If ever there was a case of hero-worship it was the worship by Chris of his uncle. To the little beggar, Uncle Godfrey was the ideal of all that was most manly, most noble, most heroic. To emulate him in every way was his most ardent desire, and with this end in view he imitated him whenever possible, to the smallest details.
When Uncle Godfrey was at home in the autumn, Chris's diminutive toy-gun was, without fail, brought down to the gun-case in the hall, where it lay in company with the more imposing weapons of his uncle. And when these were cleaned, it was an understood thing that the toy-gun must be cleaned likewise. To have omitted to do this would have drawn down upon the offender the little beggar's deepest indignation.
I believe, too, that it was a real grief of heart to him that he was not allowed to go out with his uncle in the autumn, and try the effect of that same toy-gun upon the pheasants. He had often pleaded hard to be permitted do so, having, I imagine, glorious visions of the bags they would make between them; and the refusal of his request had been the cause of many tears in the nursery. Not before his uncle! No, if there was one thing more than another that troubled him, it was the fear of looking like a baby in his uncle's presence. Uncle Godfrey might tease him as much as he pleased,—and he was undeniably talented in this respect,—but, close as were the tears to his eyes at other times, before his hero Chris would never let them fall if he could help it.
Sometimes, when in the swing of a game, his uncle Godfrey was unintentionally a little rough in word or deed, the little beggar, it is true, would flush—crimsoning up to the roots of his fair hair. His voice would falter, too, as if the tears were not far off, but he would struggle manfully with them, and, as soon as he had recovered, return again to the attack with fresh vigour. Indeed, so great was his devotion to him, that he was never so happy as when by his side, and with Chris in his vicinity, Uncle Godfrey found it a matter of no little difficulty to give his attention elsewhere. This was observable one morning when he was endeavouring to write his letters and enjoy a smoke in peace—a state of affairs by no means to the little beggar's mind.
Drawing near, Chris took up his position straight in front of him, and stared steadily at him without speaking. Presently Uncle Godfrey looked up, and, meeting Chris's stedfast gaze, stared back in silence.
"I'm a policeman," at last remarked Chris, with a strenuous effort to assume the manly tones of his uncle; his usual habit when talking to him.
"Are you?" replied Uncle Godfrey, leaning back in his chair and giving him a little kick. "Then be off, it's time you were on your beat."
"But you're a bad, wicked robber, and I've come to take you to prison," persisted Chris.
"Get along," said the writer laconically, blowing the smoke of his cigarette into the face of the policeman, and returning to his letters.
Chris looked at him admiringly.