"Mother," said Bobbie, "mayn't I light a fire? I do know how."And Mother said: "No, my ducky-love.We mustn't have fires in June--coal is so dear.If you're cold, go and have a good romp in the attic.That'll warm you.""But, Mother, it only takes such a very little coal to make a fire.""It's more than we can afford, chickeny-love," said Mother, cheerfully."Now run away, there's darlings--I'm madly busy!""Mother's 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 bandit's 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 ransom--in horse-beans--was 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, dear--not jam AND butter.We can't 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."
"What's that?" they asked politely.
"I shan't tell you," was Peter's unexpected rejoinder.
"Oh, very well," said Bobbie; and Phil said, "Don't, then.""Girls," said Peter, "are always so hasty tempered.""I should like to know what boys are?" said Bobbie, with fine disdain."I don't want to know about your silly ideas.""You'll know some day," said Peter, keeping his own temper by what looked exactly like a miracle; "if you hadn't 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 shan't tell you anything at all about it--so there!"And it was, indeed, some time before he could be induced to say anything, and when he did it wasn't much.He said:--"The only reason why I won't tell you my idea that I'm going to do is because it MAY be wrong, and I don't want to drag you into it.""Don't you do it if it's wrong, Peter," said Bobbie; "let me do it."But Phyllis said:--
"_I_ should like to do wrong if YOU'RE going to!""No," said Peter, rather touched by this devotion; "it's a forlorn hope, and I'm going to lead it.All I ask is that if Mother asks where I am, you won't blab.""We haven't got anything TO blab," said Bobbie, indignantly.
"Oh, yes, you have!" said Peter, dropping horse-beans through his fingers."I've trusted you to the death.You know I'm going to do a lone adventure--and some people might think it wrong--I don't.
And if Mother asks where I am, say I'm playing at mines.""What sort of mines?"
"You just say mines."
"You might tell US, Pete."
"Well, then, COAL-mines.But don't you let the word pass your lips on pain of torture.""You needn't 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.
"I'll 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 Peter's 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.
Peter halted, turned over the brushwood with a well-scarred boot, and said:--"Here's the first coal from the St.Peter's Mine.We'll 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 couldn't 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 Peter's mine was added to the heap of Mother's coal in the cellar.
Afterwards Peter went out alone, and came back very black and mysterious.
"I've been to my coal-mine," he said; "to-morrow evening we'll 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.
