Peter sighed, and very, very softly withdrew his small cramped arm; he waited a minute or two longer, and then crawled over to the horsemen. He felt a chastened joy to find all the boxful in the fender just as he had left them yesterday after the war against the Matabele tribes. He had painted one of them black for Lobengula, and it reminded him of the exciting game he had had over his capture. He wondered, poor little tear-weary boy, would Essie mind very much if he had a little, only a little, game very quietly on the floor now; the oilcloth had beautiful yellow squares, all ready for the different detachments.
Poppet’s head was turned the other way; he fancied she was asleep, she lay so still; Bunty at [241] ]the table had stopped breathing loudly; perhaps he was asleep too; and Nellie was in her room.
He marshalled the little figures up in rows, army against army; the brass toy cannon he gave to the English, but to make up, he put a few more men on the side of the Matabeles. He always felt secretly sorry for them, and often gave Lobengula loopholes of escape that he did not permit to Nelson, Gordon, and Marlborough, who, with small-boy enthusiasm, he had placed in command of his British forces.
“[‘NELTHONTH[!-- TN: original reads "NELTHONETH" --] COPPED THE IMPITH!’]”
The clock struck six, indicated eight, and meant half-past seven. Then the stillness of the little lamp-lit room was suddenly broken.
[242]
][“Nelthonth] copped the Impith! hurrah—hip, hip, hur——”
Poppet sat up speechless. Poor little sinful Peter lowered his head at her accusing eyes and whimpered softly.
“You cwuel boy!” she said.
“I wath only picking them up,” he returned, so bitterly ashamed he could not be quite truthful.