CHAPTER VIII—“COMING. COMING, PETERKINS”
Peter took all the credit to himself—she was his baby. And why not? Nobody, not even his mother or father, had had anything to do with her advent. For many months after Philip’s short sojourn, his mother had cried and his father had frowned whenever babies were mentioned. Had it not been for Peter, the little sister might have slipped God’s memory. Peter gave him no chance to forget. Every night, kneeling between the bed-clothes with his lips against the pillow to muffle the sound, he reminded God. He realized that this attitude was not respectful and always apologized in his prayers. He did it because big people wouldn’t understand if they caught him kneeling beside the bed; it would be quite easy to fall asleep there and get found.—So, of course, when she came, she belonged to him. But her coming was not yet. He had no end of trouble in getting her.
After he had heard the whistling, he tried to tell Grace about it. This happened the very next morning. She had risen late and was dressing him in a hurry in order to get him down in time for breakfast. She hardly listened to him at all, but jerked him this way and that, buttoning and tying and tucking.
“My, oh, my! There’s only emptiness inside your little ‘ead this mornin’; you must ‘ave left your brains beneath the pillow. What a lot o’ talk about nothin’.”
“It wasn’t nothing, Grace. I really and truly heard it.”
“Now then, no false’oods, young man. God’s a-listenin’ and writin’ it all down.—There, Grice didn’t mean to be h’angry! But you talk your tongue clean out o’ your ‘ead.”
“But Grace, I did. I did. It was like this.”
He pursed his lips together; only a splutter came. Grace rubbed his face vigorously with the flannel, leaving a taste of soap in his mouth.