A Knight on Wheels - Ian Hay

Скачать книгу

and sent away—in a lovely frame. But it came back. One afternoon I went into the studio, and there was Father. He was sitting very quiet and still on a little stool in front of the picture. He never moved, or looked round, or said 'Go away!' when I came in. I was so surprised. For a long time he had been having a lot of bad tempers, so when I saw him sitting so still and quiet I was quite frightened.

       "I went and stood beside him, and looked at the picture, too. Then he saw me, and said: 'It has come back, you see, Peggy!' He said it two or three times, I think. 'There are eight years of a man's life in that picture—eight years of a man's body and blood and bones! And it has been sent back—sent back, by a parcel of promoted housepainters who daren't let such a piece of work hang on their walls because they know it would kill every filthy daub of their own within reach!'

      "Then he asked me what we should do with it. I said—of course I was quite small then—that I thought if he took it and showed it to the wolf it would frighten him away altogether. That made him laugh. He laughed in a funny way, too, and went on so long that I thought he would never leave off. At last he stopped, and made a queer noise in his throat, and said: 'No, we won't do that. I will show you a more excellent way.' He said that two or three times over, like he did before. Then he got up, and went and pulled a big sword and dagger out of a rack of armour and stuff in the corner, and said: 'Now for some real fun, Peggy!' and we cut up the picture into little bits. Father slashed and slashed at it with the sword, and I poked holes in it with the dagger."

      "What fun!" said Philip, the chord of destruction thrilling within him.

      "Yes, wasn't it? I remember I cut the king with the crown on right out of the picture, with the giant's finger and thumb still round him. I kept it for a long time, but I lost it at last. When we had slashed the picture all to bits, Dad tore it out of its frame and rolled it up into a bundle and threw it into a corner. Then he went out for a long walk, without his hat. When Mother came home she cried. It was the only time I ever saw her cry. I didn't know till then that grown-up people did. I cried, too. I was little then."

      "Has your father painted any more pictures?" asked Philip, diverting the conversation.

      "No—never. He only paints wolf-scarers now. I tell him what to paint."

      Philip's eyebrows rose, despite themselves.

      "Yes, I do!" maintained Miss Falconer stoutly. "The other day he said to me: 'Here, Peggy, you understand the taste of the Hoypolloy'—that's another French word for people—'so give me an idea for a pot-boiler.' (He calls wolf-scarers 'pot-boilers' sometimes: I don't know why.) And I said: 'Well, I think it would be nice to have a picture of a little girl in a lovely frock with a new doll, showing it round the doll's house and introducing it to all the other dolls.' He laughed, and said: 'That's capital. I bet a sovereign they put that one on the line.' When I asked what line, he said, 'the clothes line.' He is a funny man," concluded Peggy once more.

      They sat on for some time, discussing adult peculiarities. Finally Philip announced that he must go, for Uncle Joseph would return at four o'clock and expect him to tea. As they parted, Philip enquired awkwardly:—

      "I say, Pegs—will you tell me? I couldn't help wondering about something just now."

      "What was it?" enquired Peggy graciously.

       Philip asked his question too bluntly.

      Miss Peggy's small frame stiffened indignantly.

      "I wasn't ever doing any such thing," she announced in outraged tones.

      Philip, whose knowledge of the sex was improving, had the sense to withdraw the imputation and apologise at once. Then he waited.

      "Perhaps I was, just a little bit," admitted Peggy presently.

      "What was the matter?" asked Philip gently.

      "It was Father. He boxed my ears after lunch, for making a noise. I was only singing, but he is in one of his bad tempers just now. He will be all right in a day or two."

      Philip, much to his surprise, found himself trembling with indignation.

      "Does he do it often?" he asked between his clenched teeth.

      "No, not often. Besides, he can't help it. Men are just like children, Mother says. You have to make allowances for them. I always try to remember that. The daily work of half the women in the world is to make allowances for some man or other, Mother says. Good-night, Phil!"

      "Good-night, Pegs!"

      The little girl ran off through the gathering gloom, turning to wave her hand before she disappeared.

      Philip walked slowly home, pondering in his heart yet another (and quite unsuspected) aspect of the relations between men and women.

      There were two sides to every question, it appeared.

      His education was proceeding apace.

       Table of Contents

      MISTAKEN IDENTITY

      Uncle Joseph had an adventure in town which amused him immensely.

      The International Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts, it may be remembered, radiated its appeals from within the precincts of Pontifex Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue. It was quite a good address, but, like many of the good things of this world, looked best on paper.

      The Kind Young Hearts rented a small office-flat at the top of a block of rather out-of-date buildings in the neighbourhood of Dean Street. The flat was uninhabited, and contained not a particle of furniture of any description except a capacious letter-box; but these deficiencies, which might have roused unworthy suspicions in the breasts of some of the more worldly of Uncle Joseph's supporters, were covered by the fact that the door was double-locked, and no subscriber had ever entered the premises. On the door itself the name of the Society was painted in neat black letters. Underneath was pinned a typewritten notice—of an apparently temporary character, but in reality as enduring as Uncle Joseph's tenancy—to the effect that the Secretary had been called away to the country on an urgent case, but hoped to return shortly.

       It was Uncle Joseph's custom to make a periodical inspection of this establishment, though he left to James Nimmo the task of making the weekly collection of letters. On this occasion all seemed in order. No restive subscriber waited on the landing; no emissary of the law, masquerading as a stargazer, lounged in the street outside. No one had tampered with the Chubb lock on the door. No one had scribbled opprobrious comments across the Secretary's notice. All was peace.

      Uncle Joseph entered the flat. The box contained half a dozen letters, which he opened and read in the dusty sunlight of the office.

      Meanwhile Mr. Charles Turner, junior member of the editorial staff of the "Searchlight," was mounting the staircase with all the headlong eagerness of a young and inexperienced fox-terrier in pursuit of his first rat. He took himself seriously, did Turner, which was a pity; for a touch of humour is indispensable to a man whose profession it is to expose humbugs. Dill, his chief, possessed this quality in perfection, with a strong dash of cynicism thrown in. He knew that righteous wrath was wasted upon the tribe of quacks and sharpers. He never invoked the assistance of the law against such gentry. He preferred the infinitely more amusing plan of exposing their methods in cold print and leaving it to them to invoke the assistance of the law against him. Consequently his name was a hissing and an abomination among all the fraternity, while the British Public, though strongly suspicious of Dill's sense of humour, took in, read, and profited by the "Searchlight" in general and its Rogues' Catalogue in particular.

      The "Searchlight" was unique. There were other organs which made a speciality of exposing quackery, but these could seldom resist the temptation of endeavouring—usually successfully—to blackmail the quack as an alternative to exposing him. But the "Searchlight" was above suspicion. It had never attempted to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, for the

Скачать книгу