In a little hollow between three rocks lay a heap of dried brambles and heather.
Peter halted, turned over the brushwood with a well-scarred boot, and said:
Heres the first coal from the St. Peters Mine. Well take it home in the chariot. Punctuality and despatch. All orders carefully attended to. Any shaped lump cut to suit regular customers.
The chariot was packed full of coal. And when it was packed it had to be unpacked again because it was so heavy that it couldnt be got up the hill by the three children, not even when Peter harnessed himself to the handle with his braces, and firmly grasping his waistband in one hand pulled while the girls pushed behind.
Three journeys had to be made before the coal from Peters mine was added to the heap of Mothers coal in the cellar.
Afterwards Peter went out alone, and came back very black and mysterious.
Ive been to my coal-mine, he said; to-morrow evening well bring home the black diamonds in the chariot.
It was a week later that Mrs. Viney remarked to Mother how well this last lot of coal was holding out.
The children hugged themselves and each other in complicated wriggles of silent laughter as they listened on the stairs. They had all forgotten by now that there had ever been any doubt in Peters mind as to whether coal-mining was wrong.
But there came a dreadful night when the Station Master put on a pair of old sand shoes that he had worn at the seaside in his summer holiday, and crept out very quietly to the yard where the Sodom and Gomorrah heap of coal was, with the whitewashed line round it. He crept out there, and he waited like a cat by a mousehole. On the top of the heap something small and dark was scrabbling and rattling furtively among the coal.
The Station Master concealed himself in the shadow of a brake-van that had a little tin chimney and was labelled:
G. N. and S. R.
34576
Return at once to
White Heather Sidings
and in this concealment he lurked till the small thing on the top of the heap ceased to scrabble and rattle, came to the edge of the heap, cautiously let itself down, and lifted something after it. Then the arm of the Station Master was raised, the hand of the Station Master fell on a collar, and there was Peter firmly held by the jacket, with an old carpenters bag full of coal in his trembling clutch.
So Ive caught you at last, have I, you young thief? said the Station Master.
Im not a thief, said Peter, as firmly as he could. Im a coal-miner.
Tell that to the Marines, said the Station Master.
It would be just as true whoever I told it to, said Peter.
Youre right there, said the man, who held him. Stow your jaw, you young rip, and come along to the station.
Oh, no, cried in the darkness an agonised voice that was not Peters.
Not the POLICE station! said another voice from the darkness.
Not yet, said the Station Master. The Railway Station first. Why, its a regular gang. Any more of you?
Only us, said Bobbie and Phyllis, coming out of the shadow of another truck labelled Staveley Colliery, and bearing on it the legend in white chalk: Wanted in No. 1 Road.
What do you mean by spying on a fellow like this? said Peter, angrily.
Time someone did spy on you, I think, said the Station Master. Come along to the station.
Oh, DONT! said Bobbie. Cant you decide NOW what youll do to us? Its our fault just as much as Peters. We helped to carry the coal awayand we knew where he got it.
No, you didnt, said Peter.
Yes, we did, said Bobbie. We knew all the time. We only pretended we didnt just to humour you.
Peters cup was full. He had mined for coal, he had struck coal, he had been caught, and now he learned that his sisters had humoured him.
Dont hold me! he said. I wont run away.
The Station Master loosed Peters collar, struck a match and looked at them by its flickering light.
Why, said he, youre the children from the Three Chimneys up yonder. So nicely dressed, too. Tell me now, what made you do such a thing? Havent you ever been to church or learned your catechism or anything, not to know its wicked to steal? He spoke much more gently now, and Peter said:
I didnt think it was stealing. I was almost sure it wasnt. I thought if I took it from the outside part of the heap, perhaps it would be. But in the middle I thought I could fairly count it only mining. Itll take thousands of years for you to burn up all that coal and get to the middle parts.
Not quite. But did you do it for a lark or what?
Not much lark carting that beastly heavy stuff up the hill, said Peter, indignantly.
Then why did you? The Station Masters voice was so much kinder now that Peter replied:
You know that wet day? Well, Mother said we were too poor to have a fire. We always had fires when it was cold at our other house, and
DONT! interrupted Bobbie, in a whisper.
Well, said the Station Master, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Ill tell you what Ill do. Ill look over it this once. But you remember, young gentleman, stealing is stealing, and whats mine isnt yours, whether you call it mining or whether you dont. Run along home.
Do you mean you arent going to do anything to us? Well, you are a brick, said Peter, with enthusiasm.
Youre a dear, said Bobbie.
Youre a darling, said Phyllis.
Thats all right, said the Station Master.
And on this they parted.
Dont speak to me, said Peter, as the three went up the hill. Youre spies and traitorsthats what you are.
But the girls were too glad to have Peter between them, safe and free, and on the way to Three Chimneys and not to the Police Station, to mind much what he said.
We DID say it was us as much as you, said Bobbie, gently.
Welland it wasnt.
It would have come to the same thing in Courts with judges, said Phyllis. Dont be snarky, Peter. It isnt our fault your secrets are so jolly easy to find out. She took his arm, and he let her.
Theres an awful lot of coal in the cellar, anyhow, he went on.
Oh, dont! said Bobbie. I dont think we ought to be glad about THAT.
I dont know, said Peter, plucking up a spirit. Im not at all sure, even now, that mining is a crime.
But the girls were quite sure. And they were also quite sure that he was quite sure, however little he cared to own it.
Chapter III. The old gentleman
After the adventure of Peters Coal-mine, it seemed well to the children to keep away from the stationbut they did not, they could not, keep away from the railway. They had lived all their lives in a street where cabs and omnibuses rumbled by at all hours, and the carts of butchers and bakers and candlestick makers (I never saw a candlestick-makers cart; did you?) might occur at any moment. Here in the deep silence of the sleeping country the only things that went by were the trains. They seemed to be all that was left to link the children to the old life that had once been theirs. Straight down the hill in front of Three Chimneys the daily passage of their six feet began to mark a path across the crisp, short turf. They began to know the hours when certain trains passed, and they gave names to them. The 9.15 up was called the Green Dragon. The 10.7 down was the Worm of Wantley. The midnight town express, whose shrieking rush they sometimes woke from their dreams to hear, was the Fearsome Fly-by-night. Peter got up once, in chill starshine, and, peeping at it through his curtains, named it on the spot.
It was by the Green Dragon that the old gentleman travelled. He was a very nice-looking old gentleman, and he looked as if he were nice, too, which is not at all the same thing. He had a fresh-coloured, clean-shaven face and white hair, and he wore rather odd-shaped collars and a top-hat that wasnt exactly the same kind as other peoples. Of course the children didnt see all this at first. In fact the first thing they noticed about the old gentleman was his hand.
It was one morning as they sat on the fence waiting for the Green Dragon, which was three and a quarter minutes late by Peters Waterbury watch that he had had given him on his last birthday.
The Green Dragons going where Father is, said Phyllis; if it were a really real dragon, we could stop it and ask it to take our love to Father.
Dragons dont carry peoples love, said Peter; theyd be above it.
Yes, they do, if you tame them thoroughly first. They fetch and carry like pet spaniels, said Phyllis, and feed out of your hand. I wonder why Father never writes to us.
Mother says hes been too busy, said Bobbie; but hell write soon, she says.
I say, Phyllis suggested, lets all wave to the Green Dragon as it goes by. If its a magic dragon, itll understand and take our loves to Father. And if it isnt, three waves arent much. We shall never miss them.
So when the Green Dragon tore shrieking out of the mouth of its dark lair, which was the tunnel, all three children stood on the railing and waved their pocket-handkerchiefs without stopping to think whether they were clean handkerchiefs or the reverse. They were, as a matter of fact, very much the reverse.
And out of a first-class carriage a hand waved back. A quite clean hand. It held a newspaper. It was the old gentlemans hand.
After this it became the custom for waves to be exchanged between the children and the 9.15.
And the children, especially the girls, liked to think that perhaps the old gentleman knew Father, and would meet him in business, wherever that shady retreat might be, and tell him how his three children stood on a rail far away in the green country and waved their love to him every morning, wet or fine.
For they were now able to go out in all sorts of weather such as they would never have been allowed to go out in when they lived in their villa house. This was Aunt Emmas doing, and the children felt more and more that they had not been quite fair to this unattractive aunt, when they found how useful were the long gaiters and waterproof coats that they had laughed at her for buying for them.
Mother, all this time, was very busy with her writing. She used to send off a good many long blue envelopes with stories in themand large envelopes of different sizes and colours used to come to her. Sometimes she would sigh when she opened them and say:
Another story come home to roost. Oh, dear, Oh, dear! and then the children would be very sorry.
But sometimes she would wave the envelope in the air and say:Hooray, hooray. Heres a sensible Editor. Hes taken my story and this is the proof of it.
At first the children thought the Proof meant the letter the sensible Editor had written, but they presently got to know that the proof was long slips of paper with the story printed on them.
Whenever an Editor was sensible there were buns for tea.
One day Peter was going down to the village to get buns to celebrate the sensibleness of the Editor of the Childrens Globe, when he met the Station Master.
Peter felt very uncomfortable, for he had now had time to think over the affair of the coal-mine. He did not like to say Good morning to the Station Master, as you usually do to anyone you meet on a lonely road, because he had a hot feeling, which spread even to his ears, that the Station Master might not care to speak to a person who had stolen coals. Stolen is a nasty word, but Peter felt it was the right one. So he looked down, and said Nothing.
It was the Station Master who said Good morning as he passed by. And Peter answered, Good morning. Then he thought:
Perhaps he doesnt know who I am by daylight, or he wouldnt be so polite.
And he did not like the feeling which thinking this gave him. And then before he knew what he was going to do he ran after the Station Master, who stopped when he heard Peters hasty boots crunching the road, and coming up with him very breathless and with his ears now quite magenta-coloured, he said:
I dont want you to be polite to me if you dont know me when you see me.
Eh? said the Station Master.
I thought perhaps you didnt know it was me that took the coals, Peter went on, when you said Good morning. But it was, and Im sorry. There.
Why, said the Station Master, I wasnt thinking anything at all about the precious coals. Let bygones be bygones. And where were you off to in such a hurry?
Im going to buy buns for tea, said Peter.
I thought you were all so poor, said the Station Master.
So we are, said Peter, confidentially, but we always have three pennyworth of halfpennies for tea whenever Mother sells a story or a poem or anything.
Oh, said the Station Master, so your Mother writes stories, does she?
The beautifulest you ever read, said Peter.
You ought to be very proud to have such a clever Mother.
Yes, said Peter, but she used to play with us more before she had to be so clever.
Well, said the Station Master, I must be getting along. You give us a look in at the Station whenever you feel so inclined. And as to coals, its a word thatwelloh, no, we never mention it, eh?
Thank you, said Peter. Im very glad its all straightened out between us. And he went on across the canal bridge to the village to get the buns, feeling more comfortable in his mind than he had felt since the hand of the Station Master had fastened on his collar that night among the coals.
Next day when they had sent the threefold wave of greeting to Father by the Green Dragon, and the old gentleman had waved back as usual, Peter proudly led the way to the station.
But ought we? said Bobbie.
After the coals, she means, Phyllis explained.
I met the Station Master yesterday, said Peter, in an offhand way, and he pretended not to hear what Phyllis had said; he expresspecially invited us to go down any time we liked.
After the coals? repeated Phyllis. Stop a minutemy bootlace is undone again.
It always IS undone again, said Peter, and the Station Master was more of a gentleman than youll ever be, Philthrowing coal at a chaps head like that.
Phyllis did up her bootlace and went on in silence, but her shoulders shook, and presently a fat tear fell off her nose and splashed on the metal of the railway line. Bobbie saw it.
Why, whats the matter, darling? she said, stopping short and putting her arm round the heaving shoulders.
He called me un-un-ungentlemanly, sobbed Phyllis. I didnt never call him unladylike, not even when he tied my Clorinda to the firewood bundle and burned her at the stake for a martyr.
Peter had indeed perpetrated this outrage a year or two before.
Well, you began, you know, said Bobbie, honestly, about coals and all that. Dont you think youd better both unsay everything since the wave, and let honour be satisfied?
I will if Peter will, said Phyllis, sniffling.
All right, said Peter; honour is satisfied. Here, use my hankie, Phil, for goodness sake, if youve lost yours as usual. I wonder what you do with them.