At first he decides to read. Is there not some book he had begun and
meant to finish, so many days ago now that he has even forgotten what it
was all about, and only remembers that it was exciting?
And yet, he thinks, he won't read to-night--not on the very first night
of the holidays. Quite lately--yesterday or the day before--his mother
had spoken to him, gently but very seriously, about what she called the
morose and savage fits which would bring misery upon him if he did not
set himself earnestly to overcome them.
And there were times, he knew, when it seemed as if a demon possessed
him and drove him to wound even those who loved him and whom he
loved--times when their affection only roused in him some hideous spirit
of sullen contradiction.
He feels softened now somehow, and has a new longing for the love he has
so often harshly repulsed. He _will_ overcome this sulkiness of his; he
will begin this very evening; as soon as he gets home he will tell his
mother that he is sorry, that he does love her really, only that when
these fits come on him he hardly knows what he says or does.
And she will forgive him, only too gladly; and his mind will be quite at
ease again. No, not quite; there is still something he must do before
that: he has a vague recollection of a long-standing coolness between
himself and his younger brother, Lionel. They never have got on very
well together; Lionel is so different--much cleverer even already, for
one thing; better looking too, and better tempered. Whatever they
quarrelled about Wilfred is very sure that he was the offender; Lionel
never begins that kind of thing. But he will put himself in the right at
once, and ask Lionel to make friends again; he will consent readily
enough--he always does.
And then he has a bright idea: he will take his brother some little
present to prove that he really wishes to behave decently for the
future. What shall he buy?
He finds himself near a large toy shop at the time, and in the window
are displayed several regiments of brightly coloured tin warriors--the
very thing! Lionel is still young enough to delight in them.
Feeling in his pockets, Rolleston discovers more loose silver than he
had thought he possessed, and so he goes into the shop and asks for one
of the boxes of soldiers. He is served by one of two neatly dressed
female assistants, who stare and giggle at one another at his first
words, finding it odd, perhaps, that a fellow of his age should buy
toys--as if, he thinks indignantly, they couldn't see that it was not
for _himself_ he wanted the things.
But he goes on, feeling happier after his purchase. They will see now
that he is not so bad after all. It is long since he has felt such a
craving to be thought well of by somebody.
A little farther on he comes to a row of people, mostly women and
tradesmen's boys, standing on the curb stone opposite a man who is
seated in a little wooden box on wheels drawn up close to the pavement.
He is paralytic and blind, with a pinched white face framed in an
old-fashioned fur cap with big ear lappets; he seems to be preaching or
reading, and Rolleston stops idly enough to listen for a few moments,
the women making room for him with alacrity, and the boys staring
curiously round at the new arrival with a grin.
He hardly pays much attention to this; he is listening to the poem which
the man in the box is reciting with a nasal and metallic snuffle in his
voice:
There's a harp _and_ a crown,
For you and _for_ me,
Hanging on the boughs
Of that Christmas tree!
He hears, and then hurries on again, repeating the stanza mechanically
to himself, without seeing anything particularly ludicrous about it. The
words have reminded him of that Christmas party at the Gordons', next
door. Did not Ethel Gordon ask him particularly to come, and did he not
refuse her sullenly? What a brute he was to treat her like that! If she
were to ask him again, he thinks he would not say no, though he does
hate parties.
Ethel is a dear girl, and never seems to think him good-for-nothing, as
most people do. Perhaps it is sham though--no, he can't think that when
he remembers how patiently and kindly she has borne with his senseless
fits of temper and tried to laugh away his gloom.
Not every girl as pretty as Ethel is would care to notice him, and
persist in it in spite of everything; yet he has sulked with her of
late. Was it because she had favoured Lionel? He is ashamed to think
that this may have been the reason.
Never mind, that is all over now; he will start clear with everybody. He
will ask Ethel, too, to forgive him. Is there nothing he can do to
please her? Yes some time ago she had asked him to draw something for
her. (He detests drawing lessons, but he has rather a taste for drawing
things out of his own head.) He had told her, not too civilly, that he
had work enough without doing drawings for girls. He will paint her
something to-night as a surprise; he will begin as soon as tea is
cleared away; it will be more sociable than reading a book.
And then already he sees a vision of the warm little panelled room, and
himself getting out his colour-box and sitting down to paint by
lamp-light--for any light does for his kind of colouring--while his
mother sits opposite and Lionel watches the picture growing under his
hand.
What shall he draw? He gets quite absorbed in thinking over this; his
own tastes run in a gory direction, but perhaps Ethel, being a girl, may
not care for battles or desperate duels. A compromise strikes him; he
will draw a pirate ship: that will be first rate, with the black flag
flying on the mainmast, and the pirate captain on the poop scouring the
ocean with a big glass in search of merchantmen; all about the deck and
rigging he can put the crew, with red caps, and belts stuck full of
pistols and daggers.
And on the right there shall be a bit of the pirate island, with a mast
and another black flag--he knows he will enjoy picking out the skull and
cross-bones in thick Chinese white--and then, if there is room, he will
add a cannon, and perhaps a palm tree. A pirate island always has palm
trees.
He is so full of this projected picture of his that he is quite
surprised to find that he is very near the square where he lives; but
here, just in front of him, at the end of the narrow lane, is the
public-house with the coach and four engraved on the ground glass of the
lower part of the window, and above it the bottles full of coloured
water.
And here is the greengrocer's. How long is it since it was a
barber's?--surely a very little time. And there is the bootmaker's, with
its outside display of dangling shoes, and the row of naked gas jets
blown to pale blue specks and whistling red tongues by turns as a gust
sweeps across them.
This is his home, this little dingy, old-fashioned red-brick house at an
angle of the square, with a small paved space railed in before it. He
pushes open the old gate with the iron arch above, where an oil-lamp
used to hang, and hurries up to the door with the heavy shell-shaped
porch, impatient to get to the warmth and light which await him within.
The bell has got out of order, for only a faint jangle comes from below
as he rings; he waits a little and then pulls the handle again, more
sharply this time, and still no one comes.
When Betty does think proper to come up and open the door he will tell
her that it is too bad keeping a fellow standing out here, in the fog
and cold, all this time.... She is coming at last--no, it was fancy; it
seems as if Betty had slipped out for something, and perhaps the cook is
upstairs, and his mother may be dozing by the fire, as she has begun to
do of late.
Losing all patience, he gropes for the knocker, and, groping in vain,
begins to hammer with bare fists on the door, louder and louder, until
he is interrupted by a rough voice from the railings behind him.
'Now then, what are you up to there, eh?' says the voice, which belongs
to a burly policeman who has stopped suspiciously on the pavement.
'Why,' says Rolleston, 'I want to get in, and I can't make them hear me.
I wish you'd try what you can do, will you?'
The policeman comes slowly in to the gate. 'I dessay,' he says
jocularly. 'Is there anythink else? Come, suppose you move on.'
A curious kind of dread of he knows not what begins to creep over
Wilfred at this.
'Move on?' he cries, '_why_ should I move on? This is my house; don't
you see? I live here.'
'Now look 'ere, my joker, I don't want a job over this,' says the
constable, stolidly. 'You'll bring a crowd round in another minute if
you keep on that 'ammering.'
'Mind your own business,' says the other with growing excitement.
'That's what you'll make me do if you don't look out,' is the retort.
'Will you move on before I make you?'
'But, I say,' protests Rolleston, 'I'm not joking; I give you my word
I'm not. I do live here. Why, I've just come back from school, and I
can't get in.'
'Pretty school _you_ come from!' growls the policeman; ''andles on to
_your_ lesson books, if _I_ knows anything. 'Ere, out you go!'
Rolleston's fear increases. 'I won't! I won't!' he cries frantically,
and rushing back to the door beats upon it wildly. On the other side of
it are love and shelter, and it will not open to him. He is cold and
hungry and tired after his walk; why do they keep him out like this?
'Mother!' he calls hoarsely. 'Can't you hear me, mother? It's Wilfred;
let me in!'
The other takes him, not roughly, by the shoulder. 'Now you take my
advice,' he says. 'You ain't quite yourself; you're making a mistake. I
don't want to get you in trouble if you don't force me to it. Drop this
'ere tomfool game and go home quiet to wherever it is you _do_ live.'
'I tell you I live here, you fool!' shrieks Wilfred, in deadly terror
lest he should be forced away before the door is opened.
'And I tell you you don't do nothing of the sort,' says the policeman,
beginning to lose his temper. 'No one don't live 'ere, nor ain't done
not since I've bin on the beat. Use your eyes if you're not too far
gone.'
For the first time Rolleston seems to see things plainly as they are; he
glances round the square--that is just as it always is on foggy winter
evenings, with its central enclosure a shadowy black patch against a
reddish glimmer, beyond which the lighted windows of the houses make
yellow bars of varying length and tint.
But this house, his own--why, it is all shuttered and dark; some of the
window panes are broken; there is a pale grey patch in one that looks
like a dingy bill; the knocker has been unscrewed from the door, and on
its scraped panels someone has scribbled words and rough caricatures
that were surely not there when he left that morning.
Can anything--any frightful disaster--have come in that short time? No,
he will not think of it; he will not let himself be terrified, all for
nothing.
'Now, are you goin'?' says the policeman after a pause.
Rolleston puts his back against the door and clings to the sides. 'No!'
he shouts. 'I don't care what you say; I don't believe you: they are all
in there--they are, I tell you, they are--they _are_!'
In a second he is in the constable's strong grasp and being dragged,
struggling violently, to the gate, when a soft voice, a woman's,
intercedes for him.
'What is the matter? Oh, don't--don't be so rough with him, poor
creature!' it cries pitifully.
'I'm only exercisin' my duty, mum,' says the officer; 'he wants to
create a disturbance 'ere.'
'No,' cries Wilfred, 'he lies! I only want to get into my own house, and
no one seems to hear me. _You_ don't think anything is the matter, do
you?'
It is a lady who has been pleading for him; as he wrests himself from
his captor and comes forward she sees his face, and her own grows white
and startled.
'Wilfred!' she exclaims.
'Why, you know my name!' he says. 'Then you can tell him it's all
right. Do I know you? You speak like--is it--_Ethel_?'
'Yes,' she says, and her voice is low and trembling, 'I am Ethel.'
He is silent for an instant; then he says slowly, 'You are not the
same--nothing is the same: it is all changed--changed--and oh, my God,
what am _I_?'
Slowly the truth is borne in upon his brain, muddled and disordered by
long excess, and the last shred of the illusion which had possessed him
drifts away.
He knows now that his boyhood, with such possibilities of happiness as
it had ever held, has gone for ever. He has been knocking at a door
which will open for him never again, and the mother by whose side his
evening was to have been passed died long long years ago.
The past, blotted out completely for an hour by some freak of the
memory, comes back to him, and he sees his sullen, morbid boyhood
changing into something worse still, until by slow degrees he became
what he is now--dissipated, degraded, lost.
At first the shock, the awful loneliness he awakes to, and the shame of
being found thus by the woman for whom he had felt the only pure love he
had known, overwhelm him utterly, and he leans his head upon his arms as
he clutches the railings, and sobs with a grief that is terrible in its
utter abandonment.
The very policeman is silent and awed by what he feels to be a scene
from the human tragedy, though he may not be able to describe it to
himself by any more suitable phrase than 'a rum start.'
'You can go now, policeman,' says the lady, putting money in his hand.
'You see I know this--this gentleman. Leave him to me; he will give you
no trouble now.'
And the constable goes, taking care, however, to keep an eye
occasionally on the corner where this has taken place. He has not gone
long before Rolleston raises his head with a husky laugh: his manner has
changed now; he is no longer the boy in thought and expression that he
was a short time before, and speaks as might be expected from his
appearance.
'I remember it all now,' he says. 'You are Ethel Gordon, of course you
are, and you wouldn't have anything to do with me--and quite right
too--and then you married my brother Lionel. You see I'm as clear as a
bell again now. So you came up and found me battering at the old door,
eh? Do you know, I got the fancy I was a boy again and coming home
to--bah, what does all that matter? Odd sort of fancy though, wasn't it?
Drink is always playing me some cursed trick now. A pretty fool I must
have made of myself!'
She says nothing, and he thrusts his hands deep in his ragged pockets.
'Hallo! what's this I've got?' he says, as he feels something at the
bottom of one of them, and, bringing out the box of soldiers he had
bought half an hour before, he holds it up with a harsh laugh which has
the ring of despair in it.
'Do you see this?' he says to her. 'You'll laugh when I tell you it's a
toy I bought just now for--guess whom--for your dear husband! Must have
been pretty bad, mustn't I? Shall I give it to you to take to him--no?
Well, perhaps he has outgrown such things now, so here goes!' and he
pitches the box over the railings, and it falls with a shiver of broken
glass as the pieces of painted tin rattle out upon the flag-stones.
'And now I'll wish you good evening,' he says, sweeping off his battered
hat with mock courtesy.
She tries to keep him back. 'No, Wilfred, no; you must not go like that.
We live here still, Lionel and I, in the same old house,' and she
indicates the house next door; 'he will be home very soon. Will you'
(she cannot help a little shudder at the thought of such a guest)--'will
you come in and wait for him?'
'Throw myself into his arms, eh?' he says. 'How delighted he would be!
I'm just the sort of brother to be a credit to a highly respectable
young barrister like him. You really think he'd like it? No; it's all
right, Ethel; don't be alarmed: I was only joking. I shall never come in
your way, I promise you. I'm just going to take myself off.'
'Don't say that,' she says (in spite of herself she feels relieved);
'tell me--is there nothing we can do--no help we can give you?'
'Nothing,' he answers fiercely; 'I don't want your pity. Do you think I
can't see that you wouldn't touch me with the tongs if you could help
it? It's too late to snivel over me now, and I'm well enough as I am.
You leave me alone to go to the devil my own way; it's all I ask of you.
Good-bye. It's Christmas, isn't it? I haven't dreamed _that_ at all
events. Well, I wish you and Lionel as merry a Christmas as I mean to
have. I can't say more than that in the way of enjoyment.'
He turns on his heel at the last words and slouches off down the narrow
lane by which he had come. Ethel Rolleston stands for a while, looking
after his receding form till the fog closes round it and she can see it
no more. She feels as if she had seen a ghost; and for her at least the
enclosure before the deserted house next door will be haunted
evermore--haunted by a forlorn and homeless figure sobbing there by the
railings.
As for the man, he goes on his way until he finds a door
which--alas!--is not closed against him.
_TOMMY'S HERO_
A STORY FOR SMALL BOYS
It was the night after Tommy had been taken to his first pantomime, and
he had been lying asleep in his little bedroom (for now that he was nine
he slept in the night nursery no longer); he had been asleep, when he
was suddenly awakened by a brilliant red glare. At first he was afraid
the house was on fire, but when the red turned to a dazzling green, he
gave a great gasp of delight, for he thought the transformation scene
was still going on. 'And there's all the best part still to come,' he
said to himself.
But as he became wider awake, he saw that it was out of the question to
expect his bedroom to hold all those wonders, and he was almost
surprised to see that there was even so much as a single fairy in it. A
fairy there was, nevertheless; she stood there with a star in her hair,
and her dress shimmering out all around her, just as he had seen her a
few hours before, when she rose up, with little jerks, inside a great
gilded shell, and spoke some poetry, which he didn't quite catch.
She spoke audibly enough now, nor was her voice so squeaky as it had
sounded before. 'Little boy,' she began, 'I am the ruling genius of
Pantomime Fairyland. You entered my kingdom for the first time last
night--how did you enjoy yourself?'
'Oh,' said Tommy, '_so_ much; it was splendid, thank you!'
She smiled and seemed well pleased. 'I always call to inquire on a new
acquaintance,' she said. 'And so you liked our realms, as every sensible
boy does? Well, Tommy, it is in my power to reward you; every night for
a certain time you shall see again the things you liked best. What _did_
you like best?'
'The clown part,' said Tommy, promptly.
For it ought to be said here that he was a boy who had always had a
leaning to the kind of practical fun which he saw carried out by the
clown to a pitch of perfection which at once enchanted and humbled him.
Till that harlequinade, he had thought himself a funny boy in his way,
and it had surprised him that his family had not found him more amusing
than they did; but now he felt all at once that he was only a very
humble beginner, and had never understood what real fun was.
For he had not soared much above hiding behind doors, and popping out
suddenly on a passing servant, causing her to 'jump' delightfully; once,
indeed, he used to be able to 'sell' his family by pretending all
manner of calamities, but they had grown so stupid lately that they
never believed a single word he said.
No, the clown would not own him as a follower: he would despise his
little attempts at practical jokes. 'Still,' thought Tommy, 'I can try
to be more like him; perhaps he will come to hear of me some day!'
For he had never met anyone he admired half so much as that clown, who
was always in a good temper (to be sure he had everything his own
way--but then he deserved to), always quick and ready with his excuses;
and if he did run away in times of danger, it was not because he was
really afraid! Then how deliciously impudent he was to shopkeepers! Who
but he would have dared to cheapen a large fish by making a door mat of
it, or to ask the prices of cheeses on purpose to throw mud at them? Not
that he couldn't be serious when he chose--for once he unfurled a Union
Jack and said something quite noble, which made everybody clap their
hands for two minutes; and he told people the best shops to go to for a
quantity of things, and he could not have been joking _then_, for they
were the same names that were to be seen on all the hoardings.
This will explain how it was natural that Tommy, on being asked which
part of the pantomime he preferred, should say, without the slightest
hesitation, 'Oh, the _clown_ part!'
The fairy seemed less pleased. 'The clown part!' she repeated. 'What,
those shop scenes tacked on right at the end without rhyme or reason?'
'Yes,' said Tommy, 'those ones!'
'And the great wood with the shifting green and violet lights, and the
white bands of fairies dancing in circles--didn't you like them?'
'Oh yes,' said the candid Tommy; 'pretty well. I didn't care much for
them.'
'Well,' she said, 'but you liked the grand processions, with all their
gorgeous dresses and monstrous figures, surely you liked _them_?'
'There was such a lot of it,' said Tommy. 'The clown was the best.'
'And if you could, you'd rather see those last scenes again than all the
rest?' she said, frowning a little.
'Oh, wouldn't I just!' said Tommy; 'but may I--really and truly?'
'I see you are not one of _my_ boys,' said the Genius of Pantomime,
rather sadly. 'It so happens that those closing scenes are the very ones
I have least control over--they are a part of my kingdom which has
fallen into sad decay and rebellion. But one thing, O Tommy, I _can_ do
for you. I will give you the clown for a friend and companion--and much
good may he do you!'
'But would he _come_?' he asked, hardly daring to believe in such
condescension.
'He must, if _I_ bid him; it is for you to make him feel comfortable
and at home with you;--the longer you can keep him the better I shall be
pleased.'
'Oh, _how_ kind of you!' he cried; 'he shall stay all the holidays. I'd
rather have him than anybody else. What fun we shall have--what fun!'
The green fire faded out and the fairy with it. He must have fallen
asleep again, for, when he opened his eyes, there was the clown at the
foot of his bed making a face.
''Ullo!' said the clown; 'I say, are you the nice little boy I was told
to come and stay with?'
'Yes, yes,' said Tommy; 'I am so glad to see you. I'm just going to get
up.'
'I know you are,' said the clown, and upset him out of bed into the cold
bath.
This he could not help thinking a little bit unkind of the clown on such
a cold morning, particularly as he followed it up by throwing a
hair-brush, two pieces of soap, and a pair of shoes at him before he
could get out again.
But it woke him, at all events, and he ventured (with great respect) to
throw one of the shoes back; it just grazed the clown's top-knot.
To Tommy's alarm, the clown set up a hullaballoo as if he was mortally
injured.
'You cruel, unkind little boy,' he sobbed, 'to play so rough with a poor
clown!'
'But you threw them at me first,' pleaded Tommy, 'and much harder,
too!'
'I'm the oldest,' said the clown, 'and you've got to make me feel at
home, or I shall go away again.'
'I won't do it again, and I'm very sorry,' pleaded Tommy; but the clown
wouldn't be friends with him for ever so long, and was only appeased at
last by being allowed to put Tommy upside down in a tall wicker basket
which stood in a corner.
Then he helped Tommy to dress by buttoning all his clothes the wrong
way, and hiding his stockings and necktie. While he was doing this,
Sarah, the under-nurse, came in, and he strutted up to her and began to
dance quietly. 'Go away, imperence,' said Sarah.
'Beautiful gal,' said the clown (though Sarah was extremely plain), 'I
love yer!' and he put out his tongue and wagged his head at her until
she ran out of the room in terror.
He looked so absurd that Tommy was delighted with him again, and yet,
when the bell rang for breakfast, he felt obliged to give his new friend
a hint.
'I say,' he said, 'you don't mind my telling you--but mother's very
particular about manners at table;' but the clown relieved him instantly
by saying that so was he--_very_ particular; and he slid down the
banisters and turned somersaults in the hall until Tommy joined him.
'I do hope father and mother won't be unkind to him,' he thought, as he
went in, 'because he does seem to feel things so.'
But nothing could be more polite than the welcome Tommy's parents gave
the stranger, as he came in, bowing very low, and making a queer little
skipping step. Tommy's mother said she was always glad to see any friend
of her boy's, while his father begged the clown to make himself quite at
home. All _he_ said was, 'I'm disgusted to make your acquaintance;' but
he certainly made himself at home--in fact, he was not quite so
particular about his manners as he had led Tommy to expect.
He volunteered to divide the sausages and bacon himself, and did so in
such a way that everybody else got very little and he himself got a
great deal. If it had been anybody else, Tommy would certainly have
called this 'piggish'; as it was, he tried to think it was all fun, and
that he himself had no particular appetite.
His cousin Barbara, a little girl of about his own age, was staying with
them just then, and came down presently to breakfast. 'Oh, my!' said the
clown, laying a great red hand on his heart, 'what a nice little gal you
are, ain't yer? Come and sit by me, my dear!'
'No, thank you; I'm going to sit by Aunt Mary,' she replied, looking
rather shy and surprised.
'Allow me, missy,' he persisted, 'to pass you the strawberry-jam and
the muffins!'
'I'll have some jam, thank you,' she replied.
He looked round and chuckled. 'Oh, I say; that little gal said "thank
you" before she got it!' he exclaimed. 'There ain't no muffins, and I've
eaten all the jam!' which made Tommy choke with laughter.
Barbara flushed. 'That's a very stupid joke,' she pronounced severely,
'and rude, too; it's a pity you weren't taught to behave better when you
were young.'
'So I was!' said the clown, with his mouth full.
'Then you've forgotten it,' she said; 'you're nothing but a big baby,
that you are!'
'Yah!' retorted the clown; 'so are _you_ a big baby!' which, as even
Tommy saw, was not a very brilliant reply. It was a singular fact about
the clown that the slightest check seemed to take away all his
brilliancy.
'You know you're not telling the truth now,' said Barbara, so
contemptuously, that the clown began to weep bitterly. 'She says I don't
speak the truth!' he complained, 'and she _knows_ it will be my aunt's
birthday last Toosday!'
'You great silly thing, what has that to do with it?' cried Barbara,
indignantly. 'What _is_ there to cry about?' which very nearly made
Tommy quarrel with her, for why couldn't she be polite to _his_ friend?
However, the clown soon dried his eyes on the tablecloth, and recovered
his cheerfulness; and presently he noticed the _Times_ lying folded by
Tommy's papa's plate.
'Oh, I say, mister,' he said, 'shall I air the newspaper for yer?'
'Thank you, if you will,' was the polite reply.
He shook it all out in one great sheet and wrapped it round him, and
waddled about in it until Tommy nearly rolled off his seat with delight.
'When you've _quite_ done with it----' his father was saying mildly, as
the clown made a great hole in the middle and thrust his head out of it
with a bland smile.
'I'm only just looking through it,' he explained; 'you can have it now,'
and he rolled it up in a tight ball and threw it at his host's head.
Breakfast was certainly not such a dull meal as usual that morning,
Tommy thought; but he wished his people would show a little more
appreciation, instead of sitting there all stiff and surprised; he was
afraid the clown would feel discouraged.
When his papa undid the ball, the paper was found to be torn into long
strips, which delighted Tommy; but his father, on the other hand, seemed
annoyed, possibly because it was not so easy to read in that form.
Meanwhile, the clown busied himself in emptying the butter-dish into his
pockets, and this did shock the boy a little, for he knew it was not
polite to pocket things at meals, and wondered how he could be so nasty.
Breakfast was over at last, and the clown took Tommy's arm and walked
upstairs to the first floor with him.
'Who's in there?' he asked, as they passed the spare bedroom.
'Granny,' said the boy; 'she's staying with us; only she always has
breakfast in her room, you know.'
'Why, you don't mean to say you've got a granny!' cried the clown, with
joy; 'you are a nice little boy; now we'll have some fun with her.'
Tommy felt doubtful whether she could be induced to join them so early
in the morning, and said so. 'You knock, and say you've got a present
for her if she'll come out,' suggested the clown.
'But I haven't,' objected Tommy; 'wouldn't that be a story?' He had
unaccountably forgotten his old fondness for 'sells.'
'Of course it would,' said the clown; 'I'm always a tellin' of 'em, I
am.'
Tommy was shocked once more, as he realised that his friend was not a
_truthful_ clown. But he knocked at the door, nevertheless, and asked
his grandmother to come out and see a friend of his.
'Wait one minute, my boy,' she answered, 'and I'll come out.'
Tommy was surprised to see his companion preparing to lie, face
downwards, on the mat just outside the door.
'Get up,' he said; 'you'll trip grandma up if you stay there.'
'That's what I'm doing it for, stoopid,' said the clown.
'But it will hurt her,' he cried.
'Nothing hurts old women,' said the clown; 'I've tripped up 'undreds of
'em, and I ought to know.'
'Well, you shan't trip up my granny, anyhow,' said Tommy, stoutly; for
he was not a bad-hearted boy, and his grandmother had given him a
splendid box of soldiers on Christmas Day. 'Don't come out, granny; it's
a mistake,' he shouted.
The clown rose with a look of disgust.
'Do you call this actin' like a friend to me?' he demanded.
'Well,' said Tommy, apologetically, 'she's my granny, you see.'
'She ain't _my_ granny, and, if she was, I'd let you trip her up, I
would; _I_ ain't selfish. I shan't stop with you any longer.'
'Oh, do,' said Tommy; 'we'll go and play somewhere else.'
'Well,' said the clown, relenting, 'if you're a good boy you shall see
me make a butter-slide in the hall.'
Then Tommy saw how he had wronged him in thinking he had pocketed the
butter out of mere greediness, and he felt ashamed and penitent; the
clown made a beautiful slide, though Tommy wished he would not insist
upon putting all the butter that was left down his back.
'There's a ring at the bell,' said the clown; 'I'll open the door, and
you hide and see the fun.'
So Tommy hid himself round a corner as the door opened.
'Walk in, sir,' said the clown, politely.
'Master Tommy in?' said a jolly, hearty voice. It was dear old Uncle
John, who had taken him to the pantomime the night before. 'I thought
I'd look in and see if he would care to come with me to the
Crystal----oh!' And there was a scuffling noise and a heavy bump.
Tommy ran out, full of remorse. Uncle John was sitting on the tiles
rubbing his head, and, oddly enough, did not look at all funny.
'Oh, uncle,' cried the boy, 'you're not hurt? I didn't know it was you!'
'I'm a bit shaken, my boy, that's all,' said his uncle; 'one doesn't
come down like a feather at my age.' And he picked himself slowly up.
'Well, I must get home again,' he said; 'no Crystal Palace to-day,
Tommy, after this. Good-bye.'
And he went slowly out, leaving Tommy with the feeling that he had had
enough of slides. He even wiped the flooring clean again with a
waterproof and the clothes-brush, though the clown (who had been hiding)
tried to prevent him.
'We ain't 'ad 'arf the fun out of it yet!' he complained (he always
spoke in rather a common way, as Tommy began to notice with pain).
'I've had enough,' said Tommy. 'It was my Uncle John who slipped down
that time, and he's hurt, and he'd come to take me to the Crystal
Palace!'
'Well, he hadn't come to take _me_,' said the clown; 'you are stingy
about your relations, you are; you ain't 'arf a boy for a bit o' fun.'
Tommy felt this rebuke very much, he had hoped so to gain the clown's
esteem; but he would not give in, he only suggested humbly that they
should go up into the play-room.
The play-room was at the top of the house, and Barbara and two little
sisters of Tommy's were playing there when they came in, the clown
turning in his toes and making awful faces.
The two little girls ran into a corner, and seemed considerably
frightened by the stranger's appearance, but Barbara reassured them.
'Don't take any notice,' she said, 'it's only a horrid friend of
Tommy's. He won't interfere with _us_.'
'Oh, Barbara,' the boy protested, 'he's awfully nice if you only knew
him. He can make you laugh. Do let us play with you. He wants to, and he
won't be rough.'
'Do,' pleaded the clown, 'I'll behave so pretty!'
'Well,' said Barbara, 'mind you do, then, or you shan't stop.'
And for a little while he did behave himself. Tommy showed him his new
soldiers, and he seemed quite interested; and then he had a ride on the
rocking horse, and was sorry when it broke down under him; and after
that he came suddenly upon a beautiful doll which belonged to the
youngest sister.
'Do let me nurse it,' he said, and the little girl gave it up timidly.
Of course he nursed it the wrong way up, and at last he forgot, and sat
down on it, the head, which was wax, being crushed to pieces!
Tommy was in fits of laughter at the droll face he made as he held out
the crushed doll at arm's length, and looked at it with one eye shut,
exclaiming, 'Poor thing! what a pity! I do 'ope I 'aven't made its 'ead
ache!'
But the two little girls were crying bitterly in one another's arms, and
Barbara turned on the clown with tremendous indignation.
'You did it on purpose, you know you did!' she said.
'Go away, little girl; don't talk to me!' said the clown, putting Tommy
in front of him.
'Tommy,' she said, 'what did you bring your friend up here for? He only
spoils everything he's allowed to touch. Take him away!'
'Barbara,' pleaded Tommy, 'he's a _visitor_, you know!'
'I don't care,' she replied. 'Mr. Clown, you shan't stay here; this is
our room, and we don't want you. Go away!' She walked towards him
looking so fierce that he backed hastily. 'Go downstairs,' she said,
pointing to the door. 'You, too, Tommy, for you encouraged him!'
'Nyah, nyah, nyah!' said the clown, a sound by which he intended to
imitate her anger. 'Oh, please, I'm going; remember me to your mother.'
And he left the room, followed rather sadly by Tommy, who felt that
Barbara was angry with him. 'That's a very disagribble little girl,'
remarked the clown, confidentially, when they were safe outside, and
Tommy thought it wiser to agree.
'What have you got in your pockets?' he asked, presently, seeing a hard
bulge in his friend's white trunks.
'Only some o' your nice soldiers,' said the clown, and walked into the
schoolroom, where there was a fire burning. 'Are they brave?' he asked.
'Very,' said Tommy, who had quite persuaded himself that this was so.
'Look here, we'll have a battle.' He thought a battle would keep the
clown quiet. 'Here's two cannon and peas, and you shall be the French
and I'll be English.'
'All right,' said the clown, and took his share of the soldiers and
calmly put them all in the middle of the red-hot coals. 'I want to be
quite sure they can stand fire first,' he explained; and then, as they
melted, he said, 'There, you see, they're all running away. I never see
such cowards.'
Tommy was in a great rage, and could almost have cried, if it had not
been babyish, for they were his best regiments which he could see
dropping down in great glittering stars on the ashes below. 'That's a
caddish thing to do,' he said, with difficulty; 'I didn't give them to
you to put in the fire!'
'Oh, I thought you did,' said the clown, 'I beg your pardon;' and he
threw the rest after them as he spoke.
'You're a beast!' cried Tommy, indignantly; 'I've done with you, after
this.'
'Oh, no, yer ain't,' he returned.
'I have, though,' said Tommy; 'we're not friends any longer.'
'All right,' said the clown; 'when I'm not friends with any one, I take
and use the red-'ot poker to 'em,' and he put it in the fire to heat as
he spoke.
This terrified the boy. It was no use trying to argue with the clown,
and he had seen how he used a red-hot poker. 'Well, I'll forgive you
this time,' he said hastily; 'let's come away from here.'
'I tell you what,' said the clown, 'you and me'll go down in the kitchen
and make a pie.'
Tommy forgot his injuries at this delightful idea; he knew what the
clown's notion of pie-making would be. 'Yes,' he said eagerly, 'that
will be jolly; only I don't know,' he added doubtfully, 'if cook will
let us.'
However, the clown soon managed to secure the kitchen to himself; he had
merely to attempt to kiss the cook once or twice and throw the best
dinner service at the other servants, and they were left quite alone to
do as they pleased.
What fun it was, to begin with! The clown brought out a large deep dish,
and began by putting a whole turkey and an unskinned hare in it out of
the larder; after that he put in sausages, jam, pickled walnuts, and
lemons, and, in short, the first thing that came to hand.
'It ain't 'arf full yet,' he said at last, as he looked gravely into the
pie.
'No,' said Tommy, sympathetically, 'can't we get anything else to put in?' |
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