Part 22 (1/2)
But after consulting apart they agreed not to show me. I was not shown everything.
David was now firmly convinced that he had once been wrecked on an island, while Oliver pa.s.sed his days in dubiety. They used to argue it out together and among their friends. As I unfolded the story Oliver listened with an open knife in his hand, and David who was not allowed to have a knife wore a pirate-string round his waist. Irene in her usual interfering way objected to this bauble and dropped disparaging remarks about wrecked islands which were little to her credit. I was for defying her, but David, who had the knack of women, knew a better way; he craftily proposed that we ”should let Irene in,” in short, should wreck her, and though I objected, she proved a great success and recognised the yucca filamentosa by its long narrow leaves the very day she joined us. Thereafter we had no more scoffing from Irene, who listened to the story as hotly as anybody.
This encouraged us in time to let in David's father and mother, though they never knew it unless he told them, as I have no doubt he did. They were admitted primarily to gratify David, who was very soft-hearted and knew that while he was on the island they must be missing him very much at home. So we let them in, and there was no part of the story he liked better than that which told of the joyous meeting. We were in need of another woman at any rate, someone more romantic looking than Irene, and Mary, I can a.s.sure her now, had a busy time of it. She was constantly being carried off by cannibals, and David became quite an adept at plucking her from the very pot itself and springing from cliff to cliff with his lovely burden in his arms. There was seldom a Sat.u.r.day in which David did not kill his man.
I shall now provide the proof that David believed it all to be as true as true. It was told me by Oliver, who had it from our hero himself. I had described to them how the savages had tattooed David's father, and Oliver informed me that one night shortly afterward David was discovered softly lifting the blankets off his father's legs to have a look at the birds and reptiles etched thereon.
Thus many months pa.s.sed with no word of Pilkington, and you may be asking where he was all this time. Ah, my friends, he was very busy fis.h.i.+ng, though I was as yet unaware of his existence. Most suddenly I heard the whirr of his hated reel, as he struck a fish. I remember that grim day with painful vividness, it was a wet day, indeed I think it has rained for me more or less ever since. As soon as they joined me I saw from the manner of the two boys that they had something to communicate.
Oliver nudged David and retired a few paces, whereupon David said to me solemnly,
”Oliver is going to Pilkington's.”
I immediately perceived that it was some school, but so little did I understand the import of David's remark that I called out jocularly, ”I hope he won't swish you, Oliver.”
Evidently I had pained both of them, for they exchanged glances and retired for consultation behind a tree, whence David returned to say with emphasis,
”He has two jackets and two s.h.i.+rts and two knickerbockers, all real ones.”
”Well done, Oliver!” said I, but it was the wrong thing again, and once more they disappeared behind the tree. Evidently they decided that the time for plain speaking was come, for now David announced bluntly:
”He wants you not to call him Oliver any longer.”
”What shall I call him?”
”Bailey.”
”But why?”
”He's going to Pilkington's. And he can't play with us any more after next Sat.u.r.day.”
”Why not?”
”He's going to Pilkington's.”
So now I knew the law about the thing, and we moved on together, Oliver stretching himself consciously, and methought that even David walked with a sedater air.
”David,” said I, with a sinking, ”are you going to Pilkington's?”
”When I am eight,” he replied.
”And sha'n't I call you David then, and won't you play with me in the Gardens any more?”
He looked at Bailey, and Bailey signalled him to be firm.
”Oh, no,” said David cheerily.
Thus sharply did I learn how much longer I was to have of him. Strange that a little boy can give so much pain. I dropped his hand and walked on in silence, and presently I did my most churlish to hurt him by ending the story abruptly in a very cruel way. ”Ten years have elapsed,”
said I, ”since I last spoke, and our two heroes, now gay young men, are revisiting the wrecked island of their childhood. 'Did we wreck ourselves,' said one, 'or was there someone to help us?' And the other who was the younger, replied, 'I think there was someone to help us, a man with a dog. I think he used to tell me stories in the Kensington Gardens, but I forget all about him; I don't remember even his name.'”