Produced by Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh, Emmy, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
PETERKIN
[Illustration: MAMMA . . . HUGGED HIM AS IF HE'D BEEN LOST FOR A YEAR.
[_Frontispiece._]
PETERKIN
BY
MRS. MOLESWORTH
AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'TELL ME A STORY'
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. R. MILLAR_
=London=
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1902
_All rights reserved_
TO
"ALEX"
ALEXANDER DOBREE HERRIES
I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE STORY
155 SLOANE STREET, S.W.
_May Day_ 1902
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. WHAT _CAN_ HAVE BECOME OF HIM? 1
II. FOUND 19
III. AN INVITATION 34
IV. VERY MYSTERIOUS 50
V. 'STRATAGEMS' 69
VI. MARGARET 84
VII. THE GREAT PLAN 101
VIII. A TERRIBLE IDEA 118
IX. IN A FOG 135
X. BERYL 149
XI. DEAR MAMMA 165
XII. NO MYSTERY AFTER ALL 182
ILLUSTRATIONS
MAMMA . . . HUGGED HIM AS IF HE'D BEEN LOST FOR A YEAR _Frontispiece_
OUR MISSING PETERKIN _To face page_ 13
NO SOONER DID HE CATCH SIGHT OF US TWO WITH HIS UGLY
ROUND BEADY EYES . . . THAN HE SHUT UP " " 52
PETE HELD OUT HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL. 'THIS IS THE
POETRY-BOOK,' HE SAID " " 97
WE HAD NO DIFFICULTY IN FINDING HER BATH-CHAIR " " 108
HE LOOKED AT THE TICKETS . . . 'HOW'S THIS?' HE SAID " " 145
'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL
ME ALL ABOUT IT' " " 159
THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE " " 173
PETERKIN
CHAPTER I
WHAT _CAN_ HAVE BECOME OF HIM?
WE were all at tea in the nursery. All except him. The door burst open
and James put his head in.
'If you please, Mrs. Brough,' he began,--'Mrs. Brough' is the servants'
name for nurse. Mamma calls her 'Brough' sometimes, but we always call
her 'nurse,' of course,--'If you please, Mrs. Brough, is Master Peterkin
here?'
Nurse looked up, rather vexed. She doesn't like burstings in.
'Of course not, James,' she said. 'He is out driving with his mamma. You
must have seen them start.'
'It's just that,' said James, in his silly way. 'It's his mamma that
wants to know.'
And then we noticed that James's face was much redder than usual. It may
have been partly that he had run upstairs very fast, for he is really
very good-natured, but it looked as if he was rather in a fuss, too.
Nurse sat very bolt up in her chair, and _her_ face began to get queer,
and her voice to get vexeder. Lots of people get cross when they are
startled or frightened. I have noticed it.
'What do you mean, James? Please to explain,' she said.
'I can't stop,' he said, 'and I don't rightly understand, myself. His
mamma sent Master Peterkin home before her, half-an-hour ago or more,
but he hasn't come in, not as I've seen, nor nobody else, I'm afraid. So
where he's got to, who can say?'
And James turned to go.
Nurse stopped him, getting up from her place as she spoke.
'Was he in the carriage?' she asked.
'Of course not. Beckett would have seen him in, all right, if he had
been,' said James, in a very superior tone. 'He was to run home by
himself a bit of a way, as I take it,' he added, as he hurried off at
last.
'I must go downstairs to your mamma,' said nurse. 'Miss Blanchie, my
dear, will you look after Miss Elvira, and see that she doesn't spill
her tea?'
'_Nursie_,' said Elvira, in a very offended tone, 'you know I never
spill my tea now.'
'Not since the day before yesterday,' I was beginning to say, but I
didn't. For I thought to myself, if there was any real trouble about
Peterkin, it wouldn't be at all a good time to tease each other. I don't
think Elf--that's Elvira's pet name--had understood about him being
lost. Indeed, I don't think I had quite taken it in myself, till I saw
how grave the two eldest ones were looking.
'Clem,' I said, 'do you think there can really be anything the matter?'
Clement is the eldest of us all, and he is always the one we go to first
if we are in any trouble. But he is sometimes rather slow; he is not as
quick and clever as Blanche, and she often puts him down at first,
though she generally comes round to his way in the end. She answered for
him now, though I hadn't spoken to her.
'How can there not be something the matter?' she said sharply. 'If
Peterkin has been half-an-hour or an hour, perhaps, wandering about the
streets, it shows he has at least lost his way, and who knows where he's
got to. I wish you wouldn't ask such silly questions, Giles.'
Then, all of a sudden, Elf burst out crying. It may have been partly
Blanche's sharp tone, which had startled her, and made her take more
notice of it all.
'Oh, Clem, Clem,' she wailed, 'could he have been stolened?'
'No, no, darling,' said Clement, dabbing her face with his
pocket-handkerchief. 'There are kind policemen in the streets, you know.
They wouldn't let a little boy like Peterkin be stolen.'
'But they does take little boys to pison,' said Elf. 'I've see'd them.
It's 'cos of that I'm frightened of them for Peterkin.'
That was not quite true. She had never thought of policemen till,
unluckily, Clem spoke of them in his wish to comfort her. She did not
mean to say what was not true, of course, but there never was such a
child as Elf for arguing, even then when she was only four years old.
Indeed, she's not half as bad now that she is eight, twice as old, and I
often tell her so. Perhaps that evening it wasn't a bad thing, for the
talking about policemen stopped her crying, which was even worse than
her arguing, once she started a good roar.
'It's just because of that, that I'm so frightened about dear sweet
little Peterkin,' she repeated.
'Rubbish, Elf,' I began, but Clem looked at me and I stopped.
'You needn't be frightened that Peterkin will be taken to prison,
Elfie,' he said in his kind, rather slow way. 'It's only naughty little
boys that the policemen take to prison, and Peterkin isn't naughty,' and
then he wiped Elf's eyes again, and she forgot to go on crying, for just
then nurse came upstairs. _She_ was not actually crying, of course, but
she did look very worried, so Clem and Blanche's faces did not clear up
at all. Nor did mine, I suppose. I really did not know what to think, I
was waiting to see what the others thought, for we three younger ones
looked up to Clement and Blanche a good deal, and we still do. They are
twins, and they seem to mix together so well. Blanche is quick and
clever, and Clement is awfully sensible, and they are both very kind,
though Clem is the gentlest. They are nearly sixteen now, and I am
thirteen past, so at the time I am writing about they were twelve and I
was going to be ten my next birthday, and Peterkin was eight and Elvira
five. I won't say much about what sort of a boy Peterkin was, for as my
story is mostly about him and the funny things he did and thought, it
will show of itself.
He _was_ a funny child; a queer child in some ways, I mean, and he still
is. Mamma says it is stupid to say 'funny' when we mean queer or odd,
but I think it says it better than any other word, and I am sure other
children will think so too.
Blanche was the first to speak to nurse.
'Is mamma really frightened about Peterkin, nurse?' she asked. 'Tell us
what it is.'
But nurse had caught sight of her darling pet baby's red eyes.
'Miss Blanchie,' she said, 'I asked you to look after Miss Elvira, and
she's been crying.'
'You asked me to see that she didn't spill her tea, and she hasn't spilt
it. It's some nonsense she has got in her head about policemen taking
strayed children to prison that she has been crying about,' replied
Blanche, rather crossly.
'I only wish,' began nurse, but the rest of her sentence she mumbled to
herself, though I heard part of it. It was wishing that the policemen
_had_ got Peterkin safely.
'Of course, your poor mamma is upset about it,' she went on, though I
could see she did not want to say very much for fear of Elf's beginning
to cry again. 'It was this way. Your mamma had to go round by Belton
Street, and she did not want to keep Master Peterkin out so late to miss
his tea, so she dropped him at the corner of Lindsay Square, and told
him to run home. It's as straight as straight can be, and he's often run
that far alone. So where he's got to or gone to, there's no guessing.'
'And what is mamma doing?' asked Blanche.
'She has sent Mr. Drew and James off in different directions,' said
nurse, 'and she has gone herself again in the carriage to the station,
as it's just time for your papa's train, and he will know what more to
do.'
We did not live in London then; papa went up and down every day from the
big town by the sea where our home was. Clement thinks perhaps I had
better not say what town it is, as some people might remember about us,
and I _might_ say things that would vex them; so I won't call it
anything, though I must explain that it is not at all a little place,
but quite big enough for any one to lose their way in, if they were
strangers. But Peterkin wasn't a stranger; and the way he had to come
was, as nurse said, as straight as straight.
We all listened with grave faces to what nurse told us. Suddenly Clement
got up--I can't say 'jumped up,' for he was always rather slow.
'Nurse,' he said, 'mamma's out, so I can't ask her leave. But I've got
an idea about Peterkin. Will you give me leave to go out for
half-an-hour or so? I promise you I won't go far, but I would rather not
tell you where I want to go, as it may be all nonsense.'
Nurse looked at him doubtfully. She trusted Clem the most of us all, I
know, and she had good reason to do so, for he was and is very
trustworthy. And it was nice of him to ask her leave, considering he was
twelve years old and quite out of the nursery, except that he still
liked having tea there when he came in from school every evening.
'Well, Master Clement,' said nurse, 'I don't quite know. Supposing you
go out and don't get back as soon as you expect? It would be just a
double fright for your poor mamma.'
'Let me go too!' I exclaimed, and I jumped up so suddenly that I made
all the cups rattle and nearly threw over the table altogether. 'Then if
anything stops Clem getting back quickly, I can run home and explain.
Anyway you'd be more comfortable if you knew the two of us were on the
hunt together. You don't mind my coming, do you, Clem?'
'No,' said Clem, 'but do let's go.'
'And you won't be long?' pleaded nurse.
Clem shook his head.
'I don't think we can be--not if there's anything in my idea', he called
out, as we ran off.
We didn't take a minute to pull on our coats, which were hanging in the
hall. I daresay I should never have thought of mine at all, if Clem
hadn't reminded me, even though it was late in November and a cold
evening. And as soon as we were outside and had set off at a good pace,
I begged Clem to tell me what his idea was, and where we were going to
look for Peterkin.
'It's the parrot,' he replied; 'the parrot in Rock Terrace.'
'I don't know what you mean,' I said. 'I never heard of a parrot, and I
don't know where Rock Terrace is.'
'Nonsense,' said Clem, stopping for a moment. 'You must have forgotten.'
'I haven't indeed,' I said.
'Not about the parrot that Peterkin has been dreaming of ever since we
passed it on Saturday, when we were out with mamma--next door to old
Mrs. Wylie's?' Clem exclaimed.
'No,' I repeated. 'I wasn't with you that day, and----'
'No more you were,' said Clem.
'And,' I went on, 'I don't know where Mrs. Wylie lives, though I've
often seen her herself at our house. And you know, Clement, that's just
like Peterkin. If he's got anything very much in his head, he often
doesn't speak of it, except to any one who knows about it already.'
'He hasn't said very much about it, even to me,' said Clement. 'But, all
the same, I know he has got it tremendously in his head.'
'How do you mean? Is he making up fairy stories about it?'
'Perhaps! You see he had never heard a parrot speaking. I'm not sure if
he knew they ever did. But he wanted very much to see it again, and it
just came into my mind all at once, that if he had a chance he might
have run round there and lost his way. I don't suppose he _meant_ to
when mamma told him to go home. It may just have struck him when he got
to the corner of Lindsay Square.'
I did not answer. We were walking so fast that it was not easy to go on
speaking. But I did think it was very clever of Clement to have thought
of it. It was so like Peterkin.
Clement hurried on. It was quite dark by now, but the lamps were
lighted, and Clem seemed quite sure of his way. In spite of feeling
rather unhappy about Peterkin, I was enjoying myself a little. I did not
think it possible that he was really badly lost, and it was very
exciting to rush along the streets after dark like this, and then I
could not help fancying how triumphant we should feel if we actually
found him.
It was not very surprising that I did not know where Rock Terrace was,
or that I had never even heard of it. It was such a tiny little row of
such tiny houses, opening out of one corner of Lindsay Square. The
houses were rather pretty; at least, very neat-looking and
old-fashioned, with a little bit of garden in front, and small iron
gates. They looked as if old maids lived in them, and I daresay there
were a good many.
Clement hurried along till he was close to the farther off end. Then he
stopped short, and for the first time seemed at a loss.
'I don't know the number,' he said, 'but I'm sure it was almost the end
house. And--yes--isn't that a big cage on the little balcony, Giles?
Look well.'
I peeped up. The light of the lamps was not very good in Rock Terrace.
'Yes,' I said. 'It is a big cage, but I can't see if there's a bird in
it.'
'Perhaps they take him in at night,' said Clement. Then he looked up
again at the balconies.
'Let me see,' he went on, 'which side is Mrs. Wylie's? Mamma went in at
the--' but before he had time to finish his sentence his doubts were set
at rest--his doubts and all our fears about Peterkin. For the door on
the left of the parrot's home opened slowly, letting out what seemed, in
contrast with the darkness outside, a flood of light, just within which,
in the small hall or lobby of the miniature house, stood two
figures--the one, that of a short thin old lady with white hair, dressed
all in black; the other, a short fat little boy in a thick coat--our
missing Peterkin!
[Illustration: OUR MISSING PETERKIN.--p. 13.]
They were speaking to each other most politely.
'So pleased to have seen you, my dear,' said Mrs. Wylie. 'Give my love
to your dear mamma. I will not forget about the parrot, you may be sure.
He shall have a proper invitation. And--you are quite certain you can
find your way home? Oh, dear!--that poor child must have been bemoaning
herself again! Polly always knows.'
And as we stood there, our minds scarcely made up as to what we should
do, we heard a queer croaking voice, from inside the house on the right
of Mrs. Wylie--the parrot's voice, of course, calling out--
'I'm so tired, Nana; I'm so tired. I won't be good; no, I won't.'
Mrs. Wylie and Peterkin both stood silent for a moment, listening. So
did we. Then Clement opened the gate and ran up the two or three steps,
I following him.
'Peterkin!' he exclaimed, 'mamma has been so frightened about you.'
And Peterkin turned round and looked up in his face with his big blue
eyes, apparently quite astonished.
'Has mamma come back?' he said. 'I've only been here for a minute or
two. I just wanted to look at the parrot.'
Mrs. Wylie was a quick-witted old lady. She took it all in, in a moment.
'Dear, dear!' she said. 'I am afraid it is my fault. I saw the dear boy
looking up at the parrot next door when I came in from my stroll round
to the pillar-box with a letter, and he told me he was one of Mrs.
Lesley's little sons, and then we got talking. But I had no idea his
mamma would be alarmed. I am afraid it has been much more than a few
minutes. I _am_ sorry.'
It was impossible to say anything to trouble the poor old lady: she
looked as if she were going to cry.
'It will be all right now,' said Clement. 'Mamma will be so delighted to
see him safe and sound. But we had better hurry home. Come along,
Peterkin.'
But nothing would make Peterkin forget his good manners. He tugged off
his sailor cap again, which he had just put on, and held out his hand,
for the second or third time, I daresay, as he and his old lady had
evidently been hobnobbing over their leave-takings for some minutes
before we made our appearance.
'Good-bye!' he said; 'and thank you very much. And I'll ask mamma to let
me come whenever you fix the day for the parrot. And please tell me all
he tells you about the little girl. And--thank you very much.'
They were the funniest pair. She so tiny and thin and white, with bright
dark eyes, like some bird's, and Peterkin so short and sturdy and rosy,
with his big dreamy ones looking up at her. She was just a little taller
than he. And suddenly I saw his rosy face grow still rosier; crimson or
scarlet, really. For Mrs. Wylie made a dash at him and kissed him, and
unluckily Peterkin did not like being kissed, except by mamma and Elf.
His politeness, however, stood him in good stead. He did not pull away,
or show that he hated it, as lots of fellows would have done. He stood
quite still, and then, with another tug at his cap, ran down the steps
after Clem and me.
Clement waited a moment or two before he spoke. It was his way; but just
now it was a good thing, as Mrs. Wylie did not shut the door quite at
once, and everything was so quiet in that little side street, in the
evening especially, that very likely our voices would have carried back
to her. I, for my part, was longing to shake Peterkin, though I felt
very inclined to burst out laughing, too. But I knew it was best to
leave the 'rowing' to Clem.
'Peterkin,' he began at last, 'I don't know what to say to you.'
Peterkin had got hold of Clem's hand and was holding it tight, and he
was already rather out of breath, as Clem was walking fast--very fast
for him--and he has always been a long-legged chap for his age, thin and
wiry, too; whereas, in those days--though, thank goodness, he is growing
like a house on fire _now_--Peterkin was as broad as he was long. So to
keep up with Clement's strides he had to trot, and that sort of pace
soon makes a kid breathless, of course.
'I--I never thought mamma'd be flightened,' he managed to get out at
last. He had been a long time of saying his 'r's' clearly, and now they
still all got into 'l's' if he was bothered or startled. 'I never
thought she'd be flightened.'
'Then you were a donkey,' I burst out, and Clement interrupted me.
'How could she not have been frightened?' he went on. 'She told you to
run straight home, which wouldn't have taken you five minutes, and you
have been at least an hour.'
'I thought it wouldn't be no farther to come this way,' replied
Peterkin, 'and I only meant to look at the pallot one minute. And it
would have been very lu--_rude_ not to speak to the old lady, and go
into her house for a minute when she asked me. Mamma always says we
mustn't be rude,' said Peterkin, plucking up some spirit.
'Mamma always says we must be _obedient_' replied Clement, severely.
Then he relapsed into silence, and his quick footsteps and Peterkin's
short trotty ones were the only sounds.
'I believe,' I couldn't help murmuring, half to myself, half to
Peterkin--'I believe you've got some rubbish in your head about the
parrot being a fairy. If I were mamma I'd stop your----' but at that I
stopped _myself_. If Clement had heard me he would have been down upon
me for disrespectfulness in saying to a baby like Pete what I thought
mamma should or should not do; and I didn't care to be pulled up by
Clement before the little ones.
Peterkin was as sharp as needles in some ways. He guessed the end of my
unfinished sentence.
'No,' he half whispered, 'mamma'd _never_ stop me reading faily
stolies--you know she wouldn't, Gilly, and it's velly unkind of you to
say so.'
'I didn't say so,' I replied.
'Be quiet, both of you,' said Clem, 'and hurry on,' for we had slackened
a little.
But in spite of the breathlessness of the pace, I heard another gasp
from Peterkin--
'It _is_ velly like the blue-bird,' were the words I distinguished.
And 'I knew I was right,' I thought to myself triumphantly.