On attaining the age of eight,
or thereabout, children fly away
from the Gardens, and never come
back. When next you meet them
they are ladies and gentlemen
holding up their umbrellas to
hail
a hansom.
Where the girls go to I know
not, to some private place, I
suppose, to put up their hair,
but the boys have gone to Pilkington's.
He is a man with a cane. You
may not go to Pilkington's in
knickerbockers made by your mother,
make she ever so artfully. They
must be real knickerbockers.
It is his stern rule. Hence the
fearful fascination of Pilkington's.
He may be conceived as one
who, baiting his hook with real
knickerbockers, fishes all day
in the Gardens, which are to
him but a pool swarming with
small fry.
Abhorred shade! I know not
what manner of man thou art in
the flesh, sir, but figure thee
bearded and blackavised, and
of a lean tortuous habit of body,
that moves ever with a swish.
Every morning, I swear, thou
readest avidly the list of male
births in thy paper, and then
are thy hands rubbed gloatingly
the one upon the other. 'Tis
fear of thee and thy gown and
thy cane, which are part of thee,
that makes the fairies to hide
by day; wert thou to linger but
once among their haunts between
the hours of Lock-out and Open
Gates there would be left not
one single gentle place in all
the Gardens. The little people
would flit. How much wiser they
than the small boys who swim
glamoured to thy crafty hook.
Thou devastator of the Gardens,
I know thee, Pilkington.
I first heard of Pilkington
from David, who had it from Oliver
Bailey.
This Oliver Bailey was one
of the most dashing figures in
the Gardens, and without apparent
effort was daily drawing nearer
the completion of his seventh
year at a time when David seemed
unable to get beyond half-past
five. I have to speak of him
in the past tense, for gone is
Oliver from the Gardens (gone
to Pilkington's) but he is still
a name among us, and some lordly
deeds are remembered of him,
as that his father shaved twice
a day. Oliver himself was all
on that scale.
His not ignoble ambition seems
always to have been to be wrecked
upon an island, indeed I am told
that he mentioned it insinuatingly
in his prayers, and it was perhaps
inevitable that a boy with such
an outlook should fascinate David.
I am proud, therefore, to be
able to state on wood that it
was Oliver himself who made the
overture.
On first hearing, from some
satellite of Oliver's, of Wrecked
Islands, as they are called in
the Gardens, David said wistfully
that he supposed you needed to
be very very good before you
had any chance of being wrecked,
and the remark was conveyed to
Oliver, on whom it made an uncomfortable
impression. For a time he tried
to evade it, but ultimately David
was presented to him and invited
gloomily to say it again. The
upshot was that Oliver advertised
the Gardens of his intention
to be good until he was eight,
and if he had not been wrecked
by that time, to be as jolly
bad as a boy could be. He was
naturally so bad that at the
Kindergarten Academy, when the
mistress ordered whoever had
done the last naughty deed to
step forward, Oliver's custom
had been to step forward, not
necessarily because he had done
it, but because he presumed he
very likely had.
The friendship of the two dated
from this time, and at first
I thought Oliver discovered generosity
in hasting to David as to an
equal; he also walked hand in
hand with him, and even reproved
him for delinquencies like a
loving elder brother. But 'tis
a gray world even in the Gardens,
for I found that a new arrangement
had been made which reduced Oliver
to life-size. He had wearied
of well-doing, and passed it
on, so to speak, to his friend.
In other words, on David now
devolved the task of being good
until he was eight, while Oliver
clung to him so closely that
the one could not be wrecked
without the other.
When this was made known to
me it was already too late to
break the spell of Oliver, David
was top-heavy with pride in him,
and, faith, I began to find myself
very much in the cold, for Oliver
was frankly bored by me and even
David seemed to think it would
be convenient if I went and sat
with Irene. Am I affecting to
laugh? I was really distressed
and lonely, and rather bitter;
and how humble I became. Sometimes
when the dog Joey is unable,
by frisking, to induce Porthos
to play with him, he stands on
his hind legs and begs it of
him, and I do believe I was sometimes
as humble as Joey. Then David
would insist on my being suffered
to join them, but it was plain
that he had no real occasion
for me.
It was an unheroic trouble,
and I despised myself. For years
I had been fighting Mary for
David, and had not wholly failed
though she was advantaged by
the accident of relationship;
was I now to be knocked out so
easily by a seven year old? I
reconsidered my weapons, and
I fought Oliver and beat him.
Figure to yourself those two
boys become as faithful to me
as my coat-tails.
With wrecked islands I did
it. I began in the most unpretentious
way by telling them a story which
might last an hour, and favoured
by many an unexpected wind it
lasted eighteen months. It started
as the wreck of the simple Swiss
family who looked up and saw
the butter tree, but soon a glorious
inspiration of the night turned
it into the wreck of David A----
and Oliver Bailey. At first it
was what they were to do when
they were wrecked, but imperceptibly
it became what they had done.
I spent much of my time staring
reflectively at the titles of
the boys' stories in the booksellers'
windows, whistling for a breeze,
so to say, for I found that the
titles were even more helpful
than the stories. We wrecked
everybody of note, including
all Homer's most taking characters
and the hero of Paradise Lost.
But we suffered them not to land.
We stripped them of what we wanted
and left them to wander the high
seas naked of adventure. And
all this was merely the beginning.
By this time I had been cast
upon the island. It was not my
own proposal, but David knew
my wishes, and he made it all
right for me with Oliver. They
found me among the breakers with
a large dog, which had kept me
afloat throughout that terrible
night. I was the sole survivor
of the ill-fated Anna Pink. So
exhausted was I that they had
to carry me to their hut, and
great was my gratitude when on
opening my eyes, I found myself
in that romantic edifice instead
of in Davy Jones's locker. As
we walked in the Gardens I told
them of the hut they had built;
and they were inflated but not
surprised. On the other hand
they looked for surprise from
me.
"Did we tell you about the
turtle we turned on its back?" asked
Oliver, reverting to deeds of
theirs of which I had previously
told them.
"You did."
"Who turned it?" demanded
David, not as one who needed
information
but after the manner of a schoolmaster.
"It was turned," I said, "by
David A----, the younger of the
two youths."
"Who made the monkeys fling
cocoa-nuts at him?" asked the
older of the two youths.
"Oliver Bailey," I
replied.
"Was it Oliver," asked David
sharply, "that found the cocoa-nut-
tree first?"
"On the contrary," I answered, "it
was first observed by David,
who immediately climbed it, remarking,
'This is certainly the cocos-nucifera,
for, see, dear Oliver, the slender
columns supporting the crown
of leaves which fall with a grace
that no art can imitate.'"
"That's what I said," remarked
David with a wave of his hand.
"I said things like that, too," Oliver
insisted.
"No, you didn't then," said
David.
"Yes, I did
so."
"No, you didn't
so."
"Shut up."
"Well, then,
let's hear one you said."
Oliver looked
appealingly at me. "The following," I announced, "is
one that Oliver said: 'Truly
dear comrade, though the perils
of these happenings are great,
and our privations calculated
to break the stoutest heart,
yet to be rewarded by such fair
sights I would endure still greater
trials and still rejoice even
as the bird on yonder bough.'"
"That's one I said!" crowed
Oliver.
"I shot the bird," said
David instantly.
"What bird?"
"The yonder
bird."
"No, you didn't."
"Did I not
shoot the bird?"
"It was David who shot the
bird," I said, "but it was Oliver
who saw by its multi-coloured
plumage that it was one of the
Psittacidae, an excellent substitute
for partridge."
"You didn't see that," said
Oliver, rather swollen.
"Yes, I did."
"What did you
see?"
"I saw that."
"What?"
"You shut up."
"David shot it," I summed up, "and
Oliver knew its name, but I ate
it. Do you remember how hungry
I was?"
"Rather!" said
David.
"I cooked it," said
Oliver.
"It was served up on toast," I
reminded them.
"I toasted it," said
David.
"Toast from the bread-fruit-tree," I
said, "which (as you both remarked
simultaneously) bears two and
sometimes three crops in a year,
and also affords a serviceable
gum for the pitching of canoes."
"I pitched mine best," said
Oliver.
"I pitched mine farthest," said
David.
"And when I had finished my
repast," said I, "you amazed
me by handing me a cigar from
the tobacco-plant."
"I handed it," said
Oliver.
"I snicked off the end," said
David.
"And then," said I, "you
gave me a light."
"Which of us?" they
cried together.
"Both of you," I said. "Never
shall I forget my amazement when
I saw you get that light by rubbing
two sticks together."
At this they
waggled their heads. "You couldn't have done
it!" said David.
"No, David," I admitted, "I
can't do it, but of course I
know that all wrecked boys do
it quite easily. Show me how
you did it."
But after consulting apart
they agreed not to show me. I
was not shown everything.
David was now
firmly convinced that he had
once been wrecked
on an island, while Oliver passed
his days in dubiety. They used
to argue it out together and
among their friends. As I unfolded
the story Oliver listened with
an open knife in his hand, and
David who was not allowed to
have a knife wore a pirate-string
round his waist. Irene in her
usual interfering way objected
to this bauble and dropped disparaging
remarks about wrecked islands
which were little to her credit.
I was for defying her, but David,
who had the knack of women, knew
a better way; he craftily proposed
that we "should let Irene in," in
short, should wreck her, and
though I objected, she proved
a great success and recognised
the yucca filamentosa by its
long narrow leaves the very day
she joined us. Thereafter we
had no more scoffing from Irene,
who listened to the story as
hotly as anybody.
This encouraged us in time
to let in David's father and
mother, though they never knew
it unless he told them, as I
have no doubt he did. They were
admitted primarily to gratify
David, who was very soft-hearted
and knew that while he was on
the island they must be missing
him very much at home. So we
let them in, and there was no
part of the story he liked better
than that which told of the joyous
meeting. We were in need of another
woman at any rate, someone more
romantic looking than Irene,
and Mary, I can assure her now,
had a busy time of it. She was
constantly being carried off
by cannibals, and David became
quite an adept at plucking her
from the very pot itself and
springing from cliff to cliff
with his lovely burden in his
arms. There was seldom a Saturday
in which David did not kill his
man.
I shall now provide the proof
that David believed it all to
be as true as true. It was told
me by Oliver, who had it from
our hero himself. I had described
to them how the savages had tattooed
David's father, and Oliver informed
me that one night shortly afterward
David was discovered softly lifting
the blankets off his father's
legs to have a look at the birds
and reptiles etched thereon.
Thus many months passed with
no word of Pilkington, and you
may be asking where he was all
this time. Ah, my friends, he
was very busy fishing, though
I was as yet unaware of his existence.
Most suddenly I heard the whirr
of his hated reel, as he struck
a fish. I remember that grim
day with painful vividness, it
was a wet day, indeed I think
it has rained for me more or
less ever since. As soon as they
joined me I saw from the manner
of the two boys that they had
something to communicate. Oliver
nudged David and retired a few
paces, whereupon David said to
me solemnly,
"Oliver is
going to Pilkington's."
I immediately
perceived that it was some
school, but so little
did I understand the import of
David's remark that I called
out jocularly, "I hope he won't
swish you, Oliver."
Evidently I had pained both
of them, for they exchanged glances
and retired for consultation
behind a tree, whence David returned
to say with emphasis,
"He has two
jackets and two shirts and
two knickerbockers,
all real ones."
"Well done, Oliver!" said
I, but it was the wrong thing
again,
and once more they disappeared
behind the tree. Evidently they
decided that the time for plain
speaking was come, for now David
announced bluntly:
"He wants you
not to call him Oliver any
longer."
"What shall
I call him?"
"Bailey."
"But why?"
"He's going
to Pilkington's. And he can't
play with us any
more after next Saturday."
"Why not?"
"He's going
to Pilkington's."
So now I knew the law about
the thing, and we moved on together,
Oliver stretching himself consciously,
and methought that even David
walked with a sedater air.
"David," said I, with a sinking, "are
you going to Pilkington's?"
"When I am eight," he
replied.
"And sha'n't
I call you David then, and
won't you play with
me in the Gardens any more?"
He looked at Bailey, and Bailey
signalled him to be firm.
"Oh, no," said
David cheerily.
Thus sharply
did I learn how much longer
I was to have of
him. Strange that a little boy
can give so much pain. I dropped
his hand and walked on in silence,
and presently I did my most churlish
to hurt him by ending the story
abruptly in a very cruel way. "Ten
years have elapsed," said I, "since
I last spoke, and our two heroes,
now gay young men, are revisiting
the wrecked island of their childhood.
'Did we wreck ourselves,' said
one, 'or was there someone to
help us?' And the other who was
the younger, replied, 'I think
there was someone to help us,
a man with a dog. I think he
used to tell me stories in the
Kensington Gardens, but I forget
all about him; I don't remember
even his name.'"
This tame ending
bored Bailey, and he drifted
away from us,
but David still walked by my
side, and he was grown so quiet
that I knew a storm was brewing.
Suddenly he flashed lightning
on me. "It's not true," he cried, "it's
a lie!" He gripped my hand. "I
sha'n't never forget you, father."
Strange that a little boy can
give so much pleasure.
Yet I could
go on. "You will
forget, David, but there was
once a boy who would have remembered."
"Timothy?" said
he at once. He thinks Timothy
was a real
boy, and is very jealous of him.
He turned his back to me, and
stood alone and wept passionately,
while I waited for him. You may
be sure I begged his pardon,
and made it all right with him,
and had him laughing and happy
again before I let him go. But
nevertheless what I said was
true. David is not my boy, and
he will forget. But Timothy would
have remembered.
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