The Raft
mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. “I'm sure
he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here's what mother's got
for you.”
“Darling motherkins, I do love you--all of you. But I mustn't take
anything this Christmas.”
“Nonsense,” said his father.
“I mean it,” said Peter proudly.
At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too
outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied,
so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, “Because
he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs.”
There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was
rather thin this morning.
When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service,
they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came
back.
Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was
always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and
peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word
was brought of Cookie's lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red.
He called him aside that evening. “What is it? Can't you trust me? Can't
you tell me, little Peter?”
How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. “I can't
even tell you, father.”
During the days that followed food was continually disappearing. Every
morning, as a habit now, they glanced out to see if the lean man was
there. Then the eyes of the elders signaled to one another, “So he's not
caught yet.” Peter's responsibilities were increasing. He found it more
and more difficult to go on supplying the wants of his uncle without
betraying his secret. Moreover, Ocky himself was getting tired of his
confinement; a loft has few diversions. It has no refinements: he
had not shaved for many days and his appearance was terrifying. The
mustaches had come unwaxed. The white spats were gray with dust and
climbing. Still, when Peter visited him, he was unconquerably cheerful.
He was only depressed when Peter had again failed to persuade Glory
or Jehane to come into the garden. “I want a sight of 'em, sonny. A
ha'penny marvel like you ought to be able to manage that.”
Frequently he discussed marriage with Peter, warning him against it
and tracing his own downfall to it. “It's awright if you meet the right
girl. But you never do--that's my experience. People think you have;
but you know you haven't. I knew a chap; his wife had black hair. They
seemed so happy that folk called 'em the love-birds. Well, this chap
used to get drunk. Not often, you know, but just as often as was
sensible. Well, when he was drunk, he'd give himself away, oh,
entirely--let all his bitterness out. He'd always hoped that he'd marry
a girl with yellow hair. His wife was awright except for that; but he
couldn't forget it. Of course he never told her. But there's always
something like that in marriage--something that rankles and that you
keep to yourself. That little something wrong spoils all the rest.
Then one day there's a row. Chaps have killed their girls for less than
that.--Ah, yes, and folk called 'em the love-birds!”
Or he would say, “Love's a funny thing, Peter. Some men fall in love
with the slope of a throat or the shape of a nose, and marry a girl for
that. Now there was a chap I once knew----- Umph! Did I ever tell you?
This chap and his wife were known as the love-birds and his wife had
black hair.” Then out would come the same old story.
Jehane had black hair. Peter wondered whether 'the chap' was Uncle
Waffles. And he wondered more than that; he was surprised that Uncle
Waffles should keep on forgetting that he'd told him the story already.
He supposed it was because he sat there all alone, brooding for hours
and hours.
“Mustn't mind if I'm queer, Peter. I'd be awright if you'd let me have
some baccy.”
But Peter wouldn't let him have it; it would increase the risk of
discovery.
One night he ceased to be surprised at his uncle's lapses of memory. His
father and mother had gone out to dinner. The younger children had
been put to bed. Jehane and Glory were sitting by the dining-room fire,
darning socks and whispering of the future. Peter took his opportunity,
slipped into the garden and down to the stables.
Snow was on the ground; every footstep showed like a blot of ink on
white paper. He was surprised to see that someone had crossed the
flower-beds. Then he was startled by a thought. Perhaps the police, or
the man whom Mr. Grace called 'the spotter,' had guessed. He listened.
No sound. He entered the yard; the footprints led into the stable. He
called softly, “Are you there?” No one answered. With fear in his heart
he climbed into the loft: Uncle Waffles had vanished.
CHAPTER XXI--STRANGE HAPPENINGS
Had they caught him? Ever since the beginning of the adventure Peter
had wondered interminably how it would end. He hadn't been able to see
any ending. It had seemed to him that, if nothing was found out, Uncle
Waffles might go on hiding in the loft forever and he might go on
pilfering for him.
Peter had watched his uncle carefully; he knew much more about him
now. He knew that he was a great disreputable child, much younger than
himself, who would always be dependent on somebody. He came to realize
that through all those years of large talking his uncle had never been
a man--never would be now; that he was just a large self-conscious boy,
boastful, affectionate and unreliable, whose sins were not wickedness
but naughtiness. The odd strain of maternity in Peter, which prompted
him always to shelter things weaker than himself, made him love his
uncle the more for this knowledge. And now he was distracted, like a
bantam hen which has hatched out a swan and lost it.
He set to work searching in the coach-house, under the tandem
tricycle, in the harness-room. He went out into the yard, following the
footprints. They led through the door into the garden, under the pear
trees, across a flower-bed to a neighbor's wall and there terminated
abruptly. What could have happened?
The night about him was spectacular and glistening as a picture on a
Christmas card. Everything in sight was draped in exaggerated purity.
Like cotton-wool, sprinkled with powdered glass, snow lay along the arms
of trees and sparkled in festoons on withered creepers. The march of
those countless London feet, that invisible hurrying army, always weary,
yet never halting, came to him muffled as though it moved across a heavy
carpet. “Be quiet. Be quiet,” said the golden windows, mounting in a
barricade of houses against the stars. “Be quiet. Be quiet,” whispered
the shrouded trees, as their burdened branches creaked and lowered. But
he could not be quiet. Cold as it was, sweat broke out on his forehead.
What had happened?
A crunching sound--a mere rumor, seeming infinitely distant! A head
appeared above the wall, right over him. A man lumbered across and fell
with a gentle thud almost at his feet.
“Oh, how could you? How could you do that?”
The voice which answered was thick and truculent. It made no pretence
at being secret. “And why shouldn't I? That's what I ask. I was tired of
sticking up there. It's no joke, I can tell you.”
“Shish! Where've you been?”
“Found a way out four gardens down--the wall's lower. No danger of
breaking one's legs--not like the way you brought me.”
Peter was a little staggered by this hostile manner; it was as though he
were being charged with having done something wilfully unfair and cruel.
“But to-morrow they'll see that somebody's been there. They'll follow
your tracks from garden to garden and then------”
“I don't care. Let 'em. You'd never do anything I ask you. You wouldn't
let me see Jehane and Glory. They're my flesh and blood; and who are
you? You wouldn't give me any baccy. You gave me nothing. Buried me
alive, that's what you did for me. So I just slipped off by myself.”
It was like an angry child talking. Ocky pulled a bottle from his
pocket, drew the cork with his teeth and tilted the neck against his
mouth. “Must have my medicine. Ah!”
Peter watched him. He was thinking fast, remembering past queernesses of
temper. “You've done this before?”
“Of course. And not ashamed of it either. I'll do it again as soon as I
get thirsty. It's cold up there.” He jerked his thumb toward the loft.
“Has it ever struck you?”
Peter disregarded the question. “You did it with my money--the money
that was to help you.”
“And isn't it helping me?” Another long draught. “Ah! That's
better!--You gave it me to take care of--I'm taking care of it. See? You
ought to know by now that I'm not to be trusted.”
Peter saw that nothing was to be gained by arguing. He helped his uncle
to scramble into the loft. “We'll be lucky if you're not caught by
morning.”
“Think so? What's the odds? Couldn't be worse off. Now shut up scolding;
you're as bad as Jehane. Let's be social. Did I ever tell you that story
about the chap whose wife had black hair?”
“Yes, you did. I know now that you'd been drinking every time you told
it.”
“Hic! Really! Awright, you needn't get huffy. It's a good story.”
Peter had at last hit on a plan. “Will you promise to stop here
to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?”
“Now you're talking. Reg'lar ha'penny marvel, that's what you are.
Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?” He spoke with the
_hauteur_ of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He was Ocky Waffles
Esquire, capitalist, who wasn't to be beaten at a bargain.
“Well, it'll probably be in a family.”
“Depends on the family.”
“Then promise me you won't go out again to-night.”
“Shan't be able when I've polished off this bottle.”
Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he
went he said, “It's my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it was
for you.”
Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity
better in a sitting posture. “Don't take it to heart, sonny. Forgive and
forget--that's my motto.” He reached up his hand to Peter with a fine
air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it with the tips of his
fingers.
That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing
which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the
house, ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day
it was kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the
gardener and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual
answering of the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping
through the hall. At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside
the diningroom, where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace
had borrowed the key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the
chance, and always had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding
kitchen company. “I won't have strange men lolling in my house without
my knowledge. That's how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their
friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it's none of my
business to supply 'em with opportunities for getting married.”
So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the
pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived
stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up
from the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with
her and helped her. “It's a burnin' shime,” she said, “cagin' us h'up
like h'animals. H'it's a wonder ter me as we h'ever get married. The
master thinks that, 'cause we're servants, we ain't got no pashuns.”
This evening when Grace had stopped her lover on his beat, Cookie had
suggested that they should borrow the key and let him into the kitchen