“Peter,” he said, jerking his head across his shoulder, “I’ve been noticing. They can’t afford it. I’ve got to go to work, old chap.”
He spoke with his old swaggering confidence, as though the entire world was waiting to engage his services. The carpet-slippers, which had been Mr. Jacobite’s, chafed one against the other thoughtfully.
“Got to go to work,” he repeated reflectively, in a tone which implied regret. “I think I know a fellow—— We were in the coop together, and he said—— But I’m not going to tell you till I’m more certain of my plans.”
Had he been burdened with the weightiest of financial secrets, he could not have made them more mysterious. Peter tried not to smile; he was glad—this was the muddling self-deceived uncle he remembered.
Ocky knocked the ashes out of his pipe, waiting for the bowl to cool before he filled it. “I hadn’t an idea that they had so little. It’s come home to me gradually—the worn carpets and old things everywhere. And here have I been eating my head off. We’ll have to pay ‘em back, Peter—have to pay ‘em back.”
Peter had reason to be sceptical about the paying back; he applauded the intention. Except in imagination, his uncle had never been much of a money-maker. He had always been unemployable; he was ten times more unemployable now with a prison record. Peter spoke to his father, with the result that a position was offered as packer in a publisher’s establishment. Ocky refused it. “Got something better.”
The “something better” was at last divulged. One afternoon Peter found his uncle up the apple-tree, trying to balance a box in its branches. In the box was scattered the kind of food best calculated to tempt the appetite of a parrot. The box had a flap-door leading into it, propped open by a stick from which a string dangled. If an ill-natured bird were to enter the box and a lady beneath the tree were to pull on the string, thus dragging away the stick, the door would shut and the ill-natured bird would be a captive. Gathered under the tree were the four Misses Jacobite, looking very weepy and calling up warnings to their guest, please not to fall and to be careful.
Peter knew what it meant—these were the last offices of gratitude which preceded departure.
When the adventurous gentleman had clambered down, it was seen that he wore his shabby spats and that his mustaches were pointed with wax. He led Peter aside and winked at him solemnly. It was the return from Elba; after exile, he was going forth to conquer the world afresh.
“Well?” said Peter.