“Darling motherkins, I do love you—all of you. But I mustn’t take anything this Christmas.”
“Nonsense,” said his father.
“I mean it,” said Peter proudly.
At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied, so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, “Because he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs.”
There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was rather thin this morning.
When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service, they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came back.
Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word was brought of Cookie’s lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red.
He called him aside that evening. “What is it? Can’t you trust me? Can’t you tell me, little Peter?”
How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. “I can’t even tell you, father.”
During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, “So he’s not caught yet.” Peter’s responsibilities were increasing. He found it more and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle without betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of his confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he had not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The mustaches had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and climbing. Still, when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful. He was only depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory or Jehane to come into the garden. “I want a sight of ‘em, sonny. A ha’penny marvel like you ought to be able to manage that.”