I was not a giant any more.
“Come out, come out,” cried out the voice of power,
“You’ve been in for a quarter of an hour.
The water’s cold—come, Master Pip—your head
’S all wet, and it is time you were in bed.”
I rose all dripping from the magic sea
And left the ships that had been slaves to me—
The soap-dish, with its perforated deck,
The nail-brush, that had rushed to loss and wreck,
The flannel sail, the tooth-brush that was mast,
The sleek soap-mouse—I left them all at last.
I went out of that magic sea and cried
Because the time came when I must be dried
And leave the splendour of a giant’s joy
And go to bed—a little well-washed boy.
When he had quite remembered the poetry he had another shower-bath, and then when he had enjoyed the hot rough towels out of the hot cupboard he went back to his room to dress. He now felt how deeply he wanted his breakfast, so he dressed himself with all possible speed, even forgetting to fasten his bootlaces properly. He was in such a hurry that he dropped his collar-stud, and it was as he stooped to pick it up that he remembered his dream. Do you know that was really the first time he had thought of it. The dream—that indeed would be something to think about.
Breakfast was the really important thing. He went down very hungry indeed. “I shall ask for my breakfast directly I get down,” he said. “I shall ask the first person I meet.” And he met no one.
There was no one on the stairs, or in the hall, or in the dining-room, or in the drawing-room. The library and billiard-room were empty of living people, and the door of the nursery was locked. So then Philip made his way into the regions beyond the baize door, where the servants’ quarters were. And there was no one in the kitchen, or in the servants’ hall, or in the butler’s pantry, or in the scullery, or the washhouse, or the larder. In all that big house, and it was much bigger than it looked from the front because of the long wings that ran out on each side of its back—in all that big house there was no one but Philip. He felt certain of this before he ran upstairs and looked in all the bedrooms and in the little picture gallery and the music-room, and then in the servants’ bedrooms and the very attics. There were interesting things in those attics, but Philip only remembered that afterwards. Now he tore down the stairs three at a time. All the room doors were open as he had left them, and somehow those open doors frightened him more than anything else. He ran along the corridors, down more stairs, past more open doors and out through the back kitchen, along the moss-grown walk by the brick wall and so round by the three yew trees and the mounting block to the stable-yard. And there was no one there. Neither coachman nor groom nor stable-boys. And there was no one in the stables, or the coach-house, or the harness-room, or the loft.
Philip felt that he could not go back into the house. Something terrible must have happened. Was it possible that any one could want the Grange servants enough to kidnap them? Philip thought of the nurse and felt that, at least as far as she was concerned, it was not possible. Or perhaps it was magic! A sort of Sleeping-Beauty happening! Only every one had vanished instead of just being put to sleep for a hundred years.
He was alone in the middle of the stable-yard when the thought came to him.
“Perhaps they’re only made invisible. Perhaps they’re all here and watching me and making fun of me.”
He stood still to think this. It was not a pleasant thought.
Suddenly he straightened his little back, and threw back his head.
“They shan’t see I’m frightened anyway,” he told himself. And then he remembered the larder.
“I haven’t had any breakfast,” he explained aloud, so as to be plainly heard by any invisible people who might be about. “I ought to have my breakfast. If nobody gives it to me I shall take my breakfast.”
He waited for an answer. But none came. It was very quiet in the stable-yard. Only the rattle of a halter ring against a manger, the sound of a hoof on stable stones, the cooing of pigeons and the rustle of straw in the loose-box broke the silence.
“Very well,” said Philip. “I don’t know what you think I ought to have for breakfast, so I shall take what I think.”
He drew a long breath, trying to draw courage in with it, threw back his shoulders more soldierly than ever, and marched in through the back door and straight to the larder. Then he took what he thought he ought to have for breakfast. This is what he thought:
1 cherry pie,
2 custards in cups,
1 cold sausage,
2 pieces of cold toast,
1 piece of cheese,
2 lemon cheese-cakes,
1 small jam tart (there was only one left),
Butter, 1 pat.
“What jolly things the servants have to eat,” he said. “I never knew. I thought that nothing but mutton and rice grew here.”
He put all the food on a silver tray and carried it out on to the terrace, which lies between the two wings at the back of the house. Then he went back for milk, but there was none to be seen so he got a white jug full of water. The spoons he couldn’t find, but he found a carving-fork and a fish-slice. Did you ever try to eat cherry pie with a fish-slice?
“Whatever’s happened,” said Philip to himself, through the cherry pie, “and whatever happens it’s as well to have had your breakfast.” And he bit a generous inch off the cold sausage which he had speared with the carving-fork.
And now, sitting out in the good sunshine, and growing less and less hungry as he plied fish-slice and carving-fork, his mind went back to his dream, which began to seem more and more real. Suppose it really had happened? It might have; magic things did happen, it seemed. Look how all the people had vanished out of the house—out of the world too, perhaps.
“Suppose every one’s vanished,” said Philip. “Suppose I’m the only person left in the world who hasn’t vanished. Then everything in the world would belong to me. Then I could have everything that’s in all the toy shops.” And his mind for a moment dwelt fondly on this beautiful idea.
Then he went on. “But suppose I vanished too? Perhaps if I were to vanish I could see the other people who have. I wonder how it’s done.”
He held his breath and tried hard to vanish. Have you ever tried this? It is not at all easy to do. Philip could not do it at all. He held his breath and he tried and he tried, but he only felt fatter and fatter and more and more as though in one more moment he should burst. So he let his breath go.
“No,” he said, looking at his hands; “I’m not any more invisible than I was before. Not so much I think,” he added thoughtfully, looking at what was left of the
