He was just doing his best to live up to the nice cool jelly, which melted in a kind of lingering chill of delight down his throat, when Janet Sheepshanks appeared in the doorway. Wearily and disheartenedly, she had come in to prepare for a breakfast which no one in all Windy Standard would eat. Something curious about the feeling of the house had struck her as she entered. She had gone from room to room, divided between hope and apprehension, and, lo! there before her, in her own ravished pantry, tuck-full of beefsteak pie and lemonade, sat the boy for whom they were even then dragging the deepest pools of the Edam.
"Oh, thank the Lord, laddie!" cried Janet, clasping her hands in devout thankfulness, "that He hath spared ye to your widowed faither and to me, your auld unworthy nurse!"
The tears were running down her cheeks. Somehow her face had quite suddenly grown grey and worn. She looked years older than she had done yesterday. Hugh John paused and looked at her marvelling. He had a heavily laden fork half-way to his mouth. He wondered what all the fuss was about.
"Do get me some mustard, Janet," he said, swinging his wet legs; "and where on earth have you put the pickles?"
In the cross-examination which naturally followed, Hugh John kept his own counsel, like the prudent warrior he was. He left Janet and the others to suppose that, in trying to escape from his foes, he had "fallen" into the castle dungeon, and none of the household servants knew enough of the topography of the ancient stronghold to know that, if he had done so, he would probably have broken his neck. He said nothing about Nipper Donnan or any of the band by name. Simply and truthfully he designated them as "some bad boys," which certainly was in no way overstating the case.
Perhaps if his father had been at home he could not have hoodwinked his questioners so easily and completely. Mr. Picton Smith would certainly have gone deeper into the business than Janet Sheepshanks, who alternately slapped and scolded, petted and spoilt our hero all day long.
For some time Hugh John smelt of Araby the Blest
and Spicy Ind; for he had ointments and liniments, rags and plasters innumerable scattered over his person in all directions.
He borrowed a cigarette (it was a very old and dry one) from the mantelpiece of his father's workroom, and retired to the shelter of the elm-tree to hold his court and take private evidence upon the events of yesterday.
As he went across the yard Black Donald ran bleating to him, and playfully butted at his leg.
Hugh John stopped in astonishment.
"Who found him?" he asked.
Sir Toady Lion proudly stepped forward. He had a garden rake in his hand, with which the moment before he had been poking Donald in the ribs, and making his life a burden to him generally.
He began to speak, but Hugh John stopped him.
"Salute, you little beast!" he said sternly.
Slowly Toady Lion's hand went up. He did not object to salute, but he had a vague sense that, as a matter of personal dignity, not even a general had a right to speak to a private thus much less to a commissariat sergeant. However, what he had to say was so triumphant and overpowering that he waived the point and touched his forehead in due form.
"I did nobody but me. I d'livered him, all by mineself. I cutted the rope and d'livered Donald. Yes, I did Prissy will tell 'oo. I wented into the Black Sheds all alone-y and d'livered him!"
His words came tumbling over each other in his haste. But he laid strong emphasis upon the word "delivered," which he had just learned from Prissy. He meant to use it very often all that day, because it was a good word, and nobody knew the meaning of it except Quite-Grown-Ups.
General Napoleon Smith put on his most field-marshalish expression, and summoned Sir Toady Lion to approach.
He tapped him on the shoulder and said in a grand voice, "I create you General of the Comm'sariat for distinguished conduct in the field. From this time forth you can keep the key of the biscuit box, but I know just how many are in. So mind out!"
This was good, and Toady Lion was duly grateful; but he wished his good fortune put into a more concrete form.
"Can I have the biggest and nicerest saucer of the scrapings of the preserving-pan to-night?"
Hugh John considered a moment. An impulse of generosity swept over him.
"Yes, you can," he said nobly. Then a cross wave of caution caused him to add "that is, if it isn't rasps!"
Now the children of the house of Windy Standard were permitted to clean out the boiling-pan in the fruit-preserving season with worn horn spoons, in order not to scratch the copper or crack the enamel. And rasp was Hugh John's favourite.
"Huh," said Toady Lion, turning up a contemptuous nose. "Thank 'oo for nuffin! I like wasps just as much as 'oo, Hugh John Picton Smiff!"
"Don't answer me back, sir!" Hugh John was using his father's words and manner.
"Sall if I like," said Toady Lion, beginning to whimper. "Sall go and tell Janet Sheepshanks, and she'll give me yots of wasps! Not scrapin's neither, but weal-weal wasps so there!"