— Porper doesn’t want to go to bed, do you, Porper.
— No.
— But, Andy, you know perfectly well—
— Stop arguing, will you? They’re busy in there.
We sat on the doorstep of the playhouse, and made cups and saucers out of green acorns for Porper.
— Look, Porper, we’re having tea, this is what Grandfather showed me how to do.
— Where is Grandfather.
— Grandfather has gone away.
— Where.
— Oh, a long way, never mind. Drink your cambric tea.
— What’s cambric tea.
— Oh, you know what it is, Porper. It’s hot-water-sugar-spoon.
— What’s hot-water-sugar-spoon.
— It’s cambric tea. Andy, what were they doing.
— Do you always want to know everything.
— If you go spying you might at least tell me.
— I wasn’t spying.
— You were, too. You did that on purpose.
— Did what.
— Threw your mallet up there on the porch.
— What if I did. They weren’t doing anything, if that’s what you want to know, they were just talking.
— What about.
— How do I know. Nobody was saying anything when I looked in. But they looked as if they were having a quarrel.
— Is it about Father do you suppose.
— Why should it be about Father.
— Because he isn’t here. Because he hasn’t come to Duxbury this summer.
— Why should they quarrel about that.
— But if it isn’t Father, what is it.
— Look, I can squash my cups and saucers.
— Why so you can, Porper. Would you like some more? Give him a Ping-pong ball, Andy.
— There aren’t any. He’s lost or squashed them all. Look Porper, I’ll show you how I climb up into the bicycle shed. Watch me.
— I want a Ping-pong ball.
— But there aren’t any more Porper, they’re all gone. We’ll get some more tomorrow.
He began to cry, and Susan took his hand and led him out again.
— Would you like to sit on top of Plymouth Rock Junior. And see the frogs and turtles.
It was getting dark when the horn blew to call us back to the house, the long sad tin horn that Uncle Tom blew from the porch to call us in for meals. But it was Mother who had blown it.
— Why, Porper, you’ve been crying — my poor lamb — what have you children been doing to him—
— Nothing, Mother, he’s tired.
— My poor tired Porper — did you hear Mother blow the tin horn?
— Let me blow it.
— We’ll take the horn up to bed with us, shall we?
— Yes.
She lifted him up and kissed him, and gave him the horn, and kissed him again, ruffling his short hair with her hand, and put her face against his cheek while he tried to blow the horn. But he only spat into the horn, as he always did, and made a whiffling sound. She opened the screen door with one hand and her foot and took him into the house.
— Andy, Mother had been crying.
— How do you know.
— She had shiny streaks in the corners of her eyes. And her eyes were red. That’s always the way you can tell.
Uncle David came out, humming, he had on his gray knickerbockers and a blue shirt opened at the neck. He looked down at us with his eyes almost shut.
— Well, kids, how does your symptoms seem to segashuate?
He laughed, and went to the corner of the porch and took down his rowlocks from the hooks, and his oars, and walked off toward the Point. In a minute Uncle Tom came out, and without saying anything went down the hill toward the playhouse. We saw him disappear under the trees by the door to the bicycle shed, and saw a match flare, and another, and then he came back, with the bicycle lamp making a little yellow fan of light on the grass, bobbing up and down.
I think, Andy and Susan, you’d both better go to bed. I know it’s a little early, but we might be going on a picnic tomorrow. And don’t bother your mother, she’s very tired.
— Oh, Uncle Tom, do you really think—
— I don’t promise — I just say we might.
— Where are you going, Uncle Tom?
— Down to the village. Now go along, and be as quiet as you can.
And it was after I was asleep, it was in a dream, that suddenly Susan was standing by my bed. I woke up with her hand on my mouth, and she was saying shhhhh.
— Andy, be quiet, listen.
— What.
— I think Father is downstairs.
— Are you sure.
— I think so. I thought I heard his voice.
I got out of bed, and we tiptoed to the head of the stairs. What time was it. Was it midnight. Had Molly and Margaret come back from the village, and were they in their room, listening. We stood outside their door, and for a while there wasn’t a sound, and then we heard Father’s voice. It sounded far away, as if he were standing by one of the outside doors, or on the porch.
— I think Doris and I had better discuss this alone.
The screen door squeaked and clacked. We listened, but heard nothing else. Susan was shivering in her nightgown.
— Andy, let me come in and sleep with you.
— No.
— Please, Andy.
— No.
— Oh, please, Andy.
— with Calumet K under my coat, to take back to the Library, because it was raining, though not raining very much, only a drizzle, and it might get wet. Should I say anything or not. Should I tell him I had heard him or not. All the pretending. Pretending we hadn’t heard anything, or seen anything. Pretending we didn’t know anything. Pretending, pretending, pretending. I was sick of pretending. First from Father, and then from Mother, and then from Susan. What was the use. My sneakers were wet with walking through the wet grass, they began to bubble. I felt the cold bubbles under the naked soles of my feet and swished them through the thick weeds and grass beside the path to fill them and refill them with cold water. They squelched and squnched as I walked. The spider webs in the long privet hedge were heavy and bright with rain. I shook them and the spiders came out. The telephone poles were wet, the sand in the ruts was dark, the cherry trees were dripping slowly, but the sky over the village was beginning to brighten, in a little while the sun would come out again. And I ought to get Tanglewood Tales, to read for school. And Ivanhoe. But I could wait another week. I could get The Sign of the Four. The Hound of the Baskervilles. The Black Arrow. The White Company.
When Father stepped out of the white-sanded gap in the road, I was surprised.
— And what has he got there under his jacket? Calumet K again?
— Yes. I like it.
— So do I. A good story. Have you tried Old St. Paul’s this summer?
— Oh, no, I forgot.
— Try it. But they may not have it. If they haven’t got it, I’ll send it to you.
He had his white raincoat on, but no hat, and his hair was standing up straight, and drops of rain sparkled on it. His hands were in his pockets. He took one of them out with an envelope in it.
— I’m sorry there was no picnic today. But we’ll have it soon, I’ll come down again soon, tell Susan and Porper I’ll be coming back. And when you go back from the Library, give this note to Mother.
— But Father, why can’t you stay—
— And tell her that I’m going up on the noon train. Will you?
— Yes, and I’ll give her the note.
— Be sure. It’s important.
— When you come back will you stay with us at Aunt Norah’s.
— I don’t think so. I’m afraid not. Not enough beds to go round, old fellow. Now run along—