THE NIGHT RAIDERS
I
It will be always difficult to understand what drove Jeremy into this
adventure. That on the very last night but one of his Christmas
holidays, when he had every good reason for placating the powers and
when he did, of his own nature, desire that he should leave everything
behind him in the odour of sanctity, that at such a time he should take
so wild and unnecessary a risk will always and for ever be a deep
mystery.
The end of these holidays he especially desired to clothe in
tranquillity because of the painful manner in which they had begun. He
really did wish to live at peace with his fellow men, and especially
with his mother and father. His mother was easy, but his father!
How were they ever to see the same way about anything? And yet he
detected in himself a strange pathetic desire to be liked by his father
and himself to like in return; had he only known it, his father felt
precisely the same towards himself—but the gulf of two generations was
between them.
Indeed, on that very morning Mr. Cole had had a conversation with his
brother-in-law Samuel about his son Jeremy. Mr. Cole was never at ease
with his brother-in-law. He distrusted artists in general—his idea was
that they were wasting the time that God had given them—and he
distrusted his brother-in-law in particular because he thought that he
often laughed at him, which indeed he often did.
“I’m unhappy about Jeremy,” he said, looking at Samuel’s blue smock with
dissatisfaction. He did wish that Samuel wouldn’t wear his painting
clothes at breakfast-time.
“Why?” asked Samuel.
“I don’t think the boy’s improving. School seems to be doing him no
good.”
“Take him away, then,” said Samuel.
“Really,” said Mr. Cole, “I wish you wouldn’t joke about these things.
He must go to school.”
“Send him to another school if this one isn’t satisfactory.”
“No. Thompson’s is a good school. I’m afraid it’s in the boy, not the
school, that the fault lies.”
Samuel Trefusis said nothing.
“Well, don’t you see what I mean about the boy?” Mr. Cole asked
irritably.
“No, I don’t. I think the boy perfectly delightful. I don’t as a rule
like boys. In fact, I detest them. I’ve come slowly to Jeremy, but now
I’m quite conquered by him. He’s a baby in many ways still, of course,
but he has extraordinary perceptions, is brave, honest, amusing and
delightful to look at.”
“Honest,” said Mr. Cole gloomily, “that’s just what I’m not sure about.
That affair of the money at the beginning of the holidays.”
“Really, Herbert,” Samuel broke in indignantly, “if you’ll allow me to
say so—and even if you won’t—you were wrong in that affair from first
to last. You never gave the boy a chance. You concluded he was guilty
from the first moment. The boy thought he had a right to the money. You
bullied and scolded him until he was terrified, and then wanted him to
apologize. Twenty years from now parents will have learnt something
about their children—the children are going to teach them. Your one
idea of bringing up Jeremy is to forbid him to do everything that his
natural instincts urge him to do.
“He is a perfectly healthy, affectionate, decent boy. He’ll do you
credit, but it won’t be your merit if he does. It will be in spite of
what you’ve done—not because of it.”
Mr. Cole was deeply shocked.
“Really, Samuel, this is going too far. As you’ve challenged me, I may
say that I’ve noticed, and Amy also has noticed, that you’re doing the
boy no good by petting him as you are. It’s largely because you are
always inviting the boy into that studio of yours and encouraging him in
the strangest ideas that he has grown as independent as he has. I don’t
think you’re a wholesome influence for the boy. I don’t indeed.”
Samuel’s face closed like a box. He was very angry. He would have liked,
as he would have liked on many other occasions, to say, “Very well,
then, I leave your house in the next five minutes,” but he was lazy, had
very little money, and adored the town, so he simply shrugged his
shoulders.
“You can forbid him to speak to me if you like,” he said.
Mr. Cole was afraid of his brother-in-law, so all he said was: “I shall
write to Thompson about him.”
II
Meanwhile this awful adventure had suddenly leaped up in front of Jeremy
like a Jack-in-the-box. Like many of the most daring adventures, its
origin was simple. Four days earlier there had been a children’s
afternoon party at the Dean’s. The Dean’s children’s parties were always
dreary affairs because of Mrs. Dean’s neuralgia and because the Dean
thought that his share of the affair was over when he had poked his head
into the room where they were having tea, patted one or two innocents on
the head (they became instantly white with self-consciousness), and then
said in a loud, generous voice: “Well, my friends, enjoying yourselves?
That’s right”—after which he returned to his study. The result of this
was that his guests were as sheep without a shepherd. The Dean’s
children were too young to do much, and the girls’ governess too deeply
agitated by her fancy that children’s parents were staring at her
arrogantly to pull herself together and be amiable. It was during one of
those catch-as-catch-can intervals, when children were desultorily
wandering, boys sticking pins into stout feminine calves, girls
sniggering in secret conclave together, infants howling to be taken
home, that Jeremy overheard Bill Bartlett say to the Dean’s Ernest: “I
dare you!”
Jeremy pricked up his ears at once. Anything in which the Dean’s Ernest
(his foe of foes) was concerned incited him to rivalry. He was terribly
bored by the party; not only was it a bad, dull party, but ever since
his first real evening ball children’s afternoon parties had seemed to
him stupid and without reason.
“I don’t care,” said the Dean’s Ernest.
“I dare you,” repeated Bill Bartlett.
“I’m not frightened,” said Ernest.
“Then do it,” said Bill.
“You’ve got to come too.”
“Pooh!” said Bill, “that’s nothing. I’ve done lots more than that.”
Ernest quite plainly disliked the prospect of his daring, and, catching
sight of Jeremy, he shifted his ground.
“Young Cole wouldn’t dare,” he said.
“Yes, he would,” said Bartlett; “he dares more than you dare.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said the Dean’s Ernest indignantly.
“Yes, he does.”
“You dare more than Sampson dares, don’t you, Cole?” said Bill.
“Of course I do,” said Jeremy, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Well, do it then,” said the Dean’s Ernest swiftly.
It appeared on further examination that Bartlett had dared young Sampson
to walk round the cathedral twice just as the clocks were striking
midnight. It was obvious at once that this involved quite terrifying
dangers. Apart altogether from the ghostly prospect of walking round the
cathedral at midnight, there was the escape from the house, the danger
of the police and the return to the house. Jeremy saw at once all that
was involved, but because the Dean’s Ernest was there and staring at him
from under his pale eyebrows with arrogant contempt, he said at once:
“I dare.”
Tommy Winchester, who was complaining bitterly about the food provided,
was soon drawn into the challenge, and although his stout cheeks
quivered at the prospect (Major Winchester, his father, was the sternest
of disciplinarians) he had to say: “I dare.”
Details were then settled. It was to be three nights from that day; they
were to meet just outside the west door as the clock struck twelve, to
walk or run twice round the cathedral, and then find their way home
again.
“I bet young Cole doesn’t come,” Jeremy heard Ernest say loudly to Bill
as they parted.
Of course after that he would go, but when he reached home and
considered it he was miserable. To end the holidays with such a risk
truly appalled him. From every point of view it was madness. Even though
he escaped through the pantry window (he knew that he could push up the
catch and then drop into the garden without difficulty), there was all
the danger of his absence being discovered while he was away. Then there
was the peril of a policeman finding them and reporting them; then there
was the return, with the climb back into the pantry and the noisy crawl
(you never knew when a board was going to creak) back into his room
again. He had no illusion at all as to what would happen if his father
caught him: that would simply sign and seal his disgrace once and for
ever. But worse—far worse to him—was what Uncle Samuel would feel.
Uncle Samuel had simply been wonderful to him during these holidays. He
adored Uncle Samuel. Uncle Samuel had, as it were, “banked” on his
honour and integrity, when all the rest of the world doubted it. Uncle
Samuel loved him and believed in him. He had a momentary passionate
impulse to go to Uncle Samuel and tell him everything. But he knew what
the consequence of that must be; Uncle Samuel would persuade him not to
go, would, indeed, make him give his word that he would not go; then for
ever would he be disgraced in the eyes of Bill Bartlett, Tommy
Winchester and the others, and the Dean’s Ernest would certainly never
allow him to hear the last of it. It was possible that the others would
fail at the final moment and would not be there, but he must be there.
Yes, he must, he must—even though death and torture awaited him as the
consequence of his going.
Had he not trusted Bartlett he might have thought the whole thing a plot
on the part of the Dean’s Ernest to put him into a dangerous position,
but Bartlett was a friend of his and the challenge was genuine.
As the dreadful hour approached he became more and more miserable.
Everyone noticed his depression, and thought it was because he was going
back to school. Aunt Amy was quite touched.
“Never mind, Jeremy dear,” she said; “it will soon be over. The weeks
will pass, and then you will be home with us again. It won’t seem so bad
when you’re there.”
He said, “No, Aunt Amy,” quite mildly. One of the worst things was
deceiving his mother. She had not played so great a part in his life
since his going to school, but she was always there, quiet and sensible
and kind, helping him about his clothes, soothing him when he was angry,
understanding him when he was sad, laughing with him when he was happy,
comfortable and consoling always; like Uncle Samuel, believing in him.
He remembered still with the utmost vividness the terror that he had
been in two years ago, when she had nearly died just after Barbara’s
arrival. Because she was so safely there he did not think much about
her, but when a crisis came, when things were difficult at school, she
was always the first person who came to his mind.
The evening arrived, and as he went up to bed his teeth positively
chattered. It seemed a fine night, but very dark, he thought, as he
looked out through the landing window. Hamlet gaily followed him
upstairs. He was only now recovering from the terrific fight that he had
had a week or so ago with the poodle, and one of his ears was still
badly torn and he limped a little on one foot. Nevertheless, he was in
high spirits and gambolled all the way up the stairs, suddenly stopping
to bark under the landing window, as he always did when he was in high
spirits, chasing an imaginary piece of paper all the way up the last
flight of stairs, and pausing outside Jeremy’s bedroom door, panting and
heaving, his tongue hanging out and a wicked look of pleasure in his
sparkling eyes.
Here indeed was a new problem. Hamlet! What would happen if he suddenly
awoke, discovered his master’s absence, and began to bark? Or suppose
that he awoke when Jeremy was leaving his room, and determined to follow
him? Jeremy, at these thoughts, felt his spirits sink even lower than
they had been before. How could he in this thing escape disaster? He was
like a man doomed. He hated the Dean’s Ernest at that moment with a
passion that had very little of the child in it.
He took off his coat and trousers and climbed into bed. Hamlet jumped
up, moved round and round for some moments, scratching and sniffing as
he always did until he had found a place to his mind; then, with a
little contented sigh, curled up and went to sleep. Jeremy lay there
with beating heart. He heard half-past nine strike from St. John’s, then
ten, then half-past. For a little while he slept, then awoke with a
start to hear it strike eleven. No sound in the house save Hamlet’s
regular snores. A new figure leapt in front of him. The policeman! A
terrible giant of a man, with a great stick and a huge lantern.
“What are you doing here, little boy?” he cried. “Come with me to the
police station!”
Jeremy shivered beneath the bedclothes. Perspiration beaded his
forehead, and his legs gave curious little jerks from the knees
downwards as though they had a life of their own with which he had
nothing to do.
Half-past eleven struck. Very carefully he got out of bed, watching
Hamlet out of the corner of his eye, put on his coat, his trousers and
his boots, stole to the door and paused. Hamlet was still snoring
peacefully. He crept out, then remembered that to do this properly one
must take off one’s boots and carry them in one’s hand. Too late now for
that. Downstairs he went; at every creak he paused; the house was like a
closed box around him. From some room far away came loud, impatient
snores. Once he stumbled and nearly fell; he stayed there, his hands on
the banisters, a dead man save for the beating of his heart.
His hand was on the pantry window, he had pushed back the catch, climbed
through, and in another moment was in the garden.
III
It was a very dark night. The garden gate creaked behind him as though
accusing him of his wicked act; the darkness was so thick that you had
to push against it as though it were a wall.
At first he ran, then the whole world seemed to run after him, trees,
houses and all, so he stopped and walked slowly. The world seemed
gigantic; he was not as yet conscious of fear, but only suspicious of
the presence of that gigantic policeman taking step with him, inch by
inch, flicking his dark lantern, now here, now there, rising like a
Jack-in-the-box suddenly above the trees and peering down upon him.
Then, when for the moment he left the houses behind him and began to
walk up Green Lane towards the cathedral, his heart failed him. How
horrible the trees were! All shapes and sizes; towers of castles, masts
of ships, animals, pigs and hens and lions blowing a little in the night
breezes, becking and bowing above him, holding out horrible, long,
skinny fingers towards him, sometimes closing in upon him, then moving,
fan-wise, out again. In fact, he was now completely miserable. With the
dreadful finality of childhood he saw himself as condemned for life. By
this time Hamlet, having discovered his absence, had barked the house
awake. Already, perhaps, with lanterns they had started to search for
him. The awful moment of discovery would come. Even Uncle Samuel would
abandon him; nobody would ever be kind to him again.
At this point it was all that he could do to keep back the tears. His
teeth were chattering, he had a crick in his back, he was very cold, the
heel of one shoe rubbed his foot. And he was frightened! Bet your life
but he was frightened! He hadn’t known that it would be like this, so
silent and yet so full of sound, so dark and yet so light and alive with
strange quivering lights, so cold and yet so warm with an odd, pressing
heat! There were no lamps lit in the town below him (all lights out at
ten o’clock in the Polchester of thirty years ago), and the cathedral
loomed up before him a heavy black mass, threatening to fall upon him
like the mountain in the Bible. Now the trees were coming to an
end—here was a house and there another. A light in one window, but, for
the rest, the houses quite dead like coffins. He came into Bodger
Street, past the funny old-fashioned turnstile that led into Canon’s
Yard over the cobble-stones of that ancient square, through the
turnstile at the other end and into the Precincts. He was there!
Shivering and frightened, but there! He had kept his word.
As he crossed the grass a figure moved forward from the shadow of the
cathedral and came to meet him. It was Tommy Winchester. It immensely
cheered Jeremy to see him; it also cheered him to see that if he was
frightened Tommy was a great deal more so. Tommy’s teeth were chattering
so that he could scarcely speak, but he managed to say that it was
beastly cold, and that he had upset a jug of water getting out of his
bedroom, and that a dog had barked at him all the way along the
Precincts, and that he was sure his father would beat him. They were
joined a moment later by another shivering mortal, Bartlett. A more
unhappy trio never met together in the world’s history. They were too
miserable for conversation, but simply stood huddled together under the
great buttress by the west door and waited for the clock to strike.
The only thing that Bartlett said was: “I bet Sampson doesn’t come!” At
that Jeremy’s heart gave a triumphant leap. How splendid it would be if
the Dean’s Ernest funked it! Of course he _would_ funk it, and would
have some long story about his door being closed or having a headache,
some lie or other!
Nevertheless, they strained their eyes across the dark wavering lake of
the Precincts watching for him.
“I’m so cold,” Tommy said through his chattering teeth. Then suddenly,
as though struck by a gun: “I’m going to sneeze!”
And he did sneeze, an awful shattering, devastating sound with which the
cathedral, and indeed the whole town, seemed to shake. That was an awful
moment. The boys stood, holding their breath, waiting for all the black
houses to open their doors and all the townsmen to turn out in their
nightshirts with lanterns (just as they do in the _Meistersinger_,
although that, of course, the boys did not know) crying: “Who’s that who
sneezed? Where did the sneeze come from? What was that sneeze?”
Nothing happened save that, the silence was more awful than before. Then
there was a kind of whirring noise above their heads, a moment’s pause,
and the great cathedral clock began to strike midnight.
“Now,” said Bartlett, “we’ve got to walk or run round the cathedral
twice.”
He was off, and Tommy and Jeremy after him.
Jeremy was a good runner, but this was like no race that he had ever
engaged in before. As he ran the notes boomed out above his head and the
high shadow of the great building seemed to catch his feet and hold him.
He could not see, and, as before, when he ran the rest of the world
seemed to run with him, so that he was always pausing to hear whether
anyone were moving with him or no.
Then quite suddenly he was alone, and frightened as he had never in his
life been before; no, not when the horrible sea captain had woken him in
the middle of the night, not when he thought that God had killed Hamlet,
not when he had first been tossed in a blanket at Thompson’s, not when
he had first played second-half in a real game and had to lie down and
let ten boys kick the ball from under him!
His body was turned to water. He could not move. The shadows were so
vast around him, the ground wavered beneath his feet, the trees on the
slopes below the cathedral all nodded as though they knew that terrible
things would soon happen to him—and there was no sound anywhere. What
he wanted was to creep close to the cathedral, clutch the stone walls,
and stay there. That was what he nearly did, and if he had done it he
would have been there, I believe, until this very day. Then he
remembered the Dean’s Ernest who had been too frightened to come, he
remembered that he had been “dared” to run round the cathedral twice,
and that he had only as yet run half round it once. His stockings were
down over his ankles, both his boots now hurt him, he had lost his cap;
he summoned all the pluck that there was in his soul and body combined
and ran on.
When he had finished his first round and was back by the west door
again, there was no sign of the other two boys. He paused desperately
for breath; then, as though pursued by all the evil spirits of the
night, started again. This time it did not seem so long. He shut his
ears to all possible sound, refused to think, and the physical pain of
the stitch in his side and his two rubbed heels kept him from grosser
fear. Then, just as he completed the second round, the most awful thing
happened. A figure, an enormous figure it seemed to poor Jeremy, rose
out of the ground, a figure with flapping wings; a great light was
flashed in the air; a strange, high voice screamed aloud. The figure
moved towards him. That was enough for his courage. As though death
itself were behind him, he took to his heels, tore across the grass,
plunged through the stile into Parson’s Yard.
The little shadow had been like a curve of wind on the grass. High in
the air rose the cry:
“A windy night and all clear! A windy night and all clear!” and the
night-watchman, his thoughts upon the toasted cheese that would in
another half-hour be his reward, pressed round the corner of the
cathedral.
IV
And Jeremy ran on! How he ran! He stumbled, nearly fell, recovered
himself, felt no pain in his legs or side, only fear, fear, fear! As he
ran he was saying:
“I must get back! Oh, I must get back! I must be home. . . . I must get
back!” and did not know that he was saying anything at all.
Then suddenly in the middle of Grass Lane he recovered himself and
stood. How still and quiet everything was! A few stars were breaking
through the clouds. The rustling of the trees now was friendly and
reassuring, and there was a soft undertone in the air as though a
thousand streams were running beneath his feet.
He stood, panting, loving to feel the stroke of the little wind against
his hot cheek. What was that that had frightened him? Whom could it have
been?
But gradually the centre of interest was shifting. The past was the
past. He had done what he had said he would do. Now for the future. He
shivered as it came to him in its full force, then squared his shoulders
and marched on. He would meet whatever it might be, and anyway he was
going to school the day after to-morrow. . . .
Time moved quickly then. He was soon passing the High School, the world
completely dead now on every side of him; then there was his old friend
the monument; then the row of houses in which his own home stood. He
closed the garden gate very carefully behind him, stole up the path,
found the ledge stone below the pantry window, then felt for the ledge.
His heart ceased to beat: the catch was fastened. Someone, then, _had_
discovered his absence! The house seemed to be dark and silent enough,
but they were lying in wait for him inside!
Well, he was going on with it now. All that he wanted was the quiet and
comfort of his room and to be warm and cosy again in bed. He was
suddenly quite horribly tired. He pushed with his fingers between the
ledges and found then that the catch was _not_ securely fastened after
all. The upper part of the window suddenly jerked upwards, moving
awkwardly and with a creaking noise that he had not known before. He
pulled himself on to the window-ledge, then very carefully let himself
down on the other side. The first thing that he knew was that his feet
touched a chair, and there had been no chair there before; then, that
his fingers were rubbing against the corner of a table!
He was not in their own pantry, he was not in their own house! He had
climbed in through the wrong window! And even as he realized this and
moved in an agony of alarm back to climb out of the window again, his
arm brushed the table _again_, he pushed something, and with the noise
of the Niagara Falls a thousand times emphasized echoing in his ears,
the china of all the pantries of heaven fell clattering to the ground.
V
After that things happened quickly. A light instantly cleaved the
darkness, and he saw an open door, a candle held aloft, and the
strangest figure holding it. At the same time a deep voice said:
“Stand just where you are! Move another step and I fire!”
“Don’t fire, please,” said Jeremy. “It’s only me!”
The figure confronting him was a woman’s. It was, in fact, quite easily
to be recognized as that of Miss Lisbeth Mackenzie, who had lived next
door to the Coles for years and years and years—ever since, in fact,
Jeremy could remember—and waged, like Betsy Trotwood, incessant warfare
on boys, butchers and others who walked across her lawn, whose only
merit had been that she hated Aunt Amy, and told her so. She was an
eccentric old woman, eccentric in manners, in habits and appearance, but
surely never in her life had she looked so eccentric as she did now.
With her white hair piled untidily on her head, her old face of a crow
pallid behind her hooked and piercing nose, over her nightdress she had
hurriedly gathered her bed-quilt—a coat, like Joseph’s, of many and
varied colours—and on her feet were white woollen stockings.
In the hand that did not hold the candle she flourished a pistol that,
even to Jeremy’s unaccustomed and childish eyes, was undoubtedly a very
old and dusty one.
They must have been a queer couple to behold had there been any third
person there to behold them: the small boy, dishevelled, hatless, his
collar burst, his stockings down over his ankles, and the old woman in
her patchwork quilt. Miss Mackenzie, having expected to behold a hirsute
and ferocious burglar, was considerably surprised. She held the candle
closer, then exclaimed:
“Why, you’re a little Cole from next door.”
“Yes,” said Jeremy. “I thought this was our pantry and it was yours.
Wait a minute. I’m going to sneeze.” This he did, and then hurried on
breathlessly: “Please let me go now and I’ll come in to-morrow and
explain everything and pay for the cups and saucers. But I don’t want
them to know that I’ve been out.”
“Here, pick the bits up at once,” she said, “or somebody will be cutting
themselves. It’s just like that maid, having it out on the table. That
settles it. She shall leave to-morrow.”
She put down the candle and pistol on the table, and then watched him
while he picked up the pieces. They were not very many.
“And now please may I go?” said Jeremy again. “I didn’t mean to come
into your house. I didn’t really. I’ll explain everything to-morrow.”
“No, you won’t,” said Miss Mackenzie grimly. “You’ll explain here and
now. That’s a pretty thing to come breaking into somebody’s house after
midnight, and then thinking you can go out just as easily as you came
in. . . . You can sit down,” she said as a kind of afterthought,
pointing to a chair.
“It isn’t anything really,” said Jeremy very quickly. “I mean that it
isn’t anything you need mind. They dared me to run round the cathedral
twice when the clock struck twelve, and I did it, and ran home and
climbed into your house by mistake.”
“Who’s they?” asked Miss Mackenzie, gathering her quilt more closely
about her.
“Bill Bartlett and Ernest Sampson,” he said, as though that must tell
her everything. “The Dean’s son, you know; and I don’t like him, so when
he dares me to anything I must do it, you see.”
“I don’t see at all,” said Miss Mackenzie. “It was a very wicked and
silly thing to do. There are plenty of people I don’t like, but I don’t
run round the cathedral just to please them.”
“Oh, I didn’t run round it to _please_ him!” Jeremy said indignantly. “I
don’t want to please him, of course. But he said that I wouldn’t do it
and he would, whereas, as a matter of fact, I did and he didn’t.”
“As a matter of fact,” picked up from the drawing-room, was just then a
very favourite phrase of his.
“Well, you’ll get it hot from your father,” said Miss Mackenzie, “when
he knows about it.”
“Oh, but perhaps he won’t know,” said Jeremy eagerly. “The house looks
all dark, and perhaps Hamlet didn’t wake up.”
“Hamlet?” repeated Miss Mackenzie.
“Yes; that’s my dog.”
“Oh, that hateful dog that sometimes looks through the railings into my
garden as though he would like to come in and tear up all my flowers.
He’d better try, that’s all.”
“He isn’t hateful,” said Jeremy. “He’s a splendid dog. He had a fight a
little while ago, and was nearly killed, but he didn’t care. He just
grinned.”
“He won’t grin if I get hold of him,” said Miss Mackenzie. “Now what are
you going to do about it when your father knows you’ve been out like
this?”
“Oh, he mustn’t know!” said Jeremy. “You’re not going to tell him, are
you?”
“Of course I am,” said Miss Mackenzie. “I can’t have little boys
climbing into my house after midnight and then do nothing about it!”
“Oh, please, please!” said Jeremy. “Don’t do anything this time. I
promise never to do it again. It would be dreadful if father knew. It’s
so important that the holidays should end well. They began so badly. You
won’t tell him, will you?”
“Of course I will,” said Miss Mackenzie. “First thing in the morning. I
shall ask him to whip you and to allow me to be present during the
ceremony. There’s nothing that I love like seeing little boys
whipped—especially naughty little boys.”
For a moment Jeremy thought that she meant it. Then he caught sight of
her twinkling eye.
“No, you won’t,” he said confidently. “You’re just trying to frighten
me. But I’m not frightened. I go back to school day after to-morrow, so
they can’t do much anyway.”
“If I let you off,” she said, “you’ve got to promise me something.
You’ve got to promise me that you’ll come and read to me twice every day
during next holidays!”
“Oh, Lord!”
Jeremy couldn’t be quite sure whether she meant it or not. How awful if
she did mean it! Still, a bargain was a bargain. He looked at her
carefully. She seemed very old. She might die before next holidays.
“All right,” he said; “I promise. I don’t read very well, you know.”
“All the better practice for you,” she answered. Her eye mysteriously
twinkled above the bed-quilt.
She let him go then, even assisting him from behind out of the pantry
window. He had a look and a smile at her before he dropped on the other
side. She looked so queer, with her crabbed face and untidy hair, under
the jumping candle. She nodded to him grimly.
Soon he was at his own window and through it. Not a sound in the house.
He crept up the stairs. The same wild snore met him, rumbling like the
sleeping soul of the house. Everything the same. To him all those
terrors and alarms, and they had slept as though it had been one moment
of time.
He opened his own door. Hamlet’s even, whining breathing met him. Not
much of a watchdog. Never mind. How tired he was! _How_ tired! He flung
off his clothes, stood for a moment to feel the cold air on his naked
body, then his nightshirt was over his head.
The bed was lovely, lovely, lovely. Only as he sank down a silver slope
into a sea of red and purple leaves a thought went sliding with him. The
Dean’s Ernest had funked it! The Dean’s Ernest had funked it! Let us
never forget! Let us . . . _Plunk!_