segment of 
 sponge cake into his unwilling lips. 
 
 "Nice boy nice boy, Baba's cake," she 
 murmured with much blandishment. But Phil 
 held himself aloof stiffly. It is a strange thing 
 that at this stage it is lovely woman who makes
 
 262 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 the advances, and man who is coy, while 
 later the positions, by the irony of fate, seem 
 reversed. Phil repulsed his admirer as gently 
 as he could, edging up to me, very red in the 
 face, turning persistently away from the sponge 
 cake. 
 
 "I don't know her, Ruddy," he whispered to 
 me, very uncomfortably. 
 
 "Nice boy!" babbled the shameless one. 
 "Tiss Baba!" and put up a most tempting pair 
 of lips. 
 
 "Kiss her!" I said to Phil, nudging him. 
 
 "No," he said doggedly; "I don't know her." 
 
 He evidently considered these liberties most 
 unwarrantable on the part of an utter stranger. 
 
 "Never mind!" I said. "She's such a jolly 
 kid. Waive ceremony for once." 
 
 "I don't know how to do it," he said stiffly, 
 and in mercy to his embarrassment the baby's 
 mother, who, with a companion, had been 
 convulsed with mirth, called her, a summons 
 to which she paid no heed, having, not un- 
 "assisted by me, hauled herself on to the seat 
 beside Phil, where she sat pleased and proud, 
 bestowing amorous glances on the unwilling 
 one. When, at her destination, she was torn 
 from him, she rent the air with her wails, and 
 we could hear her on the platform protesting
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 263 
 
 tearfully, "Want nice boy more nice boy." 
 For a long time Phil kept silence as we flashed 
 by the stations with their dazzlingly sunny 
 platforms, green-painted seats, and garden plots 
 bright with flowers, but by the time we reached 
 home he was his loquacious, interrogative self 
 again. 
 
 Next day happened to be my birthday, and 
 Phil arrived, bright and early, so early that I 
 was still engaged with the mysteries of my 
 toilet, shaving in the bathroom. 
 
 Phil, having learned ^ of my whereabouts, 
 burst in upon me without ceremony, but recol- 
 lecting his manners, dashed out again without 
 a word, slammed the door, knocked hastily, 
 and without waiting for a summons, reentered. 
 Under his arm he carried a brown-paper parcel, 
 untidily wrapped and insecurely tied, of which 
 I was elaborately unconscious, such being the 
 prescribed etiquette in such cases. 
 
 "I've got a present for you," Phil announced 
 beaming, and as I affected pleased surprise, he 
 added, "Guess what it is." 
 
 I shook my head, and he prompted: 
 "Something what you put on your feet." 
 Now the shape of the parcel, to say nothing 
 of a large green and purple carpet-heel pro- 
 truding from the paper, and the sundry hints I
 
 264 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 had received during the week, might have led 
 a cleverer man to guess, but I, with incredible 
 obtuseness, hazarded: 
 
 "A pair of socks" (though anything less like 
 a pair of socks I had never seen) . Phil loved to 
 keep one guessing, and it was only his impatience 
 on this occasion that led him to untie the 
 parcel at once and display to my admiring 
 gaze a huge pair of bright-hued slippers, that 
 were surely designed in Brobdignag. 
 
 ' ' There ! ' ' said he, with pride. ' ' Are n't they 
 bosker? They cost 2s. nd., and I asked the 
 man for the biggest in the shop. Two shillings 
 an' 'leven pence is a good lot of money, is n't 
 it? Do you like them?" 
 
 "Rather," I assented heartily, wondering 
 how I was going to keep them on my feet. 
 
 "I'm a kind boy to you, Ruddy," continued 
 Phil. "Beenie helped me choose them. You 
 know I wanted to buy you a billiard table, 
 'cos you said you wished you had one, but the 
 man said he had n't any in his shop, an' he 
 thought you'd like slippers best." 
 
 "So I do," I said stoutly. 
 
 "But," he said, a little despondently, "you 
 can't have a good game with red and white 
 balls, and a stick, with just slippers." 
 
 "But when my feet are cold and tired," I
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 265 
 
 retorted, "I couldn't put a billiard table on 
 them, and sit by the fire." 
 
 This point of view quite restored Phil's 
 belief in the wisdom of his choice, and he wanted 
 me to put on the slippers there and then and go 
 to business in them. Then a thought struck 
 him. 
 
 "I forgot," he cried. "I've got another 
 present. It's a pipe," and he began groping 
 in the front of his tunic for it. 
 
 My heart sank. I had no confidence in the 
 judgment of Phil and Beenie where man's chief 
 solace was concerned, and I pictured a pipe that 
 would not draw, with an abominable little 
 nickel grating over the bowl, and a patent 
 contrivance to catch the nicotine, the kind of 
 pipe a woman invariably chooses, and a man 
 just as invariably never smokes. But I knew 
 Phil, and I knew that I should have to smoke 
 his pipe or he would know the reason why. 
 However, the pipe he produced was an ordinary 
 good old clay, with a slim stem, painted yellow. 
 He explained that he had got this kind because 
 it only cost a penny, and also that it would be 
 useful for him to blow bubbles with, when it 
 was not in use for my purposes. 
 
 "That's a good idea," I said. "Suppose you 
 have first turn, and blow bubbles."
 
 266 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 I argued that the pipe would not survive 
 more than an hour or two of Phil's handling, and 
 thus I should get gracefully out of a dilemma. 
 
 "What? Now?" he cried, and dashed off 
 to the kitchen and Mrs. Binks, while I sat 
 down to my breakfast. He returned presently, 
 carrying a saucer of water with a lump of soap 
 in it, at a very precarious angle, his eyes glued 
 on it anxiously. 
 
 "She said if I did n't slop oo! that was an 
 axibent," as a fair quantity of the water splashed 
 on to the floor; " it 's her clean floor, too, Ruddy. 
 She's slaving on to her knees from morning till 
 night, an' well she may, with a parcel of men 
 an' boys " 
 
 I recognized he was quoting verbatim from 
 Mrs. Binks, and I said softly: 
 
 "Never mind! Cut into the bathroom and 
 get a towel, and then get out on to the veranda." 
 
 He brought the towel, and I covered the 
 evidences of his crime as well as I could, sent 
 back the towel, and having dispatched Phil 
 to the veranda, a piece of toast in one hand 
 and saucer and pipe in the other, I finished 
 my breakfast and after a hasty perusal of the 
 Herald joined him there. He was gloriously 
 happy, bubbling and burbling in the soapy 
 water, and watching the multiple little
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 267 
 
 iridescent bells grow from under the pipe bowl. 
 I have always loved blowing bubbles, and I 
 accepted with alacrity his invitation to "play," 
 finding I had some minutes to spare, and in his 
 excited hurry to tell me how far his last bubble 
 had drifted ere it burst, he took a long breath, 
 and with it a mouthful of soap and water, which 
 he spat out with a wry face. We had a lovely 
 time. I don't think I ever saw finer bubbles. 
 They danced, and shone green and blue and 
 rosy, with all the colors of an opal in the morn- 
 ing sun, and when they were wrecked on a bush 
 or gable they vanished soundlessly. We sent 
 whole fleets of them sailing into the still sunny 
 air, large and small, airy crystal-clear spheres, 
 jostling each other delicately, and some of them 
 sailed high higher than the house tops ere 
 they met a bubble's inevitable fate. 
 
 "Tell me a story," demanded Phil, as a par- 
 ticularly large and iridescent globe daintily 
 detached itself, and rose calmly on the faint 
 breeze, and he thus diplomatically got possession 
 of the pipe. 
 
 "Once," said I dreamily, "there was a man 
 who was always blowing bubbles." 
 
 "Did he have a little boy?" interrupted 
 Phil. " 'Cos grown-up men don't blow bubbles 
 just for theirselves."
 
 268 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Oh, don't they?" I said. "But, yes, he 
 had a boy rather a jolly little chap, too. Well, 
 this man went on blowing bubbles all his life." 
 
 "Goodness!" Phil took the pipe out of his 
 mouth to ejaculate. "He must've got sick 
 of it." 
 
 "He used to blow beautiful bubbles, large 
 and shining, with all the colors of the rainbow, 
 but somehow, whenever they seemed to be 
 getting particularly large and lovely, pop! 
 they burst, and he was very sad about it." 
 
 "What's the good? He could easy blow 
 more, unless he'd broke the pipe." 
 
 "But one day he made the most beautiful 
 bubble of all, and it went on growing larger 
 and larger " 
 
 "How large as big as my head?" 
 
 "Yes and more beautiful than any he had 
 made before, and it went sailing, sailing up into 
 the balmy atmosphere 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "Up into the air. High high higher it 
 went " 
 
 "How high?" 
 
 "Now, look here, Phil. If you ask any more 
 questions I'll shut up." 
 
 "I won't then, Ruddy. G'won!" 
 
 "And as he looked at it in delight, he saw,
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 269 
 
 smiling and shining from it, a face " 
 
 "How could he - Oh, I forgot!" 
 
 "What did you want to say?" I relented so 
 far as to ask. 
 
 "It seems a long way up for him to see 
 that's all." 
 
 "Sometimes it came quite near," I said 
 defensively. 
 
 "Oh! G'won." 
 
 "But sometimes," I said, sighing, and for- 
 getting the boy beside me, "it retreated very 
 far away, but it grew more beautiful, more 
 luminous and shining, and the face sweeter and 
 more desirable, sometimes gentle, sometimes 
 willful, but always winsome, and by and by he 
 began to see other faces in the clear mirror of his 
 bubble, his own, proud and smiling, and and 
 jolly kids, with brown eyes like hers, and a 
 house a jolly little house " 
 
 Phil exploded. He could not keep comment 
 in any longer. 
 
 "A house! Goodness, what a 'normous 
 bubble!" 
 
 "And then quite suddenly," I said hurriedly, 
 "as he was gazing and gazing, his precious 
 castle in the air, his bubble, broke, and all 
 the man got was a dash of soapy water in his 
 silly eyes."
 
 270 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "It smarts, too, that," observed Phil with 
 sympathetic comprehension. "Still, I think his 
 little boy'd be glad. It was time he had a turn 
 with the bubble pipe." 
 
 I looked at my watch. 
 
 "Goodness! Look at the time," I cried. 
 "Where's my hat?" 
 
 I dashed into the house, and out again, 
 calling a hasty good-by to Phil as I ran. 
 
 Phil had very kindly arranged a birthday 
 treat for me. He was to have tea with me, 
 and afterwards we were to go to a picture show 
 at my expense. He had included Mrs. Binks 
 in the invitation, but she had, with very right 
 feeling, declined. When I reached home I 
 found Phil in possession. The first piece of 
 news he greeted me with was that he had 
 broken his bubble pipe. 
 
 "Will you buy me another, Ruddy?" he 
 asked anxiously. 
 
 He seemed rather hazy on the question of 
 ownership of that pipe, but I was immensely 
 relieved, and so promised I'd certainly make 
 the loss good. 
 
 At tea we had little cakes with sugar on them, 
 in a glass dish. Phil climbed into his chair. I 
 had already begun my cutlet, but he reproved 
 me with a glance.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 271 
 
 "Grace!" he said piously. "You forgot, 
 Ruddy!" 
 
 I laid down knife and fork with a murmured 
 apology, and Phil placed his hands over his face. 
 
 "For what we rebout to deceive the Lord 
 make us truly fankful can I have the one with 
 the pink sugar?" 
 
 "Now," said I, when tea was over, and Phil 
 was fidgeting to be off, "off you go to the 
 kitchen and talk to Mrs. Binks, while I have 
 a look at the paper." 
 
 So off he went, and I took a dip into the paper, 
 but finding there mention of a certain person, 
 who, at a fashionable function at Potts' Point, 
 had looked sweet in two shades of gray, I fell 
 to dreaming of how charming the gold-brown 
 eyes and leaf -brown hair would look in that soft 
 dove-hued setting, and if it ever should become 
 my privilege, how I should adorn that loveliness. 
 The paper slipped from my fingers, and by and 
 by, to my no small surprise and gratification, 
 I found myself composing verses to Millicent 
 Lynn. I had never done such a thing before, 
 but I was vastly pleased with the result. It 
 seemed to me the thing was good, quite as good 
 as lots of things I 'd seen in magazines, and for 
 which, no doubt, the beggars were paid, too. 
 This is how it ran:
 
 272 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 TO M. L. 
 
 We loved in the summer, when the skies were blue, 
 And sunshine, warm as love, entranced the air, 
 And Earth and Sky seemed beautiful, for you 
 Were kind and all fair things seemed doubly fair. 
 But now the skies are black with cloud and storm. 
 My skies, alas! are dark indeed, for you 
 Are no more kind; your love, that seemed so warm, 
 Is cold and dead, though still my love is true. 
 
 This was execrable poetry, and very question- 
 able fact, but, as I say, I was so pleased with it 
 that I became quite cheered up, and entirely 
 lost sight of the mournfulness of the theme in 
 my pride and pleasure of authorship. I had 
 just finished mouthing it for the third time, with 
 solemn pleasure, when I heard a small apprecia- 
 tive voice at the door, saying gravely. 
 
 "Very good indeed, Ruddy; you said your 
 piece very good. Binks an' me think so, don't 
 we, Binks?" 
 
 I turned scarlet. In the doorway stood Phil, 
 and down the hall I heard the retreating shuffle 
 of list slippers. 
 
 "Ha!" I gasped. "How long have you been 
 there? Look here, don't you ever dare to say 
 a word about this miserable effusion." 
 
 "I don't know what a miserable confusion 
 is," he said innocently. 
 
 "This er poem, my er 'piece' as you
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 273 
 
 call it. Never mention it to a soul, especially 
 Millicent." 
 
 "I'll try to bemember," he promised with a 
 sigh; "but there's so many things I mustn't 
 tell, like loving her best but she knows that 
 now." 
 
 "She knows?" I cried, and lifted him to my 
 knee. "How does she know?" 
 
 He wriggled, and began counting the links 
 on my watch-chain. "Twenty-eight twenty- 
 nine," he counted slowly. 
 
 "Out with it, Phil!" 
 
 "I didn't tell," he began. "You know the 
 day I was drownded?" I nodded. "Well, 
 not that day, but the next, Miller came to see 
 if I was quite better again, and she stayed and 
 played with me, an' we played who we loved 
 best in the world, and I said she could never 
 guess who you loved best, and she said she 
 could n't, and I gave her free guesses." 
 
 "Oh, Phil!" 
 
 "She said me, an' I said no; but she was 
 getting warm, an' then she laughed and kissed 
 me about a hundred times, and she said she had 
 guessed now, but she would n't say who, and 
 she would n't tell who she loved best either. 
 You're not angry with me, Ruddy?" 
 
 "Angry? No, Phil!" I cried. "You've 
 
 18
 
 274 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 given me the best birthday present I've ever 
 had in my life." 
 
 "Yes, I thought you'd like those slippers," 
 he said complacently. 
 
 So she knew she knew and she had 
 kissed him a hundred times, showing, so argued 
 my excited mood, that she did not resent the 
 knowledge. My heart felt as light as a feather, 
 and Phil and I walked to the car, I replying 
 absently to his excited chatter. Before going 
 into the "Pictures" I had limited Phil to 
 ninety-nine questions. He was so conscientious 
 about it, however, and checked himself so 
 frequently, in case he might overstep his limit, 
 and have no question left when occasion de- 
 manded it, that I myself raised the limit to 
 999, and even Phil kept within that allowance. 
 
 For myself, I sat beside my young friend 
 with that warm consciousness of content still 
 within, until, gradually, as is my wont, I over- 
 worked it, and cold self-consciousness began 
 to whisper that I had so little to go upon in 
 a child's report of idle chatter. Then the lights 
 went up, and the orchestra was rushing at great 
 speed through the national anthem, and mothers 
 and fathers were bundling sleepy children into 
 coats and mufflers, and the place looked sud- 
 denly dusty and sordid and garish, with a
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 275 
 
 litter of empty chocolate boxes and wrappers 
 on the floor, and the fast-emptying seats. 
 
 "Come on, Phil," I said, "let's get out of 
 this," and was a little sharp with him, because 
 he would dive under a seat after a piece of 
 silver paper out of a chocolate box. Phil was 
 unwontedly subdued, and looking at his little 
 sober face, as he sat in the car, I felt sorry. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, old chap?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "I was thinking I found a horseshoe to-day, 
 and spitted on it, but I have n't had any luck 
 yet, like finding gold or silver things." 
 
 But just as we were leaving the car, by a 
 strange coincidence there was a silver sixpence 
 shining at his feet. True, I had to maneuver 
 to get him to see it, but he was so delighted 
 that he turned to me with a beaming smile. 
 
 "The very next horseshoe I find I'll give to 
 you, Ruddy, to spit on, and you'll have luck 
 an' find the thing you want most." 
 
 "I wish you'd find that horseshoe quick 
 then," I sighed.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IN WHICH WE COME VERY NEAR TRAGEDY 
 
 E day Phil came in and told me a bit 
 of news that interested me. It was that 
 Millicent Lynn had engaged him for the follow- 
 ing afternoon. She had rung up, and asked 
 if she might take him out, and his mother 
 had said yes, and then Millicent had asked for 
 him, and he had spoken to her at the telephone. 
 She had asked him if he would like to go to 
 Manly, and by tram round to the Spit, where 
 they could cross in the punt, and so to Mosman 
 Bay, and back to Circular Quay. But, it 
 appeared, Phil had very politely but firmly 
 intimated that he would prefer to take a trip 
 in the "Seeing Sydney" motor car. She had 
 laughed, he said, but said very well, there was 
 nothing like knowing what one wanted. 
 
 "Then," said Phil, "she said, 'If you can't 
 come, you must just give me a ring to-morrow 
 morning,' so you see, Ruddy, I'll have to go, 
 'cos I could n't buy her a ring. I have n't 
 enough money." 
 
 "A ring?" said I. "I wish I had your 
 chance, Phil, but she wouldn't accept one 
 from me." 
 
 276
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 277 
 
 I adroitly got from Phil the hour of starting, 
 and perhaps it was mere coincidence that I 
 should be standing on the post-office steps, 
 overlooking Martin Place, just as the chimes 
 overhead burst forth musically, followed by two 
 mellow, booming strokes. The large touring 
 car, with its staring inscription "Seeing Syd- 
 ney," was standing outside the Tourist Depart- 
 ment Offices across the way, and I strolled over. 
 It was a bit before its time lor starting, and 
 the chauffeur was chatting to the taxi-cabmen 
 on the stand, and only two passengers were, so 
 far, aboard, Phil and Millicent. I knew Phil's 
 over-punctual habits, and really admired the 
 pertinacity he must have exercised to get a 
 lady to be so much beforehand. He saw me 
 as I crossed the street, and with a delightful 
 shriek of: 
 
 "Here's Ruddy! He's coming, too!" stood 
 up and waved to me. I crossed over, and lifting 
 my hat, leaned my arms on the edge of the 
 car to speak to my friends. Phil hailed me with 
 delight, but Millicent acknowledged my salute 
 with a bow and a coldly conventional smile, 
 and answered my remarks civilly, but without 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Get in get in," cried Phil hospitably, 
 "plenty of room."
 
 278 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 I hesitated, looking straight at Millicent, but 
 she was busy, protecting her pretty white frock 
 from Phil's dusty restless little boots, and would 
 not meet my eye. 
 
 "Don't you want to come?" asked Phil, 
 astonished. 
 
 "Very much," I said. 
 
 "Then get in people 11 be taking all the 
 seats soon." 
 
 "But," said I boldly, "will Miss Lynn allow 
 me!" 
 
 "Course you will, won't you, Miller?" said 
 Phil easily. 
 
 "Mr. Lingard knows well enough, Phil," 
 answered Miss Lynn coldly "that this is a 
 public conveyance." 
 
 "A what? It's a motor car," said Phil. 
 
 "Well," she cried impatiently, "it isn't my 
 car, Phil, and if Mr. Lingard chooses to use it 
 I have nothing to say one way or another." 
 
 "Ah, but," said Phil, with unexpected shrewd- 
 ness, "I s'pect he wants you to say you'd like 
 him to come. Do say it Miller," he coaxed. 
 
 "Do say it, Millicent!" I pleaded in a low 
 voice, but she said nothing. Only a slight 
 tinge of color crept into her smooth cheek, and 
 she looked straight ahead. I straightened up 
 suddenly, with a laugh entirely without mirth.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 279 
 
 "Well, good-by, Phil I'm afraid there's 
 not room for me, after all. Hope you have a 
 good time. Good afternoon, Miss Lynn," and, 
 lifting my hat, I turned abruptly away, sore 
 and angry and humiliated. Before I was out 
 of earshot I heard Phil's voice, quivering with 
 the indignant tears he was trying to restrain. 
 
 "Now, he's gone. I won't love you any 
 more, Miller. You're not kind to Ruddy, and 
 I won't go if you won't let him come, too." 
 
 "Oh, Phil!" she exclaimed in a hurt voice, 
 "and this was to have been our treat just 
 yours and mine!" 
 
 I heard him calling, "Ruddy! Ruddy!" 
 but I would not turn or stop. There was a fine 
 flame of wrath in my heart, and pain, too. 
 This was the final bursting of my bubble, and 
 I could never again dwell, in pensive mood, 
 upon its tender colors of hope and love. So I 
 strode across Martin Place. A taxi turning 
 out of Pitt Street, and making for its stand, was 
 coming down with a smooth rush and purring 
 hum of rapid wheels, and what followed seemed 
 to happen in one confused moment of horror. 
 
 The cry of "Ruddy, wait! I'm coming!" 
 the frantic raucous "honk" of the motor horn, 
 a piteous cry, and a hoarse horrified shout from 
 some one. Too late. The swift, smoothly
 
 280 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 moving monster with humming wheels seemed 
 to leap on that little pathetic figure with its 
 bright uncovered hair the little figure that 
 went down, tossed aside by the great car that 
 swerved desperately, and came to a stand in 
 its own length with grinding brakes. I was 
 kneeling, with Phil's little motionless figure in 
 my arms. One sturdy arm hung limply, there 
 was dust on his white clothes and bright hair, 
 but his face and head seemed uninjured, and 
 his eyes were only half closed, showing a gleam 
 of light from under the long lashes. The usual 
 crowd gathered as though by magic, pressing 
 and peering. I was dimly conscious of a police- 
 man with a notebook, and the chauffeur, who 
 repeated over and over: "He run right acrost 
 me, the pore kid did. I done me best!" 
 
 Vaguely I heard the roar of George Street 
 close by. I smelled the strong, smoky stench 
 of petrol, and a wave of rich exotic perfume 
 of carnations from the flower sellers' barrows, 
 that, till the day I die, will be associated in my 
 mind with the horror, and fear, and pain of 
 death. I heard a woman in the crowd: 
 
 "Look at the father pore feller! ain't 'e 
 cut up?" 
 
 Some one called out the doctor was coming, 
 and then beside me I heard a voice, even, calm
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 281 
 
 with utter despair : ' ' He is dead. I have killed 
 him. I have killed little Phil." 
 
 I looked up. Millicent stood there, white as 
 a flower, her dark eyes tragic with suffering. 
 They hurt me those eyes! 
 
 "Nonsense!" I cried out angrily. "Phil is 
 not dead." 
 
 Then the doctor came, and we carried the boy 
 into one of the offices close by, shutting out the 
 curious crowd. We telephoned for the mother 
 and father. The mother was out at a bridge 
 party, 'the maid thought, but would do her 
 best to find her. The father arrived in ten 
 minutes a tall, thin, silent man, Phil's father, 
 reserved and undemonstrative. I had some- 
 times wondered if he really appreciated Phil, 
 was as proud and glad as he ought to be that 
 he was the father of such a son. He said little, 
 only a few low- voiced questions, and then he 
 took his place beside his son, his eyes riveted 
 on the doctor's face. The latter worked in 
 silence, making a swift, deft examination. 
 Millicent, still with colorless face and tragic 
 tearless eyes, did all his bidding in silent obedi- 
 ence, while he temporarily bound up the injured 
 arm. And still Phil lay in that deathlike 
 trance, with neither sigh, nor moan, nor move- 
 ment, and still the father watched the doctor's
 
 282 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 face with a dumb inquiry, and the doctor's 
 face was grave enough. I fought with a para- 
 lyzing fear as I marked its deepening gravity. 
 A clock on the office wall ticked in the silence, 
 and outside the clamor of the chimes at the 
 three-quarter broke out again. Not an hour, 
 and such a change to be wrought! Then 
 suddenly came a rush of feet, a sharp rap at 
 the door, and there rushed into the room, with 
 a silken rustle, a tap-tap of high heels, a jingle 
 of ornaments, and a breeze of perfume 
 Phil's mother. 
 
 " My boy my precious boy, my little Phil!" 
 she cried hysterically, and would have flung 
 herself on the unconscious little form, but the 
 doctor cried sharply: 
 
 "Keep that woman back," and her husband 
 caught and held her. 
 
 "Hush, hush, my dear!" he said, his arm 
 about her. 
 
 Suddenly she saw me, and cried out fiercely, 
 accusingly : 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Lingard how could you! I trusted 
 you, and this is the way you look after the 
 boy you seemed so fond of. Why did I ever 
 let him out of my sight? But I thought I 
 could trust you!" 
 
 "Hush, hush!" said her husband, once more,
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 283 
 
 but she would not be silenced, in her sobbing 
 reproaches. "I will never trust you again, Mr. 
 Lingard. Oh, how could you?" 
 
 "I am sorry, very sorry," I said mechanically, 
 fearful lest Millicent should hear. The woman 
 had evidently forgotten that Phil was not in 
 my charge that day. 
 
 "Sorry?" she burst out I, myself, had 
 thought drearily how limited a language was 
 that, that must express the anguish of remorse 
 for an irreparable tragedy in the same words as 
 regret for some trifling offense "what good 
 does that do now with my boy lying there, 
 injured, perhaps dying? If Phil dies " 
 
 A gray shadow passed over the man's face, 
 aging it incredibly, and he closed his eyes a 
 moment. Then in a low, authoritative voice 
 he said to her: 
 
 "No more, my dear! Mr. Lingard," he 
 continued, "my wife is overwrought. You 
 will forgive her words. We know how kind 
 you have been to our boy, and that no neglect 
 of yours brought this about." 
 
 I gripped his hand, muttering with difficulty. 
 
 "I would have died, to save you this." 
 
 "I know I know!" he said kindly, and 
 shifted his patient gaze to the doctor again. 
 
 Then I was aware of Millicent, that white
 
 284 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 wraith of Millicent, with the woeful eyes, beside 
 us. She spoke to Phil's mother: 
 
 "Do not blame Mr. Lingard, for it was 
 
 "Quick!" I cried, "the doctor wants you," 
 and she turned and hurried back, her self- 
 reproach unuttered. I sighed with relief. It 
 seemed that beyond the arm there were no 
 bones broken, but there was very serious con- 
 cussion and, it was feared, a bad fracture of 
 the skull. They took him away, and the crowd 
 having melted away, too, we found ourselves, 
 Millicent and I, drawn together by sorrow in 
 a way that nothing else could have done, left 
 staring with unseeing eyes into the great con- 
 cave windows of the Tourist Office. The sunny 
 street was filled with life and bustle, but in our 
 hearts was desperate fear. 
 
 "You were splendid in there!" I said, at 
 last, hoping to wipe that stricken look from 
 the girl's white face, by this small comfort. 
 
 "Splendid!" she echoed drearily, and then 
 burst out with sudden passion, "Why why 
 what right had you to take my blame upon 
 yourself? Have I not enough to bear that 
 you should thrust this added weight of remorse 
 upon me?" 
 
 "And I," I said, "if you will take this 
 blame upon yourself have I not something
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 285 
 
 to bear, too, when you refuse to let me help 
 you bear your trouble?" 
 
 She caught her breath. 
 
 "Oh, you are generous," she said, "but 
 but why don't you say what you must be 
 thinking? I deserve it, oh, yes! I deserve 
 it all that this is twice I have brought to 
 danger and death, by willful obstinacy and 
 selfishness, the little child we both love." 
 
 "Why should I say that?" I asked gently. 
 "Even if I thought it, and God knows I do 
 not, have you not enough to bear, as you 
 have said?" 
 
 "Oh, you are good to me good!" she said 
 chokingly. "But if Phil dies- -" 
 
 Always came that dreadful significant pause 
 at the bare thought. We parted soon after, 
 with a lingering handclasp, for she begged me 
 to leave her, and with a heavy heart I took my 
 way to the office. But I could not work. 
 Phil's merry face came between me and my 
 tasks, and then his face, as I had seen it last. 
 There was a snapshot of him with Terry, I had 
 taken, and always kept on my. desk; there 
 were two chairs in the corner, harnessed to- 
 gether with string, where he had played horses 
 the last time he had been at my office, and even 
 the mournful squeak of the lift as it ran up
 
 286 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 and down was a reminder of him, he had always 
 been so concerned about it. Over the tele- 
 phone I had already heard that there was no 
 change in Phil's condition. Another doctor 
 had been called in, and it was feared an opera- 
 tion would be necessary. Some pressure on the 
 brain was suspected. Yes, it would be a serious 
 operation, but there was the chance the bare 
 chance. It seemed I sat there a long time 
 thinking thinking staring idly into space, 
 when I heard a gentle tap at my door, and 
 Miss Ellis entered. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, trembling, "have you any 
 further news? I have just left Millicent Lynn. 
 Oh, that dear little boy will he die?" 
 
 "I don't know," I said heavily, and told 
 my news briefly. 
 
 "Millicent is in such dreadful grief," she 
 said. "She sits thinking and thinking with 
 dry eyes. If she would only cry it would not 
 be so so dreadful." 
 
 The little Spinster wiped her eyes, and her 
 voice trembled as she continued: 
 
 "She blames herself so, poor girl. She says 
 it happened all in a moment. She did not 
 dream he would follow you when when 
 she said, 'Oh, very well, if you'd rather be with 
 Mr. Lingard, go with him.' She said Phil left
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 287 
 
 her side in an instant, and before she could 
 reach the street, the the awful thing had 
 happened." 
 
 She shuddered, and hid her face in her hands 
 a moment. Then she went on waveringly: 
 
 "I am growing old, and had never known 
 the love of a little child till Phil came into my 
 life. I had no patience with children, but Phil 
 taught me how much a child can mean to a 
 woman. He never seemed to notice how old 
 and sharp and forbidding I had become he 
 never shrank from me as I have seen other 
 children do, and I think that is why I shrank 
 from them, for fear of a rebuff, for a childless 
 woman is very fearful of the rebuffs of a child. 
 And how he loved you, Mr. Lingard. He said 
 when he grew up he meant to be just like you, 
 and " 
 
 "Don't!" I groaned, and dropped my head 
 upon my crossed arms on the desk. There 
 was silence for a space, and then I felt a very 
 gentle hand upon my bowed head. 
 
 "Poor boy!" came a very tender voice above 
 me "only a boy after all, another Phil not 
 so very, very many years ago. But keep up, 
 dear boy, for all our sakes for Millicent's 
 sake!" 
 
 These last words she breathed just against
 
 288 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 my ear, and then she stole away, but it seemed 
 to me that a special, sweet significance hung 
 like an aroma about them, and, for the first 
 time, a faint pencil of light stole divinely across 
 the gloom, while very, very delicate and wan 
 and aloof, my bubble rose and floated again 
 before my eyes. Returning home, at my gate, 
 a little figure in blue, with bright hair and 
 tumbled ribbon, flung itself into my arms. It 
 was Olivia Mary, and sobbing as if her heart 
 must break. All her little airs of consequence 
 and willfulness were gone. And, as I held her 
 there, her little wet cheek warm against mine, 
 her clinging arms about my neck, she sobbed 
 stormily : 
 
 "Oh, is Phil going to die, Ruddy? Will he 
 die?" 
 
 All my ancient antagonism faded, and to me 
 she was no longer the autocratic Olivia Mary, 
 but just a dear little girl in trouble, and my heart 
 warmed to her, as I carried her indoors. 
 
 Some one had told her of Phil's accident, and 
 that he was going to die. 
 
 "Oh, Ruddy," she wept, "I 1-love Phil 
 b-best of all the chil'rens at the Kindergarter 
 better than 'Lizabeth. If he gets better I'll 
 give him my Coronation m-medal. Is he going 
 to die?"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 289 
 
 "Die? Phil? Not a bit of it," I said 
 sturdily, but Mrs. Binks who had come in to 
 arrange the table, very red-eyed and sniffing, 
 shook her head pessimistically. She had heard 
 the news, it appeared, from the baker's boy, 
 with embellishments. Mrs. Binks had no love 
 for Olivia Mary, considering she "put upon" 
 Phil, but seeing the child's genuine grief she 
 so far softened as to present her with a piece of 
 plum cake. 
 
 "There!" she said, as Olivia Mary, suf- 
 ficiently recovered to take languid bites at the 
 dainty, though still shaken with an occasional 
 hiccough of emotion, sat up on my knee. 
 
 "That's a bit of his very own cake, the 
 blessed lamb! I always made a special one for 
 him on baking day 'e relished it so not 
 that it's likely 'e'll be wantin' any more o' my 
 cakes where 'e's a-goin', poor little dear!" 
 
 "Nonsense!" I said. "Phil will live to make 
 many, many more of your cakes look foolish, 
 Mrs. Binks." 
 
 "I only 'ope it may be so," rejoined Mrs. 
 Binks gloomily, shaking her head, "but there 
 was my cousin's sister's 'usband's child, 'er 
 marrying a widower, so to speak, took off at 
 Phil's age, with a operation, and 'sides, that 
 boy's such an angel too good to live! I've 
 
 19
 
 290 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 always said it, and now this proves me words." 
 "Meaning Phil?" I cried. "Why, Mrs. 
 Binks, and the times you've said you never 
 saw such a boy for bringing dirt into your 
 clean kitchen, and picking the currents out 
 of your current scones, and leaving the tap at 
 the sink running, and oh, don't you worry 
 about Phil!" 
 
 "And, I suppose," remarked Mrs. Binks 
 with heavy sarcasm, rearranging for the twenti- 
 eth time my cup-and-saucer, "as you're not 
 worrying? Oh, no! Not at all!" 
 
 "Worrying?" I lied. "Dear me, no!" 
 "Then may I h'ask," retorted Mrs. Binks 
 crushingly, "as to why you 'ave not took one 
 morsel of my good dinner yet, and it on the 
 table this ten minutes, an' steak an' kidney pie, 
 as is well known to be your favorite, deny it, if 
 you can, an' you as a rule that 'ungry you've 
 been known to sit down to your dinner before 
 it's out of the h'oven, so to speak you are not 
 worrying oh, no, not at all!" 
 
 With which, wiping her eyes on her apron, 
 Mrs. Binks left the room, triumphant. 
 
 Olivia Mary having assured me her where- 
 abouts was known, I invited her to pour out 
 tea for me, which important office almost 
 restored her to her normal self-possession. She
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 291 
 
 sat on Phil's special chair, his own cushion, 
 and in his particular place, because I had such 
 a morbid shrinking from sitting there. So 
 there she sat, pouring out tea, and letting a 
 generous quantity dribble on to "B inks' clean 
 cloth," as Phil would have said, having caught 
 the trick from that lady, who always spoke, as 
 it were, in the possessive case, as "my floors," 
 "my clean steps," "my kitchen." 
 
 For myself I could not eat, and ashamed to 
 let Mrs. Binks triumph over my untouched 
 plate, I sneaked off with Olivia Mary and took 
 her home, before calling again at Phil's house.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IN WHICH MY FRIEND PHIL APPROACHES 
 THE VALLEY 
 
 IDHIL'S Beenie opened the door to me, her 
 face red and swollen with weeping. It 
 seemed that all my little world went about, just 
 now, red-eyed and tearful, excepting always 
 that white, tearless girl whose grief was deepest. 
 In a voice choked with sobs, Beenie told me 
 there was still no change. The doctors were 
 with him. I asked if it would be possible to 
 see him. I had a great desire to see Phil once 
 again, before the surgeon's tools had touched 
 him, and this, deep down in my heart I knew 
 was because of the unacknowledged fear of 
 what might be left, after those tools had done 
 their worst or best. 
 
 "Ask the nurse there's a good girl," I 
 said to Beenie. 
 
 "Her," she flushed angrily (it was evident 
 the poor soul was miserably jealous); "as if I 
 could n't look after my little boy better than her 
 who's nothing but a stranger; an' me who 
 come to the house when I was sixteen, an' 
 him in long clothes, and such lace on his 
 
 robes " 
 
 292
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 293 
 
 Poor Beenie choked. It was evident that the 
 memory of the lace on his robes had some myste- 
 rious power to make her heart bleed afresh. 
 
 "Poor Beenie!" I said pityingly, "I'm 
 sure he'd choose you if he could, but these 
 nurses " 
 
 "You think he would?" cried the girl, 
 catching at my hand. "Oh, bless you for 
 saying that! I don't mind so much now." 
 
 And she hurried off. Presently a pleasant- 
 faced, white-capped nurse came to me. Her 
 eyebrows went up in a surprised smile when 
 she saw me. 
 
 "Why," she said, "the little maid told me 
 Phil's greatest friend was here, and I expected 
 to see " 
 
 "Some one Phil's own age," I said. "But 
 it is true; and it would not seem strange to 
 you if you knew Phil." 
 
 She answered my questions. The doctors 
 were with him now, and the operation would 
 be performed almost immediately yes, a seri- 
 ous one but there was always the chance 
 might I see him? 
 
 She looked doubtful, but a door opening 
 above us, she bade me wait while she asked 
 the doctor. The latter, a man I knew came 
 down to me.
 
 294 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Why, yes," he said. "No harm in your 
 seeing the patient, but I warn you, Lingard, he 
 won't know you. He still lies in the same 
 comatose state." 
 
 Again, with my tongue grown thick and 
 stammering, I put the fateful question. He 
 looked grave. "Impossible to tell," he said, 
 "till after the operation. I may say he has 
 a chance a fair, fighting chance. A pity a 
 great pity, the whole thing. A fine little 
 chap, too." 
 
 I followed the nurse up the stairs, my heart 
 beating in slow heavy throbs. How often I 
 had seen Phil come dancing down these stairs, 
 or, if Beenie was not about, risking his neck on 
 the bannisters. Already over the house seemed 
 to have fallen the hush of death. The doctors 
 were in a further room, making their prepara- 
 tions. They had taken Phil from his bed, and 
 had laid him on a hastily improvised operating 
 table, and I shuddered at the white sheet drawn 
 up to his chin. He was lying as I had last seen 
 him, his bandaged arm strapped across his 
 breast, his thick, fair hair fallen back from his 
 white forehead, and still with that slight gleam 
 from between the lowered lids and thick lashes. 
 With a lump in my throat, I walked silently 
 from the room again, and went slowly down
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 295 
 
 the stairs. At the foot of them I paused. On 
 the hall table a parcel was lying, clumsily 
 wrapped and tied, and on the wrapper, in 
 large printed capitals was the uneven inscrip- 
 tion: "RUDDY --FOR GOOD LUCK." 
 
 I picked it up, wondering at the weight. 
 Untying it, I found it to be the horseshoe Phil 
 had promised me. It was heavy indeed, but, 
 as, with a strange superstitious hope, I thrust 
 it into my coat pocket, my heart felt a little 
 lighter. Something whispered Phil would not 
 die while I carried his charm, his talisman, 
 about with me. Suddenly, somewhere close to 
 me, I heard a sigh, almost a groan that seemed 
 to be wrung from the depths of some suffering 
 soul. Involuntarily glancing in its direction, 
 I perceived through an open doorway the figure 
 of a man with bowed head laid upon his crossed 
 arms Phil's father. And as I glanced, that 
 heavy sound came again. I was about to tip- 
 toe away, when he raised his head and saw me, 
 and rose to his feet. He seemed to have 
 aged years. 
 
 "Ah, Lingard!" he said. "Come in come 
 in you've been to see the last of the little 
 chap?" 
 
 "The last?" I cried. "By God, no not 
 the last, I'm sure of that!"
 
 296 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "They're beginning their butcher's work 
 soon," he said bitterly. "And when they've 
 done with him, God knows what will be left 
 an idiot perhaps or a corpse." 
 
 But I would not hear of either, and talked 
 glibly, though my ignorance was profound, of 
 the successful operations that had been per- 
 formed on the brain, and though he still looked 
 dejected, I could see he listened eagerly, anx- 
 iously, willing to be persuaded. After a time 
 he said, in a more natural tone, quiet and kind: 
 
 "You must pardon me, Lingard, for my 
 my morbid talk just now. And I want to say 
 to you, whatever happens, and my wife would 
 echo me, only that she being so overstrung, 
 naturally, the doctor thought it best she should 
 take a sedative, and she is now mercifully 
 unconscious of what I well, as I say, we want 
 you never to reproach yourself with all this. 
 We know how good you've been to our boy, 
 and how the little chap adored you a case 
 of hero worship. I've never said much, but 
 I 've felt grateful and and how I have envied 
 you." 
 
 "Envied me?" I echoed. "But how much 
 more have I envied you to be the father of such 
 a boy as Phil." 
 
 "Don't say that," he cried harshly. "Never
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 297 
 
 pray, as I prayed, for a son. I married later 
 than most men, and we were married five years, 
 and childless my wife He stopped 
 abruptly, and then went on hurriedly: "Never 
 long for a son as I did, lest, like me, you should 
 come to feel the mental pain that I have now, 
 in fearing to lose him. Yes," he continued 
 more quietly, "I have envied you because you 
 have been able to give him what I could never 
 give him comradeship, fun, and understand- 
 ing. Phil cares for me, in a way, of course, but 
 it is to you he turns for sympathy. You are 
 to him 'one of us,' between you the freemasonry 
 of friends; between us there is a gulf fixed, and 
 and his mother, poor girl, has so many out- 
 side calls on her time and attention, and she 
 does not understand children. I am a lonely 
 man. I'd have given worlds to know my son 
 as you know him, but as yet he is too little to 
 comprehend. I had hoped that as he grew 
 older, we would draw together, but, now " 
 
 With a hopeless gesture he turned away, and 
 I saw in all its pathos the tragedy of the lonely 
 self-repressed man whose wife was a butterfly, 
 and his son "too little to comprehend." 
 
 Suddenly he turned to me, an almost eager 
 look in his eyes: 
 
 "I wonder would you care " He
 
 298 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 was fingering a key on his watch-chain, and 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Yes?" I said grimly. 
 
 "I'm an old fool, perhaps," he said grimly. 
 "But you love the boy, and I think will under- 
 stand." 
 
 He unlocked a cabinet standing against the 
 wall, and beckoned me. 
 
 "Woman's work mother's work," he 
 muttered, shaking his head. "But she did 
 not understand and some one had to He 
 
 paused, looking at me. The contents of the 
 cabinet made up such a collection as mothers 
 love to hoard up and fondle, long after their 
 little ones are grown, and flown the home nest, 
 a tiny pair of shoes with rubbed toes, a tress of 
 flaxen hair, soft and straight, an ivory rattle 
 with silver bells, a picture of a laughing year-old 
 baby with Phil's merry eyes, and soft thick hair. 
 There were other things in that sacred cabinet, 
 and as, with pathetic eagerness, he took them 
 out one by one, and laid them in my hands, I 
 felt the pitifulness of the abandon with which 
 this sternly reserved nature poured out the 
 treasures of his soul to me, with that utter 
 unreserve that only such a nature can give way 
 to, once the barriers are down. There was a 
 drawing of Terry, executed by Phil, and dated
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 299 
 
 by his father's hand, Terry with an uncomfort- 
 able number of legs, it seemed to me, and mis- 
 placed eyes, but the father said proudly: 
 
 "Crude, of course, but I thought it showed 
 promise." 
 
 There was a picture postcard sent and 
 addressed by Phil, when the boy had been 
 away on a holiday, and a gayly worked tobacco 
 pouch, a present from Phil, and a little, very 
 dingy cloth rabbit, with all its stuffed legs limp 
 and broken. 
 
 "That," almost whispered the father, "he 
 took to bed with him every night when he was 
 younger. 'Rabby,' he called it, and if at 
 bedtime it could not be found the whole house 
 was roused until it turned up." He smiled, 
 smoothing the dingy thing tenderly. "I found 
 the poor old thing in the rubbish box, not long 
 ago, and, it was foolish, I suppose, but I could n't 
 bear to let it go. Phil's forgotten his old friend, 
 but it brings back to me the picture of the little 
 chap in his little white gown, coming from his 
 bath to say good night, his 'Rabby' clasped 
 in his arms." 
 
 Other trifles there were, exquisitely painful 
 to look upon, and lastly, the father, half 
 shamefaced, half eager, put it in my hands, 
 a notebook. It was a pitiful enough record
 
 300 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 of trifles, with such entries as these, all dated: 
 
 "Phil cut his first tooth: age, 6 months, 
 3 weeks." 
 
 "Had Phil's photo taken: age, 7 months. 
 Photographer remarked on his splendid limbs." 
 
 "Phil said Daddie (?) (or perhaps doggie): 
 age, 9 months. (Two days later): 'Daddie' 
 quite distinctly." 
 
 "Phil took four steps alone to-day: age, 
 10 months 3 days." 
 
 "Bought Phil's first pair of boots: 3 years 
 old." 
 
 "Phil started school to-day. (5 years 6 
 months)." 
 
 "Phil's first fight: Bravo! Bravo!" 
 
 "Note: Some doubt as to which way the 
 victory went but still a fight." 
 
 The last entry was less than a week back, 
 and was this: 
 
 "Measured Phil to-day: Height 3 ft. 9 ins. 
 tall and broad for his age, viz.: 6 years 
 7 months." 
 
 As the blank pages fluttered beneath my 
 fingers, I could not help wondering what the 
 next entry might be. The father was looking 
 at me, his tired, pleasant eyes half-smiling 
 and eager. He seemed for the moment to have 
 almost forgotten his trouble. But as I laid
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 301 
 
 down the little book, above us we heard an 
 opening door, low voices and footsteps, then 
 the opening and closing of another door, and 
 again silence. The man stood tense, rigid, 
 his head raised, as if listening. He put out 
 a hand which trembled slightly, and laid it on 
 my arm. 
 
 "Hark!" he whispered. "They are at him 
 now. My God! Oh, my poor little lad!" 
 
 Already the heavy sickly sweet odor of 
 anesthetics was stealing through the house, 
 that odor so mysteriously suggestive of mor- 
 tality. There was not a sound in the silent 
 house, but a presence hovered there, neverthe- 
 less, and we felt it. Silently I held out my 
 hand in farewell, and, with an heroic effort to 
 pull himself together he gripped it hard, and 
 we parted without another word. I left him 
 standing, erect and calm, but even as I turned 
 to close the door I saw him leaning again over 
 his cabinet of treasures with bowed head. So 
 I left him to his solitary vigil. 
 
 As I was entering my own door a cab dashed 
 up to the gate, and out of it stepped Mr. 
 Wimple. He came into the house, his usually 
 florid face quite pale and concerned, his manner 
 nervous. 
 
 "What's all this?" he cried. "God bless
 
 302 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 my soul, Lingard, what's all this I hear about 
 that fine little chap, Humphrey?" 
 
 "Too true," I said gloomily, and told him 
 all I knew. 
 
 It seemed that he had read an account of the 
 accident in The Sun, while crossing in the ferry, 
 and had come straight back to the city to hear 
 particulars. Now he could do nothing but sit 
 mopping his bald forehead with a huge silk 
 handkerchief, polishing his glasses, and occasion- 
 ally exclaiming in an undertone: "God bless 
 my soul." 
 
 And as we sat there Mrs. Binks showed in 
 Miss Ellis and Millicent, and we all shook 
 hands silently. 
 
 "This poor girl," said Miss Ellis, in a low 
 voice to me, "could not rest. Her father 
 is out of town for the night and I could not 
 leave her, so we thought we would come along 
 here for the latest news." 
 
 So we sat, we four, less than a year ago 
 utter strangers, brought together in our lives 
 by that little fifth, who was not present, but 
 who, even now, was binding us closer, with 
 firmer bonds than ever, the bonds of mutual 
 sorrow. We talked in low voices, except for 
 Millicent, who spoke not at all, save in mono- 
 syllables, if addressed. Mr. Wimple and I at
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL . 303 
 
 first made efforts to speak on everyday topics, 
 but the women were unresponsive and we, too, 
 fell silent. So we sat in heavy silence waiting. 
 It had been decided that as the vital question 
 was to be decided by the operation, we should 
 all remain together till that was over. 
 
 Once Mr. Wimple burst forth irritably: 
 
 "How much longer are we to wait, Lingard? 
 I can't stand much more of this," and I 
 answered : 
 
 "From an hour to an hour and a half, the 
 nurse said. After that they would know." 
 
 "These operations I hate 'em," he said 
 testily. And the time ticked on. I was longing, 
 yet dreading for the time of probation to pass 
 dreading lest the awful uncertainty and 
 suspense should become the more awful knowl- 
 edge. But slowly, slowly, the clock hand 
 moved round to the hour, crept past it to the 
 quarter, and I rose slowly. I was conscious that 
 I was deadly pale, and my voice shook strangely 
 as I said in deliberately measured tones: 
 
 "It is about time now, I think. I will just 
 go and inquire for news." 
 
 A great explosive sigh broke from Mr. Wimple, 
 and he rose hastily. 
 
 "Yes, for goodness sake anything is better 
 than this sitting still we will all go."
 
 304 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 Millicent, too, had risen. Her face was start- 
 lingly pale, and her eyes unnaturally large and 
 dark. 
 
 "Yes," she said, with a long sigh. "Let 
 us go." 
 
 Then Miss Ellis had one of her beautiful 
 inspirations, for she said to Mr. Wimple: 
 
 "I wonder I am very tired, and rather 
 shaken by this sad event if you would be 
 so very kind, Mr. Wimple, as to wait here with 
 me, and let Mr. Lingard and Miss Lynn bring 
 us the news?" 
 
 I knew it was an effort for this proudly shy 
 little woman, for her cheeks were colored softly, 
 but I blessed her in my heart. 
 
 "Why ah! Certainly, Miss Ellis," answered 
 Mr. Wimple. "Delighted, I'm sure," and he 
 sat down slowly, but I could see he was puzzled. 
 Just as we were leaving the room Mr. Wimple 
 smote his knee, exclaiming half under his breath : 
 
 "Of course God bless my soul! What an 
 old fool I am!" And the look he gave Miss 
 Ellis was wholly admiring. 
 
 Millicent and I went along in silence. The 
 distance was trifling, but I was conscious of 
 conflicting desires, that it might be shorter still, 
 and so get suspense over, or that it might be 
 twice as long so that hope might still live. And
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 305 
 
 I think the girl at my side felt the same, for at 
 times she walked quickly, almost in a feverish 
 hurry, and then her steps would lag. But at 
 length we came in sight of the house, and as we 
 did so there came rushing towards us a swaying, 
 humming, dark monster, with two enormous, 
 round, intolerably bright eyes, and stopped at 
 the gate, throbbing and panting, its huge orbs 
 now glaring and goggling, and throwing two 
 bright streams of light far down the dark road. 
 Millicent gave a cry, and clutched me with 
 trembling hands. 
 
 "There, there!" I said soothingly, holding 
 those hands tightly. " It is only the doctor' s car. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I hate them!" she said shuddering. 
 "I shall always hate them after this." 
 
 We went up the steps of the house together. 
 The door was ajar, the house very still, and 
 that sickly permeating odor still hanging heavy 
 in the quiet air. At the first whiff of it Millicent 
 turned faint, and I sent her to wait in the garden. 
 Softly I crept into the silent lighted hall, but 
 it seemed deserted, till hearing a long-drawn 
 gasp I raised my eyes, startled, and saw Beenie, 
 seated on the top stair, her elbows propped 
 upon her knees, her swollen face upon her fists. 
 She came down to me, dabbing her poor eyes 
 with a sodden handkerchief. 
 20
 
 306 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "I've cried till I can't cry any more," she 
 said dismally. "I've been a-sitting there so't 
 I could git every scrap of news the minute the 
 doctors or nurse come out. One of 'em did 
 come just now, an* nearly fell over me. He was 
 pretty narsty about it, too, but I just kep' on 
 taking no notice of it, and askin' an' askin' till 
 'e told me. It ain't over yet but pretty near, 
 I should think, for I think I 'eard 'is car come 
 just now narsty murderin' things. I'd like 
 to stick knives an' hatpins without shields 
 into all their wheels." 
 
 "So you know nothing yet, Beenie?" I 
 said, with a sigh, for I dreaded to go back to 
 that waiting girl with no comfort. 
 
 "Nothing," said she. "No one does. Those 
 doctor fellers always keeps things secret as long 
 as they can. The poor father don't know 
 nothing. He just keeps walkin' up an' down, up 
 an' down, for hours in the study. And her!" 
 (the scorn in Beenie 's tones warmed my 
 heart to her) "o' course she don't know 
 nothing. So 'eart-broke she was, she 'ad to 
 'ave a sleepin' powder to soother her off a 
 sleepin' powder, mind you, when for all she 
 knew, when next she woke, she would n't have 
 a child to sorrow over. I've no patience!" 
 concluded Beenie, with a vindictive scowl, in
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 307 
 
 which sentiment I heartily concurred. I went 
 back to Millicent, who waited, a blur of white, 
 in the shade of drooping pepper-boughs. 
 
 "No news," I said, and I heard the long-drawn 
 quivering sigh, half disappointment, half relief. 
 
 "Is good news?" I added gently, but she 
 broke out impatiently: 
 
 "We will wait here till we hear something. 
 I could not go away now." 
 
 So we waited in the soft scented darkness of 
 the summer night. We waited in silence. 
 There seemed nothing to say, but in the dark- 
 ness my hand sought and found Millicent 's, and 
 it was not withdrawn, and if the strong clasp 
 of my fingers gave her one half the comfort 
 which the clinging pressure of hers gave to me, 
 I am indeed glad. Overhead the great stars 
 shone like jewels in the velvet blackness; a 
 flowering creeper twining round the veranda 
 posts filled the night with divine odor, and the 
 light from Phil's window shone out across the 
 gloom. It was somehow comforting. Then 
 the door was opened, a stream of cheery light 
 fell across the steps, and the doctor stepped 
 out. With a long breath I loosed the girl's 
 hands and stepped forward. The doctor peered. 
 
 "Ah, it's you, Lingard! Yes, all over and 
 a most successful operation most successful.
 
 308 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 A very interesting case altogether. Now these 
 operations as a rule are 
 
 "Yes, yes," interrupted Millicent ruthlessly. 
 "But but the child? " adding with unconscious 
 irony, "No doubt the operation was successful, 
 but will Phil live?" 
 
 The doctor lifted his hat. 
 
 "Pardon, Lingard, I did not see that you 
 had a lady with you. Live? We hope so, we 
 hope so, dear madam. He stood it splendidly, 
 and we have great hopes of him, great hopes. 
 It's early days to promise anything, but we'll 
 pull the little chap through yet, please God!" 
 
 And with that, this Messenger of Light, in a 
 rather shabby motor coat, and carrying a black 
 bag, ran down the steps, and sprang into his 
 motor, and we felt, at least, it should have 
 been a fiery chariot which disappeared in space, 
 instead of this very modern contrivance, which 
 after a series of ear-splitting noises, shot away 
 with a long hum rising to a crescendo, and left 
 an abominable smell of petrol behind. It was 
 not until we heard the muffled vibrant hum 
 grow faint and die in the distance that we spoke 
 a word, though we had stood clasping each 
 other's hands, motionless. Then I heard a soft 
 little sound beside me, and I knew it was 
 Millicent weeping in the darkness.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 309 
 
 "Darling!" I said, and drew her into my 
 arms. It all seemed so natural that I wondered 
 I had never taken Phil's advice, and done it 
 before, and there was this dear girl, crying 
 against my shoulder just as freely as Olivia 
 Mary had done. I held her close, and said a 
 good many tender, foolish things, I dare say, 
 and by and by I heard her little broken sobbing 
 whispers. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad so glad! Can it possibly 
 be true?" 
 
 "Everything's true," I said sturdily. "And 
 everything's glorious," and in my pocket I 
 could feel the weight of Phil's dear, absurd 
 talisman. 
 
 Then we turned home, and as we went, 
 Millicent's soft hand in mine, I cried out, like 
 a jubilant boy: 
 
 "Why, it's lovelier than ever!" 
 
 "What is lovelier?" asked Millicent shyly. 
 I think this sweet new shyness of hers was the 
 most enchanting thing I had ever seen. 
 
 "Why," said I gayly, "a particularly large 
 and beautiful bubble, painted with all the 
 colors of the rainbow." 
 
 When we came in, Mr. Wimple started up 
 from his chair and burst out irritably: 
 
 "Good Lord! How much longer do you
 
 310 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 intend to keep us waiting? It's scandalous!" 
 
 But Millicent, with her dewy dark eyes 
 shining like stars, and her cheeks a blaze of 
 lovely color, cried out: 
 
 "Oh, Miss Ellis, they think Phil will live- 
 they think dear little Phil will live." 
 
 Mr. Wimple sat down heavily, and began 
 blowing his nose and furiously polishing his 
 glasses exclaiming: "God bless my soul! Live? 
 I should think so!" 
 
 But I think Miss Ellis divined there was more 
 in Millicent 's gracious radiance of shining eyes 
 and rosy flame, for taking the girl's two hands 
 in hers, she kissed her very tenderly, saying: 
 
 "I am so very, very glad for everything!" 
 
 And suddenly, without warning, she burst 
 into tears. Up started Mr. Wimple. 
 
 "Poor soul, poor soul!" he cried, and, seat- 
 ing himself on the couch beside her, passed an 
 arm about the slender upright little figure, and 
 fell to patting her hands and her shoulders 
 gently. 
 
 "There, there, have your cry out. This 
 little creature has been a brick a trump full 
 of courage and kindness, while I have been 
 nothing but a kettle threatening to boil 
 over a mad bull trying to break away look 
 at the room!"
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 311 
 
 He waved his arm defiantly, and indeed the 
 room did look rather as though a whirlwind 
 had passed through it. 
 
 "But she kept me up, this brave little woman 
 did," he continued, again patting Miss Ellis's 
 hand, "with her tact and courage, and calmed 
 me and helped me. I think the waiting worked 
 on my nerves I lost a boy of Phil's age my- 
 self and no particulars," he concluded so 
 fiercely, and glared at us so challengingly that, 
 had we contemplated drawing him out on the 
 subject, we should have certainly abandoned 
 the idea at once. Miss Ellis was almost her 
 collected little self again, and gently putting 
 aside Mr. Wimple's hand, sat as upright as 
 ever, looking very much ashamed. 
 
 "I'm afraid I've been very foolish," she said, 
 putting back a stray lock of really pretty brown 
 hair, just silvering, which Millicent immediately 
 pulled down again, saying: 
 
 "It's a shame to bundle away such pretty 
 hair, as you do," and Mr. Wimple said, with 
 ponderous but quite sincere gallantry; 
 
 "Well, if the angels in heaven are ever 
 foolish, you have been so to-night." 
 
 Then, with good-nights all round, he hurried off . 
 
 "Isn't he a dear?" cried Millicent, and 
 Miss Ellis said staidly:
 
 312 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "I find him a very entertaining and interest- 
 ing man." 
 
 "Yes, but all the same," laughed Millicent, 
 and it was good to hear that sweet, low laugh 
 again, "he has knocked your hat over one ear." 
 
 Miss Ellis blushed like a girl, and hastily 
 straightened her hat. 
 
 "Poor fellow," she said. "He has had a 
 sad history. His wife was a very delicate 
 woman, and they were ten years without a 
 child. Then the little boy came, but, as he 
 told you, he died at about Phil's age, and the 
 wife died soon after, broken-hearted. He says 
 that ever since he could never bear to look at 
 a boy, but Phil simply conquered him, in spite 
 of himself. He told me all this in a very jerky 
 way, at intervals during the evening, as he was 
 tramping about the room, and I did not dare 
 to question him, or even to sympathize, for I 
 could see how painful he found it to speak of it." 
 
 Then, as Miss Ellis was to spend the night 
 with Millicent, I took them both home, but 
 though the former very discreetly walked into 
 the hall ahead of us, and I caught at Millicent's 
 hand, she whispered very shyly: 
 
 "Not to-night my heart is too full." 
 
 So I had to do without my good-night kiss, 
 on which I had been speculating all the way
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 313 
 
 home, but I was too happy to fret much about 
 it, and, after all, it was oh, blessed thought! 
 only deferred. A gleam of light from under the 
 kitchen door as I got in reminded me of poor 
 faithful Binks, and my heart smote me, for she 
 did not yet know the hopeful news. I found her 
 asleep on a chair before the cold range. Her 
 face was disfigured with tears ; and in her lap 
 she held a small shell-covered box, which Phil 
 had given her at Christmas. She had always 
 admired this box, and Phil admired it, if possible, 
 more, and in moments when it seemed Mrs. 
 Binks did not quite appreciate him, was wont 
 to remind her: "I gave you that lovely box, 
 you know." 
 
 I touched her on the shoulder, and she started 
 wide awake, and as her eyes met mine she cried: 
 
 "Don't tell me he's gone, but there did n't 
 I always say it?" and threw her apron over 
 her head, and began to cry. 
 
 "Gone! No fear!" I cried. "Nor going, 
 Mrs. Binks. The operation is over, and was 
 very successful." 
 
 But Mrs. Binks, like your born pessimist all 
 the world over, was ever reluctant to give up 
 a gloomy view of events, and though I saw 
 the relief struggle with the doubt in her face, 
 she said instantly:
 
 314 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "Sugsessful? Oh, no doubt! These h' oper- 
 ations always are sugsessful, in a manner of 
 speaking, so to speak, and next thing the patient 
 up and dies on you. Why, there's me own 
 first cousin's husband's sister as underwent 
 
 "Oh, never mind your husband's cousin's 
 and so forth " I cried. "But aren't you 
 glad glad glad that Phil is to be spared to 
 plague you again?" 
 
 "Glad?" she said, and two tears stole slowly 
 down her mottled cheeks. "Why if 'e come 
 this blessed minute an' filled me clean kitchen 
 with dirt from end to end, I'd welcome 'im 
 with open arms. Why, that little feller I've 
 never 'ad no child of me own" her voice was 
 a husky whisper now "but somehow Phil 
 has seemed to make up for 
 
 Her voice faltered into silence, and the 
 kitchen clock ticked loudly in the stillness. 
 Suddenly, snatching up the lighted candle, she 
 said accusingly: 
 
 "Lor, look at the time! Keeping me out of 
 me bed till this hour of night a parcel of men 
 and boys " 
 
 And with that she swept out of the room, 
 leaving me to grope my way out in the darkness 
 as best I could.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS D. A. REVEALS 
 HIMSELF 
 
 T 7ERY early next morning I was out to get 
 news of Phil, and the report sent me 
 home jubilant: 
 
 "Everything going on well." 
 
 I plunged into my cold tub, and out again, 
 with delight in its freshness. I whistled loudly 
 as I toweled myself, and only desisted while 
 shaving, because I preferred not to go abroad 
 adorned with sticking plaster on this most 
 glorious day of my life. Coming to the break- 
 fast table, where Mrs. Binks, trying to look 
 solemn, but with a light in her eye which belied 
 her, was putting the last touches, I astonished 
 her by executing a few steps of a pas de seul, 
 whereat one of Phil's slippers flew off, hit the 
 ceiling, rebounded on to a gas bracket, and 
 eventually landed in the butter. 
 
 "Well," cried Mrs. Binks, "and who's to 
 eat that butter, I'd like to know? And there 
 goes another of my mantles as if there was n't 
 enough to pay for mantles in this house, a'ready, 
 with the rampaging that goes on, and a parcel 
 of men an' boys " 
 
 315
 
 316 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "What's the odds, Mrs. Binks," I cried, 
 "so long as Phil's getting better?" And walk- 
 ing to the mantelpiece I set up Phil's talisman 
 conspicuously in the very middle of it. 
 
 "As to that," answered Mrs. Binks, who was 
 scraping the butter off my slipper with a table- 
 knife, "if the little dear's to get better, and I'd 
 like to be as sure o' that as some, it 's not me as 
 would grudge the price of a thousand mantles, 
 so to speak." 
 
 Which, considering I paid for the mantles, 
 was very generous of her, but I understood that 
 her sentiments did her credit none the less. 
 Just then her eye fell on the horseshoe, and she 
 ceased scraping the slipper. 
 
 "Well, I declare! What next! Cluttering 
 up my tidy chimney piece with more rubbish, 
 as though pipes an' tobacco tins, an' such smelly 
 rubbish is n't bad enough, here 's a dirty old 
 horseshoe. One must draw the line some- 
 where, in a manner of speakin'." 
 
 She reached for the offending article to 
 remove it, and I said off-handedly: 
 
 "That was given me by Phil, for luck." 
 
 I knew her affection for Phil, combined with 
 a lively vein of superstition, would render that 
 horseshoe sacred to her. 
 
 "Phil! luck!" she muttered, and without a
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 317 
 
 word she left the room, and the horseshoe 
 remained where it was. After breakfast I 
 wrote my first love letter to Millicent,' at least 
 the first that had ever found its way into the 
 post bag, and at the office I rang her up and gave 
 her the news of Phil, which, it appeared, she had 
 already got for herself. After expressing our 
 mutual pleasure at this happy state of affairs, 
 we fell to talking of ourselves. I asked her if 
 she would lunch with me, but she declined, 
 also my suggestion that I should come up and 
 lunch with her, but she would see me in the 
 afternoon. Later on, she said: 
 
 "Don't be silly!" and again later, "Please 
 remember telephone girls have ears," but by 
 and by I forgot that fact again, and she said 
 "Good-by," and left the telephone. Oh, but I 
 was happy! I was rejoiced to find her morning 
 mood was that which I knew best, very sweet, 
 but self-possessed and overlaid with a pretty 
 veneer of mockery, which I knew only veiled 
 the tender loveliness of her nature, and I thought 
 of the poet's "rose set all about with little 
 willful thorns." Sorrow and submission and 
 humility were not meet cloaks for Millicent's 
 gay courage and imperiousness. 
 
 During the morning Mr. Wimple called, and 
 after hearing the report of Phil, and expressing
 
 318 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 his delight, he sat for some time in silence, his 
 ebony stick upright between his knees, and his 
 hands folded on its silver knob, his chin resting 
 on them and his eyes on my waste-paper basket. 
 
 "Uncommonly fine little lady she is," he 
 said suddenly, apropos of nothing. 
 
 "She is, indeed," I cried fervently. " If there 
 had n't already been so many happiest men in 
 the world, I should really think I was that one." 
 
 "The sensible, kind, tactful way in which she 
 calmed me down was wonderful wonderful 
 By which I perceived he was speaking of Miss 
 Ellis, and had not even heard my interjection, 
 which, with the egotism of a lover, of course 
 referred to Millicent. Soon after he took his 
 departure, and I made a determined effort, and 
 settled to a couple of hours' work. 
 
 The first few rapturous moments alone with 
 Millicent belong only to ourselves, and no one 
 else has any concern with them. But later, we 
 found ourselves side by side on the couch in 
 Millicent's sitting room, and her hands were 
 in mine. 
 
 "To think," I murmured, "sweetheart, that 
 we should have wasted so much time in mis- 
 understandings and stupid disagreements!" 
 
 "But I'm afraid we shall always squabble," 
 she said naughtily.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 319 
 
 "I'm afraid we shall," I agreed equably. 
 "You are such an aggravating darling, you 
 know." 
 
 "And you are perfectly exasperating," she 
 retorted. "You know you are!" 
 
 "Why, you're getting in a rage now," I said 
 teasingly, just for the pleasure of seeing the red 
 rush up into her cheeks, mentally deciding she 
 really looked the prettiest of all with that color, 
 and the sparkle in her brown eyes. 
 
 "I'm no such thing," she declared, "and if 
 I am, it's you who make me do it." 
 
 And then, because we were really too happy 
 to even play at quarreling, we both burst out 
 laughing, and I instantly declared that Millicent 
 of the laughter sprites and dimples was the 
 loveliest Millicent of all, and then changed my 
 mind, because all of a sudden she became 
 sweetly serious, with a wistful droop to her 
 mouth, and her eyes large and pathetic. 
 
 "How I did hate that horrid Miss Lee!" 
 she sighed. 
 
 "And how I wanted to knock the head off 
 that brute, D. A." I said malevolently. 
 
 Millicent started. A mischievous dimple 
 appeared. 
 
 "Ah! yes, D. A." she said. "You mustn't 
 call D. A. a brute."
 
 320 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "You like him still, then? " I asked gloomily. 
 
 "And always shall," she returned positively. 
 "Remember, I have known him very much 
 longer than I have known you." 
 
 "I'm not likely to forget it," I returned 
 shortly. 
 
 "Oh, you must try to like him for my sake," 
 she said. "You must meet him. You'll like 
 him, I'm sure, when you know him as I do." 
 
 "Not I!" I said, and frowned gloomily at 
 the carpet. 
 
 "Let me introduce you. I'll do it now." 
 
 " Now! " I cried, with a start. " Is he here? " 
 
 "He lives here." 
 
 ' ' Another boarder? ' ' 
 
 1 ' Yes another boarder. ' ' 
 
 Heavens, I thought, little did I know the 
 enormous, daily, hourly advantage over me 
 this fellow had had in his wooing. But from 
 that thought rose the pardonable vanity in the 
 reflection, that, given all the advantages of 
 propinquity on his side, yet I had proved the 
 victor, and this soothing thought bred a toler- 
 ance in me, merely contemptuous, not actively 
 antagonistic, even pitying. 
 
 "Come," said Millicent, her hands still in 
 mine. 
 
 "Well," said I, "just to please you, but I
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 321 
 
 know I shan't like the fellow, and anyhow he '11 
 keep. Let him wait. He's not going to spoil 
 my first perfect hour alone with you. He's 
 spoiled many another." 
 
 "Poor old boy!" she said softly, and for a 
 moment a pair of lips like the brush of a butter- 
 fly's wing touched my cheek. 
 
 "Little girl! My little girl!" I whispered. 
 
 She submitted to a kiss or two, but with her 
 pretty imperiousness she would have her way, 
 and, grumbling under my breath, I followed her 
 out on to a balcony. She peeped over the rail- 
 ing, and beckoned me. 
 
 "There!" she said, and nodded. 
 
 I looked over. Below was a small square of 
 grass, inclosed by high brick walls over which 
 ran a riot of climbing roses, and in the center 
 of the plot grew a fine pepper tree. But there 
 was no one there, except old Mr. Lynn, in 
 smoking jacket and slippers, dozing in a deck 
 chair, the paper on his knees and a dog asleep 
 at his feet. I drew back and gazed at Millicent, 
 bewildered. 
 
 "Well!" she said demurely. 
 
 "Well," said I. "There's no one there but 
 your father." 
 
 "That's him," she said, regardless of gram- 
 mar, her eyes dancing. 
 21 
 
 -
 
 322 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "What!" I cried. "D.A.- 
 
 "d" she finished softly. 
 
 "D a d?" I repeated stupidly, and then 
 a blaze of light broke in upon me. "Oh, you 
 rogue ! " I cried. "You teasing, tiresome, aggra- 
 vating as dear old Phil would say piece of 
 naughtiness, you!" 
 
 I drew her within the shadow of the striped 
 sunblinds, and kissed her again and again, and 
 when I let her escape, she explained the D. A. 
 
 "When I was quite a wee thing," she said, 
 "my father wanted to teach me to spell ' Daddy.' 
 I got as far as D A all right, and there I 
 always stuck. I would say glibly enough 
 D a , 'd' he would hint, and I would in- 
 stantly retort "a" and so D. A. it remained, as 
 a sort of nickname between us." 
 
 She laughed joyously at the changed ex- 
 pression on my face, and then, waving her little 
 hand imperiously, she said: 
 
 "And now you'd better go down and state 
 your business with him. I told him you wished 
 to speak to him, and the dear old innocent said 
 he supposed it was about the mortgage on his 
 freehold. So run down, and when you come 
 back I may have a cup of tea for you." 
 
 "Not I!" I said. "I fear you have no 
 business instinct or you would hardly suggest
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 323 
 
 waking an elderly man, on a hot afternoon, to 
 ask him for his most precious possession. Why, 
 it would be just courting opposition." 
 
 "Well," she laughed, "as that 'most precious 
 possession' part of your speech is rather hand- 
 some, you shall have your tea first and then 
 speak about the mortgage." 
 
 "The most precious mortgage it will ever 
 be my lot to hold," I whispered, my lips against 
 her ear. "And I warn you I intend to foreclose 
 without delay." 
 
 "It's a pity, though," she remarked mis- 
 chievously, slipping away, "that you will never 
 like the fellow." 
 
 "You ' I began. But she evaded my 
 hand, and left me with a gay little laugh.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IN WHICH WE "ALL LIVE HAPPY EVER AFTER" 
 
 T WAS the first visitor permitted to Phil, 
 and then, as the nurse warned me, only for 
 a few minutes. I found a very wan, large- 
 eyed little Phil, still swathed in bandages, and 
 his voice hardly louder than a whisper, but 
 the dear, merry smile peeped out when he saw 
 me. I sat down and took the childish fingers 
 in mine, but found not a word to say, for I 
 could not trust my voice for the moment. 
 
 "Ruddy," whispered Phil, "aren't you glad 
 the big motor car did n't make me quite dead? " 
 
 "Glad little chap?" was all I could say. 
 
 "I've got a bone in my arm now, like Binks 
 has in her leg," said Phil. "But daddy says 
 if I lie quite still it'll go away, and he's going 
 to give me a magi-glantern." 
 
 "That's famous," said I. "And poor old 
 Binks says she is going to make you the biggest 
 cake you ' ve ever seen, when you 're well enough 
 to come and eat it." 
 
 "How big?" asked Phil. "As big as as 
 thepiller?" 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder. But say, little chap, 
 
 324
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 325 
 
 are n't you talking too much? Am I to go, 
 nurse?" 
 
 " Don't go, Ruddy." The weak little fingers 
 clutched mine. 
 
 "Well, just a little longer," said nurse. 
 
 "That's nurse," said Phil. "She's nice. 
 She says I've got to marry her but I can't, 
 Ruddy. I promised Beenie years ago." 
 
 "There you are, then," said I, and nurse 
 laughed. 
 
 "Are you going to take my temperacher? " 
 asked Phil. "She does every day, Ruddy. 
 How much is it to-day, nursie?" 
 
 "He takes a tremendous interest in his 
 temperature," said nurse, smiling. "Chiefly, 
 I think, because it has to do with figures." 
 
 "Oh! so you've found him out, then," I 
 said, and Phil repeated: 
 
 "How much, nursie? About five hundred?" 
 
 "About that," nurse agreed. "Quite a nice 
 lot anyhow." 
 
 "Five hundred 's a good lot, is n't it, Ruddy? " 
 said Phil contentedly, his voice a little languid 
 now, as I rose to go. 
 
 A week later I brought Millicent to see Phil. 
 Before going upstairs she asked to see Phil's 
 mother. She was a little pale and resolute 
 looking, but I did not suspect that she was
 
 326 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 about to tell the mother that she had been in 
 charge of the boy at the time of his accident, 
 so that no longer any blame might rest on me. 
 Phil's mother, who was all dressed for going 
 out, rustled and jingled into the room, buttoning 
 her gloves. 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Lynn Mr. Lingard? 
 So sweet of you to come," she babbled, "and 
 I 'm so sorry to be going out, but I 'm sure Phil 
 will love to see you." 
 
 But when my sweet, brave girl, very pale 
 and earnest, made her little confession, the 
 Butterfly burst out gayly: 
 
 "Oh, my dear! don't say another word about 
 it. I 'm sure it was sweet of you to be troubled 
 with the boy at all. I was very upset naturally 
 a mother's feelings, you know. And I'm 
 afraid I said a number of horrid things to poor 
 Mr. Lingard my husband assures me I did. 
 But I should have made allowances had I 
 known the state of affairs between you and 
 Mr. Lingard, who thoroughly disapproves of me, 
 you know." And here she flirted a pair of big 
 shallow eyes at me, from under her huge hat, 
 and gave a gay tinkling laugh. "Congratula- 
 tions to you both! And now I really must run 
 away. I'm going with friends to the matinee, 
 Oscar Asche, you know, and Lily Brayton.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 327 
 
 So sweet, is n't she? So you really must excuse 
 me. Give Phil my love, will you? I have n't 
 time to see him, poor darling, but will run up 
 for a few minutes directly I come in. Good-by." 
 
 So she jingled and rustled away with her per- 
 fumes and flowers, and I drew a long breath, 
 and drew my girl to the open window, where 
 we stood a moment in silence, before going 
 upstairs. I left Millicent hidden by the door, 
 while I went in to Phil. He was looking more 
 like his old self, propped up with pillows, and a 
 tinge of color was in his cheeks. 
 
 "Here's a friend to see you, Phil," I cried. 
 "Guess!" 
 
 "Three guesses?" he asked, and began wrink- 
 ling his forehead, but Millicent was too impa- 
 tient and ran forward, her pretty eyes full of 
 tears. "It's dear old Miller," cried Phil, in 
 a glad little voice of welcome. 
 
 "Phil!" was all the girl could say, and 
 dropping on her knees at the bedside, laid her 
 tear-wet cheek down on the little hand. 
 
 I stole out and left them together. 
 
 Weeks later I gave another party, at which 
 Phil was the guest of honor, a taller, thinner 
 Phil, with a funny little boyish cropped head, 
 and eyes grown two sizes too large for him, but
 
 328 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 with the old beaming smile and merry laugh. 
 Millicent was there, and Miss Ellis and Mr. 
 Wimple, and Phil's father came for an hour 
 with a strange new content in his eyes, when 
 they rested on his little son; Olivia Mary was 
 there, as autocratic as ever, wanting to manage 
 everybody's affairs, and Miss Elizabeth Asch- 
 man was there, too, because, hearing there was 
 to be a party, she had very sociably happened 
 along about that time, and settled down quite 
 happily, and it seemed to be nobody's business 
 to tell her to go. Reggie Blair had been invited, 
 and he arrived, very immaculate in a white duck 
 cricketing suit and tan belt and stockings, 
 but there was no getting him to come in. If 
 any one attempted it, he simply ran from them. 
 He hung about the farthest limits of the garden, 
 and threw clods at my fowls, and shouted in a 
 very loud and blustering voice at Phil and the 
 little girls. Olivia Mary said he was "showing 
 off," but only Millicent and I seemed to under- 
 stand that all this brusquerie was simply a kind 
 of fierce shyness, which strove to hide itself 
 under an assumption of blustering ease. When 
 tea appeared, Olivia Mary and Phil trotted off to 
 bring Master Blair in, but returned unsuccessful, 
 though Olivia Mary said she had told him about 
 the chocolates and the jelly in little red glasses.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 329 
 
 "I'll fetch him," said Millicent, and slipped 
 out into the garden. Master Blair moved off 
 briskly in the direction of the gate, but at 
 something Millicent called out he stopped to 
 parley, and they drew step by step nearer, 
 where he stood hanging his head, and shaking it, 
 and kicking at the gravel. Then Millicent 
 came in alone. 
 
 "Wild man still untamed?" I asked. 
 
 "Leave him alone," she answered; "it will 
 be all right," and she set a chair close to the 
 door. A few minutes later Reggie Blair came 
 in. He came in with rather an air of swaggering 
 bravado, very red in the face, but Millicent 
 having forcibly checked Olivia Mary's outcry, 
 he sat down on the extreme edge of the chair, 
 and chewed the elastic of his straw hat. 
 Presently Millicent carried some cakes to him, 
 and in an incredibly short space of time his 
 was the loudest and most insistent of the chil- 
 dren's voices. It was he, indeed, who instituted 
 the fascinating game of trying who could take 
 the longest draft of lemonade without drawing 
 breath, the result of which was that the correct 
 Miss Aschman choked violently, and had to 
 be taken out by Miss Ellis, and ignominiously 
 thumped on the back. Even Olivia Mary had 
 to subside in the face of Reggie's vociferousness,
 
 330 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 a fact which, rather than incensing that young 
 lady, only earned her respect. Now that Phil 
 was no longer an invalid, and interesting as 
 such, Olivia Mary was beginning to tire of him. 
 In the first moments of their reunion, while 
 Phil was still in bed, she had bestowed upon 
 him her Coronation medal, but as he became 
 more and more like himself, she repented of 
 her generosity, and demanded it back. Phil 
 very reluctantly yielded it, explaining to me, 
 "She really and truly gave it to me, Ruddy, 
 and now she says it was only for a lend." It 
 was good to see my merry Phil in his old place 
 again, playing host in my house. The table 
 was a sight to behold, Mrs. Binks having ex- 
 celled herself in the providing of pink sugared 
 cakes and colored jellies, and the chef-d'ceuvre 
 was a beautiful iced cake tastefully inscribed 
 with Phil's name, and "Welkim," in colored 
 "hundreds and thousands," and surrounded by 
 a perfect chevaux de frise of blanched almonds. 
 Millicent had made a thing of beauty of Phil's 
 emblem of luck, gilding it, and threading it 
 with narrow gayly hued ribbons, and it hung 
 upon the wall behind his chair. Phil was to cut 
 his own cake, and Mrs. Binks was called in to 
 witness the ceremony. Phil took the knife in his 
 hand, and we all had to wait in tense silence
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 331 
 
 while he counted the bristling almonds. Then 
 the point of the knife slipped on the smooth 
 icing, and Mrs. Binks suggested, in her best 
 manner, that she should assist, as, said she, 
 "My hieing is always stiffened that firm, it 
 requires a 'and with some h'experience, in a 
 manner of speaking, so to speak!" 
 
 And soon, great rich brown wedges, frosted 
 with white, and stuffed fat with sultanas and 
 currants, and candied peel, lay on all the plates, 
 and Miss Aschman recalled, for the edification 
 of the company, a cake she once had, so big it 
 took a tea tray to hold it. After tea we had 
 music, this time on my own, I may say "our" 
 own piano, in view of the time, not far distant, 
 when Millicent and I hope to enter into joint 
 possession of all goods and chattels. And then 
 Mr. Wimple, looking only a little embarrassed, 
 told us a piece of news about himself and Miss 
 Ellis Clarissa, as he called her and their 
 joint future, that made me grasp and wring his 
 hand heartily, and Millicent throw her arms 
 about Miss Ellis, who stood blushing and pretty 
 as a girl. And then we drank their healths in 
 lemonade, and he retorted by proposing ours, 
 which, all the lemonade being gone, was honored 
 in tea, and Millicent, being very excited, drank 
 her own health loyally, and when, with some
 
 332 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 laughter, this was pointed out to her, she only 
 said with gay defiance: 
 
 "Well, I don't care! Why shouldn't one 
 drink to one's own happiness? I want to 
 be happy." 
 
 "And so do we all, dear," said Miss Ellis 
 gently, "and it seems oh! it does seem that 
 it is coming true, at last." 
 
 And in those fervent, half -faltering words of 
 hers we all read what her lips would never have 
 uttered, a tale of poverty and struggle and ill- 
 luck and hope deferred, and Millicent, to hide 
 the tears in her eyes cried, "Oh! don't let us 
 forget to drink Phil's health," and I swung him 
 on to my shoulder. 
 
 Then Mr. Wimple cried suddenly: 
 
 "God bless my soul! I'll be forgetting my 
 head next," and darted out into the hall. He 
 returned with a black bag, from which he 
 produced a couple of bottles of champagne, 
 apologizing to me for what he called "the 
 liberty," and which, he said, he looked upon as 
 his contribution to the feast, though he had 
 already, like a veritable Santa Claus, rained 
 chocolates and sweets on the company. 
 
 Well, with a merry popping of corks, the 
 healths were drunk all over again, and Phil's in 
 particular, and the children were allowed a
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 333 
 
 thimble-full each, and, with one accord, they 
 declared they liked the lemonade much better 
 than that kind of ginger beer. I still held Phil 
 on my shoulder. 
 
 "Speech! Speech!" I cried, and Millicent 
 clapped her hands and cried: 
 
 "Yes! Phil must make a speech." 
 
 But when it was explained to him, Phil be- 
 came very red and embarrassed. 
 
 "I can't, Ruddy," he said. "I don't know 
 how to I don't know what to say." 
 
 I whispered a few words to him, and bravely 
 he began. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very 'elighted," 
 then in a loud whisper to me, "What's next? 
 What'd you say, Ruddy? very 'elighted. 
 Speak louder, I can't hear you oh, yes! 
 'elighted to see all my friends, and I 'm sure they 
 ought to be very grateful. What are you 
 laughing at, Miller? I won't say any more." 
 
 "Yes, yes, go on," cried Millicent, "they 
 ought you're quite right." 
 
 "An'," went on Phil very rapidly, "I hope 
 they've enjoyed theirselves. I can't remember 
 any more. Please put me down, Ruddy." 
 
 I lowered him amid vociferous hand-clapping, 
 and Millicent snatched him up in her arms. 
 
 "Darling little Phil," she cried, "who
 
 334 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 brought us all together, and brought us all 
 our happiness, too!" 
 
 And in the momentary silence which followed 
 we heard Olivia Mary's chilly little voice. 
 
 "Just 'cause Phil went an' g-got ill, he's the 
 p-pet of this p-p-party." 
 
 Later, when they had all gone, with the 
 exception of Millicent, whom I had prevailed 
 upon to wait a few moments, so that we might 
 take Phil home together, I left the two together 
 while I went to change my coat. 
 
 When I came back Millicent was sitting on 
 the couch on the veranda, with Phil curled up 
 on her lap. I sat down beside her and put my 
 arms right round the two, girl and boy, and 
 drew the two dear heads against my shoulder. 
 
 "What a bundle of people," laughed Phil. 
 
 "A bundle of love!" I whispered against 
 Millicent 's ear, and smiling at Phil, "the two 
 little people I love best in the world." 
 
 "There! You've told her your own self," 
 cried Phil. "'Sides Miller's not little. She's 
 a big lady, but you've told her now, Ruddy." 
 
 "Perhaps she knew it all along, Phil," said 
 Millicent, putting her cheek against his. 
 
 "An' does Ruddy know the one you love 
 best?" asked Phil.
 
 MY FRIEND PHIL 335 
 
 "I think he's guessed," she said, and I kissed 
 her hair softly. 
 
 "Tell us a story," suggested Phil, the oppor- 
 tunist, and for once, nothing loath, I began. 
 
 "There were once three people in the 
 world - 
 
 "Only three?" interrupted Phil incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 "Only three that mattered. It was a world 
 of their own." 
 
 "Oh! G'won!" 
 
 "There were a Man and a Maid and a Jolly 
 Kid, and the Man loved the Maid, and the Maid 
 loved the Man, only she could n't be quite 
 sure 
 
 "Did n't nobody love the Jolly Kid?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Millicent quickly, "they 
 both loved him, and were very sure about that." 
 
 "How do you know?" asked Phil, sitting up, 
 "it isn't your story." 
 
 Millicent blushed, and I laughed, and con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "Only the Man never told her he loved her." 
 
 "Why didn't he?" 
 
 "Oh, because he had n't the sense to come in 
 out of the rain, I suppose." 
 
 "Not even if he was getting soaking wet? 
 He must've been a silly."
 
 336 MY FRIEND PHIL 
 
 "He was, and so 
 
 "Why didn't the Maid tell him she loved 
 him best in the world?" 
 
 "Because she thought it was his business to 
 find out, I suppose, and she was a very sweet, 
 wise Maid, so she must have been right even 
 though it did seem a little cruel to him 
 
 "What nonsense are you telling the child?" 
 murmured Millicent, the soft color burning 
 in her cheeks. 
 
 "Shall I stop?" I asked, and after a moment's 
 hesitation she said: 
 
 "N-no!" and looking at me from under her 
 dark lashes, "G'won." 
 
 So, bending down, I told the rest of the story 
 for her ear alone. Phil, whose eyes were heavy 
 with sleep, half-dozed against the soft rise and 
 fall of her breast, hearing no more of the story 
 save the low murmur of my voice. I told her 
 my story of the hopes and fears of the past, and 
 aspirations for the future, my glowing plans 
 for making our life together a thing of gladness 
 and mutual happiness and understanding. I 
 ceased, and gently turned her dear averted face 
 to mine, and as her warm, sweet lips met mine, 
 the child in her arms stirred, opened his eyes 
 and smiled dreamily. 
 
 "An' they all lived happy ever after."