“I?”
“Yas, you. You’ve been my prickcaution against my darter, Grace. She’s thought better o’ me since we’ve been friends. And then——”
“I’m glad she’s thought better of you. And then, what?”
“Well, you kep me informed as to ‘er nights out, so I could h’escape.”
Peter regarded his friend in surprise. “Escape! But she wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Not h’intendin’ to, Master Peter; not h’intendin’ to. It’s me feelin’s h’I refer to. You don’t know darters. ‘Ow should yer?—She thinks I drink, like all the rest of ‘em ‘cept you. On ‘er nights h’out she brings ‘er blooming Salvaition Band to this ‘ere corner, h’aimin’ at my con-wersion. It’s woundin’ and ‘umiliatin’, Master Peter, for a pa as don’t need no conwersion. She makes me blush all through, and that makes things wuss for a man wi’ a red compleckshon. So yer see, you wuz my prickcaution.”
“But you don’t drink, Mr. Grace, do you?”
“No more ‘an will wash me mouf out same as a ‘orse. It’s cruel ‘ard to be suspickted o’ wot yer don’t do.”
Peter looked miserably into the kind little pig’s eyes. “I’m suspected too. That’s why I’m being sent away.”
“O’ wot?”
“They call it ‘magination.”
“Ah!”
“Why do you say ah like that?”
“‘Cause it’s wuss’n drink—much wusser. But take no more’n will wash yer mouf out and yer’ll be awright. That’s my principle in everythin’—— Master Peter, this makes us close friends, don’t it? We’re both misonderstood. I——”
Just then a fare came up—an old lady, very full in the skirt, with parcels dangling from her arms in every direction.
“Keb, keb, keb. Oh yes, my ‘orse is wery safe. No, ‘e don’t bite and ‘e won’t run away. Eh? Oh, I’m a wery good driver. Eh? Three to you, mum; four bob to anyone else. Am I kind to ‘im? I loves ‘im like me own darter.—See yer ter-morrow, Master Peter.—Gee, up there. Gee up, I tell yer.”
Peter sought out Grace’s policeman on his beat and made him the same request with respect to Kay. Then he saw the Misses Jacobite and warned them. Having done his best for her safety in his absence, he hurried home.
The evening went all too fast—seven, eight, nine, ten. Every hour the clock struck he felt something between a thrill and a shiver (a “shrill” he called it) run up and down his spine. “The end. The end. The end,” the clock seemed to be saying over and over, so that he wanted to get up and shriek to stop it. Oh, that a little boy could seize the spokes and stay the wheels of time!
“Tired, Peter? Hadn’t you better——”
“Oh, not yet! Please, just another five minutes.”
“The dustman’s come to my Peterkin’s eyes,” his mother murmured.
He sat up, valiantly trying to look wakeful.
They had not the heart to cut short his respite—it was such an eternity till Christmas. His head sank against his mother’s knees and his eyes closed tightly, tightly.
“Poor little fellow,” his father said.
“My darling little Peterkins”—that was his mother.
They carried him up to bed. On the half-landing, outside the nursery door, they halted, remembering how their dreams had shaped his character long before God had made his body.
Next morning, soon after breakfast, Mr. Grace drove up to the door as he had promised. He drove all the best people of Topbury to their battlefields of joy or sorrow. He was Topbury’s herald of change, and had learnt to control his emotions under the most trying circumstances. But this morning, when the straight little figure came bravely down the steps, something happened to Mr. Grace’s eyes.
“Good-bye, darlingest mother. Good-bye, little kitten Kay. Good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye.”
“Jump in, old man,” his father said.
The door banged.
“Yer awright?” asked Mr. Grace.
“We’re all right,” said Peter’s father.
“Kum up.” Mr. Grace tugged savagely on the reins. “Kum up, carn’t yer?” He had to vent his feelings some way.
“Dammitall,” he growled as his “keb” crawled down the Terrace, “dammitall. It’ll taik more ‘an this fare’s worf to wash me mouf out this time. It’s got inter me froat. ‘Ope I ain’t goin’ to blub. Dammit!”