LITMIR.BIZ

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cosier than eider-down quilts to sleep under. The shadow of the church-tower fell across the churchyard, and across the Vicarage, and across the field beyond; and presently there were no more shadows, and the sun had set, and the wings were gone. And still the children slept. But not for long. Twilight is very beautiful, but it is chilly; and you know, however sleepy you are, you wake up soon enough if your brother or sister happens to be up first and pulls your blankets off you. The four wingless children shivered and woke. And there they were,—on the top of a church-tower in the dusky twilight, with blue stars coming out by ones and twos and tens and twenties over their heads,—miles away from home, with three shillings and three-half-pence in their pockets, and a doubtful act about the necessities of life to be accounted for if anyone found them with the soda-water syphon.

       The children were fast asleep

      They looked at each other. Cyril spoke first, picking up the syphon—

      "We'd better get along down and get rid of this beastly thing. It's dark enough to leave it on the clergyman's doorstep, I should think. Come on."

      There was a little turret at the corner of the tower, and the little turret had a door in it. They had noticed this when they were eating, but had not explored it, as you would have done in their place. Because, of course, when you have wings and can explore the whole sky, doors seem hardly worth exploring.

      Now they turned towards it.

      "Of course," said Cyril "this is the way down."

      It was. But the door was locked on the inside!

      And the world was growing darker and darker. And they were miles from home. And there was the soda-water syphon.

      I shall not tell you whether anyone cried, nor, if so, how many cried, nor who cried. You will be better employed in making up your minds what you would have done if you had been in their place.

Chapter V.

       No Wings

       Table of Contents

      Whether anyone cried or not, there was certainly an interval during which none of the party was quite itself. When they grew calmer, Anthea put her handkerchief in her pocket and her arm round Jane, and said—

      "It can't be for more than one night. We can signal with our handkerchiefs in the morning. They'll be dry then. And someone will come up and let us out"—

      "And find the syphon," said Cyril gloomily; "and we shall be sent to prison for stealing"—

      "You said it wasn't stealing. You said you were sure it wasn't."

      "I'm not sure now," said Cyril shortly.

      "Let's throw the thing away among the trees," said Robert, "then no one can do anything to us."

      "Oh yes,"—Cyril's laugh was not a hearted one,—"and hit some chap on the head, and be murderers as well as—as the other thing."

      "But we can't stay up here all night," said Jane; "and I want my tea."

      "You can't want your tea," said Robert; "you've only just had your dinner."

      "But I do want it," she said; "especially when you begin talking about stopping up here all night. Oh, Panther—I want to go home! I want to go home!"

      "Hush, hush," Anthea said. "Don't, dear. It'll be all right, somehow. Don't, don't"—

      "Let her cry," said Robert desperately; "if she howls loud enough, someone may hear and come and let us out."

      "And see the soda-water thing," said Anthea swiftly. "Robert, don't be a brute. Oh, Jane, do try to be a man! It's just the same for all of us."

      Jane did try to "be a man"—and reduced her howls to sniffs.

      There was a pause. Then Cyril said slowly, "Look here. We must risk that syphon. I'll button it up inside my jacket—perhaps no one will notice it. You others keep well in front of me. There are lights in the clergyman's house. They've not gone to bed yet. We must just yell as loud as ever we can. Now all scream when I say three. Robert, you do the yell like a railway engine, and I'll do the coo-ee like father's. The girls can do as they please. One, two, three!"

      A four-fold yell rent the silent peace of the evening, and a maid at one of the Vicarage windows paused with her hand on the blindcord.

      "One, two, three!" Another yell, piercing and complex, startled the owls and starlings to a flutter of feathers in the belfry below. The maid flew from the Vicarage window and ran down the Vicarage stairs and into the Vicarage kitchen, and fainted as soon as she had explained to the man-servant and the cook and the cook's cousin that she had seen a ghost. It was quite untrue, of course, but I suppose the girl's nerves were a little upset by the yelling.

      "One, two, three!" The Vicar was on his doorstep by this time, and there was no mistaking the yell that greeted him.

      "Goodness me," he said to his wife, "my dear, someone's being murdered in the church! Give me my hat and a thick stick, and tell Andrew to come after me. I expect it's the lunatic who stole the tongue."

      The children had seen the flash of light when the Vicar opened his front door. They had seen his dark form on his doorstep, and they had paused for breath, and also to see what he would do.

      When he turned back for his hat, Cyril said hastily—

      "He thinks he only fancied he heard something. You don't half yell! Now! One, two, three!"

      It was certainly a whole yell this time, and the Vicar's wife flung her arms round her husband and screamed a feeble echo of it.

      "You shan't go!" she said, "not alone. Jessie!"—the maid unfainted and came out of the kitchen,—"send Andrew at once. There's a dangerous lunatic in the church, and he must go immediately and catch him."

      "I expect he will catch it too," said Jessie to herself as she went through the kitchen door. "Here, Andrew," she said, "there's someone screaming like mad in the church, and the missus says you're to go along and catch it."

      "Not alone, I don't," said Andrew in low firm tones. To his master he merely said, "Yis sir."

      "You heard those screams?"

      "I did think I noticed a sort of something," said Andrew.

      "Well, come on, then," said the Vicar. "My dear, I must go!" He pushed her gently into the sitting-room, banged the door, and rushed out, dragging Andrew by the arm.

      A volley of yells greeted them. Then as it died into silence Andrew shouted, "Hullo, you there! Did you call?"

      "Yes," shouted four far-away voices.

      "They seem to be in the air," said the Vicar.

      "Very remarkable."

      "Where are you?" shouted Andrew; and Cyril replied in his deepest voice, very slow and loud—

      "CHURCH! TOWER! TOP!"

      "Come down, then!" said Andrew; and the same voice replied—

       "Can't! Door locked!"

      "My goodness!" said the Vicar. "Andrew, fetch the stable lantern. Perhaps it would be as well to fetch another man from the village."

      "With the rest of the gang about, very likely. No, sir; if this 'ere ain't a trap—well, may I never! There's cook's cousin at the back door now. He's a keeper, sir, and used to dealing with vicious characters. And he's got his gun, sir."

      "Hullo there!" shouted Cyril from the church-tower; "come up and let us out."

      "We're a-coming," said Andrew. "I'm a-going to get a policeman and a gun."

      "Andrew,

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