The Railway Children, E. Nesbit [ebook reader below 3000 .TXT] 📗

was better the next day, and the day after that better still, and on the third day he was well enough to come into the garden. A basket chair was put for him and he sat there, dressed in clothes of Father’s which were too big for him. But when Mother had hemmed up the ends of the sleeves and the trousers, the clothes did well enough. His was a kind face now that it was no longer tired and frightened, and he smiled at the children whenever he saw them. They wished very much that he could speak English. Mother wrote several letters to people she thought might know whereabouts in England a Russian gentleman’s wife and family might possibly be; not to the people she used to know before she came to live at Three Chimneys⁠—she never wrote to any of them⁠—but strange people⁠—Members of Parliament and Editors of papers, and Secretaries of Societies.

And she did not do much of her story-writing, only corrected proofs as she sat in the sun near the Russian, and talked to him every now and then.

The children wanted very much to show how kindly they felt to this man who had been sent to prison and to Siberia just for writing a beautiful book about poor people. They could smile at him, of course; they could and they did. But if you smile too constantly, the smile is apt to get fixed like the smile of the hyaena. And then it no longer looks friendly, but simply silly. So they tried other ways, and brought him flowers till the place where he sat was surrounded by little fading bunches of clover and roses and Canterbury bells.

And then Phyllis had an idea. She beckoned mysteriously to the others and drew them into the back yard, and there, in a concealed spot, between the pump and the water-butt, she said:⁠—

“You remember Perks promising me the very first strawberries out of his own garden?” Perks, you will recollect, was the Porter. “Well, I should think they’re ripe now. Let’s go down and see.”

Mother had been down as she had promised to tell the Station Master the story of the Russian Prisoner. But even the charms of the railway had been unable to tear the children away from the neighbourhood of the interesting stranger. So they had not been to the station for three days.

They went now.

And, to their surprise and distress, were very coldly received by Perks.

“ ’Ighly honoured, I’m sure,” he said when they peeped in at the door of the Porters’ room. And he went on reading his newspaper.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Oh, dear,” said Bobbie, with a sigh, “I do believe you’re cross.”

“What, me? Not me!” said Perks loftily; “it ain’t nothing to me.”

“What ain’t nothing to you?” said Peter, too anxious and alarmed to change the form of words.

“Nothing ain’t nothing. What ’appens either ’ere or elsewhere,” said Perks; “if you likes to ’ave your secrets, ’ave ’em and welcome. That’s what I say.”

The secret-chamber of each heart was rapidly examined during the pause that followed. Three heads were shaken.

“We haven’t got any secrets from you,” said Bobbie at last.

“Maybe you ’ave, and maybe you ’aven’t,” said Perks; “it ain’t nothing to me. And I wish you all a very good afternoon.” He held up the paper between him and them and went on reading.

“Oh, don’t!” said Phyllis, in despair; “this is truly dreadful! Whatever it is, do tell us.”

“We didn’t mean to do it whatever it was.”

No answer. The paper was refolded and Perks began on another column.

“Look here,” said Peter, suddenly, “it’s not fair. Even people who do crimes aren’t punished without being told what it’s for⁠—as once they were in Russia.”

“I don’t know nothing about Russia.”

“Oh, yes, you do, when Mother came down on purpose to tell you and Mr. Gills all about our Russian.”

“Can’t you fancy it?” said Perks, indignantly; “don’t you see ’im a-asking of me to step into ’is room and take a chair and listen to what ’er Ladyship ’as to say?”

“Do you mean to say you’ve not heard?”

“Not so much as a breath. I did go so far as to put a question. And he shuts me up like a rattrap. ‘Affairs of State, Perks,’ says he. But I did think one o’ you would ’a’ nipped down to tell me⁠—you’re here sharp enough when you want to get anything out of old Perks”⁠—Phyllis flushed purple as she thought of the strawberries⁠—“information about locomotives or signals or the likes,” said Perks.

“We didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“We thought Mother had told you.”

“Wewantedtotellyouonlywethoughtitwouldbestalenews.”

The three spoke all at once.

Perks said it was all very well, and still held up the paper. Then Phyllis suddenly snatched it away, and threw her arms round his neck.

“Oh, let’s kiss and be friends,” she said; “we’ll say we’re sorry first, if you like, but we didn’t really know that you didn’t know.”

“We are so sorry,” said the others.

And Perks at last consented to accept their apologies.

Then they got him to come out and sit in the sun on the green Railway Bank, where the grass was quite hot to touch, and there, sometimes speaking one at a time, and sometimes all together, they told the Porter the story of the Russian Prisoner.

“Well, I must say,” said Perks; but he did not say it⁠—whatever it was.

“Yes, it is pretty awful, isn’t it?” said Peter, “and I don’t wonder you were curious about who the Russian was.”

“I wasn’t curious, not so much as interested,” said the Porter.

“Well, I do think Mr. Gills might have told you about it. It was horrid of him.”

“I don’t keep no down on ’im for that, Missie,” said the Porter; “cos why? I see ’is reasons. ’E’s Russian sides in this ’ere war. An’ I’m Jap. Course ’e wouldn’t want to give away ’is own side with a tale like that ’ere. It ain’t human nature. A man’s got to stand up for his own side whatever they does. That’s