was impossible to say anything to trouble the poor old lady: she looked as if she were going to cry.
'It will be all right now,' said Clement. 'Mamma will be so delighted to see him safe and sound. But we had better hurry home. Come along, Peterkin.'
But nothing would make Peterkin forget his good manners. He tugged off his sailor cap again, which he had just put on, and held out his hand, for the second or third time, I daresay, as he and his old lady had evidently been hobnobbing over their leave-takings for some minutes before we made our appearance.
'Good-bye!' he said; 'and thank you very much. And I'll ask mamma to let me come whenever you fix the day for the parrot. And please tell me all he tells you about the little girl. And – thank you very much.'
They were the funniest pair. She so tiny and thin and white, with bright dark eyes, like some bird's, and Peterkin so short and sturdy and rosy, with his big dreamy ones looking up at her. She was just a little taller than he. And suddenly I saw his rosy face grow still rosier; crimson or scarlet, really. For Mrs. Wylie made a dash at him and kissed him, and unluckily Peterkin did not like being kissed, except by mamma and Elf. His politeness, however, stood him in good stead. He did not pull away, or show that he hated it, as lots of fellows would have done. He stood quite still, and then, with another tug at his cap, ran down the steps after Clem and me.
Clement waited a moment or two before he spoke. It was his way; but just now it was a good thing, as Mrs. Wylie did not shut the door quite at once, and everything was so quiet in that little side street, in the evening especially, that very likely our voices would have carried back to her. I, for my part, was longing to shake Peterkin, though I felt very inclined to burst out laughing, too. But I knew it was best to leave the 'rowing' to Clem.
'Peterkin,' he began at last, 'I don't know what to say to you.'
Peterkin had got hold of Clem's hand and was holding it tight, and he was already rather out of breath, as Clem was walking fast – very fast for him – and he has always been a long-legged chap for his age, thin and wiry, too; whereas, in those days – though, thank goodness, he is growing like a house on fire now– Peterkin was as broad as he was long. So to keep up with Clement's strides he had to trot, and that sort of pace soon makes a kid breathless, of course.
'I – I never thought mamma'd be flightened,' he managed to get out at last. He had been a long time of saying his 'r's' clearly, and now they still all got into 'l's' if he was bothered or startled. 'I never thought she'd be flightened.'
'Then you were a donkey,' I burst out, and Clement interrupted me.
'How could she not have been frightened?' he went on. 'She told you to run straight home, which wouldn't have taken you five minutes, and you have been at least an hour.'
'I thought it wouldn't be no farther to come this way,' replied Peterkin, 'and I only meant to look at the pallot one minute. And it would have been very lu —rude not to speak to the old lady, and go into her house for a minute when she asked me. Mamma always says we mustn't be rude,' said Peterkin, plucking up some spirit.
'Mamma always says we must be obedient' replied Clement, severely.
Then he relapsed into silence, and his quick footsteps and Peterkin's short trotty ones were the only sounds.
'I believe,' I couldn't help murmuring, half to myself, half to Peterkin – 'I believe you've got some rubbish in your head about the parrot being a fairy. If I were mamma I'd stop your – ' but at that I stopped myself. If Clement had heard me he would have been down upon me for disrespectfulness in saying to a baby like Pete what I thought mamma should or should not do; and I didn't care to be pulled up by Clement before the little ones.
Peterkin was as sharp as needles in some ways. He guessed the end of my unfinished sentence.
'No,' he half whispered, 'mamma'd never stop me reading faily stolies – you know she wouldn't, Gilly, and it's velly unkind of you to say so.'
'I didn't say so,' I replied.
'Be quiet, both of you,' said Clem, 'and hurry on,' for we had slackened a little.
But in spite of the breathlessness of the pace, I heard another gasp from Peterkin —
'It is velly like the blue-bird,' were the words I distinguished.
And 'I knew I was right,' I thought to myself triumphantly.
CHAPTER II
FOUND
The carriage was standing waiting at our own house when we got there. And there was some bustle going on, for the front door was not shut, and we could see into the hall, which of course was brightly lighted up.
Papa was there, speaking to some one; he had his hat on, as if he was just coming out again. And – yes – it was Drew he was speaking to, and James too, I think – but behind them was poor mamma, looking so dreadfully unhappy. It did make me want to shake Peterkin again.
They did not see us as quickly as we saw them, for it was dark outside and they were all talking: papa giving directions, I fancy.
So they did jump when Clem – hurrying for once – rushed up the steps, dragging Peterkin after him.
'We've found him – we've found him!' he shouted. 'In with you, Pete: show yourself, quick.'
For mamma had got quite white, and looked as if she were going to faint or tumble down in some kind of a fit; but luckily before she had time for anything, there was that fat boy hugging and squeezing her so tight that she'd have been clever to move at all, though if she had tumbled down he would have made a good buffer.
'Oh, mamma, mamma – oh, mummy,' he said, and by this time he was howling, of course, 'I never meant to flighten you. I never did. I thought I'd been only five minutes, and I thought it was nearly as quick home that way.'
And of course mamma didn't scold him! She hugged him as if he'd been lost for a year, and as if he was the prodigal son and the good brother mixed up together.
But papa looked rather stern, and I was not altogether sorry to see it.
'Where have you been, Peterkin?' he said. And then he glanced up at us two – Clem and me – as Peterkin seemed too busy crying to speak. 'Where has he been?' papa repeated. 'It was very clever of you to find him, I must say.'
And mamma's curiosity began to awaken, now that she had got old Pete safe in her arms again. She looked up with the same question in her face.
'Where – ' she began.
And I couldn't help answering.
'It was all Clem's idea,' I said, for it really was only fair for Clem to get some praise. 'He thought of the parrot.'
'The parrot', mamma repeated, growing more puzzled instead of less.
'Yes,' said Clement. 'The parrot next door to Mrs. Wylie's. Perhaps you don't remember, mamma. It was the day Peterkin and I were out with you – Giles wasn't there – and you went in to Mrs. Wylie's and we waited outside, and the parrot was in a cage on the balcony, and we heard it talk.'
'Yes,' said Peterkin, 'he talked,' as if that was an explanation of everything.
Mamma's face cleared.
'I
