Cecilia was knitting by the fire.
"What on earth have you two been doing?" she asked as we came in. "John
looks as if he'd been in a boiler explosion."
"Hardly that," I said. "We've been playing with Chris--haven't we, John?"
John gasped.
"No, we haven't," he said. "On the contrary, _they_ have been playing with
_me_, Cecilia."
"Well, it's all the same thing, isn't it?" said Cecilia. "Anyhow, I heard
_you_ making a most frightful row."
"Of course I was making a row. So would you make a row if people suddenly
mistook you for a Teddy Bear or something and started bunging you about the
room."
"I haven't the least idea what you're talking about," said Cecilia, "but I
think you're being intensely vulgar."
"Vulgar! 'Vulgar,' she says." He laughed bitterly. "You'd be vulgar too if
you'd had that great hulking brute" (he pointed at me) "sitting on the
small of your back, and a hooligan of a boy--"
Cecilia sat up and took notice.
"Hooligan!" she said, "Hooligan! Who's a Hooligan?"
"Sh! sister," I murmured. "You'll strain the epiglottis."
John turned on me savagely.
"You keep quiet. It isn't your epi--epi--what you said--and, anyway, can't
I even have a quiet row with my own wife without--"
"John, calm yourself," said Cecilia crushingly. "Alan, tell me what you've
been doing."
"Yes," muttered John, "tell her." He subsided into an armchair.
"Well," I said, "you see, Christopher and I were up in the nursery and
getting on quite all right when John butted in--"
"I simply opened--"
"John, keep quiet," said his wife. "Well, Alan?"
"Well, the fact is, Chris and I were in the middle of a great war with all
his soldiers. I had just firmly established fire superiority and was
actually on the verge of launching a huge offensive--the one that was going
to win the war, in fact--when, as I said, in butted this great clumsy
elephant and knocked half of Christopher's army over."
"Purely an accident," said John.
"_Will_ you keep quiet, or must I make you?" asked Cecilia.
"Well, of course," I went on, "finding ourselves suddenly attacked by a
common foe, Chris and I naturally joined forces to defend ourselves."
"Defend!--" shrieked John. "No, I won't keep quiet another second. Defend!
Why, they rushed at me like a couple of wild hyenas."
"My dear John," said Cecilia, "_you_ attacked them first, and of course
they defended themselves as best they could."
"Precisely," I said.
"After all, John," said Cecilia, "you ought to be glad your son is so ready
to look after himself, instead of calling him a hooligan. You're always
shouting about the noble art of self-defence."
"Noble art of self-defence _rot_," said John. "There's nothing in the noble
art about pushing lead soldiers down a man's neck."
"Down your neck?" said Cecilia.
"Yes," said John. "I keep trying to tell you and you won't let me. That
brute sat on the small of my back while Christopher pushed 'em down. The
little beasts all had their bayonets fixed, too."
Cecilia and I laughed.
"Yes, laugh," said John bitterly. "It _is_ funny that our child should be
growing up a Bolshevist; trying to flay his own father. He'll be setting
fire to the cat in a week and then you'll have another laugh."
"John," shrieked Cecilia, "how dare you? If you say another word about the
darling--"
The door opened and Christopher came into the room.
He seemed to have washed his face or something. Anyway, he looked quite a
little angel and that's hardly--however.
"I shall tell Chris what you've been saying," said Cecilia.
John jumped.
"No, no, Cecilia," he said in a strangled voice. "Don't betray me. I--I'm
sorry; I withdraw everything. Cecilia, save me. Think of our courting days;
remember--"
"Christopher," said Cecilia clearly, "you see your father? Go and pull his
last remaining hairs out."
Christopher looked at her in amazement. Then he walked over to John,
climbed on his knee and put an arm round his neck.
"I wouldn't hurt you, dear old Dad, would I?" he asked affectionately,
looking at his mother in pained surprise.
John positively gasped with relief.
"Dear old Chris," he said.
"Oh, you hypocrite!" said Cecilia.
"Coward!" said I.
I was sitting on one of those dumpy hassock sort of things. John looked
down at me vindictively for a moment and then a horrid smile started
spreading about his nasty face.
"Christopher," he said very gently, "wouldn't it be a good thing if we
pushed Uncle Alan over and knocked his slippers off, and then I'll sit on
him while you tickle his feet?"
Now it sounds silly, but a cold prespiration came over me. Being tickled is
so hopelessly undignified. And, anyhow, I simply can't stand it on the
feet.
"John," I said severely, "don't be absurd."
Christopher gurgled.
"He's afraid," he said. "Come on, Dad."
I saw that they really meant it, and I can only suppose that I was carried
away by one of those panics that you read of as attacking the bravest at
times. Anyhow, quite suddenly I found myself moving rapidly round the
table, out of the door and up the stairs. Halfway up I stopped to listen.
Cecilia and John were laughing loudly and coarsely and Christopher was
chanting "Uncle's got the wind up" in a piercing treble. Not at all a nice
phrase for a small boy to have on his tongue.
It was all very galling for one who has fought and, I may say, bled for his
country. I almost decided to go back and fight if necessary. Then I heard a
stage-whisper from Christopher:
"Let's creep upstairs after him and tickle him to death. Shall we, Dad?"
Sheer hooliganism. It was impossible to fight with honour against such
opponents. I disdained to try. I went hastily up the remaining stairs and
locked myself in my room.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Polite Straphanger (to lady who has been standing on his
toes for a considerable time)._ "PARDON ME, MADAM, BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO GET
OFF HERE--THIS IS AS FAR AS I GO."]
* * * * *