Knock Three Times!

CHAPTER XIV
Mr Papingay’s House in the Orange Wood

“I say, Molly, what do you say if we keep to the footpath and go straight to Mr Papingay’s house as quickly as possible and see if it really is the Leaf? Then we can search the rest of the wood afterward—if it isn’t,” suggested Jack.

Molly agreed readily. Remembering that it was rumoured that the wood was full of the Pumpkin’s spies, the children had great hopes that it was the Black Leaf in Mr Papingay’s plant-pot; for the spies would surely be stationed all around the place where the Black Leaf grew, to guard it.

“Thank goodness we know we can trust Mr Papingay,” said Molly. “If we can only find him. Oh, Jack, if only it is the Leaf, won’t it be splendid!” Molly broke off and glanced over her shoulder. “How awfully quiet everything is, Jack—just as if the wood were listening!... Oh! What was that!”

“It wasn’t anything. Don’t, Molly. You gave me quite a jump,” Jack said unsteadily, looking over his shoulder too. The light in the wood was beginning to fade, and under the distant trees dim shadows gathered.

“I thought I heard some twigs crackling—a snapping sound,” said Molly, wide-eyed.

“Well, you needn’t say so, Moll, if you did. But anyway, I’m not afraid—if you are.” Nevertheless Jack quickened his pace to a sharp trot, and Molly had some difficulty in keeping up with him.

“I’m not afraid, either,” she gasped.

“Nor am I,” repeated Jack, and went a little faster.

Then they both began to run.

“Of course—we ought—to—get there—as quick—as—we can—so—as not to—waste—any—time,” Molly jerked out, apologizing as it were to herself and to Jack for their sudden haste.

They ran along the footpath for a short distance until, a little way ahead of them, they saw an open space in the wood, in the centre of which stood a house.

“Let’s—stop—Molly,” said Jack, breathlessly. They both pulled up and stood still for a few moments. “It wouldn’t—do—for—us—to run in—on—on—him like this. It might look as if—as if we were—as if——oh, well, it would look funny, you know.”

Molly agreed. So they waited until they had got their breath again, then they walked casually out into the open space. The trees stood round the clearing in a wide circle, and above the house was a big expanse of sky. It seemed quite light out here after the dim light of the wood.

It was a queer-looking house that faced them, but what it was about the house that made it queer Jack and Molly could not at first make out. Around it was a square of asphalt, and drawing nearer they saw that on the asphalt, all round the four sides, were rows of narrow white streaks, that looked like railings lying down flat; and this is what they actually proved to be—only they were not real railings, they were painted on the ground with white paint. The children looked up, and then they realized what it was that made the house look funny. Nearly everything on it and about it was not real but painted. The house itself was real, and so was the front door; but the knocker and handle and letter-box were all painted on. Three of the windows seemed real, but there were three more that were obviously painted on, and were obviously the work of some one not greatly skilled in the art of painting. There was a large tree painted on the asphalt, and a row of tulips, and a path bordered by painted stones that led up to the front door.

The children were gazing at these things in astonishment when the front door suddenly opened, and the owner of the house appeared on the threshold.

“Come inside,” he called affably, peering at them over the top of his spectacles. “The latch on the gate pulls downward. Don’t be afraid of the dog; he won’t hurt you if I speak to him. There, Percy, there! Down, sir! There’s a good dog!”

Jack and Molly looked round wonderingly, but could not see any signs of a dog, till their eyes caught sight of a black smudge of paint, which proved on closer acquaintance to be a black dog chained to a red kennel—both painted flat on the ground a few feet inside the gate. The children gazed at each other questioningly; then Glan’s words came back to them, “Humour him, he’s a queer old soul.”

So Molly bent down and pretended to pull the latch on the gate down; she and Jack walked carefully on to the asphalt over the flat gate, then she turned and pretended to close and latch the gate again. As they passed the painted dog, she had another happy idea. “Good dog. Good dog,” she said, and stooped and patted the asphalt.

The old man beamed down upon her. “He’s quite harmless when I tell him it’s all right,” he confided, “but you should just see him when he’s roused. Stand on the step and I’ll tell him there’s a bath-chair round the corner. He hates ’em.”

The children could not see a real step, but spying a painted white square by the front door, they stood on that.

“Now then,” cried the old man, “at ’em, Percy, at ’em! There’s a bath-chair a-comin’ round the corner!”

There was a dead silence while the painted dog gazed with unseeing eyes up at the sky, and a little breeze rustled in the tree-tops.

“Isn’t he furious?” chuckled the old man, beaming proudly from the dog to the children. “Go it, old boy! Give it ’em!”

As he seemed to expect an answer to his question, Molly said: “He—he—certainly looks very fierce, doesn’t he?”

“That’s nothing to what he can look,” said Mr Papingay, obviously delighted at Molly’s reply. “But, come inside, come inside.”

So the children entered the narrow, dark hall and Mr Papingay shut the front door behind them.

“This way,” he said, crushing past them and throwing open a door on the right. “Come inside and sit down a bit. This is my study. What do you think of it?”

As the question was asked before Jack and Molly were inside the room there was naturally a short interval before Molly could reply, politely:

“What a very—er—uncommon room.”

“All done by myself,” said the old man, waving his hand with a sweeping movement toward the walls.

The children followed the hand-sweep and saw rows upon rows of books painted round the walls. There was no doubt about them being painted. And they noticed also that the carpet, chairs, tables, curtains, and even the fireplace were all painted in this amazing room. Jack’s eyes travelled rapidly over the room, but not a single real thing could he see in it except himself, and Molly, and the old man standing in front of him; and he looked at the latter twice to make sure that he was real and not simply made of paint like the other things. But Mr Papingay was real enough with his spectacles and bald head. The only hair he possessed grew like a fringe at the back of his head, low down, just above the nape of his neck—and under his chin a little fringe of whiskers appeared; he had round, blue eyes and eyebrows set high that gave him a look of continual surprise; over a dark-coloured suit he wore a brown plaid dressing-gown, with long cord and tassels, and on his feet were a pair of very old red felt carpet slippers. And then Jack’s roving eye noticed that the buttons on his dressing-gown were painted on; but that was the only bit of paint about Mr Papingay.

“You see, it’s so handy making my own things,” he was explaining to Molly. “I can have any kind of things I like and change them as often as I like.”

“Don’t you find the chairs rather awkward to sit on?” inquired Jack.

“Not at all. Why should I?” replied the old man, slightly offended.

“Well—I—er—well, you see—they’re not real, are they?” Jack blundered on.

“Not real! What do you mean?” snapped Mr Papingay. “Of course they’re real. Sit on one and see.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack,” Molly broke in. “They certainly look most comfortable. I do think it is clever of you to make them,” she said to the old man.

“Oh, no, no. Not at all. Simple enough,” said Mr Papingay airily, appeased at once. “But you try one. They may look comfortable, but it’s nothing to what they are to sit on. You try one,” he urged.

So Molly pretended to sit down on one of the painted chairs. It was a most curious sensation. Although she knew there was no chair there she felt somehow as if she really were sitting on a chair; so that when the old man asked her, with a self-conscious smile on his face, “Now, isn’t it comfortable?” she could answer truthfully, “Yes, it really is.”

Yet, afterward, Jack told her that he had tried one of the chairs when she and the old man were not looking, and had nearly fallen on the floor. “I found it anything but comfortable—the silly old ass,” he said.

When they had admired the study to the old man’s content he led them out into the hall again and up the stairs to a curious little room he called his visitors room. As they went upstairs Molly tried to tell their host who they were and how they knew Glan and his father, but he kept up a constant stream of conversation himself and took no notice of her remarks.

The children found the visitors room more difficult than ever to be truthful and yet polite in. It had been hard to pretend the painted stair-carpet was soft and real, and that the books in the study could be taken out and read; but these things were nothing compared to the difficulties in the visitors room. It was a small, high-ceilinged room, furnished with painted chairs and tables; only, in addition to the painted furniture were painted people. Round the walls and on the floor, people standing, people sitting, ladies, gentlemen, girls and boys; some with hats on as if paying an afternoon call, some with hats off as if they had come to spend the day. But one and all, without exception, were simply painted people. On the panes of one of the real windows was painted the figure of a sandy-haired man, back view; this gentleman, who was dressed in a dull grey suit and a high white collar, was apparently looking out of the window.

As the children glanced round at these queer silent people, hesitating what to do, they became aware that the old man was murmuring some kind of introduction to a painted lady in bright purple.

“This is my dear friend, Mrs Pobjoy,” he was saying. “Mrs Pobjoy, allow me to introduce you to my two little friends—er—what are your names, by the way?”

The children told him, and took this opportunity of explaining who they were and how they knew Glan.

“Dear me, dear me!” said Mr Papingay. “How very extraordinary!” and he shook hands affably, and then he introduced them to Mr Pobjoy—a red-faced gentleman painted on the wall beside his wife.

Molly bowed politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, and gave Jack a nudge with her elbow.

“Howjer do?” said Jack, feeling an awful ass.

The painted lady in bright purple stared vacantly down at the two children.

“Mrs Pobjoy’s always delighted to see new faces, aren’t you, ma’m? Ah, ha! A regular butterfly. A regular butterfly. What do you say, Pobjoy?” and Mr Papingay gave the painted figure of Mr Pobjoy a dig in the ribs, then turned from one to the other of his painted visitors chattering and laughing, and shaking his head. “And here’s little Maudie. Well, and how is Maudie to-day?” and he stooped and playfully flicked the cheeks of a fat-faced little girl with yellow hair and a pink frock who was leaning against a painted sideboard. “Here’s a little girl to see you, Maudie. You’ll like that, won’t you?” He turned to the children. “I’m afraid she’s rather peevish this evening. She is sometimes. It’s best to take no notice—she’ll come round presently. Here’s Mr Waffer, here by the window—I won’t introduce you to him just at present, he’s probably just got an inspiration I should think, by the way he stands absorbed in the scenery outside. He’s a poet, you know.... But come over here and let Lizzie and her sister see you.” He bundled away across the room followed by the two children.

“I say, Molly,” whispered Jack, “do you think we should see the front of Mr Waffer through the window if we went outside and looked up. I would like to see his face.”

“Why?” asked Molly with interest.

“Because I don’t believe he has one. Do remind me to look as we go out,” said Jack.

“This,” the old man was saying as they came up to him, “is Lizzie and here’s her sister. Very bright girls, both of them,” he added in an undertone so that the green-frocked Lizzie should not hear. And so he moved on introducing them to one after the other, and it began to look as if he would never tear himself away from the visitors room. At length Molly told him that they would not be able to stay much longer as they wished to get out of the Orange Wood before darkness came down.

“Oh, you mustn’t go yet,” he protested. “I’ve got a lot more to show you yet.... Ah! and that reminds me.... But first you must come and see my kitchen arrangements; they are absolutely first-rate; and then I have something very exciting to tell you.” He nodded his head mysteriously.

Jack and Molly exchanged significant glances. As they followed him downstairs it struck them that although he was introducing them to everything and everybody in his house, yet he had never troubled to introduce himself. He had forgotten about that. He led the way to the kitchen, and the children noticed, in passing, a servant carrying a tray, painted on the passage wall a few yards from the kitchen door. (“How tiresome it must be for her never to get any farther,” thought Molly, but she didn’t say anything.)

The kitchen was very like the other rooms, nearly all paint. It worried Molly a little to notice that the sink was painted on the wall, and she wondered however Mr Papingay managed to wash up the cups and saucers in the tin bowl that was painted inside the sink; especially as the taps and cups and saucers appeared to be real. But she was afraid to ask any questions in case it delayed the “exciting” news that they were longing to hear.

A quick glance at the kitchen window sill on entering the room showed them that there was no plant-pot there now. After Mr Papingay had taken them a tour of the kitchen and they had admired everything from the oven with the painted round of beef on the shelf to the painted egg-whisk hanging on the dresser, their host bade them be seated on a bench by the kitchen window—which happened to be a real bench, much to Jack’s relief—and then he said:

“There is something I think you ought to know.” He shut the kitchen door carefully so that the servant painted in the passage should not hear, while the children’s hearts began to beat rapidly. Mr Papingay came back and stood before them.

“The Grey Pumpkin has returned to this land,” he said solemnly, then waited for the exclamations of amazement which did not come.

“Of course, we know,” said Jack, after a short pause.

Mr Papingay looked both surprised and offended. “Why, how’s this?” he asked.

And the children told him, and explained about the search they were making.

“Well, well, well,” he said at length. “I’ve been searching for the Black Leaf too. I searched every inch of the Orange Wood thoroughly, directly I heard the Pumpkin was back again. And—this is what I really wanted to tell you—what do you think I did when I found that the Black Leaf wasn’t anywhere in the wood?” he asked excitedly.

“What?” cried both children together.

“Painted a Black Leaf,” he said triumphantly, beaming with joy. “And here it is.”

He opened a cupboard door behind him and disclosed a plant-pot (which was real) in which grew a black leaf (which was painted). In fact it was so entirely artificial that it wasn’t even a real leaf coloured black: it was cut out of newspaper, and painted with a thick black paint.

Jack and Molly did not speak for a moment or two. They could not. They were so thoroughly disappointed. Had they wasted all this valuable time ‘humouring’ Mr Papingay for nothing more than this? They had hardly realized how high their hopes had been, until now, when they were flung to the ground. It was with an effort that Molly kept back her tears; as for Jack, he felt he would like to kick something.

Meanwhile, Mr Papingay was perplexed at their silence. He lifted the pot down and set it on the floor in front of the bench.

“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Jack.

“I will tell you,” said Mr Papingay. “I have decided that you shall have the leaf and take it back to the City. I was wondering, only yesterday, whom I could send it by. It isn’t time for my yearly visit to the City yet, and besides, Percy has rather a nasty little cough—I can’t leave him till he’s better, poor old chap.”

“But it won’t be—be the same as the real Black Leaf,” said Jack.

“Why not? Why not?” asked the old man touchily.

“Well—it isn’t magic, is it?” objected Jack. “It won’t have any power over the Pumpkin.”

“I won’t guarantee that it isn’t magic, though it may not have the same power over the Pumpkin,” the old man admitted. “But what’s the odds! They won’t know—the people won’t know—and anyway it’s very handsome to look at—and just think of how surprised everybody will be....”

The children could see that it was no use arguing the matter. Mr Papingay was beginning to look quite hurt and annoyed, and so to humour him and to save any further delay the children thanked him and said they would be pleased to take it with them. (They little guessed then how glad they would be later on that they had taken it with them.)

“It’s very clever of you to make it,” said Molly.

Immediately Mr Papingay’s ill-humour vanished, and he smiled down at the leaf in an affectionate manner.

“Oh, I don’t know about being clever,” he said. “Well—it’s not a bad piece of work,” he admitted modestly.

“Well now—I think we really must be going,” said Molly, “or else it will be too dark in the wood for us to find our way. Shall we pick the leaf and take it with us, then?”

“It looks so well in the pot—I like it best in the pot—take the plant-pot, too,” said Mr Papingay. “I shall be coming to the City in a few days and then you must tell me all about it—what the people said when they saw it and—I suppose you are going straight back to the City?” he inquired. “You won’t want to bother to search for the other Black Leaf now, until you see what the people say to this one, I’m sure.”

Self-centred Mr Papingay! He actually thought the children would be more anxious to hear what people said about his leaf, than to continue their search for the real Leaf. But the children were quite determined about continuing their work and at length made him understand that they must go on; but they were hoping, they said, to return to the City shortly when they would be very pleased to show his leaf. Mr Papingay cheered up a bit at this, and said they had better take it then, as they would be bound to reach the City before him. Then he asked them where they were going to search next.

“You needn’t bother about this wood—I’ve searched it from end to end, thoroughly—as I told you. And besides,” said Mr Papingay, “it isn’t wise to linger in this wood just now. The Pumpkin has spies about all over the place. Of course, they never touch me—Percy wouldn’t let them—but you two—! And I’m quite certain the Leaf isn’t in this wood—or I’d have had it before now.”

The children had not much faith in Mr Papingay’s careful searching, but glancing through the window they saw that it was now getting too dark to search the wood that night. They had better get out of it as quickly as possible, even if they had to return and search it in the morning.

They became aware of Mr Papingay murmuring something in the way of an apology for not asking them to stay over night there—but he was already overcrowded with visitors, the Pobjoys and others, he said. He knew of a nice little farmhouse outside the wood where they would be comfortable. The children were pleased to know of the farmhouse; not for worlds would they have spent a night in this silent wood. Mr Papingay was so careless, he would be sure to leave a window unfastened, and the Pumpkin’s spies would creep out from the trees and get into the house. At least, this is what the children felt, but they thanked Mr Papingay and told him not to apologize at all as they really couldn’t stay, but must go along.

“I’ll tell you what, then,” said Mr Papingay. “I’ll just get my lantern and come along with you and show you the quickest way out of the wood to the farmhouse.”

The children were much relieved at this, feeling that company and a light in the dusky wood before them was an unexpected blessing. After a great deal of fuss and bustle he found his lantern and escorted them through the front door—calling some final words of instruction to Percy (who remained gazing pensively up at the evening sky); they passed through the gate, or rather, stepped off the asphalt, and started out. Mr Papingay insisted on carrying his plant-pot and leaf until he should have to part with it at the end of the wood; so with this under his left arm, and his lantern swinging in his right hand he strode ahead of the children, crying cheerily:

“Come along, come along. I’ll show you a short cut out of the wood. Ah! I’m glad I brought my lantern—it’ll be dark enough in some parts of the wood.”

The children followed, gazing with puzzled expressions at his lantern. Then they understood. There would be no light from it in the darkest parts of the wood, for it was only a painted lantern.

CHAPTER XV
Jack’s Misfortune

They trotted along in silence for a time, until a particularly loud crack behind a bush close by startled Molly and made her feel that she could not bear the silence any longer.

“Don’t you find it very lonely here—living by yourself in the wood?” she asked the hurrying figure in front of her.

“Eh?” asked Mr Papingay.

It was such a relief to talk that Molly gladly repeated her question.

“Not a bit of it,” replied the old man, without slackening his pace or turning round. “Why should I? I have plenty of visitors—and Percy to take care of me.”

“Yes, but aren’t you afraid of—robbers—or anything?” asked Molly.

“Robbers!” the old man chuckled. “I should like to see the robber that could get past Percy. Besides, what is there to steal? That’s the best of a house like mine, you see. No one can take things from me. I get all the use and pleasure I want out of the things I paint—then when I want new things I paint the old ones out and paint fresh ones in their place. And they can’t be stolen—they’re of no use to any one else, you see. As for the Pumpkin’s spies,” he continued in a loud voice, that made Jack and Molly shudder in case he were overheard. “I’m not afraid of them—they never touch me....”

Molly gave a little scream, as something swept past her head, brushing her forehead as it did so.

“It’s only a bat, Molly. Don’t be a silly,” said Jack in a shaky voice.

“There’s heaps of them about—and owls,” said Mr Papingay, continuing his rapid walk without a moment’s pause. As if to confirm his words there came a mournful “Hoo, hoo, hoo,” from the depths of the wood. The children gripped each other’s arms tightly, and hastened on.

Another minute, and a patch of light appeared in the distance, and the children saw that it was the end of the wood.

“There,” said the old man as they came out from the trees at last, “you can find your way now, can’t you? I must get back—Percy doesn’t like me to stay out very late. That is the farmhouse, over there; straight across this field, over the stile and the wooden bridge across the river, and a few minutes’ walk up the hill, on the other side. You can see where I mean, can’t you?” And he pointed the farm out to the children. “You can mention my name to them—Farmer Rose knows me well. Now if you will take this,” he said, passing the plant-pot containing his precious leaf into Molly’s keeping. “And take care of it. I shall see you both again shortly, I hope. Good-bye. Good-bye.”

“Thank you so much for bringing us this short cut out of the wood,” said Molly. “It was awfully kind of you.”

“Rather,” said Jack. Then, relieved at being safely out of the wood, he added generously, “I say—your lantern’s a marvel!”

The old man nodded and beamed delightedly. Then, waving his hand, he stepped back into the wood, his painted lantern swinging at his side, and disappeared.

As soon as Mr Papingay had gone, Jack and Molly stopped and looked around them. They were in the open country once more, but a more hilly country than that on the other side of the wood, for they had passed right through the wood and come out at the opposite end.

The wood led straight out into a field, across which a narrow footpath straggled to a stile set in the middle of green hedges. On the other side of the stile was a path, and a little white wooden bridge across the river, and on the farther side of the river were hills and the farm-house. The red roofs and whitewashed walls of several cottages and other farm-houses could be seen here and there.

Evening was closing in rapidly, and while they had been in the wood dark clouds had drifted up and were now gathering threateningly overhead.

“It’s too dark to do any more searching to-night,” said Jack. “I suppose we’d better make straight for the farm; and come back and search all round here in the morning.”

“I suppose that would be best,” said Molly. “I don’t feel at all satisfied about the Orange Wood, do you, Jack? I think we must come back and search that too—to-morrow. It doesn’t look a very big wood.”

As the children turned to look back at the wood, the first spots of rain began to come down, so they hastened along the path toward the stile.

“I wonder if Mr Papingay really has searched it thoroughly,” said Molly. “He seems such a funny old man—I don’t know what to think.”

“I do,” laughed Jack. “Mr Papingay’s much too slap-dash to search it carefully. No, Moll, I’m afraid we’ve got to do it to-morrow. It won’t be so bad in daylight. My word! How the rain is coming down. We’re in for a storm, I should think.”

They hurried on, climbed the stile, but when they got on to the bridge Molly stopped for a moment.

“I say, Jack,” she called, and Jack stopped too. “I’m going to throw this plant-pot in the river—it’s too heavy to take all the way with us, and I don’t like to put it down in the field in case Mr Papingay comes along and finds it.” She pulled the leaf out of the pot, folded it up, and pushed it into her satchel, then threw the pot into the swiftly flowing river.

“What are you keeping the leaf for?” cried Jack. He had to raise his voice to be heard through the rising gale.

“Oh, I couldn’t throw that away,” said Molly. “And besides, it may come in useful,” she added as she ran along beside Jack up the hill. “You never know.”

“Won’t old Timothy feel sold when he hears what his Black Leaf really was!” chuckled Jack.

The rain was coming down heavily as they reached the front door of the farm-house. They knocked, and rang at the bell—but no one answered, and there was no sound within the house. They knocked again, then went round and knocked at the back door. But still no one came, and they began to fear that there was nobody at home. This proved to be the case. The stables and outhouses were all locked up, although they could hear a horse inside one of the buildings, and there were some fowls in a hen-run in the yard. Evidently the people were only out for a short time, so Jack and Molly decided to take shelter in the porch by the front door for a while, until the storm was over, or Farmer Rose returned.

“Oh, dear, what a dreadful night it’s going to be!” said Molly. “Are you very wet, Jack?”

“Hardly a bit. It’s quite comfortable in this porch,” Jack replied, and then she heard him chuckling. “I was just thinking of old Mr Papingay,” he explained, and then he broke off with a sudden exclamation: “Oh, bother!”

“What is it?” Molly asked.

“I clean forgot to look for Mr Waffer’s face! Why didn’t you remind me?” said Jack.

“I forgot too,” answered Molly. “Never mind, we’ll look to-morrow if we search the Orange Wood.”

“We mustn’t let Mr Papingay see us, though. What fun! It’ll be like playing hide-and-seek,” said Jack. “Goodness, how the wind is howling!”

They remained quiet for a time, huddled up in the porch. The storm was growing still worse, and it was very dark now. Presently the silence in the porch was broken by Jack exclaiming again: “Bother!”

“What is it now?” inquired Molly.

“Oh, I say, Moll—I’ve lost them—yes, I’ve lost my box of matches—Old Nancy’s matches.”

A thorough search of Jack’s satchel and all his pockets proved that this was unfortunately true.

“They must have fallen out—let me see now—I had them just before we climbed the stile, I’m sure of that, because I put my hand in my satchel to get one of those sweet squares and I remember feeling the box.” Jack tried hard to think back. “I believe I must have dropped them somewhere just by the bridge. Here, Molly, hold my satchel and things a sec, will you, and I’ll just run down to the bridge and fetch the box—yes, I’m sure now I heard something fall on the bridge. I won’t be a couple of minutes. You wait here, Molly; I’ll be ever so quick. No, it isn’t raining much.”

“Don’t go, Jack!” cried Molly. “Its so dark and wet, oh, Jack, don’t go! I’ve still got my matches left—never mind yours now.”

But Jack was hardly listening. “It’s only just down the hill—won’t be a minute—you wait here—I must get them, Molly—we may need them. It isn’t so dark—I can see all right.”

“Wait, wait, Jack. Oh, I know—let me strike one of my matches and see if it can find the other box for us.” Molly was fumbling in her satchel quickly. But Jack hadn’t heard her, and had started off impetuously, calling back, “Shall be back in a minute. Wait there, Moll.”

“I’m coming too,” called Molly, but the wind howled past and Jack did not hear as he raced down the hill.

Fastening up Jack’s satchel and slipping it over her shoulders together with her own satchel, and clasping her own box of matches firmly in her hand, Molly set out after her brother, calling his name as she ran. It was very silly of Jack to tear off like this, she thought, but she was only anxious to get him back safely in the porch again out of the darkness and the rain. She did not stop to light one of her matches until she was about half-way down the hill. Then she stopped and struck one. No ordinary match would have kept alight a second in such a storm, but Old Nancy’s matches, as she already knew, were not ordinary. The light gathered all on one side as usual, pointing straight down the hill.

Molly had just time to see the figure of Jack running in front of her—he had reached the bridge—when the match flame veered right round and pointed up the hill.

Molly turned and looked, but there was nothing to be seen there. What did it mean? She hastened on down the hill, and as her match went out, she lit another one.

This time the light from the match showed her that Jack was on the bridge and had crossed over to the footpath, and was bending down to pick something up. So he had found his matches! But even as she saw Jack, her eye caught sight of something coming from the direction of the Orange Wood along the river bank, toward the bridge. Then the flame from the match veered round and pointed up the hill. But not before Molly had seen what it was that was creeping toward Jack on the other side of the river.

It was the Grey Pumpkin. And Jack had not seen him.

And the match flame was pointing the way of escape, up the hill to safety! Just as the flame had pointed out the way of escape in the underground cellar.

But there was no thought of her own safety while Jack was in such danger. Molly dashed forward, crying out: “Jack! Run! Quick! Come back! Look behind you!” But the wind roared around her as if mocking her, and Jack never heard.

As she ran she lit another match, and by its light saw that Jack was standing upright and had turned—and seen the Pumpkin close behind him. He went to run, but slipped and fell to his knees, and as he was scrambling up again the Pumpkin reached him. Jack seemed to collapse all in a heap on the ground, and then, there was no Jack—but in his place another great Grey Pumpkin. Molly pulled up and stood motionless, gazing with horrified eyes. Then her match went out. She lit another mechanically, and as she did so she heard a terrific crash a few yards ahead, and saw that the storm had broken down the wooden bridge; it collapsed into the river and was caught up by the rapidly rushing current and swirled away. If this hadn’t happened, Molly would have been over the bridge in another second (forgetting in her despair that she could do no good and would only get caught herself). But as it was, she was brought to an abrupt standstill at the water’s edge, while on the other side of the river two Grey Pumpkins rolled slowly away along the path toward a group of tall dark trees....

And so it was that the farmer and his kindly wife, returning home about half an hour later, found a little girl sitting in the porch by their front door, crying as if her heart would break.

CHAPTER XVI
Molly Accepts a Present

“Oh, I am determined to find it,” cried Molly. “I was determined before—but I will—I will find it—whatever happens.”

“You must try to get a good rest to-night, and then you can start off fresh in the morning—and you mustn’t cry any more or you’ll make yourself ill—and then you won’t be able to do anything,” said Mrs Rose.

Molly quite saw the wisdom of Mrs Rose’s words and tried her best to stop crying. But she kept thinking about Jack, and wondering what they were doing to him, and why the Pumpkin had changed him into a likeness of himself. Supposing she had to return home to Mother without Jack. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t, she vowed to herself. She would stay in this country and search and search until the Black Leaf was found, even if she had to wait for years ... and here her tears began to flow again.

To distract her, the farmer began talking about the country around and the most likely places to search. He had searched all his own land, he said, directly he heard the Pumpkin was back, and he had helped to prepare some of the beacons on the hills around this district. And he asked Molly if she knew on which hills the beacons were set.

Molly dried her eyes, got her map out, and showed him how the beacon hills were marked, and soon she and the farmer and Mrs Rose were poring over the map, planning out the best routes to take, and discussing the most likely places for search. The farmer showed her all the places where the Leaf was not growing, places he had personally searched; and at Molly’s request he marked these places on the map with a lead pencil. Molly decided to herself that she would leave these marked places until the very last, until she had searched all the more likely parts round about. She felt she could not leave them out altogether, although she trusted the farmer absolutely; she had promised to search each part herself.

When she mentioned Mr Papingay’s name the farmer and his wife smiled, and although they thought he would certainly have searched the Orange Wood as he said he had, yet he was not sure to have done it thoroughly, and they agreed with Molly that it would be as well to go over the ground again if possible. The fact that the Pumpkin was lurking about there made all three of them think that probably the Leaf was growing somewhere near. Of course, this might not be so; it might be only the Pumpkin’s object to prevent Jack and Molly going any further with the search.

“You’ll have to be very cautious, missie, if you go back to the wood,” said Farmer Rose. “It wouldn’t do for you to get caught too.”

“I’ll be very careful—but it won’t do for me to be afraid, or p’r’aps I’ll never get Jack back again,” said Molly. “I mustn’t be afraid of anything now.”

“That’s the spirit,” said the farmer, slapping his knee. “And if there’s anything we can do to help you—you’ve only got to name it—we shall be proud.”

When the farmer’s wife tucked her up in bed, about twenty minutes later, Molly threw her arms round her neck.

“I don’t know why you are so good to me,” she said. “Thank you so much. I’ve given you a lot of trouble, I’m afraid.”

“Not the least bit in the world,” replied the farmer’s wife. “Try to get to sleep, my dear.... P’r’aps to-morrow—who knows what may happen to-morrow!”

Molly was so exhausted that she slept soundly and dreamlessly, in spite of the fact that the wind rattled furiously at her window and roared down the chimney. In the morning she woke with a dreadful, leaden feeling at her heart, but she determined not to brood over yesterday, but to get to work at once.

After breakfast she collected up all the things from Jack’s satchel and put them with her belongings into her own satchel. The farmer’s wife insisted on giving her a big packet of food for luncheon, and told her to come back and sleep at the farm again that night if she ended her day’s search anywhere near.

Molly thanked her gratefully, then started out alone. The rain had ceased, and the wind was much less violent, but it was a grey day with a sky full of scurrying clouds.

And now began a long, wearying time for Molly. Alone, of course, the task of searching was longer and more difficult, though the enthusiasm with which she went to work kept her from realizing this to the full. She went on her way searching eagerly and thoroughly that part of the valley through which the river ran, which came within her square of map; she crossed the water by another bridge about a mile away from the place of last night’s accident, and searched the opposite bank, gradually working her way back to the spot where the Pumpkin had appeared.

Across the water she could see the farm-house, half-way up the hilly road on the other side. Behind her was the stile which she and Jack had clambered over yesterday. Was it only yesterday?—it seemed more like a week ago to Molly. She climbed over the stile again and crossed the field, searching as she went, to the Orange Wood.

Very cautiously she entered the wood, and started her search, ears and eyes constantly on the alert, and hands and feet ready to spring and climb up a tree at any moment, if the need arose. But the need did not arise, and presently Molly found she was back within sight of Mr Papingay’s house. She went extra carefully now, so as not to attract the old man’s attention, and made a tour of the wood near his house, working in a wide circle, so as not to cross the space before his front door. Once she heard his voice calling out to know what Percy was barking at, but she did not see him.

And though at length she searched the whole of the Orange Wood, she did not find the Black Leaf; nor did she see any sign of the Pumpkin or his spies.

So she left the wood behind her, and came back over the river, and made her way to the farm-house again, where she had tea, and told them all about her day’s search. But she would not stay the night there, as there was still a long light evening to work through, and she hoped to get some way on the road to Lake Desolate before the night fell.

“You’ll pass several houses and cottages on the road,” said Mrs Rose, and proceeded to give Molly the names of several friends of hers, whom she could trust. “But be sure to come back here, if you want to.”

Mrs Rose stood at the gate waving her handkerchief to Molly, until the little girl turned round a bend in the road and was lost to sight. Then she dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “Bless the child,” she said, as she hurried indoors. “She deserves to win.”

From the top of one of the hills close by, Molly found she could get a splendid view of the surrounding country. The clouds had disappeared by now, and it promised to be a beautiful evening and a moonlight night. The river sparkled beneath, and the Orange Wood glowed in the evening sun, while far away, in the distance, she could see the white towers of the City. Looking down at the Orange Wood she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to look for Mr Waffer’s face, as she passed Mr Papingay’s house. What a pity! Jack would have liked to know, when—when she met him again. But she had had so many things to think about in the wood that it is no wonder she forgot about Mr Waffer.

Descending the hill, Molly started on the road to Lake Desolate. It was pretty and green at first with cottages dotted about in small clusters, and presently she passed through a tiny village, where she stopped to inquire and search. But although every one seemed kind, and eager to help, there was nothing to be heard or seen of the Black Leaf.

About half a mile outside the village, Molly came to a few more houses and a small shop. At the door of the shop stood an old gentleman wearing a black skull-cap and a long, shabby coat. When he saw Molly approaching he came out to meet her and, seizing her hand, shook it warmly, saying that he had heard of her goodness in helping with the search and thanked her gratefully.

“I have been keeping a watch on the road for the last few days, missie, hoping to catch a glimpse of you as you passed,” he said. “I heard you were coming this way.”

Molly was pleased at his impulsive friendliness, especially as she was feeling very lonely just now. She stopped chatting for a few minutes, and the old gentleman proudly showed her his shop. He was a watchmaker, and the shop was full of watches and clocks of all kinds and sizes. Besides these, he had a small collection of jewellery.

“I expect you wonder at a watchmaker being right out here,” he said, noting Molly’s surprised expression at the contents of his shop. “Many people wonder at first. But I supply the clocks and watches for all the neighbouring towns and villages and even for the City. I send to the City twice a week. I live out here simply because my father and grandfather and great-grandfather have always lived in this place—and because my health won’t permit me to live in crowded towns.... Now, miss, if you will be so good I want you to accept a little present from me, as a token of appreciation of the work you are doing.”

He opened a little box and drew out a dainty, silver bracelet, that jingled as he handled it—just the very kind of bracelet that Molly had longed for on her birthday.

Molly’s face lit up, but she hesitated. Ought she to accept this present from a stranger—especially as she had made up her mind not to trust anybody now, unless she was perfectly sure they were all right. The old watchmaker seemed harmless enough, and he was already looking disappointed at her hesitation. Molly felt it would be unkind to refuse the bracelet, and difficult also. It was not as if he had offered her food or drink, that might be poisoned; nor had he made any effort to entice her into his shop; she had merely stepped inside on the mat and the door had been left wide open. Surely there could be no harm in accepting the bracelet, Molly argued to herself. It was so pretty, and she would like to have it, and anyway, if she felt doubtful afterward she could always get rid of it somehow, when the old gentleman could not see her and be hurt.

“I beg you will accept this bracelet,” said the watchmaker. “I have been keeping it back specially for you.”

So Molly accepted the bracelet, and the old gentleman ‘had the honour,’ as he put it, of seeing her slip it over her right hand, where it gleamed and jingled, and nearly slipped off when she put her arm down straight—just as she had longed for it to do. Molly thanked the old watchmaker and shook hands with him again, as she bid him good-bye.

He stood at his door bowing as Molly went on her way, but no sooner was she out of sight than he returned to his shop and, closing the door, sat down on a stool behind the counter, and began to shake with silent laughter; he continued to laugh, hugging himself while he did so, and rocking backward and forward, and bending himself nearly double, and all this quite noiselessly—the only sounds in the shop being the rapid tick, tick, tick, and the steady tick-tock, of the watches and clocks around him.

CHAPTER XVII
A Warning

The road now began to grow wilder and more rugged, while here and there, beside the way, were huge rocks and piles of stones. She passed an occasional tree, but these had few leaves on their branches, and were much twisted and bent as though lashed by many storms.

Molly continued to search, but, instead of hurrying along as she had meant to, she found herself moving slower, and gradually slower still, and became aware that she was suddenly very tired. She dragged on for a short distance.

“I can’t do any more searching to-night,” she thought to herself. “I’m too tired. I’ll just make straight for the house—only I wish it wasn’t such a long way off. I’ll never get there.”

Molly found great difficulty in keeping her eyes open now; and if she hadn’t been so thoroughly exhausted and tired she might have been suspicious of this overwhelming wave of sleep that had seized her. She was too tired to think or reason, too tired to be suspicious. She only knew that her feet felt as if they were made of lead, and the only thing she wanted to do was to lie down and go to sleep at once.

“Can’t reach the house,” she murmured, drowsily. “Must go to sleep.”

She stumbled across the road, and threw herself down on the grass by the wayside. Oh, how delicious it was, just to lie down and go to sleep! But as her head was sinking back a last wave of consciousness flashed through Molly’s mind of the foolishness of the thing that she was doing ... going to sleep by the roadside ... and if the Pumpkin came along ... she would never be able to save Jack now. At this thought—she rallied for a moment and pulled herself up into a kneeling position. She remained thus for a moment or two, with her head drooping forward. Then she struggled to fight off the wave of sleep that was coming over her again, and managed to crawl a few paces further on.

Although Molly did not know it at the time, this was one of the most critical moments in her adventure. If she had given in and gone comfortably to sleep by the roadside, this story would have had a very different ending. But Molly did not give in, her desire to find the Black Leaf and save her brother was so strong, that in spite of the great odds against her she was able to make one last effort to reach a place of safety. Though there was still no sign of Mrs Jennet’s house, there was fortunately a tree close by. And it was toward this tree that Molly slowly groped her way. She never knew how long it took her to reach that tree, although it was standing only a few feet away from her. But with repeated efforts she at length reached it, and with a great struggle pulled herself up into a standing position, leaning against the trunk. For some time she stood leaning against the tree; she could not remember afterward whether she went to sleep for a while or not—she thought she must have gone to sleep (“Like a horse, standing up,” she told herself). But she had barely lost consciousness when again her desire urged her to make another effort.

This was the last effort, and the hardest of all. Molly scarcely knew how she managed it, but manage she did, to pull herself up into the tree, and curl up among the lower branches. Then, immediately, she was asleep.

All through the moonlit night she slept and did not move. And if anyone passed on the road beneath the tree that night—Molly never knew. And nobody guessed there was a little girl lying asleep in the gnarled old tree by the side of the road that led to Lake Desolate. For little girls who are as tired as Molly must have been have not usually the strength, nor the will, to climb trees.

At daybreak Molly stirred and threw out her right arm, so that it hung down a little, over the edge of one of the branches: and the bracelet, the jingly, silver bracelet, slipped down over her wrist, and as she moved again, it slid over her hand and fell on to the ground at the foot of the tree.

After this Molly seemed more restless, and did not sleep so soundly, though many hours went by, and it was nearly noon before she was aroused at length by some one exclaiming loudly and persistently from beneath the tree, and something cold and hard grabbing at her arms and legs.

Molly sat up, rubbing her eyes, and then became aware that a chubby, startled-looking little woman in a black and white check dress and a black bonnet was calling up to her while she made frantic efforts to catch hold of Molly with the crooked handle of her umbrella.

“Oh, thank goodness, you ’ave woke up, which I thought you never was going to!” cried the plump little woman, dabbing her face with her handkerchief. “Such a fright as you give me, lying quite still there and me a-hollering at you for a hour or more, though I’d never a-seen you if it hadn’t been for your ’and and arm ’anging down out of the tree....”

“Who are you?” asked Molly drowsily. “I’m glad you did wake me up.”

“Maria Jennet is my name,” was the answer. “I done my best to wake you up, but my! you do want a bit of waking. Made me quite ’ot, you ’ave.”

“Oh, are you Mrs Jennet?” said Molly. “Mrs Rose’s friend?”

“I am,” said Mrs Jennet emphatically.

“Why, I was on my way to your house last night, when—when ... Oh!” Molly gave a scream.

“Oh!” screamed Mrs Jennet. “What is it now? You do give a body the jumps, you do!”

But Molly did not answer. She was gazing with horrified eyes at her right arm. On the wrist was a long grey stain!

How had it come there? What did it mean? Molly rubbed her arm vigorously with her pocket-handkerchief—but she could not remove the stain. She had seen a grey stain like this before; but where?... And then she remembered. It was on Old Nancy’s finger, the evening she slept through the sunset hour. Molly then realized what had happened.