JOCK sat on a big square stool, nursing his right leg and earnestly
staring into the dancing flames. Every moment they took fresh shapes,
curtsying one to another, and winding about the lumps of coal. A green
tip crept out from a cave of fiery red, and then a purple tongue shot
itself forth. Jock wondered what made them do it.
Behind him lay a long narrow room, with pictures on the walls, dimly
visible in the firelight. It was getting dusk, but blinds had not yet
been drawn down. As the flames danced, they cast a long shadow of Jock
on the floor, with its thick blue carpet, and Jock turned to watch it.
He swayed from side to side to make the shadow sway.
How funny it was that some flames should be green and others red. And
why did they keep always going up and up? And why should a lump of
black coal catch fire and turn red and burn and burn away, only because
it happened to be close to another lump already burning? These and
other questions jumped into Jock's mind, and all but jumped out at his
lips.
But he peered round again at his mother, lying on the sofa. She had
lain there, with her eyes shut, ever since he came in. If only she
would open her eyes, and would talk. He was bursting with new ideas,
and during a whole quarter of an hour he had not spoken one single
word. Such a time to wait!
Grown-up people were so funny—liking to sleep in the day-time. "He"
never wanted to sleep, not even when bed-time came. His nights were
too long and his days too short; for there was always such an immense
amount of things to be done. He couldn't get through half of them.
At the end of the street, round a corner, was a school for small boys,
where he went every day, partly for lessons, partly for games and walks
with the other boys. So he had plenty of companionship and plenty of
fun, and when he came home it was to the dearest of mothers. Jock was
devoted to her.
Many months earlier she had been ill, and when her husband went to
India with his regiment, she could not go with him. She had to stay
in England with Jock, and he felt himself to be in charge of her. His
father's last words had been—"Take care of your mother, old chap."
He really had tried hard, and through the weeks when she was ill, he
had been wonderfully good and quiet for such a little fellow.
But she was well now, for she often said so, and he felt free to rush
up and down stairs, and to leap about the room, and to shout and sing
at the top of his voice. Except when, as just now, he found her lying
down, and then often, though not always, he would think of his father's
words, and would keep still.
This was Tuesday, and next day Jock would be eight years old. Last
birthday his father was at home, and he well remembered all the fun and
romping and laughter. Would it be quite the same this year? He thought
not. He could hardly expect that Mummie would tear madly upstairs with
him, three steps at a time, or would swing him down again like a sack
of corn; or that she would gallop round and round the garden with Jock
on her shoulders. No, that would not be possible.
He was a spare, slim boy, rather small in make, with curly
chestnut hair and eager grey eyes. He glanced round again, and
ventured—"Mummie—are you awake?"
She stood up in reply, and came to his side. Anybody might have guessed
her to be his mother, for she, too, was slim in make, with curly
chestnut hair and grey eyes.
"Did I wake you up, Mum? Oh, I'm glad you weren't asleep. I've got
such heaps of things I want to say. Jane told me you wasn't to be
disturbed—not on no account, she said. So I had my tea all alone, and
then I painted and painted—ever so long, till I couldn't see. Mummie,
shall we have lots of fun to-morrow?"
"Won't four boys to tea be enough?"
Jock nodded. "It'll be most awf'ly jolly. Only I do want to know what
I'm going to have for my birthday presents. I mean—from you and Daddy.
Couldn't you just tell me now?"
"I think not. Last year Dad said—No. And you will enjoy to-morrow the
more for not knowing beforehand."