slowly walking down towards the railway line. The tree with the grey leaves bringing up the rear like some old shepherd driving a flock of green sheep. What is it? Oh! what is it? said Phyllis. It's too much magic for me. I don't like it. Let's go home." But Bobby and Peter clung fast to the rail and watched breathlessly, and Phyllis made no movement towards going home by herself. The trees moved on and on. Some stones and loose earth fell down and rattled on the railway metals far below. It's all coming down, Peter tried to say, but he found there was hardly any voice to say it with. And indeed, just as he spoke, the great rock on the top of which the walking trees were leaned slightly forward. The trees, ceasing to walk, stood still and shivered. Leaning with the rock they seemed to hesitate a moment, and then rock and trees and grass and bushes with a rushing sound slipped right away from the face of the cutting and fell on the line with a blundering crash that could have been heard half a mile off. A cloud of dust rose up. Oh! said Peter in awestruck tones. Isn't it exactly like when coals come in? If there wasn't any roof to the cellar and you could see down. What a great mound it's made, said Bobby. Yes, said Peter slowly. He was still leaning on the fence. Yes, he said again, still more slowly. Then he stood upright. The eleven twenty-nine down hasn't gone by yet. We must let them know at the station or they'll be a most frightful accident. Let's run, said Bobby, and began. But Peter cried, Come back!" and looked at Mother's watch. He was very prompt and business-like, and his face looked whiter than they had ever seen it. No time, he said. It's two miles away, and it's past eleven. Couldn't we—suggested Phyllis breathlessly. Couldn't we climb up a telegraph post and do something to the wires? We don't know how, said Peter. They do it in more, said Phyllis. I know I've heard of it. They only cut them, silly, said Peter, and that doesn't do any good. And we couldn't cut them even if we got up, and we couldn't get up. If we had anything red, we could get down on the line and wave it. But the train wouldn't see us till it got round the corner, and then it could see the mound just as well as us, said Phyllis—better, because it's much bigger than us. If we only had something red, Peter repeated, we could go round the corner and wave to the train. We might wave anyway. They'd only think it was just us, as usual. We've waved so often before. Anyway, let's get down. They got down the steep stairs. Bobby was pale and shivering. Peter's face looked thinner than usual. Phyllis was red-faced and damp with anxiety. Oh, how hot I am, she said, and I thought it was going to be cold. I wish we hadn't put on our— She stopped short, and then ended in quite a different tone. Our flannel petticoats. Bobby turned at the bottom of the stairs. Oh, yes! She cried. They're red! Take them off!" They did, and with the petticoats rolled up under their arms, ran along the railway, skirting the newly fallen mound of stones and rock and earth, and bent, crushed, twisted trees. They ran at their best pace. Peter led, but the girls were not far behind. They reached the corner that hid the mound from the straight line of railway that ran half a mile without curve or corner. Now, said Peter, taking hold of the largest flannel petticoat, you're not—Phyllis sported.  Oh, yes! said Bobby. Tear them into little bits, if you like.  Oh, horrible! Here, Peter, you'll never tear it through the band. She took the red flannel petticoat from him, and tore it off an inch from the band. Then she tore the other in the same way. There! said Peter, tearing in his turn. He divided each petticoat into three pieces. Now we've got six flags. He looked at the wash again. And we've got seven minutes. We must have flagstuffs. The knives given to boys are, for some odd reason, seldom of the kind of steel that keeps sharp. The young saplings had to be broken off. Two came up by the roots. The leaves were stripped from them. We must cut holes in the flags, and run the sticks through the holes, said Peter, and the holes were cut. The knife was sharp enough to cut flannel with. Two of the flags were set up in heaps of loose stones between the sleepers of a down line. Then Phyllis and Roberta took each a flag, and stood ready to wave it as soon as the train came in sight. "'I shall have the other two myself,' said Peter, because it was my idea to wave something red. "'There are petticoats, though,' Phyllis was beginning, but Bobby interrupted. "'Oh! What does it matter? Who waves what if only we can save the train?' Perhaps Peter had not rightly calculated the number of minutes it would take the eleven twenty-nine to get from the station to the place where they were, or perhaps the train was late. Anyway, it seemed a very long time that they waited. Phyllis grew impatient. "'I expect the watch is wrong, and the train's gone by,' said she. Peter relaxed the heroic attitude he had chosen to show off his two flags, and Bobby began to feel sick with suspense.  The train wouldn't care. It would go rushing by them, and tear around the corner, and go crashing into that awful mound, and everyone would be killed. Her hands grew very cold, and trembled so that she could hardly hold the flag. And then came the distant rumble and hum of the metals, and a puff of white steam showed far away along the stretch of line. "'Stand firm,' said Peter, and wave like mad. When it gets to the big furs-bush, step back, but go on waving. Don't stand on the line, Bobby.' The train came rattling along very, very fast. "'They don't see us. They won't see us. It's all no good!' cried Bobby. The two little flags on the line swayed as the nearing train shook and loosened the heaps of stones that held them up. One of them slowly leaned over and fell on the line. Bobby jumped forward and caught it up, and waved it. Her hands did not tremble now. It seemed that the train came on as fast as ever. It was very near now.  "'It's no good,' Bobby said again. "'Stand back!' cried Peter suddenly, and he dragged Phyllis back by the arm. But Bobby cried, "'Not yet, not yet!' and waved her two flags right over the line. The front of the engine looked black and enormous. Its voice was loud and harsh, "'Oh, stop, stop, stop!' cried Bobby. No one heard her. At least Peter and Phyllis didn't, for the oncoming rush of the train covered the sound of her voice with a mountain of sound. But afterwards she used to wonder whether the engine itself had not heard her. It seemed almost as though it had, for it slackened swiftly, slackened and stopped. Not twenty yards from the place where Bobby's two flags waved over the line. She saw the great black engine stopped dead, but somehow she could not stop waving the flags. And when the driver and the fireman had got off the engine and Peter and Phyllis had gone to meet them and pour out their excited tail of the awful mound just round the corner, Bobby still waved the flags, but more and more feebly and jerkily. When the others turned towards her she was lying across the line with her hands flung forward and still gripping the sticks of the little red flannel flags. The engine driver picked her up, carried her to the train, and later on the cushions of a first-class carriage.  It was horrible to see Bobby lying so white and quiet, with her lips blue and parted. I believe that's what people look like when they're dead," whispered Phyllis. Don't!" said Peter sharply. They sat by Bobby on the blue cushions, and the train ran back. Before it reached their station, Bobby had sighed and opened her eyes and rolled herself over and begun to cry. This cheered the others wonderfully. They had seen her cry before, but they had never seen her faint, nor anyone else for the matter of that. They had not known what to do when she was fainting, but now she was only crying they could thump her on the back and tell her not to, just as they always did.  When the station was reached, the three were the heroes of an agitated meeting on the platform. The praises they got for their prompt action, their common sense, their ingenuity, were enough to have turned anybody's head. Phyllis enjoyed herself thoroughly. She had never been a real heroine before, and the feeling was delicious. Peter's ears got very red, yet he too enjoyed himself. Only Bobby wished they all wouldn't. She wanted to get away. You'll hear from the company about this, I expect, said the stationmaster. Bobby wished she might never hear of it again. She pulled at Peter's jacket. Oh, come away, come away! I want to go home," she said. So they went. And as they went, stationmaster and porter and guards, and driver and fireman and passengers, sent up a cheer. Oh, listen, cried Phyllis, that's for us. Yes, said Peter. I say, I am glad I thought about something red in waving it. How lucky we did put on our red flannel petticoats, said Phyllis. Bobby said nothing. She was thinking of the horrible mound and the trustful train rushing towards it. And it was us that saved them, said Peter. How dreadful if they'd all been killed, said Phyllis, wouldn't it, Bobby? We never got any cherries after all, said Bobby. The others thought her rather heartless. I hope you don't mind me telling you a good deal about Roberta. The fact is, I'm growing very fond of her. The more I observe her, the more I love her. And I notice all sorts of things about her that I like. For instance, she was quite oddly anxious to make other people happy. And she could keep a secret, a tolerably rare accomplishment. Also she had the power of silent sympathy. That sounds rather dull, I know, but it's not so dull as it sounds. It just means that a person is able to know that you are unhappy, and to love you extra on that account, without bothering you by telling you all the time how sorry she is for you. That was what Bobby was like.   This needs practice. It is not so easy as you might think. Whatever happened, and all sorts of nice, pleasant ordinary things happened, such as picnics, games, and buns for tea. But we always had these thoughts at the back of her mind. Mother's unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't want me to know. I won't try to find out. But she is unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't—and so on, repeating and repeating like a tune that you don't know the stopping part of. The Russian gentlemen still took up a good deal of everybody's thoughts. All the editors and secretaries of societies and members of Parliament had answered mother's letters as politely as they knew how, but none of them could tell where the wife and children of Mr. Shepansky would be likely to be. Did I tell you that the Russian's very Russian name was that? Bobby had another quality which you will hear differently described by different people. Some of them call it interfering in other people's business, and some call it helping lame dogs over styles, and some call it loving kindness. It just means trying to help people. She racked her brains to think of some way of helping the Russian gentleman to find his wife and children. He had learned a few words of English now. He could say, Good Mordening, and Good Night, and Please, and Thank You, and Pretty when the children brought him flowers, and Very Good when they asked him how he had slept. The way he smiled when he said his English was, Bobby felt, just too sweet for anything. She used to think of his face because she fancied it would help her to some way of helping him, but it did not. Yet his being there cheered her because she saw that it made mother happier. She likes to have someone to be good to, even beside us, said Bobby, and I know she hated to let him have father's clothes, but I suppose it hurt nice, or she wouldn't have. For many and many a night after the day when she and Peter and Phyllis had saved the train from Wreck by waving their little red flannel flags, Bobby used to wake up screaming and shivering, seeing again that horrible mound of the poor, dear, trustful engine rushing on towards it, just thinking that it was doing its swift duty, and that everything was clear and safe. And then a warm thrill of pleasure used to run through her at the remembrance of how she and Peter and Phyllis, and the red flannel pletticoats, had really saved everybody. One morning a letter came. It was addressed to Peter and Bobby and Phyllis. They opened it with enthusiastic curiosity, for they did not often get letters. The letter said, Dear sir and ladies, it is proposed to make a small presentation to you in commemoration of your prompt and courageous action in warning the train on the blank inst, and thus averting what must humanly speaking have been a terrible accident. The presentation will take place at the blank station, at three o'clock on the thirtieth inst, if this time and place will be convenient to you. Yours faithfully, Jabez Inglewood, secretary, great northern and southern railway company. There had never been a prouder moment in the lives of the three children. They rushed to mother with the letter, and she also felt proud and said so, and this made the children happier than ever. But if the presentation is money, you must say, Thank you, but we'd rather not take it," said mother. I'll wash your Indian muslins at once," she added. You must look tidy on an occasion like this. Phil and I can wash them," said Bobby, if you'll iron them, mother. Washing is rather fun. I wonder whether you've ever done it. This particular washing took place in the back kitchen, which had a stone floor and a very big stone sink under its window. Let's put the bath on the sink," said Phyllis. Then we can pretend we're out of doors' washer-woman like mother saw in France. But they were washing in the cold river," said Peter, his hands in his pockets, and not in hot water. This is a hot river, then, said Phyllis. Lend a hand with the bath, there's a deer. I should like to see a deer lending a hand," said Peter, but he lent his. Now to rub, and scrub, and scrub, and rub," said Phyllis, hopping joyously about as Bobby carefully carried the heavy kettle from the kitchen fire. Oh, no," said Bobby, greatly shocked. You don't rub muslin. You put the boiled soap in the hot water and make it all frothy, lathery, and then you shake the muslin, squeeze it ever so gently, and all the dirt comes out. It's only clumsy things like tablecloths and sheets that have to be rubbed. The lilac in the gloididdy genre roses outside the window swayed in the soft breeze. It's a nice drying day, that's one thing," said Bobby, feeling very grown up. Oh, I do wonder what wonderful feelings we shall have when we wear the Indian muslin dresses. Yes, so do I," said Phyllis, shaking and squeezing the muslin in quite a professional manner. Now we squeeze out the soapy water—no, we mustn't twist them—and then rinse them. I'll hold them while you and Peter empty the bath and get clean water. A presentation—that means presence, said Peter, as his sisters, having duly washed the pegs and wiped the line, hung up the dresses to dry. Whatever will it be? It might be anything," said Phyllis, what I've always wanted is a baby elephant. But I suppose they wouldn't know that. Suppose it was gold models of steam engines, said Bobby, or a big model of the scene of the Prevented Accident, suggested Peter, with the little model train and dolls just like us and the engine driver and fireman and passengers. Do you like," said Bobby, doubtfully drying her hands on the rough towel that hung on a roller at the back of the scullery door,--"do you like us being rewarded for saving a train?"--"Yes, I do," said Peter, downrightly, and don't you try to come it over us that you don't like it, too, because I know you do?"--"Yes," said Bobby doubtfully, I know I do. But oughtn't we to be satisfied with just having done it and not ask for anything more?"--"Who did ask for anything more, silly?" said her brother. Victoria Cross Soldiers don't ask for it, but they're glad enough to get it all the same. Perhaps it'll be medals. Then when I'm very old, indeed, I shall show them to my grandchildren and say, We only did our duty, and they'll be awfully proud of me. You have to be married," warned Phyllis, or you don't have any grandchildren. I suppose I shall have to be married some day," said Peter, but it will be an awful bother having her around all the time. I'd like to marry a lady who had trances, and only woke up once or twice a year. Just to say you were the light of her life, and then go to sleep again.--"Yes, that wouldn't be bad," said Bobby.--"When I get married," said Phyllis, I shall want him to want me to be awake all the time, so that I can hear him say how nice I am."--"I think it would be nice," said Bobby, to marry someone very poor, and then you'd do all the work, and he'd love you most frightfully, and see the blue wood-smoke curling up among the trees from the domestic hearth as he came home from work every night. I say, we've got to answer that letter and say that the time and place will be convenient to us. There's the soap, Peter. We're both as clean as clean. That pink box of writing paper you had on your birthday, Phil. It took some time to arrange what should be said. Mother had gone back to her writing, and several sheets of pink paper with scalloped gilt edges, and green, four-leaved shamrocks in the corner were spoiled, before the three had decided what to say. Then each made a copy inside it with its own name. The threefold letter ran. Dear Mr. Jabez Inglewood, thank you very much. We did not want to be rewarded, but only to save the train, but we are glad you think so, and thank you very much. The time and place you say will be quite convenient to us. Thank you very much.  Then came the name, and after it, P.S., thank you very much. "'Washing is much easier than ironing,' said Bobby, taking the clean, dry dresses off the line. I do love to see things come clean." Oh, I don't know how we shall wait till it's time to know what presentation they're going to present. When at last—it seemed a very long time after—it was THE day the three children went down to the station at the proper time, and everything that happened was so odd that it seemed like a dream. The stationmaster came out to meet them in his best clothes, as Peter noticed at once, and led them into the waiting-room where once they had played the advertisement game. It looked quite different now. A carpet had been put down, and there were pots of roses on the mantle piece, and on the window-ledges. Green branches stuck up like holly and laurel are at Christmas over the framed advertisement of Cook's tours and the beauties of Devon, and the Paris-Lyon railway. There were quite a number of people there, besides the porter—two or three ladies in smart dresses, and quite a crowd of gentlemen in high hats and frock coats, besides everybody who belonged to the station. They recognized several people who had been in the train on the red flannel petticoat day. First of all, their own old gentleman was there, and his coat and hat and collar seemed more than ever different from any one else's. He shook hands with them, and then everybody sat down on chairs, and a gentleman in spectacles, they found out afterwards that he was the district superintendent, began quite a long speech—very clever, indeed. I am not going to write the speech down. Firstly, because you would think it dull, and secondly because it made all the children blush so, and get so hot about the ears that I am quite anxious to get away from this part of the subject. And thirdly, because the gentleman took so many words to say what he had to say that I really haven't time to write them down. He said all sorts of nice things about the children's bravery and presence of mind, and when he had done he sat down, and every one who was there clapped and said, here, here. And then the old gentleman got up and said things, too. It was very like a prize-giving. And then he called the children one by one by their names, and gave each of them a beautiful gold watch and chain. And inside the watches were engraved after the name of the watch's new owner. From the directors of the northern and southern railway, in grateful recognition of the courageous and prompt action which averted an accident on—blank—1905. The watches were the most beautiful you can possibly imagine, and each one had a blue leather case to live in when it was at home. You must make a speech now, and thank everyone for their kindness," whispered the stationmaster in Peter's ear, and pushed him forward. Then, ladies and gentlemen, he added. Each of the children had already said thank you quite properly. Oh, dear," said Peter, but he did not resist the push. "'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said in a rather husky voice. Then there was a pause, and he heard his heart beating in his throat. "'Ladies and gentlemen,' he went on with a rush, "'it's most awfully good of you, and we shall treasure the watches all our lives. But we really don't deserve it, because what we did wasn't anything, really. At least, I mean, it was awfully exciting, and what I mean to say—thank you all very much." The people clapped Peter more than they had done the district superintendent, and then everybody shook hands with them, and as soon as politeness would let them, they got away and tore up the hill to three chimneys with their watches in their hands. It was a wonderful day—the kind of day that very seldom happens to anybody, and to most of us not at all. "'I did want to talk to the old gentleman about something else,' said Bobby, but it was so public, like being in church. "'What did you want to say?' asked Phyllis. "'I'll tell you when I've thought about it more,' said Bobby. So when she had thought a little more, she wrote a letter. "'My dearest old gentleman,' it said, "'I want most awfully to ask you something. If you could get out of the train and go by the next, it would do. I do not want you to give me anything. Mother says we ought not to, and besides, we do not want any things, only to talk to you about a prisoner in captive.  She got the stationmaster to give the letter to the old gentleman, and next day she asked Peter and Phyllis to come down to the station with her at the time when the train that brought the old gentleman from town we'd be passing through. She explained her idea to them, and they approved thoroughly. They had all washed their hands and faces and brushed their hair, and were looking as tidy as they knew how.  There was no time to change, and the wind happening to blow from the coal-yard her frock was soon powdered with grey, which stuck to the sticky lemonade stains and made her look, as Peter said, like any little gutter child. It was decided that she should keep behind the others as much as possible. "'Perhaps the old gentleman won't notice,' said Bobby. The aged are often weak in the eyes. There was no sign of weakness, however, in the eyes or in any other part of the old gentleman, as he stepped from the train and looked up and down the platform. The three children, now that it came to the point, suddenly felt that rush of deep shiners which makes your ears red and hot, your hands warm and wet, and at the tip of your nose pink and shiny. "'Oh,' said Phyllis, "'my heart's something like a steam engine, right under my sash, too.' "'Nonsense,' said Peter. "'People's heart's under their sashes.' "'I don't care. Mine is,' said Phyllis. "'If you're going to talk like a poetry book,' said Peter, "'my heart's in my mouth. "'My heart's in my boots, if you come to that,' said Roberta. "'But do come on, you'll think we're idiots.' "'He won't be far wrong,' said Peter gloomily, and they went forward to meet the old gentleman. "'Hello,' he said, shaking hands with them all in turn. "'This is a very great pleasure. It was good of you to get out,' Bobby said, perspiring and polite. He took her arm and drew her into the waiting-room, where she and the others had played the advertisement game the day they found the Russian. Phyllis and Peter followed. "'Well,' said the old gentleman, giving Bobby's arm a kind little shake before he let it go. "'Well, what is it?' "'Oh, please,' said Bobby. "'Yes,' said the old gentleman. "'What I mean to say,' said Bobby. "'Well,' said the old gentleman. "'It's all very nice and kind,' said she. "'But,' he said. "'I wish I might say something,' she said. "'Say it,' said he. "'Well, then,' said Bobby, and out came the story of the Russian, who had written the beautiful book about poor people, and had been sent to prison and to Siberia for just that. "'And what we want more than anything in the world is to find his wife and children for him,' said Bobby. "'But we don't know how. And you must be most horribly clever, or you wouldn't be a direction of the railway. And if you knew how, and would, we'd rather have that than anything else in the world. We'd go without the watches even, if you could sell them and find his wife with the money.' And the others said so too, though not with so much enthusiasm. "'Hm,' said the old gentleman, pulling down the white waistcoat that had the big gilt buttons on it. "'What did you say the name was, frying pansky?' "'No, no,' said Bobby earnestly. "'I'll write it down for you. It doesn't really look at all like that except when you say it. "'Have you a bit of pencil in the back of an envelope?' she asked. The old gentleman got out a gold pencil case and a beautiful sweet-smelling green Russian leather notebook, and opened it in a new page. "'Here,' he said, right here.' She wrote down S-Z-E-Z-C-P-A-N-S-K-Y, and said, "'That's how you write it. You call it, chapansky.' The old gentleman took out a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and fitted them on his nose. When he had read the name, he looked quite different. "'That man?' "'Bless my soul,' he said. "'Why, I've read his book. It's translated into every European language—a fine book, a noble book.  Well, well.  Of course she is,' said Phyllis in astonishment. "'And you're a very good man,' said Bobby, very shy, but firmly resolved to be polite. "'You flatter me,' said the old gentleman, taking off his hat with a flourish. "'And now am I to tell you what I think of you?' "'Oh, please don't,' said Bobby hastily. "'Why?' asked the old gentleman. "'I don't exactly know,' said Bobby. "'Only if it's horrid—I don't want you to. And if it's nice, I'd rather you didn't.' The old gentleman laughed. "'Well, then,' he said. "'I'll only just say that I'm very glad you came to me about this—very glad indeed. And I shouldn't be surprised if I found out something very soon. I know a great many Russians in London, and every Russian knows his name. "'Now tell me all about yourselves.' He turned to the others. But there was only one other, and that was Peter.' Phyllis had disappeared. "'Tell me all about yourself,' said the old gentleman again, and quite naturally Peter was stricken dumb. "'All right, we'll have an examination,' said the old gentleman. "'You two sit on the table, and I'll sit on the bench and ask questions.' He did. And out came their names and ages, their father's name and business, how long they had lived at three chimneys and a great deal more. Their questions were beginning to turn on a herring and a half for three half-pence, and a pound of lead and a pound of feathers, when the door of the waiting-room was kicked open by a boot. As the boot entered, everyone could see that its lace was coming undone, and in came Phyllis, very slowly and carefully. In one hand she carried a large tin can, and in the other a thick slice of bread and butter. "'Afternoon tea,' she announced proudly, and held the can and the bread and buttered out to the old gentleman who took them and said, "'Bless my soul.' "'Yes,' said Phyllis. "'It's very thoughtful of you,' said the old gentleman. "'Very.' "'But you might have got a cup,' said Bobby, and a plate. "'Perks always drinks out of the can,' said Phyllis, flushing red. "'I think it was very nice of him to give it to me at all. "'Let alone cups and plates,' she added. "'So do I,' said the old gentleman, and he drank some of the tea and tasted the bread and butter. And then it was time for the next train, and he got into it with many good-byes and kind last words. "'Well,' said Peter, when they were left on the platform, and the taillights of the train disappeared round the corner. "'It's my belief that we've lighted a candle to-day, like Latimer, you know, when he was being burned. And there'll be fireworks for our rush from before long.' And so there were. It wasn't ten days after the interview in the waiting-room that the three children were sitting on the top of the biggest rock in the field below their house, watching the five-fifteen steam away from the station along the bottom of the valley. They saw, too, the few people who had got out at the station straggling up the road towards the village. And they saw one person leave the road and open the gate that led across the fields to three chimneys, and to nowhere else. "'Who on earth?' said Peter, scrambling down. "'Let's go and see,' said Phyllis. So they did. And when they got near enough to see who the person was, they saw it was their old gentleman himself, his brass buttons winking in the afternoon sunshine, and his white waistcoat looking whiter than ever against the green of the field. "'Hello!' shouted the children, waving their hands. "'Hello!' shouted the old gentleman, waving his hat. Then the three started to run, and when they got to him, they hardly had breath left to say, "'How do you do?' "'Good news,' said he. "'I found your Russian friend's wife and child, and I couldn't resist the temptation of giving myself the pleasure of telling him. But as he looked at Bobby's face, he felt that he could resist that temptation. "'Here,' he said to her. "'You run on and tell him. The other two will show me the way.' Bobby ran. But when she had breathlessly panted out the news to the Russian and mother sitting in the quiet garden, when mother's face had lighted up so beautifully, and she had said half a dozen quick French words to the exile, Bobby wished that she had not carried the news. For the Russian sprang up with a cry that made Bobby's heart leap and then tremble, a cry of love and longing such as she had never heard.  Bobby crept away. She did not want to see the others just then. But she was as gay as anybody when the endless French talking was over, when Peter had torn down to the village for buns and cakes, and the girls had got tea ready and taken it out into the garden. The old gentleman was most merry and delightful. He seemed to be able to talk in French and English almost at the same moment, and mother did nearly as well. It was a delightful time. Mother seemed as if she could not make enough fuss about the old gentleman, and she said yes at once when he asked if he might present some goodies to his little friends. The word was new to the children, but they guessed it meant sweets, for the three large pink and green boxes tied with green ribbon, which he took out of his bag, held unheard-of layers of beautiful chocolates. The Russians' few belongings were packed, and they all saw him off at the station. Then mother turned to the old gentleman and said, I don't know how to thank you for everything. It has been a real pleasure to me to see you. But we live very quietly. I am so sorry that I can't ask you to come and see us again. The children thought this very hard. When they had made a friend, and such a friend, they would dearly have liked him to come and see them again. What the old gentleman thought they couldn't tell. He only said, I consider myself very fortunate, madam, to have been received once at your house. Ah, said mother, I know I must seem surly and ungrateful, but you could never seem anything but a most charming and gracious lady, said the old gentleman with another of his bows. And as they turned to go up the hill, Bobby saw her mother's face. How tired you look, mummy, she said, lean on me. It's my place to give mother my arm, said Peter. I'm the headman of the family when father's away. Mother took an arm of each. How awfully nice, said Phyllis, skipping joyfully, to think of the dear Russian embracing his long lost wife. The baby must have grown up a lot since he saw it. Yes, said mother. I wonder whether father will think I've grown, Phyllis went on, skipping still more gaily. I've grown already, haven't I, mother? Yes, said mother. Oh, yes. And Bobby and Peter felt her hands tighten on their arms. Poor old mummy, you are tired, said Peter. Bobby said, come on, Phil, I'll race you to the gate. And she started the race though she hated doing it. You know why Bobby did that. Mother only thought that Bobby was tired of walking slowly. Even mothers who love you better than anyone else ever will, don't always understand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage. Waco, Texas. October 2006. The Railway Children. By Edith Nesbitt. Chapter 8. The Amateur Fireman That's a likely little brooch you've got on miss, said Perks, the porter. I don't know, as ever I see a thing more like a buttercup without it was a buttercup. Yes, said Bobby, glad and flushed by this approval. I always thought it was more like a buttercup almost than even a real one. And I never thought it would come to be mine, my very own, and then mother gave it to me for my birthday. Oh, have you had a birthday, said Perks, and he seemed quite surprised as though a birthday were a thing only granted to a favoured few. Yes, said Bobby. When's your birthday, Mr. Perks? The children were taking tea with Mr. Perks, and the porters were among the lamps and the railway almanacs. They had brought their own cups and some jam turnovers. Mr. Perks made tea in a beer can, as usual, and every one felt very happy and confidential. My birthday, said Perks, tipping some more dark brown tea out of the can into Peter's cup. I give up keeping of my birthday afore you was born. But you must have been born some time, you know, said Phyllis thoughtfully, even if it was twenty years ago, or thirty, or sixty, or seventy. Not so long as that, Missy, Perks grinned as he answered. If you really want to know, it was thirty-two years ago, come the fifteenth of this month. Then why don't you keep it? asked Phyllis. I've got something else to keep besides birthdays, said Perks briefly. Oh, what? asked Phyllis eagerly, not secrets. No, said Perks, the kids and the misses. It was this talk that set the children thinking, and presently talking. Perks was, on the whole, the dearest friend they had made. Not so grand as the station master, but more approachable, less powerful than the old gentleman, but more confidential. It seems horrid that nobody keeps his birthday, said Bobby. Couldn't we do something? Let's go up to the canal bridge and talk it over, said Peter. I got a new gut line from the postman this morning. He gave it me for a bunch of roses that I gave him for his sweetheart. She's ill. Then I do think you might have given her the roses for nothing, said Bobby indignantly. Nya-nya, said Peter, disagreeably, and put his hands in his pockets. He did, of course, said Phyllis, in haste. Directly we heard she was ill, and we got the roses ready and waited by the gate. It was when you were making the Brecker toast. And when he'd said thank you for the roses so many times, much more than you need have, he pulled out the line and gave it to Peter. It wasn't exchange, it was the grateful heart. Oh, I beg your pardon, Peter, said Bobby, I am so sorry. Don't mention it, said Peter grandly, I knew you would be. So then they all went up to the canal bridge. The idea was to fish from the bridge, but the line was not quite long enough. Never mind, said Bobby, let's just stay here and look at things. Everything's so beautiful. It was. The sun was setting in red splendor over the grey and purple hills, and the canal lay smooth and shiny in the shadow. No ripple broke its surface. It was like a grey satin ribbon between the dusky green silk of the meadows that were on each side of its banks. It's all right, said Peter. But somehow I can always see how pretty things are much better when I've something to do. Let's get down onto the tow-path and fish from there. Phyllis and Bobby remembered how the boys on the canal boats had thrown coal at them, and they said so. Oh, nonsense, said Peter. There aren't any boys here now. If there were, I'd fight them. Peter's sisters were kind enough not to remind him how he had not fought the boys when the coal had last been thrown. Instead, they said, All right, then, and cautiously climbed down the steep bank to the towing-path. The line was carefully baited, and for half an hour they fished patiently and in vain. Not a single nibble came to nourish hope in their hearts. All eyes were intent on the sluggish waters that earnestly pretended they had never harboured a single minnow when a loud, rough shout made them start. I said the shout in most disagreeable tones. Get out of that, can't you? An old white horse coming along the tow-path was within half a dozen yards of them. They sprang to their feet, and hastily climbed up the bank. We'll slip down again when they've gone by, said Bobby. But alas! The barge, after the manner of barges, stopped under the bridge. She's going to anchor, said Peter, just our luck. The barge did not anchor, because an anchor is not part of a canal boat's furniture. But she was moored with ropes for and after, and the ropes were made fast to the palings and to crowbars driven into the ground. What are you staring at? growled the barge crossly. We weren't staring, said Bobby. We wouldn't be so rude. Rude be blessed, said the man. Get along with you. Get along yourself, said Peter. He remembered what he had said about fighting boys, and besides, he felt safe halfway up the bank. Weave as much rights here as anyone else. Oh, have you indeed, said the man. We'll soon see about that.  Oh, come away, Peter, come away! said Bobby and Phyllis in agonised unison. Not me, said Peter, but you'd better. The girls climbed to the top of the bank and stood ready to bolt for home as soon as they saw their brother out of danger. The way home lay all downhill. They knew that they all ran well. The barge did not look as if he did. He was red-faced, heavy, and beefy. But as soon as his foot was on the towing-path, the children saw that they had misjudged him. He made one spring up the bank and caught Peter by the leg, dragged him down, set him on his feet with a shake, took him by the ear, and said sternly, Now then, what do you mean by it? Don't you know as these ear-waters is preserved? You ain't no right catchin' fish here, not to say nothin' of your precious cheek. Peter was always proud afterwards when he remembered that, with the barge's furious fingers titling on his ear, the barge's crimson countenance close to his own, the barge's hot breath on his neck, he had the courage to speak the truth. I wasn't catching fish, said Peter. It's not your fault, Arby bound," said the man, giving Peter's ear a twist—not a hard one, but still a twist. Peter could not say that it was. Bobby and Phyllis had been holding on to the railings above and skipping with anxiety. Now suddenly Bobby slipped through the railings and rushed down the bank towards Peter, so impetuously that Phyllis, following more temporarily, felt certain that her sister's descent would end in the waters of the canal. And so it would have done if the barge hadn't let go of Peter's ear and quarter in his jerseyed arm.  "'Oh,' said Bobby, breathless, I'm not shoving anybody, at least not on purpose. Please don't be crossed with Peter. Of course, if it's your canal, we're sorry and we won't any more.' "'But we didn't know it was yours.' "'Go along with you,' said the barge. "'Yes, we will. Indeed, we will,' said Bobby earnestly. "'But we do beg your pardon, and really we haven't caught a single fish. I'd tell you directly if we had, on a bright eye would.' She held out her hands, and Phyllis turned out her little empty pocket to show that really they hadn't any fish concealed about them. "'Well,' said the barge, more gently, cut along, then. "'And don't you do it again, that's all.' The children hurried up the bank. "'Shug as a coat, Maria,' shouted the man, and a red-haired woman in a green plaid shawl came out from the cabin door with a baby in her arms and threw a coat to him. He put it on, climbed the bank, and slouched along across the bridge towards the village. "'You'll fire me up at the rose and crown when you've got the kid to sleep,' he called her from the bridge. When he was out of sight, the children slowly returned. Peter insisted on this. "'The canal may belong to him,' he said, though I don't believe it does. But the bridge is everybody's. Dr. Forrest told me it's public property. I'm not going to be bounced off the bridge by him or anyone else, so I tell you.' Peter's ear was still sore, and so were his feelings. The girls followed him as gallant soldiers might follow the leader of a fall-on hope. "'I do wish you wouldn't,' was all they said. "'Go home if you're afraid,' said Peter. "'Leave me alone—I'm not afraid.' The sound of the man's footsteps died away along the quiet road. The peace of the evening was not broken by the notes of the sedge-warbler, or by the voice of the woman in the barge, singing her baby to sleep. It was a sad song, she sang, something about Bill Bailey, and how she wanted him to come home. The children stood leaning their arms on the parapet of the bridge. They were glad to be quiet for a few minutes, because all three hearts were beating much more quickly. "'I'm not going to be driven away by any old bargeman I'm not,' said Peter, thickly. "'Of course not,' Phyllis said soothingly. "'You didn't give in to him?' "'So now we might go home, don't you think?' "'No,' said Peter. Nothing more was said till the woman got off the barge, climbed to the bank, and came across the bridge. She hesitated, looking at the three backs of the children, then she said, Peter stayed where he was, but the girls looked around. "'You mustn't take no notice of my Bill,' said the woman. His barks worsen his bite. Some of the kids down Farleyway, it's fair terrors. It was them put his back up, calling out about who ate the puppy pie under Marlowe Bridge. "'Who did?' asked Phyllis. "'I don't know,' said the woman. "'Nobody don't know. But somehow—' "'And I don't know the why nor the wherefore of it. Them words is pison to a bargemaster. Don't you take no notice. He will be back for two hours good. You might catch a power of Fisher for that. The light's good nor,' she added. "'Thank you,' said Bobby. "'You're very kind.' "'Where's your baby?' "'A sleep in the cabin,' said the woman. "'He's all right. Never wakes up or twelve. Regular is a church-clock, he is.' "'I'm sorry,' said Bobby. I would have liked to see him close to. "'And a finer you never did see miss, though I says it.' The woman's face brightened as she spoke. "'Aren't you afraid to leave it?' said Peter. "'No, love, you know,' said the woman. "'Who'd hurt a little thing like him? Besides, spots there. So long.' The woman went away. "'Shall we go home?' said Phyllis. "'You can. I'm going to fish,' said Peter briefly. "'I thought we came up here to talk about Perks's birthday,' said Phyllis. Perks's birthday'll keep.' So they got down on the towing-path again and Peter fished. He did not catch anything. It was almost quite dark. The girls were getting tired, and as Bobby said, it was past bedtime, when suddenly Phyllis cried, "'What's that?' and she pointed to the canal-boat. Smoke was coming from the chimney of the cabin, had indeed been curling softly into the soft evening air all the time, but now other wreaths of smoke were rising, and these were from the cabin door. "'It's on fire, that's all,' said Peter calmly. Serve him right. "'Oh, how can you?' cried Phyllis. "'Think of the poor dear dog.' "'The baby!' screamed Bobby. In an instant all three made for the barge. Her mooring ropes were slack, and the little breeze, hardly strong enough to be felt, had yet been strong enough to drift her stern against the bank. Bobby was first. Then came Peter, and it was Peter who slipped and fell. He went into the canal up to his neck, and his feet could not feel the bottom, but his arm was on the edge of the barge. Phyllis caught at his hair. It hurt, but it helped him to get out. Next minute he had leapt on to the barge, Phyllis following. "'Not you!' he shouted to Bobby. "'Me, because I'm wet!' He caught up with Bobby at the cabin door, and flung her aside very roughly indeed. If they had been playing, such roughness would have made Bobby weep with tears of rage and pain. Now, though he flung her on to the edge of the hold, so that her knee and her elbow were grazed and bruised, she only cried, "'No, not you, me!' and struggled up again, but not quickly enough. Peter had already gone down two of the cabin steps into the cloud of thick smoke.  As he pulled it out, he said, "'It's all right, hardly any fire at all.'" And this, though he thought it was a lie, was rather good of Peter. It was meant to keep Bobby from rushing after him into danger. Of course it didn't. The cabin glowed red. A paraffin lamp was burning calmly in an orange mist. "'I,' said Peter, lifting the handkerchief from his mouth for a moment, "'Hi, baby! Where are you?' he choked. "'Oh, let me go!' cried Bobby, close behind him. Peter pushed her back more roughly than before and went on. Now, what would have happened if the baby hadn't cried? I don't know. But just at that moment it did cry. Peter felt his way through the dark smoke, found something small and soft and warm and alive, picked it up and backed out, nearly tumbling over Bobby, who was close behind. A dog snapped at his leg, tried to bark, choked. "'I've got the kid,' said Peter, tearing off the handkerchief and staggering on to the deck. Bobby caught at the place where the bark came from, and her hands met on the fat back of a smooth-haired dog. It turned and fastened its teeth on her hand, but very gently, as much as to say, "'I'm bound to bark and bite if strangers come into my master's cabin. But I know you mean well, so I won't really bite.' Bobby dropped the dog. "'All right, old man. Good dog,' said she. "'Here. Give me the baby, Peter. You're so wet, you'll give it cold.'  "'Now,' said Bobby, quickly, "'you run straight into the rows and crown and tell them. Phil and I will stay here with the precious. Hush, then, a deer, a duck, a darling. "'Go now, Peter! Run!' "'I can't run in these things,' said Peter firmly. "'There is heavy as lead. I'll walk.' "'Then I'll run,' said Bobby. "'Get on the bank, Phil, and I'll hand you the deer.' The baby was carefully handed. Phil is sat down on the bank and tried to hush the baby. Peter rung the water from his sleeves and knickerbocker legs as well as he could, and it was Bobby who ran like the wind across the bridge and up the long, white, quiet twilight road towards the rows and crown. There is a nice, old-fashioned room at the rows and crown, where bargees and their wives sit of an evening drinking their supper beer, and toasting their supper cheese at a glowing basket full of coals that sticks out into the room under a great hooded chimney, and is warmer and prettier and more comforting than any other fireplace I ever saw. There was a pleasant party of barge people around the fire. You might not have thought it pleasant, but they did. For they were all friends or acquaintances, and they liked the same sort of things and talked the same sort of talk. This is the real secret of pleasant society. The bargee Bill, whom the children had found so disagreeable, was considered excellent company by his mates. He was telling a tale of his own wrongs, always a thrilling subject. It was his barge he was speaking about. An eccentric word down, painter inside out, not name and no colour, you see. So I get a lot of green paint, and I paint a stem to stern, and I tell you she looked A1. Then he comes along and he says, what's your painter all one colour for, he says? And I says, says I, because I thought she'd look fast rate, says I, and I think so still. And he says, do you? Then you can just pay for the bloom and paint yourself, says he. And I had to too. A murmur of sympathy ran round the room. Breaking noisily in on it came Bobby. She burst open the swing door, crying breathlessly, Bill, I want Bill the barge-men. There was a stupefied silence. Pots of beer were held in mid-air, paralysed on their way to thirsty mouths. Oh, said Bobby, seeing the barge-woman and making for her, your barge cabin's on fire. Go quickly. The woman started to her feet and put a big red hand to her waist on the left side, where your heart seems to be when you're a frightened or miserable. Retinal Horace! She cried in a terrible voice. My Retinal Horace! All right, said Bobby, if you mean the baby, got him out safe. Dog too! She had no breath for more except, go on, it's all a light. Then she sank on the alehouse bench and tried to get that breath of relief after running, which people call the second wind. But she felt as though she would never breathe again. Bill the barge-e rose slowly and heavily, but his wife was a hundred yards up the road before he had quite understood what was the matter. Phyllis, shivering by the canal's side, had hardly heard the quick approaching feet before the woman had flung herself on the railing, rode down the bank, and snatched the baby from her. Don't, said Phyllis reproachfully, I'd just got him to sleep. Bill came up later, talking in a language with which the children were wholly unfamiliar. He leapt onto the barge and dipped up pails of water. Peter helped him, and they put out the fire. Phyllis, the barge woman and the baby, and presently Bobby too, cuddled together in a heap on the bank. Lord help me if it was me left anything as could catch a light, said the woman again and again. But it wasn't she. It was Bill the bargeman who had knocked his pipe out and the red ash had fallen on the hearth-rug and smoldered there, and at last broken into flame. Though a stern man, he was just. He did not blame his wife for what was his own fault, as many bargemen and other men too would have done. Mother was half-wild with anxiety when at last the three children turned up at three chimneys, all very wet now, for Peter seemed to have come off on the others. But when she had disentangled the truth of what had happened from their mixed and incoherent narrative, she owned that they had done quite right and could not possibly have done otherwise, nor did she put any obstacles in the way of their accepting the cordial invitation with which the bargemen had parted from them. You be here at seven to-morrow, he had said, and I'll take you the entire trip to Farley and back, so I will, and not a penny to pay. Nineteen locks. They did not know what locks were, but they were at the bridge at seven with bread and cheese and half a soda-cake, and quite a quarter leg of mutton and a basket. It was a glorious day. The old white horse strained at the ropes. The barge glided smoothly and steadily through the still water. The sky was blue overhead. Mr. Bill was as nice as anyone could possibly be. No one would have thought that he could be the same man who had held Peter by the ear. As for Mrs. Bill, she had always been nice, as Bobby said, and so had the baby, and even Spot, who might have bitten them quite badly if he had liked. It was simply ripping, mother, said Peter, when they reached home very happy, very tired, and very dirty. Right over that glorious aqueduct, and locks, you don't know what they're like.  I know, said mother, there are locks on the Thames. Father and I used to go on the river at Marlowe before we were married. And the dear, darling, ducky baby, said Bobby, it let me nurse it for ages and ages, and it was so good. Mother, I wish we had a baby to play with. And everybody was so nice to us, said Phyllis, everybody we met, and they say we may fish whenever we like, and Bill is going to show us the way next time he's in these parts. He says we don't know, really. He said you didn't know, said Peter, but mother, he said he'd tell all the bargees up and down the canal that we were the real right sort, and they were to treat us like good pals as we were. So then I said, Phyllis interrupted, we'd always each wear a red ribbon when we weren't fishing by the canal, so they'd know it was us, and we were the real right sort and be nice to us. So you've made another lot of friends, said mother, first the railway, and then the canal. Oh yes, said Bobby, I think everyone in the world is friends if you can only get them to see you don't want to be unfriends. Perhaps you're right, said mother, and she sighed. Come, chicks, it's bedtime. Yes, said Phyllis. Oh dear, and we went up there to talk about what we'd do for Perk's birthday, and we haven't talked a single thing about it. No more we have, said Bobby, but Peter saved Reginald Horace's life. I think that's about good enough for one evening. Bobby would have saved him if I hadn't knocked her down. Twice I did, said Peter, loyally. So would I, said Phyllis, if I'd known what to do.  I do think that's enough for one evening.  End of Chapter 8 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, October 2006. The Railway Children, by Edith Nesbitt. Chapter 9 The Pride of Perk's It was breakfast time. Mother's face was very bright as she poured the milk and ladled out the porridge. I've sold another storied chickies, she said, the one about the king of the mussels, so there'll be buns for tea. You can go and get them as soon as they're baked. About eleven, isn't it? Peter, Phyllis and Bobby exchanged glances with each other, six glances in awe. Then Bobby said, Mother, would you mind if we didn't have the buns for tea tonight, but on the fifteenth? That's next Thursday. I don't mind when you have them, dear, said Mother. But why? Because it's Perk's birthday, said Bobby. He's thirty-two, and he says he doesn't keep his birthday any more, because he's got other things to keep—not rabbits or secrets, but the kids and the missus. You mean his wife and children, said Mother. Yes, said Phyllis. It's the same thing, isn't it? And we thought we'd make a nice birthday for him. He's been so awfully jolly decent to us, you know, Mother, said Peter, and we agreed that next Monday we'd ask you if we could. But suppose there hadn't been a Monday before the fifteenth, said Mother. Oh, then we meant to ask you to let us ante—antipate it, and go without when the Monday came. Anticipate, said Mother. I see. Certainly. It would be nice to put his name on the buns with pink sugar, wouldn't it? Perk's. Said Peter. It's not a pretty name. His other name's Albert, said Phyllis. I asked him once. We might put A-P, said Mother. I'll show you how when the day comes. This was all very well as far as it went, but even fourteen half-penny buns with A-P on them and pink sugar do not of themselves make a very grand celebration. There are always flowers, of course, said Bobby, later, when a really earnest council was being held on the subject in the Hale Doft where the broken chaff cutting machine was, and the row of holes to drop hay through into the hay-racks over the manges of the stables below. He's got lots of flowers of his own, said Peter. But it's always nice to have them given you, said Bobby, however many you've got of your own. We can use flowers for trimmings to the birthday, but there must be something to trim besides buns. Let's all be quiet and think, said Phyllis. No one's to speak until it's thought of something. So they were all quiet and so very still that a brown rat thought that there was no one in the loft and came out very boldly. When Bobby sneezed, the rat was quite shocked and hurried away, for he saw that a Hale Doft where such things could happen was no place for a respectable middle-aged rat that liked a quiet life. Hooray! cried Peter suddenly. I've got it! He jumped up and kicked at the loose hay. What! said the others eagerly. Why, Perks is so nice to everybody, there must be lots of people in the village who'd like to help to make him a birthday. Let's go round and ask everybody. Mother said we went to ask people for things, said Bobby doubtfully. For ourselves she meant silly, not for other people. I'll ask the old gentleman too. You see if I don't, said Peter. Let's ask Mother first, said Bobby. Oh, what's the use of bothering Mother about every little thing, said Peter, especially when she's busy? Come on. Let's go down to the village now and begin. So they went. The old lady at the post office said she didn't see why Perks should have a birthday any more than anyone else. No, said Bobby. I should like everyone to have one. Only we know when his is. Mine's tomorrow, said the old lady, and much notice any one will take of it. Go along with you. So they went. And some people were kind and some were crusty, and some would give and some would not. It is rather difficult work asking for things, even for other people, as you have no doubt found if you have ever tried it. When the children got home and counted up what had been given and what had been promised, they felt that for the first day it was not so bad. Peter wrote down the lists of the things in the little pocketbook where he kept the numbers of his engines. These were the lists. Given. A tobacco pipe from the sweet shop. Half a pound of tea from the grocers. A woollen scarf slightly faded from the drapers, which was the other side of the grocers. A stuffed squirrel from the doctor. Promised. A piece of meat from the butcher. Six fresh eggs from the woman who lived in the old turnpike cottage. A piece of honeycomb and six bootlaces from the cobbler, and an iron shovel from the blacksmiths. Very early next morning Bobby got up and woke Phyllis. This had been agreed on between them. They had not told Peter because they thought he would think it silly, but they told him afterwards when it had turned out all right. They cut a big bunch of roses and put it in a basket with the needle-book that Phyllis had made for Bobby on her birthday, and a very pretty blue necktie of Phyllises. Then they wrote on a paper, for Mrs. Ransom, with our best love because it is her birthday, and they put the paper in the basket, and they took it to the post office, and went in, and put it on the counter, and ran away before the old woman at the post office had time to get into her shop. When they got home Peter had grown confidential over helping Mother to get the breakfast, and had told her their plans. There's no harm in it, said Mother, but it depends how you do it. I only hope you won't be offended and think it's charity. Poor people are very proud, you know. It isn't because he's poor, said Phyllis, it's because we're fond of him. I'll find some things that Phyllis has outgrown, said Mother, if you're quite sure you can give them to him without his being offended.  I can't do much because we're poor ourselves. What are you writing, Bobby?" Nothing particular, said Bobby, who had suddenly begun to scribble. I'm sure he'd like the things, Mother. The morning of the fifteenth was spent very happily in getting the buns, and watching Mother make A-P on them with pink sugar. You know how it's done, of course. You beat up whites of eggs in mixed powdered sugar with them, and put in a few drops of cochineal, and then you make a cone of clean white paper with a little hole at the pointed end, and put the pink egg sugar in at the big end. It runs slowly out at the pointed end, and you write the letters with it, just as though it were a great fat pen full of pink sugaring. The buns looked beautiful with A-P on every one, and when they were put in a cool oven to set the sugar, the children went up to the village to collect the honey and the shovel and the other promised things. The old lady at the post-office was standing on her doorstep. The children said, good morning, politely as they passed. Here, stop a bit, she said, so they stopped. Those roses, said she. Did you like them? said Phyllis. They were as fresh as fresh. I made the needle-book, but it was Bobby's present. She skipped joyously, as she spoke. Here's your basket, said the post-office woman. She went in and brought out the basket.  I daresay Perks's children would like them, said she.  Perks will be pleased. He won't be half as pleased as I was with your needle-book and the tie and the pretty flowers and all, said the old lady patting Phyllis' shoulder.  Look here. I've got a pram round the back in the wood-lodge. It was got from my Emmy's first that didn't live but six months, and she never had but that one. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It'd be a help to her with that great boy of hers. Will you take it along? Oh! said all the children together. When Mrs. Ransom had got out the perambulator and taken off the careful papers that covered it, and dusted it all over, she said, Well, there it is. I don't know but what I'd have given it to her before if I'd thought of it. Only I didn't quite know if she'd accepted it from me. You tell her it was my Emmy's little one's pram. Oh! isn't it nice to think that there is going to be a real live baby in it again? Yes, said Mrs. Ransom sighing, and then laughing.  All the things that had been collected for Perks were packed into the perambulator, and at half-past three Peter and Bobby and Phyllis wheeled it down to the little yellow house where Perks lived. The house was very tidy. On the window-lodge was a jug of wildflowers, big daisies and red sorrel and feathery, flowery grasses. There was a sound of splashing from the wash-house, and a partly washed boy put his head round the door. Mother's a-changing of herself, he said. Down in a minute! A voice sounded from the narrow, freshly-scrubbed stairs. The children waited. Next moment the stairs creaked, and Mrs. Perks came down, buttoning her bodice. Her hair was brushed very smooth and tight, and her face shone with soap and water. I'm a bit late changing, Miss," she said to Bobby, owing to me having had an extra clean-up today, along a Perks happening to name its being his birthday. I don't know what put it into his head to think of such a thing. We keep the children's birthdays, of course, but him and me, we're too old for such life as a general rule. We knew it was his birthday, said Peter, and we've got some presents for him outside in the perambulator. As the presents were being unpacked, Mrs. Perks gasped. When they were all unpacked, she surprised and horrified the children by sitting suddenly down on a wooden chair and bursting into tears. Oh, don't! said everybody. Oh, please don't! and Peter added, perhaps a little impatiently, What on earth is the matter? You don't mean to say you don't like it? Mrs. Perks only sobbed. The Perks' children, now as shiny-faced as any one could wish, stood at the wash-house door and scowled at the intruders. There was a silence, an awkward silence. Don't you like it? said Peter again, while his sisters patted Mrs. Perks on the back. She stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun. There, there, don't mind me, I'm all right, she said. Like it? Why, it's a birthday such as Perks never had, not even when he was a boy and stayed with his uncle, who was a corn chandler in his own account. He failed afterwards. Like it? Oh! And then she went on and said all sorts of things that I won't write down, because I am sure that Peter and Bobby and Phyllis would not like me to. Their ears got hotter and hotter, and their faces redder and redder, at the kind things Mrs. Perks said. They felt they had done nothing to deserve all this praise. At last Peter said, Look here, we're glad you're pleased.  And we did want to stay and see if Mr. Perks is pleased, too, but we can't stand this. I won't say another single word, said Mrs. Perks, with a beaming face, but that needn't stop me thinking needed. For if ever—can we have a plate for the buns? Bobby asked abruptly, and then Mrs. Perks hastily laid the table for tea, and the buns and the honey and the gooseberries were displayed on plates, and the roses were put in two glass jam jars, and the tea-table looked, as Mrs. Perks said, fit for a prince. To think, she said, me getting the place tidy early, and the little ones getting the wildflowers in all, and never did I think there'd be anything more for him, except the ounce of his pet particular, that I'd got him a Saturday and been savin' up for him ever since. Bless us, he is early! Perks had indeed unlatched the latch of the little front gate. Oh! whispered Bobby, let's hide in the back kitchen, and you tell him about it. But give him the tobacco first, because you got it for him, and when you've told him, we'll all come in and shout many happy returns. It was a very nice plan, but it did not quite come off. To begin with, there was only just time for Peter and Bobby and Phyllis to rush into the wash-house, pushing the young and open-mouthed Perks' children in front of them. There was not time to shut the door, so that without at all meaning it, they had to listen to what went on in the kitchen. The wash-house was a tight fit for the Perks' children and the three chimneys' children, as well as all the wash-house's proper furniture, including the mangle and the copper. Hello, old woman! they heard Mr. Perks' voice say. Here's a pretty set-out. It's your birthday tea, Bert, said Mrs. Perks, and there's an ounce of your extra pet particular. I got it a Saturday, a longer year happening, to remember it was your birthday to-day. Good old girl! said Mr. Perks, and there was a sound of a kiss. But what's that pram doing here? And what's all these bundles? When did you get the sweet stuff? And the children did not hear what Mrs. Perks replied, because just then Bobby gave a start, put her hand in her pocket, and all her body grew stiff with horror. Oh! she whispered to the others. Whatever shall we do? I forgot to put the labels on any of the things. He won't know what's from who. He'll think it's all from us, and that we're trying to be grand or charitable or something, horrid. Hush! said Peter. And then they heard the voice of Mr. Perks, loud and rather angry. I don't care, he said. I won't stand it, and so I tell you straight. But, said Mrs. Perks, it's them children you make such a fuss about, the children from the three chimneys. I don't care, said Perks firmly, not if it was an angel from heaven. We've got on all right all these years, and no favours asked. I'm not going to begin these sort of charity goings on at my time of life, so don't you think it, Nell. Oh, hush! said poor Mrs. Perks.  The all three of them's in the wash-house are listening to every word you speaks. Then I'll give them something to listen to, said the angry Perks. I've spoke my mind to them afore now, and I'll do it again," he added, and he took two strides to the wash-house door and flung it wide open, as wide, that is, as it would go, with the tightly packed children behind it. Come out, said Perks. Come out and tell me what you mean by it. Have I ever complained to you of being short, as you come's this charity lay over me? Oh! said Phyllis. I thought you'd be so pleased. I'll never try to be kind to anyone else as long as I live. No, I won't, not never! she burst into tears. We didn't mean any harm, said Peter. It ain't what you mean so much as what you does, said Perks. Oh, don't! cried Bobby, trying hard to be braver than Phyllis, and to find more words than Peter had done for explaining it. We thought you'd love it. We always have things on our birthdays. Oh, yes, said Perks, your own relations. That's different. Oh, no! Bobby answered. Not our own relations. All the servants always gave us things at home, and asked to them when it was their birthdays. And when it was mine, and Mother gave me the brooch like a butter-cup, Mrs. Viney gave me two lovely glass pots, and nobody thought she was coming the charity lay over us. If it had been glass pots here, said Perks, I wouldn't have said so much. It's there being all this heaps and heaps of things I can't stand. No, nor won't, neither. But they're not all from us, said Peter, only we forgot to put the labels on. They're from all sorts of people in the village. Who put him up to it, I'd like to know, asked Perks. Why, we did, sniffed Phyllis. Perks sat down heavily in the elbow chair, and looked at them with what Bobby afterwards described as withering glances of gloomy despair. So you've been round telling the neighbours we can't make both ends meet. Well, now you've disgraced us as deep as you can in the neighbourhood. You can just take the whole bag of tricks back where it came from. Very much obliged, I'm sure. I don't doubt but what you meant it kind, but I'd rather not be acquainted with you any longer if it's all the same to you.  The legs of the chair grated on the brick floor, and that was the only sound that broke the silence. Then suddenly Bobby spoke. Look here. She said, this is most awful. That's what I says, said Perks, not turning round. Look here, said Bobby desperately.  Sniffed Phyllis wildly. Be quiet, said Peter, in a fiercer side. But before we go, Bobby went on desperately. Do let us show you the labels we wrote out to put on the things. I don't want to see known labels, said Perks, except proper luggage ones in my own walk of life. Do you think I've kept respectable and out of debt on what I get, and her having to take in washing, to be give away for a laughing stock to all the neighbours? Laughing? said Peter. You don't know.  You know you were wrong once before about us not telling you the secret about the Russian. Do let Bobby tell you about the labels. Well, go ahead, said Perks grudgingly. Well, then, said Bobby, fumbling miserably, yet not without hope in her tightly stuffed pocket. We wrote down all the things everybody said when they gave us the things, with the people's names, because Mother said we ought to be careful, because— but I wrote down what she said, and you'll see. But Bobby could not read the labels just at once. She had to swallow once or twice before she could begin. Mrs. Perks had been crying steadily ever since her husband had opened the wash-house door. Now she caught her breath, choked, and said, Don't upset yourself, Missy. I know you meant it kind if he doesn't. May I read the labels? said Bobby, crying on to the slips as she tried to sort them. Mothers first. It says, Little clothes for Mrs. Perks's children. Mother said, I'll find some of Phyllis's things that she's grown out of, if you're quite sure Mr. Perks wouldn't be offended and think it's meant for charity.  I can't do much, because we're poor ourselves. Bobby paused. That's all right, said Perks. You're Mars a born lady. We'll keep the little frocks and whatnot, Nell. Then there's the perambulator and the gooseberries and the sweets. said Bobby. Therefrom Mrs. Ransom. She said, I daresay Mr. Perks's children would like the sweets, and the perambulator was got for my Emmy's first. It didn't live but six months, and she's never had but that one. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It would be a help with her fine boy. I'd have given it before if I'd been sure she'd accepted it from me. She told me to tell you, Bobby added, that it was her Emmy's little one's pram. I can't send that pram back at Bert, said Mrs. Perks firmly, and I won't, so don't you ask me. I'm not asking anything, said Perks, gruffly. Then the shovel, said Bobby. Mr. James made it for you himself, and he said, where is it? Oh, yes, here. He said, you tell Mr. Perks it's a pleasure to make a little trifle for a man as is so much respected. And then he said he wished he could shoe your children and his own children like they do the horses, because, well, he knew what shoe leather was. James is a good enough chap, said Perks. Then the honey, said Bobby in haste, and the bootlaces. He said he respected a man that paid his way, and the butcher said the same. And the old turnpike woman said many was the time you'd lend her a hand with her garden when you were a lad, and things like that came home to roost. I don't know what she meant. And everybody who gave anything said they liked you, and it was a very good idea of ours, and nobody said anything about charity or anything horrid like that. And the old gentleman gave Peter a gold pound for you, and said you were a man who knew your work, and I thought you'd love to know how fond people are of you, and I never was so unhappy in my life. Goodbye. I hope you'll forgive us some day." She could say no more, and she turned to go. Stop! said Perks, still with his back to them. I take back every word I've said contrary to what you'd wish. Nell, set on the kettle. We'll take the things away if you're unhappy about them, said Peter, but I think everybody'll be most awfully disappointed as well as us. I'm not unhappy about them, said Perks. I don't know, he added, suddenly wheeling the chair around and showing a very odd-looking screwed-up face. I don't know as I was ever better pleased. Not so much with the presents, though they're an A-1 collection, but the kind respect of our neighbours. That's worth having, ain't it, Nell? I think it's all worth having, said Mrs. Perks, and you've made a most ridiculous fuss about nothing, Bert, if you ask me. No, I ain't, said Perks, firmly. If a man didn't respect his self, no one wouldn't do it for him. But everyone respects you, said Bobby. They all said so. I knew you'd like it when you really understood, said Phyllis Brightley. You'll stay to tea, said Mr. Perks. Later on Peter proposed Mr. Perks's health, and Mr. Perks proposed a toast, also honoured in tea, and the toast was, May the garland of friendship be evergreen, which was much more poetical than any one had expected from him. Jolly good little kids, those, said Mr. Perks to his wife as they went to bed. Oh, they're all right, bless their hearts, said his wife. It's you that's the aggravatingest old thing that ever was.  You needn't be old, gal. I climbed down Hanson as soon as I understood it wasn't charity, but charity's what I never did abide, and won't neither. All sorts of people were made happy by that birthday party. Mr. Perks and Mrs. Perks, and the little Perkses, by all the nice things, and by the kind thoughts of their neighbours. The three chimneys children by the success undoubted the one expectedly delayed of their plan, and Mrs. Ransom every time she saw the fat Perks baby in the perambulator. Mrs. Perks made quite a round of visits to thank people for their kind birthday presents, and after each visit felt that she had a better friend than she had thought. Yes, said Perks reflectively. It's not so much what she does as what she means, that's what I say. Now, if it had been charity—oh, jack-charity, said Mrs. Perks. Nobody won't offer you charity, but however much he was to wanted I lay, that was just friendliness that was. When the clergyman called on Mrs. Perks, she told him all about it. It was friendliness, wasn't it, sir? said she. I think, said the clergyman, it was what is sometimes called loving-kindness. So you see, it was all right in the end. But if one does that sort of thing, one has to be careful to do it in the right way. For as Mr. Perks said, when he had time to think it over, it's not so much what you do as what you mean. End of Chapter 9 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, October 2006. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt Chapter 10 The Terrible Secret When they first went to live at Three Chimneys, the children had talked a great deal about their father, and had asked a great many questions about him, and what he was doing, and where he was, and when he would come home. Mother always answered their questions as well as she could. But as the time went on, they grew to speak less of him. Bobby had felt, almost from the first, that for some strange, miserable reason these questions hurt Mother and made her sad. And little by little, the others came to have this feeling, too, though they could not have put it into words. One day, when Mother was working so hard, that she could not leave off even for ten minutes, Bobby carried up her tea to the big, bare room that they called Mother's Workshop. It had hardly any furniture, just a table and a chair and a rug. But always big pots of flowers on the windowsills and on the mantelpiece. The children saw to that. And from the three long, uncurtained windows, the beautiful stretch of meadow and moorland, the far violet of the hills, and the unchanging changefulness of cloud and sky. Here's your tea, Mother Love," said Bobby, do drink it while it's hot. Mother laid down her pen among the pages that were scattered all over the table, pages covered with her writing, which was almost as plain as print and much prettier. She ran her hands into her hair, as if she were going to pull it out by hand-force. Poor dear Head, said Bobby, does it ache? No. Yes. Not much, said Mother. Bobby, do you think Peter and Philip are forgetting Father? No, said Bobby indignantly. Why? You none of you ever speak of him now. Bobby stood first on one leg and then on the other. We often talk about him when we're by ourselves, she said. But not to me, said Mother. Why? Bobby did not find it easy to say why. I— You, she said, and stopped. She went over to the window and looked out. Bobby, come here, said her mother, and Bobby came.  Try to tell me, dear. Bobby fidgeted. Tell Mother. Well, then, said Bobby, I thought you were so unhappy about Daddy not being here. It made you worse when I talked about him. So I stopped doing it. And the others? I don't know about the others, said Bobby. I never said anything about that to them. But I expect they felt the same about it as me. Bobby, dear, said Mother, still leaning her head against her. I'll tell you. Besides parting from Father, he and I have had a great sorrow. Oh, terrible! Worse than anything you can think of. And at first it did hurt to hear you all talking of him as if everything were just the same. But it would be much more terrible if you were to forget him. That would be worse than anything. The trouble, said Bobby, in a very little voice. I promised I would never ask you any questions, and I never have, have I? But the trouble— It won't last always. No, said Mother. The worst will be over when Father comes home to us. I wish I could comfort you, said Bobby.  Do you think I haven't noticed how good you've all been, not quarrelling nearly as much as you used to, and all the little kind things you do for me—the flowers, and cleaning my shoes, and tearing up to make my bed before I get time to do it myself? Bobby had sometimes wondered whether Mother noticed these things. That's nothing, she said, to what I must get on with my work, said Mother, giving Bobby one last squeeze. Don't say anything to the others. That evening, in the hour before bedtime, instead of reading to the children, Mother told them stories of the games she and Father used to have when they were children, and lived near each other in the country. Tales of the adventures of Father with Mother's brothers when they were all boys together. Very funny stories they were, and the children laughed as they listened. Uncle Edward died before he was grown up, didn't he? said Phyllis, as Mother lighted the bedroom candles. Yes, dear, said Mother, you would have loved him. He was such a brave boy, and so adventurous—always in mischief, and yet friends with everybody in spite of it. And your Uncle Reggie's in Ceylon. Yes, and Father's away, too. But I think they'd all like to think we'd enjoyed talking about the things they used to do. Don't you think so? Not Uncle Edward, said Phyllis, in a shock tone. He's in heaven. You don't suppose he's forgotten us in all the old times, because God has taken him any more than I forget him? Oh, no, he remembers. He's only away for a little time. We shall see him some day. And Uncle Reggie? And Father, too, said Peter? Yes, said Mother. Uncle Reggie and Father, too. Good night, my darlings. Good night, said everyone. Bobby hugged her mother more closely even than usual, and whispered in her ear, Oh, I do love you so, Mummy. I do, I do. When Bobby came to think it all over, she tried not to wonder what the great trouble was. But she could not always help it. Father was not dead, like poor Uncle Edward. Mother had said so. And he was not ill, or Mother would have been with him. Being poor wasn't the trouble. Bobby knew it was something nearer the heart than money could be. I mustn't try to think what it is, she told herself. No, I mustn't. I am glad Mother noticed about us not quarrelling so much. We'll keep that up. And alas! That very afternoon she and Peter had what Peter called a first-class shindy. They had not been a week at three chimneys before they had asked Mother to let them have a piece of garden each for their very own, and she had agreed, and the south border under the peach trees had been divided into three pieces, and they were allowed to plant whatever they liked there. Phyllis had planted mignonette and nasturtium and Virginia stalk in hers. The seeds came up, and though they looked just like weeds, Phyllis believed that they would bear flowers some day.  I can't weed for fear I pull up the wrong things, she used to say comfortably. It saved such a lot of work. Peter sowed vegetable seeds in his, carrots and onions and turnips. The seed was given to him by the farmer who lived in the nice black and white wooden plaster house just beyond the bridge. He kept turkeys and guinea fowls, and was a most amiable man. But Peter's vegetables never had much of a chance, because he liked to use the earth of his garden for digging canals and making forts and earthworks for his toy soldiers, and the seeds of vegetables rarely come to much in a soil that is constantly disturbed for the purposes of war and irrigation. Bobby planted rose bushes in her garden, but all the little new leaves of rose bushes shriveled and withered, perhaps because she moved them from the other part of the garden in May, which is not at all the right time of year for moving roses. But she would not own that they were dead, and hoped on against hope, until the day when perks came up to see the garden and told her quite plainly that all her roses were as dead as doornails. Only good for bonfires, miss, he said, you just dig them up and burn them, and I'll give you some nice fresh roots out of my garden, pansies and stocks and sweet willies and forget-me-nots. I'll bring them along to-morrow if you get the ground ready. So next day she set to work, and that happened to be the day when Mother had praised her and the others about not quarrelling. She moved the rose bushes and carried them to the other end of the garden where the rubbish heap was that they meant to make a bonfire of when Guy Fawkes Day came. Meanwhile Peter had decided to flatten out all his forts and earthworks, with a view to making a model of the railway tunnel, cutting, embankment, canal, aqueduct, bridges, and all. So when Bobby came back from her last thorny journey with the dead rose bushes, he had got the rake and was using it busily. I was using the rake, said Bobby. Well, I'm using it now, said Peter. But I had it first, said Bobby. Well, it's my turn now, said Peter. And that was how the quarrel began. You're always being disagreeable about nothing, said Peter, after some heated argument. I had the rake first, said Bobby, flushed and defiant, holding onto its handle. Don't! I tell you, I said this morning I meant to have it, didn't I, Phil? Phyllis said she didn't want to be mixed up in their rouse, and instantly, of course, she was. If you remember, you ought to say. Of course she doesn't remember, but she might say so. I wish I'd had a brother instead of two whiny little kiddie sisters, said Peter. This was always recognized as indicating the high watermark of Peter's rage. Bobby made the reply she always made to it.  And just as she said it, she looked up, and saw the three long windows of mother's workshop flashing in the red rays of the sun. The sight brought back those words of praise. You don't quarrel like you used to. Oh! cried Bobby, just as if she'd been hit, or had caught her finger in a door, or had felt the hideous sharp beginnings of toothache. What's the matter? said Phyllis. Bobby wanted to say, don't let's quarrel, mother hates it so. But though she tried hard, she couldn't. Peter was looking too disagreeable and insulting. Take the horrid rake, then, was the best you could manage. And she suddenly let go her hold on the handle. Peter had been holding onto it too firmly and pullingly, and now that the pull the other way was suddenly stopped, he staggered and fell over backward, the teeth of the rake between his feet. Serve you right, said Bobby, before she could stop herself. Peter lay still for half a moment, long enough to frighten Bobby a little. Then he frightened her a little more, for he sat up, screamed once, turned rather pale, and then laid back and began to shriek, faintly but steadily.  Mother put her head out of the window, and it wasn't half a minute after that, that she was in the garden kneeling by the side of Peter, who never for an instant ceased to squeal. What happened, Bobby? Mother asked. It was the rake, said Phyllis. Peter was pulling at it, so was Bobby, and she let go, and he went over. Stop that noise, Peter, said Mother. Come, stop it once. Peter used up what breath he had left in a last squeal and stopped. Now, said Mother, are you hurt? If he was really hurt he wouldn't make such a fuss, said Bobby, still trembling with fury. He's not a coward. I think my foot's broken off, that's all, said Peter, huffily and sat up. Then he turned quite white. Mother put her arm around him. He is hurt, she said. He's fainted.  Then Mother undid Peter's boots. As she took the right one off something dripped from his foot onto the ground. It was red blood. And when the stocking came off there were three red wounds in Peter's foot and ankle, where the teeth of the rake had bitten him, and his foot was covered with red smears. Run for water, a basinful, said Mother, and Phyllis ran. She upset most of the water out of the basin in her haste and had to fetch more in a jug. Peter did not open his eyes again till Mother had tied her handkerchief round his foot, and she and Bobby had carried him in and laid him on the brown wooden settle in the dining-room. By this time Phyllis was half-way to the doctor's. Mother sat by Peter and bathed his foot and talked to him, and Bobby went out and got tea ready, and put on the kettle. It's all I can do, she told herself.  She stood by the back door reflecting on these gloomy possibilities, her eyes fixed on the water-butt. I wish I'd never been born, she said, and she said it out loud. Why, log of mercy, what's that for? asked a voice, and Perks stood before her with a wooden trug-basket full of green-leaved things and soft loose earth. Oh, it's you, she said. Peter's hurt his foot with a rake, three great gaping wounds like soldiers get, and it was partly my fault. That it was, and I'll go bail, said Perks. Doctor seen him. Phyllis has gone for the doctor. He'll be all right, you see if he isn't, said Perks. Why, my father's second cousin had a hay-fork run into him, right into his inside, and he was right as ever in a few weeks, all except his being a bit weak in the head afterwards, and they did say that it was along of his getting a touch of the sun in the hay-field, and not the fork at all. I remember him well. Kind-hearted chap, but soft, as you might say. Bobby tried to let herself be cheered by this heartening reminiscence. Well, said Perks. You won't want to be bothered with gardening just this minute, I dare say. You show me where your garden is, and I'll pop the bits of stuff in for you, and I'll hang about if I may make so free to see the doctor as he comes out and hear what he says. You cheer up, Missy. A layer of poundy-aid hurt, not to speak of. But he was. The doctor came and looked at the foot and bandaged it beautifully, and said that Peter must not put it to the ground for at least a week. He won't be lame, or have to wear crutches or a lump in his foot, will he? whispered Bobby breathlessly at the door. I aren't. No, said Dr. Forrest. He'll be as nimble as ever on his pins in a fortnight.  It was when Mother had gone to the gate with the doctor to take his last instructions, and Phyllis was filling the kettle for tea, that Peter and Bobby found themselves alone. He says you won't be lame or anything, said Bobby. Of course I shard silly, said Peter, very much relieved all the same. Oh, Peter, I am so sorry, said Bobby after a pause. That's all right, said Peter gruffly. It was all my fault, said Bobby. Rot, said Peter. If we hadn't quarrelled, it wouldn't have happened. I knew it was wrong to quarrel. I wanted to say so, but somehow I couldn't. Don't drivel, said Peter. I shouldn't have stopped if you had said it. Not likely. And besides, us rowing hadn't anything to do with it.  It would have been hurt just the same whether we'd been rowing or not. But I knew it was wrong to quarrel, said Bobby, in tears. And now you're hurt, and now look here, said Peter firmly. You just dry up. If you're not careful, you'll turn into a beastly little Sunday school prig, so I tell you. I don't mean to be a prig, but it's so hard not to be when you're really trying to be good. The gentle reader may perhaps have suffered from this difficulty. Not it, said Peter. It's a jolly good thing it wasn't you was hurt. I'm glad it was me. There. If it had been you, you'd have been lying on the sofa looking like a suffering angel and being the light of the anxious household and all that. And I couldn't have stood it. No, I shouldn't, said Bobby. Yes, you would, said Peter. I tell you I shouldn't. I tell you you would. Oh, children, said Mother's voice at the door, quarrelling again, already. We aren't quarrelling, not really, said Peter. I wish you wouldn't think it to rouse every time we don't agree. When Mother had gone out again, Bobby broke out. Peter, I am sorry you're hurt, but you are a beast to say I'm a prig. Well, said Peter unexpectedly, perhaps I am. You did say I wasn't a coward, even when you were in such a wax. The only thing is, don't you be a prig, that's all.  See? Yes, said Bobby, I see. Then let's call it packs, said Peter, magnanimously. Burry the hatchet in the fathoms of the past. Shake hands on it. I say, Bobby, old chap, I am tired. He was tired for many days after that, and the settle seemed hard and uncomfortable in spite of all the pillows and bolsters and soft-folded rugs. It was terrible not to be able to go out. They moved the settle to the window, and from there Peter could see the smoke of the trains winding along the valley. But he could not see the trains. At first Bobby found it quite hard to be as nice to him as she wanted to be, for fear he should think her prigish. But that soon wore off, and both she and Phyllis were, as he observed, jolly good sorts. Mother sat with him when his sisters were out, and the words, He's not a coward, made Peter determined not to make any fuss about the pain in his foot, though it was rather bad, especially at night. Praise helps people very much sometimes. There were visitors, too. Mrs. Perks came up to ask how he was, and so did the station master, and several of the village people. But the time went slowly, slowly. I do wish there was something to read, said Peter. I've read all our books fifty times over. I'll go to the doctors, said Phyllis. He's sure to have some. Only about how to be ill and about people's nasty insides, I expect, said Peter. Perks has a whole heap of magazines that came out of trains when people are tired of them, said Bobby. I'll round down and ask him. So the girls went their two ways. Bobby found Perks busy cleaning lamps. And I was a young gent, said he. Better thanks, said Bobby, but he's most frightfully bored. I came to ask if you'd got any magazines you could lend him. There now, said Perks regretfully, rubbing his ear with a black and oily lump of cotton waste. Why, didn't I think of that now? I was trying to think of something as it amused him only this morning, and I couldn't think of anything better than a guinea pig. And a young chap I know is going to fetch that over for him this tea-time. How lovely! A real-life guinea! He will be pleased. But he'd like the magazines as well. That's just it, said Perks. I've just sent the pig of him to Stigson's boy, him what's just getting over Pimonia. But I've lots of illustrated papers left. He turned to the pile of papers in the corner and took up a heap, six inches thick. There, he said, I'll just slip a bit of string and a bit of paper around him. He pulled an old newspaper from the pile and spread it on the table, and made a neat parcel of it. There, said he. There's lots of pictures, and if he likes to mess them about with his paint box or coloured chalks or what not, why let him? I don't want him.  The papers were heavy, and when she had to wait at the level crossing while a train went by, she rested the parcel on the top of the gate, and idly she looked at the printing on the paper that the parcel was wrapped in. Suddenly she clutched the parcel tighter and bent her head over it. It seemed like some horrible dream. She read on. The bottom of the column was torn off. She could read no farther. She never remembered how she got home. But she went on tiptoe to her room and locked the door. Then she undid the parcel and read that printed column again, sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands and feet icy cold and her face burning. When she had read all there was, she drew a long, uneven breath. So now I know, she said. What she had read was headed, end of the trial, verdict, sentence. The name of the man who had been tried was the name of her father. The verdict was guilty, and the sentence was five years' penal servitude. Oh, Daddy! she whispered, crushing the paper hard. It's not true. I don't believe it. You never did it. Never, never, never! There was a hammering on the door. What is it? said Bobby. It's me! said the voice of Phyllis.  Come along down! And Bobby had to. October 2006 The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt Chapter 11 The Hound in the Red Jersey Bobby knew the secret now. A sheet of old newspaper wrapped round a parcel, just a little chance like that, had given the secret to her. And she had to go down to tea and pretend that there was nothing the matter. The pretense was bravely made, but it wasn't very successful. For when she came in, everyone looked up from tea and saw her pink-lidded eyes and her pale face with red tear blotches on it. My darling! cried Mother, jumping up from the tea-tray. Whatever is the matter? My headaches, rather, said Bobby. And indeed it did. Has anything gone wrong? Mother asked. I'm all right, really, said Bobby. And she telegraphed to her Mother from her swollen eyes this brief imploring message. Not before the others. Tea was not a cheerful meal. Peter was so distressed by the obvious fact that something horrid had happened to Bobby, that he limited his speech to repeating more bread-and-butter pleas at startlingly short intervals. Phyllis stroked her sister's hand under the table to express sympathy and knocked her cup over as she did it. Fetching a cloth and wiping up the spilled milk helped Bobby a little. But she thought that tea would never end. Yet at last it did end, as all things do at last. And when Mother took out the tray, Bobby followed her. She's gone to own up, said Phyllis to Peter. I wonder what she's done. Broken something, I suppose, said Peter, but she needn't be so silly over it. Mother never roused for accidents. Listen. Yes, they're going upstairs. She's taking Mother up to show her. The water jug with stalks on it, I expect it is. Bobby, in the kitchen, had caught hold of Mother's hand as she set down the tea things. What is it? Mother asked. But Bobby only said, Come upstairs. Come up, where nobody can hear us. When she had got Mother alone in her room, she locked the door and then stood quite still and quite without words. All through tea she had been thinking of what to say. She had decided that I know all, or all is known to me, or the terrible secret is a secret no longer would be the proper thing. But now that she and her Mother and that awful sheet of newspaper were alone in the room together, she found that she could say nothing. Suddenly she went to Mother and put her arms around her and began to cry again. And still she could find no words, only, Oh, Mummy! Oh, Mummy! Oh, Mummy! Over and over again, Mother held her very close and waited. Suddenly Bobby broke away from her and went to her bed. From under her mattress she pulled out the paper she had hidden there and held it out, pointing to her father's name with a finger that shook. Oh, Bobby! Mother cried when one little quick look had shown her what it was. He don't believe it. He don't believe Daddy did it. No! Bobby almost shouted. She had stopped crying. That's all right, said Mother. It's not true, and they've shut him up in prison, but he's done nothing wrong. He's good and noble and honorable, and he belongs to us. We have to think of that and be proud of him and wait. Again Bobby clung to her Mother, and again only one word came to her. But now that word was Daddy, and— Oh, Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Again and again. Why didn't you tell me, Mummy? She asked presently, Are you going to tell the others? Mother asked. No. Why? Because— Exactly, said Mother. So you understand why I didn't tell you. We, too, must help each other to be brave. Yes, said Bobby. Mother, will it make you more unhappy if you tell me all about it? I want to understand. So then, sitting cuddled up close to her Mother, Bobby heard all about it. She heard how those men who had asked to see Father on that remembered last night when the engine was being mended, had come to arrest him, charging him with selling state secrets to the Russians, with being, in fact, a spy and a traitor. She heard about the trial and about the evidence, letters found in Father's desk at the office, letters that convinced the jury that Father was guilty. Oh, how could they look at him and believe it? cried Bobby, and how could anyone do such a thing? Someone did it, said Mother, and all the evidence was against Father. Those letters? Yes. How did the letters get into his desk? Someone put them there. And the person who put them there was the person who was really guilty. He must be feeling pretty awful all this time, said Bobby, thoughtfully. I don't believe he had any feelings, said Mother, hotly. He couldn't have done a thing like that if he had. Perhaps he just shoved the letters into the desk to hide them when he thought he was going to be found out. Why don't you tell the lawyers or someone that it must have been that person? There wasn't anyone that would have hurt Father on purpose, was there? I don't know. I don't know. The man under him who got Daddy's place when he— when the awful thing happened, he was always jealous of your father, because Daddy was so clever and everyone thought such a lot of him. And Daddy never quite trusted that man. Couldn't we explain all that to someone? Nobody will listen, said Mother, very bitterly. Nobody at all. Do you suppose I've not tried everything? No, my dearest. There's nothing to be done. All we can do, you and I and Daddy, is to be brave and patient and— She spoke very softly. To pray, Bobby, dear. Mother, you've got very thin, said Bobby, abruptly. A little, perhaps.  We won't talk of all this any more, will we, dear? said Mother. We must bear it and be brave. And darling, try not to think of it. Try to be cheerful and to amuse yourself and the others. It's much easier for me if you can be a little bit happy and enjoy things.  The other two were very gentle and kind to Bobby, and they did not ask her what was the matter. This was Peter's idea, and he had drilled fillers who would have asked a hundred questions if she had been left to herself. A week later, Bobby managed to get away alone, and once more she wrote a letter, and once more it was to the old gentleman. My dear friend, she said, you see what is in this paper. It is not true. Father never did it. Mother says someone put the papers in Father's desk, and she says the man under him that got Father's place afterwards was jealous of Father, and Father suspected him a long time. But nobody listens to a word she says. But you are so good and clever, and you found out about the Russian gentleman's wife directly. Can't you find out who did the treason because he wasn't Father upon my honour? He is an Englishman and incapable to do such things, and then they would let Father out of prison. It is dreadful, and Mother is getting so thin. She told us once to pray for all prisoners and captives. I see now. Oh, do help me. There is only just Mother and me, no, and we can't do anything. Peter and Phil don't know. I'll pray for you twice every day as long as I live if you'll only try. Just try to find out. Think if it was your daddy what you would feel. Oh, do, do, do help me. With love. I remain your affectionately little friend, Roberta. P.S. Mother would send her kind regards if she knew I am writing, but it is no use telling her I am in case you can't do anything. But I know you will. Bobby with best love. She cut the account of her father's trial out of the newspaper with Mother's big cutting-out scissors, and put it in the envelope with her letter. Then she took it down to the station, going out the backway and round by the road, so that the others should not see her and offer to come with her, and she gave the letter to the stationmaster to give to the old gentleman next morning. Where have you been? shouted Peter from the top of the yard wall where he and Phyllis were. To the station, of course, said Bobby. Give us a hand, Pete. She set her foot on the lock of the yard door. Peter reached down a hand. What on earth, she asked, as she reached the war-top, for Phyllis and Peter were very muddy. A lump of wet clay lay between them on the wall. They had each a slip of slate in a very dirty hand, and behind Peter, out of the reach of accidents, were several strange rounded objects, rather like very fat sausages, hollow, but closed up at one ends. It's nests, said Peter, swallow's nests. We're going to dry them in the oven and hang them up with string under the eaves of the coach-house. Yes, said Phyllis, and then we're going to save up all the wool and hair we can get, and in the spring we'll line them, and then how pleased the swallows will be. I've often thought people don't do nearly enough for dumb animals, said Peter, with an air of virtue. I do think people might have thought of making nests for poor little swallows before this. Oh, said Bobby vaguely, if everybody thought of everything, there'd be nothing left for anybody else to think about. Look at the nests, aren't they pretty, said Phyllis, reaching across Peter to grasp a nest. Look out, Phil, you goat, said her brother. But it was too late. Her strong little fingers had crushed the nest. There now, said Peter. Never mind, said Bobby. It is one of my own, said Phyllis, so you needn't jaw, Peter. Yes, we've put our initial names on the ones we've done, so that the swallows will know who they've got to be so grateful to and fond of. Swallows can't read silly, said Peter. Silly yourself, retorted Phyllis. How do you know? Who thought of making the nests anyhow, shouted Peter. I did, screamed Phyllis. Yeah, rejoined Peter. You only thought of making hay ones and sticking them in the ivy for the sparrows, and they'd have been sopping long before egg-laying time. It was me, said Clay and Swallows. I don't care what you said. Look, said Bobby, I've made the nest all right again. Give me the bit of stick to mark your initial name on it. But how can you? Your letter and Peter's are the same. P for Peter, P for Phyllis. I put F for Phyllis, said the child of that name. That's how it sounds. The swallows wouldn't spell Phyllis with a P, I'm certain sure.  Then why do you see them always on Christmas cards and valentines with letters round their necks? How would they know where to go if they couldn't read? That's only in pictures. You never saw one really with letters round its neck. Well, I have a pigeon then. At least Daddy told me they did. Only it was under their wings and not round their necks, but it comes to the same thing, and I say, interrupted Bobby, there's to be a paper-chase tomorrow. Who? Peter asked. Grammar school. Perks thinks the hare will go along by the line at first. We might go along the cutting. You can see a long way from there. The paper-chase was found to be a more amusing subject of conversation than the reading powers of swallows. Bobby had hoped it might be, and next morning Mother let them take their lunch and go out for the day to see the paper-chase. If we go to the cutting, said Peter, we shall see the workmen, even if we miss the paper-chase. Of course it had taken some time to get the line clear from the rocks and earth and trees that had fallen on it when the great landslip happened. That was the occasion you will remember when the three children saved the train from being wrecked by waving six little red flannel petticoat flags. It is always interesting to watch people working, especially when they work with such interesting things as spades and picks and shovels and planks and barrows, when they have cindery red fires and iron pots with round holes in them, and red lamps hanging near the works at night. Of course, the children were never out at night, but once at dusk, when Peter had got out of his bedroom's skylight onto the roof, he had seen the red lamp shining far away at the edge of the cutting. The children had often been down to watch the work, and this day, the interest of picks and spades and barrows being wheeled along planks, completely put the paper-chase out of their heads, so that they quite jumped when a voice just behind them panted, let me pass, please. It was the hair—a big-boned, loose-limbed boy with dark hair lying flat on a very damp forehead. The bag of torn paper under his arm was fastened across one shoulder by a strap. The children stood back. The hair ran along the line, and the workmen leaned on their picks to watch him. He ran unsteadily, and disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel. "'That's against the bylaws,' said the foreman. "'Why worry,' said the oldest workman. "'Live and let lives, what I always say.' "'Ain't you never been young yourself, Mr. Bates?' "'I ought to report him,' said the foreman. "'Why spoil sports, what I always say?' Passengers are forbidden to cross the line on any pretense, murmured the foreman doubtfully. "'He ain't no passenger,' said one of the workmen. "'Nor he ain't cross the line, not where we could see him do it,' said another. "'Nor yet he ain't made no pretenses,' said a third. "'And,' said the oldest workman, he's out of sight now. "'What the eye don't see, the art needn't take no notice of, as what I always say.' And now, following the track of the hair, by the little white blots of scattered paper came the hounds. There were thirty of them, and they all came down the steep ladder-like steps by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens. Bobby and Phyllis and Peter counted them as they passed. The foremost ones hesitated a moment at the foot of the ladder, then their eyes caught the gleam of scattered whiteness along the line, and they turned towards the tunnel, and by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens disappeared in the dark mouth of it. The last one, in a red jersey, seemed to be extinguished by the darkness like a candle that is blown out. "'They don't know what they're in for,' said the foreman. "'It isn't so easy running in the dark.' The tunnel takes two or three turns. "'They'll take a long time to get through, you think,' Peter asked. A narrow more I shouldn't wonder. "'Then let's cut across the top, and see them come out at the other end,' said Peter. "'We shall get there long before they do.' The council seemed good, and they went. They climbed the steep steps from which they had picked the wild cherry blossom for the grave of the little wild rabbit, and reaching the top of the cutting, said their faces towards the hill through which the tunnel was cut. It was stiff work. "'It's like Alps,' said Bobby breathlessly. "'Horandies,' said Peter. "'It's like Himmi, what's his name?' gasped Phyllis. "'Mount Everlasting.' "'Do let's stop.' "'Stick to it,' panted Peter. "'You'll get your second win in a minute.' Phyllis consented to stick to it, and on they went, running when the turf was smooth and the slope easy, climbing over stones, helping themselves up rocks by the branches of trees, creeping through narrow openings between tree trunks and rocks, and so on and on, up and up, till at last they stood on the very top of the hill where they had so often wished to be. "'Halt!' cried Peter, and threw himself flat on the grass. For the very top of the hill was a smooth, turfed table-land, dotted with mossy rocks and little mountain ash trees. The girls also threw themselves down flat. "'Plenty of time,' Peter panted. The rest saw downhill. When they were rested enough to sit up and look round them, Bobby cried, "'Oh, look!' "'What at?' said Phyllis. "'The view,' said Bobby. "'I hate views,' said Phyllis. "'Don't you, Peter?' "'Let's get on,' said Peter. "'But this isn't like a view they take you to in carriages when you're at the seaside, all sea and sand and bare hills. It's like the coloured counties in one of mother's poetry books.' "'It's not so dusty,' said Peter. "'Look at the aqueducts straddling slap across the valley like a giant centipede, and then the towns sticking their church spires up out of the trees like pens out of an ink-stand. I think it's more like, "'There could he see the banners of twelve fair cities shine.' "'I love it,' said Bobby. "'It's worth the climb.' "'The paper-chaser's worth the climb,' said Phyllis. "'If we don't lose it. "'Let's get on. It's all downhill now.' "'I said that ten minutes ago,' said Peter. "'Well, I've said it now,' said Phyllis. "'Come on.' "'Loads of time,' said Peter, and there was. For when they had got down to a level with the top of the tunnel's mouth, they were a couple of hundred yards out of their reckoning and had to creep along the face of the hill. There was no sign of the hare or the hounds. "'They've gone long ago, of course,' said Phyllis, as they leaned on the brick parapet above the tunnel. "'I don't think so,' said Bobby. "'But even if they had, it's ripping here, and we shall see the trains come out of the tunnel like dragons out of lairs. We've never seen that from the top side before.' "'No more we have,' said Phyllis, partially appeased. "'It was really a most exciting place to be in. The top of the tunnel seemed ever so much farther from the line than the head expected, and it was like being on a bridge, but a bridge overgrown with bushes, and creepers, and grass, and wildflowers. "'I know the paper chaser's gone long ago,' said Phyllis, every two minutes, and she hardly knew whether she was pleased or disappointed when Peter, leaning over the parapet, suddenly cried, "'Look out! Here he comes!' They all leaned over the sun-warmed brick wall in time to see the hare, going very slowly, come out of the shadow of the tunnel. "'There now,' said Peter. "'What did I tell you? Now for the hounds.' Very soon came the hounds, by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens, and they also were going slowly and seemed very tired. Two or three who lagged far behind came out long after the others. "'There,' said Bobby. "'That's all. Now what shall we do? "'Go along to the tull tree wood over there and have lunch,' said Phyllis. "'We can see them for miles from up there.' "'Not yet,' said Peter. "'That's not the last. There's the one in the red jersey to come out yet. Let's see the last of them come out.' But though they waited and waited and waited, the boy in the red jersey did not appear. "'Oh, let's have lunch,' said Phyllis. "'I've got a pain in my front with being so hungry. You must have missed seeing the red jerseyed one when he came out with the others.' But Bobby and Peter agreed that he had not come out with the others. "'Let's go down to the tunnel-mouth,' said Peter. "'Then perhaps we shall see him coming along from the inside. I expect he felt spunchuck and rested in one of the manholes.  We might miss seeing him on the way down with all these trees.' So the others climbed down, and Bobby waited till they signalled to her from the line below, and then she too scrambled down the roundabout slippery path among roots and moss, till she stepped out between two dogwood trees and joined the others on the line. And still there was no sign of the hound with the red jersey. "'Oh, do, do, let's have something to eat,' wailed Phyllis. "'I shall die if I don't, and then you'll be sorry. Give her the sandwiches for goodness' sake and stop her silly mouth,' said Peter. Not quite unkindly. "'Look here,' he added, turning to Bobby. "'Perhaps we'd better have one each too. We may need all our strength. Not more than one though. There's no time.' "'What?' asked Bobby, her mouth already full, for she was just as hungry as Phyllis. "'Don't you see?' replied Peter impressively. That red jerseyed hound has had an accident. That's what it is. Perhaps even as we speak he's lying with his head on the metals, an unresisting prey to any passing express. "'Oh, don't try to talk like a book,' cried Bobby, boating what was left of her sandwich. Come on. Phil, keep close behind me, and if a train comes, stand flat against the tunnel wall and hold your petty coats close to you. Give me one more sandwich,' pleaded Phyllis, and I will. "'I'm going first,' said Peter. It was my idea, and he went. Of course you know what going into a tunnel is like. The engine gives a scream, and then suddenly the noise of the running, rattling train changes and grows different and much louder. Grown-up people pull up the windows and hold them by the strap. The railway carriage suddenly grows like night, with lamps, of course, unless you're in a slow local train, in which case lamps are not always provided. Then by and by the darkness outside the carriage window is touched by puffs of cloudy whiteness. Then you see a blue light on the walls of the tunnel. Then the sound of the moving train changes once more, and you're out in the good open air again, and grown-ups let the straps go. The windows, all dim with the yellow breath of the tunnel, rattle down into their places, and you see once more the dip and catch of the telegraph wires beside the line, and the straight cut hawthorn edges with the tiny baby trees growing up out of them every thirty yards. All this, of course, is what a tunnel means when you're in a train, but everything is quite different when you walk into a tunnel on your own feet, and tread on shifting sliding stones and gravel on a path that curves downwards from the shining metals to the wall. Then you see slimy, oozy trickles of water running down the inside of the tunnel, and you notice that the bricks are not red or brown as they are at the tunnel's mouth, but dull, sticky, sickly green. Your voice, when you speak, is quite changed from what it was out in the sunshine, and it is a long time before the tunnel is quite dark. It was not yet quite dark in the tunnel when Phyllis caught at Bobby's skirt, ripping out half a yard of gathers, but no one noticed this at the time. I want to go back," she said. I don't like it. It'll be pitch dark in a minute. I won't go on in the dark. I don't care what you say, I won't.  I've got a candle and matches and—what's that? That was a low humming sound on the railway line, a trembling of the wires beside it, a buzzing humming sound that grew louder and louder as they listened. It's a train, said Bobby. Which line? Let me go back," cried Phyllis, struggling to get away from the hand by which Bobby held her.  It's quite safe. Stand back. Come on," shouted Peter, who was a few yards ahead. Quick! Man-hold! The roar of the advancing train was now louder than the noise you hear when your head is under water in the bath, and both taps are running, and you are kicking with your heels against the bath's tin sides. But Peter had shouted for all he was worth, and Bobby heard him. She dragged Phyllis along to the man-hold. Phyllis, of course, stumbled over the wires and grazed both her legs, but they dragged her in, and all three stood in the dark, damp, arched recess, while the train roared louder and louder. It seemed as if it would deafen them. And in the distance they could see its eyes of fire growing bigger and brighter every instant. It is a dragon! I always knew it was! It takes its own shape in here, in the dark, shouted Phyllis, but nobody heard her. You see, the train was shouting too, and its voice was bigger than hers. And now with a rush and a roar and a rattle and a long, dazzling flash of lighted carriage windows, a smell of smoke and blast of hot air, the train hurtled by, clanging and jangling and echoing in the vaulted roof of the tunnel. Phyllis and Bobby clung to each other, even Peter caught hold of Bobby's arm, in case she should be frightened, as he explained afterwards. And now, slowly and gradually, the taillights grew smaller and smaller and so did the noise, till with one last whizz the train got itself out of the tunnel, and silence settled again on its damp walls and dripping roof. Oh! said the children, altogether in a whisper. Peter was lighting the candle-end with a hand that trembled. Come on, he said, but he had to clear his throat before he could speak in his natural voice. Oh! said Phyllis! If the red jerseyed one was in the way of the train, we've got to go and see, said Peter. Couldn't we go and send someone from the station, said Phyllis? Would you rather wait here for us? asked Bobby severely, and of course that settled the question. So the three went on into the deeper darkness of the tunnel. Peter led, holding his candle-end high, to light the way. The grease ran down his fingers and some of it right up his sleeve. He found a long streak from wrist to elbow when he went to bed that night. He was not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where they had stood while the train went by, that Peter stood still, shouted, Hello! and then went on much quicker than before. When the others caught him up he stopped, and he stopped within a yard of what they had come into the tunnel to look for.  There by the curved, pebbly downline was the red jerseyed hound. His back was against the wall, his arms hung limply by his sides, and his eyes were shut. Was the red blood? Is he all killed? asked Phyllis, screwing her eyelids more tightly together. Killed? Nonsense, said Peter. There's nothing red about him except his jersey. He's only fainted. What on earth are we to do? Can we move him? asked Bobby. I don't know. He's a big chap. Suppose we bathe his forehead with water. Now I know we haven't any, but milk's just as wet. There's a whole bottle. Yes, said Peter, and they rub people's hands, I believe. They burn feathers, I know, said Phyllis. What's the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers? As it happens, said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph, I've got a shuttlecock in my pocket. So there! And now Peter rubbed the hands of the red jerseyed one. Bobby burned the feathers of the shuttlecock one by one under his nose. Phyllis splashed warmish milk on his forehead, and all three kept on saying as fast and as earnestly as they could.  End of Chapter 11 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage. Waco, Texas, October 2006. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbit Chapter 12 What Bobby Brought Home Oh, look up, speak to me, for my sick speak!  Wet his ears with milk, said Bobby. I know they do it to people that faint, with odour cologne. But I expect milk's just as good. So they wetted his ears, and some of the milk ran down his neck under the red jersey. It was very dark in the tunnel. The candle-end Peter had carried, and which now burned on a flat stone, gave hardly any light at all. Oh, do look up, said Phyllis, for my sake! I believe he's dead. For my sake, repeated Bobby. No, he isn't. For any sake, said Peter, come out of it! And he shook the sufferer by the arm. And then the boy in the red jersey sighed, and opened his eyes, and shut them again, and said in a very small voice, Chuck it. Oh, he's not dead, said Phyllis. I knew he wasn't. And then she began to cry. What's up? I'm all right, said the boy. Drink this, said Peter firmly, thrusting the nose of the milk bottle into the boy's mouth. The boy struggled, and some of the milk was upset before he could get his mouth free to say, What is it? It's milk, said Peter. Fear not! You are in the hands of friends. Phil, you stop bleeding this minute. Do drink it, said Bobby gently. It'll do you good." So he drank, and the three stood by without speaking to him. Let him be a minute, Peter whispered. He'll be all right as soon as the milk begins to run like fire through his veins. He was. I'm better now, he announced. I remember all about it. He tried to move, but the movement ended in a groan. Bother! I believe I've broken my leg, he said. Did you tumble down? asked Phyllis sniffing. Of course not. I'm not a kitty, said the boy indignantly. It was one of those beastly wires tripped me up, and when I tried to get up again I couldn't stand, so I sat down. Gee, Willikens, it does hurt, though. How did you get here?  So we're a rescue party, said Peter, with pride. You've got some pluck, I will say, remarked the boy. Oh, that's nothing, said Peter, with modesty. Do you think you could walk if we helped you? I could try, said the boy. He did try, but he could only stand on one foot. The other dragged in a very nasty way. Here, let me sit down. I feel like dying, said the boy. Let go of me. Let go, quick. He lay down and closed his eyes. The others looked at each other by the dim light of the little candle. What on earth, said Peter? Look here, said Bobby quickly.  Go to the nearest house. Yes, that's the only thing, said Peter. Come on. If you take his feet and Phil and I take his head, we could carry him to the manhole. They did it. It was, perhaps, as well for the sufferer that he had fainted again. Now, said Bobby, I'll stay with him.  I don't think Mother would like me leaving you, said Peter doubtfully. Let me stay and you and Phil go. No, no, said Bobby. You and Phil go, and lend me your knife. I'll try to get his boot off before he wakes up again. I hope it's all right what we're doing, said Peter. Of course it's right, said Bobby impatiently. What else would you do? Leave him here all alone, because it's dark? Nonsense. Hurry up, that's all. So they hurried up. Bobby watched their dark figures in the little light of the little candle, with an odd feeling of having come to the end of everything. She knew now, she thought, what nuns who were bricked up alive in convent walls felt like. Suddenly she gave herself a little shake.  She was always very angry when anyone else called her a little girl, even if the adjective that went first was not silly but nice or good or clever. And it was only when she was very angry with herself that she allowed Roberta to use that expression to Bobby. She fixed the little candle-end on a broken brick near the red jerseyed boy's feet. Then she opened Peter's knife. It was always hard to manage. A half-penny was generally needed to get it open at all. This time Bobby somehow got it open with her thumbnail. She broke the nail, and it hurt horribly. Then she cut the boy's boot-lace and got the boot off. She tried to pull off his stocking, but his leg was dreadfully swollen, and it did not seem to be the proper shape. So she cut the stocking down very slowly and carefully. It was a brown-knitted stocking, and she wondered who had knitted it, and whether it was the boy's mother, and whether she was feeling anxious about him, and how she would feel when he was brought home with his leg broken. When Bobby had got the stocking off and saw the poor leg, she felt as though the tunnel was growing darker, and the ground felt unsteady, and nothing seemed quite real. Silly little girl! said Roberta to Bobby, and felt better. The poor leg, she told herself, it ought to have a cushion. Ah! she remembered the day when she and Phyllis had torn up their red flannel petticoats to make danger signals to stop the train and prevent an accident. Her flannel petticoat to-day was white, but it would be quite as soft as a red one. She took it off. Oh! what useful things flannel petticoats are! she said. The man who invented them ought to have a statue directed to him. And she said it aloud, because it seemed that any voice, even her own, would be a comfort in that darkness. What ought to be directed? Who to? asked the boy, suddenly and very feebly. Oh! said Bobby. Now you're better. Hold your teeth and don't let it hurt too much. Now! she had folded the petticoat and lifting his leg, laded on the cushion of folded flannel. Don't faint again. Please don't! said Bobby, as he groaned. She hastily wetted her handkerchief with milk and spread it over the poor leg. Oh! that hurts! cried the boy, shrinking. Oh! no, it doesn't. It's nice, really. What's your name? said Bobby. Jim. Mine's Bobby.  Yes, my long name's Roberta. I say Bobby. Yes? Wasn't there some more of you just now? Yes, Peter and Phil. That's my brother and sister. They've gone to get someone to carry you out. What rum names? All boys. Yes, I wish I was a boy, don't you? I think you're all right, as you are. I didn't mean that. I meant, don't you wish you were a boy? But, of course, you are without wishing.  Why didn't you go with the others? Somebody had to stay with you, said Bobby.  Shake. He reached out a red jerseyed arm, and Bobby squeezed his hand.  Have you got a hanky? I don't expect I have. He felt in his pocket. Yes, I have. What for? She took it, and whited it with milk, and put it on his forehead. That's jolly, he said. What is it? Milk, said Bobby. We haven't any water.  I do it for mother sometimes, said Bobby. Not milk, of course, but scent or vinegar and water. I say I must put the candle out now, because there may