There were a great many crossing lines at the station; some of them just ran into a yard and stopped short, as though they were tired of business and meant to retire for good. Trucks stood on the rails here, and on one side was a great heap of coalnot a loose heap, such as you see in your coal cellar, but a sort of solid building of coals with large square blocks of coal outside used just as though they were bricks, and built up till the heap looked like the picture of the Cities of the Plain in Bible Stories for Infants. There was a line of whitewash near the top of the coaly wall.
When presently the Porter lounged out of his room at the twice-repeated tingling thrill of a gong over the station door, Peter said, How do you do? in his best manner, and hastened to ask what the white mark was on the coal for.
To mark how much coal there be, said the Porter, so as well know if anyone nicks it. So dont you go off with none in your pockets, young gentleman!
This seemed, at the time but a merry jest, and Peter felt at once that the Porter was a friendly sort with no nonsense about him. But later the words came back to Peter with a new meaning.
Have you ever gone into a farmhouse kitchen on a baking day, and seen the great crock of dough set by the fire to rise? If you have, and if you were at that time still young enough to be interested in everything you saw, you will remember that you found yourself quite unable to resist the temptation to poke your finger into the soft round of dough that curved inside the pan like a giant mushroom. And you will remember that your finger made a dent in the dough, and that slowly, but quite surely, the dent disappeared, and the dough looked quite the same as it did before you touched it. Unless, of course, your hand was extra dirty, in which case, naturally, there would be a little black mark.
Well, it was just like that with the sorrow the children had felt at Fathers going away, and at Mothers being so unhappy. It made a deep impression, but the impression did not last long.
They soon got used to being without Father, though they did not forget him; and they got used to not going to school, and to seeing very little of Mother, who was now almost all day shut up in her upstairs room writing, writing, writing. She used to come down at tea-time and read aloud the stories she had written. They were lovely stories.
The rocks and hills and valleys and trees, the canal, and above all, the railway, were so new and so perfectly pleasing that the remembrance of the old life in the villa grew to seem almost like a dream.
Mother had told them more than once that they were quite poor now, but this did not seem to be anything but a way of speaking. Grown-up people, even Mothers, often make remarks that dont seem to mean anything in particular, just for the sake of saying something, seemingly. There was always enough to eat, and they wore the same kind of nice clothes they had always worn.
But in June came three wet days; the rain came down, straight as lances, and it was very, very cold. Nobody could go out, and everybody shivered. They all went up to the door of Mothers room and knocked.
Well, what is it? asked Mother from inside.
Mother, said Bobbie, maynt I light a fire? I do know how.
And Mother said: No, my ducky-love. We mustnt have fires in Junecoal is so dear. If youre cold, go and have a good romp in the attic. Thatll warm you.
But, Mother, it only takes such a very little coal to make a fire.
Its more than we can afford, chickeny-love, said Mother, cheerfully. Now run away, theres darlingsIm madly busy!
Mothers always busy now, said Phyllis, in a whisper to Peter. Peter did not answer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was thinking.
Thought, however, could not long keep itself from the suitable furnishing of a bandits lair in the attic. Peter was the bandit, of course. Bobbie was his lieutenant, his band of trusty robbers, and, in due course, the parent of Phyllis, who was the captured maiden for whom a magnificent ransomin horse-beanswas unhesitatingly paid.
They all went down to tea flushed and joyous as any mountain brigands.
But when Phyllis was going to add jam to her bread and butter, Mother said:
Jam OR butter, dearnot jam AND butter. We cant afford that sort of reckless luxury nowadays.
Phyllis finished the slice of bread and butter in silence, and followed it up by bread and jam. Peter mingled thought and weak tea.
After tea they went back to the attic and he said to his sisters:
I have an idea.
Whats that? they asked politely.
I shant tell you, was Peters unexpected rejoinder.
Oh, very well, said Bobbie; and Phil said, Dont, then.
Girls, said Peter, are always so hasty tempered.
I should like to know what boys are? said Bobbie, with fine disdain. I dont want to know about your silly ideas.
Youll know some day, said Peter, keeping his own temper by what looked exactly like a miracle; if you hadnt been so keen on a row, I might have told you about it being only noble-heartedness that made me not tell you my idea. But now I shant tell you anything at all about itso there!
And it was, indeed, some time before he could be induced to say anything, and when he did it wasnt much. He said:
The only reason why I wont tell you my idea that Im going to do is because it MAY be wrong, and I dont want to drag you into it.
Dont you do it if its wrong, Peter, said Bobbie; let me do it. But Phyllis said:
I should like to do wrong if YOURE going to!
No, said Peter, rather touched by this devotion; its a forlorn hope, and Im going to lead it. All I ask is that if Mother asks where I am, you wont blab.
We havent got anything TO blab, said Bobbie, indignantly.
Oh, yes, you have! said Peter, dropping horse-beans through his fingers. Ive trusted you to the death. You know Im going to do a lone adventureand some people might think it wrongI dont. And if Mother asks where I am, say Im playing at mines.
What sort of mines?
You just say mines.
You might tell US, Pete.
Well, then, COAL-mines. But dont you let the word pass your lips on pain of torture.
You neednt threaten, said Bobbie, and I do think you might let us help.
If I find a coal-mine, you shall help cart the coal, Peter condescended to promise.
Keep your secret if you like, said Phyllis.
Keep it if you CAN, said Bobbie.
Ill keep it, right enough, said Peter.
Between tea and supper there is an interval even in the most greedily regulated families. At this time Mother was usually writing, and Mrs. Viney had gone home.
Two nights after the dawning of Peters idea he beckoned the girls mysteriously at the twilight hour.
Come hither with me, he said, and bring the Roman Chariot.
The Roman Chariot was a very old perambulator that had spent years of retirement in the loft over the coach-house. The children had oiled its works till it glided noiseless as a pneumatic bicycle, and answered to the helm as it had probably done in its best days.
Follow your dauntless leader, said Peter, and led the way down the hill towards the station.
Just above the station many rocks have pushed their heads out through the turf as though they, like the children, were interested in the railway.
In a little hollow between three rocks lay a heap of dried brambles and heather.