Barrie J. M.. Peter Pan

   Of course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the miscreants [villains] 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 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 [nicked] 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 [began combat] they had a sinking [feeling in the stomach]. Had it been so with Peter at that moment I would admit it. After all, he 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 that 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 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 moments afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water striking wildly for the ship; no elation on the 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, because 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 tremour 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 9
THE NEVER BIRD

   The last sound 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 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 the 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 she was 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 were such a story, and say that Peter replied intelligently to the Never bird; but truth is best, and I want to tell you 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 a 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 [small ship, actually the Never Bird's nest in this particular case in point] 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 10
THE HAPPY HOME

   One important result of the brush [with the pirates] 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 [lying down] 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 too 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.
   The meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around 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 [bashfully or timidly], "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 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 [scolded] 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 recognize 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 [exaggerated a smile].
   "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 [children]." "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 [ex]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 [formally and properly].
   "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 [about] 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, but 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 11
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 [cautioned] them. "There was a lady also, and — "
   "Oh, 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 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."
   "Did 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 [let's] 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 back 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 [nightgown]."
   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 the 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 [portion], 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, and 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 other 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 12
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 mocassins 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 that 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 [get into combat]. 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, 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 was now. They knew it; but as their father's sons they acquitted themselves. Even then they had time to gather in a phalanx [dense formation] 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 [deadly] genius with which it was carried out.
   What were his own feelings about himself at that triumphant moment? Fain [gladly] 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 [persistance], 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.