PETER PAN by James M. Barrie

                                       1904

                                   PETER PAN

                               by James M. Barrie

                            CHAPTER I.

                        PETER BREAKS THROUGH.

  All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will

grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two

years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another

flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked

rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and

cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all

that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew

that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the

beginning of the end.

  Of course they lived at 14, and until Wendy came her mother was

the chief one. She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such

a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes,

one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many

you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had

one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was,

perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.

  The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had

been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they

loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except

Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He

got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew

about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss. Wendy

thought Napoleon could have got it, but I can picture him trying,

and then going off in a passion, slamming the door.

  Mr. Darling used to boast to Wendy that her mother not only loved

him but respected him. He was one of those deep ones who know about

stocks and shares. Of course no one really knows, but he quite

seemed to know, and he often said stocks were up and shares were

down in a way that would have made any woman respect him.

  Mrs. Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books

perfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a

Brussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers

dropped out, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without

faces. She drew them when she should have been totting up. They were

Mrs. Darling's guesses.

  Wendy came first, then John, then Michael.

  For a week or two after Wendy came it was doubtful whether they

would be able to keep her, as she was another mouth to feed. Mr.

Darling was frightfully proud of her, but he was very honourable,

and he sat on the edge of Mrs. Darling's bed, holding her hand and

calculating expenses, while she looked at him imploringly. She

wanted to risk it, come what might, but that was not his way; his

way was with a pencil and a piece of paper, and if she confused him

with suggestions he had to begin at the beginning again.

  "Now don't interrupt," he would beg of her.

  "I have one pound seventeen here, and two and six at the office; I

can cut off my coffee at the office, say ten shillings, making two

nine and six, with your eighteen and three makes three nine seven,

with five naught naught in my cheque-book makes eight nine seven,- who

is that moving?- eight nine seven, dot and carry seven- don't speak,

my own- and the pound you lent to that man who came to the door-

quiet, child- dot and carry child- there, you've done it!- did I say

nine nine seven? yes, I said nine nine seven; the question is, can

we try it for a year on nine nine seven?"

  "Of course we can, George," she cried. But she was prejudiced in

Wendy's favour, and he was really the grander character of the two.

  "Remember mumps," he warned her almost threateningly, and off he

went again. "Mumps one pound, that is what I have put down, but I

daresay it will be more like thirty shillings- don't speak- measles

one five, German measles half a guinea, makes two fifteen six- don't

waggle your finger- whooping-cough, say fifteen shillings"- and so

on it went, and it added up differently each time, but at last Wendy

just got through, with mumps reduced to twelve six, and the two

kinds of measles treated as one.

  There was the same excitement over John, and Michael had even a

narrower squeak; but both were kept, and soon, you might have seen the

three of them going in a row to Miss Fulsom's Kindergarten school,

accompanied by their nurse.

  Mrs. Darling loved to have everything just so, and Mr. Darling had a

passion for being exactly like his neighbours; so, of course, they had

a nurse. As they were poor, owing to the amount of milk the children

drank, this nurse was a prim Newfoundland dog, called Nana, who had

belonged to no one in particular until the Darlings engaged her. She

had always thought children important, however, and the Darlings had

become acquainted with her in Kensington Gardens, where she spent most

of her spare time peeping into perambulators, and was much hated by

careless nursemaids, whom she followed to their homes and complained

of to their mistresses. She proved to be quite a treasure of a

nurse. How thorough she was at bath-time, and up at any moment of

the night if one of her charges made the slightest cry. Of course

her kennel was in the nursery. She had a genius for knowing when a

cough is a thing to have no patience with and when it needs stocking

round your throat. She believed to her last day in old-fashioned

remedies like rhubarb leaf, and made sounds of contempt over all

this new-fangled talk about germs, and so on. It was a lesson in

propriety to see her escorting the children to school, walking

sedately by their side when they were well behaved, and butting them

back into line if they strayed. On John's footer days she never once

forgot his sweater, and she usually carried an umbrella in her mouth

in case of rain. There is a room in the basement of Miss Fulsom's

school where the nurses wait. They sat on forms, while Nana lay on the

floor, but that was the only difference. They affected to ignore her

as of an inferior social status to themselves, and she despised

their light talk. She resented visits to the nursery from Mrs.

Darling's friends, but if they did come she first whipped off

Michael's pinafore and put him into the one with blue braiding, and

smoothed out Wendy and made a dash at John's hair.

  No nursery could possibly have been conducted more correctly, and

Mr. Darling knew it, yet he sometimes wondered uneasily whether the

neighbours talked.

  He had his position in the city to consider.

  Nana also troubled him in another way. He had sometimes a feeling

that she did not admire him. "I know she admires you tremendously,

George," Mrs. Darling would assure him, and then she would sign to the

children to be specially nice to father. Lovely dances followed, in

which the only other servant, Liza, was sometimes allowed to join.

Such a midget she looked in her long skirt and maid's cap, though

she had sworn, when engaged, that she would never see ten again. The

gaiety of those romps! And gayest of all was Mrs. Darling, who would

pirouette so wildly that all you could see of her was the kiss, and

then if you had dashed at her you might have got it. There never was a

simpler happier family until the coming of Peter Pan.

  Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her

children's minds. It is the nightly custom of every good mother

after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things

straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many

articles that have wandered during the day. If you could keep awake

(but of course you can't) you would see your own mother doing this,

and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite

like tidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect,

lingering humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on

earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not

so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were as nice as a

kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight. When you wake in

the morning, the naughtinesses and evil passions with which you went

to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your

mind, and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your

prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on.

  I don't know whether you have ever seen a map of a person's mind.

Doctors sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and your own map

can become intensely interesting, but catch them trying to draw a

map of a child's mind, which is not only confused, but keeps going

round all the time. There are zigzag lines on it, just like your

temperature on a card, and these are probably roads in the island, for

the Neverland is always more or less an island, with astonishing

splashes of colour here and there, and coral reefs and

rakish-looking craft in the offing, and savages and lonely lairs,

and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves through which a river

runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to

decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose. It would be

an easy map if that were all, but there is also first day at school,

religion, fathers, the round pond, needle-work, murders, hangings,

verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding day, getting into

braces, say ninety-nine, threepence for pulling out your tooth

yourself, and so on, and either are part of the island or they are

another map showing through, it is all rather confusing, especially as

nothing will stand still.

  Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal. John's for instance,

had a lagoon with flamingoes flying over it at which John was

shooting, while Michael, who was very small, had a flamingo with

lagoons flying over it. John lived in a boat turned upside down on the

sands, Michael in a wigwam, Wendy in a house of leaves deftly sewn

together. John had no friends, Michael had friends at night, Wendy had

a pet wolf forsaken by its parents. But on the whole the Neverlands

have a family resemblance, and if they stood still in a row you

could say of them that they have each other's nose, and so forth. On

these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their

coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the

surf, though we shall land no more.

  Of all delectable islands the Neverland is the suggest and most

compact, not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances

between one adventure and another, but nicely crammed. When you play

at it by day with the chairs and tablecloth, it is not in the least

alarming, but in the two minutes before you go to sleep it becomes

very nearly real. That is why there are night-lights.

  Occasionally in her travels through her children's minds Mrs.

Darling found things she could not understand, and of these quite

the most perplexing was the word Peter. She knew of no Peter, and

yet he was here and there in John and Michael's minds, while Wendy's

began to be scrawled all over with him. The name stood out in bolder

letters than any of the other words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed she

felt that it had an oddly cocky appearance.

  "Yes, he is rather cocky," Wendy admitted with regret. Her mother

had been questioning her.

  "But who is he, my pet?"

  "He is Peter Pan, you know, mother."

  At first Mrs. Darling did not know, but after thinking back into her

childhood she just remembered a Peter Pan who was said to live with

the fairies. There were odd stories about him, as that when children

died he went part of the way with them, so that they should not be

frightened. She had believed in him at the time, but now that she

was married and full of sense she quite doubted whether there was

any such person.

  "Besides," she said to Wendy, "he would be grown up by this time."

  "Oh no, he isn't grown up," Wendy assured her confidently, "and he

is just my size." She meant that he was her size in both mind and

body; she didn't know how she knew it, she just knew it.

  Mrs. Darling consulted Mr. Darling, but he smiled pooh-pooh. "Mark

my words," he said, "it is some nonsense Nana has been putting into

their heads; just the sort of idea a dog would have. Leave it alone,

and it will blow over."

  But it would not blow over, and soon the troublesome boy gave Mrs.

Darling quite a shock.

  Children have the strangest adventures without being troubled by

them. For instance, they may remember to mention, a week after the

event happened, that when they were in the wood they met their dead

father and had a game with him. It was in this casual way that Wendy

one morning made a disquieting revelation. Some leaves of a tree had

been found on the nursery floor, which certainly were not there when

the children went to bed, and Mrs. Darling was puzzling over them when

Wendy said with a tolerant smile:

  "I do believe it is that Peter again!"

  "Whatever do you mean, Wendy?"

  "It's so naughty of him not to wipe," Wendy said, sighing. She was a

tidy child.

  She explained in quite a matter-of-fact way that she thought Peter

sometimes came to the nursery in the night and sat on the foot of

her bed and played on his pipes to her. Unfortunately she never

woke, so she didn't know how she knew, she just knew.

  "What nonsense you talk, precious! No one can get into the house

without knocking."

  "I think he comes in by the window," she said.

  "My love, it is three floors up."

  "Weren't the leaves at the foot of the window, mother?"

  It was quite true; the leaves had been found very near the window.

  Mrs. Darling did not know what to think, for it all seemed so

natural to Wendy that you could not dismiss it by saying she had

been dreaming.

  "My child," the mother cried, "why did you not tell me of this

before?"

  "I forgot," said Wendy lightly. She was in a hurry to get her

breakfast.

  Oh, surely she must have been dreaming.

  But, on the other hand, there were the leaves. Mrs. Darling examined

them carefully; they were skeleton leaves, but she was sure they did

not come from any tree that grew in England. She crawled about the

floor, peering at it with a candle for marks of a strange foot. She

rattled the poker up the chimney and tapped the walls. She let down

a tape from the window to the pavement, and it was a sheer drop of

thirty feet, without so much as a spout to climb up by.

  Certainly Wendy had been dreaming.

  But Wendy had not been dreaming, as the very next night showed,

the night on which the extraordinary adventures of these children

may be said to have begun.

  On the night we speak of all the children were once more in bed.

It happened to be Nana's evening off, and Mrs. Darling had bathed them

and sung to them till one by one they had let go her hand and slid

away into the land of sleep.

  All were looking so safe and cosy that she smiled at her fears now

and sat down tranquilly by the fire to sew.

  It was something for Michael, who on his birthday was getting into

shirts. The fire was warm, however, and the nursery dimly lit by three

night-lights, and presently the sewing lay on Mrs. Darling's lap. Then

her head nodded, oh, so gracefully. She was asleep. Look at the four

of them, Wendy and Michael over there, John here, and Mrs. Darling

by the fire. There should have been a fourth night-light.

  While she slept she had a dream. She dreamt that the Neverland had

come too near and that a strange boy had broken through from it. He

did not alarm her, for she thought she had seen him before in the

faces of many women who have no children. Perhaps he is to be found in

the faces of some mothers also. But in her dream he had rent the

film that obscures the Neverland, and she saw Wendy and John and

Michael peeping through the gap.

  The dream by itself would have been a trifle, but while she was

dreaming the window of the nursery blew open, and a boy did drop on

the floor. He was accompanied by a strange light, no bigger than

your fist, which darted about the room like a living thing, and I

think it must have been this light that wakened Mrs. Darling.

  She started up with a cry, and saw the boy, and somehow she knew

at once that he was Peter Pan. If you or I or Wendy had been there

we should have seen that he was very like Mrs. Darling's kiss. He

was a lovely boy, clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out

of trees, but the most entrancing thing about him was that he had

all his first teeth. When he saw she was a grown-up, he gnashed the

little pearls at her.

                             CHAPTER II.

                             THE SHADOW.

  Mrs. Darling screamed, and, as if in answer to a bell, the door

opened, and Nana entered, returned from her evening out. She growled

and sprang at the boy, who leapt lightly through the window. Again

Mrs. Darling screamed, this time in distress for him, for she

thought he was killed, and she ran down into the street to look for

his little body, but it was not there; and she looked up, and in the

black night she could see nothing but what she thought was a

shooting star.

  She returned to the nursery, and found Nana with something in her

mouth, which proved to be the boy's shadow. As he leapt at the

window Nana had closed it quickly, too late to catch him, but his

shadow had not had time to get out; slam went the window and snapped

it off.

  You may be sure Mrs. Darling examined the shadow carefully, but it

was quite the ordinary kind.

  Nana had no doubt of what was the best thing to do with this shadow.

She hung it out at the window, meaning "He is sure to come back for

it; let us put it where he can get it easily without disturbing the

children."

  But unfortunately Mrs. Darling could not leave it hanging out at the

window, it looked so like the washing and lowered the whole tone of

the house. She thought of showing it to Mr. Darling, but he was

totting up winter great-coats for John and Michael, with a wet towel

round his head to keep his brain clear, and it seemed a shame to

trouble him; besides, she knew exactly what he would say: "It all

comes of having a dog for a nurse."

  She decided to roll the shadow up and put it away carefully in a

drawer, until a fitting opportunity came for telling her husband. Ah

me!

  The opportunity came a week later, on that never-to-be-forgotten

Friday. Of course it was a Friday.

  "I ought to have been specially careful on a Friday," she used to

say afterwards to her husband, while perhaps Nana was on the other

side of her, holding her hand.

  "No, no," Mr. Darling always said, "I am responsible for it all.

I, George Darling, did it. Mea culpa, mea culpa." He had had a

classical education.

  They sat thus night after night recalling that fatal Friday, till

every detail of it was stamped on their brains and came through on the

other side like the faces on a bad coinage.

  "If only I had not accepted that invitation to dine at 27," Mrs.

Darling said.

  "If only I had not poured my medicine into Nana's bowl," said Mr.

Darling.

  "If only I had pretended to like the medicine," was what Nana's

wet eyes said.

  "My liking for parties, George."

  "My fatal gift of humour, dearest."

  "My touchiness about trifles, dear master and mistress."

  Then one or more of them would break down altogether; Nana at the

thought, "It's true, it's true, they ought not to have had a dog for a

nurse." Many a time it was Mr. Darling who put the handkerchief to

Nana's eyes.

  "That fiend!" Mr. Darling would cry, and Nana's bark was the echo of

it, but Mrs. Darling never upbraided Peter; there was something in the

right-hand corner of her mouth that wanted her not to call Peter

names.

  They would sit there in the empty nursery, recalling fondly every

smallest detail of that dreadful evening. It had begun so

uneventfully, so precisely like a hundred other evenings, with Nana

putting on the water for Michael's bath and carrying him to it on

her back.

  "I won't go to bed," he had shouted, like one who still believed

that he had the last word on the subject, "I won't, I won't. Nana,

it isn't six o'clock yet. Oh dear, oh dear, I shan't love you any

more, Nana. I tell you I won't be bathed, I won't, I won't!"

  Then Mrs. Darling had come in, wearing her white evening-gown. She

had dressed early because Wendy so loved to see her in her

evening-gown, with the necklace George had given her. She was

wearing Wendy's bracelet on her arm; she had asked for the loan of it.

Wendy so loved to lend her bracelet to her mother.

  She had found her two older children playing at being herself and

father on the occasion of Wendy's birth, and John was saying:

  "I am happy to inform you, Mrs. Darling, that you are now a mother,"

in just such a tone as Mr. Darling himself may have used on the real

occasion.

  Wendy had danced with joy, just as the real Mrs. Darling must have

done.

  Then John was born, with the extra pomp that he conceived due to the

birth of a male, and Michael came from his bath to ask to be born

also, but John said brutally that they did not want any more.

  Michael had nearly cried. "Nobody wants me," he said, and of

course the lady in evening-dress could not stand that.

  "I do," she said, "I so want a third child."

  "Boy or girl?" asked Michael, not too hopefully.

  "Boy."

  Then he had leapt into her arms. Such a little thing for Mr. and

Mrs. Darling and Nana to recall now, but not so little if that was

to be Michael's last night in the nursery.

  They go on with their recollections.

  "It was then that I rushed in like a tornado, wasn't it?" Mr.

Darling would say, scorning himself; and indeed he had been like a

tornado.

  Perhaps there was some excuse for him. He, too, had been dressing

for the party, and all had gone well with him until he came to his

tie. It is an astounding thing to have to tell, but this man, though

he knew about stocks and shares, had no real mastery of his tie.

Sometimes the thing yielded to him without a contest, but there were

occasions when it would have been better for the house if he had

swallowed his pride and used a made-up tie.

  This was such an occasion. He came rushing into the nursery with the

crumpled little brute of a tie in his hand.

  "Why, what is the matter, father dear?"

  "Matter!" he yelled; he really yelled. "This tie, it will not

tie." He became dangerously sarcastic. "Not round my neck! Round the

bed-post! Oh yes, twenty times have I made it up round the bed-post,

but round my neck, no! Oh dear no! begs to be excused!"

  He thought Mrs. Darling was not sufficiently impressed, and he

went on sternly, "I warn you of this, mother, that unless this tie

is round my neck we don't go out to dinner to-night, and if I don't go

out to dinner tonight, I never go to the office again, and if I

don't go to the office again, you and I starve, and our children

will be flung into the streets."

  Even then Mrs. Darling was placid. "Let me try, dear," she said, and

indeed that was what he had come to ask her to do, and with her nice

cool hands she tied his tie for him, while the children stood around

to see their fate decided. Some men would have resented her being able

to do it so easily, but Mr. Darling was far too fine a nature for

that; he thanked her carelessly, at once forgot his rage, and in

another moment was dancing round the room with Michael on his back.

  "How wildly we romped!" says Mrs. Darling now, recalling it.

  "Our last romp!" Mr. Darling groaned.

  "O George, do you remember Michael suddenly said to me, 'How did you

get to know me, mother?'"

  "I remember!"

  "They were rather sweet, don't you think, George?"

  "And they were ours, ours! and now they are gone?"

  The romp had ended with the appearance of Nana, and most unluckily

Mr. Darling collided against her, covering his trousers with hairs.

They were not only new trousers, but they were the first he had ever

had with braid on them, and he had to bite his lip to prevent the

tears coming. Of course Mrs. Darling brushed him, but he began to talk

again about its being a mistake to have a dog for a nurse.

  "George, Nana is a treasure."

  "No doubt, but I have an uneasy feeling at times that she looks upon

the children as puppies."

  "Oh no, dear one, I feel sure she knows they have souls."

  "I wonder," Mr. Darling said thoughtfully, "I wonder." It was an

opportunity, his wife felt, for telling him about the boy. At first he

pooh-poohed the story, but he became thoughtful when she showed him

the shadow.

  "It is nobody I know," he said, examining it carefully, "but he does

look a scoundrel."

  "We were still discussing it, you remember," says Mr. Darling, "when

Nana came in with Michael's medicine. You will never carry the

bottle in your mouth again, Nana, and it is all my fault."

  Strong man though he was, there is no doubt that he had behaved

rather foolishly over the medicine. If he had a weakness, it was for

thinking that all his life he had taken medicine boldly, and so now,

when Michael dodged the spoon in Nana's mouth, he had said

reprovingly, "Be a man, Michael."

  "Won't; won't!" Michael cried naughtily. Mrs. Darling left the

room to get a chocolate for him, and Mr. Darling thought this showed

want of firmness.

  "Mother, don't pamper him," he called after her. "Michael, when I

was your age I took medicine without a murmur. I said 'Thank you, kind

parents, for giving me bottles to make me well.'"

  He really thought this was true, and Wendy, who was now in her

night-gown, believed it also, and she said, to encourage Michael,

"That medicine you sometimes take, father, is much nastier, isn't it?"

  "Ever so much nastier," Mr. Darling said bravely, "and I would

take it now as an example to you, Michael, if I hadn't lost the

bottle."

  He had not exactly lost it; he had climbed in the dead of night to

the top of the wardrobe and hidden it there. What he did not know

was that the faithful Liza had found it, and put it back on his

wash-stand.

  "I know where it is, father," Wendy cried, always glad to be of

service. "I'll bring it," and she was off before he could stop her.

Immediately his spirits sank in the strangest way.

  "John," he said, shuddering, "it's most beastly stuff. It's that

nasty, sticky, sweet kind."

  "It will soon be over, father," John said cheerily, and then in

rushed Wendy with the medicine in a glass.

  "I have been as quick as I could," she panted.

  "You have been wonderfully quick," her father retorted, with a

vindictive politeness that was quite thrown away upon her. "Michael

first," he said doggedly.

  "Father first," said Michael, who was of a suspicious nature.

  "I shall be sick, you know," Mr. Darling said threateningly.

  "Come on, father," said John.

  "Hold your tongue, John," his father rapped out.

  Wendy was quite puzzled. "I thought you took it quite easily,

father."

  "That is not the point," he retorted. "The point is, that there is

more in my glass than in Michael's spoon." His proud heart was

nearly bursting. "And it isn't fair; I would say it though it were

with my last breath; it isn't fair."

  "Father, I am waiting," said Michael coldly.

  "It's all very well to say you are waiting; so am I waiting."

  "Father's a cowardy custard."

  "So are you a cowardy custard."

  "I'm not frightened?"

  "Neither am I frightened."

  "Well, then, take it."

  "Well, then, you take it."

  Wendy had a splendid idea. "Why not both take it at the same time?"

  "Certainly," said Mr. Darling. "Are you ready, Michael?"

  Wendy gave the words, one, two, three, and Michael took his

medicine, but Mr. Darling slipped his behind his back.

  There was a yell of rage from Michael, and "O father!" Wendy

exclaimed.

  "What do you mean by 'O father?'" Mr. Darling demanded. "Stop that

row, Michael. I meant to take mine, but I- I missed it."

  It was dreadful the way all the three were looking at him, just as

if they did not admire him. "Look here, all of you," he said

entreatingly, as soon as Nana had gone into the bathroom, "I have just

thought of a splendid joke. I shall pour my medicine into Nana's bowl,

and she will drink it, thinking it is milk!"

  It was the colour of milk; but the children did not have their

father's sense of humour, and they looked at him reproachfully as he

poured the medicine into Nana's bowl. "What fun!" he said

doubtfully, and they did not dare expose him when Mrs. Darling and

Nana returned.

  "Nana, good dog," he said, patting her, "I have put a little milk

into your bowl, Nana."

  Nana wagged her tail, ran to the medicine, and began lapping it.

Then she gave Mr. Darling such a look, not an angry look: she showed

him the great red tear that makes us so sorry for noble dogs, and

crept into her kennel.

  Mr. Darling was frightfully ashamed of himself, but he would not

give in. In a horrid silence Mrs. Darling smelt the bowl. "O

George," she said, "it's your medicine!"

  "It, was only a joke," he roared, while she comforted her boys,

and Wendy hugged Nana. "Much good," he said bitterly, "my wearing

myself to the bone trying to be funny in this house."

  And still Wendy hugged Nana. "That's right," he shouted. "Coddle

her! Nobody coddles me. Oh dear no! I am only the breadwinner, why

should I be coddled- why, why, why!"

  "George," Mrs. Darling entreated him, "not so loud; the servants

will hear you." Somehow they had got into the way of calling Liza

the servants.

  "Let them!" he answered recklessly. "Bring in the whole world. But I

refuse to allow that dog to lord it in my nursery for an hour longer."

  The children wept, and Nana ran to him beseechingly, but he waved

her back. He felt he was a strong man again. "In vain, in vain," he

cried; "the: proper place for you is the yard, and there you go to

be tied up this instant."

  "George, George," Mrs. Darling whispered, "remember what I told

you about that boy."

  Alas, he would not listen. He was determined to show who was

master in that house, and when commands would not draw Nana from the

kennel, he lured her out of it with honeyed words, and seizing her

roughly, dragged her from the nursery. He was ashamed of himself,

and yet he did it. It was all owing to his too affectionate nature,

which craved for admiration. When he had tied her up in the back-yard,

the wretched father went and sat in the passage, with his knuckles

to his eyes.

  In the meantime Mrs. Darling had put the children to bed in unwonted

silence and lit their night-lights. They could hear Nana barking,

and John whimpered, "It is because he is chaining her up in the yard,"

but Wendy was wiser.

  "That is not Nana's unhappy bark," she said, little guessing what

was about to happen; "that is her bark when she smells danger."

  Danger!

  "Are you sure, Wendy?"

  "Oh yes?."

  Mrs. Darling quivered and went to the window. It was securely

fastened. She looked out, and the night was peppered with stars.

They were crowding round the house, as if curious to see what was to

take place there, but she did not notice this, nor that one or two

of the smaller ones winked at her. Yet a nameless fear clutched at her

heart and made her cry, "Oh, how I wish that I wasn't going to a party

to-night!"

  Even Michael, already half asleep, knew that she was perturbed,

and he asked, "Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights

are lit?"

  "Nothing, precious," she said; "they are the eyes a mother leaves

behind her to guard her children."

  She went from bed to bed singing enchantments over them, and

little Michael flung his arms round her. "Mother," he cried, "I'm glad

of you." They were the last words she was to hear from him for a

long time.

  No. 27 was only a few yards distant, but there had been a slight

fall of snow, and Father and Mother Darling picked their way over it

deftly not to soil their shoes. They were already the only persons

in the street, and all the stars were watching them. Stars are

beautiful, but they may not take an active part in anything, they must

just look on forever. It is a punishment put on them for something

they did so long ago that no star now knows what it was. So the

older ones have become glassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking is the

star language), but the little ones still wonder. They are not

really friendly to Peter, who has a mischievous way of stealing up

behind them and trying to blow them out; but they are so fond of fun

that they were on his side to-night, and anxious to get the

grown-ups out of the way. So as soon as the door of 27 closed on Mr.

and Mrs. Darling there was a commotion in the firmament, and the

smallest of all the stars in the Milky Way screamed out:

  "Now, Peter!"

                             CHAPTER III.

                        COME AWAY, COME AWAY!

  For a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Darling left the house the

night-lights by the beds of the three children continued to burn

clearly. They were awfully nice little night-lights, and one cannot

help wishing that they could have kept awake to see Peter; but Wendy's

light blinked and gave such a yawn that the other two yawned also, and

before they could close their mouths all the three went out.

  There was another light in the room now, a thousand times brighter

than the night-lights, and in the time we have taken to say this, it

has been in all the drawers in the nursery, looking for Peter's

shadow, rummaged the wardrobe and turned every pocket inside out. It

was not really a light; it made this light by flashing about so

quickly, but when it came to rest for a second you saw it was a fairy,

no longer than your hand, but still growing. It was a girl called

Tinker Bell exquisitely gowned in a skeleton leaf, cut low and square,

through which her figure could be seen to the best advantage. She

was slightly inclined to embonpoint.

  A moment after the fairy's entrance the window was blown open by the

breathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in. He had carried

Tinker Bell part of the way, and his hand was still messy with the

fairy dust.

  "Tinker Bell," he called softly, after making sure that the children

were asleep. "Tink, where are you?" She was in a jug for the moment,

and liking it extremely; she had never been in a jug before.

  "Oh, do come out of that jug, and tell me, do you know where they

put my shadow?"

  The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him. It is the

fairy language. You ordinary children can never hear it, but if you

were to hear it you would know that you had heard it once before.

  Tink said that the shadow was in the big box. She meant the chest of

drawers, and Peter jumped at the drawers, scattering their contents to

the floor with both hands, as kings toss ha'pence to the crowd. In a

moment he had recovered his shadow, and in his delight he forgot

that he had shut Tinker Bell up in the drawer.

  If he thought at all, but I don't believe he ever thought, it was

that he and his shadow, when brought near each other, would join

like drops of water, and when they did not he was appalled. He tried

to stick it on with soap from the bathroom, but that also failed. A

shudder passed through Peter, and he sat on the floor and cried.

  His sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. She was not alarmed to

see a stranger crying on the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly

interested.

  "Boy," she said courteously, "why are you crying?"

  Peter could be exceedingly polite also, having learned the grand

manner at fairy ceremonies, and he rose and bowed to her

beautifully. She was much pleased, and bowed beautifully to him from

the bed.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she replied with some satisfaction.

"What's your name?"

  "Peter Pan."

  She was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a

comparatively short name.

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes," he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it

was a shortish name.

  "I'm so sorry," said Wendy Moira Angela.

  "It doesn't matter," Peter gulped.

  She asked where he lived.

  "Second to the right," said Peter, "and then straight on till

morning."

  "What a funny address!"

  Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it

was a funny address.

  "No, it isn't," he said.

  "I mean," Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess, "is

that what they put on the letters?"

  He wished she had not mentioned letters.

  "Don't get any letters," he said contemptuously.

  "But your mother gets letters?"

  "Don't have a mother," he said. Not only had he no mother, but he

had not the slightest desire to have one. He thought them very

over-rated persons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the

presence of a tragedy.

  "O Peter, no wonder you were crying," she said, and got out of bed

and ran to him.

  "I wasn't crying about mothers," he said rather indignantly. "I

was crying because I can't get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I

wasn't crying."

  "It has come off?"

  "Yes."

  Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she

was frightfully sorry for Peter. "How awful!" she said, but she

could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick

it on with soap. How exactly like a boy!

  Fortunately she knew at once what to do. "It must be sewn on," she

said, just a little patronisingly.

  "What's sewn?" he asked.

  "You're dreadfully ignorant."

  "No, I'm not."

  But she was exulting in his ignorance. "I shall sew it on for you,

my little man," she said, though he was as tall as herself, and she

got out her house-wife, and sewed the shadow on to Peter's foot.

  "I daresay it will hurt a little," she warned him.

  "Oh, I shan't cry," said Peter, who was already of opinion that he

had never cried in his life. And he clenched his teeth and did not

cry, and soon his shadow was behaving properly, though still a

little creased.

  "Perhaps I should have ironed it," Wendy said thoughtfully, but

Peter, boylike, was indifferent to appearances, and he was now jumping

about in the wildest glee. Alas, he had already forgotten that he owed

his bliss to Wendy. He thought he had attached the shadow himself.

"How clever I am!" he crowed rapturously, "oh, the cleverness of me!"

  It is humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Peter

was one of his most fascinating qualities. To put it with brutal

frankness, there never was a cockier boy.

  But for the moment Wendy was shocked. "You conceit," she

exclaimed, with frightful sarcasm; "of course I did nothing!"

  "You did a little," Peter said carelessly, and continued to dance.

  "A little!" she replied with hauteur. "If I am no use I can at least

withdraw," and she sprang in the most dignified way into bed and

covered her face with the blankets.

  To induce her to look up he pretended to be going away, and when

this failed he sat on the end of the bed and tapped her gently with

his foot. "Wendy," he said, "don't withdraw. I can't help crowing,

Wendy, when I'm pleased with myself." Still she would not look up,

though she was listening eagerly. "Wendy," he continued, in a voice

that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, "Wendy, one girl is

more use than twenty boys."

  Now Wendy was every inch a woman, though there were not very many

inches, and she peeped out of the bed-clothes.

  "Do you really think so, Peter?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "I think it's perfectly sweet of you," she declared, "and I'll get

up again," and she sat with him on the side of the bed. She also

said she would give him a kiss if he liked, but Peter did not know

what she meant, and he held out his hand expectantly.

  "Surely you know what a kiss is?" she asked, aghast.

  "I shall know when you give it to me," he replied stiffly, and not

to hurt his feelings she gave him a thimble.

  "Now," said he, "shall I give you a kiss?" and she replied with a

slight primness, "If you please." She made herself rather cheap by

inclining her face toward him, but he merely dropped an acorn button

into her hand, so she slowly returned her face to where it had been

before, and said nicely that she would wear his kiss on the chain

round her neck. It was lucky that she did put it on that chain, for it

was afterwards to save her life.

  When people in our set are introduced, it is customary for them to

ask each other's age, and so Wendy, who always liked to do the correct

thing, asked Peter how old he was. It was not really a happy

question to ask him; it was like an examination paper that asks

grammar, when what you want to be asked is Kings of England.

  "I don't know," he replied uneasily, "but I am quite young." He

really knew nothing about it, he had merely suspicions, but he said at

a venture, "Wendy, I ran away the day I was born."

  Wendy was quite surprised, but interested; and she indicated in

the charming drawing-room manner, by a touch on her night-gown, that

he could sit nearer her.

  "It was because I heard father and mother," he explained in a low

voice, "talking about what I was to be when I became a man." He was

extraordinarily agitated now. "I don't want ever to be a man," he said

with passion. "I want always to be a little boy and to have fun. So

I ran away to Kensington Gardens and lived a long long time among

the fairies."

  She gave him a look of the most intense admiration, and he thought

it was because he had run away, but it was really because he knew

fairies. Wendy had lived such a home life that to know fairies

struck her as quite delightful. She poured out questions about them,

to his surprise, for they were rather a nuisance to him, getting in

his way and so on, and indeed he sometimes had to give them a

hiding. Still, he liked them on the whole, and he told her about the

beginning of fairies.

  "You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the first time, its

laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping

about, and that was the beginning of fairies."

  Tedious talk this, but being a stay-at-home she liked it.

  "And so," he went on good-naturedly, "there ought to be one fairy

for every boy and girl."

  "Ought to be? Isn't there?"

  "No. You see children know such a lot now, they soon don't believe

in fairies, and every time a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies,'

there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead."

  Really, he thought they had now talked enough about fairies, and

it struck him that Tinker Bell was keeping very quiet. "I can't

think where she has gone to," he said, rising, and he called Tink by

name. Wendy's heart went flutter with a sudden thrill.

  "Peter," she cried, clutching him, "you don't mean to tell me that

there is a fairy in this room!"

  "She was here just now," he said a little impatiently. "You don't

hear her, do you?" and they both listened.

  "The only sound I hear," said Wendy, "is like a tinkle of bells."

  "Well, that's Tink, that's the fairy language. I think I hear her

too."

  The sound came from the chest of drawers, and Peter made a merry

face. No one could ever look quite so merry as Peter, and the

loveliest of gurgles was his laugh. He had his first laugh still.

  "Wendy," he whispered gleefully, "I do believe I shut her up in

the drawer!"

  He let poor Tink out of the drawer, and she flew about the nursery

screaming with fury. "You shouldn't say such things," Peter

retorted. "Of course I'm very sorry, but how could I know you were

in the drawer?"

  Wendy was not listening to him. "O Peter," she cried, "if she

would only stand still and let me see her!"

  "They hardly ever stand still," he said, but for one moment Wendy

saw the romantic figure come to rest on the cuckoo clock. "O the

lovely!" she cried, though Tink's face was still distorted with

passion.

  "Tink," said Peter amiably, "this lady says she wishes you were

her fairy."

  Tinker Bell answered insolently.

  "What does she say, Peter?"

  He had to translate. "She is not very polite. She says you are a

great ugly girl, and that she is my fairy."

  He tried to argue with Tink. "You know you can't be my fairy,

Tink, because I am a gentleman and you are a lady."

  To this Tink replied in these words, "You silly ass," and

disappeared into the bathroom. "She is quite a common fairy," Peter

explained apologetically, "she is called Tinker Bell because she mends

the pots and kettles."

  They were together in the armchair by this time, and Wendy plied him

with more questions.

  "If you don't live in Kensington Gardens now-"

  "Sometimes I do still."

  "But where do you live mostly now?"

  "With the lost boys."

  "Who are they?"

  "They are the children who fall out of their perambulators when

the nurse is looking the other way. If they are not claimed in seven

days they are sent far away to the Neverland to defray expenses. I'm

captain."

  "What fun it must be!"

  "Yes," said cunning Peter, "but we are rather lonely. You see we

have no female companionship."

  "Are none of the others girls?"

  "Oh no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their

prams."

  This flattered Wendy immensely. "I think," she said, "it is

perfectly lovely the way you talk about girls; John there just

despises us."

  For reply Peter rose and kicked John out of bed, blankets and all;

one kick. This seemed to Wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and

she told him with spirit that he was not captain in her house.

However, John continued to sleep so placidly on the floor that she

allowed him to remain there. "And I know you meant to be kind," she

said, relenting, "so you may give me a kiss."

  For the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses. "I

thought you would want it back," he said a little bitterly, and

offered to return her thimble.

  "Oh dear," said the nice Wendy, "I don't mean a kiss, I mean a

thimble."

  "What's that?"

  "It's like this." She kissed him.

  "Funny!" said Peter gravely. "Now shall I give you a thimble?"

  "If you wish to," said Wendy, keeping her head erect this time.

  Peter thimbled her, and almost immediately she screeched. "What is

it, Wendy?"

  "It was exactly as if some one were pulling my hair."

  "That must have been Tink. I never knew her so naughty before."

  And indeed Tink was darting about again, using offensive language.

  "She says she will do that to you, Wendy, every time I give you a

thimble."

  "But why?"

  "Why, Tink?"

  Again Tink replied, "You silly ass." Peter could not understand why,

but Wendy understood, and she was just slightly disappointed when he

admitted that he came to the nursery window not to see her but to

listen to stories.

  "You see I don't know any stories. None of the lost boys know any

stories."

  "How perfectly awful," Wendy said.

  "Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of

houses? It is to listen to the stories. O Wendy, your mother was

telling you such a lovely story."

  "Which story was it?"

  "About the prince who couldn't find the lady who wore the glass

slipper."

  "Peter," said Wendy excitedly, "that was Cinderella, and he found

her, and they lived happy ever after."

  Peter was so glad that he rose from the floor, where they had been

sitting, and hurried to the window. "Where are you going?" she cried

with misgiving.

  "To tell the other boys."

  "Don't go Peter," she entreated, "I know such lots of stories."

  Those were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was

she who first tempted him.

  He came back, and there was a greedy look in his eyes now which

ought to have alarmed her, but did not.

  "Oh, the stories I could tell to the boys!" she cried, and then

Peter gripped her and began to draw her toward the window.

  "Let me go!" she ordered him.

  "Wendy, do come with me and tell the other boys."

  Of course she was very pleased to be asked, but she said, "Oh

dear, I can't. Think of mummy! Besides, I can't fly."

  "I'll teach you."

  "Oh, how lovely to fly."

  "I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and then away we

go."

  "Oo!" she exclaimed rapturously.

  "Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might

be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars."

  "Oo!"

  "And, Wendy, there are mermaids."

  "Mermaids! With tails?"

  "Such long tails."

  "Oh," cried Wendy, "to see a mermaid!"

  He had become frightfully cunning. "Wendy," he said, "how we

should all respect you."

  She was wriggling her body in distress. It was quite as if she

were trying to remain on the nursery floor.

  But he had no pity for her.

  "Wendy," he said, the sly one, "you could tuck us in at night."

  "Oo!"

  "None of us has ever been tucked in at night."

  "Oo," and her arms went out to him.

  "And you could darn our clothes, and make pockets for us. None of us

has any pockets."

  How could she resist. "Of course it's awfully fascinating!" she

cried. "Peter, would you teach John and Michael to fly too?"

  "If you like," he said indifferently, and she ran to John and

Michael and shook them. "Wake up," she cried, "Peter Pan has come

and he is to teach us to fly."

  John rubbed his eyes. "Then I shall get up," he said. Of course he

was on the floor already. "Hallo," he said, "I am up!"

  Michael was up by this time also, looking as sharp as a knife with

six blades and a saw, but Peter suddenly signed silence. Their faces

assumed the awful craftiness of children listening for sounds from the

grown-up world. All was as still as salt. Then everything was right.

No, stop! Everything was wrong. Nana, who had been barking

distressfully all the evening, was quiet now. It was her silence

they had heard!

  "Out with the light! Hide! Quick!" cried John, taking command for

the only time throughout the whole adventure. And thus when Liza

entered, holding Nana, the nursery seemed quite its old self, very

dark, and you could have sworn you heard its three wicked inmates

breathing angelically as they slept. They were really doing it

artfully from behind the window curtains.

  Liza was in a bad temper, for she was mixing the Christmas

puddings in the kitchen, and had been drawn away from them, with a

raisin still on her cheek, by Nana's absurd suspicions. She thought

the best way of getting a little quiet was to take Nana to the nursery

for a moment, but in custody of course.

  "There, you suspicious brute," she said, not sorry that Nana was

in disgrace. "They are perfectly safe, aren't they? Every one of the

little angels sound asleep in bed. Listen to their gentle breathing."

  Here Michael, encouraged by his success, breathed so loudly that

they were nearly detected. Nana knew that kind of breathing, and she

tried to drag herself out of Liza's clutches.

  But Liza was dense. "No more of it, Nana," she said sternly, pulling

her out of the room. "I warn you if you bark again I shall go straight

for master and missus and bring them home from the party, and then,

oh, won't master whip you, just."

  She tied the unhappy dog up again, but do you think Nana ceased to

bark? Bring master and missus home from the party? Why, that was

just what she wanted. Do you think she cared whether she was whipped

so long as her charges were safe? Unfortunately Liza returned to her

puddings, and Nana, seeing that no help would come from her,

strained and strained at the chain until at last she broke it. In

another moment she had burst into the dining-room of 27 and flung up

her paws to heaven, her most expressive way of making a communication.

Mr. and Mrs. Darling knew at once that something terrible was

happening in their nursery, and without a good-bye to their hostess

they rushed into the street.

  But it was now ten minutes since three scoundrels had been breathing

behind the curtains, and Peter Pan can do a great deal in ten minutes.

  We now return to the nursery.

  "It's all right," John announced, emerging from his hiding-place. "I

say, Peter, can you really fly?"

  Instead of troubling to answer him Peter flew round the room, taking

the mantelpiece on the way.

  "How topping!" said John and Michael.

  "How sweet!" cried Wendy.

  "Yes, I'm sweet, oh, I am sweet!" said Peter, forgetting his manners

again.

  It looked delightfully easy, and they tried it first from the

floor and then from the beds, but they always went down instead of up.

  "I say, how do you do it?" asked John, rubbing his knee. He was

quite a practical boy.

  "You just think lovely wonderful thoughts," Peter explained, "and

they lift you up in the air."

  He showed them again.

  "You're so nippy at it," John said, "couldn't you do it very

slowly once?"

  Peter did it both slowly and quickly. "I've got it now, Wendy!"

cried John, but soon he found he had not. Not one of them could fly an

inch, though even Michael was in words of two syllables, and Peter did

not know A from Z.

  Of course Peter had been trifling with them, for no one can fly

unless the fairy dust has been blown on him. Fortunately, as we have

mentioned, one of his hands was messy with it, and he blew some on

each of them, with the most superb results.

  "Now just wriggle your shoulders this way," he said, "and let go."

  They were all on their beds, and gallant Michael let go first. He

did not quite mean to let go, but he did it, and immediately he was

borne across the room.

  "I flewed!" he screamed while still in mid-air. John let go and

met Wendy near the bathroom.

  "Oh, lovely!"

  "Oh, ripping!"

  "Look at me!"

  "Look at me!"

  "Look at me!"

  They were not nearly so elegant as Peter, they could not help

kicking a little, but their heads were bobbing against the ceiling,

and there is almost nothing so delicious as that. Peter gave Wendy a

hand at first, but had to desist, Tink was so indignant.

  Up and down they went, and round and round. Heavenly was Wendy's

word.

  "I say," cried John, "why shouldn't we all go out!"

  Of course it was to this that Peter had been luring them.

  Michael was ready: he wanted to see how long it took him to do a

billion miles. But Wendy hesitated.

  "Mermaids!" said Peter again.

  "Oo!"

  "And there are pirates."

  "Pirates," cried John, seizing his Sunday hat, "let us go at once!"

  It was just at this moment that Mr. and Mrs. Darling hurried with

Nana out of 27. They ran into the middle of the street to look up at

the nursery window; and, yes, it was still shut, but the room was

ablaze with light, and most heart-gripping sight of all, they could

see in shadow on the curtain three little figures in night attire

circling round and round, not on the floor but in the air.

  Not three figures, four!

  In a tremble they opened the street door. Mr. Darling would have

rushed upstairs, but Mrs. Darling signed to him to go softly. She even

tried to make her heart go softly.

  Will they reach the nursery in time? If so, how delightful for them,

and we shall all breathe a sigh of relief, but there will be no story.

On the other hand, if they are not in time, I solemnly promise that it

will all come right in the end.

  They would have reached the nursery in time had it not been that the

little stars were watching them. Once again the stars blew the

window open, and that smallest star of all called out:

  "Cave, Peter!"

  Peter knew that there was not a moment to lose. "Come," he cried

imperiously, and soared out at once into the night, followed by John

and Michael and Wendy.

  Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Nana rushed into the nursery too late.

The birds were flown.

                             CHAPTER IV.

                             THE FLIGHT.

  "Second to the right, and straight on till morning!"

  That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even

birds, carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not

have sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said

anything that came into his head.

  At first his companions trusted him implicitly, and so great were

the delights of flying that they wasted time circling round church

spires or any other tall objects on the way that took their fancy.

  John and Michael raced, Michael getting a start.

  They recalled with contempt that not so long ago they had thought

themselves fine fellows for being able to fly round a room.

  Not so long ago. But how long ago? They were flying over the sea

before this thought began to disturb Wendy seriously. John thought

it was their second sea and their third night.

  Sometimes it was dark and sometimes light, and now they were very

cold and again too warm. Did they really feel hungry at times, or were

they merely pretending, because Peter had such a jolly new way of

feeding them? His way was to pursue birds who had food in their mouths

suitable for humans and snatch it from them; then the birds would

follow and snatch it back; and they would all go chasing each other

gaily for miles, parting at last with mutual expressions of good-will.

But Wendy noticed with gentle concern that Peter did not seem to

know that this was rather an odd way of getting your bread and butter,

nor even that there are other ways.

  Certainly they did not pretend to be sleepy, they were sleepy; and

that was a danger, for the moment they popped off, down they fell. The

awful thing was that Peter thought this funny.

  "There he goes again!" he would cry gleefully, as Michael suddenly

dropped like a stone.

  "Save him, save him!" cried Wendy, looking with horror at the

cruel sea far below. Eventually Peter would dive through the air,

and catch Michael just before he could strike the sea, and it was

lovely the way he did it; but he always waited till the last moment,

and you felt it was his cleverness that interested him and not the

saving of human life. Also he was fond of variety, and the sport

that engrossed him one moment would suddenly cease to engage him, so

there was always the possibility that the next time you fell he

would let you go.

  He could sleep in the air without falling, by merely lying on his

back and floating, but this was, partly at least, because he was so

light that if you got behind him and blew he went faster.

  "Do be more polite to him," Wendy whispered to John, when they

were playing "Follow my Leader."

  "Then tell him to stop showing off," said John.

  When playing Follow my Leader, Peter would fly close to the water

and touch each shark's tail in passing, just as in the street you

may run your finger along an iron railing. They could not follow him

in this with much success, so perhaps it was rather like showing

off, especially as he kept looking behind to see how many tails they

missed.

  "You must be nice to him," Wendy impressed on her brothers. "What

could we do if he were to leave us!"

  "We could go back," Michael said.

  "Well, then, we could go on," said John.

  "That is the awful thing, John. We should have to go on, for we

don't know how to stop."

  This was true, Peter had forgotten to show them how to stop.

  John said that if the worst came to the worst, all they had to do

was to go straight on, for the world was round, and so in time they

must come back to their own window.

  "And who is to get food for us, John?"

  "I nipped a bit out of that eagle's mouth pretty neatly, Wendy."

  "After the twentieth try," Wendy reminded him. "And even though we

became good at picking up food, see how we bump against clouds and

things if he is not near to give us a hand."

  Indeed they were constantly bumping. They could now fly strongly,

though they still kicked far too much; but if they saw a cloud in

front of them, the more they tried to avoid it, the more certainly did

they bump into it. If Nana had been with them, she would have had a

bandage round Michael's forehead by this time.

  Peter was not with them for the moment, and they felt rather

lonely up there by themselves. He could go so much faster than they

that he would suddenly shoot out of sight, to have some adventure in

which they had no share. He would come down laughing over something

fearfully funny he had been saying to a star, but he had already

forgotten what it was, or he would come up with mermaid scales still

sticking to him, and yet not be able to say for certain what had

been happening. It was really rather irritating to children who had

never seen a mermaid.

  "And if he forgets them so quickly," Wendy argued, "how can we

expect that he will go on remembering us?"

  Indeed, sometimes when he returned he did not remember them, at

least not well. Wendy was sure of it. She saw recognition come into

his eyes as he was about to pass them the time of day and go on;

once even she had to call him by name.

  "I'm Wendy," she said agitatedly.

  He was very sorry. "I say, Wendy," he whispered to her, "always if

you see me forgetting you, just keep on saying 'I'm Wendy,' and then

I'll remember."

  Of course this was rather unsatisfactory. However, to make amends he

showed them how to lie out flat on a strong wind that was going

their way, and this was such a pleasant change that they tried it

several times and found they could sleep thus with security. Indeed

they would have slept longer, but Peter tired quickly of sleeping, and

soon he would cry in his captain voice, "We get off here." So with

occasional tiffs, but on the whole rollicking, they drew near the

Neverland; for after many moons they did reach it, and, what is

more, they had been going pretty straight all the time, not perhaps so

much owing to the guidance of Peter or Tink as because the island

was out looking for them. It is only thus that any one may sight those

magic shores.

  "There it is," said Peter calmly.

  "Where, where?"

  "Where all the arrows are pointing."

  Indeed a million golden arrows were pointing it out to the children,

all directed by their friend the sun, who wanted them to be sure of

their way before leaving them for the night.

  Wendy and John and Michael stood on tip-toe in the air to get

their first sight of the island. Strange to say, they all recognised

it at once, and until fear fell upon them they hailed it, not as

something long dreamt of and seen at last, but as a familiar friend to

whom they were returning home for the holidays.

  "John, there's the lagoon!"

  "Wendy, look at the turtles burying their eggs in the sand."

  "I say, John, I see your flamingo with the broken leg!"

  "Look, Michael, there's your cave!"

  "John, what's that in the brushwood?"

  "It's a wolf with her whelps. Wendy, I do believe that's your little

whelp!"

  "There's my boat, John, with her sides stove in!"

  "No, it isn't! Why, we burned your boat."

  "That's her, at any rate. I say, John, I see the smoke of the

redskin camp!"

  "Where? Show me, and I'll tell you by the way the smoke curls

whether they are on the war-path."

  "There, just across the Mysterious River."

  "I see now. Yes, they are on the war-path right enough."

  Peter was a little annoyed with them for knowing so much, but if

he wanted to lord it over them his triumph was at hand, for have I not

told you that anon fear fell upon them?

  It came as the arrows went, leaving the island in gloom.

  In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a

little dark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches

arose in it and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of

the beasts of prey was quite different now, and above all, you lost

the certainty that you would win. You were quite glad that the

night-lights were in. You even liked Nana to say that this was just

the mantelpiece over here, and that the Neverland was all

make-believe.

  Of course the Neverland had been make-believe in those days, but

it was real now, and there were no night-lights, and it was getting

darker every moment, and where was Nana?

  They had been flying apart, but they huddled close to Peter now. His

careless manner had gone at last, his eyes were sparkling, and a

tingle went through them every time they touched his body. They were

now over the fearsome island, flying so low that sometimes a tree

grazed their feet. Nothing horrid was visible in the air, yet their

progress had become slow and laboured, exactly as if they were pushing

their way through hostile forces. Sometimes they hung in the air until

Peter had beaten on it with his fists.

  "They don't want us to land," he explained.

  "Who are they?" Wendy whispered, shuddering.

  But he could not or would not say. Tinker Bell had been asleep on

his shoulder, but now he wakened her and sent her on in front.

  Sometimes he poised himself in the air, listening intently, with his

hand to his ear, and again he would stare down with eyes so bright

that they seemed to bore two holes to earth. Having done these things,

he went on again.

  His courage was almost appalling. "Would you like an adventure now,"

he said casually to John, "or would you like to have your tea first?"

  Wendy said "tea first" quickly, and Michael pressed her hand in

gratitude, but the braver John hesitated.

  "What kind of adventure?" he asked cautiously.

  "There's a pirate asleep in the pampas just beneath us," Peter

told him. "If you like, we'll go down and kill him."

  "I don't see him," John said after a long pause.

  "I do."

  "Suppose," John said, a little huskily, "he were to wake up."

  Peter spoke indignantly. "You don't think I would kill him while

he was sleeping! I would wake him first, and then kill him. That's the

way I always do."

  "I say! Do you kill many?"

  "Tons."

  John said "how ripping," but decided to have tea first. He asked

if there were many pirates on the island just now, and Peter said he

had never known so many.

  "Who is captain now?"

  "Hook," answered Peter, and his face became very stern as he said

that hated word.

  "Jas. Hook?"

  "Ay."

  Then indeed Michael began to cry, and even John could speak in gulps

only, for they knew Hook's reputation.

  "He was Blackbeard's bo'sun," John whispered huskily. "He is the

worst of them all. He is the only man of whom Barbecue was afraid."

  "That's him," said Peter.

  "What is he like?- Is he big?"

  "He is not so big as he was"

  "How do you mean?"

  "I cut off a bit of him."

  "You!"

  "Yes, me," said Peter sharply.

  "I wasn't meaning to be disrespectful."

  "Oh, all right."

  "But, I say, what bit?"

  "His right hand."

  "Then he can't fight now?"

  "Oh, can't he just!"

  "Left-hander?"

  "He has an iron hook instead of a right hand, and he claws with it."

  "Claws!"

  "I say, John," said Peter.

  "Yes."

  "Say, 'Ay, ay, sir.'"

  "Ay, ay, sir."

  "There is one thing," Peter continued, "that every boy who serves

under me has to promise, and so must you."

  John paled.

  "It is this, if we meet Hook in open fight, you must leave him to

me."

  "I promise," John said loyally.

  For the moment they were feeling less eerie, because Tink was flying

with them, and in her light they could distinguish each other.

Unfortunately she could not fly so slowly as they, and so she had to

go round and round them in a circle in which they moved as in a

halo. Wendy quite liked it, until Peter pointed out the drawback.

  "She tells me," he said, "that the pirates sighted us before the

darkness came, and got Long Tom out."

  "The big gun?"

  "Yes. And of course they must see her light, and if they guess we

are near it they are sure to let fly."

  "Wendy!"

  "John!"

  "Michael!"

  "Tell her to go away at once, Peter," the three cried

simultaneously, but he refused.

  "She thinks we have lost the way," he replied stiffly, "and she is

rather frightened. You don't think I would send her away all by

herself when she is frightened!"

  For a moment the circle of light was broken, and something gave

Peter a loving little pinch.

  "Then tell her," Wendy begged, "to put out her light."

  "She can't put it out. That is about the only thing fairies can't

do. It just goes out of itself when she falls asleep, same as the

stars."

  "Then tell her to sleep at once," John almost ordered.

  "She can't sleep except when she's sleepy. It's the only other thing

fairies can't do."

  "Seems to me," growled John, "these are the only two things worth

doing."

  Here he got a pinch, but not a loving one.

  "If only one of us had a pocket," Peter said, "we could carry her in

it." However, they had set off in such a hurry that there was not a

pocket between the four of them.

  He had a happy idea. John's hat!

  Tink agreed to travel by hat if it was carried in the hand. John

carried it, though she had hoped to be carried by Peter. Presently

Wendy took the hat, because John said it struck against his knee as he

flew; and this, as we shall see, led to mischief, for Tinker Bell

hated to be under an obligation to Wendy.

  In the black topper the light was completely hidden, and they flew

on in silence. It was the stillest silence they had ever known, broken

once by a distant lapping, which Peter explained was the wild beasts

drinking at the ford, and again by a rasping sound that might have

been the branches of trees rubbing together, but he said it was the

redskins sharpening their knives.

  Even these noises ceased. To Michael the loneliness was dreadful.

"If only something would make a sound!" he cried.

  As if in answer to his request, the air was rent by the most

tremendous crash he had ever heard. The pirates had fired Long Tom

at them.

  The roar of it echoed through the mountains, and the echoes seemed

to cry savagely, "Where are they, where are they, where are they?"

  Thus sharply did the terrified three learn the difference between an

island of make-believe and the same island come true.

  When at last the heavens were steady again, John and Michael found

themselves alone in the darkness. John was treading the air

mechanically, and Michael without knowing how to float was floating.

  "Are you shot?" John whispered tremulously.

  "I haven't tried yet," Michael whispered back.

  We know now that no one had been hit. Peter, however, had been

carried by the wind of the shot far out to sea, while Wendy was

blown upwards with no companion but Tinker Bell.

  It would have been well for Wendy if at that moment she had

dropped the hat.

  I don't know whether the idea came suddenly to Tink, or whether

she had planned it on the way, but she at once popped out of the hat

and began to lure Wendy to her destruction.

  Tink was not all bad: or, rather, she was all bad just now, but,

on the other hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be

one thing or the other, because being so small they unfortunately have

room for one feeling only at a time. They are, however, allowed to

change, only it must be a complete change. At present she was full

of jealousy of Wendy. What she said in her lovely tinkle Wendy could

not of course understand, and I believe some of it was bad words,

but it sounded kind, and she flew back and forward, plainly meaning

"Follow me, and all will be well."

  What else could poor Wendy do? She called to Peter and John and

Michael, and got only mocking echoes in reply. She did not yet know

that Tink hated her with the fierce hatred of a very woman. And so,

bewildered, and now staggering in her flight, she followed Tink to her

doom.

                              CHAPTER V.

                        THE ISLAND COME TRUE.

  Feeling that Peter was on his way back, the Neverland had again woke

into life. We ought to use the pluperfect and say wakened, but woke is

better and was always used by Peter.

  In his absence things are usually quiet on the island. The fairies

take an hour longer in the morning, the beasts attend to their

young, the redskins feed heavily for six days and nights, and when

pirates and lost boys meet they merely bite their thumbs at each

other. But with the coming of Peter, who hates lethargy, they are

all under way again: if you put your ear to the ground now, you

would hear the whole island seething with life.

  On this evening the chief forces of the island were disposed as

follows. The lost boys were out looking for Peter, the pirates were

out looking for the lost boys, the redskins were out looking for the

pirates, and the beasts were out looking for the redskins. They were

going round and round the island, but they did not meet because all

were going at the same rate.

  All wanted blood except the boys, who liked it as a rule, but

to-night were out to greet their captain. The boys on the island vary,

of course, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and

when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter

thins them out; but at this time there were six of them, counting

the twins as two. Let us pretend to he here among the sugarcane and

watch them as they steal by in single file, each with his hand on

his dagger.

  They are forbidden by Peter to look in the least like him, and

they wear the skins of bears slain by themselves, in which they are so

round and furry that when they fall they roll. They have therefore

become very sure-footed.

  The first to pass is Tootles, not the least brave but the most

unfortunate of all that gallant band. He had been in fewer

adventures than any of them, because the big things constantly

happened just when he had stepped round the corner; all would be

quiet, he would take the opportunity of going off to gather a few

sticks for firewood, and then when he returned the others would be

sweeping up the blood. This ill-luck had given a gentle melancholy

to his countenance, but instead of souring his nature had sweetened

it, so that he was quite the humblest of the boys. Poor kind

Tootles, there is danger in the air for you to-night. Take care lest

an adventure is now offered you, which, if accepted, will plunge you

in deepest woe. Tootles, the fairy Tink who is bent on mischief this

night is looking for a tool, and she thinks you the most easily

tricked of the boys. 'Ware Tinker Bell.

  Would that he could hear us, but we are not really on the island,

and he passes by, biting his knuckles.

  Next comes Nibs, the gay and debonair, followed by Slightly, who

cuts whistles out of the trees and dances ecstatically to his own

tunes. Slightly is the most conceited of the boys. He thinks he

remembers the days before he was lost, with their manners and customs,

and this has given his nose an offensive tilt. Curly is fourth; he

is a pickle, and so often has he had to deliver up his person when

Peter said sternly, "Stand forth the one who did this thing," that now

at the command he stands forth automatically whether he has done it or

no. Last come the Twins, who cannot be described because we should

be sure to be describing the wrong one. Peter never quite knew what

twins were, and his band were not allowed to know anything he did

not know, so these two were always vague about themselves, and did

their best to give satisfaction by keeping close together in an

apologetic sort of way.

  The boys vanish in the gloom, and after a pause, but not a long

pause, for things go briskly on the island, come the pirates on

their track. We hear them before they are seen, and it is always the

same dreadful song:

                 "Avast belay, yo ho, heave to,

                     A-pirating we go,

                 And if we're parted by a shot

                   We're sure to meet below!"

  A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock.

Here, a little in advance, ever and again with his head to the

ground listening, his great arms bare, pieces of eight in his ears

as ornaments, is the handsome Italian Cecco, who cut his name in

letters of blood on the back of the governor of the prison at Gao.

That gigantic black behind him has had many names since he dropped the

one with which dusky mothers still terrify their children on the banks

of the Guadjomo. Here is Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, the

same Bill Jukes who got six dozen on the Walrus from Flint before he

would drop the bag of moidores; and Cookson, said to be Black Murphy's

brother (but this was never proved), and Gentleman Starkey, once an

usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing;

and Skylights (Morgan's Skylights); and the Irish bo'sun Smee, an

oddly genial man who stabbed, so to speak, without offence, and was

the only Non-conformist in Hook's crew; and Noodler, whose hands

were fixed on backwards; and Robt. Mullins and Alf Mason and many

another ruffian long known and feared on the Spanish Main.

  In the midst of them, the blackest and largest jewel in that dark

setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of

whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay

at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and

instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and

anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this

terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed

him. In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was

dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black

candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his

handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the

forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging

his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and

lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still

clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have

been told that he was a raconteur of repute. He was never more

sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest

test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was

swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him

one of a different caste from his crew. A man of indomitable

courage, it was said of him that the only thing he shied at was the

sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In

dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of

Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his

career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts;

and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which

enabled him to smoke two cigars at once. But undoubtedly the

grimmest part of him was his iron claw.

  Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook's method. Skylights will

do. As they pass, Skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his

lace collar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one

screech, then the body is kicked aside, and the pirates pass on. He

has not even taken the cigars from his mouth.

  Such is the terrible man against whom Peter Pan is pitted. Which

will win?

  On the trail of the pirates, stealing noiselessly down the war-path,

which is not visible to inexperienced eyes, come the redskins, every

one of them with his eyes peeled. They carry tomahawks and knives, and

their naked bodies gleam with paint and oil. Strung around them are

scalps, of boys as well as of pirates, for these are the Piccaninny

tribe, and not to be confused with the softer-hearted Delawares or the

Hurons. In the van, on all fours, is Great Big Little Panther, a brave

of so many scalps that in his present position they somewhat impede

his progress. Bringing up the rear, the place of greatest danger,

comes Tiger Lily, proudly erect, a princess in her own right. She is

the most beautiful of dusky Dianas and the belle of the

Piccaninnies, coquettish, cold and amorous by turns; there is not a

brave who would not have the wayward thing to wife, but she staves off

the altar with a hatchet. Observe how they pass over fallen twigs

without making the slightest noise. The only sound to be heard is

their somewhat heavy breathing. The fact is that they are all a little

fat just now after the heavy gorging, but in time they will work

this off. For the moment, however, it constitutes their chief danger.

  The redskins disappear as they have come like shadows, and soon

their place is taken by the beasts, a great and motley procession:

lions, tigers, bears, and the innumerable smaller savage things that

flee from them, for every kind of beast, and, more particularly, all

the man-eaters, live cheek by jowl on the favoured island. Their

tongues are hanging out, they are hungry to-night.

  When they have passed, comes the last figure of all, a gigantic

crocodile. We shall see for whom she is looking presently.

  The crocodile passes, but soon the boys appear again, for the

procession must continue indefinitely until one of the parties stops

or changes its pace. Then quickly they will be on top of each other.

  All are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but none suspects that

the danger may be creeping up from behind. This shows how real the

island was.

  The first to fall out of the moving circle was the boys. They

flung themselves down on the sward, close to their underground home.

  "I do wish Peter would come back," every one of them said nervously,

though in height and still more in breadth they were all larger than

their captain.

  "I am the only one who is not afraid of the pirates," Slightly said,

in the tone that prevented his being a general favourite, but

perhaps some distant sound disturbed him, for he added hastily, "but I

wish he would come back, and tell us whether he has heard anything

more about Cinderella."

  They talked of Cinderella, and Tootles was confident that his mother

must have been very like her.

  It was only in Peter's absence that they could speak of mothers, the

subject being forbidden by him as silly.

  "All I remember about my mother," Nibs told them, "is that she often

said to father, 'Oh, how I wish I had a cheque-book of my own!' I

don't know what a cheque-book is, but I should just love to give my

mother one."

  While they talked they heard a distant sound. You or I, not being

wild things of the woods, would have heard nothing, but they heard it,

and it was the grim song:

                "Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life,

                The flag o' skull and bones,

              A merry hour, a hempen rope,

                  And hey for Davy Jones."

  At once the lost boys- but where are they? They are no longer there.

Rabbits could not have disappeared more quickly.

  I will tell you where they are. With the exception of Nibs, who

has darted away to reconnoitre, they are already in their home under

the ground, a very delightful residence of which we shall see a good

deal presently. But how have they reached it? for there is no entrance

to be seen, not so much as a large stone, which if rolled away would

disclose the mouth of a cave. Look closely, however, and you may

note that there are here seven large trees, each with a hole in its

hollow trunk as large as a boy These are the seven entrances to the

home under the ground, for which Hook has been searching in vain these

many moons. Will he find it to-night?

  As the pirates advanced, the quick eye of Starkey sighted Nibs

disappearing through the wood, and at once his pistol flashed out. But

an iron claw gripped his shoulder.

  "Captain, let go!" he cried, writhing.

  Now for the first time we hear the voice of Hook. It was a black

voice. "Put back that pistol first," it said threateningly.

  "It was one of those boys you hate. I could have shot him dead."

  "Ay, and the sound would have brought Tiger Lily's redskins upon us.

Do you want to lose your scalp?"

  "Shall I after him, captain," asked pathetic Smee, "and tickle him

with Johnny Corkscrew?" Smee had pleasant names for everything, and

his cutlass was Johnny Corkscrew, because he wriggled it in the wound.

One could mention many lovable traits in Smee. For instance, after

killing, it was his spectacles he wiped instead of his weapon.

  "Johnny's a silent fellow," he reminded Hook.

  "Not now, Smee," Hook said darkly. "He is only one, and I want to

mischief all the seven. Scatter and look for them."

  The pirates disappeared among the trees, and in a moment their

captain and Smee were alone. Hook heaved a heavy sigh, and I know

not why it was, perhaps it was because of the soft beauty of the

evening, but there came over him a desire to confide to his faithful

bo'sun the story of his life. He spoke long and earnestly, but what it

was all about Smee, who was rather stupid, did not know in the least.

  Anon he caught the word Peter.

  "Most of all," Hook was saying passionately, "I want their

captain, Peter Pan. 'Twas he cut off my arm." He brandished the hook

threateningly. "I've waited long to shake his hand with this. Oh, I'll

tear him!"

  "And yet," said Smee, "I have often heard you say that hook was

worth a score of hands, for combing the hair and other homely uses."

  "Ay," the captain answered, "if I was a mother I would pray to

have my children born with this instead of that," and he cast a look

of pride upon his iron hand and one of scorn upon the other. Then

again he frowned.

  "Peter flung my arm," he said, wincing, "to a crocodile that

happened to be passing by."

  "I have often," said Smee, "noticed your strange dread of

crocodiles."

  "Not of crocodiles," Hook corrected him, "but of that one

crocodile." He lowered his voice. "It liked my arm so much, Smee, that

it has followed me ever since, from sea to sea and from land to

land, licking its lips for the rest of me."

  "In a way," said Smee, "it's a sort of compliment."

  "I want no such compliments," Hook barked petulantly. "I want

Peter Pan, who first gave the brute its taste for me."

  He sat down on a large mushroom, and now there was a quiver in his

voice. "Smee," he said huskily, "that crocodile would have had me

before this, but by a lucky chance it swallowed a clock which goes

tick tick inside it, and so before it can reach me I hear the tick and

bolt." He laughed, but in a hollow way.

  "Some day," said Smee, "the clock will run down, and then he'll

get you."

  Hook wetted his dry lips. "Ay," he said, "that's the fear that

haunts me."

  Since sitting down he had felt curiously warm. "Smee," he said,

"this seat is hot." He jumped up. "Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, I'm

burning."

  They examined the mushroom, which was of a size and solidity unknown

on the mainland; they tried to pull it up, and it came away at once in

their hands, for it had no root. Stranger still, smoke began at once

to ascend. The pirates looked at each other. "A chimney!" they both

exclaimed.

  They had indeed discovered the chimney of the home under the ground.

It was the custom of the boys to stop it with a mushroom when

enemies were in the neighbourhood.

  Not only smoke came out of it. There came also children's voices,

for so safe did the boys feel in their hiding-place that they were

gaily chattering. The pirates listened grimly, and then replaced the

mushroom. They looked around them and noted the holes in the seven

trees.

  "Did you hear them say Peter Pan's from home?" Smee whispered,

fidgeting with Johnny Corkscrew.

  Hook nodded. He stood for a long time lost in thought, and at last a

curdling smile lit up his swarthy face. Smee had been waiting for

it. "Unrip your plan, captain," he cried eagerly.

  "To return to the ship," Hook replied slowly through his teeth, "and

cook a large rich cake of a jolly thickness with green sugar on it.

There can be but one room below, for there is but one chimney. The

silly moles had not the sense to see that they did not need a door

apiece. That shows they have no mother. We will leave the cake on

the shore of the Mermaids' Lagoon. These boys are always swimming

about there, playing with the mermaids. They will find the cake and

they will gobble it up, because, having no mother, they don't know how

dangerous 'tis to eat rich damp cake." He burst into laughter, not

hollow laughter now, but honest laughter. "Aha, they will die!"

  Smee had listened with growing admiration.

  "It's the wickedest, prettiest policy ever I heard of!" he cried,

and in their exultation they danced and sang:

                 "Avast, belay, when I appear,

                   By fear they're overtook,

             Nought's left upon your bones when you

               Have shaken claws with Cook."

  They began the verse, but they never finished it, for another

sound broke in and stilled them. It was at first such a tiny sound

that a leaf might have fallen on it and smothered it, but as it came

nearer it was more distinct.

  Tick tick tick tick!

  Hook stood shuddering, one foot in the air.

  "The crocodile!" he gasped, and bounded away, followed by his

bo'sun.

  It was indeed the crocodile. It had passed the redskins, who were

now on the trail of the other pirates. It oozed on after Hook.

  Once more the boys emerged into the open; but the dangers of the

night were not yet over, for presently Nibs rushed breathless into

their midst, pursued by a pack of wolves. The tongues of the

pursuers were hanging out; the baying of them was horrible.

  "Save me, save me!" cried Nibs, falling on the ground.

  "But what can we do, what can we do?"

  It was a high compliment to Peter that at that dire moment their

thoughts turned to him.

  "What would Peter do?" they cried simultaneously.

  Almost in the same breath they cried, "Peter would look at them

through his legs."

  And then, "Let us do what Peter would do."

  It is quite the most successful way of defying wolves, and as one

boy they bent and looked through their legs. The next moment is the

long one, but victory came quickly, for as the boys advanced upon them

in this terrible attitude, the wolves dropped their tails and fled.

  Now Nibs rose from the ground, and the others thought that his

staring eyes still saw the wolves. But it was not wolves he saw.

  "I have seen a wonderfuller thing," he cried, as they gathered round

him eagerly. "A great white bird. It is flying this way."

  "What kind of a bird, do you think?"

  "I don't know," Nibs said, awestruck, "but it looks so weary, and as

it flies it moans, 'Poor Wendy.'"

  "Poor Wendy?"

  "I remember," said Slightly instantly, "there are birds called

Wendies."

  "See, it comes!" cried Curly, pointing to Wendy in the heavens.

  Wendy was now almost overhead, and they could hear her plaintive

cry. But more distinct came the shrill voice of Tinker Bell. The

jealous fairy had now cast off all disguise of friendship, and was

darting at her victim from every direction, pinching savagely each

time she touched.

  "Hullo, Tink," cried the wondering boys.

  Tink's reply rang out: "Peter wants you to shoot the Wendy."

  It was not in their nature to question when Peter ordered. "Let us

do what Peter wishes," cried the simple boys. "Quick, bows and

arrows!"

  All but Tootles popped down their trees. He had a bow and arrow with

him, and Tink noted it, and rubbed her little hands.

  "Quick, Tootles, quick," she screamed. "Peter will be so pleased."

  Tootles excitedly fitted the arrow to his bow. "Out of the way,

Tink," he shouted, and then he fired, and Wendy fluttered to the

ground with an arrow in her breast.

                             CHAPTER VI.

                          THE LITTLE HOUSE.

  Foolish Tootles was standing like a conqueror over Wendy's body when

the other boys sprang, armed, from their trees.

  "You are too late," he cried proudly, "I have shot the Wendy.

Peter will be so pleased with me."

  Overhead Tinker Bell shouted "Silly ass!" and darted into hiding.

The others did not hear her.

  They had crowded round Wendy, and as they looked a terrible

silence fell upon the wood. If Wendy's heart had been beating they

would all have heard it.

  Slightly was the first to speak. "This is no bird," he said in a

scared voice. "I think it must be a lady."

  "A lady?" said Tootles, and fell a-trembling.

  "And we have killed her," Nibs said hoarsely.

  They all whipped off their caps.

  "Now I see," Curly said; "Peter was bringing her to us." He threw

himself sorrowfully on the ground.

  "A lady to take care of us at last," said one of the twins, "and you

have killed her!"

  They were sorry for him, but sorrier for themselves, and when he

took a step nearer them they turned from him.

  Tootles' face was very white, but there was a dignity about him

now that had never been there before.

  "I did it," he said, reflecting. "When ladies used to come to me

in dreams, I said, 'Pretty mother, pretty mother.' But when at last

she really came, I shot her."

  He moved slowly away.

  "Don't go," they called in pity.

  "I must," he answered, shaking; "I am so afraid of Peter."

  It was at this tragic moment that they heard a sound which made

the heart of every one of them rise to his mouth. They heard Peter

crow.

  "Peter!" they cried, for it was always thus that he signalled his

return.

  "Hide her," they whispered, and gathered hastily around Wendy. But

Tootles stood aloof.

  Again came that ringing crow, and Peter dropped in front of them.

"Greeting, boys," he cried, and mechanically they saluted, and then

again was silence.

  He frowned.

  "I am back," he said hotly, "why do you not cheer?"

  They opened their mouths, but the cheers would not come. He

overlooked it in his haste to tell the glorious tidings.

  "Great news, boys," he cried, "I have brought at last a mother for

you all?"

  Still no sound, except a little thud from Tootles as he dropped on

his knees.

  "Have you not seen her?" asked Peter, becoming troubled. "She flew

this way."

  "Ah me!" one voice said, and another said, "Oh, mournful day!"

  Tootles, rose. "Peter," he said quietly, "I will show her to you,"

and when the others would still have hidden her he said, "Back, twins,

let Peter see."

  So they all stood back, and let him see, and after he had looked for

a little time he did not know what to do next.

  "She is dead," he said uncomfortably. "Perhaps she is frightened

at being dead."

  He thought of hopping off in a comic sort of way till he was out

of sight of her, and then never going near the spot any more. They

would all have been glad to follow if he had done this.

  But there was the arrow. He took it from her heart and faced his

band.

  "Whose arrow?" he demanded sternly.

  "Mine, Peter," said Tootles on his knees.

  "Oh, dastard hand," Peter said, and he raised the arrow to use it as

a dagger.

  Tootles did not flinch. He bared his breast. "Strike, Peter," he

said firmly, "strike true."

  Twice did Peter raise the arrow, and twice did his hand fall. "I

cannot strike," he said with awe, "there is something stays my hand."

  All looked at him in wonder, save Nibs, who fortunately looked at

Wendy.

  "It is she," he cried, "the Wendy lady, see, her arm!"

  Wonderful to relate, Wendy had raised her arm. Nibs bent over her

and listened reverently. "I think she said 'Poor Tootles,'" he

whispered.

  "She lives," Peter said briefly.

  Slightly cried instantly, "The Wendy lady lives."

  Then Peter knelt beside her and found his button. You remember she

had put it on a chain that she wore round her neck.

  "See," he said, "the arrow struck against this. It is the kiss I

gave her. It has saved her life."

  "I remember kisses," Slightly interposed quickly, "let me see it.

Ay, that's a kiss."

  Peter did not hear him. He was begging Wendy to get better

quickly, so that he could show her the mermaids. Of course she could

not answer yet, being still in a frightful faint; but from overhead

came a wailing note.

  "Listen to Tink," said Curly, "she is crying because the Wendy

lives."

  Then they had to tell Peter of Tink's crime, and almost never had

they seen him look so stern.

  "Listen, Tinker Bell," he cried, "I am your friend no more. Begone

from me forever."

  She flew on to his shoulder and pleaded, but he brushed her off. Not

until Wendy again raised her arm did he relent sufficiently to say,

"Well, not forever, but for a whole week."

  Do you think Tinker Bell was grateful to Wendy for raising her

arm? Oh dear no, never wanted to pinch her so much. Fairies indeed are

strange, and Peter, who understood them best, often cuffed them.

  But what to do with Wendy in her present delicate state of health?

  "Let us carry her down into the house," Curly suggested.

  "Ay," said Slightly, "that is what one does with ladies."

  "No, no," Peter said, "you must not touch her. It would not be

sufficiently respectful."

  "That," said Slightly, "is what I was thinking."

  "But if she lies there," Tootles said, "she will die."

  "Ay, she will die," Slightly admitted, "but there is no way out."

  "Yes, there is," cried Peter. "Let us build a little house round

her."

  They were all delighted. "Quick," he ordered them, "bring me each of

you the best of what we have. Gut our house. Be sharp."

  In a moment they were as busy as tailors the night before a wedding.

They skurried this way and that, down for bedding, up for firewood,

and while they were at it, who should appear but John and Michael.

As they dragged along the ground they fell asleep standing, stopped,

woke up, moved another step and slept again.

  "John, John," Michael would cry, "wake up! Where is Nana, John,

and mother?"

  And then John would rub his eyes and mutter, "It is true, we did

fly."

  You may be sure they were very relieved to find Peter.

  "Hullo, Peter," they said.

  "Hullo," replied Peter amicably, though he had quite forgotten them.

He was very busy at the moment measuring Wendy with his feet to see

how large a house she would need. Of course he meant to leave room for

chairs and a table. John and Michael watched him.

  "Is Wendy asleep?" they asked.

  "Yes."

  "John," Michael proposed, "let us wake her and get her to make

supper for us," and as he said it some of the other boys rushed on

carrying branches for the building of the house. "Look at them!" he

cried.

  "Curly," said Peter in his most captainy voice, "see that these boys

help in the building of the house."

  "Ay, ay, sir."

  "Build a house?" exclaimed John.

  "For the Wendy," said Curly.

  "For Wendy?" John said, aghast. "Why, she is only a girl!"

  "That," explained Curly, "is why we are her servants."

  "You? Wendy's servants!"

  "Yes," said Peter, "and you also. Away with them."

  The astounded brothers were dragged away to hack and hew and

carry. "Chairs and a fender first," Peter ordered. "Then we shall

build the house round them."

  "Ay," said Slightly, "that is how a house is built; it all comes

back to me."

  Peter thought of everything. "Slightly," he cried, "fetch a doctor."

  "Ay, ay," said Slightly at once, and disappeared, scratching his

head. But he knew Peter must be obeyed, and he returned in a moment,

wearing John's hat and looking solemn.

  "Please, sir," said Peter, going to him, "are you a doctor?"

  The difference between him and the other boys at such a time was

that they knew it was make-believe, while to him make-believe and true

were exactly the same thing. This sometimes troubled them, as when

they had to make-believe that they had had their dinners.

  If they broke down in their make-believe he rapped them on the

knuckles.

  "Yes, my little man," anxiously replied Slightly, who had chapped

knuckles.

  "Please, sir," Peter explained, "a lady lies very ill."

  She was lying at their feet, but Slightly had the sense not to see

her.

  "Tut, tut, tut," he said, "where does she lie?"

  "In yonder glade."

  "I will put a glass thing in her mouth," said Slightly, and he

made-believe to do it, while Peter waited. It was an anxious moment

when the glass thing was withdrawn.

  "How is she?" inquired Peter.

  "Tut, tut, tut," said Slightly, "this has cured her."

  "I am glad!" Peter cried.

  "I will call again in the evening," Slightly said; "give her beef

tea out of a cup with a spout to it"; but after he had returned the

hat to John he blew big breaths, which was his habit on escaping

from a difficulty.

  In the meantime the wood had been alive with the sound of axes;

almost everything needed for a cosy dwelling already lay at Wendy's

feet.

  "If only we knew," said one, "the kind of house she likes best."

  "Peter," shouted another, "she is moving in her sleep."

  "Her mouth opens," cried a third, looking respectfully into it. "Oh,

lovely!"

  "Perhaps she is going to sing in her sleep," said Peter. "Wendy,

sing the kind of house you would like to have."

  Immediately, without opening her eyes, Wendy began to sing:

                  "I wish I had a pretty house,

                    The littlest ever seen,

                  With funny little red walls

                  And roof of mossy green."

  They gurgled with joy at this, for by the greatest good luck the

branches they had brought were sticky with red sap, and all the ground

was carpeted with moss. As they rattled up the little house they broke

into song themselves:

             "We've built the little walls and roof

                   And made a lovely door,

                 So tell us, mother Wendy,

               What are you wanting more?"

  To this she answered rather greedily:

               "Oh, really next I think I'll have

                 Gay windows all about,

               With roses peeping in, you know,

                 And babies peeping out"

  With a blow of their fists they made windows, and large yellow

leaves were the blinds. But roses-?

  "Roses!" cried Peter sternly.

  Quickly they made-believe to grow the loveliest roses up the walls.

  Babies?

  To prevent Peter ordering babies they hurried into song again:

               "We've made the roses peeping out,

                   The babes are at the door,

               We cannot make ourselves, you know,

                 'Cos we've been made before."

  Peter, seeing this to be a good idea, at once pretended that it

was his own. The house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was

very cosy within, though, of course, they could no longer see her.

Peter strode up and down, ordering finishing touches. Nothing

escaped his eagle eye. Just when it seemed absolutely finished,

  "There's no knocker on the door," he said.

  They were very ashamed, but Tootles gave the sole of his shoe, and

it made an excellent knocker.

  Absolutely finished now, they thought.

  Not a bit of it. "There's no chimney," Peter said; "we must have a

chimney."

  "It certainly does need a chimney," said John importantly. This gave

Peter an idea. He snatched the hat off John's head, knocked out the

bottom, and put the hat on the roof. The little house was so pleased

to have such a capital chimney that, as if to say thank you, smoke

immediately began to come out of the hat.

  Now really and truly it was finished. Nothing remained to do but

to knock.

  "All look your best," Peter warned them; "first impressions are

awfully important."

  He was glad no one asked him what first impressions are; they were

all too busy looking their best.

  He knocked politely, and now the wood was as still as the

children, not a sound to be heard except from Tinker Bell, who was

watching from a branch and openly sneering.

  What the boys were wondering was, would anyone answer the knock?

If a lady, what would she be like?

  The door opened and a lady came out. It was Wendy. They all

whipped off their hats.

  She looked properly surprised, and this was just how they had

hoped she would look.

  "Where am I?" she said.

  Of course Slightly was the first to get his word in. "Wendy lady,"

he said rapidly, "for you we built this house."

  "Oh, say you're pleased," cried Nibs.

  "Lovely, darling house," Wendy said, and they were the very words

they had hoped she would say.

  "And we are your children," cried the twins.

  Then all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried, "O

Wendy lady, be our mother."

  "Ought I?" Wendy said, all shining. "Of course it's frightfully

fascinating, but you see I am only a little girl. I have no real

experience."

  "That doesn't matter," said Peter, as if he were the only person

present who knew all about it, though he was really the one who knew

least. "What we need is just a nice motherly person."

  "Oh dear!" Wendy said, "you see I feel that is exactly what I am."

  "It is, it is," they all cried; "we saw it at once."

  "Very well," she said, "I will do my best. Come inside at once,

you naughty children; I am sure your feet are damp. And before I put

you to bed I have just time to finish the story of Cinderella."

  In they went; I don't know how there was room for them, but you

can squeeze very tight in the Neverland. And that was the first of the

many joyous evenings they had with Wendy. By and by she tucked them up

in the great bed in the home under the trees, but she herself slept

that night in the little house, and Peter kept watch outside with

drawn sword, for the pirates could be heard carousing far away and the

wolves were on the prowl. The little house looked so cosy and safe

in the darkness, with a bright light showing through its blinds, and

the chimney smoking beautifully, and Peter standing on guard. After

a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him

on their way home from an orgy. Any of the other boys obstructing

the fairy path at night they would have mischiefed, but they just

tweaked Peter's nose and passed on.

                             CHAPTER VII.

                      THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND.

  One of the first things Peter did next day was to measure Wendy

and John and Michael for hollow trees. Hook, you remember, had sneered

at the boys for thinking they needed a tree apiece, but this was

ignorance, for unless your tree fitted you it was difficult to go up

and down, and no two of the boys were quite the same size. Once you

fitted, you drew in your breath at the top, and down you went at

exactly the right speed, while to ascend you drew in and let out

alternately, and so wriggled up. Of course, when you have mastered the

action you are able to do these things without thinking of them, and

then nothing can be more graceful.

  But you simply must fit, and Peter measures you for your tree as

carefully as for a suit of clothes: the only difference being that the

clothes are made to fit you, while you have to be made to fit the

tree. Usually it is done quite easily, as by your wearing too many

garments or too few, but if you are bumpy in awkward places or the

only available tree is an odd shape, Peter does some things to you,

and after that you fit. Once you fit, great care must be taken to go

on fitting, and this, as Wendy was to discover to her delight, keeps a

whole family in perfect condition.

  Wendy and Michael fitted their trees at the first try, but John

had to be altered a little.

  After a few days' practice they could go up and down as gaily as

buckets in a well. And how ardently they grew to love their home under

the ground; especially Wendy! It consisted of one large room, as all

houses should do, with a floor in which you could dig if you wanted to

go fishing, and in this floor grew stout mushrooms of a charming

colour, which were used as stools. A Never tree tried hard to grow

in the centre of the room, but every morning they sawed the trunk

through, level with the floor. By tea-time it was always about two

feet high, and then they put a door on top of it, the whole thus

becoming a table; as soon as they cleared away, they sawed off the

trunk again, and thus there was more room to play. There was an

enormous fireplace which was in almost any part of the room where

you cared to light it, and across this Wendy stretched strings, made

of fibre, from which she suspended her washing. The bed was tilted

against the wall by day, and let down at 6:30, when it filled nearly

half the room; and all the boys slept in it, except Michael, lying

like sardines in a tin. There was a strict rule against turning

round until one gave the signal, when all turned at once. Michael

should have used it also, but Wendy would have a baby, and he was

the littlest, and you know what women are, and the short and the

long of it is that he was hung up in a basket.

  It was rough and simple, and not unlike what baby bears would have

made of an underground house in the same circumstances. But there

was one recess in the wall, no larger than a bird-cage, which was

the private apartment of Tinker Bell. It could be shut off from the

rest of the home by a tiny curtain, which Tink, who was most

fastidious, always kept drawn when dressing or undressing. No woman,

however large, could have had a more exquisite boudoir and bed-chamber

combined. The couch, as she always called it, was a genuine Queen Mab,

with club legs; and she varied the bedspreads according to what

fruit-blossom was in season. Her mirror was a Puss-in-boots, of

which there are now only three, unchipped, known to the fairy dealers;

the wash-stand was Pie-crust and reversible, the chest of drawers an

authentic Charming the Sixth, and the carpet and rugs of the best (the

early) period of Margery and Robin. There was a chandelier from

Tiddlywinks for the look of the thing, but of course she lit the

residence herself Tink was very contemptuous of the rest of the house,

as indeed was perhaps inevitable, and her chamber, though beautiful,

looked rather conceited, having the appearance of a nose permanently

turned up.

  I suppose it was all especially entrancing to Wendy, because those

rampagious boys of hers gave her so much to do. Really there were

whole weeks when, except perhaps with a stocking in the evening, she

was never above ground. The cooking, I can tell you, kept her nose

to the pot, and even if there was nothing in it, even though there was

no pot, she had to keep watching that it came aboil just the same. You

never exactly knew whether there would be a real meal or just a

make-believe, it all depended upon Peter's whim: he could eat,

really eat, if it was part of a game, but he could not stodge just

to feel stodgy, which is what most children like better than

anything else; the next best thing being to talk about it.

Make-believe was so real to him that during a meal of it you could see

him getting rounder. Of course it was trying, but you simply had to

follow his lead, and if you could prove to him that you were getting

loose for your tree he let you stodge.

  Wendy's favourite time for sewing and darning was after they had all

gone to bed. Then, as she expressed it, she had a breathing time for

herself; and she occupied it in making new things for them, and

putting double pieces on the knees, for they were all most frightfully

hard on their knees.

  When she sat down to a basketful of their stockings, every heel with

a hole in it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim, "Oh dear, I

am sure I sometimes think spinsters are to be envied!" Her face beamed

when she exclaimed this.

  You remember about her pet wolf Well, it very soon discovered that

she had come to the island and found her out, and they just ran into

each other's arms. After that it followed her about everywhere.

  As time wore on did she think much about the beloved parents she had

left behind her? This is a difficult question, because it is quite

impossible to say how time does wear on in the Neverland, where it

is calculated by moons and suns, and there are ever so many more of

them than on the mainland. But I am afraid that Wendy did not really

worry about her father and mother, she was absolutely confident that

they would always keep the window open for her to fly back by, and

this gave her complete ease of mind. What did disturb her at times was

that John remembered his parents vaguely only, as people he had once

known, while Michael was quite willing to believe that she was

really his mother. These things scared her a little, and nobly anxious

to do her duty, she tried to fix the old life in their minds by

setting them examination papers on it, as like as possible to the ones

she used to do at school. The other boys thought this awfully

interesting, and insisted on joining, and they made slates for

themselves, and sat round the table, writing and thinking hard about

the questions she had written on another slate and passed round.

They were the most ordinary questions- "What was the colour of

Mother's eyes? Which was taller, Father or Mother? Was Mother blonde

or brunette? Answer all three questions if possible." "(A) Write an

essay of not less than 40 words on How I spent my last Holidays, or

The Carakters of Father and Mother compared. Only one of these to be

attempted." Or "(1) Describe Mother's laugh; (2) Describe Father's

laugh; (3) Describe Mother's Party Dress; (4) Describe the Kennel

and its Inmate."

  They were just everyday questions like these, and when you could not

answer them you were told to make a cross; and it was really

dreadful what a number of crosses even John made. Of course the only

boy who replied to every question was Slightly, and no one could

have been more hopeful of coming out first, but his answers were

perfectly ridiculous, and he really came out last: a melancholy thing.

  Peter did not compete. For one thing he despised all mothers

except Wendy, and for another he was the only boy on the island who

could neither write nor spell; not the smallest word. He was above all

that sort of thing.

  By the way, the questions were all written in the past tense. What

was the colour of Mother's eyes, and so on. Wendy, you see, had been

forgetting too.

  Adventures, of course, as we shall see, were of daily occurrence;

but about this time Peter invented, with Wendy's help, a new game that

fascinated him enormously, until he suddenly had no more interest in

it, which, as you have been told, was what always happened with his

games. It consisted in pretending not to have adventures, in doing the

sort of thing John and Michael had been doing all their lives, sitting

on stools flinging balls in the air, pushing each other, going out for

walks and coming back without having killed so much as a grizzly. To

see Peter doing nothing on a stool was a great sight; he could not

help looking solemn at such times, to sit still seemed to him such a

comic thing to do. He boasted that he had gone a walk for the good

of his health. For several suns these were the most novel of all

adventures to him; and John and Michael had to pretend to be delighted

also; otherwise he would have treated them severely.

  He often went out alone, and when he came back you were never

absolutely certain whether he had had an adventure or not. He might

have forgotten it so completely that he said nothing about it; and

then when you went out you found the body; and, on the other hand,

he might say a great deal about it, and yet you could not find the

body. Sometimes he came home with his head bandaged, and then Wendy

cooed over him and bathed it in lukewarm water, while he told a

dazzling tale. But she was never quite sure, you know. There were,

however, many adventures which she knew to be true because she was

in them herself, and there were still more that were at least partly

true, for the other boys were in them and said they were wholly

true. To describe them all would require a book as large as an

English-Latin, Latin-English Dictionary, and the most we can do is

to give one as a specimen of an average hour on the island. The

difficulty is which one to choose. Should we take the brush with the

redskins at Slightly Gulch? It was a sanguinary affair, and especially

interesting as showing one of Peter's peculiarities, which was that in

the middle of a fight he would suddenly change sides. At the Gulch,

when victory was still in the balance, sometimes leaning this way

and sometimes that, he called out, "I'm redskin to-day; what are

you, Tootles?" And Tootles answered, "Redskin; what are you, Nibs?"

and Nibs said, "Redskin; what are you, Twin?" and so on; and they were

all redskin; and of course this would have ended the fight had not the

real redskins, fascinated by Peter's methods, agreed to be lost boys

for that once, and so at it they all went again, more fiercely than

ever.

  The extraordinary upshot of this adventure was- but we have not

decided yet that this is the adventure we are to narrate. Perhaps a

better one would be the night attack by the redskins on the house

under the ground, when several of them stuck in the hollow trees and

had to be pulled out like corks. Or we might tell how Peter saved

Tiger Lily's life in the Mermaids' Lagoon, and so made her his ally.

  Or we could tell of that cake the pirates cooked so that the boys

might eat it and perish; and how they placed it in one cunning spot

after another; but always Wendy snatched it from the hands of her

children, so that in time it lost its succulence, and became as hard

as stone, and was used as a missile, and Hook fell over it in the

dark.

  Or suppose we tell of the birds that were Peter's friends,

particularly of the Never bird that built in a tree overhanging the

lagoon, and how the nest fell into the water, and still the bird sat

on her eggs, and Peter gave orders that she was not to be disturbed.

That is a pretty story, and the end shows how grateful a bird can

be; but if we tell it we must also tell the whole adventure of the

lagoon, which would of course be telling two adventures rather than

just one. A shorter adventure, and quite as exciting, was Tinker

Bell's attempt, with the help of some street fairies, to have the

sleeping Wendy conveyed on a great floating leaf to the mainland.

Fortunately the leaf gave way and Wendy woke, thinking it was

bath-time, and swam back. Or again, we might choose Peter's defiance

of the lions, when he drew a circle round him on the ground with an

arrow and dared them to cross it; and though he waited for hours, with

the other boys and Wendy looking on breathlessly from trees, not one

of them would accept his challenge.

  Which of these adventures shall we choose? The best way will be to

toss for it.

  I have tossed, and the lagoon has won. This almost makes one wish

that the gulch or the cake or Tink's leaf had won. Of course I could

do it again, and make it best out of three; however, perhaps fairest

to stick to the lagoon.

                            CHAPTER VIII.

                        THE MERMAID'S LAGOON.

  If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a

shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness;

then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take

shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another squeeze

they must go on fire. But just before they go on fire you see the

lagoon. This is the nearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just

one heavenly moment; if there could be two moments you might see the

surf and hear the mermaids singing.

  The children often spent long summer days on this lagoon, swimming

or floating most of the time, playing the mermaid games in the

water, and so forth. You must not think from this that the mermaids

were on friendly terms with them: on the contrary, it was among

Wendy's lasting regrets that all the time she was on the island she

never had a civil word from one of them. When she stole softly to

the edge of the lagoon she might see them by the score, especially

on Marooners' Rock, where they loved to bask, combing out their hair

in a lazy way that quite irritated her; or she might even swim, on

tiptoe as it were, to within a yard of them, but then they saw her and

dived, probably splashing her with their tails, not by accident, but

intentionally.

  They treated all the boys in the same way, except of course Peter,

who chatted with them on Marooners' Rock by the hour and sat on

their tails when they got cheeky. He gave Wendy one of their combs.

  The most haunting time at which to see them is at the turn of the

moon, when they utter strange wailing cries; but the lagoon is

dangerous for mortals then, and until the evening of which we have now

to tell, Wendy had never seen the lagoon by moonlight, less from fear,

for of course Peter would have accompanied her, than because she had

strict rules about every one being in bed by seven. She was often at

the lagoon, however, on sunny days after rain, when the mermaids

come up in extraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles. The

bubbles of many colours made in rainbow water they treat as balls,

hitting them gaily from one to another with their tails, and trying to

keep them in the rainbow till they burst. The goals are at each end of

the rainbow, and the keepers only are allowed to use their hands.

Sometimes a dozen of these games will be going on in the lagoon at a

time, and it is quite a pretty sight.

  But the moment the children tried to join in they had to play by

themselves, for the mermaids immediately disappeared. Nevertheless

we have proof that they secretly watched the interlopers, and were not

above taking an idea from them; for John introduced a new way of

hitting the bubble, with the head instead of the hand, and the

mermaids adopted it. This is the one mark that John has left on the

Neverland.

  It must also have been rather pretty to see the children resting

on a rock for half an hour after their mid-day meal. Wendy insisted on

their doing this, and it had to be a real rest even though the meal

was make-believe. So they lay there in the sun, and their bodies

glistened in it, while she sat beside them and looked important.

  It was one such day, and they were all on Marooners' Rock. The

rock was not much larger than their great bed, but of course they

all knew how not to take up much room, and they were dozing or at

least lying with their eyes shut, and pinching occasionally when

they thought Wendy was not looking. She was very busy stitching.

  While she stitched a change came to the lagoon. Little shivers ran

over it, and the sun went away and shadows stole across the water,

turning it cold. Wendy could no longer see to thread her needle, and

when she looked up, the lagoon that had always hitherto been such a

laughing place seemed formidable and unfriendly.

  It was not, she knew, that night had come, but something as dark

as night had come. No, worse than that. It had not come, but it had

sent that shiver through the sea to say that it was coming. What was

it?

  There crowded upon her all the stories she had been told of

Marooners' Rock, so called because evil captains put sailors on it and

leave them there to drown. They drown when the tide rises, for then it

is submerged.

  Of course she should have roused the children at once; not merely

because of the unknown that was stalking toward them, but because it

was no longer good for them to sleep on a rock grown chilly. But she

was a young mother and she did not know this; she thought you simply

must stick to your rule about half an hour after the mid-day meal. So,

though fear was upon her, and she longed to hear male voices, she

would not waken them. Even when she heard the sound of muffled oars,

though her heart was in her mouth, she did not waken them. She stood

over them to let them have their sleep out. Was it not brave of Wendy?

  It was well for those boys then that there was one among them who

could sniff danger even in his sleep. Peter sprang erect, as wide

awake at once as a dog, and with one warning cry he roused the others.

  He stood motionless, one hand to his ear. "Pirates!" he cried. The

others came closer to him. A strange smile was playing about his face,

and Wendy saw it and shuddered. While that smile was on his face no

one dared address him; all they could do was to stand ready to obey.

The order came sharp and incisive.

  "Dive!"

  There was a gleam of legs, and instantly the lagoon seemed deserted.

Marooners' Rock stood alone in the forbidding waters, as if it were

itself marooned.

  The boat drew nearer. It was the pirate dinghy, with three figures

in her, Smee and Starkey, and the third a captive, no other than Tiger

Lily. Her hands and ankles were tied, and she knew what was to be

her fate. She was to be left on the rock to perish, an end to one of

her race more terrible than death by fire or torture, for is it not

written in the book of the tribe that there is no path through water

to the happy hunting-ground? Yet her face was impassive; she was the

daughter of a chief, she must die as a chief's daughter, it is enough.

  They had caught her boarding the pirate ship with a knife in her

mouth. No watch was kept on the ship, it being Hook's boast that the

wind of his name guarded the ship for a mile around. Now her fate

would help to guard it also. One more wall would go the round in

that wind by night.

  In the gloom that they brought with them the two pirates did not see

the rock till they crashed into it.

  "Luff, you lubber," cried an Irish voice that was Smee's; "here's

the rock. Now, then, what we have to do is to hoist the redskin on

to it and leave her there to drown."

  It was the work of one brutal moment to land the beautiful girl on

the rock; she was too proud to offer a vain resistance.

  Quite near the rock, but out of sight, two heads were bobbing up and

down, Peter's and Wendy's. Wendy was crying, for it was the first

tragedy she had seen. Peter had seen many tragedies, but he had

forgotten them all. He was less sorry than Wendy for Tiger Lily: it

was two against one that angered him, and he meant to save her. An

easy way would have been to wait until the pirates had gone, but he

was never one to choose the easy way.

  There was almost nothing he could not do, and he now imitated the

voice of Hook.

  "Ahoy there, you lubbers!" he called. It was a marvellous imitation.

  "The captain!" said the pirates, staring at each other in surprise.

  "He must be swimming out to us," Starkey said, when they had

looked for him in vain.

  "We are putting the redskin on the rock," Smee called out.

  "Set her free," came the astonishing answer.

  "Free!"

  "Yes, cut her bonds and let her go."

  "But, captain-"

  "At once, d'ye hear," cried Peter, "or I'll plunge my hook in you."

  "This is queer!" Smee gasped.

  "Better do what the captain orders," said Starkey nervously.

  "Ay, ay," Smee said, and he cut Tiger Lily's cords. At once like

an eel she slid between Starkey's legs into the water.

  Of course Wendy was very elated over Peter's cleverness; but she

knew that he would be elated also and very likely crow and thus betray

himself, so at once her hand went out to cover his mouth. But it was

stayed even in the act, for "Boat ahoy!" rang over the lagoon in

Hook's voice, but this time it was not Peter who had spoken.

  Peter may have been about to crow, but his face puckered in a

whistle of surprise instead.

  "Boat ahoy!" again came the voice.

  Now Wendy understood. The real Hook was also in the water.

  He was swimming to the boat, and as his men showed a light to

guide him he had soon reached them. In the light of the lantern

Wendy saw his hook grip the boat's side; she saw his evil swarthy face

as he rose dripping from the water, and, quaking, she would have liked

to swim away, but Peter would not budge. He was tingling with life and

also top-heavy with conceit. "Am I not a wonder, oh, I am a wonder!"

he whispered to her, and though she thought so also, she was really

glad for the sake of his reputation that no one heard him except

herself.

  He signed to her to listen.

  The two pirates were very curious to know what had brought their

captain to them, but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of

profound melancholy.

  "Captain, is all well?" they asked timidly, but he answered with a

hollow moan.

  "He sighs," said Smee.

  "He sighs again," said Starkey.

  "And yet a third time he sighs," said Smee.

  "What's up, captain?"

  Then at last he spoke passionately.

  "The game's up," he cried, "those boys have found a mother."

  Affrighted though she was, Wendy swelled with pride.

  "O evil day!" cried Starkey.

  "What's a mother?" asked the ignorant Smee.

  Wendy was so shocked that she exclaimed, "He doesn't know!" and

always after this she felt that if you could have a pet pirate Smee

would be her one.

  Peter pulled her beneath the water, for Hook had started up, crying,

"What was that?"

  "I heard nothing," said Starkey, raising the lantern over the

waters, and as the pirates looked they saw a strange sight. It was the

nest I have told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the Never bird

was sitting on it.

  "See," said Hook in answer to Smee's question, "that is a mother.

What a lesson! The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the

mother desert her eggs? No."

  There was a break in his voice, as if for a moment he recalled

innocent days when- but he brushed away this weakness with his hook.

  Smee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was borne

past, but the more suspicious Starkey said, "If she is a mother,

perhaps she is hanging about here to help Peter."

  Hook winced. "Ay," he said, "that is the fear that haunts me."

  He was roused from this dejection by Smee's eager voice.

  "Captain," said Smee, "could we not kidnap these boys' mother and

make her our mother?"

  "It is a princely scheme," cried Hook, and at once it took practical

shape in his great brain. "We will seize the children and carry them

to the boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and Wendy shall

be our mother."

  Again Wendy forgot herself.

  "Never!" she cried, and bobbed.

  "What was that?"

  But they could see nothing. They thought it must have been but a

leaf in the wind. "Do you agree, my bullies?" asked Hook.

  "There is my hand on it," they both said.

  "And there is my hook. Swear."

  They all swore. By this time they were on the rock, and suddenly

Hook remembered Tiger Lily.

  "Where is the redskin?" he demanded abruptly.

  He had a playful humour at moments, and they thought this was one of

the moments.

  "That is all right, captain," Smee answered complacently; "we let

her go."

  "Let her go!" cried Hook.

  "'Twas your own orders," the bo'sun faltered.

  "You called over the water to us to let her go," said Starkey.

  "Brimstone and gall," thundered Hook, "what cozening is here!" His

face had gone black with rage, but he saw that they believed their

words, and he was startled. "Lads," he said, shaking a little, "I gave

no such order."

  "It is passing queer," Smee said, and they all fidgeted

uncomfortably. Hook raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it.

  "Spirit that haunts this dark lagoon to-night," he cried, "dost hear

me?"

  Of course Peter should have kept quiet, but of course he did not. He

immediately answered in Hook's voice:

  "Odds, bobs, hammer and tongs, I hear you."

  In that supreme moment Hook did not blanch, even at the gills, but

Smee and Starkey clung to each other in terror.

  "Who are you, stranger, speak?" Hook demanded.

  "I am James Hook," replied the voice, "captain of the Jolly Roger"

  "You are not; you are not," Hook cried hoarsely.

  "Brimstone and gall," the voice retorted, "say that again, and

I'll cast anchor in you."

  Hook tried a more ingratiating manner. "If you are Hook," he said

almost humbly, "come tell me, who am I?"

  "A codfish," replied the voice, "only a codfish."

  "A codfish!" Hook echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till

then, that his proud spirit broke. He saw his men draw back from him.

  "Have we been captained all this time by a codfish!" they

muttered. "It is lowering to our pride."

  They were his dogs snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had

become, he scarcely heeded them. Against such fearful evidence it

was not their belief in him that he needed, it was his own. He felt

his ego slipping from him. "Don't desert me, bully," he whispered

hoarsely to it.

  In his dark nature there was a touch of the feminine, as in all

the greatest pirates, and it sometimes gave him intuitions. Suddenly

he tried the guessing game.

  "Hook," he called, "have you another voice?"

  Now Peter could never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his

own voice, "I have."

  "And another name?"

  "Ay, ay."

  "Vegetable?" asked Hook.

  "No."

  "Mineral?"

  "No."

  "Animal?"

  "Yes."

  "Man?"

  "No!" This answer rang out scornfully.

  "Boy?"

  "Yes."

  "Ordinary boy?"

  "No!"

  "Wonderful boy?"

  To Wendy's pain the answer that rang out this time was "Yes."

  "Are you in England?"

  "No."

  "Are you here?"

  "Yes."

  Hook was completely puzzled. "You ask him some questions," he said

to the others, wiping his damp brow.

  Smee reflected. "I can't think of a thing." he said regretfully.

  "Can't guess, can't guess!" crowed Peter. "Do you give it up?"

  Of course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the

miscreants saw their chance.

  "Yes, yes," they answered eagerly.

  "Well, then," he cried, "I am Peter Pan!"

  Pan!

  In a moment Hook was himself again, and Smee and Starkey were his

faithful henchmen.

  "Now we have him," Hook shouted. "Into the water, Smee. Starkey,

mind the boat. Take him dead or alive!"

  He leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of

Peter.

  "Are you ready, boys?"

  "Ay, ay" from various parts of the lagoon.

  "Then lam into the pirates."

  The fight was short and sharp. First to draw blood was John, who

gallantly climbed into the boat and held Starkey. There was a fierce

struggle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate's grasp. He

wriggled overboard and John leapt after him. The dinghy drifted away.

  Here and there a head bobbed up in the water, and there was a

flash of steel followed by a cry or a whoop. In the confusion some

struck at their own side. The corkscrew of Smee got Tootles in the

fourth rib, but he was himself pinked in turn by Curly. Farther from

the rock Starkey was pressing Slightly and the twins hard.

  Where all this time was Peter? He was seeking bigger game.

  The others were all brave boys, and they must not be blamed for

backing from the pirate captain. His iron claw made a circle of dead

water round him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes.

  But there was one who did not fear him: there was one prepared to

enter that circle.

  Strangely, it was not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the

rock to breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the

opposite side. The rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to

crawl rather than climb. Neither knew that the other was coming.

Each feeling for a grip met the other's arm: in surprise they raised

their heads; their faces were almost touching; so they met.

  Some of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they

fell to they had a sinking. Had it been so with Peter at that moment I

would admit it. After all, this was the only man that the Sea-Cook had

feared. But Peter had no sinking, he had one feeling only, gladness;

and he gnashed his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought he snatched

a knife from Hook's belt and was about to drive it home, when he saw

that he was higher up the rock than his foe. It would not have been

fighting fair. He gave the pirate a hand to help him up.

  It was then that Hook bit him.

  Not the pain of this but its unfairness was what dazed Peter. It

made him quite helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child

is affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he

thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness.

After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but he

will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the

first unfairness; no one except Peter. He often met it, but he

always forgot it. I suppose that was the real difference between him

and all the rest.

  So when he met it now it was like the first time; and he could

just stare, helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him.

  A few minutes afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water

striking wildly for the ship; no elation on his pestilent face now,

only white fear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On

ordinary occasions the boys would have swum alongside cheering; but

now they were uneasy, for they had lost both Peter and Wendy, and were

scouring the lagoon for them, calling them by name. They found the

dinghy and went home in it, shouting "Peter, Wendy" as they went,

but no answer came save mocking laughter from the mermaids. "They must

be swimming back or flying," the boys concluded. They were not very

anxious, they had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boylike, because

they would be late for bed; and it was all mother Wendy's fault!

  When their voices died away there came cold silence over the lagoon,

and then a feeble cry.

  "Help, help!"

  Two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had

fainted and lay on the boy's arm. With a last effort Peter pulled

her up the rock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also

fainted he saw that the water was rising. He knew that they would soon

be drowned, but he could do no more.

  As they lay side by side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and

began pulling her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip

from him, woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back.

But he had to tell her the truth.

  "We are on the rock, Wendy," he said, "but it is growing smaller.

Soon the water will be over it."

  She did not understand even now.

  "We must go," she said, almost brightly.

  "Yes," he answered faintly.

  "Shall we swim or fly, Peter?"

  He had to tell her.

  "Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy,

without my help?"

  She had to admit that she was too tired.

  He moaned.

  "What is it?" she asked, anxious about him at once.

  "I can't help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor

swim."

  "Do you mean we shall both be drowned?"

  "Look how the water is rising."

  They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They

thought they would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed

against Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if saying

timidly, "Can I be of any use?"

  It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days

before. It had torn itself out of his hand and floated away.

  "Michael's kite," Peter said without interest, but next moment he

had seized the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.

  "It lifted Michael off the ground," he cried; "why should it not

carry you?"

  "Both of us!"

  "It can't lift two; Michael and Curly tried."

  "Let us draw lots," Wendy said bravely.

  "And you a lady; never." Already he had tied the tail round her. She

clung to him; she refused to go without him; but with a "Good-bye,

Wendy," he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was

borne out of his sight. Peter was alone on the lagoon.

  The rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays

of light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be

heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in

the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.

  Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A

tremor ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on

the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them,

and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on

the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating

within him. It was saying, "To die will be an awfully big adventure."

                             CHAPTER IX.

                           THE NEVER BIRD.

  The last sounds Peter heard before he was quite alone were the

mermaids retiring one by one to their bedchambers under the sea. He

was too far away to hear their doors shut; but every door in the coral

caves where they live rings a tiny bell when it opens or closes (as in

all the nicest houses on the mainland), and he heard the bells.

  Steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to

pass the time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only

thing moving on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of floating

paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long it would

take to drift ashore.

  Presently he noticed as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out

upon the lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the

tide, and sometimes winning; and when it won, Peter, always

sympathetic to the weaker side, could not help clapping; it was such a

gallant piece of paper.

  It was not really a piece of paper; it was the Never bird, making

desperate efforts to reach Peter on her nest. By working her wings, in

a way she had learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able

to some extent to guide her strange craft, but by the time Peter

recognised her she was very exhausted. She had come to save him, to

give him her nest, though there were eggs in it. I rather wonder at

the bird, for though he had been nice to her, he had also sometimes

tormented her. I can suppose only that, like Mrs. Darling and the rest

of them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth.

  She called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to

her what was she doing there; but of course neither of them understood

the other's language. In fanciful stories people can talk to the birds

freely, and I wish for the moment I could pretend that this was such a

story, and say that Peter replied intelligently to the Never bird; but

truth is best, and I want to tell only what really happened. Well, not

only could they not understand each other, but they forgot their

manners.

  "I- want- you- to- get- into- the- nest," the bird called,

speaking as slowly and distinctly as possible, "and- then- you- can-

drift- ashore, but I- am- too- tired- to- bring- it- any- nearer-

so- you must- try- to- swim- to- it."

  "What are you quacking about?" Peter answered. "Why don't you let

the nest drift as usual?"

  "I- want- you-" the bird said, and repeated it all over.

  Then Peter tried slow and distinct.

  "What- are- you- quacking- about?" and so on.

  The Never bird became irritated; they have very short tempers.

  "You dunderheaded little jay," she screamed, "why don't you do as

I tell you?"

  Peter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he

retorted hotly:

  "So are you!"

  Then rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark.

  "Shut up!"

  "Shut up!"

  Nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and

by one last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock.

Then up she flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear.

  Then at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his

thanks to the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive

his thanks, however, that she hung there in the sky; it was not even

to watch him get into the nest; it was to see what he did with her

eggs.

  There were two large white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and

reflected. The bird covered her face with her wings, so as not to

see the last of them; but she could not help peeping between the

feathers.

  I forget whether I have told you that there was a stave on the rock,

driven into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of

buried treasure. The children had discovered the glittering hoard, and

when in mischievous mood used to fling showers of moidores,

diamonds, pearls and pieces of eight to the gulls, who pounced upon

them for food, and then flew away, raging at the scurvy trick that had

been played upon them. The stave was still there, and on it Starkey

had hung his hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim.

Peter put the eggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon. It

floated beautifully.

  The Never bird saw at once what he was up to, and screamed her

admiration of him; and, alas, Peter crowed his agreement with her.

Then he got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and

hung up his shirt for a sail. At the same moment the bird fluttered

down upon the hat and once more sat snugly on her eggs. She drifted in

one direction, and he was borne off in another, both cheering.

  Of course when Peter landed he beached his barque in a place where

the bird would easily find it; but the hat was such a great success

that she abandoned the nest. It drifted about till it went to

pieces, and often Starkey came to the shore of the lagoon, and with

many bitter feelings watched the bird sitting on his hat. As we

shall not see her again, it may be worth mentioning here that all

Never birds now build in that shape of nest, with a broad brim on

which the youngsters take an airing.

  Great were the rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the

ground almost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and

thither by the kite. Every boy had adventures to tell; but perhaps the

biggest adventure of all was that they were several hours late for

bed. This so inflated them that they did various dodgy things to get

staying up still longer, such as demanding bandages; but Wendy, though

glorying in having them all home again safe and sound, was scandalised

by the lateness of the hour, and cried, "To bed, to bed," in a voice

that had to be obeyed. Next day, however, she was awfully tender,

and gave out bandages to every one, and they played till bed-time at

limping about and carrying their arms in slings.

                              CHAPTER X.

                           THE HAPPY HOME.

  One important result of the brush on the lagoon was that it made the

redskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily from a dreadful

fate, and now there was nothing she and her braves would not do for

him. All night they sat above, keeping watch over the home under the

ground and awaiting the big attack by the pirates which obviously

could not be much longer delayed. Even by day they hung about, smoking

the pipe of peace, and looking almost as if they wanted tit-bits to

eat.

  They called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves

before him; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was not

really good for him.

  "The great white father," he would say to them in a very lordly

manner, as they grovelled at his feet, "is glad to see the

Piccaninny warriors protecting his wigwam from the pirates."

  "Me Tiger Lily," that lovely creature would reply, "Peter Pan save

me, me his velly nice friend. Me no let pirates hurt him."

  She was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it

his due, and he would answer condescendingly, "It is good. Peter Pan

has spoken."

  Always when he said, "Peter Pan has spoken," it meant that they must

now shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were

by no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon

as just ordinary braves. They said "How-do?" to them, and things

like that; and what annoyed the boys was that Peter seemed to think

this all right.

  Secretly Wendy sympathised with them a little, but she was far to

loyal a housewife to listen to any complaints against father.

"Father knows best," she always said, whatever her private opinion

must be. Her private opinion was that the redskins should not call her

a squaw.

  We have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as

the Night of Nights, because of its adventures and their upshot. The

day, as if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful,

and now the redskins in their blankets were at their posts above,

while, below, the children were having their evening meal; all

except Peter, who had gone out to get the time. The way you got the

time on the island was to find the crocodile, and then stay near him

till the clock struck.

  This meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat round

the board, guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their

chatter and recriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was positively

deafening. To be sure, she did not mind noise, but she simply would

not have them grabbing things, and then excusing themselves by

saying that Tootles had pushed their elbow. There was a fixed rule

that they must never hit back at meals, but should refer the matter of

dispute to Wendy by raising the right arm politely and saying, "I

complain of so-and-so"; but what usually happened was that they forgot

to do this or did it too much.

  "Silence," cried Wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them

that they were not all to speak at once. "Is your mug empty,

Slightly darling?"

  "Not quite empty, mummy," Slightly said, after looking into an

imaginary mug.

  "He hasn't even begun to drink his milk," Nibs interposed.

  This was telling, and Slightly seized his chance.

  "I complain of Nibs," he cried promptly.

  John, however, had held up his hand first.

  "Well, John?"

  "May I sit in Peter's chair, as he is not here?"

  "Sit in father's chair, John!" Wendy was scandalised. "Certainly

not."

  "He is not really our father," John answered.

  "He didn't even know how a father does till I showed him."

  This was grumbling. "We complain of John," cried the twins.

  Tootles held up his hand. He was. so much the humblest of them,

indeed he was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle

with him.

  "I don't suppose," Tootles said diffidently, "that I could be

father."

  "No, Tootles."

  Once Tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way

of going on.

  "As I can't be father," he said heavily, "I don't suppose,

Michael, you would let me be baby?"

  "No, I won't," Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.

  "As I can't be baby," Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier, "do

you think I could be a twin?"

  "No, indeed," replied the twins; "it's awfully difficult to be a

twin."

  "As I can't be anything important," said Tootles, "would any of

you like to see me do a trick?"

  "No," they all replied.

  Then at last he stopped. "I hadn't really any hope," he said.

  The hateful telling broke out again.

  "Slightly is coughing on the table."

  "The twins began with cheese-cakes."

  "Curly is taking both butter and honey."

  "Nibs is speaking with his mouth full."

  "I complain of the twins"

  "I complain of Curly."

  "I complain of Nibs"

  "Oh dear, oh dear," cried Wendy, "I'm sure I sometimes think that

spinsters are to be envied."

  She told them to clear away, and sat down to her work-basket, a

heavy load of stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.

  "Wendy," remonstrated Michael, "I'm too big for a cradle."

  "I must have somebody in a cradle," she said almost tartly, "and you

are the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a

house."

  While she sewed they played around her; such a group of happy

faces and dancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become

a very familiar scene this in the home under the ground, but we are

looking on it for the last time.

  There was a step above, and Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to

recognise it.

  "Children, I hear your father's step. He likes you to meet him at

the door."

  Above, the redskins crouched before Peter.

  "Watch well, braves. I have spoken."

  And then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from

his tree. As so often before, but never again.

  He had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for

Wendy.

  "Peter, you just spoil them, you know," Wendy simpered.

  "Ah, old lady," said Peter, hanging up his gun.

  "It was me told him mothers are called old lady," Michael

whispered to Curly.

  "I complain of Michael," said Curly instantly.

  The first twin came to Peter. "Father, we want to dance."

  "Dance away, my little man," said Peter, who was in high good

humour.

  "But we want you to dance."

  Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to

be scandalised.

  "Me! My old bones would rattle!"

  "And mummy too."

  "What!" cried Wendy, "the mother of such an armful, dance!"

  "But on a Saturday night," Slightly insinuated.

  It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for

they had long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to

do anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they

did it.

  "Of course it is Saturday night, Peter," Wendy said, relenting.

  "People of our figure, Wendy!"

  "But it is only among our own progeny."

  "True, true."

  So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their

nighties first.

  "Ah, old lady," Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the

fire and looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, "there is

nothing more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day's toil

is over than to rest by the fire with the little ones near by."

  "It is sweet, Peter, isn't it?" Wendy said, frightfully gratified.

"Peter, I think Curly has your nose."

  "Michael takes after you."

  She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  "Dear Peter," she said, "with such a large family, of course, I have

now passed my best, but you don't want to change me, do you?"

  "No, Wendy."

  Certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her

uncomfortably, blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was

awake or asleep.

  "Peter, what is it?"

  "I was just thinking," he said, a little scared. "It is only

make-believe, isn't it, that I am their father?"

  "Oh yes," Wendy said primly.

  "You see," he continued apologetically, "it would make me seem so

old to be their real father."

  "But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine."

  "But not really, Wendy?" he asked anxiously.

  "Not if you don't wish it," she replied; and she distinctly heard

his sigh of relief. "Peter," she asked, trying to speak firmly,

"what are your exact feelings to me?"

  "Those of a devoted son, Wendy."

  "I thought so," she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme

end of the room.

  "You are so queer," he said, frankly puzzled, "and Tiger Lily is

just the same. There is something she wants to be to me, but she

says it is not my mother."

  "No, indeed, it is not," Wendy replied with frightful emphasis.

Now we know why she was prejudiced against the redskins.

  "Then what is it?"

  "It isn't for a lady to tell."

  "Oh, very well," Peter said, a little nettled. "Perhaps Tinker

Bell will tell me."

  "Oh yes, Tinker Bell will tell you," Wendy retorted scornfully. "She

is an abandoned little creature."

  Here Tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked, out

something impudent.

  "She says she glories in being abandoned," Peter interpreted.

  He had a sudden idea. "Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother?"

  "You silly ass!" cried Tinker Bell in a passion.

  She had said it so often that Wendy needed no translation.

  "I almost agree with her," Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping!

But she had been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen

before the night was out. If she had known she would not have snapped.

  None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their

ignorance gave them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last

hour on the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad

minutes in it. They sang and danced in their night-gowns. Such a

deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to be

frightened at their own shadows, little witting that so soon shadows

would close in upon them, from whom they would shrink in real fear. So

uproariously gay was the dance, and how they buffeted each other on

the bed and out of it It was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and

when it was finished, the pillows insisted on one bout more, like

partners who know that they may never meet again. The stories they

told, before it was time for Wendy's good-night story! Even Slightly

tried to tell a story that night, and the beginning was so fearfully

dull that it appalled not only the others but himself, and he said

happily:

  "Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the

end."

  And then at last they all got into bed for Wendy's story, the

story they loved best, the story Peter hated. Usually when she began

to tell this story, he left the room or put his hands over his ears;

and possibly if he had done either of those things this time they

might all still be on the island. But to-night he remained on his

stool; and we shall see what happened.

                             CHAPTER XI.

                            WENDY'S STORY.

  "Listen then," said Wendy, settling down to her story, with

Michael at her feet and seven boys in the bed. "There was once a

gentleman-"

  "I had rather he had been a lady," Curly said.

  "I wish he had been a white rat," said Nibs.

  "Quiet," their mother admonished them. "There was a lady also, and-"

  "O mummy," cried the first twin, "you mean that there is a lady

also, don't you? She is not dead, is she?"

  "Oh no."

  "I am awfully glad she isn't dead," said Tootles. "Are you glad,

John?"

  "Of course I am."

  "Are you glad, Nibs?"

  "Rather."

  "Are you glad, Twins?"

  "We are just glad."

  "Oh dear," sighed Wendy.

  "Little less noise there," Peter called out, determined that she

should have fair play, however beastly a story it might be in his

opinion.

  "The gentleman's name," Wendy continued, "was Mr. Darling, and her

name was Mrs. Darling."

  "I knew them," John said, to annoy the others.

  "I think I knew them," said Michael rather doubtfully.

  "They were married, you know," explained Wendy, "and what do you

think they had?"

  "White rats!" cried Nibs, inspired.

  "No."

  "It's awfully puzzling," said Tootles, who knew the story by heart.

  "Quiet, Tootles. They had three descendants."

  "What is descendants?"

  "Well, you are one, Twin."

  "Do you hear that, John? I am a descendant."

  "Descendants are only children," said John.

  "Oh dear, oh dear," sighed Wendy. "Now these three children had a

faithful nurse called Nana; but Mr. Darling was angry with her and

chained her up in the yard, and so all the children flew away."

  "It's an awfully good story," said Nibs.

  "They flew away," Wendy continued, "to the Neverland, where the lost

children are."

  "I just thought they did," Curly broke in excitedly. "I don't know

how it is, but I just thought they did!"

  "O Wendy," cried Tootles, "was one of the lost children called

Tootles?"

  "Yes, he was."

  "I am in a story, Hurrah, I am in a story, Nibs."

  "Hush. Now I want you to consider the feelings of the unhappy

parents with all their children flown away."

  "Oo!" they all moaned, though they were not really considering the

feelings of the unhappy parents one jot.

  "Think of the empty beds!"

  "Oo!"

  "It's awfully sad," the first twin said cheerfully.

  "I don't see how it can have a happy ending," said the second

twin. "Do you, Nibs?"

  "I'm frightfully anxious."

  "If you knew how great is a mother's love," Wendy told them

triumphantly, "you would have no fear." She had now come to the part

that Peter hated.

  "I do like a mother's love," said Tootles, hitting Nibs with a

pillow. "Do you like a mother's love, Nibs?"

  "I do just," said Nibs, hitting back.

  "You see," Wendy said complacently, "our heroine knew that the

mother would always leave the window open for her children to fly back

by; so they stayed away for years and had a lovely time."

  "Did they ever go back?"

  "Let us now," said Wendy, bracing herself up for her finest

effort, "take a peep into the future"; and they all gave themselves

the twist that makes peeps into the future easier. "Years have

rolled by, and who is this elegant lady of uncertain age alighting

at London Station?"

  "O Wendy, who is she?" cried Nibs, every bit as excited as if he

didn't know.

  "Can it be- yes- no- it is- the fair Wendy!"

  "Oh!"

  "And who are the two noble portly figures accompanying her, now

grown to man's estate? Can they be John and Michael? They are!"

  "Oh!"

  "See, dear brothers," says Wendy, pointing upwards, "there is the

window still standing open. Ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime

faith in a mother's love. So up they flew to their mummy and daddy,

and pen cannot describe the happy scene, over which we draw a veil."

  That was the story, and they were as pleased with it as the fair

narrator herself. Everything just as it should be, you see. Off we

skip like the most heartless things in the world, which is what

children are, but so attractive; and we have an entirely selfish time,

and then when we have need of special attention we nobly return for

it, confident that we shall be rewarded instead of smacked.

  So great indeed was their faith in a mother's love that they felt

they could afford to be callous for a bit longer.

  But there was one there who knew better, and when Wendy finished

he uttered a hollow groan.

  "What is it, Peter?" she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill.

She felt him solicitously, lower down than his chest. "Where is it,

Peter?"

  "It isn't that kind of pain," Peter replied darkly.

  "Then what kind is it?"

  "Wendy, you are wrong about mothers."

  They all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his

agitation; and with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto

concealed.

  "Long ago," he said, "I thought like you that my mother would always

keep the window open for me, so I stayed away for moons, and moons and

moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had

forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in

my bed."

  I am not sure that this was true, but Peter thought it was true; and

it scared them.

  "Are you sure mothers are like that?"

  "Yes."

  So this was the truth about mothers. The toads!

  Still it is best to be careful; and no one knows so quickly as a

child when he should give in. "Wendy, let us go home," cried John

and Michael together.

  "Yes," she said, clutching them.

  "Not to-night?" asked the lost boys bewildered. They knew in what

they called their hearts that one can get on quite well without a

mother, and that it is only the mothers who think you can't.

  "At once," Wendy replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had

come to her: "Perhaps mother is in half mourning by this time."

  This dread made her forgetful of what must be Peter's feelings,

and she said to him rather sharply, "Peter, will you make the

necessary arrangements?"

  "If you wish it," he replied, as coolly as if she had asked him to

pass the nuts.

  Not so much as a sorry-to-lose-you between them! If she did not mind

the parting, he was going to show her, was Peter, that neither did he.

  But of course he cared very much; and he was so full of wrath

against grown-ups, who, as usual, were spoiling everything, that as

soon as he got inside his tree he breathed intentionally quick short

breaths at the rate of about five to a second. He did this because

there is a saying in the Neverland that, every time you breathe, a

grown-up dies; and Peter was killing them off vindictively as fast

as possible.

  Then having given the necessary instructions to the redskins he

returned to the home, where an unworthy scene had been enacted in

his absence. Panic-stricken at the thought of losing Wendy the lost

boys had advanced upon her threateningly.

  "It will be worse than before she came," they cried.

  "We shan't let her go."

  "Let's keep her prisoner."

  "Ay, chain her up."

  In her extremity an instinct told her to which of them to turn.

  "Tootles," she cried, "I appeal to you."

  Was it not strange? she appealed to Tootles, quite the silliest one.

  Grandly, however, did Tootles respond. For that one moment he

dropped his silliness and spoke with dignity.

  "I am just Tootles," he said, "and nobody minds me. But the first

who does not behave to Wendy like an English gentleman I will blood

him severely."

  He drew his hanger; and for that instant his sun was at noon. The

others held back uneasily. Then Peter returned, and they saw at once

that they would get no support from him. He would keep no girl in

the Neverland against her will.

  "Wendy," he said, striding up and down, "I have asked the redskins

to guide you through the wood, as flying tires you so."

  "Thank you, Peter."

  "Then," he continued, in the short sharp voice of one accustomed

to be obeyed, "Tinker Bell will take you across the sea. Wake her,

Nibs."

  Nibs had to knock twice before he got an answer, though Tink had

really been sitting up in bed listening for some time.

  "Who are you? How dare you? Go away," she cried.

  "You are to get up, Tink," Nibs called, "and take Wendy on a

journey."

  Of course Tink had been delighted to hear that Wendy was going;

but she was jolly well determined not to be her courier, and she

said so in still more offensive language. Then she pretended to be

asleep again.

  "She says she won't!" Nibs exclaimed, aghast at such

insubordination, whereupon Peter went sternly toward the young

lady's chamber.

  "Tink," he rapped out, "if you don't get up and dress at once I will

open the curtains, and then we shall all see you in your negligee."

  This made her leap to the floor. "Who said I wasn't getting up?" she

cried.

  In the meantime the boys were gazing very forlornly at Wendy, now

equipped with John and Michael for the journey. By this time they were

dejected, not merely because they were about to lose her, but also

because they felt that she was going off to something nice to which

they had not been invited. Novelty was beckoning to them as usual.

  Crediting them with a nobler feeling, Wendy melted.

  "Dear ones," she said, "if you will all come with me I feel almost

sure I can get my father and mother to adopt you."

  The invitation was meant specially for Peter, but each of the boys

was thinking exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy.

  "But won't they think us rather a handful?" Nibs asked in the middle

of his jump.

  "Oh no," said Wendy, rapidly thinking it out, "it will only mean

having a few beds in the drawing-room; they can be hidden behind

screens on first Thursdays."

  "Peter, can we go?" they all cried imploringly. They took it for

granted that if they went he would go also, but really they scarcely

cared. Thus children are ever ready, when novelty knocks, to desert

their dearest ones.

  "All right," Peter replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they

rushed to get their things.

  "And now, Peter," Wendy said, thinking she had put everything right,

"I am going to give you your medicine before you go." She loved to

give them medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too much. Of course it

was only water, but it was out of a bottle, and she always shook the

bottle and counted the drops, which gave it a certain medicinal

quality. On this occasion, however, she did not give Peter his

draught, for just as she had prepared it, she saw a look on his face

that made her heart sink.

  "Get your things, Peter," she cried, shaking.

  "No," he answered, pretending indifference, "I am not going with

you, Wendy."

  "Yes, Peter."

  "No."

  To show that her departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up

and down the room, playing gaily on his heartless pipes. She had to

run about after him, though it was rather undignified.

  "To find your mother," she coaxed.

  Now, if Peter had ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed

her. He could do very well without one. He had thought them out, and

remembered only their bad points.

  "No, no," he told Wendy decisively; "perhaps she would say I was

old, and I just want always to be a little boy and to have fun."

  "But, Peter-"

  "No."

  And so the others had to be told.

  "Peter isn't coming."

  Peter not coming! They gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their

backs, and on each stick a bundle. Their first thought was that if

Peter was not going he had probably changed his mind about letting

them go.

  But he was far too proud for that. "If you find your mothers," he

said darkly, "I hope you will like them."

  The awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression, and

most of them began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces

said, were they not noodles to want to go?

  "Now then," cried Peter, "no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye,

Wendy"; and he held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must

really go now, for he had something important to do.

  She had to take his hand, as there was no indication that he would

prefer a thimble.

  "You will remember about changing your flannels, Peter?" she said,

lingering over him. She was always so particular about their flannels.

  "Yes."

  "And you will take your medicine?"

  "Yes."

  That seemed to be everything, and an awkward pause followed.

Peter, however, was not the kind that breaks down before people.

"Are you ready, Tinker Bell?" he called out.

  "Ay! ay!"

  "Then lead the way."

  Tink darted up the nearest tree; but no one followed her, for it was

at this moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the

redskins. Above, where all had been so still, the air was rent with

shrieks and the clash of steel. Below, there was dead silence.

Mouths opened and remained open. Wendy fell on her knees, but her arms

were extended toward Peter. All arms were extended to him, as if

suddenly blown in his direction; they were beseeching him mutely not

to desert them. As for Peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought

he had slain Barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye.

                             CHAPTER XII.

                    THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF.

  The pirate attack had been a complete surprise: a sure proof that

the unscrupulous Hook had conducted it improperly, for to surprise

redskins fairly is beyond the wit of the white man.

  By all the unwritten laws of savage warfare it is always the redskin

who attacks, and with the wiliness of his race he does it just

before the dawn, at which time he knows the courage of the whites to

be at its lowest ebb. The white men have in the meantime made a rude

stockade on the summit of yonder undulating ground, at the foot of

which a stream runs, for it is destruction to be too far from water.

There they await the onslaught, the inexperienced ones clutching their

revolvers and treading on twigs, but the old hands sleeping tranquilly

until just before the dawn. Through the long black night the savage

scouts wriggle, snake-like, among the grass without stirring a

blade. The brushwood closes behind them as silently as sand into which

a mole has dived. Not a sound is to be heard, save when they give vent

to a wonderful imitation of the lonely call of the coyote. The cry

is answered by other braves; and some of them do it even better than

the coyotes, who are not very good at it. So the chill hours wear

on, and the long suspense is horribly trying to the paleface who has

to live through it for the first time; but to the trained hand those

ghastly calls and still ghastlier silences are but an intimation of

how the night is marching.

  That this was the usual procedure was so well-known to Hook that

in disregarding it he cannot be excused on the plea of ignorance.

  The Piccaninnies, on their part, trusted implicitly to his honour,

and their whole action of the night stands out in marked contrast to

his. They left nothing undone that was consistent with the

reputation of their tribe. With that alertness of the senses which

is at once the marvel and despair of civilised peoples, they knew that

the pirates were on the island from the moment one of them trod on a

dry stick; and in an incredibly short space of time the coyote cries

began. Every foot of ground between the spot where Hook had landed his

forces and the home under the trees was stealthily examined by

braves wearing their moccasins with the heels in front. They found

only one hillock with a stream at its base, so that Hook had no

choice; here he must establish himself and wait for just before the

dawn. Everything being thus mapped out with almost diabolical cunning,

the main body of the redskins folded their blankets around them, and

in the phlegmatic manner that is to them the pearl of manhood squatted

above the children's home, awaiting the cold moment when they should

deal pale death.

  Here dreaming, though wide-awake, of the exquisite tortures to which

they were to put him at break of day, those confiding savages were

found by the treacherous Hook. From the accounts afterwards supplied

by such of the scouts as escaped the carnage, he does not seem even to

have paused at the rising ground, though it is certain that in the

grey light he must have seen it: no thought of waiting to be

attacked appears from first to last to have visited his subtle mind;

he would not even hold off till the night was nearly spent; on he

pounded with no policy but to fall to. What could the bewildered

scouts do, masters as they were of every war-like artifice save this

one, but trot helplessly after him, exposing themselves fatally to

view, the while they gave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry.

  Around the brave Tiger Lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors,

and they suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them.

Fell from their eyes then the film through which they had looked at

victory. No more would they torture at the stake. For them the happy

hunting-grounds now. They knew it; but as their fathers' sons they

acquitted themselves. Even then they had time to gather in a phalanx

that would have been hard to break had they risen quickly, but this

they were forbidden to do by the traditions of their race. It is

written that the noble savage must never express surprise in the

presence of the white. Thus terrible as the sudden appearance of the

pirates must have been to them, they remained stationary for a moment,

not a muscle moving; as if the foe had come by invitation. Then,

indeed, the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their weapons, and

the air was torn with the war-cry; but it was now too late.

  It is no part of ours to describe what was a massacre rather than

a fight. Thus perished many of the flower of the Piccaninny tribe. Not

all unavenged did they die, for with Lean Wolf fell Alf Mason, to

disturb the Spanish Main no more, and among others who bit the dust

were Geo. Scourie, Chas. Turley, and the Alsatian Foggerty. Turley

fell to the tomahawk of the terrible Panther, who ultimately cut a way

through the pirates with Tiger Lily and a small remnant of the tribe.

  To what extent Hook is to blame for his tactics on this occasion

is for the historian to decide. Had he waited on the rising ground

till the proper hour he and his men would probably have been

butchered; and in judging him it is only fair to take this into

account. What he should perhaps have done was to acquaint his

opponents that he proposed to follow a new method. On the other

hand, this, as destroying the element of surprise, would have made his

strategy of no avail, so that the whole question is beset with

difficulties. One cannot at least withhold a reluctant admiration

for the wit that had conceived so bold a scheme, and the fell genius

with which it was carried out.

  What were his own feelings about himself at the triumphant moment?

Fain would his dogs have known, as breathing heavily and wiping

their cutlasses, they gathered at a discreet distance from his hook,

and squinted through their ferret eyes at this extraordinary man.

Elation must have been in his heart, but his face did not reflect

it: ever a dark and solitary enigma, he stood aloof from his followers

in spirit as in substance.

  The night's work was not yet over, for it was not the redskins he

had come out to destroy; they were but the bees to be smoked, so

that he should get at the honey. It was Pan he wanted, Pan and Wendy

and their band, but chiefly Pan.

  Peter was such a small boy that one tends to wonder at the man's

hatred of him. True he had flung Hook's arm to the crocodile, but even

this and the increased insecurity of life to which it led, owing to

the crocodile's pertinacity, hardly account for a vindictiveness so

relentless and malignant. The truth is that there was a something

about Peter which goaded the pirate captain to frenzy. It was not

his courage, it was not his engaging appearance, it was not-. There is

no beating about the bush, for we know quite well what it was, and

have got to tell. It was Peter's cockiness.

  This had got on Hook's nerves; it made his iron claw twitch, and

at night it disturbed him like an insect. While Peter lived, the

tortured man felt that he was a lion in a cage into which a sparrow

had come.

  The question now was how to get down the trees, or how to get his

dogs down? He ran his greedy eyes over them, searching for the

thinnest ones. They wriggled uncomfortably, for they knew he would not

scruple to ram them down with poles.

  In the meantime, what of the boys? We have seen them at the first

clang of weapons, turned as it were into stone figures,

open-mouthed, all appealing with outstretched arms to Peter; and we

return to them as their mouths close, and their arms fall to their

sides. The pandemonium above has ceased almost as suddenly as it

arose, passed like a fierce gust of wind; but they know that in the

passing it has determined their fate.

  Which side had won?

  The pirates, listening avidly at the mouths of the trees, heard

the question put by every boy, and alas, they also heard Peter's

answer.

  "If the redskins have won," he said, "they will beat the tom-tom; it

is always their sign of victory."

  Now Smee had found the tom-tom, and was at that moment sitting on

it. "You will never hear the tom-tom again," he muttered, but

inaudibly of course, for strict silence had been enjoined. To his

amazement Hook signed to him to beat the tom-tom, and slowly there

came to Smee an understanding of the dreadful wickedness of the order.

Never, probably, had this simple man admired Hook so much.

  Twice Smee beat upon the instrument, and then stopped to listen

gleefully.

  "The tom-tom," the miscreants heard Peter cry; "an Indian victory!"

  The doomed children answered with a cheer that was music to the

black hearts above, and almost immediately they repeated their

good-byes to Peter. This puzzled the pirates, but all their other

feelings were swallowed by a base delight that the enemy were about to

come up the trees. They smirked at each other and rubbed their

hands. Rapidly and silently Hook gave his orders: one man to each

tree, and the others to arrange themselves in a line two yards apart.

                            CHAPTER XIII.

                      DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?

  The more quickly this horror is disposed of the better. The first to

emerge from his tree was Curly. He rose out of it into the arms of

Cecco, who flung him to Smee, who flung him to Starkey, who flung

him to Bill Jukes, who flung him to Noodler, and so he was tossed from

one to another till he fell at the feet of the black pirate. All the

boys were plucked from their trees in this ruthless manner; and

several of them were in the air at a time, like bales of goods flung

from hand to hand.

  A different treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last. With

ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her

his arm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being

gagged. He did it with such an air, he was so frightfully distingue,

that she was too fascinated to cry out. She was only a little girl.

  Perhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a moment Hook

entranced her, and we tell on her only because her slip led to strange

results. Had she haughtily unhanded him (and we should have loved to

write it of her), she would have been hurled through the air like

the others, and then Hook would probably not have been present at

the tying of the children; and had he not been at the tying he would

not have discovered Slightly's secret, and without the secret he could

not presently have made his foul attempt on Peter's life.

  They were tied to prevent their flying away, doubled up with their

knees close to their ears; and for this job the black pirate had cut a

rope into nine equal pieces. All went well with the trussing until

Slightly's turn came, when he was found to be like those irritating

parcels that use up all the string in going round and leave no tags

with which to tie a knot. The pirates kicked him in their rage, just

as you kick the parcel (though in fairness you should kick the

string); and strange to say it was Hook who told them to belay their

violence. His lip was curled with malicious triumph. While his dogs

were merely sweating because every time they tried to pack the unhappy

lad tight in one part he bulged out in another, Hook's master mind had

gone far beneath Slightly's surface, probing not for effects but for

causes; and his exultation showed that he had found them. Slightly,

white to the gills, knew that Hook had surprised his secret, which was

this, that no boy so blown out could use a tree wherein an average man

need stick. Poor Slightly, most wretched of all the children now,

for he was in a panic about Peter, bitterly regretted what he had

done. Madly addicted to the drinking of water when he was hot, he

had swelled in consequence to his present girth, and instead of

reducing himself to fit his tree he had, unknown to the others,

whittled his tree to make it fit him.

  Sufficient of this Hook guessed to persuade him that Peter at last

lay at his mercy, but no word of the dark design that now formed in

the subterranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he merely

signed that the captives were to be conveyed to the ship, and that

he would be alone.

  How to convey them? Hunched up in their ropes they might indeed be

rolled down hill like barrels, but most of the way lay through a

morass. Again Hook's genius surmounted difficulties. He indicated that

the little house must be used as a conveyance. The children were flung

into it, four stout pirates raised it on their shoulders, the others

fell in behind, and singing the hateful pirate chorus the strange

procession set off through the wood. I don't know whether any of the

children were crying; if so, the singing drowned the sound; but as the

little house disappeared in the forest, a brave though tiny jet of

smoke issued from its chimney as if defying Hook.

  Hook saw it, and it did Peter a bad service. It dried up any trickle

of pity for him that may have remained in the pirate's infuriated

breast.

  The first thing he did on finding himself alone in the fast

falling night was to tiptoe to Slightly's tree, and make sure that

it provided him with a passage. Then for long he remained brooding;

his hat of ill omen on the sward, so that a gentle breeze which had

arisen might play refreshingly through his hair. Dark as were his

thoughts his blue eyes were as soft as the periwinkle. Intently he

listened for any sound from the nether world, but all was as silent

below as above; the house under the ground seemed to be but one more

empty tenement in the void. Was that boy asleep, or did he stand

waiting at the foot of Slightly's tree, with his dagger in his hand?

  There was no way of knowing, save by going down. Hook let his

cloak slip softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a

lewd blood stood on them, he stepped into the tree. He was a brave

man, but for a moment he had to stop there and wipe his brow, which

was dripping like a candle. Then silently he let himself go into the

unknown.

  He arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still

again, biting at his breath, which had almost left him. As his eyes

became accustomed to the dim light various objects in the home under

the trees took shape; but the only one on which his greedy gaze

rested, long sought for and found at last, was the great bed. On the

bed lay Peter fast asleep.

  Unaware of the tragedy being enacted above, Peter had continued, for

a little time after the children left, to play gaily on his pipes:

no doubt rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself that he did

not care. Then he decided not to take his medicine, so as to grieve

Wendy. Then he lay down on the bed outside the coverlet, to vex her

still more; for she had always tucked them inside it, because you

never know that you may not grow chilly at the turn of the night. Then

he nearly cried; but it struck him how indignant she would be if he

laughed instead; so he laughed a haughty laugh and fell asleep in

the middle of it.

  Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more

painful than the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be

separated from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them.

They had to do, I think, with the riddle of his existence. At such

times it had been Wendy's custom to take him out of bed and sit with

him on her lap, soothing him in dear ways of her own invention, and

when he grew calmer to put him back to bed before he quite woke up, so

that he should not know of the indignity to which she had subjected

him. But on this occasion he had fallen at once into a dreamless

sleep. One arm dropped over the edge of the bed, one leg was arched,

and the unfinished part of his laugh was stranded on his mouth,

which was open, showing the little pearls.

  Thus defenceless Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of

the tree looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of

compassion stir his sombre breast? The man was not wholly evil; he

loved flowers (I have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no

mean performer on the harpsichord); and, let it be frankly admitted,

the idyllic nature of the scene shook him profoundly. Mastered by

his better self he would have returned reluctantly up the tree, but

for one thing.

  What stayed him was Peter's impertinent appearance as he slept.

The open mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a

personification of cockiness as, taken together, will never again

one may hope be presented to eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness.

They steeled Hook's heart. If his rage had broken him into a hundred

pieces every one of them would have disregarded the incident, and

leapt at the sleeper.

  Though a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed Hook stood

in darkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he

discovered an obstacle, the door of Slightly's tree. It did not

entirely fill the aperture, and he had been looking over it. Feeling

for the catch, he found to his fury that it was low down, beyond his

reach. To his disordered brain it seemed then that the irritating

quality in Peter's face and figure visibly increased, and he rattled

the door and flung himself against it. Was his enemy to escape him

after all?

  But what was that? The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter's

medicine standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it

was straightway, and immediately he knew that the sleeper was in his

power.

  Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried about his

person a dreadful drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing

rings that had come into his possession. These he had boiled down into

a yellow liquid quite unknown to science, which was probably the

most virulent poison in existence.

  Five drops of this he now added to Peter's cup. His hand shook,

but it was in exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided

glancing at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve him;

merely to avoid spilling. Then one long gloating look he cast upon his

victim, and turning, wormed his way with difficulty up the tree. As he

emerged at the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its

hole. Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak

around him, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person

from the night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering

strangely to himself stole away through the trees.

  Peter slept on. The light guttered and went out, leaving the

tenement in darkness; but still he slept. It must have been not less

than ten o'clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed,

wakened by he knew not what. It was a soft cautious tapping on the

door of his tree.

  Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt

for his dagger till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.

  "Who is that?"

  For long there was no answer: then again the knock.

  "Who are you?"

  No answer.

  He was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In two strides he

reached his door. Unlike Slightly's door it filled the aperture, so

that he could not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him.

  "I won't open unless you speak," Peter cried.

  Then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.

  "Let me in, Peter."

  It was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in

excitedly, her face flushed and her dress stained with mud.

  "What is it?"

  "Oh, you could never guess!" she cried, and offered him three

guesses. "Out with it!" he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence,

as long as the ribbons conjurers pull from their mouths, she told of

the capture of Wendy and the boys.

  Peter's heart bobbed up and down as he listened. Wendy bound, and on

the pirate ship; she who loved everything to be just so!

  "I'll rescue her!" he cried, leaping at his weapons. As he leapt

he thought of something he could do to please her. He could take his

medicine.

  His hand closed on the fatal draught.

  "No!" shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard Hook muttering about his

deed as he sped through the forest.

  "Why not?"

  "It is poisoned."

  "Poisoned! Who could have poisoned it?"

  "Hook."

  "Don't be silly. How could Hook have got down here?"

  Alas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for even she did not

know the dark secret of Slightly's tree. Nevertheless Hook's words had

left no room for doubt. The cup was poisoned.

  "Besides," said Peter, quite believing himself, "I never fell

asleep."

  He raised the cup. No time for words now; time for deeds, and with

one of her lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the

draught, and drained it to the dregs.

  "Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine?"

  But she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air.

  "What is the matter with you?" cried Peter, suddenly afraid.

  "It was poisoned, Peter," she told him softly; "and now I am going

to be dead."

  "O Tink, did you drink it to save me?"

  "Yes."

  "But why, Tink?"

  Her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on

his shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear

"you silly ass," and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the

bed.

  His head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he

knelt near her in distress. Every moment her light was growing

fainter; and he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She

liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful finger and

let them run over it.

  Her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she

said. Then he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could

get well again if children believed in fairies.

  Peter flung out his arms. There were no children there, and it was

night time; but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the

Neverland, and who were therefore nearer to him than you think: boys

and girls in their nighties, and naked papooses in their baskets

hung from trees.

  "Do you believe?" he cried.

  Tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate.

  She fancied she heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she

wasn't sure.

  "What do you think?" she asked Peter.

  "If you believe," he shouted to them, "clap your hands; don't let

Tink die."

  Many clapped.

  Some didn't.

  A few little beasts hissed.

  The clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to

their nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink

was saved. First her voice grew strong, then she popped out of bed,

then she was flashing through the room more merry and impudent than

ever. She never thought of thanking those who believed, but she

would have liked to get at the ones who had hissed.

  "And now to rescue Wendy!"

  The moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when Peter rose from his

tree, begirt with weapons and wearing little else, to set out upon his

perilous quest. It was not such a night as he would have chosen. He

had hoped to fly, keeping not far from the ground so that nothing

unwonted should escape his eyes; but in that fitful light to have

flown low would have meant trailing his shadow through the trees, thus

disturbing the birds and acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir.

  He regretted now that he had given the birds of the island such

strange names that they are very wild and difficult of approach.

  There was no other course but to press forward in redskin fashion,

at which happily he was an adept. But in what direction, for he

could not be sure that the children had been taken to the ship? A

slight fall of snow had obliterated all footmarks; and a deathly

silence pervaded the island, as if for a space Nature stood still in

horror of the recent carnage. He had taught the children something

of the forest lore that he had himself learned from Tiger Lily and

Tinker Bell, and knew that in their dire hour they were not likely

to forget it. Slightly, if he had an opportunity, would blaze the

trees, for instance, Curly would drop seeds, and Wendy would leave her

handkerchief at some important place. But morning was needed to search

for such guidance, and he could not wait. The upper world had called

him, but would give no help.

  The crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound,

not a movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the

next tree, or stalking him from behind.

  He swore this terrible oath: "Hook or me this time."

  Now he crawled forward like a snake; and again, erect, he darted

across a space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip

and his dagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy.

                             CHAPTER XIV.

                           THE PIRATE SHIP.

  One green light squinting over Kidd's Creek, which is near the mouth

of the pirate river, marked where the brig, the Jolly Roger, lay,

low in the water; a rakish-looking craft foul to the hull, every

beam in her detestable like ground strewn with mangled feathers. She

was the cannibal of the seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye, for

she floated immune in the horror of her name.

  She was wrapped in the blanket of night, through which no sound from

her could have reached the shore. There was little sound, and none

agreeable save the whir of the ship's sewing machine at which Smee

sat, ever industrious and obliging, the essence of the commonplace,

pathetic Smee. I know not why he was so infinitely pathetic, unless it

were because he was so pathetically unaware of it; but even strong men

had to turn hastily from looking at him, and more than once on

summer evenings he had touched the fount of Hook's tears and made it

flow. Of this, as of almost everything else, Smee was quite

unconscious.

  A few of the pirates leant over the bulwarks drinking in the

miasma of the night; others sprawled by barrels over games of dice and

cards; and the exhausted four who had carried the little house lay

prone on the deck, where even in their sleep they rolled skilfully

to this side or that out of Hook's reach, lest he should claw them

mechanically in passing.

  Hook trod the deck in thought. O man unfathomable. It was his hour

of triumph. Peter had been removed forever from his path, and all

the other boys were on the brig, about to walk the plank. It was his

grimmest deed since the days when he had brought Barbecue to heel; and

knowing as we do how vain a tabernacle is man, could we be surprised

had he now paced the deck unsteadily, bellied out by the winds of

his success?

  But there was no elation in his gait, which kept pace with the

action of his sombre mind. Hook was profoundly dejected.

  He was often thus when communing with himself on board ship in the

quietude of the night. It was because he was so terribly alone. This

inscrutable man never felt more alone than when surrounded by his

dogs. They were socially so inferior to him.

  Hook was not his true name. To reveal who he really was would even

at this date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read between

the lines must already have guessed, he had been at a famous public

school; and its traditions still clung to him like garments, with

which indeed they are largely concerned. Thus it was offensive to

him even now to board a ship in the same dress in which he grappled

her, and he still adhered in his walk to the school's distinguished

slouch. But above all he retained the passion for good form.

  Good form! However much he may have degenerated, he still knew

that this is all that really matters.

  From far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and

through them came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night

when one cannot sleep. "Have you been good form to-day?" was their

eternal question.

  "Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine!" he cried.

  "Is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?" the tap-tap

from his school replied.

  "I am the only man whom Barbecue feared," he urged, "and Flint

himself feared Barbecue"

  "Barbecue, Flint- what house?" came the cutting retort.

  Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think

about good form?

  His vitals were tortured by this problem. It was a claw within him

sharper than the iron one; and as it tore him, the perspiration

dripped down his tallow countenance and streaked his doublet. Ofttimes

he drew his sleeve across his face, but there was no damming that

trickle.

  Ah, envy not Hook.

  There came to him a presentiment of his early dissolution. It was as

if Peter's terrible oath had boarded the ship. Hook felt a gloomy

desire to make his dying speech, lest presently there should be no

time for it.

  "Better for Hook," he cried, "if he had had less ambition!" It was

in his darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third

person.

  "No little children love me!"

  Strange that he should think of this, which had never troubled him

before; perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind. For long he

muttered to himself, staring at Smee, who was hemming placidly,

under the conviction that all children feared him.

  Feared him! Feared Smee! There was not a child on board the brig

that night who did not already love him. He had said horrid things

to them and hit them with the palm of his hand, because he could not

hit with his fist, but they had only clung to him the more. Michael

had tried on his spectacles.

  To tell poor Smee that they thought him lovable! Hook itched to do

it, but it seemed too brutal. Instead, he revolved this mystery in his

mind: why do they find Smee lovable? He pursued the problem like the

sleuth-hound that he was. If Smee was lovable, what was it that made

him so? A terrible answer suddenly presented itself- "Good form?"

  Had the bo'sun good form without knowing it, which is the best

form of all?

  He remembered that you have to prove you don't know you have it

before you are eligible for Pop.

  With a cry of rage he raised his iron hand over Smee's head; but

he did not tear. What arrested him was this reflection:

  "To claw a man because he is good form, what would that be?"

  "Bad form!"

  The unhappy Hook was as impotent as he was damp, and he fell forward

like a cut flower.

  His dogs thinking him out of the way for a time, discipline

instantly relaxed; and they broke into a bacchanalian dance, which

brought him to his feet at once, all traces of human weakness gone, as

if a bucket of water had passed over him.

  "Quiet, you scugs," he cried, "or I'll cast anchor in you"; and at

once the din was hushed. "Are all the children chained, so that they

cannot fly away?"

  "Ay, ay."

  "Then hoist them up."

  The wretched prisoners were dragged from the hold, all except Wendy,

and ranged in line in front of him. For a time he seemed unconscious

of their presence. He lolled at his ease, humming, not

unmelodiously, snatches of a rude song, and fingering a pack of cards.

Ever and anon the light from his cigar gave a touch of colour to his

face.

  "Now then, bullies," he said briskly, "six of you walk the plank

tonight, but I have room for two cabin boys. Which of you is it to

be?"

  "Don't irritate him unnecessarily," had been Wendy's instructions in

the hold; so Tootles stepped forward politely. Tootles hated the

idea of signing under such a man, but an instinct told him that it

would be prudent to lay the responsibility on an absent person; and

though a somewhat silly boy, he knew that mothers alone are always

willing to be the buffer. All children know this about mothers, and

despise them for it, but make constant use of it.

  So Tootles explained prudently, "You see, sir, I don't think my

mother would like me to be a pirate. Would your mother like you to

be a pirate, Slightly?"

  He winked at Slightly, who said mournfully, "I don't think so," as

if he wished things had been otherwise. "Would your mother like you to

be a pirate, Twin?"

  "I don't think so," said the first twin, as clever as the others.

"Nibs, would-"

  "Stow this gab," roared Hook, and the spokesmen were dragged back.

"You, boy," he said, addressing John, "you look as if you had a little

pluck in you. Didst never want to be a pirate, my hearty?"

  Now John had sometimes experienced this hankering at maths. prep.;

and he was struck by Hook's picking him out.

  "I once thought of calling myself Red-handed Jack," he said

diffidently.

  "And a good name too. We'll call you that here, bully, if you join."

  "What do you think, Michael?" asked John.

  "What would you call me if I join?" Michael demanded.

  "Blackbeard Joe"

  Michael was naturally impressed. "What do you think, John?" He

wanted John to decide, and John wanted him to decide.

  "Shall we still be respectful subjects of the King?" John inquired.

  Through Hook's teeth came the answer: "You would have to swear,

'Down with the King.'"

  Perhaps John had not behaved very well so far, but he shone out now.

  "Then I refuse!" he cried, banging the barrel in front of Hook.

  "And I refuse," cried Michael.

  "Rule Britannia!" squeaked Curly.

  The infuriated pirates buffeted them in the mouth; and Hook roared

out, "That seals your doom. Bring up their mother. Get the plank

ready."

  They were only boys, and they went white as they saw Jukes and Cecco

preparing the fatal plank. But they tried to look brave when Wendy was

brought up.

  No words of mine can tell you how Wendy despised those pirates. To

the boys there was at least some glamour in the pirate calling; but

all that she saw was that the ship had not been tidied for years.

There was not a porthole on the grimy glass of which you might not

have written with your finger "Dirty pig"; and she had already written

it on several. But as the boys gathered round her she had no

thought, of course, save for them.

  "So, my beauty," said Hook, as if he spoke in syrup, "you are to see

your children walk the plank."

  Fine gentleman though he was, the intensity of his communings had

soiled his ruff, and suddenly he knew that she was gazing at it.

With a hasty gesture he tried to hide it, but he was too late.

  "Are they to die?" asked Wendy, with a look of such frightful

contempt that he nearly fainted.

  "They are," he snarled. "Silence all," he called gloatingly, "for

a mother's last words to her children."

  At this moment Wendy was grand. "These are my last words, dear

boys," she said firmly. "I feel that I have a message to you from your

real mothers, and it is this: 'We hope our sons will die like

English gentlemen.'"

  Even the pirates were awed, and Tootles cried out hysterically, "I

am going to do what my mother hopes. What are you to do, Nibs?"

  "What my mother hopes. What are you to do, Twin?"

  "What my mother hopes. John, what are-"

  But Hook had found his voice again.

  "Tie her up!" he shouted.

  It was Smee who tied her to the mast. "See here, honey," he

whispered, "I'll save you if you promise to be my mother."

  But not even for Smee would she make such a promise. "I would almost

rather have no children at all," she said disdainfully.

  It is sad to know that not a boy was looking at her as Smee tied her

to the mast; the eyes of all were on the plank: that last little

walk they were about to take. They were no longer able to hope that

they would walk it manfully, for the capacity to think had gone from

them; they could stare and shiver only.

  Hook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and took a step toward

Wendy. His intention was to turn her face so that she should see the

boys walking the plank one by one. But he never reached her, he

never heard the cry of anguish he hoped to wring from her. He heard

something else instead.

  It was the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile.

  They all heard it- pirates, boys, Wendy- and immediately every

head was blown in one direction; not to the water whence the sound

proceeded, but toward Hook. All knew that what was about to happen

concerned him alone, and that from being actors they were suddenly

become spectators.

  Very frightful was it to see the change that came over him. It was

as if he had been clipped at every joint. He fell in a little heap.

  The sound came steadily nearer; and in advance of it came this

ghastly thought, "the crocodile is about to board the ship"!

  Even the iron claw hung inactive; as if knowing that it was no

intrinsic part of what the attacking force wanted. Left so fearfully

alone, any other man would have lain with his eyes shut where he fell:

but the gigantic brain of Hook was still working, and under its

guidance he crawled on his knees along the deck as far from the

sound as he could go. The pirates respectfully cleared a passage for

him, and it was only when he brought up against the bulwarks that he

spoke.

  "Hide me!" he cried hoarsely.

  They gathered round him, all eyes averted from the thing that was

coming aboard. They had no thought of fighting it. It was Fate.

  Only when Hook was hidden from them did curiosity loosen the limbs

of the boys so that they could rush to the ship's side to see the

crocodile climbing it. Then they got the strangest surprise of this

Night of Nights; for it was no crocodile that was coming to their aid.

It was Peter.

  He signed to them not to give vent to any cry of admiration that

might arouse suspicion. Then he went on ticking.

                             CHAPTER XV.

                       "HOOK OR ME THIS TIME".

  Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our

noticing for a time that they have happened. Thus, to take an

instance, we suddenly discover that we have been deaf in one ear for

we don't know how long, but, say, half an hour. Now such an experience

had come that night to Peter. When last we saw him he was stealing

across the island with one finger to his lips and his dagger at the

ready. He had seen the crocodile pass by without noticing anything

peculiar about it, but by and by he remembered that it had not been

ticking. At first he thought this eerie, but soon he concluded rightly

that the clock had run down.

  Without giving a thought to what might be the feelings of a

fellow-creature thus abruptly deprived of its closest companion, Peter

began to consider how he could turn the catastrophe to his own use;

and he decided to tick, so that wild beasts should believe he was

the crocodile and let him pass unmolested. He ticked superbly, but

with one unforeseen result. The crocodile was among those who heard

the sound, and it followed him, though whether with the purpose of

regaining what it had lost, or merely, as a friend under the belief

that it was again ticking itself, will never be certainly known,

for, like all slaves to a fixed idea, it was a stupid beast.

  Peter reached the shore without mishap, and went straight on, his

legs encountering the water as if quite unaware that they had

entered a new element. Thus many animals pass from land to water,

but no other human of whom I know. As he swam he had but one

thought: "Hook or me this time." He had ticked so long that he now

went on ticking without knowing that he was doing it. Had he known

he would have stopped, for to board the brig by the help of the

tick, though an ingenious idea, had not occurred to him.

  On the contrary, he thought he had scaled her side as noiseless as a

mouse; and he was amazed to see the pirates cowering from him, with

Hook in their midst as abject as if he had heard the crocodile.

  The crocodile! No sooner did Peter remember it than he heard the

ticking. At first he thought the sound did come from the crocodile,

and he looked behind him swiftly. Then he realized that he was doing

it himself, and in a flash he understood the situation. "How clever of

me!" he thought at once, and signed to the boys not to burst into

applause.

  It was at this moment that Ed Teynte the quartermaster emerged

from the forecastle and came along the deck. Now, reader, time what

happened by your watch. Peter struck true and deep. John clapped his

hands on the ill-fated pirate's mouth to stifle the dying groan. He

fell forward. Four boys caught him to prevent the thud. Peter gave the

signal, and the carrion was cast overboard. There was a splash, and

then silence. How long has it taken?

  "One!" (Slightly had begun to count.)

  None too soon, Peter, every inch of him on tip-toe, vanished into

the cabin; for more than one pirate was screwing up his courage to

look round. They could hear each other's distressed breathing now,

which showed them that the more terrible sound had passed.

  "It's gone, captain," Smee said, wiping his spectacles. "All's still

again."

  Slowly Hook let his head emerge from his ruff, and listened so

intently that he could have caught the echo of the tick. There was not

a sound, and he drew himself up firmly to his full height.

  "Then here's to Johnny Plank!" he cried brazenly, hating the boys

more than ever because they had seen him unbend. He broke into the

villainous ditty:

               "Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank,

                   You walks along it so,

               Till it goes down and you goes down

                   To Davy Jones below!"

  To terrorise the prisoners the more, though with a certain loss of

dignity, he danced along an imaginary plank, grimacing at them as he

sang; and when he finished he cried, "Do you want a touch of the cat

before you walk the plank?"

  At that they fell on their knees. "No, no!" they cried so

piteously that every pirate smiled.

  "Fetch the cat, Jukes," said Hook, "it's in the cabin."

  The cabin! Peter was in the cabin! The children gazed at each other.

  "Ay, ay," said Jukes blithely, and he strode into the cabin. They

followed him with their eyes; they scarce knew that Hook had resumed

his song, his dogs joining in with him:

               "Yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat,

                 Its tails are nine, you know,

             And when they're writ upon your back-"

  What was the last line will never be known, for of a sudden the song

was stayed by a dreadful screech from the cabin. It wailed through the

ship, and died away. Then was heard a crowing sound which was well

understood by the boys, but to the pirates was almost more eerie

than the screech.

  "What was that?" cried Hook.

  "Two," said Slightly solemnly.

  The Italian Cecco hesitated for a moment and then swung into the

cabin. He tottered out, haggard.

  "What's the matter with Bill Jukes, you dog?" hissed Hook,

towering over him.

  "The matter wi' him is he's dead, stabbed," replied Cecco in a

hollow voice.

  "Bill Jukes dead!" cried the startled pirates.

  "The cabin's as black as a pit," Cecco said, almost gibbering,

"but there is something terrible in there: the thing you heard

crowing."

  The exultation of the boys, the lowering looks of the pirates,

both were seen by Hook.

  "Cecco," he said in his most steely voice, "go back and fetch me out

that doodle-doo"

  Cecco, bravest of the brave, cowered before his captain, crying,

"No, no"; but Hook was purring to his claw.

  "Did you say you would go, Cecco?" he said musingly.

  Cecco went, first flinging up his arms despairingly. There was no

more singing, all listened now; and again came a death-screech and

again a crow.

  No one spoke except Slightly. "Three," he said.

  Hook rallied his dogs with a gesture. "S' death and odds fish," he

thundered, "who is to bring me that doodle-doo?"

  "Wait till Cecco comes out," growled Starkey, and the others took up

the cry.

  "I think I heard you volunteer, Starkey," said Hook, purring again.

  "No, by thunder!" Starkey cried.

  "My hook thinks you did," said Hook, crossing to him. "I wonder if

it would not be advisable, Starkey, to humour the hook?"

  "I'll swing before I go in there," replied Starkey doggedly, and

again he had the support of the crew.

  "Is it mutiny?" asked Hook more pleasantly than ever. "Starkey's

ringleader!"

  "Captain, mercy!" Starkey whimpered, all of a tremble now.

  "Shake hands, Starkey," said Hook, proffering his claw.

  Starkey looked round for help, but all deserted him. As he backed

Hook advanced, and now the red spark was in his eye. With a despairing

scream the pirate leapt upon Long Tom and precipitated himself into

the sea.

  "Four," said Slightly.

  "And now," Hook asked courteously, "did any other gentleman say

mutiny?" Seizing a lantern and raising his claw with a menacing

gesture, "I'll bring out that doodle-doo myself," he said, and sped

into the cabin.

  "Five." How Slightly longed to say it. He wetted his lips to be

ready, but Hook came staggering out, without his lantern.

  "Something blew out the light," he said a little unsteadily.

  "Something!" echoed Mullins.

  "What of Cecco?" demanded Noodler.

  "He's as dead as Jukes," said Hook shortly.

  His reluctance to return to the cabin impressed them all

unfavourably, and the mutinous sounds again broke forth. All pirates

are superstitious, and Cookson cried, "They do say the surest sign a

ship's accurst is when there's one on board more than can be accounted

for."

  "I've heard," muttered Mullins, "he always boards the pirate craft

at last. Had he a tail, captain?"

  "They say," said another, looking viciously at Hook, "that when he

comes it's in the likeness of the wickedest man aboard"

  "Had he a hook, captain?" asked Cookson insolently; and one after

another took up the cry, "The ship's doomed!" At this the children

could not resist raising a cheer. Hook had well-nigh forgotten his

prisoners, but as he swung round on them now his face lit up again.

  "Lads," he cried to his crew, "here's a notion. Open the cabin

door and drive them in. Let them fight the doodle-doo for their lives.

If they kill him, we're so much the better; if he kills them, we're

none the worse."

  For the last time his dogs admired Hook, and devotedly they did

his bidding. The boys, pretending to struggle, were pushed into the

cabin and the door was closed on them.

  "Now, listen!" cried Hook, and all listened. But not one dared to

face the door. Yes, one, Wendy, who all this time had been bound to

the mast. It was for neither a scream nor a crow that she was

watching, it was for the reappearance of Peter.

  She had not long to wait. In the cabin he had found the thing for

which he had gone in search: the key that would free the children of

their manacles, and now they all stole forth, armed with such

weapons as they could find. First signing to them to hide, Peter cut

Wendy's bonds, and then nothing could have been easier than for them

all to fly off together; but one thing barred the way, an oath,

"Hook or me this time." So when he had freed Wendy, he whispered to

her to conceal herself with the others, and himself took her place

by the mast, her cloak around him so that he should pass for her. Then

he took a great breath and crowed.

  To the pirates it was a voice crying that all the boys lay slain

in the cabin; and they were panic-stricken. Hook tried to hearten

them, but like the dogs he had made them they showed him their

fangs, and he knew that if he took his eyes off them now they would

leap at him.

  "Lads," he said, ready to cajole or strike as need be, but never

quailing for an instant, "I've thought it out. There's a Jonah

aboard."

  "Ay," they snarled, "a man wi' a hook"

  "No, lads, no, it's the girl. Never was luck on a pirate ship wi'

a woman on board. We'll right the ship when she's gone."

  Some of them remembered that this had been a saying of Flint's.

"It's worth trying," they said doubtfully.

  "Fling the girl overboard," cried Hook; and they made a rush at

the figure in the cloak.

  "There's none can save you now, missy," Mullins hissed jeeringly.

  "There's one," replied the figure.

  "Who's that?"

  "Peter Pan the avenger!" came the terrible answer; and as he spoke

Peter flung off his cloak. Then they all knew who 'twas that had

been undoing them in the cabin, and twice Hook essayed to speak and

twice he failed. In that frightful moment I think his fierce heart

broke.

  At last he cried, "Cleave him to the brisket!" but without

conviction.

  "Down, boys, and at them!" Peter's voice rang out; and in another

moment the clash of arms was resounding through the ship. Had the

pirates kept together it is certain that they would have won; but

the onset came when they were all unstrung, and they ran hither and

thither, striking wildly, each thinking himself the last survivor of

the crew. Man to man they were the stronger; but they fought on the

defensive only, which enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose

their quarry. Some of the miscreants leapt into the sea, others hid in

dark recesses, where they were found by Slightly, who did not fight,

but ran about with a lantern which he flashed in their faces, so

that they were half blinded and fell an easy prey to the reeking

swords of the other boys. There was little sound to be heard but the

clang of weapons, an occasional screech or splash, and Slightly

monotonously counting- five- six- seven- eight- nine- ten- eleven.

  I think all were gone when a group of savage boys surrounded Hook,

who seemed to have a charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that

circle of fire. They had done for his dogs, but this man alone

seemed to be a match for them all. Again and again they closed upon

him, and again and again he hewed a clear space. He had lifted up

one boy with his hook, and was using him as a buckler, when another,

who had just passed his sword through Mullins, sprang into the fray.

  "Put up your swords, boys," cried the newcomer, "this man is mine"

  Thus suddenly Hook found himself face to face with Peter. The others

drew back and formed a ring round them.

  For long the two enemies looked at one another, Hook shuddering

slightly, and Peter with the strange smile upon his face.

  "So, Pan," said Hook at last, "this is all your doing."

  "Ay, James Hook," came the stern answer, "it is all my doing."

  "Proud and insolent youth," said Hook, "prepare to meet thy doom."

  "Dark and sinister man," Peter answered, "have at thee."

  Without more words they fell to, and for a space there was no

advantage to either blade. Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried

with dazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a feint with a

lunge that got past his foe's defence, but his shorter reach stood him

in ill stead, and he could not drive the steel home. Hook, scarcely

his inferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in wrist play,

forced him back by the weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all

with a favourite thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio; but

to his astonishment he found this thrust turned aside again and again.

Then he sought to close and give the quietus with his iron hook, which

all this time had been pawing the air; but Peter doubled under it and,

lunging fiercely, pierced him in the ribs. At sight of his own

blood, whose peculiar colour, you remember, was offensive to him,

the sword fell from Hook's hand, and he was at Peter's mercy.

  "Now!" cried all the boys, but with a magnificent gesture Peter

invited his opponent to pick up his sword. Hook did so instantly,

but with a tragic feeling that Peter was showing good form.

  Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker

suspicions assailed him now.

  "Pan, who and what art thou?" he cried huskily.

  "I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little

bird that has broken out of the egg."

  This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy

Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is

the very pinnacle of good form.

  "To't again," he cried despairingly.

  He fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible

sword would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it;

but Peter fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out

of the danger zone. And again and again he darted in and pricked.

  Hook was fighting now without hope. That passionate breast no longer

asked for life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter bad form

before it was cold forever.

  Abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired

it.

  "In two minutes," he cried, "the ship will be blown to pieces."

  Now, now, he thought, true form will show.

  But Peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his

hands, and calmly flung it overboard.

  What sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though

he was, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end

he was true to the traditions of his race. The other boys were

flying around him now, flouting, scornful; and as he staggered about

the deck striking up at them impotently, his mind was no longer with

them; it was slouching in the playing fields of long ago, or being

sent up for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall. And

his shoes were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was

right, and his socks were right.

  James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.

  For we have come to his last moment.

  Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger

poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea.

  He did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we

purposely stopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a

little mark of respect from us at the end.

  He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he

stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding

through the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It

made Peter kick instead of stab.

  At last Hook had got the boon for which he craved.

  "Bad form," he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.

  Thus perished James Hook.

  "Seventeen," Slightly sang out; but he was not quite correct in

his figures. Fifteen paid the penalty for their crimes that night; but

two reached the shore: Starkey to be captured by the redskins, who

made him nurse for all their papooses, a melancholy come-down for a

pirate; and Smee, who henceforth wandered about the world in his

spectacles, making a precarious living by saying he was the only man

that Jas. Hook had feared.

  Wendy, of course, had stood by taking no part in the fight, though

watching Peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she

became prominent again. She praised them equally, and shuddered

delightfully when Michael showed her the place where he had killed

one; and then she took them into Hook's cabin and pointed to his watch

which was hanging on a nail. It said "half-past one"!

  The lateness of the hour was almost the biggest thing of all. She

got them to bed in the pirates' bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure;

all but Peter, who strutted up and down on deck, until at last he fell

asleep by the side of Long Tom. He had one of his dreams that night,

and cried in his sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tight.

                             CHAPTER XVI.

                           THE RETURN HOME.

  By three bells next morning they were all stirring their stumps. For

there was a big sea running, and Tootles, the bo'sun, was among

them, with a rope's end in his hand and chewing tobacco. They all

donned pirate clothes cut off at the knee, shaved smartly, and tumbled

up, with the true nautical roll and hitching their trousers.

  It need not be said who was the captain. Nibs and John were first

and second mate. There was a woman aboard. The rest were tars before

the mast, and lived in the fo'c'sle. Peter had already lashed

himself to the wheel; but he piped all hands and delivered a short

address to them; said he hoped they would do their duty like gallant

hearties, but that he knew they were the scum of Rio and the Gold

Coast, and if they snapped at him he would tear them. His bluff

strident words struck the note sailors understand, and they cheered

him lustily. Then a few sharp orders were given, and they turned the

ship round, and nosed her for the mainland.

  Captain Pan calculated, after consulting the ship's chart, that if

this weather lasted, they should strike the Azores about the 21st of

June, after which it would save time to fly.

  Some of them wanted it to be an honest ship and others were in

favour of keeping it a pirate; but the captain treated them as dogs,

and they dared not express their wishes to him even in a round

robin. Instant obedience was the only safe thing. Slightly got a dozen

for looking perplexed when told to take soundings. The general feeling

was that Peter was honest just now to lull Wendy's suspicions, but

that there might be a change when the new suit was ready, which,

against her will, she was making for him out of some of Hook's

wickedest garments. It was afterwards whispered among them that on the

first night he wore this suit he sat long in the cabin with Hook's

cigar-holder in his mouth and one hand clenched, all but the

forefinger, which he bent and held threateningly aloft like a hook.

  Instead of watching the ship, however, we must now return to that

desolate home from which three of our characters had taken heartless

flight so long ago. It seems a shame to have neglected No. 14 all this

time; and yet we may be sure that Mrs. Darling does not blame us. If

we had returned sooner to look with sorrowful sympathy at her, she

would probably have cried, "Don't be silly, what do I matter? Do go

back and keep an eye on the children" So long as mothers are like this

their children will take advantage of them; and they may lay to that.

  Even now we venture into that familiar nursery only because its

lawful occupants are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on in

advance of them to see that their beds are properly aired and that Mr.

and Mrs. Darling do not go out for the evening. We are no more than

servants. Why on earth should their beds be properly aired, seeing

that they left them in such a thankless hurry? Would it not serve them

jolly well right if they came back and found that their parents were

spending the week-end in the country? It would be the moral lesson

they have been in need of ever since we met them; but if we

contrived things in this way Mrs. Darling would never forgive us.

  One thing I should like to do immensely, and that is to tell her, in

the way authors have, that the children are coming back, that indeed

they will be here on Thursday week. This would spoil so completely the

surprise to which Wendy and John and Michael are looking forward. They

have been planning it out on the ship: mother's rapture, father's

shout of joy, Nana's leap through the air to embrace them first,

when what they ought to be preparing for is a good hiding. How

delicious to spoil it all by breaking the news in advance; so that

when they enter enter grandly Mrs. Darling may not even offer Wendy

her mouth, and Mr. Darling may exclaim pettishly, "Dash it all, here

are those boys again." However, we should get no thanks even for this.

We are beginning to know Mrs. Darling by this time, and may be sure

that she would upbraid us for depriving the children of their little

pleasure.

  "But, my dear madam, it is ten days till Thursday week; so that by

telling you what's what, we can save you ten days of unhappiness."

  "Yes, but at what a cost By depriving the children of ten minutes of

delight."

  "Oh, if you look at it in that way!"

  "What other way is there in which to look at it?"

  You see, the woman had no proper spirit. I had meant to say

extraordinarily nice things about her; but I despise her, and not

one of them will I say now. She does not really need to be told to

have things ready, for they are ready. All the beds are aired, and she

never leaves the house, and observe, the window is open. For all the

use we are to her, we might go back to the ship. However, as we are

here we may as well stay and look on. That is all we are,

lookers-on. Nobody really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy

things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.

  The only change to be seen in the night-nursery is that between nine

and six the kennel is no longer there. When the children flew away,

Mr. Darling felt in his bones that all the blame was his for having

chained Nana up, and that from first to last she had been wiser than

he. Of course, as we have seen, he was quite a simple man; indeed he

might have passed for a boy again if he had been able to take his

baldness off; but he had also a noble sense of justice and a lion

courage to do what seemed right to him; and having thought the

matter out with anxious care after the flight of the children, he went

down on all fours and crawled into the kennel. To all Mrs. Darling's

dear invitations to him to come out he replied sadly but firmly:

  "No, my own one, this is the place for me."

  In the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he would never

leave the kennel until his children came back. Of course this was a

pity; but whatever Mr. Darling did he had to do in excess, otherwise

he soon gave up doing it. And there never was a more humble man than

the once proud George Darling, as he sat in the kennel of an evening

talking with his wife of their children and all their pretty ways.

  Very touching was his deference to Nana. He would not let her come

into the kennel, but on all other matters he followed her wishes

implicitly.

  Every morning the kennel was carried with Mr. Darling in it to a

cab, which conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in the

same way at six. Something of the strength of character of the man

will be seen if we remember how sensitive he was to the opinion of

neighbours: this man whose every movement now attracted surprised

attention. Inwardly he must have suffered torture; but he preserved

a calm exterior even when the young criticised his little home, and he

always lifted his hat courteously to any lady who looked inside.

  It may have been quixotic, but it was magnificent. Soon the inward

meaning of it leaked out, and the great heart of the public was

touched. Crowds followed the cab, cheering it lustily; charming

girls scaled it to get his autograph; interviews appeared in the

better class of papers, and society invited him to dinner and added,

"Do come in the kennel."

  On that eventful Thursday week Mrs. Darling was in the night-nursery

awaiting George's return home: a very sad-eyed woman. Now that we look

at her closely and remember the gaiety of her in the old days, all

gone now just because she has lost her babes, I find I won't be able

to say nasty things about her after all. If she was too fond of her

rubbishy children she couldn't help it. Look at her in her chair,

where she has fallen asleep. The corner of her mouth, where one

looks first, is almost withered up. Her hand moves restlessly on her

breast as if she had a pain there. Some like Peter best and some

like Wendy best, but I like her best. Suppose, to make her happy, we

whisper to her in her sleep that the brats are coming back. They are

really within two miles of the window now, and flying strong, but

all we need whisper is that they are on the way. Let's.

  It is a pity we did it, for she has started up, calling their names;

and there is no one in the room but Nana.

  "O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come back"

  Nana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was to put her paw

gently on her mistress's lap, and they were sitting together thus when

the kennel was brought back. As Mr. Darling puts his head out at it to

kiss his wife, we see that his face is more worn than of yore, but has

a softer expression.

  He gave his hat to Liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no

imagination, and was quite incapable of understanding the motives of

such a man. Outside, the crowd who had accompanied the cab home were

still cheering, and he was naturally not unmoved.

  "Listen to them," he said; "it is very gratifying."

  "Lot of little boys," sneered Liza.

  "There were several adults to-day," he assured her with a faint

flush; but when she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for

her. Social success had not spoilt him; it had made him sweeter. For

some time he sat with his head out of the kennel, talking with Mrs.

Darling of this success, and pressing her hand reassuringly when she

said she hoped his head would not be turned by it.

  "But if I had been a weak man," he said. "Good heavens, if I had

been a weak man!"

  "And, George," she said timidly, "you are as full of remorse as

ever, aren't you?"

  "Full of remorse as ever, dearest! See my punishment: living in a

kennel."

  "But it is punishment, isn't it, George? You are sure you are not

enjoying it?"

  "My love!"

  You may be sure she begged his pardon; and then, feeling drowsy,

he curled round in the kennel.

  "Won't you play me to sleep," he asked, "on the nursery piano?"

and as she was crossing to the day-nursery he added thoughtlessly,

"and shut that window. I feel a draught."

  "O George, never ask me to do that. The window must always be left

open for them, always, always."

  Now it was his turn to beg her pardon; and she went into the

day-nursery and played, and soon he was asleep; and while he slept,

Wendy and John and Michael flew into the room.

  Oh no. We have written it so, because that was the charming

arrangement planned by them before we left the ship; but something

must have happened since then, for it is not they who have flown in,

it is Peter and Tinker Bell.

  Peter's first words tell all.

  "Quick, Tink," he whispered, "close the window; bar it! That's

right. Now you and I must get away by the door; and when Wendy comes

she will think her mother has barred her out, and she will have to

go back with me."

  Now I understand what had hitherto puzzled me, why when Peter had

exterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and leave

Tink to escort the children to the mainland. This trick had been in

his head all the time.

  Instead of feeling that he was behaving badly he danced with glee;

then he peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing. He

whispered to Tink, "It's Wendy's mother! She is a pretty lady, but not

so pretty as my mother. Her mouth is full of thimbles, but not so full

as my mother's was."

  Of course he knew nothing whatever about his mother; but he

sometimes bragged about her.

  He did not know the tune, which was "Home, Sweet Home," but he

knew it was saying, "Come back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy"; and he cried

exultantly. "You will never see Wendy again, lady, for the window is

barred!"

  He peeped in again to see why the music had stopped, and now he

saw that Mrs. Darling had laid her head on the box, and that two tears

were sitting on her eyes.

  "She wants me to unbar the window," thought Peter, "but I won't, not

I!"

  He peeped again, and the tears were still there, or another two

had taken their place.

  "She's awfully fond of Wendy," he said to himself. He was angry with

her now for not seeing why she could not have Wendy.

  The reason was so simple: "I'm fond of her too. We can't both have

her, lady."

  But the lady would not make the best of it, and he was unhappy. He

ceased to look at her, but even then she would not let go of him. He

skipped about and made funny faces, but when he stopped it was just as

if she were inside him, knocking.

  "Oh, all right," he said at last, and gulped. Then he unbarred the

window. "Come on, Tink," he cried, with a frightful sneer at the

laws of nature: "we don't want any silly mothers"; and he flew away.

  Thus Wendy and John and Michael found the window open for them after

all, which of course was more than they deserved. They alighted on the

floor, quite unashamed of themselves, and the youngest one had already

forgotten his home.

  "John," he said looking around him doubtfully, "I think I have

been here before."

  "Of course you have, you silly. There is your old bed."

  "So it is," Michael said, but not with much conviction.

  "I say," cried John, "the kennel!" and he dashed across to look into

it.

  "Perhaps Nana is inside it," Wendy said.

  But John whistled. "Hullo," he said, "there's a man inside it."

  "It's father!" exclaimed Wendy.

  "Let me see father." Michael begged eagerly, and he took a good

look. "He is not so big as the pirate I killed," he said with such

frank disappointment that I am glad Mr. Darling was asleep; it would

have been sad if those had been the first words he heard his little

Michael say.

  Wendy and John had been taken aback somewhat at finding their father

in the kennel.

  "Surely," said John, like one who had lost faith in his memory,

"he used not to sleep in the kennel?"

  "John," Wendy said falteringly, "perhaps we don't remember the old

life as well as we thought we did."

  A chill fell upon them; and serve them right.

  "It is very careless of mother," said the young scoundrel John, "not

to be here when we come back."

  It was then that Mrs. Darling began playing again.

  "It's mother!" cried Wendy, peeping.

  "So it is!" said John.

  "Then are you not really our mother, Wendy?" asked Michael, who

was surely sleepy.

  "Oh dear!" exclaimed Wendy, with her first real twinge of remorse,

"it was quite time we came back."

  "Let us creep in," John suggested, "and put our hands over her

eyes."

  But Wendy, who saw that they must break the joyous news more gently,

had a better plan.

  "Let us all slip into our beds, and be there when she comes in, just

as if we had never been away."

  And so when Mrs. Darling went back to the night-nursery to see if

her husband was asleep, all the beds were occupied. The children

waited for her cry of joy, but it did not come. She saw them, but

she did not believe they were there. You see, she saw them in their

beds so often in her dreams that she thought this was just the dream

hanging around her still.

  She sat down in the chair by the fire, where in the old days she had

nursed them.

  They could not understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all the

three of them.

  "Mother!" Wendy cried.

  "That's Wendy," she said, but still she was sure it was a dream.

  "Mother!"

  "That's John," she said.

  "Mother!" cried Michael. He knew her now.

  "That's Michael," she said, and she stretched out her arms for the

three little selfish children they would never envelop again. Yes,

they did, they went round Wendy and John and Michael, who had

slipped out of bed and run to her.

  "George, George!" she cried when she could speak; and Mr. Darling

woke to share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in. There could not

have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a

little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies

innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking

through the window at the one joy from which he must be forever

barred.

                            CHAPTER XVII.

                         WHEN WENDY GREW UP.

  I hope you want to know what became of the other boys. They were

waiting below to give Wendy time to explain about them, and when

they had counted five hundred they went up. They went up by the stair,

because they thought this would make a better impression. They stood

in a row in front of Mrs. Darling, with their hats off, and wishing

they were not wearing their pirate clothes. They said nothing, but

their eyes asked her to have them. They ought to have looked at Mr.

Darling also, but they forgot about him.

  Of course Mrs. Darling said at once that she would have them; but

Mr. Darling was curiously depressed, and they saw that he considered

six a rather large number.

  "I must say," he said to Wendy, "that you don't do things by

halves," a grudging remark which the twins thought was pointed at

them.

  The first twin was the proud one, and he asked, flushing, "Do you

think we should be too much of a handful, sir? Because if so we can go

away."

  "Father!" Wendy cried, shocked; but still the cloud was on him. He

knew he was behaving unworthily, but he could not help it.

  "We could lie doubled up," said Nibs.

  "I always cut their hair myself," said Wendy.

  "George!" Mrs. Darling exclaimed, pained to see her dear one showing

himself in such an unfavourable light.

  Then he burst into tears, and the truth came out. He was as glad

to have them as she was, he said, but he thought they should have

asked his consent as well as hers, instead of treating him as a cypher

in his own house.

  "I don't think he is a cypher," Tootles cried instantly. "Do you

think he is a cypher, Curly?"

  "No I don't. Do you think he is a cypher, Slightly?"

  "Rather not. Twin, what do you think?"

  It turned out that not one of them thought him a cypher; and he

was absurdly gratified, and said he would find space for them all in

the drawing-room if they fitted in.

  "We'll fit in, sir," they assured him.

  "Then follow the leader," he cried gaily. "Mind you, I am not sure

that we have a drawing-room, but we pretend we have, and it's all

the same. Hoop la!"

  He went off dancing through the house, and they all cried "Hoop la!"

and danced after him, searching for the drawing-room; and I forget

whether they found it, but at any rate they found corners, and they

all fitted in.

  As for Peter, he saw Wendy once again before he flew away. He did

not exactly come to the window, but he brushed against it in

passing, so that she could open it if she liked and call to him.

That was what she did.

  "Hullo, Wendy, good-bye," he said.

  "Oh dear, are you going away?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't feel, Peter," she said falteringly, "that you would

like to say anything to my parents about a very sweet subject?"

  "No."

  "About me, Peter?"

  "No."

  Mrs. Darling came to the window, for at present she was keeping a

sharp eye on Wendy. She told Peter that she had adopted all the

other boys, and would like to adopt him also.

  "Would you send me to school?" he inquired craftily.

  "Yes."

  "And then to an office?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Soon I should be a man?"

  "Very soon."

  "I don't want to go to school and learn solemn things," he told

her passionately. "I don't want to be a man. O Wendy's, mother, if I

was to wake up and feel there was a beard!"

  "Peter," said Wendy the comforter, "I should love you in a beard;"

and Mrs. Darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.

  "Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man."

  "But where are you going to live?"

  "With Tink in the house we built for Wendy. The fairies are to put

it high up among the tree tops where they sleep at nights."

  "How lovely," cried Wendy so longingly that Mrs. Darling tightened

her grip.

  "I thought all the fairies were dead," Mrs. Darling said.

  "There are always a lot of young ones," explained Wendy, who was now

quite an authority, "because you see when a new baby laughs for the

first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies

there are always new fairies. They live in nests on the tops of trees;

and the mauve ones are boys and the white ones are girls, and the blue

ones are just little sillies who are not sure what they are."

  "I shall have such fun," said Peter, with one eye on Wendy.

  "It will be rather lonely in the evening," she said, "sitting by the

fire."

  "I shall have Tink."

  "Tink can't go a twentieth part of the way round," she reminded

him a little tartly.

  "Sneaky tell-tale!" Tink called out from somewhere round the corner.

  "It doesn't matter," Peter said.

  "O Peter, you know it matters."

  "Well, then, come with me to the little house."

  "May I, mummy?"

  "Certainly not. I have got you home again, and I mean to keep you."

  "But he does so need a mother."

  "So do you, my love."

  "Oh, all right," Peter said, as if he had asked her from

politeness merely; but Mrs. Darling saw his mouth twitch, and she made

this handsome offer: to let Wendy go to him for a week every year

and do his spring cleaning. Wendy would have preferred a more

permanent arrangement, and it seemed to her that spring would be

long in coming, but this promise sent Peter away quite gay again. He

had no sense of time, and was so full of adventures that all I have

told you about him is only a half-penny worth of them. I suppose it

was because Wendy knew this that her last words to him were these

rather plaintive ones:

  "You won't forget me, Peter, will you, before spring-cleaning time

comes?"

  Of course Peter promised, and then he flew away. He took Mrs.

Darling's kiss with him. The kiss that had been for no one else

Peter took quite easily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied.

  Of course all the boys went to school; and most of them got into

Class III, but Slightly was put first into Class IV and then into

Class V. Class I is the top class. Before they had attended school a

week they saw what goats they had been not to remain on the island;

but it was too late now, and soon they settled down to being as

ordinary as you or me or Jenkins minor. It is sad to have to say

that the power to fly gradually left them. At first Nana tied their

feet to the bed-posts so that they should not fly away in the night;

and one of their diversions by day was to pretend to fall off buses;

but by and by they ceased to tug at their bonds in bed, and found that

they hurt themselves when they let go of the bus. In time they could

not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called it; but

what it really meant was that they no longer believed.

  Michael believed longer than the other boys, though they jeered at

him; so he was with Wendy when Peter came for her at the end of the

first year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from

leaves and berries in the Neverland, and her one fear was that he

might notice how short it had become, but he never noticed, he had

so much to say about himself.

  She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old

times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.

  "Who is Captain Hook?" he asked with interest when she spoke of

the arch enemy.

  "Don't you remember," she asked, amazed, "how you killed him and

saved all our lives?"

  "I forget them after I kill them," he replied carelessly.

  When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to

see her he said, "Who is Tinker Bell?"

  "O Peter!" she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could

not remember.

  "There are such a lot of them," he said. "I expect she is no more."

  I expect he was right, for fairies don't live long, but they are

so little that a short time seems a good while to them.

  Wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday

to Peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was

exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring

cleaning in the little house on the tree tops.

  Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because

the old one simply would not meet, but he never came.

  "Perhaps he is ill," Michael said.

  "You know he is never ill."

  Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, "Perhaps

there is no such person, Wendy!" and then Wendy would have cried if

Michael had not been crying.

  Peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he

never knew he had missed a year.

  That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little

longer she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she

felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge.

But the years came and went without bringing the careless boy; and

when they met again Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more

to her than a little dust in the box in which she had kept her toys.

Wendy was grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of

the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free

will a day quicker than other girls.

  All the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is

scarcely worth while saying anything more about them. You may see

the twins and Nibs and Curly any day going to an office, each carrying

a little bag and an umbrella. Michael is an engine-driver. Slightly

married a lady of title, and so he became a lord. You see that judge

in a wig coming out at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The

bearded man who doesn't know any story to tell his children was once

John.

  Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange to

think that Peter did not alight in the church and forbid the banns.

  Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to

be written in ink but in a golden splash.

  She was called Jane, and always had an odd inquiring look, as if

from the moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask

questions. When she was old enough to ask them they were mostly

about Peter Pan. She loved to hear of Peter, and Wendy told her all

she could remember in the very nursery from which the famous flight

had taken place. It was Jane's nursery now, for her father had

bought it at the three percents from Wendy's father, who was no longer

fond of stairs. Mrs. Darling was now dead and forgotten.

  There were only two beds in the nursery now, Jane's and her nurse's;

and there was no kennel, for Nana also had passed away. She died of

old age, and at the end she had been rather difficult to get on

with, being very firmly convinced that no one knew how to look after

children except herself.

  Once a week Jane's nurse had her evening off, and then it was

Wendy's part to put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was

Jane's invention to raise the sheet over her mother's head and her

own, thus making a tent, and in the awful darkness to whisper:-

  "What do we see now?"

  "I don't think I see anything to-night," says Wendy, with a

feeling that if Nana were here she would object to further

conversation.

  "Yes, you do," says Jane, "you see when you were a little girl."

  "That is a long time ago, sweetheart," says Wendy. "Ah me, how

time flies!"

  "Does it fly," asks the artful child, "the way you flew when you

were a little girl?"

  "The way I flew! Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I

ever did really fly."

  "Yes, you did."

  "The dear old days when I could fly!"

  "Why can't you fly now, mother?"

  "Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the

way."

  "Why do they forget the way?"

  "Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is

only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly."

  "What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was gay and

innocent and heartless."

  Or perhaps Wendy admits she does see something. "I do believe,"

she says, "that it is this nursery!"

  "I do believe it is!" says Jane. "Go on."

  They are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter

flew in looking for his shadow.

  "The foolish fellow," says Wendy, "tried to stick it on with soap,

and when he could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on

for him."

  "You have missed a bit," interrupts Jane, who now knows the story

better than her mother. "When you saw him sitting on the floor

crying what did you say?"

  "I sat up in bed and I said, 'Boy, why are you crying?'"

  "Yes, that was it," says Jane, with a big breath.

  "And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies and

the pirates and the redskins and the mermaids' lagoon, and the home

under the ground, and the little house."

  "Yes! which did you like best of all?"

  "I think I liked the home under the ground best of all."

  "Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter ever said to you?"

  "The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Just always be waiting

for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.'"

  "Yes!"

  "But, alas, he forgot all about me." Wendy said it with a smile. She

was as grown up as that.

  "What did his crow sound like?" Jane asked one evening.

  "It was like this," Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter's crow.

  "No, it wasn't," Jane said gravely, "it was like this"; and she

did it ever so much better than her mother.

  Wendy was a little startled. "My darling, how can you know?"

  "I often hear it when I am sleeping," Jane said.

  "Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the

only one who heard it awake."

  "Lucky you!" said Jane.

  And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the

year, and the story had been told for the night, and Jane was now

asleep in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the

fire so as to see to darn, for there was no other light in the

nursery; and while she sat darning she heard a crow. Then the window

blew open as of old, and Peter dropped on the floor.

  He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still

had all his first teeth.

  He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire

not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.

  "Hullo, Wendy," he said, not noticing any difference, for he was

thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress

might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.

  "Hullo, Peter," she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as

possible. Something inside her was crying "Woman, woman, let go of

me."

  "Hullo, where is John?" he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.

  "John is not here now," she gasped.

  "Is Michael asleep?" he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.

  "Yes," she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as

well as to Peter.

  "That is not Michael," she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall

on her.

  Peter looked. "Hullo, is it a new one?"

  "Yes"

  "Boy or girl?"

  "Girl."

  Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.

  "Peter," she said, faltering, "are you expecting me to fly away with

you?"

  "Of course; that is why I have come" He added a little sternly,

"Have you forgotten that this is spring-cleaning time?"

  She knew it was useless to say that he had let many

spring-cleaning times pass.

  "I can't come," she said apologetically, "I have forgotten how to

fly."

  "I'll soon teach you again."

  "O, Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me."

  She had risen, and now at last a fear assailed him. "What is it?" he

cried, shrinking.

  "I will turn up the light," she said, "and then you can see for

yourself."

  For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was

afraid. "Don't turn up the light," he cried.

  She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not

a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at

it all, but they were wet smiles.

  Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of

pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in

her arms he drew back sharply.

  "What is it?" he cried again.

  She had to tell him.

  "I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long

ago."

  "You promised not to!"

  "I couldn't help it. I am a married woman, Peter."

  "No, you're not"

  "Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby."

  "No, she's not."

  But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping

child with his fist upraised. Of course he did not strike her. He

sat down on the floor and sobbed, and Wendy did not know how to

comfort him, though she could have done it so easily once. She was

only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try to think.

  Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in

bed, and was interested at once.

  "Boy," she said, "why are you crying?"

  Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.

  "Hullo," he said.

  "Hullo," said Jane.

  "My name is Peter Pan," he told her.

  "Yes, I know."

  "I came back for my mother," he explained, "to take her to the

Neverland."

  "Yes, I know," Jane said, "I been waiting for you."

  When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the

bedpost crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying

round the room in solemn ecstasy.

  "She is my mother," Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by

his side, with the look on her face that he liked to see on ladies

when they gazed at him.

  "He does so need a mother," Jane said.

  "Yes, I know," Wendy admitted, rather forlornly; "no one knows it so

well as I."

  "Good-bye," said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the

shameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving

about.

  Wendy rushed to the window.

  "No, no!" she cried.

  "It is just for spring-cleaning time," Jane said; "he wants me

always to do his spring cleaning."

  "If only I could go with you!" Wendy sighed.

  "You see you can't fly," said Jane.

  Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last

glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into

the sky until they were as small as stars.

  As you look at Wendy you may see her hair becoming white, and her

figure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a

common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every

spring-cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret

and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about

himself, to which he listens eagerly. When Margaret grows up she

will have a daughter, who is to be Peter's mother in turn; and so it

will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.

                            THE END