The Raft
by the side-passage. That was why Peter heard a man's voice when he
crept stealthily into the basement. The sound was so unexpected that he
paused to listen without any intention of eavesdropping.
“It started Christmas mornin', didn't it, Grice?” It was Cookie
speaking. “The door was h'on the latch, the milk was watered, the
sorsage-rolls and me cushion was gone. We blimed the cat at first. H'I
was that h'angry, I threw a broom at 'er. Not but wot I might 'a known
as no cat could water milk if I'd 'a stopped ter thought. And then
Master Peter, 'im that's so ginerous, 'e forgets to give anyone 'is
Christmas presents. H'it beats creation, so it does. And h'ever since
then, though I h'ain't said much abart it, 'cause I didn't want ter git
'is pa h'angry, h'ever since then h'its been goin' h'on. One day h'it's
h'eggs missin'. 'Nother day h'it's beef--little nibbles like h'all
round. And yer may taik my word for h'it, the little master's h'at the
bottom h'of it. What d'yer sye abart that, Mr. Somp? Yer 'andle crimes,
don't yer? Wot's yer sudgestion?”
Mr. Somp was the name of Grace's policeman. Mr. Somp thought. “Kid's
got a h'appetite, ain't 'e?” he procrastinated. “I 'ad a h'appetite
once.--But h'I wouldn't 'a believed it h'of 'im.”
Grace giggled. She had evidently felt the pressure of a burly arm. “Not
so frisky, cop. You 'old too 'ard. I ain't a drunk and disorderly.”
Then, taking up the thread of the conversation, “A fine policeman you
are! 'Ow could a little boy h'eat Cookie's cushion?”
Mr. Somp growled. Peter could imagine how he threw out his hands as he
said with all the weight of the noncommittal law, “Ah, there yer are!”
“Come h'orf it, dearie. Yer don't know nothing.” Grace tittered.
“H'if that's so, h'I'd best be goin'.”
Cookie laughed. “Ain't 'e the boy for losin' 'is 'air? And me cookin'
'im a h'om'let? Yer'll 'ave a 'andful ter manage, Grice, when yer marry.
'Is temper's nawsty.”
Mr. Somp must have changed his mind at the mention of the omelet, for he
postponed his departure.
In the dining-room Peter found Glory alone.
“Where's Aunt Jehane?”
“Mother's got a headache. She's gone to lie down.” Peter took his place
on the hearth-rug, his legs apart, his back to the fire, in unconscious
imitation of his father. Glory bowed her head, hiding her face, and went
on with her darning. Peter watched her. How slight she was! How lonely
she looked in the great arm-chair. Then it struck him that she was
always working, and that Aunt Jehane very frequently had headaches.
“Don't you ever want to play, Glory?”
“Oh, yes, I want.”
“Why d'you say it like that? Just _I want_.”
“Where's the good of wanting?”
The head bowed lower. The firelight shone in her hair. Her face was more
than ever hidden from him.
“But you're such a little girl--a whole year younger than I am. When I
want to play I do it.”
“Do you?”
It was always like that when Peter took notice of Glory--short questions
and short answers which led no further.
Peter leant over her and stayed her hands. “I don't like to see you work
so hard.”
“It's sweet to hear you say so, Peter.” He felt something splash and run
down his fingers. “I love to hear you say that. But you see, there's no
one to care for us now. I've got to do it. I always shall have to do it,
more and more.”
“Not when I'm a man.”
“When you're a man, Peter? What then?”
“When I'm a man no one shall be sorry. I'll make people ashamed of
prisons and of letting other people be poor. No one shall go hungry. No
one shall go unhappy. I'll build happy houses everywhere. And, oh Glory,
I'll take all the little children with no shoes on their feet out into
the country to where the grass is soft.”
She looked up at him with her grave gray eyes--eyes so much older than
her years. “When you're a man, Peter, you'll be splendid.”
“But I didn't say it to make you say that. I said it because I wanted
you to know that there's a day coming when--when instead of making you
cry, dear Glory, I'll make you laugh.”
“Just me, Peter, all by myself?”
She tilted back her head, gazing up at him, so that her hair rippled
back across her shoulders and her throat stretched white and long, like
a mermaid's looking up through water, Peter thought.
“Just me only, Peter?”
He couldn't understand why she should always want him to do things for
her only. She wasn't selfish like Riska. He was puzzled.
“Why I'll make you laugh and Kay laugh and everybody, because you know,
Glory, we all ought to be happy.”
Her face fell. The eager gladness was dying out of it, so he added
hurriedly, “And most especially I want to help Uncle Waffles.”
Was he going to have told her? Probably he did not know himself.
There was a sound of running feet in the hall; Grace burst in on them
breathlessly. “Oh, mum, can I 'ave a word with you? There's a light in
the winder of the---- Where's yer ma, Miss Glory? Quick, tell me.”
“She's gone to lie down with Moggs. Her head---- But what's happened?”
Grace was gone. As she climbed the house they heard her calling. Out in
the hall they found the policeman standing, with his baton in his hand;
he was trying to appear very brave, as though saying, “Fear nothing. I
am the law. I will protect you.”
Peter took one swift glance at Glory. Did she understand? He almost
fancied----
“Keep them here as long as you can,” he whispered; “I'm going out.”
The last sight he had was of Aunt Jehane coming down the stairs. She was
in her night-gown with a counterpane flung round her. Moggs was in her
arms, crying against her shoulder. Eustace was clinging stupidly to her
nightgown. Aunt Jehane's 'mat' was off. Her forehead looked surprised
and her scant hair straggled away from it. Grace was explaining
vociferously.
“I've called in the policeman, mum. Luckily 'e was passin'.”
“But what's he wasting time for?” Aunt Jehane asked tartly. “If you
didn't imagine the light, they're still there in the loft and he can
catch them.”
Mr. Somp spoke up for himself. “H'I was waitin' your h'orders.”
Peter flew down the path. The window was in darkness. Directly he
entered the stables he knew what had happened, for the air was heavy
with the smell of tobacco.
“Uncle! Uncle!”
“Here, sonny.”
“Quick. Come down. Grace saw you strike a match in the dark and a
policeman's coming to catch you.”
Peter had to go up after him, for Ocky's wits were clouded. He shook
him, saying, “Make haste. Can't you understand? Surely you don't want to
be caught.”
The fear, in Peter's voice pierced through the fog of alcohol and
reached Ocky's intellect. “But what's to be done?”
“There's an empty tank in the yard--you know it? If you can get in there
before they come, they mayn't find you.”
Ocky woke to life. Stumbling and hurrying he dropped down through the
trap-door. As they ran across the yard, they heard the grumbling of
voices approaching. Ocky climbed on the tank, keeping low so as not to
be seen from the garden, and vanished.
“Whatever you do, don't make a sound,” Peter warned him.
Uncle Waffles replied disgustedly, “It isn't empty. The water's up to me
ankles.”
Peter had hoped to get out of the stable before the search began; it
would look suspicious if they should find him. It was too late for that.
The voices were near enough for him to hear what was being said.
“Nothin' 'ere, me gal. You must 'ave h'imagined it.”
“I didn't imagine it, neither. And don't call me 'me gal' as though h'I
was nothin' to yer.”
“I calls you 'me gal' in me h'official capacity.”
“I don't care abart yer capacity, h'official or defficial, I won't 'ave
it.”
“My, but yer crusty, Grice!”
“H'I _am_ crusty and h'I tell yer for wot. Yer doubt my word--throw
h'aspersions on it. I did see a light, I tell yer.”
“Well, it ain't there now. The chap's gone.”
“Ow d'you know 'e's gone without lookin'?”
“By a kind o' h'inkstink one dewelopes by bein' in the police force.”
“D'you know wot I'm thinkin'?--Yer funky.”
“Funky, h'am I? H'awright--h'it's h'all over between us. Never tell me
h'again that you loves me.”
They had been talking in loud voices from the start--quite loud enough
to warn any burglar. Now that they had quarreled their voices cut the
still night air in anger. Not a word was lost.
Suddenly they paused. “Wot's that?” Grace asked the question in a sharp
whisper.
“Footsteps or I'm no cop.”
Peter heard the click of Mr. Somp's lantern; it must have struck against
his buttons as he bent to examine. “Footsteps. Someone's been a-climbin'
this 'ere wall.”
“Well, ain't yer goin' ter do nothin'?”
“You stand there, Grice, while I go for'ard. The chap may fire h'on us.
Good-bye, Grice. H'if anythin' should 'appen, remember I died a-doin' o'
me dooty.”
“Yer shan't. I'll come with yer. If 'e shoots we'll die together.”
“Grice, h'I commands yer in the nime o' the law ter stay where yer
h'are.”
But when the door into the yard opened cautiously,
Grace was clinging to her lover's arm. They both looked frightened and
ready to withdraw. Slowly, slowly the bull's-eye swept the surface of
the snow.
“More footsteps!”
The ray of light followed along the tracks till it fell on Peter.
“Well, I'll be blessed. Of h'all the---- I'll be blowed if 'e aren't!”
Peter laughed. “It looked so lovely I couldn't stop indoors.”
“Yer've given us a nice scare, young master.”
“I didn't mean to. And when I heard that Grace thought it was a burglar,
I thought it would be such a lark to let you find me--just Peter.”
“That boy's dotty,” said Grace's policeman; “a little bit h'orf.”
“Yer come ter bed h'at once,” said Grace severely. “I'll tell yer pa.
See if I don't.”
She caught him roughly by the arm. Then Peter did something mean--he
hated himself while he did it. “If you do, I'll tell that you had Mr.
Somp in the kitchen. Father'll say you're not to be trusted.”
“Ah!” said Grace's policeman. “There's somethin' in that.”
“Ain't he artful?” said Grace.
“Well,” asked Peter, “will you keep quiet if I do? Is it a bargain?”
“We didn't find nothink,” said Grace's policeman. “We was mistooken.”
“It must 'a been the snow reflected in the winder,” said Grace.
“Cur'ous, 'ow the snow deceives yer!--But oh, Master Peter, I never
thought this h'of yer. I reelly didn't.”
“Until to-night I never thought it of myself,” said Peter a little
sadly.
“Ah!” sighed Grace's policeman. But to himself he thought, “More in this
than meets the h'eye. I'll be danged if there aren't.”
CHAPTER XXII--CAT'S MEAT LOOKS ROUND
Peter kept awake for his parents' home-coming. Long before the cab drew
up he heard the jingle of the horse's harness and was out of bed. The
key grated in the front door; in the silence it sounded to Peter as
though the old house cleared its throat, getting ready to tell. Leaning
out across the banisters with bare feet shivering against the cold
linoleum, he lost little of what was said.
Grace met his father and mother in the hall. “Why, Grace, you ought to
have been asleep two hours. I thought I told you not to wait up for us.”
“And you did, mam. So you did. But after the disturbance that we've
'ad----” Her voice sank to a mumbling monotone.
Then his father spoke. “I never heard anything more absurd.--Can't be
away for a single evening without a stupid affair like this happening.
Lights in the stable, indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And
you a grown woman! I wonder what next!”
Grace was boo-hooing. “H'I'll never do it again. I did think I saw 'em.
No one'll know abart it. Mr. Somp won't tell.”
“Oh, go upstairs. The children'll be frightened for months now.”
Peter heard Grace come up to bed sobbing. Where would his wrong-doing
end? Romance had had a broom thrown at her; Grace had received a