“Chut, chut!” said old Eliza, “little boys shouldn’t say must.”
“But when they must, what else is there for them to say?” Roy asked.
“Chut, chut!” said old Eliza again. “That’s himperent! Now run away, and come to-morrow morning.”
This was too much for Roy. He covered his face with his hands, and really and truly cried—a thing he would scorn to do on his own account.
While he stood there in this distress a hand was placed on his arm and he was drawn gently into the house. He heard the door shut behind him. The hand then guided him along passages into a great room, and there he was liberated. Roy looked round; it was the most fascinating room he had ever seen. There was a long bench at the window, with a comfortable chair before it, and on the bench were hammers and chisels and all kinds of tools. A ship nearly finished lay in one place, a clockwork steamer in another, a pair of rails wound about the floor on the cocoa-nut matting—in and out like a snake—on which a toy train probably ran, and here and there were signals. On the shelves were coloured papers, bottles, boxes, and wire. In one corner was a huge kite, as high as a man, with a great face painted on it. Several dolls, more or less broken, lay on the table.
All this he saw in a moment. Then he looked at the owner of the hand, who had been standing beside him all the while with an amused expression on his delicate, kind face. Roy knew in an instant it was the Miss Bannisters’ Brother.
“Well,” said the Miss Bannisters’ Brother; “so when one must, one must?”
“Yes,” Roy said half timidly.
“Quite right too,” said the Miss Bannisters’ Brother. “‘Must’ is a very good word, if one has the character to back it up. And now tell me, quickly, what is the trouble? Something very small, I should think, or you wouldn’t be able to carry it in your pocket.”
“It’s not in my pocket,” Roy said; “it’s not here at all. I want—I want a lesson.”