Papa was there, speaking to some one; he had his hat on, as if he was just coming out again. And—yes—it was Drew he was speaking to, and James too, I think—but behind them was poor mamma, looking so dreadfully unhappy. It did make me want to shake Peterkin again.
They did not see us as quickly as we saw them, for it was dark outside and they were all talking: papa giving directions, I fancy.
So they did jump when Clem—hurrying for once—rushed up the steps, dragging Peterkin after him.
'We've found him—we've found him!' he shouted. 'In with you, Pete: show yourself, quick.'
For mamma had got quite white, and looked as if she were going to faint or tumble down in some kind of a fit; but luckily before she had time for anything, there was that fat boy hugging and squeezing her so tight that she'd have been clever to move at all, though if she had tumbled down he would have made a good buffer.
'Oh, mamma, mamma—oh, mummy,' he said, and by this time he was howling, of course, 'I never meant to flighten you. I never did. I thought I'd been only five minutes, and I thought it was nearly as quick home that way.'
And of course mamma didn't scold him! She hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year, and as if he was the prodigal son and the good brother mixed up together.
But papa looked rather stern, and I was not altogether sorry to see it.
'Where have you been, Peterkin?' he said. And then he glanced up at us two—Clem and me—as Peterkin seemed too busy crying to speak. 'Where has he been?' papa repeated. 'It was very clever of you to find him, I must say.'
And mamma's curiosity began to awaken, now that she had got old Pete safe in her arms again. She looked up with the same question in her face.