“I wonder what makes him bounce.”
“Oh no, _don’t!_” cried Thomasina, for she had heard her brother wonder
that about balls before, and she knew all too well what it ended in.
“Oh, _don’t_,” she said, “oh, Silly, he brought us here, he’s been so
kind.” But Selim said, “Nonsense; balls can’t feel, and it will be
almost as good to play with after I’ve looked inside it.”
And then, before Thomasina could prevent him, he pulled out the knife
Uncle Reggy gave him last holiday but one, and catching the Ball up,
he plunged the knife into its side. The Bouncible Ball uttered one
whiffing squeak of pain and grief, then with a low, hissing sigh
its kindly spirit fled, and it lay, a lifeless mass of paint and
india-rubber in the hands of its assassin. Thomasina burst into
tears—but the heartless Selim tore open the Ball, and looked inside.
You know well enough what he found there. Emptiness; the little square
patch of india-rubber that makes the hard lump on the outside of the
ball which you feel with your fingers when the ball is alive and his
own happy, bouncing, cheerful self.
The children stood looking at each other.
“I—I almost wish I hadn’t,” said Selim at last; but before Thomasina
could answer he had caught her hand.
“Oh, look,” he cried, “look at the sea.”
It was, indeed, a dreadful sight. The beautiful dancing, sparkling blue
sea was drying up before their eyes—in less than a moment it was quite
flat and dusty. It hurriedly laid down a couple of railway lines, ran
up a signal-box and telegraph-poles, and became the railway at the back
of their house at home.
The children, gasping with horror, turned to the downs. From them tall,
yellow brick houses were rising, as if drawn up by an invisible hand.
Just as treacle does in cold weather if you put your five fingers in
and pulled them up. But, of course, you are never allowed to do this.
The beach got hard—it was a pavement. The green downs turned grey—they
were slate roofs—and Thomasina and Selim found themselves at the iron
gate of their own number in the terrace—and there was Uncle Thomas at
the window knocking for them to come in, and Aunt Selina calling out to
them how far from respectable it was to play in the streets.
They were sent to bed at once—that was Aunt Selina’s suggestion—and
Uncle Thomas arranged that they should have only dry bread for tea.
Selim and Thomasina have never seen “Whereyouwantogoto” again, nor the
Bouncible Ball—not even his poor body—and they don’t deserve to either.
Of course, Thomasina was not so much to blame as Selim, but she was
punished just the same. I can’t help that. This is really the worst of
being naughty. You not only have to suffer for it yourself, but some
one else always has to suffer too, generally the person who loves you
best.
You are intelligent children, and I will not insult you with a moral.
I am not Uncle Thomas. Nor will I ask you to remember what I have told
you. I am not Aunt Selina.