He placed two fingers in the corners of his mouth and emitted a siren-like sound that caused his friend to leap suddenly into the air in terror and surprise. William smiled with pride and friendliness.
"I knew you'd like it," he said. "My family doesn't care for it at home, but they don't care for any whistles. They don't reelly like musick—not like you do. Well, good-bye."
William walked along the road, humming happily to himself. His humming was, if possible, more dreadful than his whistling. William only hummed when he was happy. He enjoyed the sound of his humming. In this he was absolutely unique....
He was extremely happy to-day. His heart warmed at the thought of his friend's kindness ... the confidential literary chat ... the cake ... the penknife.... He took out the knife and looked at it. His heart swelled with pride and pleasure ... a knife like that ... and he'd been ready to give it ... give it ... it was jolly decent of him.... William had no other friend in the whole world who would have thought of lending him a knife like that, much less giving it.
William's sense of gratitude was not easily stirred, but it was stirred this afternoon. When stirred, it demanded immediate and practical expression.... He must do something for his friend ... now ... at once.... But what?... He could get him the water things, of course, but that wasn't enough. What did Mr. Strange really want?... Suddenly William's sombre countenance lit up.... He'd wanted to know what Alberto would have said and done in real life.... He should know.
Mr. Porter was walking home. Mr. Porter was an eminently reliable gentleman who lived a quiet, hard-working life divided between an eminently respectable office and an eminently respectable home. Mr. Porter was on his way home from the station, carrying his attaché case in his hand as he had done for the last thirty years.
In his mind was a pleasurable anticipation of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of good wine, an excellent cigar, and the evening paper. Mr. Porter had walked home with this pleasurable anticipation in his mind for the last thirty years, and it had always been fulfilled. There was a rosy glow over all his thoughts. He hardly noticed the small boy with the freckled, scowling countenance till he actually addressed him.
"The lady wot you're in love with," said the boy to him suddenly in an expressionless tone, "is in deadly danger, an' says you're to go to her at once."
Mr. Porter stopped short and peered through the dusk. He felt a little frightened. "The lady wot——" he repeated. Then, "Would you mind saying it again?"
William didn't mind.