IN A FOG
I WAITED a minute or two before I said anything to the others. They went
on laughing and joking, and I kept looking out of the window. At last I
turned round, and then Margaret started a little.
'What's the matter, Giles?' she said. 'You're quite white and funny
looking.'
And Peterkin stared at me too.
'It's--'I began, and then I felt as if I really couldn't go on; but I
had to. 'It's that I am dreadfully afraid,' I said, 'almost quite sure
now, that we are in the wrong train. I've seen the names of two stations
that we've passed without stopping already. Do you remember the names of
any between the Junction and Hill Horton, Margaret?'
She shook her head.
'No,' she said, 'but I know we never pass any without stopping; at
least I think so. They are quite little stations, and I've never known
the train go as fast as this till after the Junction, when we were in
the London train. I've been to London several times with Gran, you see.'
Then it suddenly struck her what I meant.
'Oh!' she exclaimed, with a little scream, 'is it _that_ you are afraid
of, Giles? Do you think we are in the _London_ train? I did think it was
funny that we were getting back into the same one, but you said that the
man said that the carriages at the front were for Hill Horton?'
'Well, I _thought_ he did,' I replied, 'but--' one's mind works quickly
when you are frightened sometimes--'he _might_ have said "Victoria," for
the "tor" in "Victoria" and "Horton" sound rather alike.'
'But wouldn't he have said "London"?' asked Peterkin.
'No, I think they generally say the name of the station in London,' I
explained. 'There are so many, you see.'
Then we all, for a minute or two, gazed at each other without speaking.
Margaret had got still paler than usual, and I fancied, or feared, I
heard her choke down something in her throat. Peterkin, on the
contrary, was as red as a turkey-cock, and his eyes were gleaming. I
think it was all a part of the fairy-tale to him.
'What shall we do?' said Margaret, at last, and I was forced to answer,
'I don't know.'
Bit by bit things began to take shape in my mind, and it was no good
keeping them to myself.
'There'll be the extra money to pay for our tickets to London,' I said
at last.
'How much will it be? Isn't there enough over?' asked Margaret quietly,
and I could not help admiring her for it, as she took out her purse and
gave it to me to count over what was left.
There were only four or five shillings. I shook my head.
'I don't know how much it will be, but I'm quite sure there's not
enough. You see, though we're only halves, it's first-class.'
'And what will they do to us if we can't pay,' she went on, growing
still whiter. 'Could we--could we possibly be sent to prison?'
'Oh no, no. I don't think so,' I answered, though I was really not at
all sure about it; I had so often seen notices stuck up on boards at
railway stations about the punishments of passengers not paying
properly, or trying to travel without tickets. 'But--I'm afraid they
would be very horrid to us somehow--perhaps telegraph to papa or mamma.'
'Oh!' cried Margaret, growing now as red as she had been white, 'and
that would mean my being shut up again at Rock Terrace--worse than
before. I don't know _what_ the witch wouldn't do to me,' and she
clasped her poor little hands in a sort of despair.
Then Peterkin burst out--
'I've got my gold half-pound with me,' he said, in rather a queer voice,
as if he was proud of being able to help and yet half inclined to cry.
'Goodness!' I exclaimed, 'why on earth didn't you say so before?'
'I--I--wanted it for something else,' said he. 'I don't quite know why I
brought it.'
He dived into his pocket, and dug out a very grimy little purse, out of
which, sure enough, he produced a half-sovereign.
The relief of knowing that we should not get into trouble as far as our
journey _to_ London was concerned, was such a blessing, that just for
the moment I forgot all the rest of it.
'Anyway we can't be put in prison now,' said Margaret, and a little
colour came into her face. 'Oh, Perkins, you _are_ a nice boy!'
I did think her praising him was rather rough on _me_, for I had had
bother enough, goodness knows, about the whole affair, even though I had
made a stupid mistake.
We whizzed on, for it was an express train, and for a little while we
didn't speak. Peterkin was still looking rather upset about his money.
He told me afterwards that he had been keeping it for his Christmas
presents, especially one for Margaret, as we had never had a chance of
getting her any flowers. But all that was put right in the end.
After a bit Margaret said to me, in a half-frightened voice--
'What shall we do when we get to London, Giles? Do you think perhaps the
guard would help us to go back again to the Junction, when he sees it
was a mistake? As we've got money to pay to London, he'd see we hadn't
meant to cheat.'
'No,' I said, 'he wouldn't have time, and besides I don't think it'll be
the same one. And if we said anything, he'd most likely make us give our
names, or take us to some station-master or somebody, and then there'd
be no chance of our keeping out of a lot of bother.'
'You mean,' said she, in a shaky voice, 'we should have to go all the
way back, and I'd be sent to the witch again?'
'Something like it, I'm afraid,' I said. 'If I just explain that we got
into the wrong train and pay up, they'll have no business to meddle with
us.'
'But what are we to do, then?' she asked again.
'I don't know,' I replied. I'm afraid I was rather cross. I was so sick
of it all, you see, and so fearfully bothered.
Margaret at last began to cry. She tried to choke it down, but it was no
use.
I felt awfully sorry for her, but somehow the very feeling so bad made
me crosser, and I did not try to comfort her up.
Pete, on the contrary, tugged out his pocket-handkerchief, which was
quite a decently clean one, and began wiping her eyes. This made her try
again to stop crying. She pulled out her own handkerchief and said--
'Dear little Perkins, you are so kind.'
I glanced at them, not very amiably, I daresay. And I was on the point
of saying that, instead of crying and petting each other, they'd better
try to think what we should do, for I knew we must be getting near
London by this time, when I saw something white on the floor of the
carriage.
I stooped to pick it up. It had dropped out of Margaret's pocket when
she pulled out her handkerchief. It was an envelope, or what had been
one, and for a moment I thought it was the one I had given her with our
address on, to use when she wrote to us from Hill Horton, but _that_ one
couldn't have got so dirty and torn-looking in the time. And when I
looked at it more closely, I saw that it was jagged and nibbled in a
queer way, and _then_ I saw that it had the name 'Wylie' on it, and an
address in London. And when I looked still more closely, I saw that it
had never been through the post or had a stamp on, and that it had a
large blot in one corner. Evidently the person who had written on it had
not liked to use it because of the blot, and the name on it was _Miss_,
not _Mrs._ Wylie, '19 Enderby Street
LONDON, S.W.'
I turned it round and round without speaking for a moment or two. I
couldn't make it out. Then I said--
'What's this, Margaret? It must have dropped out of your pocket.'
She stopped crying--well, really, I think she had stopped already, for
whatever her faults were she wasn't a babyish child--to look at it. She
seemed puzzled, and felt in her pocket again.
'No, of course it's not the envelope you gave me,' she said. 'I've got
it safe, and--oh, I believe I know how this old one got into my pocket.
I remember a day or two ago when I was trying if it would do to tie my
handkerchief on to Polly's cage, he was nibbling some paper. He's very
fond of nibbling paper, and it doesn't hurt him, for he doesn't eat it.
But he would keep pecking at me when I was tying the handkerchief, and I
was vexed with him, and so when he dropped this I picked it up and shook
it at him, and told him he shouldn't have it again, and then I put it
into my pocket. He was very tiresome that day, not a bit a fairy; he is
like that sometimes.'
'But how did he come to have an envelope with "Miss Wylie" on?' I said.
'He doesn't live in Mrs. Wylie's house, but in the one between yours and
hers, and this must have come from _her_.'
'I daresay she gave it him to play with, or her servant may have given
it him,' said Margaret, 'You see he's sometimes at the end of the
balcony nearest her, and sometimes at our end. I think his servants have
put him more at our end since she's been away; perhaps they've heard me
talking to him. Anyway, I'm sure this old envelope must have come out of
his cage.'
I did not speak for a moment. I was gazing at the address.
'Margaret,' I exclaimed, 'look at it.'
She did so, and then stared up at me, with a puzzled expression in her
eyes, still red with crying.
'I believe,' I went on, 'I believe this is going to help us.'
Peterkin, who had been listening with all his ears, could contain
himself no longer.
'And the parrot _must_ be a fairy after all,' he said, 'and he must have
done it on purpose.'
But Margaret did not seem to hear what he said, she was still gazing at
me and wondering what I was going to say.
'Don't you see,' I went on, touching the envelope, 'this must be the
house of some of Mrs. Wylie's relations? Very likely she's staying with
them there, and anyway they'd tell us where she is, as we know she's
still in London. She told us she was going to be there for a fortnight.
And she's very kind. We would ask her to lend us money enough to go back
to the Junction, and then we'd be all right. You have got your ticket
for Hill Horton, and we have our returns for home.'
'Oh,' cried Margaret, 'how clever you are to have thought of it, Giles!
But,' and the bright look went out of her face, 'you don't think she'd
make me go back to the witch, do you? Are you sure she wouldn't?'
'I really don't think she would,' I said. 'I know she has often been
sorry for you, for she knew you weren't at all happy. And we'd tell her
more about it. She is awfully kind.'
I meant what I said. Perhaps I saw it rather too favourably; the idea of
finding a friend in London was such a comfort just then, that I felt as
if everything else might be left for the time. I never thought about
catching trains at the Junction or about its getting late and dark for
Margaret to be travelling alone from there to Hill Horton, or anything,
except just the hope--the tremendous hope--that we might find our kind
old lady.
[Illustration: HE LOOKED AT THE TICKETS . . . 'HOW'S THIS?' HE
SAID.--p. 145.]
The train slackened, and very soon we pulled up. It wasn't the station
yet, however, but the place where they stop to take tickets, just
outside. I know it so well now, for we pass it ever so often on our way
from and to school several times a year. But whenever we pass it, or
stop at it, I think of that miserable day and all my fears.
The man put his head in at the window. He was a stranger.
'Tickets, please,' he said.
I was ready for him--tickets, Peterkin's half-sovereign, and all. I held
out the tickets.
'There's been a mistake,' I began. 'I shall have to pay up,' and when he
heard that, he opened the door and came in.
He looked at the tickets.
'Returns--half-returns to the Junction,' he said, 'and a half to Hill
Horton. How's this?'
'We got into the wrong train at the Junction,' I replied. 'In fact, we
got back into the same one we had just got out of. I expect the guard
thought I said "Victoria" when I said "Hill Horton," for he told us to
go to the front.'
'And didn't he tell you, you were wrong when he looked at the tickets
before you started?' the man asked, still holding our tickets in his
hand and examining us rather queerly.
I began to feel angry, but I didn't want to have any fuss, so instead of
telling him to mind his own business, as I was ready to pay the
difference, I answered again quite coolly--
'No one looked at the tickets at the Junction. There were two or three
empty carriages at the front: perhaps no one noticed us getting in.'
I thought I heard the man murmur to himself something about 'rum go.
Three kids by themselves, and first-class.'
So, though I was getting angrier every moment, I just said--
'I don't see that it matters. Here we are, anyway, and I'll pay if
you'll tell me how much.'
He counted up.
'Eight-and-six--no, eight-and-tenpence.'
I held out the half-sovereign. He felt in his pocket and gave me back
the change--a shilling and twopence, and walked off with the halves of
Pete's and my return tickets and the half-sovereign.
We all began to breathe more freely; but, as the train slowly moved
again at last--we had been standing quite a quarter-of-an-hour--a new
trouble started.
'It's very dark,' said Margaret, 'and it can't be late yet.'
I looked out of the window. Yes, it was very dark. I put my head out. It
felt awfully chilly too--a horrid sort of chilly feeling. But that
wasn't the worst of it.
'It's a fog,' I said. 'The horridest kind--I can't see the lights almost
close to us. It's getting worse every minute. I believe it'll be as dark
as midnight when we get into the station. What luck, to be sure!'
The other two seemed more excited than frightened.
'I've never seen a really bad fog,' said Margaret, as if she was rather
pleased to have the chance.
Pete said nothing. I expect he'd have had a fairy-tale all ready about a
prince lost in a mist, if I'd given him an opening. But I was again
rather taken aback. How were we to find our way to Enderby Street?
I had meant to walk, you see, in spite of the red bundle! For I was
afraid of being cheated by the cabman; and I was afraid too of running
quite short of money, in case we _didn't_ find Mrs. Wylie, or that she
had left, and that, if the worst came to the worst, I might have to go
to a hotel with the two children, and telegraph to mamma to say where we
were. Papa, unluckily, was not in London just then. He had gone away on
business somewhere--I forget where--for a day or two, and besides, I was
not at all sure of the exact address of his chambers, otherwise I might
have telegraphed _there_. I only knew it was a long way from Victoria.
Indeed, I don't think I thought about that at all at the time, though
afterwards mamma said to me I might have done so, _had_ the worst come
to the worst.