BOOK II

Produced by Al Haines

THE TALE OF LAL

_A FANTASY_

BY

RAYMOND PATON

AUTHOR OF "THE DRUMMER OF THE DAWN"

BRENTANO'S CHAPMAN & HALL LTD.

NEW YORK LONDON

1914

AN EXPLANATION AND AN APOLOGY

Upon behalf of Ridgwell and Christine the author has been urged to

explain that three things--facts, common-sense, and probability--have

of necessity been throughout entirely omitted in relating this story.

The children, however, have comforted the author by declaring that

these particular things are not required at all in any book of the

present day, but are merely an old-fashioned survival of the past,

which is gradually dying out.

One of the sole remaining examples we possess of fact, common-sense,

and probability being the celebration of the 5th of November, which has

somehow become a day of national thanksgiving, and is without doubt one

of the most important dates in the calendar, and very dear to the

hearts of the English people.

A PREFACE

The aspect of Trafalgar Square, like everything else in the world,

depends largely upon how it is viewed, and through whose eyes it is

seen.

A Japanese artist, for instance, visiting London, immediately selected

Trafalgar Square seen by night-time as a subject for a picture. He

thoughtfully omitted any suggestion of either omnibuses, taxi-cabs, or

the populace.

He likewise decided that all the statues were most unpicturesque, and

the varied and flashing electric advertisements to be seen hung up on

high around the Square were not only hideous but impossible.

Consequently this imaginative being flung upon his canvas a mysterious

blue space, void of anything save the brilliantly coloured lanterns of

his own land, swung upon bamboo poles, trembling in the darkness at

picturesquely convenient distances. The effect was quite beautiful,

but of course it could not in any way be considered as a reasonable

likeness of this particular Square.

A French artist also selecting this portion of London for a picture,

determined at once that it would be more becoming, not to say

diplomatic, to paint only one end of the low stone wall surrounding the

Square; yet entertaining doubts afterwards that it might not perhaps be

recognised, he added the central stone cupola of the National Gallery,

appearing over all like a hastily bestowed blessing, but covered the

remaining space upon his canvas with imaginary stalls of glowing

flowers, and even more imaginary flower-sellers. His picture was

greatly admired, and very much resembled the Market Square in Havre

upon a Monday morning.

A Spanish artist chancing to pass the same way, likewise hastily

completed a picture of Trafalgar Square as he wished to see it, adding

by way of a decorative effect a lattice-work of trellised vines like

unto his beloved vineyards of Andalusia. Dwarf oranges grew in

profusion and hung their coloured golden globes over the squat stone

walls. A brilliant Southern sun beat upon both, baking the walls

red-hot and ripening the oranges at one and the same time. This

picture the artist named Trafalgar Square when the Sun Shines.

A Cubist painter, not to be outdone with regard to his point of view of

such a subject, covered an immense canvas with wonderful heaving

squares of ochre and green, viewed from a background suggesting endless

mud. This suggestion, however, may have been in the nature of a small

tribute to the usual condition of the London streets. This production

which the Cubist artist was optimistic enough to name simply Trafalgar

Square, was instantly bought by a famous geologist, who to this day

indulges in the beautiful belief that he possesses the only indication

of what this particular portion of the world was like before ever the

earth was made.

Last of all arrived a Futurist painter, who painted _everything_ in

Trafalgar Square, and nothing that did _not_ appear in it. The

painter, however, selected a really wonderful aspect of the Square,

seen from a most strange angle, a sort of bird's-eye view of it, which

could only have been obtained from a balloon. So remarkable was the

perspective that the entire Square, as seen in the picture, appeared as

if it were being gradually drawn sideways up to Heaven. The great

Nelson column and all the four lions could be viewed simultaneously,

and the artist had painted _all the four lions alike_.

Now a Writer whose chambers overlooked Trafalgar Square, and who was

acquainted with its every aspect, by night as well as day, knew full

well that the Futurist artist was wrong when he painted all the four

lions _alike_. The Writer knew that one Lion was totally different

from all the others; so the Writer smiled and kept his own counsel.

I will wait, said the Writer, until somebody else has made the same

discovery that I have made. I will remain completely silent concerning

one square patch of fairyland placed within the very hub and centre of

the Universe, within the busiest part of a great city. When some other

traveller finds the key to the mystic place, we shall both discover it

is possible to talk about something which nobody else understands, and

be enabled to compare notes.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

AN EXPLANATION AND AN APOLOGY

A PREFACE

BOOK I

WHAT RIDGWELL AND CHRISTINE DECLARED

I THE PLEASANT-FACED LION

II BY ORDER OF THE LION

III THE GOLDEN PAVILION

IV PREPARING FOR A VISITOR

BOOK II

WHAT THE WRITER AND THE LORD MAYOR DECLARED

V THE WRITER APPEARS ON THE SCENE

VI TWO DICK WHITTINGTONS

VII THE LION MAKES HIS SIGN

VIII AN UPSETTING ARTICLE IN THE MORNING PAPER

IX THE WRITER PLANS WICKED PLANS

BOOK III

WHAT THE PUBLIC HEARD ABOUT

X THE LION GOES TO COURT

XI THE END OF THE MATTER

BOOK I

WHAT RIDGWELL AND CHRISTINE DECLARED

CHAPTER I

THE PLEASANT-FACED LION

Ridgwell always told Christine afterwards that he thought the Lion

first spoke to him in Trafalgar Square, the day when he was lost in the

fog.

Ridgwell never knew how he became separated from the rest, but like all

other unpleasant experiences it was one step, so to speak, and there he

was, wandering about lost. The fog appeared to have swallowed up the

friends he had been walking with a moment before; he could only hear

voices as if people were talking through a gramophone, and see looming

black shadows which did not seem to be accompanied by any bodies; then

whack--he walked right into something big which did not move. At this

point Ridgwell was seriously thinking about commencing to cry.

"Stop that," said a gruff voice.

"What?" faltered Ridgwell.

"Going to cry."

"I am not sure," said Ridgwell, "that I was."

"I am," said the gruff voice. "I saw the corners of your mouth go

down. Now can you climb up? No, of course you can't, you are too

small. Here, catch hold of my paw! There you are!" grunted the Lion,

when Ridgwell was seated safely. "You just fit nicely; all the

children fit in here. Knock those rolled-up policemen's capes off,

they annoy me every day when they put them there. They tickle me, and

I can't scratch about with my paws either."

Ridgwell was now lost in amazement, and regarded the Lion in

open-mouthed astonishment.

The Lion purred contentedly. It was a nice homely sounding, domestic

purr, and many times deeper and more impressive than that of a cat.

"What's your name?" demanded the Lion, whilst Ridgwell was still

gasping.

"Ridgwell."

"Very appropriate too," said the Lion. "Here you are sitting in safety

on the Ridge with me, and you are Well, aren't you?"

"Yes, thank you."

"There you are then," said the Lion. "_Ridge-Well_, what more do you

want? Now I suppose you wish to know who I am? Well, I don't mind

telling you. I am the Pleasant-Faced Lion. I am the only real Lion of

the four, consequently I have a more intelligent expression than the

others. The other three are only just common lions, and are always

asleep. Now _I_ come to life once in every generation and have a talk

to the children, or to any one grown up who is imaginative enough to

understand me. I like children, they are a hobby of mine. I am not in

my usual spirits to-day," continued the Lion, "I have caught cold."

"Have you?" said Ridgwell. "I am very sorry."

"Yes, they washed me for Trafalgar Day in some beastly solution which

was most unsuitable to me. I cannot shake off the cold. Hang on!"

shouted the Lion suddenly, "I am going to sneeze, and I may shake you

off the pedestal." Whereupon the Lion grabbed Ridgwell gently with his

paw to steady him, and after sneezing heavily, proceeded. "After

washing me for Trafalgar Day, which was most unnecessary, they hung a

ridiculous wreath round my neck with a large N in leaves upon it. To

add to the injury, an absurd person stood staring at me and explained

to her children that the N stood for Napoleon. Bah!!!" growled the

Lion. "Bah!!! Ignorance!"

"What did it stand for?" asked Ridgwell.

"Nile," grunted the Lion. "Short for Battle of the Nile."

"But I am so astonished. I did not know that you could talk, Mister

Lion."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake don't call me Mister Lion, call me Lal."

"Why Lal?" inquired Ridgwell.

"Short for Lionel," whispered the Lion. "Lionel is my proper name."

"Oh, I see, but, Mister----"

"There you go again," said the Lion. "Call me Lal and be friendly."

"Indeed I am very friendly, Mister--I mean Lal; but there are so many

things I don't understand."

"Common complaint of little boys," grumbled the Lion, "and you are

going to see a lot more things in a minute that you will find most

amazing. For instance, would you like to see a tournament?"

"Rather, Lal, I've always longed to see a tournament, but they never

have such things now, do they? Aren't they all ended in England?"

"On the contrary," declared the Lion, "one is about to begin."

"Where?"

"Here in front of your eyes, and if you like you shall stay and see it.

St. George outside Westminster has challenged the Griffin at Temple Bar

to fight. All the really important Statue folk will be present. King

Richard I from outside the Houses of Parliament will ride up to see

fair play. Charles I. will come over from Whitehall across the road;

Oliver Cromwell will most likely put in an appearance, if he can only

make up his mind to leave his mound outside the Commons in those big

boots of his."

"But, Lal," questioned Ridgwell, "surely Charles I. and Cromwell won't

come to the Tournament together? Will they speak and be friendly?"

"No, no," confessed the Lion, "we still have great trouble with those

two, they never speak. You see Cromwell is jealous of Charles, because

Charles is mounted upon a nice horse, and rides past Cromwell and never

notices him at all. Now Cromwell has to go about on foot, squeaking

and squelching in those big boots, so that he never gets up to Charles,

which annoys Cromwell very much."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, Cromwell wants to shout out 'Ha!!!' at Charles, and he

never gets a chance. Cromwell gets left out very much in the cold,"

continued the Lion, "Richard I. never notices him either."

"Why is that?" asked Ridgwell.

"It's like this," said the Lion, "and it's only reasonable when you

come to think of it. Richard I. spent nearly the whole of his time

fighting to preserve a shrine, whilst Cromwell spent most of his time

destroying them. Of course that annoys Richard, so Richard simply

looks through Cromwell whenever they meet. Nothing would induce him to

notice Cromwell."

"I should think that must annoy Cromwell," debated Ridgwell.

"It does," agreed the Lion, "but Cromwell always shouts out Ho! at

Richard; he thinks Ho! is more appropriate to Richard's period.

Richard, however, with perfect self-possession which is beyond all

praise, never appears to hear him at all. Cromwell will always keep

turning his head round to stare most rudely at Richard and Charles as

they gallop past, hoping that Richard will hear him shout Ho! and

Charles will hear him shout Ha!, and that irritating habit of his,

together with Charles's treatment of the matter, was probably the

origin of the terms, 'Roundhead' and 'Cavalier.'"

"Really!" said Ridgwell.

The Lion coughed slightly. "Not really," said the Lion, "only perhaps."

"But, Lal, if the statues of London move about and are coming here for

a tournament as you say, won't people miss them?"

"Good gracious goodness, no," exclaimed the Lion. "Why! the people of

London wouldn't miss them in a year, let alone a few hours! Then

perhaps some person might notice something wasn't in its usual place

and would write to the papers asking what it meant, and the London

County Council would hold an inquiry."

"But, Lal, will General Gordon, George III. and Nelson take part in the

Tournament?"

"Bless me, child, how you mix up your history," observed the Lion, "of

course not. They are only moderns, the others are ancients. Two Kings

waiting to see fair play between a Griffin and a Saint who are about to

have a fight, belong to quite another time. George III. and General

Gordon are moved out of the way before the combat starts; and as for

Nelson, he was frozen long ago up there; it is a ridiculous attitude

for so great a man, and a worse altitude, but there he is, and you

cannot alter it; however he is frozen and mercifully doesn't feel

anything or see anything that is going on."

"But if they are going to fight and charge one another, won't the

fountains be in the way?" inquired Ridgwell anxiously, as he looked up

into the Lion's good-humoured face.

"If you look again hard," grinned the Lion, "you will find that the

fountains and the stone lakes around them have disappeared."

Ridgwell immediately looked in the direction the Lion indicated, and

was amazed to find only a big, wide, open space of stone, one of the

largest spaces in London.

"But how did they----" commenced Ridgwell.

"Hush!" said the Lion, "you really mustn't chatter any more. Here they

come, and I have to be Judge of the Tournament, also the Referee; and

to be a Referee," sighed the Lion, "is always a thankless task."

At this moment, amidst a clatter that was indescribable, the Griffin,

looking a most ungainly object, came gallumping into the open space.

The Griffin appeared to be all wings, and scales, and claws, yet this

somewhat grisly appearance was entirely misleading, for he possessed an

amiable, although foolish disposition, whilst his expression owed much

of its peculiarity to a habit he had acquired of breaking into broad

smiles of astonished self-appreciation. The Griffin was very vain, and

the one thing he craved for was notoriety.

"Good evening, Lionel; where's George?" demanded the Griffin. "I don't

see him."

"You'll see quite enough of him before he's finished with you,"

retorted the Pleasant-Faced Lion, loftily. "However, here he comes."

St. George at this moment entered the wide stone space immediately in

front of the Lion, to whom he made a profound salute.

St. George looked very handsome in his scaly armour, and his short

bright sword glistened blue in the half light. Ridgwell had little

time to notice other details, for two horsemen came galloping in.

Both were in armour and both were mounted upon beautiful horses.

"Who are they?" asked Ridgwell.

"Don't you see?" whispered the Lion. "King Richard I. and King Charles

I. Ah," sighed the Lion, "what a noble figure Richard is! He is my

special favourite; you see," explained the Lion, "he is named after me."

"Is he?"

"Of course. Is he not called Richard Coeur-de-Lion? I am de-Lion,"

announced the Lion proudly. "He carried a picture of me on his shield

once. You may notice," proceeded the Lion, "that King Charles

unfortunately rides slightly upon one side. It is not his fault, but

owing to the fact that he has no girth to his saddle."

The horsemen wheeled one to either end of the arena before bringing

their horses to a standstill.

The two opponents, St. George and the Griffin, stood facing each other

in the centre, waiting for the combat to commence.

"Before we start," announced the Lion, "I am the Judge. There is, of

course, to be no bloodshed; indeed," he added, in his wisest and most

judicial manner, "bloodshed is impossible. The Griffin is almost

over-protected (if I can use such a term) with scales, St. George is

fully covered with armour. The Griffin possesses his remarkable claws,

St. George a flat sword, so both are well matched. Therefore the

contest resolves itself into a trial of skill and strength. Both shall

be weighed in the scales."

"He! he! he!" sniggered the Griffin, "if my scales cannot crush the

scales of George's blatant armour may I live to bite my own nails.

Why, I will squash him as flat as an empty meat tin."

"Swank," murmured St. George, nonchalantly.

"The reason of the contest," continued the Lion in a loud voice, as if

he were reading from some document which he had committed to memory,

"is owing to a ridiculous assertion made by the Griffin. The Griffin

claims to be the older established of the two. St. George laughs at

this claim derisively. The Griffin sorely provoked to it,

unfortunately fell back upon dates, and his memory being very weak he

hoped to conceal his shakiness about dates, with phrases. He therefore

declared that Temple Bar where he now stands, once possessed two gates

which have since been removed. Nevertheless the Griffin contends that

he is still there and Temple Bar is still there; in this he is

undoubtedly right; yet, not content with this, he further asserts that

this is the whole cause and origin of the phrase, 'Two to one, Bar

one.' St. George here present, who knows something about horses,

immediately called him a--well, it is not a nice word," broke off the

Lion in parenthesis, "anyway St. George intimated that the truth was

not in the Griffin. Hence a trial by combat. Are you ready?" roared

the Lion; "then commence."

From his quite comfortable seat between the Lion's paws, Ridgwell now

watched the strangest combat he would ever be likely to witness.

The Griffin advanced towards St. George with about as much grace as a

dancing camel would possess. His excessive angularity was accentuated

by his extraordinary clumsiness. St. George did not appear at all

disconcerted by the flapping of the Griffin's wings, but managed to

avoid his clumsy clutches with great skill. Had St. George not slipped

upon a piece of orange-peel, inadvertently left upon the floor of the

arena, it is doubtful if the Griffin would ever have touched him. As

St. George slipped, the Griffin hugged him tightly. Ridgwell held his

breath, for it almost seemed as if St. George's armour must indeed

crumple up.

"Meat tins," shrieked the Griffin.

"Break away," commanded the Lion.

"Here, I say," snorted the Griffin, "I'd only just got him."

"Break away," ordered the Lion, "no hugging."

The Griffin retired to his corner pouting.

When the second bout started, Ridgwell noticed that there was something

like a smile upon St. George's face, and he soon understood the reason

of it. St. George had found out his adversary's weak spot.

The Griffin advancing with a rush upon his hind legs, with his front

claws doubled up reaching high over St. George to pull him down, was

brought to a sudden standstill.

There was a rapid sound of "Whack! whack! whack! whack!" four times.

St. George had hit the Griffin with the flat of his sword upon the most

tender part of the Griffin's claws. The Griffin's mouth trembled.

"Whack! whack! whack! whack!" came four more swashing blows, whilst the

Griffin hesitated. Then the Griffin broke down completely, and wept

aloud bitterly.

"He's broken my knuckles," sobbed the Griffin.

"Do you give in?" asked the Lion.

"Oh yes," sobbed the Griffin. "Oh! my poor paws."

"Shall he chase you round the arena?" demanded the Lion.

"No," whimpered the Griffin; "I'll go home quietly."

Thereupon King Richard raised his sword and saluted to indicate that

the fight was over, and followed by King Charles, who still swerved

slightly to one side in his saddle, the two Kings rode out of the

Square.

"Shake hands?" asked St. George of the Griffin, before he departed.

The Griffin shook his head dolefully instead, whilst great tears

coursed down his cheeks.

"Oh no," sniffed the Griffin, "I don't think I shall ever shake hands

again."

When everybody had gone, the Griffin slowly hobbled to his feet, and

moving towards home, half sobbed and half sang in a way that was

intensely comic--

"Oh! Temple Bar, Oh! Temple Bar,

With broken knuckles you seem so far.

And all my claws are broken too;

Oh! Temple Bar, what shall I do?

To _hit_ me with a sword held flat,

'Twas grim of George to think of that."

"Now you have seen the tournament," observed the Lion to Ridgwell, "I

suppose you will have to get home somehow."

"Yes, please, Lal."

"And of course," said the Pleasant-Faced Lion, "you will want to come

again."

"Rather," laughed Ridgwell.

"Well, to-morrow night there is a very different sort of entertainment.

I and the Statue folk are going to give an evening party, the grandest

you have ever seen, or will ever be likely to see."

"Oh, Lal, can I come and bring Christine?"

"Who is Christine?" inquired the Lion, cautiously; "you know we cannot

admit everybody."

"Christine is my little sister. At least," added Ridgwell, "Christine

is older than I am, but she is little all the same."

"I see."

"And she would so enjoy it, Lal," pleaded Ridgwell.

"Very well," said the Lion, "both come just this once. Now for home.

Come," commanded the Lion, "jump up. I learned that common expression

from the people who every moment of the day mount upon the horrid Buzz,

Buzz, things."

"Don't you like the Motor Omnibuses then?"

"The Buzz Buzzes you mean, child. No, I dislike them intensely, they

make such a noise both day and night that I cannot hear myself purr

even. Jump up. Where do you want to go to?"

"To Balham, please, Lal."

"Ah, that's the man with the Ass, isn't it?" demanded the Lion.

For a moment Ridgwell looked quite shocked. "Oh no, Lal, you are

thinking of Balaam."

"Spelt the same way," snapped the Lion, who did not like being

corrected upon historical matters.

"No, Lal, there is an H in Balham and people never drop it."

"Glad to hear it," grunted the Lion. "I only wish the people who

collect the pennies from the passengers upon the Buzz Buzz things would

say the same. Day by day," added the Lion in an aggrieved tone, "I

hear them shout out the expressions--'Olloway, 'Igate, 'Arrow. The

Board Schools," continued the Lion in his wisest tones, "are

responsible for a most imperfect system of education."

"But, Lal," pleaded Ridgwell, "you will take me to Balham, won't you?

I do not know how I should get home if you didn't take me there."

"Yes," said the Lion, "of course, I shall take you home, but you

mustn't come to see me too often, you know, it's outside the four-mile

radius. However," concluded the Lion, "I shall follow the tram lines.

Jump up," once more commanded the Lion, "and hang on, because you know

I go at a good pace when once started."

Whereupon Ridgwell clambered upon the Pleasant-Faced Lion's back, and

convulsively hugging him half round his great neck, buried his head in

the Lion's mane and shut his eyes, whilst the Lion took a bold jump

from off his pedestal, and started in a brisk trot for Balham.

When they had arrived at their destination outside Ridgwell's home, the

Lion stood in the road and wagged his tail contentedly.

"Thank you for bringing me home, Lal," said Ridgwell as he clambered

off the Lion's back.

"Good-night," whispered the Lion hoarsely, for after his long run he

was almost out of breath. "Mind you close the hall door safely after

you."

The Pleasant-Faced Lion, who appeared to be pleased at having brought

his little charge home, stood in the road and purred quite loudly for

some time.

But none of the neighbours, who heard the deep sound echoing through

the quiet road, thought of looking out of the window. They merely

believed the sound proceeded from some powerful motor car which had

stopped in the vicinity.

Then the Pleasant-Faced Lion jogged home to his pedestal in Trafalgar

Square, well pleased with his night's work.

CHAPTER II

BY ORDER OF THE LION

"Hullo, Lal!" said Ridgwell, as he looked up at the Lion the following

evening.

"Hullo!" rejoined the Lion huskily. "Who is that you have brought with

you?"

"This is Christine," said Ridgwell.

"How do you do?" said the Pleasant-Faced Lion, and he seemed to look

even more pleasant than usual. The Lion stretched himself, descended

from his pedestal, and held out his paw to shake hands with Christine:

Christine responded to these greetings shyly.

Ridgwell really thought the Lion was one of the most amiable creatures

he had ever met.

"If you do not mind," the Lion observed to Christine, "you might walk

upon the other side of Ridgwell and not next to me."

"Oh, Lal, why?" asked Christine.

"Who asked Christine to call me Lal?" inquired the Lion, as he lifted

his head up with an intensely comical air of self-importance.

"I did," said Ridgwell; "you told me always to call you Lal."

"Quite right," replied the Lion. "But do you always do exactly alike,

you two?"

"Yes, always," said Ridgwell.

"Humph!" grunted the Lion. "Suppose there is only one apple and you

both want it, what happens?"

"We exactly divide it," said Ridgwell.

"Mathematically correct," said the Lion. "Good."

"But please why can't I walk next to you, _Mister_ Lion?"

"Ha!" shrieked the Lion, "there she goes, Mister Lion. You taught her

that too, I suppose."

"Hush, Lal," said Ridgwell, "don't get excited. Christine will soon

get out of the habit and call you Lal, directly she knows how pleasant

you are."

"You haven't answered my question, Lal," objected Christine.

"Well, little Christine, it is like this," and the Lion pondered deeply

for awhile. "If you walked _next_ to me and rested your hand upon my

mane as you are doing now, anybody who saw us might take us for Una and

the Lion, otherwise Beauty and the Beast, and oh! my dear child,"

implored the Lion, "you surely could not wish me ever to be called a

_beast_."

"Of course not," said Christine; "we wouldn't hurt your feelings for

worlds. So, Ridgie, you walk next to Lal, and I will walk the other

side of you."

"A most reasonable child," muttered the Lion, "really quite reasonable."

"Did you bring the sulphur tablets?" asked the Lion mysteriously.

"Yes, here they are. Christine has them wrapped up in a packet,"

explained Ridgwell; "but, Lal, what can you want with sulphur tablets?

You promised me we should both be asked to the party, but sulphur

tablets do seem such an odd thing to want as a start. I have thought

over it, and Christine has thought over it, and we cannot really think

what they can be for."

The Lion chuckled his most pleasant chuckle.

"Give it up?"

"Yes," nodded Ridgwell.

"So would any one else," grinned the Lion, "except me. Have you ever

thought how the thick yellow London fogs come?" inquired the Lion

insinuatingly. "Do you know what causes them?"

"No," said Ridgwell. "I don't think anybody knows that."

"I do," replied the Lion.

"What causes them, then?" asked Ridgwell.

"The yellow fogs are caused solely by the habit the other three lions

have of sucking sulphur tablets whilst they are asleep," declared the

Lion. "They are always sleeping, and directly two sulphur tablets are

placed in the corner of each one's mouth they go on sleeping and

breathing, sleeping and breathing. The result is a thick yellow fog."

"I never knew that was the cause of London fogs," mused Ridgwell.

"One of them," sighed the Lion; "and who can wonder at it? Just look

at the size of their mouths."

"But your mouth is as large as theirs, is it not?" debated Christine.

"Yes," said the Lion, "but there is a particular reason for my mouth

being large."

"Why?" asked the children.

"On account of all the wisdom I utter," replied the Lion loftily.

"Anyway," said Ridgwell, "it does seem a horrid preparation for a party

to start with a fog. Surely nobody would see what was going on."

"Hush, hush, my children," remonstrated the Pleasant-Faced Lion. "Just

gather round and listen, and do not interrupt. You will be amazed at

all the things you are about to see and hear, for you are going to be

present to-night for a few minutes at the most wonderful party ever

given in the whole world."

"That will be lovely," said Ridgwell and Christine. "And oh! Lal,

really we have looked forward to it so much."

The Lion patted each of the children in turn affectionately upon the

head with its paw, and they remembered afterwards that his paw was as

soft as velvet, and really wasn't heavy at all.

"Chatter, chatter, chatter," said the Lion, "just like the magpies and

the sparrows, and the fashionable Society people for that matter, but

you must not interrupt. I am just like one of those guides that do all

the talking, and if I am interrupted I lose my place, get all my

thoughts out of order, and all the ceremony will be wrong. Then King

Richard and King Charles will both be down upon me, and say the party

was rotten, and that I was to blame; and as for Boadicea, she has a

nasty temper, and will probably hit me over the head with her reins."

"Oh, Lal, do you mean to say that King Richard and King Charles and

Boadicea are coming to the party?"

"Yes, all of them," grunted the Lion. "Now be quiet, and just listen.

The sulphur tablets which seem to cause you so much mystification are

simply to cause a fog upon the _outside_ of Trafalgar Square, and to

shut out the sight of the most wonderful party in the world from the

gaze of all the other people who have not been invited to it. Imagine

the millions of people who would flock to see such a sight, if it were

not screened off. Drivers of the Buzz Buzz things they call

motor-buses and taxis, loafers, tramps, idlers, City men, work-girls,

curious women--and, by the way, remember that women are always

curious--would flock in millions, attracted by the lovely lights, which

will be brighter than anything you have ever seen, by the jewels, which

will be more dazzling than anything you have ever dreamed of, to say

nothing about the gorgeous costumes that will rival anything displayed

upon the Field of the Cloth of Gold, outdo the splendours of any court,

and put the pageant of the grandest pantomime ever witnessed to shame.

Follow me," commanded the Lion, "and you will see what you will see

only once in your lives, and it all begins with the sulphur tablets."

Ridgwell and Christine followed, and were dumb with amazement. The

Lion gently took the packet of sulphur tablets from Christine and

thanked her for providing them. Gingerly he approached each of the

other three sleeping lions in turn and insinuatingly placed two in the

mouth of each lion; one tablet each side between each lion's big front

teeth and its tongue.

"It's a dreadful habit," said the Pleasant-Faced Lion, "to suck sulphur

tablets in your sleep, but I suppose it's soothing. Now watch,"

observed Lal maliciously. "Sleeping and breathing, sleeping and

breathing, the sulphur tablets will soon commence to work."

Slowly as they watched, thick jets of yellow vapour commenced to rise

upward and all around.

"Come," whispered Lal, "the thick fog stops like a wall at the back of

their pedestals and all round Trafalgar Square. As I told you,"

chuckled the Lion, "the fog is only upon the _outside_ of where the

party will take place."

He now quickly drew the children out of the fog inside the immense

charmed circle of Trafalgar Square, where the atmosphere was quite

clear, but as yet quite dark.

The Lion lifted up his head and gave a most piercing and peculiar

whistle; once, twice, three times and yet a fourth he repeated this

signal.

The signal was answered in a curious manner. The whole space commenced

to vibrate with a strange humming sound which resembled violins,

violoncellos, flageolets and flutes being played upon very faintly.

The sounds were so weirdly fascinating that any one might have imagined

it proceeded from a little group of Eastern musicians playing upon

reeds in order to charm some snake to uncoil and become sociable after

a lengthy seclusion in its wicker-work basket.

"What is that music?" asked Ridgwell.

"The eight Dolphins of the fountains are humming happily. They are

waiting to carry out my commands," answered the Lion.

Once again the Lion whistled four times.

Ridgwell and Christine, who were listening intently, could hear the

scurrying of flying feet racing along. The sound drew nearer and

nearer, until several dark forms were jostling each other immediately

in front of where they stood, and they could feel the warm breath of

some living things upon their hands. Suddenly in the darkness there

was a chorus of hoarse laughter.

Ridgwell and Christine started slightly.

"Are they spirits?" inquired Ridgwell, with a note of anxiety in his

voice.

"No," vouchsafed the Lion, "only the four merry laughing little Lions

from outside Westminster Abbey. They are the most ridiculous creatures

in all London.

"Stop laughing," commanded the Lion.

"Hear me, Gamble, Grin, Grub, and Carry-on-Merry, and hearken

attentively.

"Carry-on-Merry, have you all stopped laughing?" demanded the Lion.

"Yes, mighty Lal, we are simply grinning at present, which is as near

to being serious as we can ever become. We are only waiting for your

commands."

The Lion lifted up his mighty head and called, "Silence, Dolphins."

Immediately the curious sounds of humming ceased.

"The party I give is to be the most beautiful in the world, displaying

wonders such as no Emperor can procure. Each of the Four Seasons shall

appear before us, perfect in every way, to be followed by the Pavilion

of Gold."

"It shall be done, O Lal."

"My guests will be all the stray children of London. Call them from

every street and court, from out every by-way, alley, and lane."

"They are all here waiting, O Lal."

"Good. Also gather together all the lost and stray dogs of London,

every single one who is wandering about to-night."

"They have all been summoned, O Lal."

"The Royalty present will include Queen Boadicea, King Richard I., King

Charles I., and St. George."

"Each has received a royal invitation, O Lal, and the Royal personages

will all be pleased to attend."

"Each boy and girl is to be dressed in the most costly costume,

according to their taste."

"All is prepared for them, Lal, and even as you desire, great splendour

awaits them, and nothing will be lacking for their perfect enjoyment."

"Good; see that all is well done, and be ready to begin when I give the

signal. You understand?"

"We understand," laughed the four merry Lions.

"We obey," squeaked the Dolphins.

"Only one thing remains to be done, to dress you, Ridgwell, and you,

Christine."

"What shall we be dressed in?" inquired Christine.

"Shut your eyes," said the Lion gently, "and stretch your hands over

the lake of the fountain and take what the Dolphins give you. They

know what you want, and their taste in such matters is exquisite."

The children shut their eyes and obeyed. The Lion leant over the rim

of the lake and whispered to the Dolphins--

"Dress the boy like a prince, and the girl like a little queen. The

richest stuff, mind, five guineas a yard. Give her a crown of the

whitest daisies with shell pink petal tips for a crown. No jewels, no

pearls, no, no.

Take, oh take the pearls away,

For they bring tears, the wise men say.

chanted the Lion in his rich double bass. "Give them both jewelled

shoe buckles; give the boy jewelled levée buttons for his satin

breeches, a plain gold circlet for his head. A train for the girl from

her shoulders, of pure cloth of gold; bring it light, so that it does

not weigh heavily. White satin for the boy, with richest figured

velvet doublet set with cloth of gold. Hang round their necks now,

with all its luminous jewels, the highest order in the world, the Order

of Great Imagination," commanded the Lion, "For by the Order of Great

Imagination they shall see things that no one else can see, they shall

be able to listen to things that no one else shall be able to hear.

They shall delight in the exquisiteness of things as no one else can

delight in them, who has not received this order. For I declare to you

all that a child who has this glittering order shall know of things

that nobody else in the whole world shall know of. Everything is

ready."

"Let us have Spring," commanded the Lion.

Immediately the words were uttered there came the soft beating of

birds' wings over Ridgwell's head. The atmosphere instantly became

fragrant with the myriad scents of wild flowers.

A mist seemed to swim for a second before their eyes, and, as it

cleared away, they were standing together with many other children

knee-deep in unending banks of bluebells and primroses.

They were in the midst of the most perfect wooded dell they had ever

beheld.

Thousands of delicate flower-stems thrust their tiny spears from earth

and emerald moss, blossoming with flowers before their wondering eyes.

The spiral hedges slowly shook out dappled clusters of white hawthorn.

The interlaced trees above them, amidst which all the birds in

Christendom appeared to be carolling simultaneously, gently outspread

friendly arms, overladen with powdered red and white may blossom.

Butterflies with gaily painted wings hovered tenderly overhead, and

tiny silver thistledown balls sailed across the blue sky spaces, like

little wayward balloons without anybody in charge of them.

"You can all pick as many flowers as you like," suggested the Lion.

"Flowers were meant for the children to pick, so make yourselves

nosegays, garlands, and crowns galore. There are no notices _here_ to

keep off the grass. You can also chase the butterflies if you like,

but I warn you that you will never catch them. As a matter of fact

that is the one thing I don't permit. Any butterfly with really nice

feelings objects most decidedly when a pin is run through its body, as

much as a happy fish hates to be caught upon a hook. I sympathise with

both of them, and consider such practices ought to be stopped."

Ridgwell, well-nigh immersed in a bank of bluebells, listened in a

semi-enchanted condition to the Lion's words of wisdom, and watched the

brilliant-coloured butterflies chasing each other in the pearly spaces

above him.

Christine, grasping a great yellow bunch of primroses in each hand,

ceased picking flowers and watched the bright-eyed squirrels and

rabbits gambolling everywhere around.

"Ridgie, have you noticed all the rabbits and squirrels are quite tame?"

"Of course they're tame," agreed the Lion, "Nobody here to hurt them;

why, they will come and eat out of your hand."

"Why is that?" asked Ridgwell.

"No guns or traps," chuckled the Lion. "Any animal respectably brought

up is indignant at the very thought of a gun or a trap; consequently

they keep themselves to themselves, and seldom go out into society."

Ridgwell's gaze roamed over the lovely spring landscape, and rested

upon the masses of flowers the other children were picking.

"Everything here is just as it ought to be, isn't it, Lal?"

"Every single thing," answered the Lion. "But it is going to change,

you know, almost directly."

"Change?" echoed Ridgwell. "Why, Lal?"

The Pleasant-Faced Lion chuckled softly, and lifting his head, called

out, "Summer."

Immediately the Lion said "Summer," everything around commenced to

alter most strangely.

Banks of primroses became stretches of sparkling golden sands, and the

great masses of bluebells, after swaying once or twice, dissolved

themselves into the misty rippling waves of a summer sea.

Christine and Ridgwell, looking hopelessly perplexed, found they were

each in a tiny boat with a pearly sail, skimming over shallow blue

waters that sparkled like sapphires.

The sky over their heads had changed to the burning blue of a summer

day. The air was filled with the sweet salt spray of the sea, which

descended in delicious showers upon all of them.

"Have all the children got boats?" demanded the Lion.

"All," shrilled the Dolphins. "Their boats can't upset, Lal, and the

waters are transparent, and shallow enough for them to fish up coloured

shells, coral, and mother-of-pearl. There's a sunken treasure-ship

half buried in the sands far upon the other side, Lal, if they sail for

it."

"They'll all make for that safe enough," answered the Lion. "Push

their boats off, Dolphins, and help them all to land upon the far

shore."

The Dolphins, splashing the water into little white frothy waves,

accompanied the little bobbing fleet of pearl-boats, and sang gaily as

they swam alongside.

"Blue and gold on the summer sea,

Each little mast with a sail of pearl,

Each dipping boat holds a boy or girl,

A most enchanting argosy.

A ship one's longed for most perhaps

That cannot anyhow collapse.

We'll sail away to the golden strand,

And maybe discover No Man's Land;

Each one of us will get a peep

Into the wonders of the deep,

Dredging for shells of brilliant hue,

And discovering mermaids too.

Sing ho! for a galleon of Spanish gold,

With jewels and ivory in the hold.

What treasure we'll find upon the main!

What triumph when we sail home again!

The wonder of every lad and lass

Will be the booty we amass."

After a short but entrancing voyage, and even whilst Ridgwell and

Christine stood with the other children waist-deep in the great carven

hold of the sunken Spanish galleon, shovelling out golden doubloons and

precious jewels, the sound of Lal's voice came across the water to them.

"Autumn, ahoy!" shouted Lal.

* * * * *

"Isn't it bewildering, Chris?" lamented Ridgwell. "Only a second ago

we were enthroned in a castle of golden coins and precious stones, and

now, without any sort of warning whatever, we are standing upon the top

of a waggon-load of newly-mown hay."

"Yes, Ridgie, and look at Lal across there, laughing about it like

anything."

"He certainly does play tricks with us, Chris. See, he is sending all

the children racing across to draw our hay-cart with those ropes of

acorns and leaves they are holding. Hullo!" broke off Ridgwell,

"somebody is throwing things at me, and if they continue doing it I

shall jolly well start throwing back again."

Christine looked up from the stack of loose hay surrounding her in the

cart upon which they stood.

"Why, it's apples," announced Christine.

"Where?" inquired her brother.

"Look, Ridgie, overhead, hundreds of them hanging from every tree. We

can reach them quite easily."

There could be no doubt about the matter. Rosy apples ripened by the

sun dangled in clusters overhead, and gently fell down at the very

moment when any one felt disposed to eat them.

Within easy reach grew trailing brambles smothered with ripened patches

of fragrant blackberries.

The Pleasant-Faced Lion lifted up his voice and inquired if the company

present desired anything better, at the season they were now passing

through, than unlimited apples, blackberries, and hay.

"No," came a simultaneous chorus from all the children.

"Good," replied the Lion. "After you have all eaten as many apples and

blackberries as you want, the battle of the new-mown hay will start. I

shall be the umpire. If Ridgwell and Christine can throw enough hay

from their big cart to bury all the children around them, they will

have won. If the other children can throw up enough hay to completely

smother the cart, Ridgwell and Christine will have lost. Now start,"

laughed the Lion.

"Look here, Chris, we must get to work, so here goes."

Whereupon Ridgwell seized a big armful of loose hay and awaited the

attack.

"We have the advantage of height," observed Christine, as she hastily

gathered as much hay as she could hold, "and you know, Ridgie, it is

much easier for us to throw down than it is for them to throw up."

"How about numbers?" objected Ridgwell; "why, it's two against

hundreds, Chris."

Then the battle commenced. That engagement was a memorable one amidst

the scented hay. Not infrequently it happened that only a laughing

eye, or the tip of a small nose was anywhere visible to show who might

be the victor. Nobody will ever be quite sure who won, and it is

doubtful if the point was ever decided.

Ridgwell, feeling very smothered up, was remarking to Christine in

muffled tones that he thought they must have lost, when the voice of

Lal announced "Winter."

"Don't you feel buried, Chris?"

"Yes," came the unexpected reply, "I am. I'm simply buried in furs and

snow!"

"Furs and snow?" repeated Ridgwell incredulously. "What on earth do

you mean, Chris? Oh, good gracious, Chris, I've got an extraordinary

feeling I'm falling over a sort of precipice."

"So we are," rejoined Christine philosophically. "Don't you see,

Ridgie, that Lal has changed everything again. We are on a toboggan

sleigh, and just starting down no end of a steep hill."

Ridgwell rubbed the finely powdered snow out of his eyes.

An entrancing winter scene lay below them. Giant blue-green pine-trees

were dotted about over the glistening snow which flashed with a million

diamond sparkles. All the children were clad in beautiful furs.

Some of them were sliding and skating, others snowballing and tumbling

in the snow.

"Hang on, Ridgwell and Christine," shouted the Lion, "your toboggan has

started at a pretty good pace. Hold tight."

Ridgwell and Christine shut their eyes, and as neither of them had any

breath during that wild descent, they could only compare notes

afterwards as to the amazing sensations they experienced during these

moments.

When the toboggan had finally brought itself to a standstill Ridgwell

extricated himself and viewed the snow-powdered spaces in front of them

a trifle apprehensively. Bounding along towards them raced a pack of

animals. Their eyes were glistening and their tongues hanging out.

"Wolves!" muttered Ridgwell. "Oh! I say, Chris, I don't think I quite

care about meeting wolves. Do you? They don't look very friendly

either, by the way they are coming along."

"It's the stray dogs," shouted Christine; "and look, Carry-on-Merry is

putting little teams of them into sleighs to draw us along."

"Sleigh races about to start," called the Lion. "Take your seats,

shake the reins and you will hear the silver bells tinkle. The first

sleigh to reach the farthest pine-trees wins the race. Off you go."

Away flew the dogs, drawing the children over the powdered snow tracks.

After the race Carry-on-Merry collected all the children together.

"I propose a snowball match," grinned Carry-on-Merry. "Gamble, Grin,

Grub, and myself upon one side, against all you children."

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the Pleasant-Faced Lion. "My goodness, what a

beating all you children are going to have. Why, Carry-on-Merry and

his lot can manufacture snowballs as quick as lightning."

The battle commenced without delay, and it was a terrific conflict.

Hundreds of little snowballs whizzed through the air.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the Pleasant-Faced Lion, "the children are

retreating. Carry-on-Merry, Gamble, Grin, and Grub, I believe you are

the champion snowballers of the world. I think myself you must have

acquired the gift from some unusually impish urchins whose methods you

have closely observed round Westminster way. I consider your skill

quite in accordance with the best street traditions."

The children were eventually snowballed to a standstill, and flinging

away their remaining ammunition rolled themselves over on the snow to

avoid any more of the unerring missiles of Carry-on-Merry and his band.

"Give in," demanded the Lion pleasantly.

"Never!" laughed the children.

"But you're beaten, you know," insisted the Lion. "Carry-on-Merry, you

can take them all prisoners and escort them to the Pavilion of Gold."

Even whilst the children were tumbling in the snow the atmosphere

became inky black.

The darkness was not in any way alarming; it had taken place so

gradually that they scarcely noticed it, which only intensified the

marvellous change which was to follow.

CHAPTER III

THE GOLDEN PAVILION

Christine and Ridgwell never forgot the sight that met their eyes when

the strange transformation took place. It was dazzling in its beauty

and it was some seconds before they could realise the full wonder of

it. The dimness of the light changed to the most exquisite

illuminations imaginable.

Christine and Ridgwell realised that the party was to take place in a

gorgeous golden pavilion.

The fountains, which had slid to either end of the pavilion, shot up

brilliant globes of changing light which hovered in the air like tiny

coloured air balls, whilst the tops of the fountains spraying a golden

mist, were echoed again in the lustrous glow of walls and roof.

From the pearly dome whose outline was only faintly suggested overhead,

and upon every side, hung myriad stacks of flowers, which now and again

fell in fragrant jewelled showers upon the children, just as soon as

each blossom had grown into perfection.

Upon a golden dais at one end were King Richard and King Charles clad

in glittering silver armour, with Queen Boadicea arrayed in purple, in

the centre; whilst St. George stood beside them in shining golden

splendour.

Ridgwell and Christine stood beside the Pleasant-Faced Lion upon

another dais immediately facing the royal personages. The Lion was no

longer a dull, copper green hue; his whole body had changed to the

colour of burnished gold and his great mane shone like a sun.

Forty children dressed in the vermilion and black of Beef-eaters from

the Tower with halberts in their hands, lined the way up the shallow

golden steps to each dais, twenty upon either side.

The Lion gave his last orders for the ceremony--

"Gamble, Grin, Grub, and Carry-on-Merry, sound the Merry Fanfare on

your silver trumpets!"

The four little lions gaily arrayed in scarlet and gold advanced into

the centre of the great space and executed a remarkable fanfare, which

without being entirely a march, or wholly a waltz, was nevertheless

delightful to listen to.

Immediately a procession of the most lovely children entered, dressed

in every brilliant costume imaginable.

The delicious fragrance of the scented golden mist, diffused from the

two fountains, filled the air as the happy and beautiful children, boys

and girls, danced into the pavilion. They all paused to bow to the

Royalty present, and St. George; then they advanced to where Ridgwell

and Christine stood beside the Pleasant-Faced Lion.

They greeted the Lion as an old acquaintance and blew him kisses as

they passed.

As they moved along, glittering in costly silks and satins, winding in

and out with the changing colours of a rainbow, Ridgwell spoke to the

Lion--

"Lal, Christine and I have never seen so many lovely children before.

Surely these are not the stray ragged children of London? Why, their

faces are the colour of the new roses that are falling everywhere about

us, and look how bright their eyes are!"

The Lion smiled, then pointed to the scented golden spray being

showered from the two fountains.

"They look lovely as you see them," said the Lion, "because perpetual

health, and love, and happiness are being diffused upon them from the

fountains. Outside they were different," continued the Lion; "but here

the dark circles disappear from beneath their eyes, which become bright

and full of love, as they ought to be, the little puckers of care and

want are sponged out of their faces by the spray from the fountain.

The pallor of their faces changes to rosy health and beauty as it

should; the pinched look many of them wear, gives place to roundness

and the happy laughing curves of childhood that doesn't know or reckon

of any care."

"But, Lal, where do all these wonderful things come from?" questioned

Ridgwell; "the great canopy, the golden carpet, all the costumes and

the jewels?"

The Lion chuckled. "They all come out of the fountains, straight from

the warehouses of the merchants. The Dolphins bring them. Everything

comes from the fountains."

"You see," proceeded the Lion, "there is going to be plenty to eat and

drink and everything of the best." Once again the Lion pointed towards

the two fountains: "See the eight golden dolphins with their golden

trays, they hand up delicious cakes, the best fruit, ices, lemonade,

chocolates, sandwiches, anything you want."

"Shall we have some of those delightful things to eat too?" asked

Ridgwell.

"Oh, be reassured, my child," smiled the Lion, "the Dolphins won't

forget either you or Christine, they will dance up to you with their

trays filled with everything you want."

"If all those other children look so very beautiful, what do _we_ look

like?" Ridgwell asked the Lion in a whisper. "You see there are no

looking-glasses, are there?"

For the first time the children remembered to look at one another.

Christine was the first to speak, and it was with a cry of great

delight she turned to Ridgwell--

"Oh, Ridgie, you are lovely," said Christine.

"Course he is," said the Lion.

"I don't know about that," said Ridgwell hesitatingly. "I think you

have made a mistake in the excitement."

"I've not," insisted Christine; "why, you look like a beautiful little

Prince."

Here Ridgwell, who, overcome with modesty at these tributes, had been

examining his jewelled shoe-buckles with downcast eyes, looked up at

his sister.

"Well, how about you?" exclaimed Ridgwell. "Why, you look like a

lovely fairy queen----"

"Course she does," said the Lion.

"Don't be silly, Ridgie," said Christine, severely.

"I'm not," asserted Ridgwell. "I've never seen you look like that.

Perhaps," added Ridgwell, "these glittering orders we wear round our

necks have something to do with it."

"You're right," said the Lion, "the priceless Order of Great

Imagination enables you to see everything that is beautiful as it

really is, and, of course, everything here is beautiful, so," added the

Lion logically, "why should you both be different from anything else?"

The Lion beckoned to one of the Dolphins.

"Here," said the Lion, as the Dolphin approached them, "hold up your

burnished golden tray and let the boy see himself."

The Dolphin held up the polished tray and Ridgwell looked into it

wonderingly.

"My goodness," said the Lion, "I thought girls were vain, but boys are

worse!"

"That _can't_ be me," said Ridgwell.

"Well, it isn't me," grumbled the Lion, "that's certain."

Christine peeped over the shoulder of Ridgwell's golden tunic.

"It's like us," said Christine, "but yet it isn't us at all."

"That is what people always say when they see their own photographs for

the first time," observed the Lion wisely. "Ha!" broke off the Lion,

"here come the dogs."

"Have you placed the two long troughs at the far end for them?"

demanded the Lion.

"Yes," chorussed the little lions.

"What have you filled them with?" questioned the Lion.

"Finest mutton and chicken bones in one," laughed Carry-on-Merry,

"water in the other."

"Have you remembered their special strip of comfortable carpet?" asked

the Lion anxiously.

"It's there," grinned Carry-on-Merry.

"Why are the stray dogs to have a strip of special comfortable carpet?"

asked Christine.

"Because they like to pick the bones afterwards upon the carpet," said

the Lion; "it's a little habit of theirs, and they are not so highly

trained as we are."

A most extraordinary procession now made its appearance before them.

The children might have thought it was a Noah's Ark, only the dogs

advanced in fours. Newfoundlands, St. Bernards, Mastiffs, Retrievers,

every conceivable dog down to tiny fox terriers, Spaniels and Yorkshire

terriers. They all looked very happy and their coats shone as if they

had been lately washed and had afterwards dried themselves in the

golden rays of the warm sun, which even now seemed to linger over them.

"Lovely creatures," said Christine.

"Ripping," said Ridgwell, "they are dears."

"Started to munch their bones already," grunted the Lion. "Well,

they're not so highly educated as we are. A party to them is a party,

and they don't wait for anybody, which, after all, is the proper thing

to do. Where's the Griffin?" demanded the Lion of Carry-on-Merry,

after that intelligent creature, having acted like a verger (a habit he

had probably acquired from a life-long proximity to Westminster Abbey),

had shown all the dogs to their places along one side where the

comfortable carpet formed a sort of aisle.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Carry-on-Merry, "the Griffin is late."

"He's always late," grumbled the Lion, "his head's weak, and he never

can remember what time a party starts."

"Here he comes," grunted Carry-on-Merry, "and, oh! my goodness, what

_does_ he look like?"

"Absolutely ludicrous as usual," said the Lion.

The Griffin presented an intensely comical appearance. Wishing to keep

up the dignity of the City, he had chosen for his party-dress a scarlet

Lord Mayor's robe, edged with fur, which he had folded around himself

in an exceedingly ridiculous fashion.

Upon his head, as he believed it to be becoming, he had placed jauntily

sideways, an immense green dunce's cap from one of the children's giant

crackers, which the Griffin had pulled as he entered the doors.

The Griffin had decided to adorn his front feet with strips of scarlet

flannel, because he declared that he had chilblains, and furthermore,

his paws were exceedingly tender after his encounter upon the previous

evening with St. George.

It was thus that the Griffin ambled in trailing his Lord Mayor's robes

behind him, and smiling aimlessly from right to left upon everybody

present.

"Has everybody missed me?" sniggered the Griffin. "I fear I'm late!"

"Nobody has missed you at all," retorted the Pleasant-Faced Lion.

The Griffin looked hurt for a moment.

"Oh, surely, Lal," entreated the Griffin; "_surely_ some one missed me!"

"No," said the Lion firmly.

The corners of the Griffin's mouth trembled.

"Now then," said the Lion, sternly, "no emotion."

"No! no! Lal," faltered the Griffin, "but when I think of that lovely

saying, 'Everybody's Loved by Some one'----"

"There are exceptions to every rule," snapped the Lion.

"Oh," sniggered the Griffin, "then it does apply even to me, for I

myself am an exception. There is only one of me," ended the Griffin

eagerly, "only one in all London."

"Some things don't bear repeating," said the Lion.

The Griffin's weak memory came to his aid at this awkward moment:

"That must particularly apply to your last remark," simpered the

Griffin.

"You have heard somebody else say that," objected the Lion.

"True," sniggered the Griffin, "and it will not be the first time that

the remembrance of other people's sayings have passed for wit; and I

have always so longed to be a wit," sighed the Griffin. "Don't you

think, Lal, that I might one day be a wit?" inquired the Griffin

anxiously.

"No," said the Lion, "I don't; you have none of the necessary

qualifications."

Once again the Griffin's mouth trembled piteously.

"Oh, Lal," implored the Griffin, "think, only think again."

"I couldn't," answered the Lion, "some things don't bear thinking

about."

The Griffin, with two tears trembling in his eyes, clasped his

flannel-wrapped foreclaws together beseechingly and changed the nature

of his supplication:

"Very well, Lal, then perhaps as you have never seen me act, I might

arrange some theatricals and amuse the children and the company

present. Of course," simpered the Griffin, "I should play the chief

funny part myself; wouldn't it be wonderful if I played the chief funny

part myself?"

The Lion looked at the Griffin contemplatively for a second: "You will

never be funnier than you are now," remarked the Lion, "and we are not

going to have any theatricals at all, the children are going to dance."

"The very thing," agreed the Griffin. "I will lead them; I dance so

beautifully."

"No," said the Lion firmly, "if any one leads them it will be

Carry-on-Merry, but they won't want any leading at all. The best thing

you can do is to keep quite quiet and make yourself useful."

"Oh, Lal, don't ask me to be useful," shuddered the Griffin. "It is

such a dreadful word, and _anybody_ can be useful."

"You think so," said the Lion, as he smiled his wisest smile.

"I must be something far better than that," remonstrated the Griffin,

"and it has just struck me that I had better go round and find out from

everybody what they would like me to do," and the Griffin moved off

eagerly to gather the opinions of everybody present as to this most

interesting point which concerned him so closely.

"Always dying to show off," grunted the Lion. "You can see in the

Griffin the absolute type of one who being weak in the head and totally

unable to do anything, is nevertheless always longing to show off

before others, who are cleverer than himself."

"Perhaps he will find somebody who wants him to do something,"

suggested Ridgwell, hopefully; "but why didn't he want to be useful?"

"Because the poor Griffin believes himself to be extremely ornamental,

and therefore, like all conceited people, he will never be able to see

himself as he is in reality. He wishes to lead before he has been able

to learn."

Carry-on-Merry, Gamble, Grin, and Grub had by this time fixed up a

strangely decorated Maypole; it was nothing less than St. George's

Pillar, but so bedecked with hanging flowers and brilliant silken

corded ribbons that the children had some difficulty in recognising it

again.

Then the four laughing lions could be seen racing along with a most

wonderful piano-organ, into which Gamble, Grin, and Grub were

harnessed, whilst Carry-on-Merry turned the handle.

It must at once be admitted that this particular musical instrument

differed very considerably from any piano-organ ever heard in the

streets, and it could never have come anywhere from the neighbourhood

of Saffron Hill.

It discoursed the sweetest music in the nature of a dance tune that was

irresistible, and the feet of all the children present started in time

to it simultaneously.

"Now, Ridgwell," said the Lion, "take Christine and dance with her. Or

would you sooner stay here and look on at the sight?"

"I shall do both," asserted Ridgwell, "dance first and look on

afterwards."

"Good," assented the Lion; "an able definition of eating your cake and

having it at the same time. Off you go then."

"Won't the Kings, Boadicea, and St. George dance too?" asked Christine.

"No, George doesn't dance," said the Lion, "neither do the Royalty;

they graciously look on. I don't dance either, I do not consider it

dignified, so I sit here, conduct the ceremony, and beat time to the

music with my paw."

That dance was the wildest, gladdest, merriest thing the children ever

remembered, and the threads of golden light filtering through the flash

of the coloured costumes as they wound in and out, added tints of

splendour as of an ancient pageant.

Who could keep from dancing to such an exquisite tune, and who could

help being glad when ropes of lovely flowers were being twined round

lovelier childish faces, flower-like themselves, flushed with gay

excitement, with perfect health, with gladness?

Ribbons of changing light they threaded in and out, round and through,

no one could tell how many times, and over all the golden scented dew

of perfect health and beauty fell from the two fountains upon the

up-turned faces.

It is true the Griffin made several ineffectual attempts to break

through the laughing, whirling ring, under the impression that the

circle was incomplete without him, but Gamble, Grin, and Grub were

always at hand to pull him back, and prevent this amiable but mistaken

intrusion.

From the piano-organ which he turned so gaily, Carry-on-Merry found it

was necessary to caution the Griffin after his last frantic attempt to

break through the ring of dancing children.

"I want to dance," urged the Griffin.

"I think you want a keeper," grinned Carry-on-Merry, "or a policeman or

something, to keep you in order."

The Griffin turned pale.

"Oh! no," implored the Griffin, "not a _policeman_."

"Well, then, behave," grinned Carry-on-Merry.

"Very well," sulked the Griffin, "as I am not wanted I think I shall go

home and give a party to myself."

"Don't go," grinned Carry-on-Merry, "I have thought of something you

could do presently."

The Griffin flushed with delight.

"Will it be something grand?" asked the Griffin breathlessly,

"something that will show me off, something that will make me talked

about, something so big that it won't be like anything else?"

"Rather," grinned Carry-on-Merry; "you bet it won't be like anything

else, at least," added Carry-on-Merry truthfully, "it won't be like

anything else I have ever known."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," gushed the Griffin. "I could swoon with

joy, I feel so overwrought that I shall go to one of the fountains and

ask the dear Dolphins for some light refreshment."

"No, you don't," instantly objected Carry-on-Merry, "the dance is

nearly over, and the children are all going there immediately; you

would only be in the way, but," added Carry-on-Merry, with a wicked

twinkle in his eyes, "I have a much finer idea than that."

"Really?" inquired the Griffin. "Really a fine idea?"

"Ripping," responded Carry-on-Merry, as he mysteriously produced from

an inside pocket of his royal scarlet coat a big white damask dinner

napkin.

"What _can_ it be for?" simpered the Griffin; "and will it help to show

me off to advantage?" he anxiously inquired.

"Rather," said Carry-on-Merry. "Listen! Put this dinner napkin over

your face, sit in a corner and go to sleep. Now the _most_ remarkable

thing you could do in an assembly like this to attract attention, would

be to go to sleep."

The Griffin for a moment looked dubious. "Then," said Carry-on-Merry

with a still more wicked gleam in his mischievous eyes, "I will tell

every one that you are 'The Sleeping Beauty' and everybody will

immediately want to see you."

"How lovely," sighed the Griffin, "and I shall look the part and be the

part; in fact," added the Griffin, "I shall be _the_ thing of the

evening."

"_You will_," rejoined Carry-on-Merry enigmatically, "but that is not

all. When I wake you up at last, of course all the children will

laugh."

"What at?" inquired the Griffin suspiciously.

"Why, for joy at the discovery."

"Humph!" debated the Griffin, "only joy--not admiration?"

"Oh, yes," glibly replied Carry-on-Merry, "admiration, of course, and

the sheer beauty of the thing. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Yes, yes," eagerly interrupted the Griffin, "sheer beauty sounds

better, sounds more like me."

"Of course it does," laughed Carry-on-Merry. "Then perhaps I shall ask

you to sing."

"Oh! Carry-on-Merry," faltered the Griffin in a broken voice, "you

have touched my heart--that is the very thing I was waiting for

somebody to ask me to do. To sing," rhapsodised the Griffin--"to be

like one of those great singers out of the opera, to pour out one's

heart tones, to be gazed at by every eye, to be listened to by every

ear, to be the adored of all. How can I thank you? How can I repay

you?"

"Don't, please," implored Carry-on-Merry, who appeared to be choking

inwardly, "don't thank me any more now, I can't bear it--some other

time."

"Yet stay," cried the Griffin, with unexpected and dramatic suddenness,

"who is going to kiss me?"

"Kiss you?" echoed Carry-on-Merry blankly, "kiss you? Good gracious!

I give it up."

"Yet," pondered the Griffin, "somebody had to kiss the Sleeping Beauty!"

"You won't find anybody to do it," said Carry-on-Merry decisively.

"Why not?" asked the Griffin sharply.

"I mean," amended Carry-on-Merry, "nobody could be found for the moment

of sufficient importance."

"Oh, I see," replied the Griffin, "yet perhaps Boadicea would oblige."

"Out of the question," said Carry-on-Merry. "Besides you know she

never takes part in any--any--er--_festivities_ at all."

"True," lamented the Griffin, "and yet assuredly I must be kissed for

the thing to be natural."

Carry-on-Merry turned away his head, for Carry-on-Merry almost felt

that he could not trust himself to speak at that moment. Then one of

his many bright ideas occurred to him. "I know," rapidly explained

Carry-on-Merry, "I have it; I will find some important personage

present to give you a rap."

"Where?" moaned the Griffin, "not on my knuckles. You know I cannot

stand anything of that nature on my knuckles."

"No--no----" grinned Carry-on-Merry. "I mean a tap, just a little tap."

"I see," agreed the Griffin. "Very well, one little tap, a tap as

dainty as if a feather had brushed me in my sleep."

"Or a floating piece of thistledown," laughed Carry-on-Merry.

"Oh yes," said the Griffin. "Thistledown sounds more romantic, and

then I shall wake from my dream."

"I don't think myself you ever will," observed Carry-on-Merry, quite as

if he were thinking of something else.

"What!" said the Griffin. "Never wake?"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Carry-on-Merry hastily, "but you have to go to

sleep first, you know, and you had better hurry up whilst the children

are eating, then you won't be observed."

"But I want to be observed," objected the Griffin.

"Of course you do," insisted Carry-on-Merry, "but that comes later on.

Go at once."

The amiable Griffin departed accordingly to carry out his part of the

programme, and forthwith lumped himself in a distant corner, with the

grace of a camel who had found sudden and unexpected opportunities of

benefiting his health through sleep. From this slumber the Griffin

found it necessary to rouse himself after a little while, upon hearing

the children all shouting his name. The entire party having partaken

of the delightful refreshments provided according to the various

requirements of their constitutions, were watching a moving series of

cinematograph pictures of London.

One of the great golden spaces of the walls formed the screen, Gamble,

Grin and Grub, full of laughter, manipulated the cinematograph machine,

whilst Carry-on-Merry gaily pointed out the pictures with a big golden

wand.

All the children loved the pictures, for they were faithful portraits

of themselves as they appeared every day in the London streets, when

they were not arrayed in gorgeous robes for a Princely Party.

The streets they knew only too well but yet they loved them. Were they

not always in the streets--were they not passing every day of their

lives the very scenes they were now watching flung upon the screen?

The picture being shown at the moment the Griffin heard his name

called, was a Royal Procession passing Temple Bar.

Instantly the children recognised the Griffin and called him by name.

The Griffin awoke, saw himself being shown upon the moving picture

film, and gave a shriek of delight.

"Stop! oh, stop!" shrieked the Griffin, as he ambled across to

Carry-on-Merry and seized the Gold Wand. "Please don't hurry past this

beautiful picture. Of course," cried the Griffin with a silly laugh,

"of course it's me, _ME_ with Royalty passing me. Is it not

beautiful?--you can all see for yourselves. I am sitting higher up

than Royalty itself. Notice the way the Royal personages bow and laugh

as they pass me."

"They laugh right enough," agreed Carry-on-Merry.

"Eh?" said the Griffin suspiciously.

"The Griffin ought to have been a showman," observed the Pleasant-Faced

Lion.

"Now we pass on to the next picture," called Carry-on-Merry.

"Oh, _don't_ hurry," implored the Griffin. "Don't pass the most

beautiful of all the pictures in such haste."

"_Next_ picture," laughed Carry-on-Merry.

The Griffin, after bestowing a hurt look upon Carry-on-Merry, retired,

and again composed himself for sleep.

His slumber this time was not destined to be of long duration.

A grey sombre figure suddenly strode into the brilliant flower-draped

pavilion; a slouch hat made the figure look very sinister, and a sword

clanked at his side.

The figure strode on and scowled darkly at King Richard sitting

gracefully upon his charger. "Ho! ho!" called the sombre man in a loud

voice. "Ho! ho!" he repeated with a mirthless laugh.

King Richard neither moved not took the faintest notice.

On strode the figure towards King Charles seated upon his charger, and

who was regarding the children with the pleasantest expression possible.

"Ha!" shouted the figure as it strode along. "Ha! I say, Ha!"

King Charles still smiled gravely and took no notice. The striding

figure that shouted "Ha!" might never have uttered a word for all the

notice King Charles took of him.

"Ha!" shouted the figure for the last time.

Then, seeing that nobody took any notice of him, the figure looked

glum, and folding his arms espied the Griffin peacefully asleep, the

white dinner napkin covering his fond, foolish face, waiting to be

awakened, so the Griffin fondly hoped--awakened by a gentle tap as

Beauty. The Griffin's slumber seemed to annoy the sombre man

intensely, for without uttering a syllable he drew his sword and smote

the Griffin hard upon the red flannel paws that were folded with a view

to pictorial effect beside the Griffin's covered face.

There was a shriek of anguish, and the Griffin awoke.

The pain the Griffin suffered from the blow upon his tender paws was as

nothing compared to the blow to the Griffin's feelings when he realised

that his ineffably touching picture of the Sleeping Beauty had been

spoiled for the evening. A great surge of sudden hatred swept over the

Griffin at the swaggering intruder who had dared to strike him, and

simultaneously the Griffin remembered something he had once heard said

by a man in blue wearing a helmet close to where he always stood in

Fleet Street.

The Griffin seized Carry-on-Merry's golden wand for the second time

that evening and approached the sombre man of the top boots and the

slouch hat menacingly. "Move on," shouted the Griffin, giving a

lifelike imitation of the man in blue with a helmet. "Move on, d'ye

hear?"

The sombre figure backed a little way in astonishment.

"Move on," said the Griffin, "out of this; we don't want you here.

Orff you go!" The sombre figure retreated a little more. "If I catch

you here again," said the Griffin pompously, "I will run you in; no

loafing here!" The sombre man gave one scowl, sheathed his sword with

a clank, and hurriedly took his departure without once looking back or

uttering any further remark.

"Bravo!" muttered the Lion, "that is the first useful thing the Griffin

has done all the evening."

"Who was that dismal looking man muffled up like a brigand?" asked

Ridgwell.

The Lion smiled. "That was Oliver Cromwell. He came to try and spoil

the party."

"Why?" asked Ridgwell.

"He doesn't like the extravagance," said the Lion; "he hates any

display, and cannot bear to see children happy."

"Thank you, Griffin," said Christine.

"Listen, all of you," simpered the Griffin, "some one has thanked me.

Oh! Fancy anybody thanking _me_. Has everybody heard me publicly

thanked?" asked the Griffin anxiously.

"Yes, everybody," said the Lion; "we don't want any more of it."

The Griffin looked sulky.

"As long as everybody knows what I did," said the Griffin. "Nobody

else thought of doing it. Do you think it was better than my being the

Sleeping Beauty?" inquired the Griffin eagerly.

"Yes," replied the Lion, "it was more realistic."

"Fancy that, more realistic! how beautiful!" and the Griffin sidled

away, sniggering with self-gratified pride at his own achievement.

"I am afraid," explained the Lion to Christine and Ridgwell, "that he

intends to sing."

"But can he sing?" inquired Ridgwell.

"No," said the Lion, "it is a wretched performance; yet, like all other

people who cannot really sing, he is dying to be asked to do so, and I

feel sure that some one will be misguided enough to ask him. You see,"

explained the Lion, "the Griffin cannot sing in tune, but like most

people afflicted in the same way, he is totally unconscious of his

failing, and really believes his own singing to be quite beautiful."

Christine and Ridgwell both laughed. "It must be very funny," they

said.

"It is so funny," answered the Lion, "and so deplorable at the same

time that it is almost beyond a joke."

Almost before the Lion had finished speaking Carry-on-Merry, with a

particularly wicked laugh, danced to the centre of the bright ball-room

and said he thought that perhaps the Griffin might be persuaded to sing.

"I thought so," groaned the Lion.

The Griffin gurgled with pleasure, and immediately started to look coy,

and playfully tap the golden carpet spread upon the ground with his

forepaws, as if he had suddenly discovered some new beauty in the

pattern of the luxurious floor covering.

"Really," said the Griffin, "I do not think I could. Oh! really _no_."

"Showing off," grunted the Lion; "he'll sing in the end, safe enough.

Worse luck!"

"With all these beautiful singers here," smirked the Griffin, "to ask

_me_. Oh!--really!"

"Oh, please sing," everybody murmured politely.

"Oh--oh!--really," simpered the Griffin, trying in vain to blush. "You

see, I am not perhaps in my usual form."

"What on earth will it be like, then?" ventured the Lion.

"I am sure you will honour and delight the company," laughed

Carry-on-Merry, with his wickedest laugh.

"Besides," demurred the Griffin hesitatingly, "I have two chilblains

and such tender paws, I don't think I could really."

"We did not ask you to _play_," interrupted the Lion shortly.

"No, no," replied the Griffin hastily, "to sing--I understand. Yes, to

sing. Oh--fancy asking _me_ to sing. Well, well, perhaps a few bars."

"Now we are in for it," said the Lion, "and I don't suppose you will

ever hear anything like it again."

"I do so want to hear the Griffin," said Ridgwell, "and I really cannot

think what it will be like."

"Like?" echoed the Lion, "it will be like the effect of the first early

gooseberries of the year without sugar or milk; it will be like slate

pencils squeaking upon slates; like a trombone that somebody is

learning to play for the first time. However, nothing short of an

earthquake will stop him now, for, as I tell you, he is simply dying to

sing the moment he thinks anybody at all will listen to him, and that

he can show off. However," added the Lion, "when it gets beyond all

human endurance, I make a sign to Richard I. Now the Griffin is

terribly frightened of Richard I."

"Why?" asked both the children.

"Because the Griffin is afraid that Richard will advance and hit him on

the paws with the big sword he carries."

"And will he?" asked the children.

"Yes," said the Lion, "if it gets too bad."

Everybody stopped talking now, for the Griffin, after much further

pressing, had made up his mind what he was going to sing. He decided

to make a start in a key which was indescribable, and with a voice that

resembled the twanging of a banjo that had not been tuned.

And thus the Griffin sang--

"Of a merry, merry king I will relate

Who owned much silver, gold and plate,

And wishing to be up-to-date

Within his city,

Placed a handsome Griffin outside the gate,

A creature pretty.

"Yet one thing, the merry, merry king forgot

That it would be his Griffin's lot

To be very, very cold, or very, very hot,

High up in Fleet Street.

So slowly the faithful creature got

Chilblains upon his feet.

"The Griffin grew prettier day by day

Directing the traffic along each way,

With always a pleasant word to say

All along Fleet Street.

One trouble alone caused him dismay,

His very tender feet.

_Chorus--_

"Oh! my poor tender feet!

Of what use are England's laws,

Unless they protect my claws

And keep me warm in the street?

Nothing so young and fair,

Ever sniffed Fleet Street air,

Ever sang like the Dove--

And--All that I ask is love."

At this point the Griffin was so overcome by his own performance that

he burst into tears; and despite the excessive hilarity of every one

present, to say nothing of Carry-on-Merry, who was rolling upon the

floor in his mirth, the Griffin continued to sob, and from time to time

wiped away the big tears that rolled down his cheeks with the fur upon

the Lord Mayor's mantle that he wore.

"It always affects me," sobbed the Griffin.

"Yes," answered the Lion, "it has affected all of us strangely."

"Nearly been the death of me," gulped Carry-on-Merry.

"I think I will go home now," said the Griffin, as he surreptitiously

wiped away the last tears and prepared to depart.

"Oh, don't think of leaving us yet," said the Lion.

"Very well," sniffed the Griffin; "perhaps I may be asked to sing

again."

"Not if I know it," whispered the Lion in an undertone; "one

performance of that nature is quite sufficient for one evening."

At this moment Carry-on-Merry announced that the dogs, wishing to

return thanks for the general pleasantness of the party, and being

unable to sing themselves, had deputed one of their number, a most

intelligent bob-tail sheep-dog, to compose an ode.

This particular dog, it was thought, had some claims as a poet, since

he was a lineal descendant of the canine companion who invariably

accompanied Robert Burns in all his wanderings.

The three laughing little lions would now sing the ode the bob-tailed

sheep-dog had composed, with the general permission of the company.

"Let us hear it," said the Lion.

"Oh! fancy singing after me," remarked the Griffin.

"Yes," agreed the Lion, "it shows great courage."

Gamble, Grin, and Grub arranged themselves in order, and Gamble

commenced--

"Cross Chelsea Bridge, by Chelsea town

There is a place called Battersea.

The very name to Christian dog's

Will make them shudder fearfully."

Here Grin took up the solo.

"A place where gloomy prison doors

Do shut up homeless dogs

If ever they get lost, or stray

During the London fogs."

Grub hereupon came forward.

"When once inside that citadel

Within three days or four,

They send you to a dreadful room

Where you never bark no more."

Then came the Chorus--

"Pleasant-Faced Lion, our thanks to thee

For having avoided Battersea."

"Very well sung," admitted the Lion. "I suppose that, being always so

close to Westminster Abbey, the little lions have taken some useful

hints from what they have heard going on inside.

"The time has come for the party to finish," announced the

Pleasant-Faced Lion, "but before it is ended----"

"Has it got to end now?" Ridgwell asked wistfully.

"Everything has to come to an end some time," replied the Lion quietly,

"from ices and parties to empires and the world. However," he added

encouragingly, "one can always look forward to some possible and

pleasant continuation of almost everything, although, perhaps, on

different, not to say advanced lines. Before you children go I shall

be able to show you the most wonderfully coloured transformation scene

you have ever witnessed. Watch carefully the long wall of the Pavilion

which you are facing," commanded the Lion.

Carry-on-Merry romped up at this moment laughing as merrily as when the

evening commenced.

"Time?" inquired Carry-on-Merry.

The Pleasant-Faced Lion nodded.

"Yes, now," he said.

Slowly the golden wall and the roof with its masses of brilliantly

hanging flowers seemed to fade away.

The children knew it was Trafalgar Square they were looking at once

again, yet a Trafalgar Square transformed out of all resemblance to its

usual familiar aspect.

As the walls appeared to drop before their eyes a brilliant golden

bungalow palace with the children dressed as Scarlet Beefeaters grouped

down its shining steps glimmered through the rose-pink light in which

they beheld it. Surely it could not be the National Gallery!

All the children present passed and repassed before it in their

dazzling costumes, making vivid splashes of colour, as changeful and as

fascinating as a kaleidoscope.

The fountains still sprayed their mists of violet, amethyst and gold.

"Mark the changing colours well," said the Lion, "and take in all the

picture well, for you will not see it ever like this again."

The happy fresh voices of the children were still singing with a rare

outburst of melody--

"Pleasant-Faced Lion, our thanks to thee,

For all your hospitality."

"Amen!" said the Lion. "Come, Ridgwell and Christine, jump on!"

commanded the Lion, as he sank down in order to enable the two children

to get on his back. "Home now!"

Both the children looked back many times, of course. They saw the

golden bungalow palace for the last time in all its changing lights.

Noticed that Queen Boadicea stood majestically upon the topmost step

with King Richard upon one side of her and King Charles upon the other.

St. George stood with his armour flashing a few steps below. The four

merry dogs were gathered around him, whilst Carry-on-Merry was resting

his laughing head in one of St. George's hands.

The coloured lights grew paler, a mist danced before their eyes, then

twinkled and disappeared.

"It is gone," said Ridgwell, "and oh! how dark the streets look now!"

"But _what_ a party," said Christine.

"And what a feast," added Ridgwell.

"Yes," replied the Lion philosophically, "it is really remarkable how

times have changed. In the olden days, long, long ago, everything was

reversed. For instance, it was the Lions who were then provided with

the feast, and the children who were eaten."

"Horrid!" shivered Ridgwell. "You mean, Lal, those wicked Roman

Emperors who let the poor Christians be eaten?"

"My child," announced the Lion gravely, "free meals have invariably

been productive of much unpleasant discussion and inquiries afterwards.

But see now," he added coaxingly, "the perfect state of perfection the

world has arrived at. The Pleasant Lions give the banquet themselves

now. Every single thing to-night was provided by Lions. I gave the

party--I, the Pleasant-Faced Lion. The four laughing lions from

Westminster helped. Richard Coeur-de-Lion presided, and Messrs. Lyons

provided all the refreshments."

"Any rate, Lal," observed Ridgwell, "although Christine and I both love

you, of course--lions must have been very cruel and savage once,

otherwise they wouldn't have _thought_ of eating anybody, would they?"

"Ah, my little boy," replied the Pleasant-Faced Lion softly, "if you

were kept without food for days and days I wonder what you would do."

"Tuck in like mad the first chance I got," announced Ridgwell with

conviction.

"Perhaps the lions did the same thing," observed Lal gently. "However,

I feel I cannot offer any excuse for their past conduct; yet,"

continued the Pleasant-Faced Lion wisely, as he jogged contentedly on,

homewards towards Balham, "I have a fair proposition to make to you,

although it may seem somewhat in the nature of a riddle to you both at

the present moment."

"What is it?" asked the children in a breath.

"Suppose," said the Lion--"I only say suppose--both of you ever had a

chance of eating me, of--ahem! in short, devouring your old friend Lal,

would you do it?" asked the Lion, with an odd tremble in his voice.

The question seemed to be so odd, not to mention out of place, that

both the children laughed.

"Why, Lal," chuckled Ridgwell, "how ridiculous you are. How could

Christine or myself ever possibly eat even a little bit of you?"

"No," answered the Lion, "I believe you are both little Christian

children, and yet," he added with a sigh, "you might both become

Pagans."

"What's a Pagan?" asked Ridgwell.

Again the Lion sighed. "My child," he said, "you have a very great

deal to learn, and among the many things at present hidden from you is

the fact that both you and Christine will see me once again and once

only."

"Where?" asked the children.

"At your home in Balham."

"Good gracious," said Ridgwell, "will you knock at the hall door?"

"No," said the Pleasant-Faced Lion.

"Or appear sitting in the raspberry bushes in the garden?" ventured

Christine. "If so, you will spoil them, you know!"

"No," said the Lion, "certainly not."

"Then how will you come?" asked Ridgwell.

"You will see me again once more," asserted the Lion, "in three days

from now, and moreover inside your own home."

"Three days from now is Ridge's birthday," ventured Christine; "of

course, it would be very nice to see you, but I do wonder how you will

come, and I do wonder how we shall be able to explain you away."

The Pleasant-Faced Lion laughed his gruffest laugh.

"I don't think you could very well _explain_ me away, little Christine."

"Suppose you sat on the hearth-rug and people seemed a little distant

or awkward?" commenced Ridgwell.

"Yes," broke in Christine, "or some of those dreadful long pauses

occurred when nobody speaks and every one looks at every one else and

feels uncomfortable--would you _say_ something?"

"Yes," said the Lion. "I have plenty of tact, but really there won't

be any need," and the Pleasant-Faced Lion again chuckled softly to

himself.

"There is only one thing I want you to do," said the Pleasant-Faced

Lion, and he still seemed to be choked with merriment as if a sudden

idea had occurred to him.

"What is it, Lal?" inquired both the children.

"Upon Ridgwell's birthday night, before you both go to bed, I want you,

Ridgwell, to remember a little rhyme and say it to yourself."

"A hymn?" asked Ridgwell.

"Not exactly a hymn."

"After we have said our prayers?"

"Certainly," replied the Lion obligingly, "any time before you go to

bed will do; will you promise to remember?"

"Of course, Lal."

"Well, this is the little rhyme," whispered the Lion mysteriously; and

somehow it seemed to Ridgwell as if the Lion was still laughing at him

as he repeated the following extraordinary rhyme--

"Christian child or Pagan child,

Which is my denomination,

Have I eaten dear old Lal

In my birthday celebration?"

Ridgwell repeated the mysterious rhyme after the Lion, then he shook

his head.

"Don't understand it, do you?" grinned the Lion.

"Not a bit," answered Ridgwell.

"I give it up, too," said Christine.

"Are you laughing at us, Lal?" inquired Ridgwell anxiously.

"Ah!" said the Lion, "I wonder; however, he who laughs last, laughs

last; that saying is true without a doubt; and," he concluded with a

chuckle, "I bet you both anything you like that I have the last laugh.

In fact, one day when you pass me you may hear me laugh, although I

shall never speak to either of you again in public. And that reminds

me of something I want to warn both of you about particularly. Never

appear to notice me in public or speak to me whenever you chance to

pass me in Trafalgar Square; you would only collect a crowd, make me

very uncomfortable, and convey the unfortunate impression to everybody

within earshot that you were mad. The same thing applies to

Carry-on-Merry; he has a most provoking face, and the happy laugh

always to be seen upon it might tempt you both to suppose that he was

listening; now mind you never give way to the temptation of addressing

either of us in public, and never refer to anything that has happened

even in private, for you will only be misunderstood. Remember,"

concluded the Lion, "that the Great Order of Imagination is only given

to a very few people; those who do not possess it do not understand it.

See, your own has faded already!"

Both the children clasped their hands simultaneously to their necks

where the glittering order had hung and shone only a few minutes before.

Then they stared blankly at the place where it had been. Alas! the

luminously lighted jewels of the order were no longer there.

"Oh, Lal," said Ridgwell, "shall we never have it again?"

"Only the memory of it," replied the Lion gently; "that never fades."

"Only the memory," echoed Ridgwell thoughtfully.

"Nobody can ever take that away from you," said the Lion.

"Did any other little boy ever have the Great Order of Imagination,

Lal?"

"Yes," said the Lion, "there was _one_ who had the highest and greatest

order of all, the Pure Soul of Imagination itself." The Lion paused

and seemed to be thinking.

"Where is he now?" whispered Ridgwell, for unconsciously he seemed to

have lowered his voice.

The Lion lifted his great and noble head, and looked upwards towards

the silver stars above them. The Lion shook his head doubtfully, and

the children noticed that there was something very like a tear in his

eyes.

"I don't know which particular star," said the Lion, "but somewhere

there, I think; but then, you see, I'm only a Pagan."

The Lion stopped and purred; they were outside the familiar windows of

their own home.

"Oh, Lal," whispered the children, "how shall we remember all we've

seen to-night; how shall we be able to think about it and go through it

all again, if the Order of Imagination has been taken away from us and

if we are never to speak to you again, and only to see you once more?

Even then you cannot tell us _how_ we are going to see you."

The Lion smiled. "I can arrange that easily. Be of good heart, little

Ridgwell and Christine. I know a writer--he comes and talks to me at

night sometimes, though I never answer him--and I will suggest he

writes it all down for you. I can ask him things without saying a

word."

"Will you?" pleaded the children. "Oh, please ask him, Lal!"

"Yes," said the Lion, "I will; good-night."

CHAPTER IV

PREPARING FOR A VISITOR

Upon the third day after bidding good-bye to their strange friend, the

children felt they had every reason to be excited as to what events the

day would bring forth, to say nothing of endless speculations as to the

manner in which their most uncommon visitor might choose to appear to

them.

Consequently after Ridgwell had opened his birthday presents the first

thing in the morning, he held a sort of council of war with Christine.

"You see, Chris, fortunately the house hasn't any underneath part,"

explained Ridgwell, "so that we can keep watch, both of us, all on one

floor so to speak. You take guard of the French windows in the

drawing-room where you can see the greater part of the garden, and I

will watch the windows of the dining-room, where I can see the road

both ways up to the house."

"Shan't we get tired of always looking at the same spot?" objected

Christine.

"I have thought of a plan for that, Chris. When either of us want a

change, just shout out, 'Sister Ann, sister Ann, do you see anybody

coming?'"

"I see," nodded Christine, "everybody will only think we are playing a

game."

"Then," pursued Ridgwell, full of inspiration, "if Lal isn't looming in

sight anywhere, the other will shout out, 'Not a sail in the offing,'

then we change over rooms."

"Anyway Lal couldn't sail, could he?" queried Christine.

"You don't know how he might come," whispered Ridgwell. "He might even

come in a motor car, and anyway it's only so that other people shan't

understand."

"It seems to me," remarked Christine logically, "that people won't

understand him anyway, and less when they see him than when they don't."

"It's an anxious time, isn't it, Chris?"

"Very," assented Christine, "and anyhow we shall have to drop Cookie a

hint, because you see her window in the kitchen looks over a part of

the garden that we can't see from the drawing-room."

"Of course," mused Ridgwell, "the weak spot about Cookie is that she

gets shocks so quickly."

"She's sure to get one to-day," commenced Christine hopefully, "when

Lal comes."

"Very well then, we'll give her a sort of hint," suggested Ridgwell.

Now Cookie, beloved of the children, to say nothing of the household

generally, was a fat person, with very red cheeks, and very

good-humoured rolling green eyes that somehow always looked as if they

had been originally intended for gooseberries, which had boiled and

bubbled during her many cooking operations and had never been permitted

to simmer.

"What do you children want in the kitchen?" commenced Cookie. "Master

Ridgie, you know quite well that your birthday cake ain't to be ready

till tea-time."

"But, Cookie dear," commenced Ridgwell insinuatingly.

Cookie dear continued the mystic rights over which she presided as high

priestess, her vermilion red hands and arms continued to splash about

in a very big basin, where she contrived to throw up little waves of

very white flour as if she were about to take a morning dip in it, yet

hesitated before taking the plunge. These mysterious rites having been

accomplished and the flour having as it were received a final blessing

from Cookie's hands, Cookie commenced to beat up eggs.

"I know you've come wheedling for something," objected Cookie, "and you

ain't going to 'ave it, Master Ridgie. Why, you've only just finished

your breakfast."

"I don't want anything to eat," announced Ridgwell.

Cookie eyes boiled and rolled ominously, whilst a sort of faint concern

appeared upon the surface of them. "If you can't eat, Master Ridgie,

then you must be ill and want some medicine."

"No, no," hastily interposed Ridgwell, "I don't want any medicine, we

only came in to ask you a question."

"Well, you can't ask me any of your questions now, I'm busy," asserted

Cookie. "Ain't got no time."

"Oh, Cookie dear, you can listen whilst you beat up an egg,"

expostulated Ridgwell.

"_Egg!_" shouted Cookie indignantly, "three blessed eggs for your cake,

and 2 1/2d. each, new laid too, and I only bought a dozen of 'em."

"Yes, yes, Cookie dear. I meant three eggs, the number doesn't matter,

and it won't take a minute for us to tell you. It's just this.

Suppose a great big beautiful Lion came and sat in the middle of the

raspberry canes just outside your kitchen door, what would you do?"

"Is this a conundrum?" demanded Cookie. "If so, I don't know no answer

to it, Master Ridgie."

"It isn't a riddle, Cookie, at all. If a Lion really came to see you,

what would you do?"

"I should fetch a policeman at once," announced Cookie.

Ridgwell smiled. "A policeman wouldn't be any good, Cookie! Really,

you know, he couldn't do anything."

"Then I should fetch two policemen," said Cookie, shortly and

conclusively. Cookie, at this point in the argument, beat the three

new-laids at such a furious rate, that the foam of them whirled round

and round very much like the agitated thoughts of Cookie herself at

being confronted with such an outrageous problem the first thing in the

morning.

"'Owever," amended Cookie, "afore I went to fetch them policemen, I'd

throw all the boiling green water over him, from the window first, and

see if that wouldn't shift 'im."

Both Ridgwell and Christine laughed outright, the idea was too

ridiculous. To think of their friendly and Pleasant-Faced Lal coming

to make a society call and having boiling cabbage water thrown over his

stately head, was altogether too much for their gravity.

"How indignant he would be," laughed Ridgwell. "Oh! Chris only think

how hurt he would feel as he shook the stuff off his mane and whiskers!"

This imaginary picture, however, seemed to be too much for Christine,

so she determined to speak seriously to Cookie.

"Cookie," said Christine in her most earnest manner, "a lion may arrive

outside this door (pointing to the article in question in a most

impressive fashion) at any moment to-day."

"Yes," added Ridgwell, "and we only want you to be prepared."

Cookie's eyes seemed to boil a little faster for a moment, appeared to

swell in fact and be altogether overdone, as she fixed her orbs upon

the door in question, then up went Cookie's apron over her head, and

alas! down went the three new-laid at 2 1/2d. each, all spilled upon

the floor, and the cup broken as well.

At this moment the children instinctively realised that discretion was

sometimes the better part of valour, and made speedy preparations to

vacate in favour of other quarters of the house, not, however, before

they could hear Cookie moaning beneath her apron:

"Escaped I s'pose, oh! mighty 'Eavens! escaped from the Crystal

Palace, or the Zoo, or a circus or somethink, oh, it ain't safe living

in England! Blowed if I don't bolt the kitchen door, and nobody warned

me or told me it was in the morning papers. Thank goodness I've taken

in the milk, and them three eggs all spoiled. Only nine left now,"

moaned Cookie, "and cutlets and pancakes for lunch too."

"Come, Chris," whispered Ridgwell. "You see we can't expect much

support from Cookie."

"No," agreed Christine, as they departed for the dining-room. "How

about Mother? Let's hear what she says."

"Yes," assented Ridgwell. "You see Mother is very nice and kind always

to anybody who calls, and perhaps if she spoke to Lal and welcomed him

a bit when he comes, he might feel at home at once."

"I can't think where we are going to ask him to sit, can you, Ridgie?

You see," explained Christine, "it's so inhospitable to leave him in

the hall, and if he walks into the drawing-room and swishes his tail

even contentedly, all the china would go over at once."

"No, Chris, Lal is much too well mannered to do anything like that, but

I'm afraid the only place for him will be the hearth-rug in front of

the fire. Stop a minute, Chris, I've got it. Of course, the sofa in

the drawing-room. Nobody must sit on the sofa at all to-day, then it

will be all ready for him when he comes, and we shall only have to tuck

him in a bit at the sides if he's too big."

Matters were not much better understood in the drawing-room, for a lady

visitor had just called and was waiting for Mother to come down. Mrs.

Tallcat was a lady who always deemed it her duty to call once a week

upon everybody, whether people wished to see her or whether they did

not wish to see her.

Had a census of opinion been taken concerning Mrs. Tallcat's calls,

Mrs. Tallcat would have found, much to her astonishment no doubt, that

she possessed very few votes, and no votes at all from children.

"Would you very much mind if you didn't sit upon the sofa?" commenced

Ridgwell gently.

Mrs. Tallcat, always inclined towards huffiness at a moment's notice,

consequently selected a chair.

"Is the sofa likely to give way?" inquired Mrs. Tallcat suspiciously.

"No," explained Christine, "it is because it is so strong and firm on

its legs that we have chosen it."

"I never allow _my_ boy to play upon the sofa," sniffed Mrs. Tallcat,

as if she were referring to a piano.

"It isn't to play upon," remarked Ridgwell, "but we are expecting a

very, very solid visitor."

Mrs. Tallcat sniffed for the second time. "I never allow my boy to

make any remarks whatever upon visitors who call," responded Mrs.

Tallcat icily.

"Oh, Lal doesn't mind," said Christine cheerfully.

"Who is Lal?" inquired Mrs. Tallcat, "a gentleman friend of your

father's?"

"No," said Ridgwell, "Lal is a lion, and Father doesn't know him yet."

"Tut, tut, tut," snapped Mrs. Tallcat crossly. "Directly _my_ boy

begins to talk nonsense I send him straight to bed."

"It's bad for the health to go to bed at the wrong time," suggested

Ridgwell pensively.

"My boy always does as he's told," announced Mrs. Tallcat triumphantly;

"if he doesn't, he is whipped."

At this point a new idea suddenly struck Ridgwell. "Chris," he

whispered audibly, "we must somehow get the old cat out of the way."

Mrs. Tallcat instantly bridled, and her face became inflamed with

anger. "How _dare_ you!" commenced the indignant lady.

"I mean the _other_ cat," explained Ridgwell, "our own cat."

The explanation, although convincing, was perhaps ambiguous. It was

undoubtedly fortunate that Mother timed her appearance at this point to

a nicety, and so prevented any further complications.

"Dreadful time her boy must have, don't you think, eh, Chris?" asked

Ridgwell.

Christine nodded.

"Only fancy, Chris," pursued Ridgwell, "calling her little boy Tom.

Tom Tallcat; why, he'll be chaffed no end at school. I do feel sorry

for him; and then the way she dresses him, coloured velvet and a

brigand's hat with a feather in it, just as if he was part of a circus.

I'm glad Mother doesn't dress me like that. The other day I met him

and he'd got a bow and arrow. She'd actually sent him into the street

with a bow and arrow. I said 'Hullo, Robin Hood,' not meaning

anything, and he began to cry; it was awkward, and I'm sure he feels

it. Father said that the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Children

ought to interfere, but I think that was perhaps only one of Father's

jokes."

"I think," suggested Mother, who had caught audible fragments of this

conversation, "I think you children had better run away now and play."

The morning appeared to go quite quickly up to the cutlets and the

pancake stage.

The late afternoon shadows threw their creeping patterns over both

lawns, and still there was no sign whatever of their eccentric friend

Lal.

Tea-time came and passed, and then the shadows grew deeper, first blue,

then violet, then black, the trees and shrubs could scarcely be

distinguished at all; and, as ill luck would have it, there was no moon.

At length the time arrived when the family not unreasonably suggested

that the blinds of the house should be pulled down. Here was a

dilemma. How was it possible to warn the household of the

Pleasant-Faced Lion's approach if the blinds were pulled down? When

Ridgwell found, in spite of much lingering, that the last crumb of cake

had been consumed, to say nothing of the last currant which he had made

last quite a long time, and that the third summons to go to bed must

have some sort of notice taken of it, he resigned himself to the

inevitable, and with a hopeless look at Christine, prepared to talk to

Father.

Father was reading quite quietly, and apparently deeply engrossed in a

book, and somehow that didn't help matters.

"Please, Father, would you mind very much if the hall door and the back

door were both left wide open all night?"

Father considered this somewhat odd request for a space, then inquired

with a stray gleam of amusement in his eyes, "Do you consider the house

stuffy? Or have you suddenly adopted one of the Futurist ideas

concerning Health?"

"No, it isn't that, but Chris and I expect somebody; no, I mean

_something_, and we should be so disappointed if it, no, I mean _he_

didn't come."

"Rather a late visitor," said Father, "and rather an inconsiderate one

if this quite Eastern welcome of him includes us all catching our death

of cold. No, Ridgie, I'm afraid he will have to knock."

"But, Father, I'm not sure he can knock."

"Then ring," suggested their parent, "nice new electric bell I've just

had fixed up. He's only got to push the button."

"Perhaps he doesn't understand about electric bells," objected Ridgwell.

"Your friend seems a trifle old-fashioned," observed Father,

good-naturedly.

"And then," said Ridgwell, "his paw is so big he might never find the

bell-push."

"I see; a dog, eh?"

"No, bigger than a dog, much."

"Well, then, say a donkey."

"No, Father, bigger than a dog, and not so big as a donkey."

"I give it up," said Father, "but I promise whatever he is he shall be

attended to and entertained if possible."

"I cannot think what you will say to him," debated Ridgwell anxiously.

"I will do my best, Ridgwell; but from your description I should

imagine the conversation will be a little one-sided. However,"

remarked Father drily, "perhaps he can be persuaded to smoke, or drink."

"No, Father, he never smokes, and he only drinks water."

"Ah! very abstemious," murmured Father; "perhaps he is a vegetarian as

well, sounds like it, and they are always the most difficult people to

entertain."

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at

the front door, and immediately the new electric bell sounded

throughout the house. Ridgwell and Christine nearly tumbled over one

another in order to get to the hall door first.

"It's Lal after all," shouted Ridgwell.

"Sure to be," chimed in Christine.

At length in the struggle the hall door was opened, but it wasn't the

form of the Pleasant-Faced Lion who greeted them, only Mr. Jollyface, a

friend of Father's and a happy, jolly old bachelor, who loved both of

the children.

"Anybody with you?" inquired Ridgwell anxiously, as he peered either

side of Mr. Jollyface's portly form.

"No, only me," chuckled Mr. Jollyface. "Whom are you expecting? Glad

to find you children up; I've got something for you in my pocket,

Master Ridgie; your birthday, isn't it?"

"Yes," confessed Ridgwell, but it could be plainly seen that his former

enthusiasm had died a sudden death. "But do tell me, Mr. Jollyface,

did you see anything as you came along?"

"Lots of things," replied Mr. Jollyface, cheerily.

"A lion?" whispered Ridgwell mysteriously.

"No," debated Mr. Jollyface, "no, I think I may say that a lion was the

only thing I didn't see."

"Oh, Mr. Jollyface, are you sure?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Jollyface gravely, "I can really be quite certain

upon that point."

"If you had seen a great lion, Mr. Jollyface, what would you have done?"

"I think," debated Mr. Jollyface, as he prepared to disencumber himself

of his great-coat, "I think I should have wished him good-evening and

passed politely, like the--ahem--Levite, on the opposite side of the

way."

"Oh, Mr. Jollyface," sighed Ridgwell, "if you only knew we have waited

all day long for a lion."

"Now, that's very funny," whispered Mr. Jollyface, "for I have actually

brought one for you in my pocket, I have really. Here it is,"

announced the imperturbable Mr. Jollyface, as he produced a parcel from

his pocket and thrust it into Ridgwell's hand.

"No, no, not that sort of lion," remonstrated Ridgwell.

"Well, perhaps this one would do," suggested Mr. Jollyface. "It's the

best sort of lion, you know, really, and made of the very finest

chocolate, too."

Here a well-known voice was heard to remark: "If I have to speak to you

children once more about going to bed there will be trouble."

"Scamper off," exclaimed the good-natured Mr. Jollyface; then he added,

"you know you can eat chocolate in bed quite as well as you can

anywhere else. I used to enjoy it as a boy more than I should have

done upon a plate in the dining-room. Off you go; good-night, kids."

Thereupon Father claimed Mr. Jollyface, and as the children slowly

mounted the stairs they could hear him saying: "So it was you the

children were waiting for, and the animal friend they expected was a

chocolate lion, eh?"

"Very likely," agreed Mr. Jollyface. "Ha! ha! ha! so they have been

puzzling you, my old friend, eh?"

"Well, children's riddles are very difficult to guess," said Father,

"and yet they are always so simple."

"Chris," observed Ridgwell dejectedly, as they reached their room and

turned the handle of the door, "they none of them understand; isn't it

dreadful? and they are grown up, too, and really ought to know."

"We've waited and waited, Ridgie, and there's nothing else to be done;

Lal won't come now, and he's never broken his word before, has he?"

"He might come, Chris; let's roll up the blind."

"No, the garden looks the same as it always does; there isn't a thing

in sight. Suppose we don't go to sleep just yet and keep awake a bit;

Lal might come and throw a stone at the window."

"Let's eat the chocolate," suggested Chris, who was occasionally

practical, "while we wait."

Ridgwell untied the small parcel, a wooden box, about half the size of

one of Father's cigar-boxes, and appeared to be made of the same kind

of brown wood.

Disclosed to view at length, the birthday present was seen to be a

fairly large chocolate lion lying upon a pedestal. The entire

sweet-meat model was covered in thick golden paper; this was quickly

stripped off, and Ridgwell did the honours as possessor.

"I'll eat his head half, Chris, and give you the other half; I think

that's a fair division."

"Right," agreed Christine; "we can't eat more than that to-night, and

the pedestal part will do for the morning."

"I can't understand Lal disappointing us to-night as he has done," said

Ridgwell, as he slowly munched his chocolate. "Can you, Chris?"

"No--isn't this chocolate good, Ridgie?"

"Yes, but fancy having to be contented with a chocolate lion when we

know a real one! On my birthday too, and yet he promised faithfully we

should see him again."

"He has forgotten us," confessed the children as they went to bed.

"Suppose he has too much to think of," said Ridgie; "he can't remember

everything."

Christine never knew quite how long she had been asleep that night,

before she distinctly heard muffled mutterings from her brother

Ridgie's bed the other side of their little room. Surely Ridgie

couldn't be saying his prayers at this time of night; then Christine

was certain she heard half-smothered sobs.

"Ridgie, what's the matter; are you crying?" demanded Christine. The

sobs became very audible now, and even an apparent effort to stifle

them with the bed-clothes did not seem in any way to lessen them.

Christine pressed the button of the electric light, and in the sudden

illumination regarded her brother across the room.

"Ridgie, why are you crying? are you in pain? have you eaten too much?"

"No," sobbed Ridgie, "no, but oh! Chrissie, I've--I've--we've eaten

Lal."

Christine sat up in bed.

"Ridgie," demanded Christine, "are you dreaming?"

"No," whispered Ridgie, between his sobs; "don't you remember--

Christian child or Pagan child

Which is my denomination?

Have I eaten dear old Lal

In my birthday celebration?

Here, overcome by recollections, Ridgwell broke down completely. "I

_have_ eaten him," moaned Ridgwell; "at least, _we've_ eaten him, for

you helped. He said we should eat him, and we've done it. That's how

Lal meant to come to us; now, I remember, it was exactly like him.

Just as--as he is in Trafalgar Square on his pedestal. Oh, Chris,

after all the Christians have eaten a lion; he said we should; we

aren't Christians any longer, we're Pagans, and--and," confessed

Ridgwell with a final outburst, "I feel like a cannibal; it's beastly."

Christine had become quite pale during this recital; but she thought

for awhile before replying.

"Perhaps, Ridgie, Lal meant us to eat him--I mean his likeness in

chocolate--all the time, and most likely he isn't angry with us at all.

He might have arranged it all as a joke."

"It isn't a joke at all," sniffed Ridgwell, "it's horrible. We have

eaten one of our very best friends. Oh! if only the Order of Great

Imagination hadn't been taken away from us!"

"I am not so sure, Ridgie," observed Christine, with feminine

intuition, "that you have lost _all_ your order of imagination; I think

you have still a lot left, or you would never have discovered Lal's

riddle."

It was Ridgwell's turn now to sit up in bed, and he asked eagerly--

"Do you really think it was only a riddle, Chris, and Lal meant only to

have a joke with us?"

Christine nodded gravely.

"I feel very comforted with that," said Ridgwell, "so turn off the

light, Chris, and we'll go to sleep again; but oh, won't I just tell

Lal next time I pass him in Trafalgar Square!"

Some few moments afterwards in the darkness Christine answered--

"You hadn't better make any remarks to Lal in public; you know he

cautioned us about attracting a crowd."

"Crowd or no crowd, I mean to tell him what I think of him," asserted

Ridgwell before he turned over and went to sleep.

* * * * *

The clock in the hall was just chiming twelve, and Mr. Jollyface was

taking his departure.

Father and Mother were wishing him good-night and thanking him for

bringing the chocolate lion for Ridgwell.

"It is really quite remarkable how I came to buy it," agreed Mr.

Jollyface; "but I was passing through Trafalgar Square when I

remembered that I hadn't bought Ridgie a present, and the sight of the

corner lion, as I crossed the Square, made me remember a sweetstuff

model of him I had seen in a chocolate shop in the Strand, so I went

and bought it. But really the most wonderful thing about it is the

almost uncanny intelligence of your children. Bless my soul! they

couldn't have known I had bought it; and yet, would you believe it,

they actually expected a lion, and asked me if I had brought one with

me."

"Yes," agreed Father, "it's very wonderful; they were trying to

describe a lion before you came in. I think at times children must

have second sight, and that is why I am afraid we sometimes do not

understand them. Good-night, Jollyface; come and see us again soon."

BOOK II

WHAT THE WRITER AND THE LORD MAYOR DECLARED