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Title: Peter Pan

Peter Pan and Wendy

Author: James M. Barrie

Release Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #16]

Last Updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PETER PAN ***

Produced by David Widger

PETER PAN
[PETER AND WENDY]
By J. M. Barrie [James Matthew Barrie]

A Millennium Fulcrum Edition

(c)1991 by Duncan Research

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 PETER BREAKS THROUGH

Chapter 2 THE SHADOW
Chapter 3 COME AWAY, COME AWAY!
Chapter 4 THE FLIGHT
Chapter 5 THE ISLAND COME TRUE
Chapter 6 THE LITTLE HOUSE
Chapter 7 THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND
Chapter 8 THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON
Chapter 9 THE NEVER BIRD
Chapter 10 THE HAPPY HOME
Chapter 11 WENDY'S STORY
Chapter 12 THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF
Chapter 13 DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?
Chapter 14 THE PIRATE SHIP
Chapter 15 “HOOK OR ME THIS TIME”
Chapter 16 THE RETURN HOME
Chapter 17 WHEN WENDY GREW UP
 Chapter 1 PETER BREAKS THROUGH
All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up,
and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was
playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her
mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put
her hand to her heart and cried, “Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!”
This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy
knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the
beginning of the end.
Of course they lived at 14 [their house number on their street], and until
Wendy came her mother was the chief one. She was a lovely lady, with a
romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like
the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however
many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had
one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly
conspicuous in the right-hand corner.
The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been
boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they
all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and
nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her, except the innermost box and
the kiss. He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss.
Wendy thought Napoleon could have got it, but I can picture him trying, and
then going off in a passion, slamming the door.
Mr. Darling used to boast to Wendy that her mother not only loved him but
respected him. He was one of those deep ones who know about stocks and
shares. Of course no one really knows, but he quite seemed to know, and he
often said stocks were up and shares were down in a way that would have made
any woman respect him.
Mrs. Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books perfectly,
almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a Brussels sprout was
missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped out, and instead of them
there were pictures of babies without faces. She drew them when she should
have been totting up. They were Mrs. Darling's guesses.
Wendy came first, then John, then Michael.
 For a week or two after Wendy came it was doubtful whether they would be
able to keep her, as she was another mouth to feed. Mr. Darling was frightfully
proud of her, but he was very honourable, and he sat on the edge of Mrs.
Darling's bed, holding her hand and calculating expenses, while she looked at
him imploringly. She wanted to risk it, come what might, but that was not his
way; his way was with a pencil and a piece of paper, and if she confused him
with suggestions he had to begin at the beginning again.
“Now don't interrupt,” he would beg of her.
“I have one pound seventeen here, and two and six at the office; I can cut off
my coffee at the office, say ten shillings, making two nine and six, with your
eighteen and three makes three nine seven, with five naught naught in my
cheque-book makes eight nine seven—who is that moving?—eight nine seven,
dot and carry seven—don't speak, my own—and the pound you lent to that man
who came to the door—quiet, child—dot and carry child—there, you've done it!
—did I say nine nine seven? yes, I said nine nine seven; the question is, can we
try it for a year on nine nine seven?”
“Of course we can, George,” she cried. But she was prejudiced in Wendy's
favour, and he was really the grander character of the two.
“Remember mumps,” he warned her almost threateningly, and off he went
again. “Mumps one pound, that is what I have put down, but I daresay it will be
more like thirty shillings—don't speak—measles one five, German measles half
a guinea, makes two fifteen six—don't waggle your finger—whooping-cough,
say fifteen shillings”—and so on it went, and it added up differently each time;
but at last Wendy just got through, with mumps reduced to twelve six, and the
two kinds of measles treated as one.
There was the same excitement over John, and Michael had even a narrower
squeak; but both were kept, and soon, you might have seen the three of them
going in a row to Miss Fulsom's Kindergarten school, accompanied by their
nurse.
Mrs. Darling loved to have everything just so, and Mr. Darling had a passion
for being exactly like his neighbours; so, of course, they had a nurse. As they
were poor, owing to the amount of milk the children drank, this nurse was a prim
Newfoundland dog, called Nana, who had belonged to no one in particular until
the Darlings engaged her. She had always thought children important, however,
and the Darlings had become acquainted with her in Kensington Gardens, where
she spent most of her spare time peeping into perambulators, and was much
hated by careless nursemaids, whom she followed to their homes and
complained of to their mistresses. She proved to be quite a treasure of a nurse.
How thorough she was at bath-time, and up at any moment of the night if one of
her charges made the slightest cry. Of course her kennel was in the nursery. She
had a genius for knowing when a cough is a thing to have no patience with and
when it needs stocking around your throat. She believed to her last day in old-
fashioned remedies like rhubarb leaf, and made sounds of contempt over all this
new-fangled talk about germs, and so on. It was a lesson in propriety to see her
escorting the children to school, walking sedately by their side when they were
well behaved, and butting them back into line if they strayed. On John's footer
[in England soccer was called football, “footer” for short] days she never once
forgot his sweater, and she usually carried an umbrella in her mouth in case of
rain. There is a room in the basement of Miss Fulsom's school where the nurses
wait. They sat on forms, while Nana lay on the floor, but that was the only
difference. They affected to ignore her as of an inferior social status to
themselves, and she despised their light talk. She resented visits to the nursery
from Mrs. Darling's friends, but if they did come she first whipped off Michael's
pinafore and put him into the one with blue braiding, and smoothed out Wendy
and made a dash at John's hair.
No nursery could possibly have been conducted more correctly, and Mr.
Darling knew it, yet he sometimes wondered uneasily whether the neighbours
talked.
He had his position in the city to consider.
Nana also troubled him in another way. He had sometimes a feeling that she
did not admire him. “I know she admires you tremendously, George,” Mrs.
Darling would assure him, and then she would sign to the children to be
specially nice to father. Lovely dances followed, in which the only other servant,
Liza, was sometimes allowed to join. Such a midget she looked in her long skirt
and maid's cap, though she had sworn, when engaged, that she would never see
ten again. The gaiety of those romps! And gayest of all was Mrs. Darling, who
would pirouette so wildly that all you could see of her was the kiss, and then if
you had dashed at her you might have got it. There never was a simpler happier
family until the coming of Peter Pan.
Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her children's
minds. It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep
to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking
into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day. If
you could keep awake (but of course you can't) you would see your own mother
doing this, and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like
tidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering
humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had
picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to
her cheek as if it were as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight.
When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with which
you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your
mind and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts,
ready for you to put on.
I don't know whether you have ever seen a map of a person's mind. Doctors
sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and your own map can become
intensely interesting, but catch them trying to draw a map of a child's mind,
which is not only confused, but keeps going round all the time. There are zigzag
lines on it, just like your temperature on a card, and these are probably roads in
the island, for the Neverland is always more or less an island, with astonishing
splashes of colour here and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the
offing, and savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and
caves through which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a hut
fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose. It would be
an easy map if that were all, but there is also first day at school, religion, fathers,
the round pond, needle-work, murders, hangings, verbs that take the dative,
chocolate pudding day, getting into braces, say ninety-nine, three-pence for
pulling out your tooth yourself, and so on, and either these are part of the island
or they are another map showing through, and it is all rather confusing,
especially as nothing will stand still.
Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal. John's, for instance, had a lagoon
with flamingoes flying over it at which John was shooting, while Michael, who
was very small, had a flamingo with lagoons flying over it. John lived in a boat
turned upside down on the sands, Michael in a wigwam, Wendy in a house of
leaves deftly sewn together. John had no friends, Michael had friends at night,
Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by its parents, but on the whole the Neverlands
have a family resemblance, and if they stood still in a row you could say of them
that they have each other's nose, and so forth. On these magic shores children at
play are for ever beaching their coracles [simple boat]. We too have been there;
we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.
Of all delectable islands the Neverland is the snuggest and most compact, not
large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances between one adventure and
another, but nicely crammed. When you play at it by day with the chairs and
table-cloth, it is not in the least alarming, but in the two minutes before you go to
sleep it becomes very real. That is why there are night-lights.
Occasionally in her travels through her children's minds Mrs. Darling found
things she could not understand, and of these quite the most perplexing was the
word Peter. She knew of no Peter, and yet he was here and there in John and
Michael's minds, while Wendy's began to be scrawled all over with him. The
name stood out in bolder letters than any of the other words, and as Mrs. Darling
gazed she felt that it had an oddly cocky appearance.
“Yes, he is rather cocky,” Wendy admitted with regret. Her mother had been
questioning her.
“But who is he, my pet?”
“He is Peter Pan, you know, mother.”
At first Mrs. Darling did not know, but after thinking back into her childhood
she just remembered a Peter Pan who was said to live with the fairies. There
were odd stories about him, as that when children died he went part of the way
with them, so that they should not be frightened. She had believed in him at the
time, but now that she was married and full of sense she quite doubted whether
there was any such person.
“Besides,” she said to Wendy, “he would be grown up by this time.”
“Oh no, he isn't grown up,” Wendy assured her confidently, “and he is just my
size.” She meant that he was her size in both mind and body; she didn't know
how she knew, she just knew it.
Mrs. Darling consulted Mr. Darling, but he smiled pooh-pooh. “Mark my
words,” he said, “it is some nonsense Nana has been putting into their heads; just
the sort of idea a dog would have. Leave it alone, and it will blow over.”
But it would not blow over and soon the troublesome boy gave Mrs. Darling
quite a shock.
Children have the strangest adventures without being troubled by them. For
instance, they may remember to mention, a week after the event happened, that
when they were in the wood they had met their dead father and had a game with
him. It was in this casual way that Wendy one morning made a disquieting
revelation. Some leaves of a tree had been found on the nursery floor, which
certainly were not there when the children went to bed, and Mrs. Darling was
puzzling over them when Wendy said with a tolerant smile:
“I do believe it is that Peter again!”
“Whatever do you mean, Wendy?”
“It is so naughty of him not to wipe his feet,” Wendy said, sighing. She was a
tidy child.
She explained in quite a matter-of-fact way that she thought Peter sometimes
came to the nursery in the night and sat on the foot of her bed and played on his
pipes to her. Unfortunately she never woke, so she didn't know how she knew,
she just knew.
“What nonsense you talk, precious. No one can get into the house without
knocking.”
“I think he comes in by the window,” she said.
“My love, it is three floors up.”
“Were not the leaves at the foot of the window, mother?”
It was quite true; the leaves had been found very near the window.
Mrs. Darling did not know what to think, for it all seemed so natural to Wendy
that you could not dismiss it by saying she had been dreaming.
“My child,” the mother cried, “why did you not tell me of this before?”
“I forgot,” said Wendy lightly. She was in a hurry to get her breakfast.
Oh, surely she must have been dreaming.
But, on the other hand, there were the leaves. Mrs. Darling examined them
very carefully; they were skeleton leaves, but she was sure they did not come
from any tree that grew in England. She crawled about the floor, peering at it
with a candle for marks of a strange foot. She rattled the poker up the chimney
and tapped the walls. She let down a tape from the window to the pavement, and
it was a sheer drop of thirty feet, without so much as a spout to climb up by.
Certainly Wendy had been dreaming.
But Wendy had not been dreaming, as the very next night showed, the night
on which the extraordinary adventures of these children may be said to have
begun.
On the night we speak of all the children were once more in bed. It happened
to be Nana's evening off, and Mrs. Darling had bathed them and sung to them till
one by one they had let go her hand and slid away into the land of sleep.
All were looking so safe and cosy that she smiled at her fears now and sat
down tranquilly by the fire to sew.
It was something for Michael, who on his birthday was getting into shirts. The
fire was warm, however, and the nursery dimly lit by three night-lights, and
presently the sewing lay on Mrs. Darling's lap. Then her head nodded, oh, so
gracefully. She was asleep. Look at the four of them, Wendy and Michael over
there, John here, and Mrs. Darling by the fire. There should have been a fourth
night-light.
While she slept she had a dream. She dreamt that the Neverland had come too
near and that a strange boy had broken through from it. He did not alarm her, for
she thought she had seen him before in the faces of many women who have no
children. Perhaps he is to be found in the faces of some mothers also. But in her
dream he had rent the film that obscures the Neverland, and she saw Wendy and
John and Michael peeping through the gap.
The dream by itself would have been a trifle, but while she was dreaming the
window of the nursery blew open, and a boy did drop on the floor. He was
accompanied by a strange light, no bigger than your fist, which darted about the
room like a living thing and I think it must have been this light that wakened
Mrs. Darling.
She started up with a cry, and saw the boy, and somehow she knew at once
that he was Peter Pan. If you or I or Wendy had been there we should have seen
that he was very like Mrs. Darling's kiss. He was a lovely boy, clad in skeleton
leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees but the most entrancing thing about
him was that he had all his first teeth. When he saw she was a grown-up, he
gnashed the little pearls at her.
 Chapter 2 THE SHADOW
Mrs. Darling screamed, and, as if in answer to a bell, the door opened, and
Nana entered, returned from her evening out. She growled and sprang at the boy,
who leapt lightly through the window. Again Mrs. Darling screamed, this time in
distress for him, for she thought he was killed, and she ran down into the street
to look for his little body, but it was not there; and she looked up, and in the
black night she could see nothing but what she thought was a shooting star.
She returned to the nursery, and found Nana with something in her mouth,
which proved to be the boy's shadow. As he leapt at the window Nana had closed
it quickly, too late to catch him, but his shadow had not had time to get out; slam
went the window and snapped it off.
You may be sure Mrs. Darling examined the shadow carefully, but it was quite
the ordinary kind.
Nana had no doubt of what was the best thing to do with this shadow. She
hung it out at the window, meaning “He is sure to come back for it; let us put it
where he can get it easily without disturbing the children.”
But unfortunately Mrs. Darling could not leave it hanging out at the window,
it looked so like the washing and lowered the whole tone of the house. She
thought of showing it to Mr. Darling, but he was totting up winter great-coats for
John and Michael, with a wet towel around his head to keep his brain clear, and
it seemed a shame to trouble him; besides, she knew exactly what he would say:
“It all comes of having a dog for a nurse.”
She decided to roll the shadow up and put it away carefully in a drawer, until a
fitting opportunity came for telling her husband. Ah me!
The opportunity came a week later, on that never-to-be-forgotten Friday. Of
course it was a Friday.
“I ought to have been specially careful on a Friday,” she used to say
afterwards to her husband, while perhaps Nana was on the other side of her,
holding her hand.
“No, no,” Mr. Darling always said, “I am responsible for it all. I, George
Darling, did it. MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA.” He had had a classical education.
They sat thus night after night recalling that fatal Friday, till every detail of it
was stamped on their brains and came through on the other side like the faces on
a bad coinage.
“If only I had not accepted that invitation to dine at 27,” Mrs. Darling said.
“If only I had not poured my medicine into Nana's bowl,” said Mr. Darling.
“If only I had pretended to like the medicine,” was what Nana's wet eyes said.
“My liking for parties, George.”
“My fatal gift of humour, dearest.”
“My touchiness about trifles, dear master and mistress.”
Then one or more of them would break down altogether; Nana at the thought,
“It's true, it's true, they ought not to have had a dog for a nurse.” Many a time it
was Mr. Darling who put the handkerchief to Nana's eyes.
“That fiend!” Mr. Darling would cry, and Nana's bark was the echo of it, but
Mrs. Darling never upbraided Peter; there was something in the right-hand
corner of her mouth that wanted her not to call Peter names.
They would sit there in the empty nursery, recalling fondly every smallest
detail of that dreadful evening. It had begun so uneventfully, so precisely like a
hundred other evenings, with Nana putting on the water for Michael's bath and
carrying him to it on her back.
“I won't go to bed,” he had shouted, like one who still believed that he had the
last word on the subject, “I won't, I won't. Nana, it isn't six o'clock yet. Oh dear,
oh dear, I shan't love you any more, Nana. I tell you I won't be bathed, I won't, I
won't!”
Then Mrs. Darling had come in, wearing her white evening-gown. She had
dressed early because Wendy so loved to see her in her evening-gown, with the
necklace George had given her. She was wearing Wendy's bracelet on her arm;
she had asked for the loan of it. Wendy loved to lend her bracelet to her mother.
She had found her two older children playing at being herself and father on
the occasion of Wendy's birth, and John was saying:
“I am happy to inform you, Mrs. Darling, that you are now a mother,” in just
such a tone as Mr. Darling himself may have used on the real occasion.
Wendy had danced with joy, just as the real Mrs. Darling must have done.
Then John was born, with the extra pomp that he conceived due to the birth of
a male, and Michael came from his bath to ask to be born also, but John said
brutally that they did not want any more.
Michael had nearly cried. “Nobody wants me,” he said, and of course the lady
in the evening-dress could not stand that.
 “I do,” she said, “I so want a third child.”
“Boy or girl?” asked Michael, not too hopefully.
“Boy.”
Then he had leapt into her arms. Such a little thing for Mr. and Mrs. Darling
and Nana to recall now, but not so little if that was to be Michael's last night in
the nursery.
They go on with their recollections.
“It was then that I rushed in like a tornado, wasn't it?” Mr. Darling would say,
scorning himself; and indeed he had been like a tornado.
Perhaps there was some excuse for him. He, too, had been dressing for the
party, and all had gone well with him until he came to his tie. It is an astounding
thing to have to tell, but this man, though he knew about stocks and shares, had
no real mastery of his tie. Sometimes the thing yielded to him without a contest,
but there were occasions when it would have been better for the house if he had
swallowed his pride and used a made-up tie.
This was such an occasion. He came rushing into the nursery with the
crumpled little brute of a tie in his hand.
“Why, what is the matter, father dear?”
“Matter!” he yelled; he really yelled. “This tie, it will not tie.” He became
dangerously sarcastic. “Not round my neck! Round the bed-post! Oh yes, twenty
times have I made it up round the bed-post, but round my neck, no! Oh dear no!
begs to be excused!”
He thought Mrs. Darling was not sufficiently impressed, and he went on
sternly, “I warn you of this, mother, that unless this tie is round my neck we don't
go out to dinner to-night, and if I don't go out to dinner to-night, I never go to the
office again, and if I don't go to the office again, you and I starve, and our
children will be flung into the streets.”
Even then Mrs. Darling was placid. “Let me try, dear,” she said, and indeed
that was what he had come to ask her to do, and with her nice cool hands she
tied his tie for him, while the children stood around to see their fate decided.
Some men would have resented her being able to do it so easily, but Mr. Darling
had far too fine a nature for that; he thanked her carelessly, at once forgot his
rage, and in another moment was dancing round the room with Michael on his
back.
“How wildly we romped!” says Mrs. Darling now, recalling it.
“Our last romp!” Mr. Darling groaned.
 “O George, do you remember Michael suddenly said to me, 'How did you get
to know me, mother?'”
“I remember!”
“They were rather sweet, don't you think, George?”
“And they were ours, ours! and now they are gone.”
The romp had ended with the appearance of Nana, and most unluckily Mr.
Darling collided against her, covering his trousers with hairs. They were not only
new trousers, but they were the first he had ever had with braid on them, and he
had had to bite his lip to prevent the tears coming. Of course Mrs. Darling
brushed him, but he began to talk again about its being a mistake to have a dog
for a nurse.
“George, Nana is a treasure.”
“No doubt, but I have an uneasy feeling at times that she looks upon the
children as puppies.”
“Oh no, dear one, I feel sure she knows they have souls.”
“I wonder,” Mr. Darling said thoughtfully, “I wonder.” It was an opportunity,
his wife felt, for telling him about the boy. At first he pooh-poohed the story, but
he became thoughtful when she showed him the shadow.
“It is nobody I know,” he said, examining it carefully, “but it does look a
scoundrel.”
“We were still discussing it, you remember,” says Mr. Darling, “when Nana
came in with Michael's medicine. You will never carry the bottle in your mouth
again, Nana, and it is all my fault.”
Strong man though he was, there is no doubt that he had behaved rather
foolishly over the medicine. If he had a weakness, it was for thinking that all his
life he had taken medicine boldly, and so now, when Michael dodged the spoon
in Nana's mouth, he had said reprovingly, “Be a man, Michael.”
“Won't; won't!” Michael cried naughtily. Mrs. Darling left the room to get a
chocolate for him, and Mr. Darling thought this showed want of firmness.
“Mother, don't pamper him,” he called after her. “Michael, when I was your
age I took medicine without a murmur. I said, 'Thank you, kind parents, for
giving me bottles to make me well.'”
He really thought this was true, and Wendy, who was now in her night-gown,
believed it also, and she said, to encourage Michael, “That medicine you
sometimes take, father, is much nastier, isn't it?”
 “Ever so much nastier,” Mr. Darling said bravely, “and I would take it now as
an example to you, Michael, if I hadn't lost the bottle.”
He had not exactly lost it; he had climbed in the dead of night to the top of the
wardrobe and hidden it there. What he did not know was that the faithful Liza
had found it, and put it back on his wash-stand.
“I know where it is, father,” Wendy cried, always glad to be of service. “I'll
bring it,” and she was off before he could stop her. Immediately his spirits sank
in the strangest way.
“John,” he said, shuddering, “it's most beastly stuff. It's that nasty, sticky,
sweet kind.”
“It will soon be over, father,” John said cheerily, and then in rushed Wendy
with the medicine in a glass.
“I have been as quick as I could,” she panted.
“You have been wonderfully quick,” her father retorted, with a vindictive
politeness that was quite thrown away upon her. “Michael first,” he said
doggedly.
“Father first,” said Michael, who was of a suspicious nature.
“I shall be sick, you know,” Mr. Darling said threateningly.
“Come on, father,” said John.
“Hold your tongue, John,” his father rapped out.
Wendy was quite puzzled. “I thought you took it quite easily, father.”
“That is not the point,” he retorted. “The point is, that there is more in my
glass than in Michael's spoon.” His proud heart was nearly bursting. “And it isn't
fair: I would say it though it were with my last breath; it isn't fair.”
“Father, I am waiting,” said Michael coldly.
“It's all very well to say you are waiting; so am I waiting.”
“Father's a cowardly custard.”
“So are you a cowardly custard.”
“I'm not frightened.”
“Neither am I frightened.”
“Well, then, take it.”
“Well, then, you take it.”
Wendy had a splendid idea. “Why not both take it at the same time?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Darling. “Are you ready, Michael?”
 Wendy gave the words, one, two, three, and Michael took his medicine, but
Mr. Darling slipped his behind his back.
There was a yell of rage from Michael, and “O father!” Wendy exclaimed.
“What do you mean by 'O father'?” Mr. Darling demanded. “Stop that row,
Michael. I meant to take mine, but I—I missed it.”
It was dreadful the way all the three were looking at him, just as if they did
not admire him. “Look here, all of you,” he said entreatingly, as soon as Nana
had gone into the bathroom. “I have just thought of a splendid joke. I shall pour
my medicine into Nana's bowl, and she will drink it, thinking it is milk!”
It was the colour of milk; but the children did not have their father's sense of
humour, and they looked at him reproachfully as he poured the medicine into
Nana's bowl. “What fun!” he said doubtfully, and they did not dare expose him
when Mrs. Darling and Nana returned.
“Nana, good dog,” he said, patting her, “I have put a little milk into your bowl,
Nana.”
Nana wagged her tail, ran to the medicine, and began lapping it. Then she
gave Mr. Darling such a look, not an angry look: she showed him the great red
tear that makes us so sorry for noble dogs, and crept into her kennel.
Mr. Darling was frightfully ashamed of himself, but he would not give in. In a
horrid silence Mrs. Darling smelt the bowl. “O George,” she said, “it's your
medicine!”
“It was only a joke,” he roared, while she comforted her boys, and Wendy
hugged Nana. “Much good,” he said bitterly, “my wearing myself to the bone
trying to be funny in this house.”
And still Wendy hugged Nana. “That's right,” he shouted. “Coddle her!
Nobody coddles me. Oh dear no! I am only the breadwinner, why should I be
coddled—why, why, why!”
“George,” Mrs. Darling entreated him, “not so loud; the servants will hear
you.” Somehow they had got into the way of calling Liza the servants.
“Let them!” he answered recklessly. “Bring in the whole world. But I refuse to
allow that dog to lord it in my nursery for an hour longer.”
The children wept, and Nana ran to him beseechingly, but he waved her back.
He felt he was a strong man again. “In vain, in vain,” he cried; “the proper place
for you is the yard, and there you go to be tied up this instant.”
“George, George,” Mrs. Darling whispered, “remember what I told you about
that boy.”
 Alas, he would not listen. He was determined to show who was master in that
house, and when commands would not draw Nana from the kennel, he lured her
out of it with honeyed words, and seizing her roughly, dragged her from the
nursery. He was ashamed of himself, and yet he did it. It was all owing to his too
affectionate nature, which craved for admiration. When he had tied her up in the
back-yard, the wretched father went and sat in the passage, with his knuckles to
his eyes.
In the meantime Mrs. Darling had put the children to bed in unwonted silence
and lit their night-lights. They could hear Nana barking, and John whimpered,
“It is because he is chaining her up in the yard,” but Wendy was wiser.
“That is not Nana's unhappy bark,” she said, little guessing what was about to
happen; “that is her bark when she smells danger.”
Danger!
“Are you sure, Wendy?”
“Oh, yes.”
Mrs. Darling quivered and went to the window. It was securely fastened. She
looked out, and the night was peppered with stars. They were crowding round
the house, as if curious to see what was to take place there, but she did not notice
this, nor that one or two of the smaller ones winked at her. Yet a nameless fear
clutched at her heart and made her cry, “Oh, how I wish that I wasn't going to a
party to-night!”
Even Michael, already half asleep, knew that she was perturbed, and he asked,
“Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?”
“Nothing, precious,” she said; “they are the eyes a mother leaves behind her to
guard her children.”
She went from bed to bed singing enchantments over them, and little Michael
flung his arms round her. “Mother,” he cried, “I'm glad of you.” They were the
last words she was to hear from him for a long time.
No. 27 was only a few yards distant, but there had been a slight fall of snow,
and Father and Mother Darling picked their way over it deftly not to soil their
shoes. They were already the only persons in the street, and all the stars were
watching them. Stars are beautiful, but they may not take an active part in
anything, they must just look on for ever. It is a punishment put on them for
something they did so long ago that no star now knows what it was. So the older
ones have become glassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking is the star language),
but the little ones still wonder. They are not really friendly to Peter, who had a
mischievous way of stealing up behind them and trying to blow them out; but
they are so fond of fun that they were on his side to-night, and anxious to get the
grown-ups out of the way. So as soon as the door of 27 closed on Mr. and Mrs.
Darling there was a commotion in the firmament, and the smallest of all the stars
in the Milky Way screamed out:
“Now, Peter!”
 Chapter 3 COME AWAY, COME AWAY!
For a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Darling left the house the night-lights by the
beds of the three children continued to burn clearly. They were awfully nice little
night-lights, and one cannot help wishing that they could have kept awake to see
Peter; but Wendy's light blinked and gave such a yawn that the other two yawned
also, and before they could close their mouths all the three went out.
There was another light in the room now, a thousand times brighter than the
night-lights, and in the time we have taken to say this, it had been in all the
drawers in the nursery, looking for Peter's shadow, rummaged the wardrobe and
turned every pocket inside out. It was not really a light; it made this light by
flashing about so quickly, but when it came to rest for a second you saw it was a
fairy, no longer than your hand, but still growing. It was a girl called Tinker Bell
exquisitely gowned in a skeleton leaf, cut low and square, through which her
figure could be seen to the best advantage. She was slightly inclined to
EMBONPOINT. [plump hourglass figure]
A moment after the fairy's entrance the window was blown open by the
breathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in. He had carried Tinker Bell part
of the way, and his hand was still messy with the fairy dust.
“Tinker Bell,” he called softly, after making sure that the children were asleep,
“Tink, where are you?” She was in a jug for the moment, and liking it extremely;
she had never been in a jug before.
“Oh, do come out of that jug, and tell me, do you know where they put my
shadow?”
The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him. It is the fairy language.
You ordinary children can never hear it, but if you were to hear it you would
know that you had heard it once before.
Tink said that the shadow was in the big box. She meant the chest of drawers,
and Peter jumped at the drawers, scattering their contents to the floor with both
hands, as kings toss ha'pence to the crowd. In a moment he had recovered his
shadow, and in his delight he forgot that he had shut Tinker Bell up in the
drawer.
If he thought at all, but I don't believe he ever thought, it was that he and his
shadow, when brought near each other, would join like drops of water, and when
they did not he was appalled. He tried to stick it on with soap from the bathroom,
but that also failed. A shudder passed through Peter, and he sat on the floor and
cried.
His sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. She was not alarmed to see a
stranger crying on the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly interested.
“Boy,” she said courteously, “why are you crying?”
Peter could be exceeding polite also, having learned the grand manner at fairy
ceremonies, and he rose and bowed to her beautifully. She was much pleased,
and bowed beautifully to him from the bed.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” she replied with some satisfaction. “What is
your name?”
“Peter Pan.”
She was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a comparatively
short name.
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it was a shortish
name.
“I'm so sorry,” said Wendy Moira Angela.
“It doesn't matter,” Peter gulped.
She asked where he lived.
“Second to the right,” said Peter, “and then straight on till morning.”
“What a funny address!”
Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a funny
address.
“No, it isn't,” he said.
“I mean,” Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess, “is that what
they put on the letters?”
He wished she had not mentioned letters.
“Don't get any letters,” he said contemptuously.
“But your mother gets letters?”
“Don't have a mother,” he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had not the
slightest desire to have one. He thought them very over-rated persons. Wendy,
however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a tragedy.
 “O Peter, no wonder you were crying,” she said, and got out of bed and ran to
him.
“I wasn't crying about mothers,” he said rather indignantly. “I was crying
because I can't get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn't crying.”
“It has come off?”
“Yes.”
Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was
frightfully sorry for Peter. “How awful!” she said, but she could not help smiling
when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap. How exactly like a
boy!
Fortunately she knew at once what to do. “It must be sewn on,” she said, just a
little patronisingly.
“What's sewn?” he asked.
“You're dreadfully ignorant.”
“No, I'm not.”
But she was exulting in his ignorance. “I shall sew it on for you, my little
man,” she said, though he was tall as herself, and she got out her housewife
[sewing bag], and sewed the shadow on to Peter's foot.
“I daresay it will hurt a little,” she warned him.
“Oh, I shan't cry,” said Peter, who was already of the opinion that he had never
cried in his life. And he clenched his teeth and did not cry, and soon his shadow
was behaving properly, though still a little creased.
“Perhaps I should have ironed it,” Wendy said thoughtfully, but Peter, boylike,
was indifferent to appearances, and he was now jumping about in the wildest
glee. Alas, he had already forgotten that he owed his bliss to Wendy. He thought
he had attached the shadow himself. “How clever I am!” he crowed rapturously,
“oh, the cleverness of me!”
It is humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Peter was one of his
most fascinating qualities. To put it with brutal frankness, there never was a
cockier boy.
But for the moment Wendy was shocked. “You conceit [braggart],” she
exclaimed, with frightful sarcasm; “of course I did nothing!”
“You did a little,” Peter said carelessly, and continued to dance.
“A little!” she replied with hauteur [pride]; “if I am no use I can at least
withdraw,” and she sprang in the most dignified way into bed and covered her
face with the blankets.
To induce her to look up he pretended to be going away, and when this failed
he sat on the end of the bed and tapped her gently with his foot. “Wendy,” he
said, “don't withdraw. I can't help crowing, Wendy, when I'm pleased with
myself.” Still she would not look up, though she was listening eagerly. “Wendy,”
he continued, in a voice that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, “Wendy,
one girl is more use than twenty boys.”
Now Wendy was every inch a woman, though there were not very many
inches, and she peeped out of the bed-clothes.
“Do you really think so, Peter?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I think it's perfectly sweet of you,” she declared, “and I'll get up again,” and
she sat with him on the side of the bed. She also said she would give him a kiss
if he liked, but Peter did not know what she meant, and he held out his hand
expectantly.
“Surely you know what a kiss is?” she asked, aghast.
“I shall know when you give it to me,” he replied stiffly, and not to hurt his
feeling she gave him a thimble.
“Now,” said he, “shall I give you a kiss?” and she replied with a slight
primness, “If you please.” She made herself rather cheap by inclining her face
toward him, but he merely dropped an acorn button into her hand, so she slowly
returned her face to where it had been before, and said nicely that she would
wear his kiss on the chain around her neck. It was lucky that she did put it on
that chain, for it was afterwards to save her life.
When people in our set are introduced, it is customary for them to ask each
other's age, and so Wendy, who always liked to do the correct thing, asked Peter
how old he was. It was not really a happy question to ask him; it was like an
examination paper that asks grammar, when what you want to be asked is Kings
of England.
“I don't know,” he replied uneasily, “but I am quite young.” He really knew
nothing about it, he had merely suspicions, but he said at a venture, “Wendy, I
ran away the day I was born.”
Wendy was quite surprised, but interested; and she indicated in the charming
drawing-room manner, by a touch on her night-gown, that he could sit nearer
her.
“It was because I heard father and mother,” he explained in a low voice,
“talking about what I was to be when I became a man.” He was extraordinarily
agitated now. “I don't want ever to be a man,” he said with passion. “I want
always to be a little boy and to have fun. So I ran away to Kensington Gardens
and lived a long long time among the fairies.”
She gave him a look of the most intense admiration, and he thought it was
because he had run away, but it was really because he knew fairies. Wendy had
lived such a home life that to know fairies struck her as quite delightful. She
poured out questions about them, to his surprise, for they were rather a nuisance
to him, getting in his way and so on, and indeed he sometimes had to give them
a hiding [spanking]. Still, he liked them on the whole, and he told her about the
beginning of fairies.
“You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh
broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the
beginning of fairies.”
Tedious talk this, but being a stay-at-home she liked it.
“And so,” he went on good-naturedly, “there ought to be one fairy for every
boy and girl.”
“Ought to be? Isn't there?”
“No. You see children know such a lot now, they soon don't believe in fairies,
and every time a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies,' there is a fairy somewhere
that falls down dead.”
Really, he thought they had now talked enough about fairies, and it struck him
that Tinker Bell was keeping very quiet. “I can't think where she has gone to,” he
said, rising, and he called Tink by name. Wendy's heart went flutter with a
sudden thrill.
“Peter,” she cried, clutching him, “you don't mean to tell me that there is a
fairy in this room!”
“She was here just now,” he said a little impatiently. “You don't hear her, do
you?” and they both listened.
“The only sound I hear,” said Wendy, “is like a tinkle of bells.”
“Well, that's Tink, that's the fairy language. I think I hear her too.”
The sound came from the chest of drawers, and Peter made a merry face. No
one could ever look quite so merry as Peter, and the loveliest of gurgles was his
laugh. He had his first laugh still.
“Wendy,” he whispered gleefully, “I do believe I shut her up in the drawer!”
He let poor Tink out of the drawer, and she flew about the nursery screaming
with fury. “You shouldn't say such things,” Peter retorted. “Of course I'm very
sorry, but how could I know you were in the drawer?”
Wendy was not listening to him. “O Peter,” she cried, “if she would only stand
still and let me see her!”
“They hardly ever stand still,” he said, but for one moment Wendy saw the
romantic figure come to rest on the cuckoo clock. “O the lovely!” she cried,
though Tink's face was still distorted with passion.
“Tink,” said Peter amiably, “this lady says she wishes you were her fairy.”
Tinker Bell answered insolently.
“What does she say, Peter?”
He had to translate. “She is not very polite. She says you are a great [huge]
ugly girl, and that she is my fairy.”
He tried to argue with Tink. “You know you can't be my fairy, Tink, because I
am an gentleman and you are a lady.”
To this Tink replied in these words, “You silly ass,” and disappeared into the
bathroom. “She is quite a common fairy,” Peter explained apologetically, “she is
called Tinker Bell because she mends the pots and kettles [tinker = tin worker].”
[Similar to “cinder” plus “elle” to get Cinderella]
They were together in the armchair by this time, and Wendy plied him with
more questions.
“If you don't live in Kensington Gardens now—”
“Sometimes I do still.”
“But where do you live mostly now?”
“With the lost boys.”
“Who are they?”
“They are the children who fall out of their perambulators when the nurse is
looking the other way. If they are not claimed in seven days they are sent far
away to the Neverland to defray expenses. I'm captain.”
“What fun it must be!”
“Yes,” said cunning Peter, “but we are rather lonely. You see we have no
female companionship.”
“Are none of the others girls?”
“Oh, no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their prams.”
This flattered Wendy immensely. “I think,” she said, “it is perfectly lovely the
way you talk about girls; John there just despises us.”
For reply Peter rose and kicked John out of bed, blankets and all; one kick.
This seemed to Wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and she told him with
spirit that he was not captain in her house. However, John continued to sleep so
placidly on the floor that she allowed him to remain there. “And I know you
meant to be kind,” she said, relenting, “so you may give me a kiss.”
For the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses. “I thought you
would want it back,” he said a little bitterly, and offered to return her the
thimble.
“Oh dear,” said the nice Wendy, “I don't mean a kiss, I mean a thimble.”
“What's that?”
“It's like this.” She kissed him.
“Funny!” said Peter gravely. “Now shall I give you a thimble?”
“If you wish to,” said Wendy, keeping her head erect this time.
Peter thimbled her, and almost immediately she screeched. “What is it,
Wendy?”
“It was exactly as if someone were pulling my hair.”
“That must have been Tink. I never knew her so naughty before.”
And indeed Tink was darting about again, using offensive language.
“She says she will do that to you, Wendy, every time I give you a thimble.”
“But why?”
“Why, Tink?”
Again Tink replied, “You silly ass.” Peter could not understand why, but
Wendy understood, and she was just slightly disappointed when he admitted that
he came to the nursery window not to see her but to listen to stories.
“You see, I don't know any stories. None of the lost boys knows any stories.”
“How perfectly awful,” Wendy said.
“Do you know,” Peter asked “why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is
to listen to the stories. O Wendy, your mother was telling you such a lovely
story.”
“Which story was it?”
“About the prince who couldn't find the lady who wore the glass slipper.”
“Peter,” said Wendy excitedly, “that was Cinderella, and he found her, and
they lived happily ever after.”
 Peter was so glad that he rose from the floor, where they had been sitting, and
hurried to the window.
“Where are you going?” she cried with misgiving.
“To tell the other boys.”
“Don't go Peter,” she entreated, “I know such lots of stories.”
Those were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was she who
first tempted him.
He came back, and there was a greedy look in his eyes now which ought to
have alarmed her, but did not.
“Oh, the stories I could tell to the boys!” she cried, and then Peter gripped her
and began to draw her toward the window.
“Let me go!” she ordered him.
“Wendy, do come with me and tell the other boys.”
Of course she was very pleased to be asked, but she said, “Oh dear, I can't.
Think of mummy! Besides, I can't fly.”
“I'll teach you.”
“Oh, how lovely to fly.”
“I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and then away we go.”
“Oo!” she exclaimed rapturously.
“Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be flying
about with me saying funny things to the stars.”
“Oo!”
“And, Wendy, there are mermaids.”
“Mermaids! With tails?”
“Such long tails.”
“Oh,” cried Wendy, “to see a mermaid!”
He had become frightfully cunning. “Wendy,” he said, “how we should all
respect you.”
She was wriggling her body in distress. It was quite as if she were trying to
remain on the nursery floor.
But he had no pity for her.
“Wendy,” he said, the sly one, “you could tuck us in at night.”
“Oo!”
 “None of us has ever been tucked in at night.”
“Oo,” and her arms went out to him.
“And you could darn our clothes, and make pockets for us. None of us has any
pockets.”
How could she resist. “Of course it's awfully fascinating!” she cried. “Peter,
would you teach John and Michael to fly too?”
“If you like,” he said indifferently, and she ran to John and Michael and shook
them. “Wake up,” she cried, “Peter Pan has come and he is to teach us to fly.”
John rubbed his eyes. “Then I shall get up,” he said. Of course he was on the
floor already. “Hallo,” he said, “I am up!”
Michael was up by this time also, looking as sharp as a knife with six blades
and a saw, but Peter suddenly signed silence. Their faces assumed the awful
craftiness of children listening for sounds from the grown-up world. All was as
still as salt. Then everything was right. No, stop! Everything was wrong. Nana,
who had been barking distressfully all the evening, was quiet now. It was her
silence they had heard.
“Out with the light! Hide! Quick!” cried John, taking command for the only
time throughout the whole adventure. And thus when Liza entered, holding
Nana, the nursery seemed quite its old self, very dark, and you would have
sworn you heard its three wicked inmates breathing angelically as they slept.
They were really doing it artfully from behind the window curtains.
Liza was in a bad temper, for she was mixing the Christmas puddings in the
kitchen, and had been drawn from them, with a raisin still on her cheek, by
Nana's absurd suspicions. She thought the best way of getting a little quiet was
to take Nana to the nursery for a moment, but in custody of course.
“There, you suspicious brute,” she said, not sorry that Nana was in disgrace.
“They are perfectly safe, aren't they? Every one of the little angels sound asleep
in bed. Listen to their gentle breathing.”
Here Michael, encouraged by his success, breathed so loudly that they were
nearly detected. Nana knew that kind of breathing, and she tried to drag herself
out of Liza's clutches.
But Liza was dense. “No more of it, Nana,” she said sternly, pulling her out of
the room. “I warn you if you bark again I shall go straight for master and missus
and bring them home from the party, and then, oh, won't master whip you, just.”
She tied the unhappy dog up again, but do you think Nana ceased to bark?
Bring master and missus home from the party! Why, that was just what she
wanted. Do you think she cared whether she was whipped so long as her charges
were safe? Unfortunately Liza returned to her puddings, and Nana, seeing that
no help would come from her, strained and strained at the chain until at last she
broke it. In another moment she had burst into the dining-room of 27 and flung
up her paws to heaven, her most expressive way of making a communication.
Mr. and Mrs. Darling knew at once that something terrible was happening in
their nursery, and without a good-bye to their hostess they rushed into the street.
But it was now ten minutes since three scoundrels had been breathing behind
the curtains, and Peter Pan can do a great deal in ten minutes.
We now return to the nursery.
“It's all right,” John announced, emerging from his hiding-place. “I say, Peter,
can you really fly?”
Instead of troubling to answer him Peter flew around the room, taking the
mantelpiece on the way.
“How topping!” said John and Michael.
“How sweet!” cried Wendy.
“Yes, I'm sweet, oh, I am sweet!” said Peter, forgetting his manners again.
It looked delightfully easy, and they tried it first from the floor and then from
the beds, but they always went down instead of up.
“I say, how do you do it?” asked John, rubbing his knee. He was quite a
practical boy.
“You just think lovely wonderful thoughts,” Peter explained, “and they lift
you up in the air.”
He showed them again.
“You're so nippy at it,” John said, “couldn't you do it very slowly once?”
Peter did it both slowly and quickly. “I've got it now, Wendy!” cried John, but
soon he found he had not. Not one of them could fly an inch, though even
Michael was in words of two syllables, and Peter did not know A from Z.
Of course Peter had been trifling with them, for no one can fly unless the fairy
dust has been blown on him. Fortunately, as we have mentioned, one of his
hands was messy with it, and he blew some on each of them, with the most
superb results.
“Now just wiggle your shoulders this way,” he said, “and let go.”
They were all on their beds, and gallant Michael let go first. He did not quite
mean to let go, but he did it, and immediately he was borne across the room.
 “I flewed!” he screamed while still in mid-air.
John let go and met Wendy near the bathroom.
“Oh, lovely!”
“Oh, ripping!”
“Look at me!”
“Look at me!”
“Look at me!”
They were not nearly so elegant as Peter, they could not help kicking a little,
but their heads were bobbing against the ceiling, and there is almost nothing so
delicious as that. Peter gave Wendy a hand at first, but had to desist, Tink was so
indignant.
Up and down they went, and round and round. Heavenly was Wendy's word.
“I say,” cried John, “why shouldn't we all go out?”
Of course it was to this that Peter had been luring them.
Michael was ready: he wanted to see how long it took him to do a billion
miles. But Wendy hesitated.
“Mermaids!” said Peter again.
“Oo!”
“And there are pirates.”
“Pirates,” cried John, seizing his Sunday hat, “let us go at once.”
It was just at this moment that Mr. and Mrs. Darling hurried with Nana out of
27. They ran into the middle of the street to look up at the nursery window; and,
yes, it was still shut, but the room was ablaze with light, and most heart-gripping
sight of all, they could see in shadow on the curtain three little figures in night
attire circling round and round, not on the floor but in the air.
Not three figures, four!
In a tremble they opened the street door. Mr. Darling would have rushed
upstairs, but Mrs. Darling signed him to go softly. She even tried to make her
heart go softly.
Will they reach the nursery in time? If so, how delightful for them, and we
shall all breathe a sigh of relief, but there will be no story. On the other hand, if
they are not in time, I solemnly promise that it will all come right in the end.
They would have reached the nursery in time had it not been that the little
stars were watching them. Once again the stars blew the window open, and that
smallest star of all called out:
“Cave, Peter!”
Then Peter knew that there was not a moment to lose. “Come,” he cried
imperiously, and soared out at once into the night, followed by John and Michael
and Wendy.
Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Nana rushed into the nursery too late. The birds
were flown.
 Chapter 4 THE FLIGHT
“Second to the right, and straight on till morning.”

That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even birds,
carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not have sighted it
with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said anything that came into his head.
At first his companions trusted him implicitly, and so great were the delights
of flying that they wasted time circling round church spires or any other tall
objects on the way that took their fancy.
John and Michael raced, Michael getting a start.
They recalled with contempt that not so long ago they had thought themselves
fine fellows for being able to fly round a room.
Not long ago. But how long ago? They were flying over the sea before this
thought began to disturb Wendy seriously. John thought it was their second sea
and their third night.
Sometimes it was dark and sometimes light, and now they were very cold and
again too warm. Did they really feel hungry at times, or were they merely
pretending, because Peter had such a jolly new way of feeding them? His way
was to pursue birds who had food in their mouths suitable for humans and snatch
it from them; then the birds would follow and snatch it back; and they would all
go chasing each other gaily for miles, parting at last with mutual expressions of
good-will. But Wendy noticed with gentle concern that Peter did not seem to
know that this was rather an odd way of getting your bread and butter, nor even
that there are other ways.
Certainly they did not pretend to be sleepy, they were sleepy; and that was a
danger, for the moment they popped off, down they fell. The awful thing was
that Peter thought this funny.
“There he goes again!” he would cry gleefully, as Michael suddenly dropped
like a stone.
“Save him, save him!” cried Wendy, looking with horror at the cruel sea far
below. Eventually Peter would dive through the air, and catch Michael just
before he could strike the sea, and it was lovely the way he did it; but he always
waited till the last moment, and you felt it was his cleverness that interested him
and not the saving of human life. Also he was fond of variety, and the sport that
engrossed him one moment would suddenly cease to engage him, so there was
always the possibility that the next time you fell he would let you go.
He could sleep in the air without falling, by merely lying on his back and
floating, but this was, partly at least, because he was so light that if you got
behind him and blew he went faster.
“Do be more polite to him,” Wendy whispered to John, when they were
playing “Follow my Leader.”
“Then tell him to stop showing off,” said John.
When playing Follow my Leader, Peter would fly close to the water and touch
each shark's tail in passing, just as in the street you may run your finger along an
iron railing. They could not follow him in this with much success, so perhaps it
was rather like showing off, especially as he kept looking behind to see how
many tails they missed.
“You must be nice to him,” Wendy impressed on her brothers. “What could
we do if he were to leave us!”
“We could go back,” Michael said.
“How could we ever find our way back without him?”
“Well, then, we could go on,” said John.
“That is the awful thing, John. We should have to go on, for we don't know
how to stop.”
This was true, Peter had forgotten to show them how to stop.
John said that if the worst came to the worst, all they had to do was to go
straight on, for the world was round, and so in time they must come back to their
own window.
“And who is to get food for us, John?”
“I nipped a bit out of that eagle's mouth pretty neatly, Wendy.”
“After the twentieth try,” Wendy reminded him. “And even though we became
good at picking up food, see how we bump against clouds and things if he is not
near to give us a hand.”
Indeed they were constantly bumping. They could now fly strongly, though
they still kicked far too much; but if they saw a cloud in front of them, the more
they tried to avoid it, the more certainly did they bump into it. If Nana had been
with them, she would have had a bandage round Michael's forehead by this time.
Peter was not with them for the moment, and they felt rather lonely up there
by themselves. He could go so much faster than they that he would suddenly
shoot out of sight, to have some adventure in which they had no share. He would
come down laughing over something fearfully funny he had been saying to a
star, but he had already forgotten what it was, or he would come up with
mermaid scales still sticking to him, and yet not be able to say for certain what
had been happening. It was really rather irritating to children who had never seen
a mermaid.
“And if he forgets them so quickly,” Wendy argued, “how can we expect that
he will go on remembering us?”
Indeed, sometimes when he returned he did not remember them, at least not
well. Wendy was sure of it. She saw recognition come into his eyes as he was
about to pass them the time of day and go on; once even she had to call him by
name.
“I'm Wendy,” she said agitatedly.
He was very sorry. “I say, Wendy,” he whispered to her, “always if you see me
forgetting you, just keep on saying 'I'm Wendy,' and then I'll remember.”
Of course this was rather unsatisfactory. However, to make amends he showed
them how to lie out flat on a strong wind that was going their way, and this was
such a pleasant change that they tried it several times and found that they could
sleep thus with security. Indeed they would have slept longer, but Peter tired
quickly of sleeping, and soon he would cry in his captain voice, “We get off
here.” So with occasional tiffs, but on the whole rollicking, they drew near the
Neverland; for after many moons they did reach it, and, what is more, they had
been going pretty straight all the time, not perhaps so much owing to the
guidance of Peter or Tink as because the island was looking for them. It is only
thus that any one may sight those magic shores.
“There it is,” said Peter calmly.
“Where, where?”
“Where all the arrows are pointing.”
Indeed a million golden arrows were pointing it out to the children, all
directed by their friend the sun, who wanted them to be sure of their way before
leaving them for the night.
Wendy and John and Michael stood on tip-toe in the air to get their first sight
of the island. Strange to say, they all recognized it at once, and until fear fell
upon them they hailed it, not as something long dreamt of and seen at last, but as
a familiar friend to whom they were returning home for the holidays.
 “John, there's the lagoon.”
“Wendy, look at the turtles burying their eggs in the sand.”
“I say, John, I see your flamingo with the broken leg!”
“Look, Michael, there's your cave!”
“John, what's that in the brushwood?”
“It's a wolf with her whelps. Wendy, I do believe that's your little whelp!”
“There's my boat, John, with her sides stove in!”
“No, it isn't. Why, we burned your boat.”
“That's her, at any rate. I say, John, I see the smoke of the redskin camp!”
“Where? Show me, and I'll tell you by the way smoke curls whether they are
on the war-path.”
“There, just across the Mysterious River.”
“I see now. Yes, they are on the war-path right enough.”
Peter was a little annoyed with them for knowing so much, but if he wanted to
lord it over them his triumph was at hand, for have I not told you that anon fear
fell upon them?
It came as the arrows went, leaving the island in gloom.
In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little dark
and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it and spread,
black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of prey was quite
different now, and above all, you lost the certainty that you would win. You were
quite glad that the night-lights were on. You even liked Nana to say that this was
just the mantelpiece over here, and that the Neverland was all make-believe.
Of course the Neverland had been make-believe in those days, but it was real
now, and there were no night-lights, and it was getting darker every moment, and
where was Nana?
They had been flying apart, but they huddled close to Peter now. His careless
manner had gone at last, his eyes were sparkling, and a tingle went through them
every time they touched his body. They were now over the fearsome island,
flying so low that sometimes a tree grazed their feet. Nothing horrid was visible
in the air, yet their progress had become slow and laboured, exactly as if they
were pushing their way through hostile forces. Sometimes they hung in the air
until Peter had beaten on it with his fists.
“They don't want us to land,” he explained.
“Who are they?” Wendy whispered, shuddering.
 But he could not or would not say. Tinker Bell had been asleep on his
shoulder, but now he wakened her and sent her on in front.
Sometimes he poised himself in the air, listening intently, with his hand to his
ear, and again he would stare down with eyes so bright that they seemed to bore
two holes to earth. Having done these things, he went on again.
His courage was almost appalling. “Would you like an adventure now,” he
said casually to John, “or would you like to have your tea first?”
Wendy said “tea first” quickly, and Michael pressed her hand in gratitude, but
the braver John hesitated.
“What kind of adventure?” he asked cautiously.
“There's a pirate asleep in the pampas just beneath us,” Peter told him. “If you
like, we'll go down and kill him.”
“I don't see him,” John said after a long pause.
“I do.”
“Suppose,” John said, a little huskily, “he were to wake up.”
Peter spoke indignantly. “You don't think I would kill him while he was
sleeping! I would wake him first, and then kill him. That's the way I always do.”
“I say! Do you kill many?”
“Tons.”
John said “How ripping,” but decided to have tea first. He asked if there were
many pirates on the island just now, and Peter said he had never known so many.
“Who is captain now?”
“Hook,” answered Peter, and his face became very stern as he said that hated
word.
“Jas. Hook?”
“Ay.”
Then indeed Michael began to cry, and even John could speak in gulps only,
for they knew Hook's reputation.
“He was Blackbeard's bo'sun,” John whispered huskily. “He is the worst of
them all. He is the only man of whom Barbecue was afraid.”
“That's him,” said Peter.
“What is he like? Is he big?”
“He is not so big as he was.”
“How do you mean?”
 “I cut off a bit of him.”
“You!”
“Yes, me,” said Peter sharply.
“I wasn't meaning to be disrespectful.”
“Oh, all right.”
“But, I say, what bit?”
“His right hand.”
“Then he can't fight now?”
“Oh, can't he just!”
“Left-hander?”
“He has an iron hook instead of a right hand, and he claws with it.”
“Claws!”
“I say, John,” said Peter.
“Yes.”
“Say, 'Ay, ay, sir.'”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“There is one thing,” Peter continued, “that every boy who serves under me
has to promise, and so must you.”
John paled.
“It is this, if we meet Hook in open fight, you must leave him to me.”
“I promise,” John said loyally.
For the moment they were feeling less eerie, because Tink was flying with
them, and in her light they could distinguish each other. Unfortunately she could
not fly so slowly as they, and so she had to go round and round them in a circle
in which they moved as in a halo. Wendy quite liked it, until Peter pointed out
the drawbacks.
“She tells me,” he said, “that the pirates sighted us before the darkness came,
and got Long Tom out.”
“The big gun?”
“Yes. And of course they must see her light, and if they guess we are near it
they are sure to let fly.”
“Wendy!”
“John!”
 “Michael!”
“Tell her to go away at once, Peter,” the three cried simultaneously, but he
refused.
“She thinks we have lost the way,” he replied stiffly, “and she is rather
frightened. You don't think I would send her away all by herself when she is
frightened!”
For a moment the circle of light was broken, and something gave Peter a
loving little pinch.
“Then tell her,” Wendy begged, “to put out her light.”
“She can't put it out. That is about the only thing fairies can't do. It just goes
out of itself when she falls asleep, same as the stars.”
“Then tell her to sleep at once,” John almost ordered.
“She can't sleep except when she's sleepy. It is the only other thing fairies can't
do.”
“Seems to me,” growled John, “these are the only two things worth doing.”
Here he got a pinch, but not a loving one.
“If only one of us had a pocket,” Peter said, “we could carry her in it.”
However, they had set off in such a hurry that there was not a pocket between
the four of them.
He had a happy idea. John's hat!
Tink agreed to travel by hat if it was carried in the hand. John carried it,
though she had hoped to be carried by Peter. Presently Wendy took the hat,
because John said it struck against his knee as he flew; and this, as we shall see,
led to mischief, for Tinker Bell hated to be under an obligation to Wendy.
In the black topper the light was completely hidden, and they flew on in
silence. It was the stillest silence they had ever known, broken once by a distant
lapping, which Peter explained was the wild beasts drinking at the ford, and
again by a rasping sound that might have been the branches of trees rubbing
together, but he said it was the redskins sharpening their knives.
Even these noises ceased. To Michael the loneliness was dreadful. “If only
something would make a sound!” he cried.
As if in answer to his request, the air was rent by the most tremendous crash
he had ever heard. The pirates had fired Long Tom at them.
The roar of it echoed through the mountains, and the echoes seemed to cry
savagely, “Where are they, where are they, where are they?”
 Thus sharply did the terrified three learn the difference between an island of
make-believe and the same island come true.
When at last the heavens were steady again, John and Michael found
themselves alone in the darkness. John was treading the air mechanically, and
Michael without knowing how to float was floating.
“Are you shot?” John whispered tremulously.
“I haven't tried [myself out] yet,” Michael whispered back.
We know now that no one had been hit. Peter, however, had been carried by
the wind of the shot far out to sea, while Wendy was blown upwards with no
companion but Tinker Bell.
It would have been well for Wendy if at that moment she had dropped the hat.
I don't know whether the idea came suddenly to Tink, or whether she had
planned it on the way, but she at once popped out of the hat and began to lure
Wendy to her destruction.
Tink was not all bad; or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other
hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be one thing or the other,
because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a
time. They are, however, allowed to change, only it must be a complete change.
At present she was full of jealousy of Wendy. What she said in her lovely tinkle
Wendy could not of course understand, and I believe some of it was bad words,
but it sounded kind, and she flew back and forward, plainly meaning “Follow
me, and all will be well.”
What else could poor Wendy do? She called to Peter and John and Michael,
and got only mocking echoes in reply. She did not yet know that Tink hated her
with the fierce hatred of a very woman. And so, bewildered, and now staggering
in her flight, she followed Tink to her doom.
 Chapter 5 THE ISLAND COME TRUE
Feeling that Peter was on his way back, the Neverland had again woke into
life. We ought to use the pluperfect and say wakened, but woke is better and was
always used by Peter.
In his absence things are usually quiet on the island. The fairies take an hour
longer in the morning, the beasts attend to their young, the redskins feed heavily
for six days and nights, and when pirates and lost boys meet they merely bite
their thumbs at each other. But with the coming of Peter, who hates lethargy,
they are under way again: if you put your ear to the ground now, you would hear
the whole island seething with life.
On this evening the chief forces of the island were disposed as follows. The
lost boys were out looking for Peter, the pirates were out looking for the lost
boys, the redskins were out looking for the pirates, and the beasts were out
looking for the redskins. They were going round and round the island, but they
did not meet because all were going at the same rate.
All wanted blood except the boys, who liked it as a rule, but to-night were out
to greet their captain. The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers,
according as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up,
which is against the rules, Peter thins them out; but at this time there were six of
them, counting the twins as two. Let us pretend to lie here among the sugar-cane
and watch them as they steal by in single file, each with his hand on his dagger.
They are forbidden by Peter to look in the least like him, and they wear the
skins of the bears slain by themselves, in which they are so round and furry that
when they fall they roll. They have therefore become very sure-footed.
The first to pass is Tootles, not the least brave but the most unfortunate of all
that gallant band. He had been in fewer adventures than any of them, because the
big things constantly happened just when he had stepped round the corner; all
would be quiet, he would take the opportunity of going off to gather a few sticks
for firewood, and then when he returned the others would be sweeping up the
blood. This ill-luck had given a gentle melancholy to his countenance, but
instead of souring his nature had sweetened it, so that he was quite the humblest
of the boys. Poor kind Tootles, there is danger in the air for you to-night. Take
care lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if accepted, will plunge you in
deepest woe. Tootles, the fairy Tink, who is bent on mischief this night is
looking for a tool [for doing her mischief], and she thinks you are the most easily
tricked of the boys. 'Ware Tinker Bell.
Would that he could hear us, but we are not really on the island, and he passes
by, biting his knuckles.
Next comes Nibs, the gay and debonair, followed by Slightly, who cuts
whistles out of the trees and dances ecstatically to his own tunes. Slightly is the
most conceited of the boys. He thinks he remembers the days before he was lost,
with their manners and customs, and this has given his nose an offensive tilt.
Curly is fourth; he is a pickle, [a person who gets in pickles-predicaments] and
so often has he had to deliver up his person when Peter said sternly, “Stand forth
the one who did this thing,” that now at the command he stands forth
automatically whether he has done it or not. Last come the Twins, who cannot be
described because we should be sure to be describing the wrong one. Peter never
quite knew what twins were, and his band were not allowed to know anything he
did not know, so these two were always vague about themselves, and did their
best to give satisfaction by keeping close together in an apologetic sort of way.
The boys vanish in the gloom, and after a pause, but not a long pause, for
things go briskly on the island, come the pirates on their track. We hear them
before they are seen, and it is always the same dreadful song:
“Avast belay, yo ho, heave to,
A-pirating we go,
And if we're parted by a shot
We're sure to meet below!”

A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock. Here, a

little in advance, ever and again with his head to the ground listening, his great
arms bare, pieces of eight in his ears as ornaments, is the handsome Italian
Cecco, who cut his name in letters of blood on the back of the governor of the
prison at Gao. That gigantic black behind him has had many names since he
dropped the one with which dusky mothers still terrify their children on the
banks of the Guadjo-mo. Here is Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, the same
Bill Jukes who got six dozen on the WALRUS from Flint before he would drop
the bag of moidores [Portuguese gold pieces]; and Cookson, said to be Black
Murphy's brother (but this was never proved), and Gentleman Starkey, once an
usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing; and Skylights
(Morgan's Skylights); and the Irish bo'sun Smee, an oddly genial man who
stabbed, so to speak, without offence, and was the only Non-conformist in
Hook's crew; and Noodler, whose hands were fixed on backwards; and Robt.
Mullins and Alf Mason and many another ruffian long known and feared on the
Spanish Main.
 In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined
James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the
only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn
and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with
which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this
terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person
he was cadaverous [dead looking] and blackavized [dark faced], and his hair was
dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and
gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes
were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when
he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them
and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung
to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he
was a RACONTEUR [storyteller] of repute. He was never more sinister than
when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the
elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction
of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of
indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of
his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat
aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in
some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-
fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which
enabled him to smoke two cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of
him was his iron claw.
Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook's method. Skylights will do. As they
pass, Skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his lace collar; the hook
shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one screech, then the body is kicked
aside, and the pirates pass on. He has not even taken the cigars from his mouth.
Such is the terrible man against whom Peter Pan is pitted. Which will win?
On the trail of the pirates, stealing noiselessly down the war-path, which is not
visible to inexperienced eyes, come the redskins, every one of them with his
eyes peeled. They carry tomahawks and knives, and their naked bodies gleam
with paint and oil. Strung around them are scalps, of boys as well as of pirates,
for these are the Piccaninny tribe, and not to be confused with the softer-hearted
Delawares or the Hurons. In the van, on all fours, is Great Big Little Panther, a
brave of so many scalps that in his present position they somewhat impede his
progress. Bringing up the rear, the place of greatest danger, comes Tiger Lily,
proudly erect, a princess in her own right. She is the most beautiful of dusky
Dianas [Diana = goddess of the woods] and the belle of the Piccaninnies,
coquettish [flirting], cold and amorous [loving] by turns; there is not a brave who
would not have the wayward thing to wife, but she staves off the altar with a
hatchet. Observe how they pass over fallen twigs without making the slightest
noise. The only sound to be heard is their somewhat heavy breathing. The fact is
that they are all a little fat just now after the heavy gorging, but in time they will
work this off. For the moment, however, it constitutes their chief danger.
The redskins disappear as they have come like shadows, and soon their place
is taken by the beasts, a great and motley procession: lions, tigers, bears, and the
innumerable smaller savage things that flee from them, for every kind of beast,
and, more particularly, all the man-eaters, live cheek by jowl on the favoured
island. Their tongues are hanging out, they are hungry to-night.
When they have passed, comes the last figure of all, a gigantic crocodile. We
shall see for whom she is looking presently.
The crocodile passes, but soon the boys appear again, for the procession must
continue indefinitely until one of the parties stops or changes its pace. Then
quickly they will be on top of each other.
All are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but none suspects that the danger
may be creeping up from behind. This shows how real the island was.
The first to fall out of the moving circle was the boys. They flung themselves
down on the sward [turf], close to their underground home.
“I do wish Peter would come back,” every one of them said nervously, though
in height and still more in breadth they were all larger than their captain.
“I am the only one who is not afraid of the pirates,” Slightly said, in the tone
that prevented his being a general favourite; but perhaps some distant sound
disturbed him, for he added hastily, “but I wish he would come back, and tell us
whether he has heard anything more about Cinderella.”
They talked of Cinderella, and Tootles was confident that his mother must
have been very like her.
It was only in Peter's absence that they could speak of mothers, the subject
being forbidden by him as silly.
“All I remember about my mother,” Nibs told them, “is that she often said to
my father, 'Oh, how I wish I had a cheque-book of my own!' I don't know what a
cheque-book is, but I should just love to give my mother one.”
While they talked they heard a distant sound. You or I, not being wild things
of the woods, would have heard nothing, but they heard it, and it was the grim
song:
“Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life,
The flag o' skull and bones,
A merry hour, a hempen rope,
And hey for Davy Jones.”

At once the lost boys—but where are they? They are no longer there. Rabbits
could not have disappeared more quickly.
I will tell you where they are. With the exception of Nibs, who has darted
away to reconnoitre [look around], they are already in their home under the
ground, a very delightful residence of which we shall see a good deal presently.
But how have they reached it? for there is no entrance to be seen, not so much as
a large stone, which if rolled away, would disclose the mouth of a cave. Look
closely, however, and you may note that there are here seven large trees, each
with a hole in its hollow trunk as large as a boy. These are the seven entrances to
the home under the ground, for which Hook has been searching in vain these
many moons. Will he find it tonight?
As the pirates advanced, the quick eye of Starkey sighted Nibs disappearing
through the wood, and at once his pistol flashed out. But an iron claw gripped
his shoulder.
“Captain, let go!” he cried, writhing.
Now for the first time we hear the voice of Hook. It was a black voice. “Put
back that pistol first,” it said threateningly.
“It was one of those boys you hate. I could have shot him dead.”
“Ay, and the sound would have brought Tiger Lily's redskins upon us. Do you
want to lose your scalp?”
“Shall I after him, Captain,” asked pathetic Smee, “and tickle him with
Johnny Corkscrew?” Smee had pleasant names for everything, and his cutlass
was Johnny Corkscrew, because he wiggled it in the wound. One could mention
many lovable traits in Smee. For instance, after killing, it was his spectacles he
wiped instead of his weapon.
“Johnny's a silent fellow,” he reminded Hook.
“Not now, Smee,” Hook said darkly. “He is only one, and I want to mischief
all the seven. Scatter and look for them.”
The pirates disappeared among the trees, and in a moment their Captain and
Smee were alone. Hook heaved a heavy sigh, and I know not why it was,
perhaps it was because of the soft beauty of the evening, but there came over
him a desire to confide to his faithful bo'sun the story of his life. He spoke long
and earnestly, but what it was all about Smee, who was rather stupid, did not
know in the least.
Anon [later] he caught the word Peter.
“Most of all,” Hook was saying passionately, “I want their captain, Peter Pan.
'Twas he cut off my arm.” He brandished the hook threateningly. “I've waited
long to shake his hand with this. Oh, I'll tear him!”
“And yet,” said Smee, “I have often heard you say that hook was worth a
score of hands, for combing the hair and other homely uses.”
“Ay,” the captain answered, “if I was a mother I would pray to have my
children born with this instead of that,” and he cast a look of pride upon his iron
hand and one of scorn upon the other. Then again he frowned.
“Peter flung my arm,” he said, wincing, “to a crocodile that happened to be
passing by.”
“I have often,” said Smee, “noticed your strange dread of crocodiles.”
“Not of crocodiles,” Hook corrected him, “but of that one crocodile.” He
lowered his voice. “It liked my arm so much, Smee, that it has followed me ever
since, from sea to sea and from land to land, licking its lips for the rest of me.”
“In a way,” said Smee, “it's sort of a compliment.”
“I want no such compliments,” Hook barked petulantly. “I want Peter Pan,
who first gave the brute its taste for me.”
He sat down on a large mushroom, and now there was a quiver in his voice.
“Smee,” he said huskily, “that crocodile would have had me before this, but by a
lucky chance it swallowed a clock which goes tick tick inside it, and so before it
can reach me I hear the tick and bolt.” He laughed, but in a hollow way.
“Some day,” said Smee, “the clock will run down, and then he'll get you.”
Hook wetted his dry lips. “Ay,” he said, “that's the fear that haunts me.”
Since sitting down he had felt curiously warm. “Smee,” he said, “this seat is
hot.” He jumped up. “Odds bobs, hammer and tongs I'm burning.”
They examined the mushroom, which was of a size and solidity unknown on
the mainland; they tried to pull it up, and it came away at once in their hands, for
it had no root. Stranger still, smoke began at once to ascend. The pirates looked
at each other. “A chimney!” they both exclaimed.
They had indeed discovered the chimney of the home under the ground. It was
the custom of the boys to stop it with a mushroom when enemies were in the
neighbourhood.
Not only smoke came out of it. There came also children's voices, for so safe
did the boys feel in their hiding-place that they were gaily chattering. The pirates
listened grimly, and then replaced the mushroom. They looked around them and
noted the holes in the seven trees.
“Did you hear them say Peter Pan's from home?” Smee whispered, fidgeting
with Johnny Corkscrew.
Hook nodded. He stood for a long time lost in thought, and at last a curdling
smile lit up his swarthy face. Smee had been waiting for it. “Unrip your plan,
captain,” he cried eagerly.
“To return to the ship,” Hook replied slowly through his teeth, “and cook a
large rich cake of a jolly thickness with green sugar on it. There can be but one
room below, for there is but one chimney. The silly moles had not the sense to
see that they did not need a door apiece. That shows they have no mother. We
will leave the cake on the shore of the Mermaids' Lagoon. These boys are always
swimming about there, playing with the mermaids. They will find the cake and
they will gobble it up, because, having no mother, they don't know how
dangerous 'tis to eat rich damp cake.” He burst into laughter, not hollow laughter
now, but honest laughter. “Aha, they will die.”
Smee had listened with growing admiration.
“It's the wickedest, prettiest policy ever I heard of!” he cried, and in their
exultation they danced and sang:
“Avast, belay, when I appear,
By fear they're overtook;
Nought's left upon your bones when you
Have shaken claws with Hook.”

They began the verse, but they never finished it, for another sound broke in
and stilled them. There was at first such a tiny sound that a leaf might have
fallen on it and smothered it, but as it came nearer it was more distinct.
Tick tick tick tick!
Hook stood shuddering, one foot in the air.
“The crocodile!” he gasped, and bounded away, followed by his bo'sun.
It was indeed the crocodile. It had passed the redskins, who were now on the
trail of the other pirates. It oozed on after Hook.
Once more the boys emerged into the open; but the dangers of the night were
not yet over, for presently Nibs rushed breathless into their midst, pursued by a
pack of wolves. The tongues of the pursuers were hanging out; the baying of
them was horrible.
“Save me, save me!” cried Nibs, falling on the ground.
 “But what can we do, what can we do?”
It was a high compliment to Peter that at that dire moment their thoughts
turned to him.
“What would Peter do?” they cried simultaneously.
Almost in the same breath they cried, “Peter would look at them through his
legs.”
And then, “Let us do what Peter would do.”
It is quite the most successful way of defying wolves, and as one boy they
bent and looked through their legs. The next moment is the long one, but victory
came quickly, for as the boys advanced upon them in the terrible attitude, the
wolves dropped their tails and fled.
Now Nibs rose from the ground, and the others thought that his staring eyes
still saw the wolves. But it was not wolves he saw.
“I have seen a wonderfuller thing,” he cried, as they gathered round him
eagerly. “A great white bird. It is flying this way.”
“What kind of a bird, do you think?”
“I don't know,” Nibs said, awestruck, “but it looks so weary, and as it flies it
moans, 'Poor Wendy.'”
“Poor Wendy?”
“I remember,” said Slightly instantly, “there are birds called Wendies.”
“See, it comes!” cried Curly, pointing to Wendy in the heavens.
Wendy was now almost overhead, and they could hear her plaintive cry. But
more distinct came the shrill voice of Tinker Bell. The jealous fairy had now cast
off all disguise of friendship, and was darting at her victim from every direction,
pinching savagely each time she touched.
“Hullo, Tink,” cried the wondering boys.
Tink's reply rang out: “Peter wants you to shoot the Wendy.”
It was not in their nature to question when Peter ordered. “Let us do what
Peter wishes!” cried the simple boys. “Quick, bows and arrows!”
All but Tootles popped down their trees. He had a bow and arrow with him,
and Tink noted it, and rubbed her little hands.
“Quick, Tootles, quick,” she screamed. “Peter will be so pleased.”
Tootles excitedly fitted the arrow to his bow. “Out of the way, Tink,” he
shouted, and then he fired, and Wendy fluttered to the ground with an arrow in
her breast.
 Chapter 6 THE LITTLE HOUSE
Foolish Tootles was standing like a conqueror over Wendy's body when the
other boys sprang, armed, from their trees.
“You are too late,” he cried proudly, “I have shot the Wendy. Peter will be so
pleased with me.”
Overhead Tinker Bell shouted “Silly ass!” and darted into hiding. The others
did not hear her. They had crowded round Wendy, and as they looked a terrible
silence fell upon the wood. If Wendy's heart had been beating they would all
have heard it.
Slightly was the first to speak. “This is no bird,” he said in a scared voice. “I
think this must be a lady.”
“A lady?” said Tootles, and fell a-trembling.
“And we have killed her,” Nibs said hoarsely.
They all whipped off their caps.
“Now I see,” Curly said: “Peter was bringing her to us.” He threw himself
sorrowfully on the ground.
“A lady to take care of us at last,” said one of the twins, “and you have killed
her!”
They were sorry for him, but sorrier for themselves, and when he took a step
nearer them they turned from him.
Tootles' face was very white, but there was a dignity about him now that had
never been there before.
“I did it,” he said, reflecting. “When ladies used to come to me in dreams, I
said, 'Pretty mother, pretty mother.' But when at last she really came, I shot her.”
He moved slowly away.
“Don't go,” they called in pity.
“I must,” he answered, shaking; “I am so afraid of Peter.”
It was at this tragic moment that they heard a sound which made the heart of
every one of them rise to his mouth. They heard Peter crow.
“Peter!” they cried, for it was always thus that he signalled his return.
“Hide her,” they whispered, and gathered hastily around Wendy. But Tootles
stood aloof.
Again came that ringing crow, and Peter dropped in front of them. “Greetings,
boys,” he cried, and mechanically they saluted, and then again was silence.
He frowned.
“I am back,” he said hotly, “why do you not cheer?”
They opened their mouths, but the cheers would not come. He overlooked it in
his haste to tell the glorious tidings.
“Great news, boys,” he cried, “I have brought at last a mother for you all.”
Still no sound, except a little thud from Tootles as he dropped on his knees.
“Have you not seen her?” asked Peter, becoming troubled. “She flew this
way.”
“Ah me!” one voice said, and another said, “Oh, mournful day.”
Tootles rose. “Peter,” he said quietly, “I will show her to you,” and when the
others would still have hidden her he said, “Back, twins, let Peter see.”
So they all stood back, and let him see, and after he had looked for a little time
he did not know what to do next.
“She is dead,” he said uncomfortably. “Perhaps she is frightened at being
dead.”
He thought of hopping off in a comic sort of way till he was out of sight of
her, and then never going near the spot any more. They would all have been glad
to follow if he had done this.
But there was the arrow. He took it from her heart and faced his band.
“Whose arrow?” he demanded sternly.
“Mine, Peter,” said Tootles on his knees.
“Oh, dastard hand,” Peter said, and he raised the arrow to use it as a dagger.
Tootles did not flinch. He bared his breast. “Strike, Peter,” he said firmly,
“strike true.”
Twice did Peter raise the arrow, and twice did his hand fall. “I cannot strike,”
he said with awe, “there is something stays my hand.”
All looked at him in wonder, save Nibs, who fortunately looked at Wendy.
“It is she,” he cried, “the Wendy lady, see, her arm!”
Wonderful to relate [tell], Wendy had raised her arm. Nibs bent over her and
listened reverently. “I think she said, 'Poor Tootles,'” he whispered.
“She lives,” Peter said briefly.
 Slightly cried instantly, “The Wendy lady lives.”
Then Peter knelt beside her and found his button. You remember she had put it
on a chain that she wore round her neck.
“See,” he said, “the arrow struck against this. It is the kiss I gave her. It has
saved her life.”
“I remember kisses,” Slightly interposed quickly, “let me see it. Ay, that's a
kiss.”
Peter did not hear him. He was begging Wendy to get better quickly, so that he
could show her the mermaids. Of course she could not answer yet, being still in
a frightful faint; but from overhead came a wailing note.
“Listen to Tink,” said Curly, “she is crying because the Wendy lives.”
Then they had to tell Peter of Tink's crime, and almost never had they seen
him look so stern.
“Listen, Tinker Bell,” he cried, “I am your friend no more. Begone from me
for ever.”
She flew on to his shoulder and pleaded, but he brushed her off. Not until
Wendy again raised her arm did he relent sufficiently to say, “Well, not for ever,
but for a whole week.”
Do you think Tinker Bell was grateful to Wendy for raising her arm? Oh dear
no, never wanted to pinch her so much. Fairies indeed are strange, and Peter,
who understood them best, often cuffed [slapped] them.
But what to do with Wendy in her present delicate state of health?
“Let us carry her down into the house,” Curly suggested.
“Ay,” said Slightly, “that is what one does with ladies.”
“No, no,” Peter said, “you must not touch her. It would not be sufficiently
respectful.”
“That,” said Slightly, “is what I was thinking.”
“But if she lies there,” Tootles said, “she will die.”
“Ay, she will die,” Slightly admitted, “but there is no way out.”
“Yes, there is,” cried Peter. “Let us build a little house round her.”
They were all delighted. “Quick,” he ordered them, “bring me each of you the
best of what we have. Gut our house. Be sharp.”
In a moment they were as busy as tailors the night before a wedding. They
skurried this way and that, down for bedding, up for firewood, and while they
were at it, who should appear but John and Michael. As they dragged along the
ground they fell asleep standing, stopped, woke up, moved another step and slept
again.
“John, John,” Michael would cry, “wake up! Where is Nana, John, and
mother?”
And then John would rub his eyes and mutter, “It is true, we did fly.”
You may be sure they were very relieved to find Peter.
“Hullo, Peter,” they said.
“Hullo,” replied Peter amicably, though he had quite forgotten them. He was
very busy at the moment measuring Wendy with his feet to see how large a
house she would need. Of course he meant to leave room for chairs and a table.
John and Michael watched him.
“Is Wendy asleep?” they asked.
“Yes.”
“John,” Michael proposed, “let us wake her and get her to make supper for
us,” but as he said it some of the other boys rushed on carrying branches for the
building of the house. “Look at them!” he cried.
“Curly,” said Peter in his most captainy voice, “see that these boys help in the
building of the house.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Build a house?” exclaimed John.
“For the Wendy,” said Curly.
“For Wendy?” John said, aghast. “Why, she is only a girl!”
“That,” explained Curly, “is why we are her servants.”
“You? Wendy's servants!”
“Yes,” said Peter, “and you also. Away with them.”
The astounded brothers were dragged away to hack and hew and carry.
“Chairs and a fender [fireplace] first,” Peter ordered. “Then we shall build a
house round them.”
“Ay,” said Slightly, “that is how a house is built; it all comes back to me.”
Peter thought of everything. “Slightly,” he cried, “fetch a doctor.”
“Ay, ay,” said Slightly at once, and disappeared, scratching his head. But he
knew Peter must be obeyed, and he returned in a moment, wearing John's hat
and looking solemn.
“Please, sir,” said Peter, going to him, “are you a doctor?”
 The difference between him and the other boys at such a time was that they
knew it was make-believe, while to him make-believe and true were exactly the
same thing. This sometimes troubled them, as when they had to make-believe
that they had had their dinners.
If they broke down in their make-believe he rapped them on the knuckles.
“Yes, my little man,” Slightly anxiously replied, who had chapped knuckles.
“Please, sir,” Peter explained, “a lady lies very ill.”
She was lying at their feet, but Slightly had the sense not to see her.
“Tut, tut, tut,” he said, “where does she lie?”
“In yonder glade.”
“I will put a glass thing in her mouth,” said Slightly, and he made-believe to
do it, while Peter waited. It was an anxious moment when the glass thing was
withdrawn.
“How is she?” inquired Peter.
“Tut, tut, tut,” said Slightly, “this has cured her.”
“I am glad!” Peter cried.
“I will call again in the evening,” Slightly said; “give her beef tea out of a cup
with a spout to it;” but after he had returned the hat to John he blew big breaths,
which was his habit on escaping from a difficulty.
In the meantime the wood had been alive with the sound of axes; almost
everything needed for a cosy dwelling already lay at Wendy's feet.
“If only we knew,” said one, “the kind of house she likes best.”
“Peter,” shouted another, “she is moving in her sleep.”
“Her mouth opens,” cried a third, looking respectfully into it. “Oh, lovely!”
“Perhaps she is going to sing in her sleep,” said Peter. “Wendy, sing the kind
of house you would like to have.”
Immediately, without opening her eyes, Wendy began to sing:
 “I wish I had a pretty house,
The littlest ever seen,
With funny little red walls
And roof of mossy green.”

They gurgled with joy at this, for by the greatest good luck the branches they
had brought were sticky with red sap, and all the ground was carpeted with
moss. As they rattled up the little house they broke into song themselves:
“We've built the little walls and roof
And made a lovely door,
So tell us, mother Wendy,
What are you wanting more?”

To this she answered greedily:

“Oh, really next I think I'll have
Gay windows all about,
With roses peeping in, you know,
And babies peeping out.”

With a blow of their fists they made windows, and large yellow leaves were
the blinds. But roses—?
“Roses,” cried Peter sternly.
Quickly they made-believe to grow the loveliest roses up the walls.
Babies?
To prevent Peter ordering babies they hurried into song again:
“We've made the roses peeping out,
The babes are at the door,
We cannot make ourselves, you know,
'cos we've been made before.”

Peter, seeing this to be a good idea, at once pretended that it was his own. The
house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very cosy within, though, of
course, they could no longer see her. Peter strode up and down, ordering
finishing touches. Nothing escaped his eagle eyes. Just when it seemed
absolutely finished:
“There's no knocker on the door,” he said.
They were very ashamed, but Tootles gave the sole of his shoe, and it made an
excellent knocker.
Absolutely finished now, they thought.
Not of bit of it. “There's no chimney,” Peter said; “we must have a chimney.”
“It certainly does need a chimney,” said John importantly. This gave Peter an
idea. He snatched the hat off John's head, knocked out the bottom [top], and put
the hat on the roof. The little house was so pleased to have such a capital
chimney that, as if to say thank you, smoke immediately began to come out of
the hat.
 Now really and truly it was finished. Nothing remained to do but to knock.
“All look your best,” Peter warned them; “first impressions are awfully
important.”
He was glad no one asked him what first impressions are; they were all too
busy looking their best.
He knocked politely, and now the wood was as still as the children, not a
sound to be heard except from Tinker Bell, who was watching from a branch and
openly sneering.
What the boys were wondering was, would any one answer the knock? If a
lady, what would she be like?
The door opened and a lady came out. It was Wendy. They all whipped off
their hats.
She looked properly surprised, and this was just how they had hoped she
would look.
“Where am I?” she said.
Of course Slightly was the first to get his word in. “Wendy lady,” he said
rapidly, “for you we built this house.”
“Oh, say you're pleased,” cried Nibs.
“Lovely, darling house,” Wendy said, and they were the very words they had
hoped she would say.
“And we are your children,” cried the twins.
Then all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried, “O Wendy
lady, be our mother.”
“Ought I?” Wendy said, all shining. “Of course it's frightfully fascinating, but
you see I am only a little girl. I have no real experience.”
“That doesn't matter,” said Peter, as if he were the only person present who
knew all about it, though he was really the one who knew least. “What we need
is just a nice motherly person.”
“Oh dear!” Wendy said, “you see, I feel that is exactly what I am.”
“It is, it is,” they all cried; “we saw it at once.”
“Very well,” she said, “I will do my best. Come inside at once, you naughty
children; I am sure your feet are damp. And before I put you to bed I have just
time to finish the story of Cinderella.”
In they went; I don't know how there was room for them, but you can squeeze
very tight in the Neverland. And that was the first of the many joyous evenings
they had with Wendy. By and by she tucked them up in the great bed in the home
under the trees, but she herself slept that night in the little house, and Peter kept
watch outside with drawn sword, for the pirates could be heard carousing far
away and the wolves were on the prowl. The little house looked so cosy and safe
in the darkness, with a bright light showing through its blinds, and the chimney
smoking beautifully, and Peter standing on guard. After a time he fell asleep, and
some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on their way home from an orgy.
Any of the other boys obstructing the fairy path at night they would have
mischiefed, but they just tweaked Peter's nose and passed on.
 Chapter 7 THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND
One of the first things Peter did next day was to measure Wendy and John and
Michael for hollow trees. Hook, you remember, had sneered at the boys for
thinking they needed a tree apiece, but this was ignorance, for unless your tree
fitted you it was difficult to go up and down, and no two of the boys were quite
the same size. Once you fitted, you drew in [let out] your breath at the top, and
down you went at exactly the right speed, while to ascend you drew in and let
out alternately, and so wriggled up. Of course, when you have mastered the
action you are able to do these things without thinking of them, and nothing can
be more graceful.
But you simply must fit, and Peter measures you for your tree as carefully as
for a suit of clothes: the only difference being that the clothes are made to fit
you, while you have to be made to fit the tree. Usually it is done quite easily, as
by your wearing too many garments or too few, but if you are bumpy in
awkward places or the only available tree is an odd shape, Peter does some
things to you, and after that you fit. Once you fit, great care must be taken to go
on fitting, and this, as Wendy was to discover to her delight, keeps a whole
family in perfect condition.
Wendy and Michael fitted their trees at the first try, but John had to be altered
a little.
After a few days' practice they could go up and down as gaily as buckets in a
well. And how ardently they grew to love their home under the ground;
especially Wendy. It consisted of one large room, as all houses should do, with a
floor in which you could dig [for worms] if you wanted to go fishing, and in this
floor grew stout mushrooms of a charming colour, which were used as stools. A
Never tree tried hard to grow in the centre of the room, but every morning they
sawed the trunk through, level with the floor. By tea-time it was always about
two feet high, and then they put a door on top of it, the whole thus becoming a
table; as soon as they cleared away, they sawed off the trunk again, and thus
there was more room to play. There was an enormous fireplace which was in
almost any part of the room where you cared to light it, and across this Wendy
stretched strings, made of fibre, from which she suspended her washing. The bed
was tilted against the wall by day, and let down at 6:30, when it filled nearly half
the room; and all the boys slept in it, except Michael, lying like sardines in a tin.
There was a strict rule against turning round until one gave the signal, when all
turned at once. Michael should have used it also, but Wendy would have
[desired] a baby, and he was the littlest, and you know what women are, and the
short and long of it is that he was hung up in a basket.
It was rough and simple, and not unlike what baby bears would have made of
an underground house in the same circumstances. But there was one recess in the
wall, no larger than a bird-cage, which was the private apartment of Tinker Bell.
It could be shut off from the rest of the house by a tiny curtain, which Tink, who
was most fastidious [particular], always kept drawn when dressing or
undressing. No woman, however large, could have had a more exquisite boudoir
[dressing room] and bed-chamber combined. The couch, as she always called it,
was a genuine Queen Mab, with club legs; and she varied the bedspreads
according to what fruit-blossom was in season. Her mirror was a Puss-in-Boots,
of which there are now only three, unchipped, known to fairy dealers; the
washstand was Pie-crust and reversible, the chest of drawers an authentic
Charming the Sixth, and the carpet and rugs the best (the early) period of
Margery and Robin. There was a chandelier from Tiddlywinks for the look of the
thing, but of course she lit the residence herself. Tink was very contemptuous of
the rest of the house, as indeed was perhaps inevitable, and her chamber, though
beautiful, looked rather conceited, having the appearance of a nose permanently
turned up.
I suppose it was all especially entrancing to Wendy, because those rampagious
boys of hers gave her so much to do. Really there were whole weeks when,
except perhaps with a stocking in the evening, she was never above ground. The
cooking, I can tell you, kept her nose to the pot, and even if there was nothing in
it, even if there was no pot, she had to keep watching that it came aboil just the
same. You never exactly knew whether there would be a real meal or just a
make-believe, it all depended upon Peter's whim: he could eat, really eat, if it
was part of a game, but he could not stodge [cram down the food] just to feel
stodgy [stuffed with food], which is what most children like better than anything
else; the next best thing being to talk about it. Make-believe was so real to him
that during a meal of it you could see him getting rounder. Of course it was
trying, but you simply had to follow his lead, and if you could prove to him that
you were getting loose for your tree he let you stodge.
Wendy's favourite time for sewing and darning was after they had all gone to
bed. Then, as she expressed it, she had a breathing time for herself; and she
occupied it in making new things for them, and putting double pieces on the
knees, for they were all most frightfully hard on their knees.
 When she sat down to a basketful of their stockings, every heel with a hole in
it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim, “Oh dear, I am sure I sometimes
think spinsters are to be envied!”
Her face beamed when she exclaimed this.
You remember about her pet wolf. Well, it very soon discovered that she had
come to the island and it found her out, and they just ran into each other's arms.
After that it followed her about everywhere.
As time wore on did she think much about the beloved parents she had left
behind her? This is a difficult question, because it is quite impossible to say how
time does wear on in the Neverland, where it is calculated by moons and suns,
and there are ever so many more of them than on the mainland. But I am afraid
that Wendy did not really worry about her father and mother; she was absolutely
confident that they would always keep the window open for her to fly back by,
and this gave her complete ease of mind. What did disturb her at times was that
John remembered his parents vaguely only, as people he had once known, while
Michael was quite willing to believe that she was really his mother. These things
scared her a little, and nobly anxious to do her duty, she tried to fix the old life in
their minds by setting them examination papers on it, as like as possible to the
ones she used to do at school. The other boys thought this awfully interesting,
and insisted on joining, and they made slates for themselves, and sat round the
table, writing and thinking hard about the questions she had written on another
slate and passed round. They were the most ordinary questions—“What was the
colour of Mother's eyes? Which was taller, Father or Mother? Was Mother
blonde or brunette? Answer all three questions if possible.” “(A) Write an essay
of not less than 40 words on How I spent my last Holidays, or The Characters of
Father and Mother compared. Only one of these to be attempted.” Or “(1)
Describe Mother's laugh; (2) Describe Father's laugh; (3) Describe Mother's
Party Dress; (4) Describe the Kennel and its Inmate.”
They were just everyday questions like these, and when you could not answer
them you were told to make a cross; and it was really dreadful what a number of
crosses even John made. Of course the only boy who replied to every question
was Slightly, and no one could have been more hopeful of coming out first, but
his answers were perfectly ridiculous, and he really came out last: a melancholy
thing.
Peter did not compete. For one thing he despised all mothers except Wendy,
and for another he was the only boy on the island who could neither write nor
spell; not the smallest word. He was above all that sort of thing.
 By the way, the questions were all written in the past tense. What was the
colour of Mother's eyes, and so on. Wendy, you see, had been forgetting, too.
Adventures, of course, as we shall see, were of daily occurrence; but about
this time Peter invented, with Wendy's help, a new game that fascinated him
enormously, until he suddenly had no more interest in it, which, as you have
been told, was what always happened with his games. It consisted in pretending
not to have adventures, in doing the sort of thing John and Michael had been
doing all their lives, sitting on stools flinging balls in the air, pushing each other,
going out for walks and coming back without having killed so much as a grizzly.
To see Peter doing nothing on a stool was a great sight; he could not help
looking solemn at such times, to sit still seemed to him such a comic thing to do.
He boasted that he had gone walking for the good of his health. For several suns
these were the most novel of all adventures to him; and John and Michael had to
pretend to be delighted also; otherwise he would have treated them severely.
He often went out alone, and when he came back you were never absolutely
certain whether he had had an adventure or not. He might have forgotten it so
completely that he said nothing about it; and then when you went out you found
the body; and, on the other hand, he might say a great deal about it, and yet you
could not find the body. Sometimes he came home with his head bandaged, and
then Wendy cooed over him and bathed it in lukewarm water, while he told a
dazzling tale. But she was never quite sure, you know. There were, however,
many adventures which she knew to be true because she was in them herself,
and there were still more that were at least partly true, for the other boys were in
them and said they were wholly true. To describe them all would require a book
as large as an English-Latin, Latin-English Dictionary, and the most we can do is
to give one as a specimen of an average hour on the island. The difficulty is
which one to choose. Should we take the brush with the redskins at Slightly
Gulch? It was a sanguinary affair, and especially interesting as showing one of
Peter's peculiarities, which was that in the middle of a fight he would suddenly
change sides. At the Gulch, when victory was still in the balance, sometimes
leaning this way and sometimes that, he called out, “I'm redskin to-day; what are
you, Tootles?” And Tootles answered, “Redskin; what are you, Nibs?” and Nibs
said, “Redskin; what are you Twin?” and so on; and they were all redskins; and
of course this would have ended the fight had not the real redskins fascinated by
Peter's methods, agreed to be lost boys for that once, and so at it they all went
again, more fiercely than ever.
The extraordinary upshot of this adventure was—but we have not decided yet
that this is the adventure we are to narrate. Perhaps a better one would be the
night attack by the redskins on the house under the ground, when several of them
stuck in the hollow trees and had to be pulled out like corks. Or we might tell
how Peter saved Tiger Lily's life in the Mermaids' Lagoon, and so made her his
ally.
Or we could tell of that cake the pirates cooked so that the boys might eat it
and perish; and how they placed it in one cunning spot after another; but always
Wendy snatched it from the hands of her children, so that in time it lost its
succulence, and became as hard as a stone, and was used as a missile, and Hook
fell over it in the dark.
Or suppose we tell of the birds that were Peter's friends, particularly of the
Never bird that built in a tree overhanging the lagoon, and how the nest fell into
the water, and still the bird sat on her eggs, and Peter gave orders that she was
not to be disturbed. That is a pretty story, and the end shows how grateful a bird
can be; but if we tell it we must also tell the whole adventure of the lagoon,
which would of course be telling two adventures rather than just one. A shorter
adventure, and quite as exciting, was Tinker Bell's attempt, with the help of
some street fairies, to have the sleeping Wendy conveyed on a great floating leaf
to the mainland. Fortunately the leaf gave way and Wendy woke, thinking it was
bath-time, and swam back. Or again, we might choose Peter's defiance of the
lions, when he drew a circle round him on the ground with an arrow and dared
them to cross it; and though he waited for hours, with the other boys and Wendy
looking on breathlessly from trees, not one of them dared to accept his
challenge.
Which of these adventures shall we choose? The best way will be to toss for
it.
I have tossed, and the lagoon has won. This almost makes one wish that the
gulch or the cake or Tink's leaf had won. Of course I could do it again, and make
it best out of three; however, perhaps fairest to stick to the lagoon.
 Chapter 8 THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON
If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless
pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then if you squeeze your
eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colours become so vivid that
with another squeeze they must go on fire. But just before they go on fire you
see the lagoon. This is the nearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just one
heavenly moment; if there could be two moments you might see the surf and
hear the mermaids singing.
The children often spent long summer days on this lagoon, swimming or
floating most of the time, playing the mermaid games in the water, and so forth.
You must not think from this that the mermaids were on friendly terms with
them: on the contrary, it was among Wendy's lasting regrets that all the time she
was on the island she never had a civil word from one of them. When she stole
softly to the edge of the lagoon she might see them by the score, especially on
Marooners' Rock, where they loved to bask, combing out their hair in a lazy way
that quite irritated her; or she might even swim, on tiptoe as it were, to within a
yard of them, but then they saw her and dived, probably splashing her with their
tails, not by accident, but intentionally.
They treated all the boys in the same way, except of course Peter, who chatted
with them on Marooners' Rock by the hour, and sat on their tails when they got
cheeky. He gave Wendy one of their combs.
The most haunting time at which to see them is at the turn of the moon, when
they utter strange wailing cries; but the lagoon is dangerous for mortals then, and
until the evening of which we have now to tell, Wendy had never seen the
lagoon by moonlight, less from fear, for of course Peter would have
accompanied her, than because she had strict rules about every one being in bed
by seven. She was often at the lagoon, however, on sunny days after rain, when
the mermaids come up in extraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles. The
bubbles of many colours made in rainbow water they treat as balls, hitting them
gaily from one to another with their tails, and trying to keep them in the rainbow
till they burst. The goals are at each end of the rainbow, and the keepers only are
allowed to use their hands. Sometimes a dozen of these games will be going on
in the lagoon at a time, and it is quite a pretty sight.
But the moment the children tried to join in they had to play by themselves,
for the mermaids immediately disappeared. Nevertheless we have proof that they
secretly watched the interlopers, and were not above taking an idea from them;
for John introduced a new way of hitting the bubble, with the head instead of the
hand, and the mermaids adopted it. This is the one mark that John has left on the
Neverland.
It must also have been rather pretty to see the children resting on a rock for
half an hour after their mid-day meal. Wendy insisted on their doing this, and it
had to be a real rest even though the meal was make-believe. So they lay there in
the sun, and their bodies glistened in it, while she sat beside them and looked
important.
It was one such day, and they were all on Marooners' Rock. The rock was not
much larger than their great bed, but of course they all knew how not to take up
much room, and they were dozing, or at least lying with their eyes shut, and
pinching occasionally when they thought Wendy was not looking. She was very
busy, stitching.
While she stitched a change came to the lagoon. Little shivers ran over it, and
the sun went away and shadows stole across the water, turning it cold. Wendy
could no longer see to thread her needle, and when she looked up, the lagoon
that had always hitherto been such a laughing place seemed formidable and
unfriendly.
It was not, she knew, that night had come, but something as dark as night had
come. No, worse than that. It had not come, but it had sent that shiver through
the sea to say that it was coming. What was it?
There crowded upon her all the stories she had been told of Marooners' Rock,
so called because evil captains put sailors on it and leave them there to drown.
They drown when the tide rises, for then it is submerged.
Of course she should have roused the children at once; not merely because of
the unknown that was stalking toward them, but because it was no longer good
for them to sleep on a rock grown chilly. But she was a young mother and she
did not know this; she thought you simply must stick to your rule about half an
hour after the mid-day meal. So, though fear was upon her, and she longed to
hear male voices, she would not waken them. Even when she heard the sound of
muffled oars, though her heart was in her mouth, she did not waken them. She
stood over them to let them have their sleep out. Was it not brave of Wendy?
It was well for those boys then that there was one among them who could sniff
danger even in his sleep. Peter sprang erect, as wide awake at once as a dog, and
with one warning cry he roused the others.
 He stood motionless, one hand to his ear.
“Pirates!” he cried. The others came closer to him. A strange smile was
playing about his face, and Wendy saw it and shuddered. While that smile was
on his face no one dared address him; all they could do was to stand ready to
obey. The order came sharp and incisive.
“Dive!”
There was a gleam of legs, and instantly the lagoon seemed deserted.
Marooners' Rock stood alone in the forbidding waters as if it were itself
marooned.
The boat drew nearer. It was the pirate dinghy, with three figures in her, Smee
and Starkey, and the third a captive, no other than Tiger Lily. Her hands and
ankles were tied, and she knew what was to be her fate. She was to be left on the
rock to perish, an end to one of her race more terrible than death by fire or
torture, for is it not written in the book of the tribe that there is no path through
water to the happy hunting-ground? Yet her face was impassive; she was the
daughter of a chief, she must die as a chief's daughter, it is enough.
They had caught her boarding the pirate ship with a knife in her mouth. No
watch was kept on the ship, it being Hook's boast that the wind of his name
guarded the ship for a mile around. Now her fate would help to guard it also.
One more wail would go the round in that wind by night.
In the gloom that they brought with them the two pirates did not see the rock
till they crashed into it.
“Luff, you lubber,” cried an Irish voice that was Smee's; “here's the rock.
Now, then, what we have to do is to hoist the redskin on to it and leave her here
to drown.”
It was the work of one brutal moment to land the beautiful girl on the rock;
she was too proud to offer a vain resistance.
Quite near the rock, but out of sight, two heads were bobbing up and down,
Peter's and Wendy's. Wendy was crying, for it was the first tragedy she had seen.
Peter had seen many tragedies, but he had forgotten them all. He was less sorry
than Wendy for Tiger Lily: it was two against one that angered him, and he
meant to save her. An easy way would have been to wait until the pirates had
gone, but he was never one to choose the easy way.
There was almost nothing he could not do, and he now imitated the voice of
Hook.
“Ahoy there, you lubbers!” he called. It was a marvellous imitation.
 “The captain!” said the pirates, staring at each other in surprise.
“He must be swimming out to us,” Starkey said, when they had looked for
him in vain.
“We are putting the redskin on the rock,” Smee called out.
“Set her free,” came the astonishing answer.
“Free!”
“Yes, cut her bonds and let her go.”
“But, captain—”
“At once, d'ye hear,” cried Peter, “or I'll plunge my hook in you.”
“This is queer!” Smee gasped.
“Better do what the captain orders,” said Starkey nervously.
“Ay, ay,” Smee said, and he cut Tiger Lily's cords. At once like an eel she slid
between Starkey's legs into the water.
Of course Wendy was very elated over Peter's cleverness; but she knew that he
would be elated also and very likely crow and thus betray himself, so at once her
hand went out to cover his mouth. But it was stayed even in the act, for “Boat
ahoy!” rang over the lagoon in Hook's voice, and this time it was not Peter who
had spoken.
Peter may have been about to crow, but his face puckered in a whistle of
surprise instead.
“Boat ahoy!” again came the voice.
Now Wendy understood. The real Hook was also in the water.
He was swimming to the boat, and as his men showed a light to guide him he
had soon reached them. In the light of the lantern Wendy saw his hook grip the
boat's side; she saw his evil swarthy face as he rose dripping from the water, and,
quaking, she would have liked to swim away, but Peter would not budge. He was
tingling with life and also top-heavy with conceit. “Am I not a wonder, oh, I am
a wonder!” he whispered to her, and though she thought so also, she was really
glad for the sake of his reputation that no one heard him except herself.
He signed to her to listen.
The two pirates were very curious to know what had brought their captain to
them, but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of profound melancholy.
“Captain, is all well?” they asked timidly, but he answered with a hollow
moan.
“He sighs,” said Smee.
 “He sighs again,” said Starkey.
“And yet a third time he sighs,” said Smee.
Then at last he spoke passionately.
“The game's up,” he cried, “those boys have found a mother.”
Affrighted though she was, Wendy swelled with pride.
“O evil day!” cried Starkey.
“What's a mother?” asked the ignorant Smee.
Wendy was so shocked that she exclaimed. “He doesn't know!” and always
after this she felt that if you could have a pet pirate Smee would be her one.
Peter pulled her beneath the water, for Hook had started up, crying, “What
was that?”
“I heard nothing,” said Starkey, raising the lantern over the waters, and as the
pirates looked they saw a strange sight. It was the nest I have told you of,
floating on the lagoon, and the Never bird was sitting on it.
“See,” said Hook in answer to Smee's question, “that is a mother. What a
lesson! The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the mother desert her
eggs? No.”
There was a break in his voice, as if for a moment he recalled innocent days
when—but he brushed away this weakness with his hook.
Smee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was borne past, but the
more suspicious Starkey said, “If she is a mother, perhaps she is hanging about
here to help Peter.”
Hook winced. “Ay,” he said, “that is the fear that haunts me.”
He was roused from this dejection by Smee's eager voice.
“Captain,” said Smee, “could we not kidnap these boys' mother and make her
our mother?”
“It is a princely scheme,” cried Hook, and at once it took practical shape in his
great brain. “We will seize the children and carry them to the boat: the boys we
will make walk the plank, and Wendy shall be our mother.”
Again Wendy forgot herself.
“Never!” she cried, and bobbed.
“What was that?”
But they could see nothing. They thought it must have been a leaf in the wind.
“Do you agree, my bullies?” asked Hook.
 “There is my hand on it,” they both said.
“And there is my hook. Swear.”
They all swore. By this time they were on the rock, and suddenly Hook
remembered Tiger Lily.
“Where is the redskin?” he demanded abruptly.
He had a playful humour at moments, and they thought this was one of the
moments.
“That is all right, captain,” Smee answered complacently; “we let her go.”
“Let her go!” cried Hook.
“'Twas your own orders,” the bo'sun faltered.
“You called over the water to us to let her go,” said Starkey.
“Brimstone and gall,” thundered Hook, “what cozening [cheating] is going on
here!” His face had gone black with rage, but he saw that they believed their
words, and he was startled. “Lads,” he said, shaking a little, “I gave no such
order.”
“It is passing queer,” Smee said, and they all fidgeted uncomfortably. Hook
raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it.
“Spirit that haunts this dark lagoon to-night,” he cried, “dost hear me?”
Of course Peter should have kept quiet, but of course he did not. He
immediately answered in Hook's voice:
“Odds, bobs, hammer and tongs, I hear you.”
In that supreme moment Hook did not blanch, even at the gills, but Smee and
Starkey clung to each other in terror.
“Who are you, stranger? Speak!” Hook demanded.
“I am James Hook,” replied the voice, “captain of the JOLLY ROGER.”
“You are not; you are not,” Hook cried hoarsely.
“Brimstone and gall,” the voice retorted, “say that again, and I'll cast anchor in
you.”
Hook tried a more ingratiating manner. “If you are Hook,” he said almost
humbly, “come tell me, who am I?”
“A codfish,” replied the voice, “only a codfish.”
“A codfish!” Hook echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till then, that his
proud spirit broke. He saw his men draw back from him.
“Have we been captained all this time by a codfish!” they muttered. “It is
lowering to our pride.”
They were his dogs snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had become,
he scarcely heeded them. Against such fearful evidence it was not their belief in
him that he needed, it was his own. He felt his ego slipping from him. “Don't
desert me, bully,” he whispered hoarsely to it.
In his dark nature there was a touch of the feminine, as in all the great pirates,
and it sometimes gave him intuitions. Suddenly he tried the guessing game.
“Hook,” he called, “have you another voice?”
Now Peter could never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his own
voice, “I have.”
“And another name?”
“Ay, ay.”
“Vegetable?” asked Hook.
“No.”
“Mineral?”
“No.”
“Animal?”
“Yes.”
“Man?”
“No!” This answer rang out scornfully.
“Boy?”
“Yes.”
“Ordinary boy?”
“No!”
“Wonderful boy?”
To Wendy's pain the answer that rang out this time was “Yes.”
“Are you in England?”
“No.”
“Are you here?”
“Yes.”
Hook was completely puzzled. “You ask him some questions,” he said to the
others, wiping his damp brow.
Smee reflected. “I can't think of a thing,” he said regretfully.
 “Can't guess, can't guess!” crowed Peter. “Do you give it up?”
Of course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the miscreants
[villains] saw their chance.
“Yes, yes,” they answered eagerly.
“Well, then,” he cried, “I am Peter Pan.”
Pan!
In a moment Hook was himself again, and Smee and Starkey were his faithful
henchmen.
“Now we have him,” Hook shouted. “Into the water, Smee. Starkey, mind the
boat. Take him dead or alive!”
He leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of Peter.
“Are you ready, boys?”
“Ay, ay,” from various parts of the lagoon.
“Then lam into the pirates.”
The fight was short and sharp. First to draw blood was John, who gallantly
climbed into the boat and held Starkey. There was fierce struggle, in which the
cutlass was torn from the pirate's grasp. He wriggled overboard and John leapt
after him. The dinghy drifted away.
Here and there a head bobbed up in the water, and there was a flash of steel
followed by a cry or a whoop. In the confusion some struck at their own side.
The corkscrew of Smee got Tootles in the fourth rib, but he was himself pinked
[nicked] in turn by Curly. Farther from the rock Starkey was pressing Slightly
and the twins hard.
Where all this time was Peter? He was seeking bigger game.
The others were all brave boys, and they must not be blamed for backing from
the pirate captain. His iron claw made a circle of dead water round him, from
which they fled like affrighted fishes.
But there was one who did not fear him: there was one prepared to enter that
circle.
Strangely, it was not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the rock to
breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the opposite side. The rock
was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl rather than climb. Neither knew that
the other was coming. Each feeling for a grip met the other's arm: in surprise
they raised their heads; their faces were almost touching; so they met.
Some of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they fell to [began
combat] they had a sinking [feeling in the stomach]. Had it been so with Peter at
that moment I would admit it. After all, he was the only man that the Sea-Cook
had feared. But Peter had no sinking, he had one feeling only, gladness; and he
gnashed his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought he snatched a knife from
Hook's belt and was about to drive it home, when he saw that he was higher up
the rock than his foe. It would not have been fighting fair. He gave the pirate a
hand to help him up.
It was then that Hook bit him.
Not the pain of this but its unfairness was what dazed Peter. It made him quite
helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child is affected thus the first time
he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be
yours is fairness. After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but
will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first
unfairness; no one except Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot it. I
suppose that was the real difference between him and all the rest.
So when he met it now it was like the first time; and he could just stare,
helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him.
A few moments afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water striking
wildly for the ship; no elation on the pestilent face now, only white fear, for the
crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On ordinary occasions the boys would
have swum alongside cheering; but now they were uneasy, for they had lost both
Peter and Wendy, and were scouring the lagoon for them, calling them by name.
They found the dinghy and went home in it, shouting “Peter, Wendy” as they
went, but no answer came save mocking laughter from the mermaids. “They
must be swimming back or flying,” the boys concluded. They were not very
anxious, because they had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boylike, because
they would be late for bed; and it was all mother Wendy's fault!
When their voices died away there came cold silence over the lagoon, and
then a feeble cry.
“Help, help!”
Two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted and lay
on the boy's arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the rock and then lay
down beside her. Even as he also fainted he saw that the water was rising. He
knew that they would soon be drowned, but he could do no more.
As they lay side by side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began
pulling her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him, woke with a
start, and was just in time to draw her back. But he had to tell her the truth.
 “We are on the rock, Wendy,” he said, “but it is growing smaller. Soon the
water will be over it.”
She did not understand even now.
“We must go,” she said, almost brightly.
“Yes,” he answered faintly.
“Shall we swim or fly, Peter?”
He had to tell her.
“Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy, without my
help?”
She had to admit that she was too tired.
He moaned.
“What is it?” she asked, anxious about him at once.
“I can't help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim.”
“Do you mean we shall both be drowned?”
“Look how the water is rising.”
They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They thought they
would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed against Peter as
light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if saying timidly, “Can I be of any use?”
It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days before. It had torn
itself out of his hand and floated away.
“Michael's kite,” Peter said without interest, but next moment he had seized
the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.
“It lifted Michael off the ground,” he cried; “why should it not carry you?”
“Both of us!”
“It can't lift two; Michael and Curly tried.”
“Let us draw lots,” Wendy said bravely.
“And you a lady; never.” Already he had tied the tail round her. She clung to
him; she refused to go without him; but with a “Good-bye, Wendy,” he pushed
her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was borne out of his sight. Peter was
alone on the lagoon.
The rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of light
tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once
the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to
the moon.
 Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A tremour ran
through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one shudder
follows another till there are hundreds of them, and Peter felt just the one. Next
moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and
a drum beating within him. It was saying, “To die will be an awfully big
adventure.”
 Chapter 9 THE NEVER BIRD
The last sound Peter heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids
retiring one by one to their bedchambers under the sea. He was too far away to
hear their doors shut; but every door in the coral caves where they live rings a
tiny bell when it opens or closes (as in all the nicest houses on the mainland),
and he heard the bells.
Steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to pass the time
until they made their final gulp, he watched the only thing on the lagoon. He
thought it was a piece of floating paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered
idly how long it would take to drift ashore.
Presently he noticed as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out upon the
lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide, and sometimes
winning; and when it won, Peter, always sympathetic to the weaker side, could
not help clapping; it was such a gallant piece of paper.
It was not really a piece of paper; it was the Never bird, making desperate
efforts to reach Peter on the nest. By working her wings, in a way she had
learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able to some extent to guide
her strange craft, but by the time Peter recognised her she was very exhausted.
She had come to save him, to give him her nest, though there were eggs in it. I
rather wonder at the bird, for though he had been nice to her, he had also
sometimes tormented her. I can suppose only that, like Mrs. Darling and the rest
of them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth.
She called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to her what she
was doing there; but of course neither of them understood the other's language.
In fanciful stories people can talk to the birds freely, and I wish for the moment I
could pretend that this were such a story, and say that Peter replied intelligently
to the Never bird; but truth is best, and I want to tell you only what really
happened. Well, not only could they not understand each other, but they forgot
their manners.
“I—want—you—to—get—into—the—nest,” the bird called, speaking as
slowly and distinctly as possible, “and—then—you—can—drift—ashore, but—I
—am—too—tired—to—bring—it—any—nearer—so—you—must—try to—
swim—to—it.”
“What are you quacking about?” Peter answered. “Why don't you let the nest
drift as usual?”
“I—want—you—” the bird said, and repeated it all over.
Then Peter tried slow and distinct.
“What—are—you—quacking—about?” and so on.
The Never bird became irritated; they have very short tempers.
“You dunderheaded little jay!” she screamed, “Why don't you do as I tell
you?”
Peter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted hotly:
“So are you!”
Then rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark:
“Shut up!”
“Shut up!”
Nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by one last
mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock. Then up she flew; deserting
her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear.
Then at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks to the
bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive his thanks, however, that she
hung there in the sky; it was not even to watch him get into the nest; it was to see
what he did with her eggs.
There were two large white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and reflected. The
bird covered her face with her wings, so as not to see the last of them; but she
could not help peeping between the feathers.
I forget whether I have told you that there was a stave on the rock, driven into
it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of buried treasure. The
children had discovered the glittering hoard, and when in a mischievous mood
used to fling showers of moidores, diamonds, pearls and pieces of eight to the
gulls, who pounced upon them for food, and then flew away, raging at the scurvy
trick that had been played upon them. The stave was still there, and on it Starkey
had hung his hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim. Peter put the
eggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon. It floated beautifully.
The Never bird saw at once what he was up to, and screamed her admiration
of him; and, alas, Peter crowed his agreement with her. Then he got into the nest,
reared the stave in it as a mast, and hung up his shirt for a sail. At the same
moment the bird fluttered down upon the hat and once more sat snugly on her
eggs. She drifted in one direction, and he was borne off in another, both
cheering.
Of course when Peter landed he beached his barque [small ship, actually the
Never Bird's nest in this particular case in point] in a place where the bird would
easily find it; but the hat was such a great success that she abandoned the nest. It
drifted about till it went to pieces, and often Starkey came to the shore of the
lagoon, and with many bitter feelings watched the bird sitting on his hat. As we
shall not see her again, it may be worth mentioning here that all Never birds now
build in that shape of nest, with a broad brim on which the youngsters take an
airing.
Great were the rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the ground
almost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and thither by the kite.
Every boy had adventures to tell; but perhaps the biggest adventure of all was
that they were several hours late for bed. This so inflated them that they did
various dodgy things to get staying up still longer, such as demanding bandages;
but Wendy, though glorying in having them all home again safe and sound, was
scandalised by the lateness of the hour, and cried, “To bed, to bed,” in a voice
that had to be obeyed. Next day, however, she was awfully tender, and gave out
bandages to every one, and they played till bed-time at limping about and
carrying their arms in slings.
 Chapter 10 THE HAPPY HOME
One important result of the brush [with the pirates] on the lagoon was that it
made the redskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily from a dreadful fate,
and now there was nothing she and her braves would not do for him. All night
they sat above, keeping watch over the home under the ground and awaiting the
big attack by the pirates which obviously could not be much longer delayed.
Even by day they hung about, smoking the pipe of peace, and looking almost as
if they wanted tit-bits to eat.
They called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves [lying down]
before him; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was not really good for
him.
“The great white father,” he would say to them in a very lordly manner, as
they grovelled at his feet, “is glad to see the Piccaninny warriors protecting his
wigwam from the pirates.”
“Me Tiger Lily,” that lovely creature would reply. “Peter Pan save me, me his
velly nice friend. Me no let pirates hurt him.”
She was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it his due, and
he would answer condescendingly, “It is good. Peter Pan has spoken.”
Always when he said, “Peter Pan has spoken,” it meant that they must now
shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were by no means so
respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon as just ordinary braves.
They said “How-do?” to them, and things like that; and what annoyed the boys
was that Peter seemed to think this all right.
Secretly Wendy sympathised with them a little, but she was far too loyal a
housewife to listen to any complaints against father. “Father knows best,” she
always said, whatever her private opinion must be. Her private opinion was that
the redskins should not call her a squaw.
We have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as the
Night of Nights, because of its adventures and their upshot. The day, as if quietly
gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful, and now the redskins in their
blankets were at their posts above, while, below, the children were having their
evening meal; all except Peter, who had gone out to get the time. The way you
got the time on the island was to find the crocodile, and then stay near him till
the clock struck.
The meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around the board,
guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their chatter and recriminations, the
noise, as Wendy said, was positively deafening. To be sure, she did not mind
noise, but she simply would not have them grabbing things, and then excusing
themselves by saying that Tootles had pushed their elbow. There was a fixed rule
that they must never hit back at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to
Wendy by raising the right arm politely and saying, “I complain of so-and-so;”
but what usually happened was that they forgot to do this or did it too much.
“Silence,” cried Wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them that
they were not all to speak at once. “Is your mug empty, Slightly darling?”
“Not quite empty, mummy,” Slightly said, after looking into an imaginary
mug.
“He hasn't even begun to drink his milk,” Nibs interposed.
This was telling, and Slightly seized his chance.
“I complain of Nibs,” he cried promptly.
John, however, had held up his hand first.
“Well, John?”
“May I sit in Peter's chair, as he is not here?”
“Sit in father's chair, John!” Wendy was scandalised. “Certainly not.”
“He is not really our father,” John answered. “He didn't even know how a
father does till I showed him.”
This was grumbling. “We complain of John,” cried the twins.
Tootles held up his hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed he
was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him.
“I don't suppose,” Tootles said diffidently [bashfully or timidly], “that I could
be father.”
“No, Tootles.”
Once Tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of going on.
“As I can't be father,” he said heavily, “I don't suppose, Michael, you would
let me be baby?”
“No, I won't,” Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.
“As I can't be baby,” Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier and heavier, “do
you think I could be a twin?”
 “No, indeed,” replied the twins; “it's awfully difficult to be a twin.”
“As I can't be anything important,” said Tootles, “would any of you like to see
me do a trick?”
“No,” they all replied.
Then at last he stopped. “I hadn't really any hope,” he said.
The hateful telling broke out again.
“Slightly is coughing on the table.”
“The twins began with cheese-cakes.”
“Curly is taking both butter and honey.”
“Nibs is speaking with his mouth full.”
“I complain of the twins.”
“I complain of Curly.”
“I complain of Nibs.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” cried Wendy, “I'm sure I sometimes think that spinsters are
to be envied.”
She told them to clear away, and sat down to her work-basket, a heavy load of
stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.
“Wendy,” remonstrated [scolded] Michael, “I'm too big for a cradle.”
“I must have somebody in a cradle,” she said almost tartly, “and you are the
littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a house.”
While she sewed they played around her; such a group of happy faces and
dancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become a very familiar scene,
this, in the home under the ground, but we are looking on it for the last time.
There was a step above, and Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to
recognize it.
“Children, I hear your father's step. He likes you to meet him at the door.”
Above, the redskins crouched before Peter.
“Watch well, braves. I have spoken.”
And then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from his tree. As
so often before, but never again.
He had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for Wendy.
“Peter, you just spoil them, you know,” Wendy simpered [exaggerated a
smile].
 “Ah, old lady,” said Peter, hanging up his gun.
“It was me told him mothers are called old lady,” Michael whispered to Curly.
“I complain of Michael,” said Curly instantly.
The first twin came to Peter. “Father, we want to dance.”
“Dance away, my little man,” said Peter, who was in high good humour.
“But we want you to dance.”
Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be
scandalised.
“Me! My old bones would rattle!”
“And mummy too.”
“What,” cried Wendy, “the mother of such an armful, dance!”
“But on a Saturday night,” Slightly insinuated.
It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they had long
lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do anything special they said
this was Saturday night, and then they did it.
“Of course it is Saturday night, Peter,” Wendy said, relenting.
“People of our figure, Wendy!”
“But it is only among our own progeny [children].”
“True, true.”
So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties first.
“Ah, old lady,” Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire and
looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, “there is nothing more pleasant of
an evening for you and me when the day's toil is over than to rest by the fire with
the little ones near by.”
“It is sweet, Peter, isn't it?” Wendy said, frightfully gratified. “Peter, I think
Curly has your nose.”
“Michael takes after you.”
She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Dear Peter,” she said, “with such a large family, of course, I have now passed
my best, but you don't want to [ex]change me, do you?”
“No, Wendy.”
Certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably,
blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.
 “Peter, what is it?”
“I was just thinking,” he said, a little scared. “It is only make-believe, isn't it,
that I am their father?”
“Oh yes,” Wendy said primly [formally and properly].
“You see,” he continued apologetically, “it would make me seem so old to be
their real father.”
“But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine.”
“But not really, Wendy?” he asked anxiously.
“Not if you don't wish it,” she replied; and she distinctly heard his sigh of
relief. “Peter,” she asked, trying to speak firmly, “what are your exact feelings to
[about] me?”
“Those of a devoted son, Wendy.”
“I thought so,” she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the
room.
“You are so queer,” he said, frankly puzzled, “and Tiger Lily is just the same.
There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is not my mother.”
“No, indeed, it is not,” Wendy replied with frightful emphasis. Now we know
why she was prejudiced against the redskins.
“Then what is it?”
“It isn't for a lady to tell.”
“Oh, very well,” Peter said, a little nettled. “Perhaps Tinker Bell will tell me.”
“Oh yes, Tinker Bell will tell you,” Wendy retorted scornfully. “She is an
abandoned little creature.”
Here Tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out something
impudent.
“She says she glories in being abandoned,” Peter interpreted.
He had a sudden idea. “Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother?”
“You silly ass!” cried Tinker Bell in a passion.
She had said it so often that Wendy needed no translation.
“I almost agree with her,” Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping! But she
had been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before the night
was out. If she had known she would not have snapped.
None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance gave
them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on the island, let us
rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it. They sang and danced in their
night-gowns. Such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to
be frightened at their own shadows, little witting that so soon shadows would
close in upon them, from whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously
gay was the dance, and how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it! It
was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the pillows
insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may never meet
again. The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy's good-night story!
Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but the beginning was so fearfully
dull that it appalled not only the others but himself, and he said gloomily:
“Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the end.”
And then at last they all got into bed for Wendy's story, the story they loved
best, the story Peter hated. Usually when she began to tell this story he left the
room or put his hands over his ears; and possibly if he had done either of those
things this time they might all still be on the island. But to-night he remained on
his stool; and we shall see what happened.
 Chapter 11 WENDY'S STORY
“Listen, then,” said Wendy, settling down to her story, with Michael at her feet
and seven boys in the bed. “There was once a gentleman—”
“I had rather he had been a lady,” Curly said.
“I wish he had been a white rat,” said Nibs.
“Quiet,” their mother admonished [cautioned] them. “There was a lady also,
and—”
“Oh, mummy,” cried the first twin, “you mean that there is a lady also, don't
you? She is not dead, is she?”
“Oh, no.”
“I am awfully glad she isn't dead,” said Tootles. “Are you glad, John?”
“Of course I am.”
“Are you glad, Nibs?”
“Rather.”
“Are you glad, Twins?”
“We are glad.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Wendy.
“Little less noise there,” Peter called out, determined that she should have fair
play, however beastly a story it might be in his opinion.
“The gentleman's name,” Wendy continued, “was Mr. Darling, and her name
was Mrs. Darling.”
“I knew them,” John said, to annoy the others.
“I think I knew them,” said Michael rather doubtfully.
“They were married, you know,” explained Wendy, “and what do you think
they had?”
“White rats,” cried Nibs, inspired.
“No.”
“It's awfully puzzling,” said Tootles, who knew the story by heart.
“Quiet, Tootles. They had three descendants.”
“What is descendants?”
 “Well, you are one, Twin.”
“Did you hear that, John? I am a descendant.”
“Descendants are only children,” said John.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” sighed Wendy. “Now these three children had a faithful
nurse called Nana; but Mr. Darling was angry with her and chained her up in the
yard, and so all the children flew away.”
“It's an awfully good story,” said Nibs.
“They flew away,” Wendy continued, “to the Neverland, where the lost
children are.”
“I just thought they did,” Curly broke in excitedly. “I don't know how it is, but
I just thought they did!”
“O Wendy,” cried Tootles, “was one of the lost children called Tootles?”
“Yes, he was.”
“I am in a story. Hurrah, I am in a story, Nibs.”
“Hush. Now I want you to consider the feelings of the unhappy parents with
all their children flown away.”
“Oo!” they all moaned, though they were not really considering the feelings of
the unhappy parents one jot.
“Think of the empty beds!”
“Oo!”
“It's awfully sad,” the first twin said cheerfully.
“I don't see how it can have a happy ending,” said the second twin. “Do you,
Nibs?”
“I'm frightfully anxious.”
“If you knew how great is a mother's love,” Wendy told them triumphantly,
“you would have no fear.” She had now come to the part that Peter hated.
“I do like a mother's love,” said Tootles, hitting Nibs with a pillow. “Do you
like a mother's love, Nibs?”
“I do just,” said Nibs, hitting back.
“You see,” Wendy said complacently, “our heroine knew that the mother
would always leave the window open for her children to fly back by; so they
stayed away for years and had a lovely time.”
“Did they ever go back?”
“Let us now,” said Wendy, bracing herself up for her finest effort, “take a peep
into the future;” and they all gave themselves the twist that makes peeps into the
future easier. “Years have rolled by, and who is this elegant lady of uncertain age
alighting at London Station?”
“O Wendy, who is she?” cried Nibs, every bit as excited as if he didn't know.
“Can it be—yes—no—it is—the fair Wendy!”
“Oh!”
“And who are the two noble portly figures accompanying her, now grown to
man's estate? Can they be John and Michael? They are!”
“Oh!”
“'See, dear brothers,' says Wendy pointing upwards, 'there is the window still
standing open. Ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime faith in a mother's
love.' So up they flew to their mummy and daddy, and pen cannot describe the
happy scene, over which we draw a veil.”
That was the story, and they were as pleased with it as the fair narrator herself.
Everything just as it should be, you see. Off we skip like the most heartless
things in the world, which is what children are, but so attractive; and we have an
entirely selfish time, and then when we have need of special attention we nobly
return for it, confident that we shall be rewarded instead of smacked.
So great indeed was their faith in a mother's love that they felt they could
afford to be callous for a bit longer.
But there was one there who knew better, and when Wendy finished he uttered
a hollow groan.
“What is it, Peter?” she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill. She felt him
solicitously, lower down than his chest. “Where is it, Peter?”
“It isn't that kind of pain,” Peter replied darkly.
“Then what kind is it?”
“Wendy, you are wrong about mothers.”
They all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation; and
with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto concealed.
“Long ago,” he said, “I thought like you that my mother would always keep
the window open for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and
then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had forgotten all about
me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed.”
I am not sure that this was true, but Peter thought it was true; and it scared
them.
 “Are you sure mothers are like that?”
“Yes.”
So this was the truth about mothers. The toads!
Still it is best to be careful; and no one knows so quickly as a child when he
should give in. “Wendy, let us [let's] go home,” cried John and Michael together.
“Yes,” she said, clutching them.
“Not to-night?” asked the lost boys bewildered. They knew in what they
called their hearts that one can get on quite well without a mother, and that it is
only the mothers who think you can't.
“At once,” Wendy replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had come to her:
“Perhaps mother is in half mourning by this time.”
This dread made her forgetful of what must be Peter's feelings, and she said to
him rather sharply, “Peter, will you make the necessary arrangements?”
“If you wish it,” he replied, as coolly as if she had asked him to pass the nuts.
Not so much as a sorry-to-lose-you between them! If she did not mind the
parting, he was going to show her, was Peter, that neither did he.
But of course he cared very much; and he was so full of wrath against grown-
ups, who, as usual, were spoiling everything, that as soon as he got inside his
tree he breathed intentionally quick short breaths at the rate of about five to a
second. He did this because there is a saying in the Neverland that, every time
you breathe, a grown-up dies; and Peter was killing them off vindictively as fast
as possible.
Then having given the necessary instructions to the redskins he returned to the
home, where an unworthy scene had been enacted in his absence. Panic-stricken
at the thought of losing Wendy the lost boys had advanced upon her
threateningly.
“It will be worse than before she came,” they cried.
“We shan't let her go.”
“Let's keep her prisoner.”
“Ay, chain her up.”
In her extremity an instinct told her to which of them to turn.
“Tootles,” she cried, “I appeal to you.”
Was it not strange? She appealed to Tootles, quite the silliest one.
Grandly, however, did Tootles respond. For that one moment he dropped his
silliness and spoke with dignity.
 “I am just Tootles,” he said, “and nobody minds me. But the first who does
not behave to Wendy like an English gentleman I will blood him severely.”
He drew back his hanger; and for that instant his sun was at noon. The others
held back uneasily. Then Peter returned, and they saw at once that they would
get no support from him. He would keep no girl in the Neverland against her
will.
“Wendy,” he said, striding up and down, “I have asked the redskins to guide
you through the wood, as flying tires you so.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
“Then,” he continued, in the short sharp voice of one accustomed to be
obeyed, “Tinker Bell will take you across the sea. Wake her, Nibs.”
Nibs had to knock twice before he got an answer, though Tink had really been
sitting up in bed listening for some time.
“Who are you? How dare you? Go away,” she cried.
“You are to get up, Tink,” Nibs called, “and take Wendy on a journey.”
Of course Tink had been delighted to hear that Wendy was going; but she was
jolly well determined not to be her courier, and she said so in still more offensive
language. Then she pretended to be asleep again.
“She says she won't!” Nibs exclaimed, aghast at such insubordination,
whereupon Peter went sternly toward the young lady's chamber.
“Tink,” he rapped out, “if you don't get up and dress at once I will open the
curtains, and then we shall all see you in your negligee [nightgown].”
This made her leap to the floor. “Who said I wasn't getting up?” she cried.
In the meantime the boys were gazing very forlornly at Wendy, now equipped
with John and Michael for the journey. By this time they were dejected, not
merely because they were about to lose her, but also because they felt that she
was going off to something nice to which they had not been invited. Novelty was
beckoning to them as usual.
Crediting them with a nobler feeling Wendy melted.
“Dear ones,” she said, “if you will all come with me I feel almost sure I can
get my father and mother to adopt you.”
The invitation was meant specially for Peter, but each of the boys was
thinking exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy.
“But won't they think us rather a handful?” Nibs asked in the middle of his
jump.
 “Oh no,” said Wendy, rapidly thinking it out, “it will only mean having a few
beds in the drawing-room; they can be hidden behind the screens on first
Thursdays.”
“Peter, can we go?” they all cried imploringly. They took it for granted that if
they went he would go also, but really they scarcely cared. Thus children are
ever ready, when novelty knocks, to desert their dearest ones.
“All right,” Peter replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they rushed to
get their things.
“And now, Peter,” Wendy said, thinking she had put everything right, “I am
going to give you your medicine before you go.” She loved to give them
medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too much. Of course it was only water, but
it was out of a bottle, and she always shook the bottle and counted the drops,
which gave it a certain medicinal quality. On this occasion, however, she did not
give Peter his draught [portion], for just as she had prepared it, she saw a look on
his face that made her heart sink.
“Get your things, Peter,” she cried, shaking.
“No,” he answered, pretending indifference, “I am not going with you,
Wendy.”
“Yes, Peter.”
“No.”
To show that her departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up and
down the room, playing gaily on his heartless pipes. She had to run about after
him, though it was rather undignified.
“To find your mother,” she coaxed.
Now, if Peter had ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed her. He could
do very well without one. He had thought them out, and remembered only their
bad points.
“No, no,” he told Wendy decisively; “perhaps she would say I was old, and I
just want always to be a little boy and to have fun.”
“But, Peter—”
“No.”
And so the others had to be told.
“Peter isn't coming.”
Peter not coming! They gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their backs,
and on each stick a bundle. Their first thought was that if Peter was not going he
had probably changed his mind about letting them go.
But he was far too proud for that. “If you find your mothers,” he said darkly,
“I hope you will like them.”
The awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression, and most of
them began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said, were they not
noodles to want to go?
“Now then,” cried Peter, “no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye, Wendy;” and he
held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must really go now, for he had
something important to do.
She had to take his hand, and there was no indication that he would prefer a
thimble.
“You will remember about changing your flannels, Peter?” she said, lingering
over him. She was always so particular about their flannels.
“Yes.”
“And you will take your medicine?”
“Yes.”
That seemed to be everything, and an awkward pause followed. Peter,
however, was not the kind that breaks down before other people. “Are you ready,
Tinker Bell?” he called out.
“Ay, ay.”
“Then lead the way.”
Tink darted up the nearest tree; but no one followed her, for it was at this
moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the redskins. Above,
where all had been so still, the air was rent with shrieks and the clash of steel.
Below, there was dead silence. Mouths opened and remained open. Wendy fell
on her knees, but her arms were extended toward Peter. All arms were extended
to him, as if suddenly blown in his direction; they were beseeching him mutely
not to desert them. As for Peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought he had
slain Barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye.
 Chapter 12 THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF
The pirate attack had been a complete surprise: a sure proof that the
unscrupulous Hook had conducted it improperly, for to surprise redskins fairly is
beyond the wit of the white man.
By all the unwritten laws of savage warfare it is always the redskin who
attacks, and with the wiliness of his race he does it just before the dawn, at
which time he knows the courage of the whites to be at its lowest ebb. The white
men have in the meantime made a rude stockade on the summit of yonder
undulating ground, at the foot of which a stream runs, for it is destruction to be
too far from water. There they await the onslaught, the inexperienced ones
clutching their revolvers and treading on twigs, but the old hands sleeping
tranquilly until just before the dawn. Through the long black night the savage
scouts wriggle, snake-like, among the grass without stirring a blade. The
brushwood closes behind them, as silently as sand into which a mole has dived.
Not a sound is to be heard, save when they give vent to a wonderful imitation of
the lonely call of the coyote. The cry is answered by other braves; and some of
them do it even better than the coyotes, who are not very good at it. So the chill
hours wear on, and the long suspense is horribly trying to the paleface who has
to live through it for the first time; but to the trained hand those ghastly calls and
still ghastlier silences are but an intimation of how the night is marching.
That this was the usual procedure was so well known to Hook that in
disregarding it he cannot be excused on the plea of ignorance.
The Piccaninnies, on their part, trusted implicitly to his honour, and their
whole action of the night stands out in marked contrast to his. They left nothing
undone that was consistent with the reputation of their tribe. With that alertness
of the senses which is at once the marvel and despair of civilised peoples, they
knew that the pirates were on the island from the moment one of them trod on a
dry stick; and in an incredibly short space of time the coyote cries began. Every
foot of ground between the spot where Hook had landed his forces and the home
under the trees was stealthily examined by braves wearing their mocassins with
the heels in front. They found only one hillock with a stream at its base, so that
Hook had no choice; here he must establish himself and wait for just before the
dawn. Everything being thus mapped out with almost diabolical cunning, the
main body of the redskins folded their blankets around them, and in the
phlegmatic manner that is to them, the pearl of manhood squatted above the
children's home, awaiting the cold moment when they should deal pale death.
Here dreaming, though wide-awake, of the exquisite tortures to which they
were to put him at break of day, those confiding savages were found by the
treacherous Hook. From the accounts afterwards supplied by such of the scouts
as escaped the carnage, he does not seem even to have paused at the rising
ground, though it is certain that in that grey light he must have seen it: no
thought of waiting to be attacked appears from first to last to have visited his
subtle mind; he would not even hold off till the night was nearly spent; on he
pounded with no policy but to fall to [get into combat]. What could the
bewildered scouts do, masters as they were of every war-like artifice save this
one, but trot helplessly after him, exposing themselves fatally to view, while they
gave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry.
Around the brave Tiger Lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors, and they
suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them. Fell from their
eyes then the film through which they had looked at victory. No more would
they torture at the stake. For them the happy hunting-grounds was now. They
knew it; but as their father's sons they acquitted themselves. Even then they had
time to gather in a phalanx [dense formation] that would have been hard to break
had they risen quickly, but this they were forbidden to do by the traditions of
their race. It is written that the noble savage must never express surprise in the
presence of the white. Thus terrible as the sudden appearance of the pirates must
have been to them, they remained stationary for a moment, not a muscle moving;
as if the foe had come by invitation. Then, indeed, the tradition gallantly upheld,
they seized their weapons, and the air was torn with the war-cry; but it was now
too late.
It is no part of ours to describe what was a massacre rather than a fight. Thus
perished many of the flower of the Piccaninny tribe. Not all unavenged did they
die, for with Lean Wolf fell Alf Mason, to disturb the Spanish Main no more,
and among others who bit the dust were Geo. Scourie, Chas. Turley, and the
Alsatian Foggerty. Turley fell to the tomahawk of the terrible Panther, who
ultimately cut a way through the pirates with Tiger Lily and a small remnant of
the tribe.
To what extent Hook is to blame for his tactics on this occasion is for the
historian to decide. Had he waited on the rising ground till the proper hour he
and his men would probably have been butchered; and in judging him it is only
fair to take this into account. What he should perhaps have done was to acquaint
his opponents that he proposed to follow a new method. On the other hand, this,
as destroying the element of surprise, would have made his strategy of no avail,
so that the whole question is beset with difficulties. One cannot at least withhold
a reluctant admiration for the wit that had conceived so bold a scheme, and the
fell [deadly] genius with which it was carried out.
What were his own feelings about himself at that triumphant moment? Fain
[gladly] would his dogs have known, as breathing heavily and wiping their
cutlasses, they gathered at a discreet distance from his hook, and squinted
through their ferret eyes at this extraordinary man. Elation must have been in his
heart, but his face did not reflect it: ever a dark and solitary enigma, he stood
aloof from his followers in spirit as in substance.
The night's work was not yet over, for it was not the redskins he had come out
to destroy; they were but the bees to be smoked, so that he should get at the
honey. It was Pan he wanted, Pan and Wendy and their band, but chiefly Pan.
Peter was such a small boy that one tends to wonder at the man's hatred of
him. True he had flung Hook's arm to the crocodile, but even this and the
increased insecurity of life to which it led, owing to the crocodile's pertinacity
[persistance], hardly account for a vindictiveness so relentless and malignant.
The truth is that there was a something about Peter which goaded the pirate
captain to frenzy. It was not his courage, it was not his engaging appearance, it
was not—. There is no beating about the bush, for we know quite well what it
was, and have got to tell. It was Peter's cockiness.
This had got on Hook's nerves; it made his iron claw twitch, and at night it
disturbed him like an insect. While Peter lived, the tortured man felt that he was
a lion in a cage into which a sparrow had come.
The question now was how to get down the trees, or how to get his dogs
down? He ran his greedy eyes over them, searching for the thinnest ones. They
wriggled uncomfortably, for they knew he would not scruple [hesitate] to ram
them down with poles.
In the meantime, what of the boys? We have seen them at the first clang of the
weapons, turned as it were into stone figures, open-mouthed, all appealing with
outstretched arms to Peter; and we return to them as their mouths close, and their
arms fall to their sides. The pandemonium above has ceased almost as suddenly
as it arose, passed like a fierce gust of wind; but they know that in the passing it
has determined their fate.
Which side had won?
The pirates, listening avidly at the mouths of the trees, heard the question put
by every boy, and alas, they also heard Peter's answer.
 “If the redskins have won,” he said, “they will beat the tom-tom; it is always
their sign of victory.”
Now Smee had found the tom-tom, and was at that moment sitting on it. “You
will never hear the tom-tom again,” he muttered, but inaudibly of course, for
strict silence had been enjoined [urged]. To his amazement Hook signed him to
beat the tom-tom, and slowly there came to Smee an understanding of the
dreadful wickedness of the order. Never, probably, had this simple man admired
Hook so much.
Twice Smee beat upon the instrument, and then stopped to listen gleefully.
“The tom-tom,” the miscreants heard Peter cry; “an Indian victory!”
The doomed children answered with a cheer that was music to the black hearts
above, and almost immediately they repeated their good-byes to Peter. This
puzzled the pirates, but all their other feelings were swallowed by a base delight
that the enemy were about to come up the trees. They smirked at each other and
rubbed their hands. Rapidly and silently Hook gave his orders: one man to each
tree, and the others to arrange themselves in a line two yards apart.
 Chapter 13 DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?
The more quickly this horror is disposed of the better. The first to emerge
from his tree was Curly. He rose out of it into the arms of Cecco, who flung him
to Smee, who flung him to Starkey, who flung him to Bill Jukes, who flung him
to Noodler, and so he was tossed from one to another till he fell at the feet of the
black pirate. All the boys were plucked from their trees in this ruthless manner;
and several of them were in the air at a time, like bales of goods flung from hand
to hand.
A different treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last. With ironical
politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her his arm, escorted her to
the spot where the others were being gagged. He did it with such an air, he was
so frightfully DISTINGUE [imposingly distinguished], that she was too
fascinated to cry out. She was only a little girl.
Perhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a moment Hook entranced her, and we
tell on her only because her slip led to strange results. Had she haughtily
unhanded him (and we should have loved to write it of her), she would have
been hurled through the air like the others, and then Hook would probably not
have been present at the tying of the children; and had he not been at the tying he
would not have discovered Slightly's secret, and without the secret he could not
presently have made his foul attempt on Peter's life.
They were tied to prevent their flying away, doubled up with their knees close
to their ears; and for the trussing of them the black pirate had cut a rope into nine
equal pieces. All went well until Slightly's turn came, when he was found to be
like those irritating parcels that use up all the string in going round and leave no
tags [ends] with which to tie a knot. The pirates kicked him in their rage, just as
you kick the parcel (though in fairness you should kick the string); and strange to
say it was Hook who told them to belay their violence. His lip was curled with
malicious triumph. While his dogs were merely sweating because every time
they tried to pack the unhappy lad tight in one part he bulged out in another,
Hook's master mind had gone far beneath Slightly's surface, probing not for
effects but for causes; and his exultation showed that he had found them.
Slightly, white to the gills, knew that Hook had surprised [discovered] his secret,
which was this, that no boy so blown out could use a tree wherein an average
man need stick. Poor Slightly, most wretched of all the children now, for he was
in a panic about Peter, bitterly regretted what he had done. Madly addicted to the
drinking of water when he was hot, he had swelled in consequence to his present
girth, and instead of reducing himself to fit his tree he had, unknown to the
others, whittled his tree to make it fit him.
Sufficient of this Hook guessed to persuade him that Peter at last lay at his
mercy, but no word of the dark design that now formed in the subterranean
caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he merely signed that the captives were to
be conveyed to the ship, and that he would be alone.
How to convey them? Hunched up in their ropes they might indeed be rolled
down hill like barrels, but most of the way lay through a morass. Again Hook's
genius surmounted difficulties. He indicated that the little house must be used as
a conveyance. The children were flung into it, four stout pirates raised it on their
shoulders, the others fell in behind, and singing the hateful pirate chorus the
strange procession set off through the wood. I don't know whether any of the
children were crying; if so, the singing drowned the sound; but as the little house
disappeared in the forest, a brave though tiny jet of smoke issued from its
chimney as if defying Hook.
Hook saw it, and it did Peter a bad service. It dried up any trickle of pity for
him that may have remained in the pirate's infuriated breast.
The first thing he did on finding himself alone in the fast falling night was to
tiptoe to Slightly's tree, and make sure that it provided him with a passage. Then
for long he remained brooding; his hat of ill omen on the sward, so that any
gentle breeze which had arisen might play refreshingly through his hair. Dark as
were his thoughts his blue eyes were as soft as the periwinkle. Intently he
listened for any sound from the nether world, but all was as silent below as
above; the house under the ground seemed to be but one more empty tenement in
the void. Was that boy asleep, or did he stand waiting at the foot of Slightly's
tree, with his dagger in his hand?
There was no way of knowing, save by going down. Hook let his cloak slip
softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood stood on them, he
stepped into the tree. He was a brave man, but for a moment he had to stop there
and wipe his brow, which was dripping like a candle. Then, silently, he let
himself go into the unknown.
He arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still again, biting at
his breath, which had almost left him. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim
light various objects in the home under the trees took shape; but the only one on
which his greedy gaze rested, long sought for and found at last, was the great
bed. On the bed lay Peter fast asleep.
Unaware of the tragedy being enacted above, Peter had continued, for a little
time after the children left, to play gaily on his pipes: no doubt rather a forlorn
attempt to prove to himself that he did not care. Then he decided not to take his
medicine, so as to grieve Wendy. Then he lay down on the bed outside the
coverlet, to vex her still more; for she had always tucked them inside it, because
you never know that you may not grow chilly at the turn of the night. Then he
nearly cried; but it struck him how indignant she would be if he laughed instead;
so he laughed a haughty laugh and fell asleep in the middle of it.
Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful than
the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be separated from these
dreams, though he wailed piteously in them. They had to do, I think, with the
riddle of his existence. At such times it had been Wendy's custom to take him out
of bed and sit with him on her lap, soothing him in dear ways of her own
invention, and when he grew calmer to put him back to bed before he quite woke
up, so that he should not know of the indignity to which she had subjected him.
But on this occasion he had fallen at once into a dreamless sleep. One arm
dropped over the edge of the bed, one leg was arched, and the unfinished part of
his laugh was stranded on his mouth, which was open, showing the little pearls.
Thus defenceless Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of the tree
looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of compassion disturb
his sombre breast? The man was not wholly evil; he loved flowers (I have been
told) and sweet music (he was himself no mean performer on the harpsichord);
and, let it be frankly admitted, the idyllic nature of the scene stirred him
profoundly. Mastered by his better self he would have returned reluctantly up the
tree, but for one thing.
What stayed him was Peter's impertinent appearance as he slept. The open
mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a personification of
cockiness as, taken together, will never again, one may hope, be presented to
eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness. They steeled Hook's heart. If his rage
had broken him into a hundred pieces every one of them would have disregarded
the incident, and leapt at the sleeper.
Though a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed, Hook stood in
darkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he discovered an obstacle,
the door of Slightly's tree. It did not entirely fill the aperture, and he had been
looking over it. Feeling for the catch, he found to his fury that it was low down,
beyond his reach. To his disordered brain it seemed then that the irritating
quality in Peter's face and figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and
flung himself against it. Was his enemy to escape him after all?
But what was that? The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter's medicine
standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it was straightaway,
and immediately knew that the sleeper was in his power.
Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried about his person a dreadful
drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that had come into his
possession. These he had boiled down into a yellow liquid quite unknown to
science, which was probably the most virulent poison in existence.
Five drops of this he now added to Peter's cup. His hand shook, but it was in
exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided glancing at the sleeper,
but not lest pity should unnerve him; merely to avoid spilling. Then one long
gloating look he cast upon his victim, and turning, wormed his way with
difficulty up the tree. As he emerged at the top he looked the very spirit of evil
breaking from its hole. Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his
cloak around him, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the
night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to himself, stole
away through the trees.
Peter slept on. The light guttered [burned to edges] and went out, leaving the
tenement in darkness; but still he slept. It must have been not less than ten
o'clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed, wakened by he
knew not what. It was a soft cautious tapping on the door of his tree.
Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt for his dagger
till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.
“Who is that?”
For long there was no answer: then again the knock.
“Who are you?”
No answer.
He was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In two strides he reached the
door. Unlike Slightly's door, it filled the aperture [opening], so that he could not
see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him.
“I won't open unless you speak,” Peter cried.
Then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.
“Let me in, Peter.”
It was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in excitedly, her face
flushed and her dress stained with mud.
 “What is it?”
“Oh, you could never guess!” she cried, and offered him three guesses. “Out
with it!” he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long as the ribbons
that conjurers [magicians] pull from their mouths, she told of the capture of
Wendy and the boys.
Peter's heart bobbed up and down as he listened. Wendy bound, and on the
pirate ship; she who loved everything to be just so!
“I'll rescue her!” he cried, leaping at his weapons. As he leapt he thought of
something he could do to please her. He could take his medicine.
His hand closed on the fatal draught.
“No!” shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard Hook mutter about his deed as he
sped through the forest.
“Why not?”
“It is poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Who could have poisoned it?”
“Hook.”
“Don't be silly. How could Hook have got down here?”
Alas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for even she did not know the dark
secret of Slightly's tree. Nevertheless Hook's words had left no room for doubt.
The cup was poisoned.
“Besides,” said Peter, quite believing himself, “I never fell asleep.”
He raised the cup. No time for words now; time for deeds; and with one of her
lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the draught, and drained it to
the dregs.
“Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine?”
But she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air.
“What is the matter with you?” cried Peter, suddenly afraid.
“It was poisoned, Peter,” she told him softly; “and now I am going to be
dead.”
“O Tink, did you drink it to save me?”
“Yes.”
“But why, Tink?”
Her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on his
shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear “You silly
ass,” and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the bed.
His head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt near her in
distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter; and he knew that if it went
out she would be no more. She liked his tears so much that she put out her
beautiful finger and let them run over it.
Her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said. Then
he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get well again if
children believed in fairies.
Peter flung out his arms. There were no children there, and it was night time;
but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the Neverland, and who were
therefore nearer to him than you think: boys and girls in their nighties, and naked
papooses in their baskets hung from trees.
“Do you believe?” he cried.
Tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate.
She fancied she heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she wasn't
sure.
“What do you think?” she asked Peter.
“If you believe,” he shouted to them, “clap your hands; don't let Tink die.”
Many clapped.
Some didn't.
A few beasts hissed.
The clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to their
nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink was saved. First
her voice grew strong, then she popped out of bed, then she was flashing through
the room more merry and impudent than ever. She never thought of thanking
those who believed, but she would have liked to get at the ones who had hissed.
“And now to rescue Wendy!”
The moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when Peter rose from his tree, begirt
[belted] with weapons and wearing little else, to set out upon his perilous quest.
It was not such a night as he would have chosen. He had hoped to fly, keeping
not far from the ground so that nothing unwonted should escape his eyes; but in
that fitful light to have flown low would have meant trailing his shadow through
the trees, thus disturbing birds and acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir.
He regretted now that he had given the birds of the island such strange names
that they are very wild and difficult of approach.
 There was no other course but to press forward in redskin fashion, at which
happily he was an adept [expert]. But in what direction, for he could not be sure
that the children had been taken to the ship? A light fall of snow had obliterated
all footmarks; and a deathly silence pervaded the island, as if for a space Nature
stood still in horror of the recent carnage. He had taught the children something
of the forest lore that he had himself learned from Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell,
and knew that in their dire hour they were not likely to forget it. Slightly, if he
had an opportunity, would blaze [cut a mark in] the trees, for instance, Curly
would drop seeds, and Wendy would leave her handkerchief at some important
place. The morning was needed to search for such guidance, and he could not
wait. The upper world had called him, but would give no help.
The crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound, not a
movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the next tree, or
stalking him from behind.
He swore this terrible oath: “Hook or me this time.”
Now he crawled forward like a snake, and again erect, he darted across a
space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his dagger at the
ready. He was frightfully happy.
 Chapter 14 THE PIRATE SHIP
One green light squinting over Kidd's Creek, which is near the mouth of the
pirate river, marked where the brig, the JOLLY ROGER, lay, low in the water; a
rakish-looking [speedy-looking] craft foul to the hull, every beam in her
detestable, like ground strewn with mangled feathers. She was the cannibal of
the seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye, for she floated immune in the
horror of her name.
She was wrapped in the blanket of night, through which no sound from her
could have reached the shore. There was little sound, and none agreeable save
the whir of the ship's sewing machine at which Smee sat, ever industrious and
obliging, the essence of the commonplace, pathetic Smee. I know not why he
was so infinitely pathetic, unless it were because he was so pathetically unaware
of it; but even strong men had to turn hastily from looking at him, and more than
once on summer evenings he had touched the fount of Hook's tears and made it
flow. Of this, as of almost everything else, Smee was quite unconscious.
A few of the pirates leant over the bulwarks, drinking in the miasma [putrid
mist] of the night; others sprawled by barrels over games of dice and cards; and
the exhausted four who had carried the little house lay prone on the deck, where
even in their sleep they rolled skillfully to this side or that out of Hook's reach,
lest he should claw them mechanically in passing.
Hook trod the deck in thought. O man unfathomable. It was his hour of
triumph. Peter had been removed for ever from his path, and all the other boys
were in the brig, about to walk the plank. It was his grimmest deed since the
days when he had brought Barbecue to heel; and knowing as we do how vain a
tabernacle is man, could we be surprised had he now paced the deck unsteadily,
bellied out by the winds of his success?
But there was no elation in his gait, which kept pace with the action of his
sombre mind. Hook was profoundly dejected.
He was often thus when communing with himself on board ship in the
quietude of the night. It was because he was so terribly alone. This inscrutable
man never felt more alone than when surrounded by his dogs. They were
socially inferior to him.
Hook was not his true name. To reveal who he really was would even at this
date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read between the lines must
already have guessed, he had been at a famous public school; and its traditions
still clung to him like garments, with which indeed they are largely concerned.
Thus it was offensive to him even now to board a ship in the same dress in which
he grappled [attacked] her, and he still adhered in his walk to the school's
distinguished slouch. But above all he retained the passion for good form.
Good form! However much he may have degenerated, he still knew that this is
all that really matters.
From far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and through them
came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when one cannot sleep.
“Have you been good form to-day?” was their eternal question.
“Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine,” he cried.
“Is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?” the tap-tap from his
school replied.
“I am the only man whom Barbecue feared,” he urged, “and Flint feared
Barbecue.”
“Barbecue, Flint—what house?” came the cutting retort.
Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about good
form?
His vitals were tortured by this problem. It was a claw within him sharper than
the iron one; and as it tore him, the perspiration dripped down his tallow [waxy]
countenance and streaked his doublet. Ofttimes he drew his sleeve across his
face, but there was no damming that trickle.
Ah, envy not Hook.
There came to him a presentiment of his early dissolution [death]. It was as if
Peter's terrible oath had boarded the ship. Hook felt a gloomy desire to make his
dying speech, lest presently there should be no time for it.
“Better for Hook,” he cried, “if he had had less ambition!” It was in his
darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third person.
“No little children to love me!”
Strange that he should think of this, which had never troubled him before;
perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind. For long he muttered to
himself, staring at Smee, who was hemming placidly, under the conviction that
all children feared him.
Feared him! Feared Smee! There was not a child on board the brig that night
who did not already love him. He had said horrid things to them and hit them
with the palm of his hand, because he could not hit with his fist, but they had
only clung to him the more. Michael had tried on his spectacles.
To tell poor Smee that they thought him lovable! Hook itched to do it, but it
seemed too brutal. Instead, he revolved this mystery in his mind: why do they
find Smee lovable? He pursued the problem like the sleuth-hound that he was. If
Smee was lovable, what was it that made him so? A terrible answer suddenly
presented itself—“Good form?”
Had the bo'sun good form without knowing it, which is the best form of all?
He remembered that you have to prove you don't know you have it before you
are eligible for Pop [an elite social club at Eton].
With a cry of rage he raised his iron hand over Smee's head; but he did not
tear. What arrested him was this reflection:
“To claw a man because he is good form, what would that be?”
“Bad form!”
The unhappy Hook was as impotent [powerless] as he was damp, and he fell
forward like a cut flower.
His dogs thinking him out of the way for a time, discipline instantly relaxed;
and they broke into a bacchanalian [drunken] dance, which brought him to his
feet at once, all traces of human weakness gone, as if a bucket of water had
passed over him.
“Quiet, you scugs,” he cried, “or I'll cast anchor in you;” and at once the din
was hushed. “Are all the children chained, so that they cannot fly away?”
“Ay, ay.”
“Then hoist them up.”
The wretched prisoners were dragged from the hold, all except Wendy, and
ranged in line in front of him. For a time he seemed unconscious of their
presence. He lolled at his ease, humming, not unmelodiously, snatches of a rude
song, and fingering a pack of cards. Ever and anon the light from his cigar gave
a touch of colour to his face.
“Now then, bullies,” he said briskly, “six of you walk the plank to-night, but I
have room for two cabin boys. Which of you is it to be?”
“Don't irritate him unnecessarily,” had been Wendy's instructions in the hold;
so Tootles stepped forward politely. Tootles hated the idea of signing under such
a man, but an instinct told him that it would be prudent to lay the responsibility
on an absent person; and though a somewhat silly boy, he knew that mothers
alone are always willing to be the buffer. All children know this about mothers,
and despise them for it, but make constant use of it.
 So Tootles explained prudently, “You see, sir, I don't think my mother would
like me to be a pirate. Would your mother like you to be a pirate, Slightly?”
He winked at Slightly, who said mournfully, “I don't think so,” as if he wished
things had been otherwise. “Would your mother like you to be a pirate, Twin?”
“I don't think so,” said the first twin, as clever as the others. “Nibs, would—”
“Stow this gab,” roared Hook, and the spokesmen were dragged back. “You,
boy,” he said, addressing John, “you look as if you had a little pluck in you.
Didst never want to be a pirate, my hearty?”
Now John had sometimes experienced this hankering at maths. prep.; and he
was struck by Hook's picking him out.
“I once thought of calling myself Red-handed Jack,” he said diffidently.
“And a good name too. We'll call you that here, bully, if you join.”
“What do you think, Michael?” asked John.
“What would you call me if I join?” Michael demanded.
“Blackbeard Joe.”
Michael was naturally impressed. “What do you think, John?” He wanted
John to decide, and John wanted him to decide.
“Shall we still be respectful subjects of the King?” John inquired.
Through Hook's teeth came the answer: “You would have to swear, 'Down
with the King.'”
Perhaps John had not behaved very well so far, but he shone out now.
“Then I refuse,” he cried, banging the barrel in front of Hook.
“And I refuse,” cried Michael.
“Rule Britannia!” squeaked Curly.
The infuriated pirates buffeted them in the mouth; and Hook roared out, “That
seals your doom. Bring up their mother. Get the plank ready.”
They were only boys, and they went white as they saw Jukes and Cecco
preparing the fatal plank. But they tried to look brave when Wendy was brought
up.
No words of mine can tell you how Wendy despised those pirates. To the boys
there was at least some glamour in the pirate calling; but all that she saw was
that the ship had not been tidied for years. There was not a porthole on the grimy
glass of which you might not have written with your finger “Dirty pig”; and she
had already written it on several. But as the boys gathered round her she had no
thought, of course, save for them.
 “So, my beauty,” said Hook, as if he spoke in syrup, “you are to see your
children walk the plank.”
Fine gentlemen though he was, the intensity of his communings had soiled his
ruff, and suddenly he knew that she was gazing at it. With a hasty gesture he
tried to hide it, but he was too late.
“Are they to die?” asked Wendy, with a look of such frightful contempt that he
nearly fainted.
“They are,” he snarled. “Silence all,” he called gloatingly, “for a mother's last
words to her children.”
At this moment Wendy was grand. “These are my last words, dear boys,” she
said firmly. “I feel that I have a message to you from your real mothers, and it is
this: 'We hope our sons will die like English gentlemen.'”
Even the pirates were awed, and Tootles cried out hysterically, “I am going to
do what my mother hopes. What are you to do, Nibs?”
“What my mother hopes. What are you to do, Twin?”
“What my mother hopes. John, what are—”
But Hook had found his voice again.
“Tie her up!” he shouted.
It was Smee who tied her to the mast. “See here, honey,” he whispered, “I'll
save you if you promise to be my mother.”
But not even for Smee would she make such a promise. “I would almost
rather have no children at all,” she said disdainfully [scornfully].
It is sad to know that not a boy was looking at her as Smee tied her to the
mast; the eyes of all were on the plank: that last little walk they were about to
take. They were no longer able to hope that they would walk it manfully, for the
capacity to think had gone from them; they could stare and shiver only.
Hook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and took a step toward Wendy.
His intention was to turn her face so that she should see the boys walking the
plank one by one. But he never reached her, he never heard the cry of anguish he
hoped to wring from her. He heard something else instead.
It was the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile.
They all heard it—pirates, boys, Wendy; and immediately every head was
blown in one direction; not to the water whence the sound proceeded, but toward
Hook. All knew that what was about to happen concerned him alone, and that
from being actors they were suddenly become spectators.
 Very frightful was it to see the change that came over him. It was as if he had
been clipped at every joint. He fell in a little heap.
The sound came steadily nearer; and in advance of it came this ghastly
thought, “The crocodile is about to board the ship!”
Even the iron claw hung inactive; as if knowing that it was no intrinsic part of
what the attacking force wanted. Left so fearfully alone, any other man would
have lain with his eyes shut where he fell: but the gigantic brain of Hook was
still working, and under its guidance he crawled on the knees along the deck as
far from the sound as he could go. The pirates respectfully cleared a passage for
him, and it was only when he brought up against the bulwarks that he spoke.
“Hide me!” he cried hoarsely.
They gathered round him, all eyes averted from the thing that was coming
aboard. They had no thought of fighting it. It was Fate.
Only when Hook was hidden from them did curiosity loosen the limbs of the
boys so that they could rush to the ship's side to see the crocodile climbing it.
Then they got the strangest surprise of the Night of Nights; for it was no
crocodile that was coming to their aid. It was Peter.
He signed to them not to give vent to any cry of admiration that might rouse
suspicion. Then he went on ticking.
 Chapter 15 “HOOK OR ME THIS TIME”
Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our noticing
for a time that they have happened. Thus, to take an instance, we suddenly
discover that we have been deaf in one ear for we don't know how long, but, say,
half an hour. Now such an experience had come that night to Peter. When last we
saw him he was stealing across the island with one finger to his lips and his
dagger at the ready. He had seen the crocodile pass by without noticing anything
peculiar about it, but by and by he remembered that it had not been ticking. At
first he thought this eerie, but soon concluded rightly that the clock had run
down.
Without giving a thought to what might be the feelings of a fellow-creature
thus abruptly deprived of its closest companion, Peter began to consider how he
could turn the catastrophe to his own use; and he decided to tick, so that wild
beasts should believe he was the crocodile and let him pass unmolested. He
ticked superbly, but with one unforeseen result. The crocodile was among those
who heard the sound, and it followed him, though whether with the purpose of
regaining what it had lost, or merely as a friend under the belief that it was again
ticking itself, will never be certainly known, for, like slaves to a fixed idea, it
was a stupid beast.
Peter reached the shore without mishap, and went straight on, his legs
encountering the water as if quite unaware that they had entered a new element.
Thus many animals pass from land to water, but no other human of whom I
know. As he swam he had but one thought: “Hook or me this time.” He had
ticked so long that he now went on ticking without knowing that he was doing it.
Had he known he would have stopped, for to board the brig by help of the tick,
though an ingenious idea, had not occurred to him.
On the contrary, he thought he had scaled her side as noiseless as a mouse;
and he was amazed to see the pirates cowering from him, with Hook in their
midst as abject as if he had heard the crocodile.
The crocodile! No sooner did Peter remember it than he heard the ticking. At
first he thought the sound did come from the crocodile, and he looked behind
him swiftly. Then he realised that he was doing it himself, and in a flash he
understood the situation. “How clever of me!” he thought at once, and signed to
the boys not to burst into applause.
 It was at this moment that Ed Teynte the quartermaster emerged from the
forecastle and came along the deck. Now, reader, time what happened by your
watch. Peter struck true and deep. John clapped his hands on the ill-fated pirate's
mouth to stifle the dying groan. He fell forward. Four boys caught him to
prevent the thud. Peter gave the signal, and the carrion was cast overboard.
There was a splash, and then silence. How long has it taken?
“One!” (Slightly had begun to count.)
None too soon, Peter, every inch of him on tiptoe, vanished into the cabin; for
more than one pirate was screwing up his courage to look round. They could
hear each other's distressed breathing now, which showed them that the more
terrible sound had passed.
“It's gone, captain,” Smee said, wiping off his spectacles. “All's still again.”
Slowly Hook let his head emerge from his ruff, and listened so intently that he
could have caught the echo of the tick. There was not a sound, and he drew
himself up firmly to his full height.
“Then here's to Johnny Plank!” he cried brazenly, hating the boys more than
ever because they had seen him unbend. He broke into the villainous ditty:
“Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank,
You walks along it so,
Till it goes down and you goes down
To Davy Jones below!”

To terrorize the prisoners the more, though with a certain loss of dignity, he
danced along an imaginary plank, grimacing at them as he sang; and when he
finished he cried, “Do you want a touch of the cat [o' nine tails] before you walk
the plank?”
At that they fell on their knees. “No, no!” they cried so piteously that every
pirate smiled.
“Fetch the cat, Jukes,” said Hook; “it's in the cabin.”
The cabin! Peter was in the cabin! The children gazed at each other.
“Ay, ay,” said Jukes blithely, and he strode into the cabin. They followed him
with their eyes; they scarce knew that Hook had resumed his song, his dogs
joining in with him:
“Yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat,
Its tails are nine, you know,
And when they're writ upon your back—”

What was the last line will never be known, for of a sudden the song was
stayed by a dreadful screech from the cabin. It wailed through the ship, and died
away. Then was heard a crowing sound which was well understood by the boys,
but to the pirates was almost more eerie than the screech.
 “What was that?” cried Hook.
“Two,” said Slightly solemnly.
The Italian Cecco hesitated for a moment and then swung into the cabin. He
tottered out, haggard.
“What's the matter with Bill Jukes, you dog?” hissed Hook, towering over
him.
“The matter wi' him is he's dead, stabbed,” replied Cecco in a hollow voice.
“Bill Jukes dead!” cried the startled pirates.
“The cabin's as black as a pit,” Cecco said, almost gibbering, “but there is
something terrible in there: the thing you heard crowing.”
The exultation of the boys, the lowering looks of the pirates, both were seen
by Hook.
“Cecco,” he said in his most steely voice, “go back and fetch me out that
doodle-doo.”
Cecco, bravest of the brave, cowered before his captain, crying “No, no”; but
Hook was purring to his claw.
“Did you say you would go, Cecco?” he said musingly.
Cecco went, first flinging his arms despairingly. There was no more singing,
all listened now; and again came a death-screech and again a crow.
No one spoke except Slightly. “Three,” he said.
Hook rallied his dogs with a gesture. “'S'death and odds fish,” he thundered,
“who is to bring me that doodle-doo?”
“Wait till Cecco comes out,” growled Starkey, and the others took up the cry.
“I think I heard you volunteer, Starkey,” said Hook, purring again.
“No, by thunder!” Starkey cried.
“My hook thinks you did,” said Hook, crossing to him. “I wonder if it would
not be advisable, Starkey, to humour the hook?”
“I'll swing before I go in there,” replied Starkey doggedly, and again he had
the support of the crew.
“Is this mutiny?” asked Hook more pleasantly than ever. “Starkey's
ringleader!”
“Captain, mercy!” Starkey whimpered, all of a tremble now.
“Shake hands, Starkey,” said Hook, proffering his claw.
Starkey looked round for help, but all deserted him. As he backed up Hook
advanced, and now the red spark was in his eye. With a despairing scream the
pirate leapt upon Long Tom and precipitated himself into the sea.
“Four,” said Slightly.
“And now,” Hook said courteously, “did any other gentlemen say mutiny?”
Seizing a lantern and raising his claw with a menacing gesture, “I'll bring out
that doodle-doo myself,” he said, and sped into the cabin.
“Five.” How Slightly longed to say it. He wetted his lips to be ready, but Hook
came staggering out, without his lantern.
“Something blew out the light,” he said a little unsteadily.
“Something!” echoed Mullins.
“What of Cecco?” demanded Noodler.
“He's as dead as Jukes,” said Hook shortly.
His reluctance to return to the cabin impressed them all unfavourably, and the
mutinous sounds again broke forth. All pirates are superstitious, and Cookson
cried, “They do say the surest sign a ship's accurst is when there's one on board
more than can be accounted for.”
“I've heard,” muttered Mullins, “he always boards the pirate craft last. Had he
a tail, captain?”
“They say,” said another, looking viciously at Hook, “that when he comes it's
in the likeness of the wickedest man aboard.”
“Had he a hook, captain?” asked Cookson insolently; and one after another
took up the cry, “The ship's doomed!” At this the children could not resist raising
a cheer. Hook had well-nigh forgotten his prisoners, but as he swung round on
them now his face lit up again.
“Lads,” he cried to his crew, “now here's a notion. Open the cabin door and
drive them in. Let them fight the doodle-doo for their lives. If they kill him,
we're so much the better; if he kills them, we're none the worse.”
For the last time his dogs admired Hook, and devotedly they did his bidding.
The boys, pretending to struggle, were pushed into the cabin and the door was
closed on them.
“Now, listen!” cried Hook, and all listened. But not one dared to face the door.
Yes, one, Wendy, who all this time had been bound to the mast. It was for neither
a scream nor a crow that she was watching, it was for the reappearance of Peter.
She had not long to wait. In the cabin he had found the thing for which he had
gone in search: the key that would free the children of their manacles, and now
they all stole forth, armed with such weapons as they could find. First signing
them to hide, Peter cut Wendy's bonds, and then nothing could have been easier
than for them all to fly off together; but one thing barred the way, an oath, “Hook
or me this time.” So when he had freed Wendy, he whispered for her to conceal
herself with the others, and himself took her place by the mast, her cloak around
him so that he should pass for her. Then he took a great breath and crowed.
To the pirates it was a voice crying that all the boys lay slain in the cabin; and
they were panic-stricken. Hook tried to hearten them; but like the dogs he had
made them they showed him their fangs, and he knew that if he took his eyes off
them now they would leap at him.
“Lads,” he said, ready to cajole or strike as need be, but never quailing for an
instant, “I've thought it out. There's a Jonah aboard.”
“Ay,” they snarled, “a man wi' a hook.”
“No, lads, no, it's the girl. Never was luck on a pirate ship wi' a woman on
board. We'll right the ship when she's gone.”
Some of them remembered that this had been a saying of Flint's. “It's worth
trying,” they said doubtfully.
“Fling the girl overboard,” cried Hook; and they made a rush at the figure in
the cloak.
“There's none can save you now, missy,” Mullins hissed jeeringly.
“There's one,” replied the figure.
“Who's that?”
“Peter Pan the avenger!” came the terrible answer; and as he spoke Peter flung
off his cloak. Then they all knew who 'twas that had been undoing them in the
cabin, and twice Hook essayed to speak and twice he failed. In that frightful
moment I think his fierce heart broke.
At last he cried, “Cleave him to the brisket!” but without conviction.
“Down, boys, and at them!” Peter's voice rang out; and in another moment the
clash of arms was resounding through the ship. Had the pirates kept together it is
certain that they would have won; but the onset came when they were still
unstrung, and they ran hither and thither, striking wildly, each thinking himself
the last survivor of the crew. Man to man they were the stronger; but they fought
on the defensive only, which enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose their
quarry. Some of the miscreants leapt into the sea; others hid in dark recesses,
where they were found by Slightly, who did not fight, but ran about with a
lantern which he flashed in their faces, so that they were half blinded and fell as
an easy prey to the reeking swords of the other boys. There was little sound to be
heard but the clang of weapons, an occasional screech or splash, and Slightly
monotonously counting—five—six—seven eight—nine—ten—eleven.
I think all were gone when a group of savage boys surrounded Hook, who
seemed to have a charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that circle of fire. They
had done for his dogs, but this man alone seemed to be a match for them all.
Again and again they closed upon him, and again and again he hewed a clear
space. He had lifted up one boy with his hook, and was using him as a buckler
[shield], when another, who had just passed his sword through Mullins, sprang
into the fray.
“Put up your swords, boys,” cried the newcomer, “this man is mine.”
Thus suddenly Hook found himself face to face with Peter. The others drew
back and formed a ring around them.
For long the two enemies looked at one another, Hook shuddering slightly,
and Peter with the strange smile upon his face.
“So, Pan,” said Hook at last, “this is all your doing.”
“Ay, James Hook,” came the stern answer, “it is all my doing.”
“Proud and insolent youth,” said Hook, “prepare to meet thy doom.”
“Dark and sinister man,” Peter answered, “have at thee.”
Without more words they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage to
either blade. Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with dazzling rapidity;
ever and anon he followed up a feint with a lunge that got past his foe's defence,
but his shorter reach stood him in ill stead, and he could not drive the steel home.
Hook, scarcely his inferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in wrist play,
forced him back by the weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a
favourite thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio; but to his astonishment
he found this thrust turned aside again and again. Then he sought to close and
give the quietus with his iron hook, which all this time had been pawing the air;
but Peter doubled under it and, lunging fiercely, pierced him in the ribs. At the
sight of his own blood, whose peculiar colour, you remember, was offensive to
him, the sword fell from Hook's hand, and he was at Peter's mercy.
“Now!” cried all the boys, but with a magnificent gesture Peter invited his
opponent to pick up his sword. Hook did so instantly, but with a tragic feeling
that Peter was showing good form.
Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker suspicions
assailed him now.
 “Pan, who and what art thou?” he cried huskily.
“I'm youth, I'm joy,” Peter answered at a venture, “I'm a little bird that has
broken out of the egg.”
This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter
did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good
form.
“To't again,” he cried despairingly.
He fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible sword
would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but Peter
fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out of the danger zone.
And again and again he darted in and pricked.
Hook was fighting now without hope. That passionate breast no longer asked
for life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter show bad form before it was cold
forever.
Abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.
“In two minutes,” he cried, “the ship will be blown to pieces.”
Now, now, he thought, true form will show.
But Peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands, and
calmly flung it overboard.
What sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he
was, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was true
to the traditions of his race. The other boys were flying around him now,
flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the deck striking up at them
impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching in the playing
fields of long ago, or being sent up [to the headmaster] for good, or watching the
wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes were right, and his waistcoat was
right, and his tie was right, and his socks were right.
James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.
For we have come to his last moment.
Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger poised,
he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He did not know that
the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely stopped the clock that this
knowledge might be spared him: a little mark of respect from us at the end.
He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he stood
on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through the air, he
invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It made Peter kick instead of stab.
 At last Hook had got the boon for which he craved.
“Bad form,” he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.
Thus perished James Hook.
“Seventeen,” Slightly sang out; but he was not quite correct in his figures.
Fifteen paid the penalty for their crimes that night; but two reached the shore:
Starkey to be captured by the redskins, who made him nurse for all their
papooses, a melancholy come-down for a pirate; and Smee, who henceforth
wandered about the world in his spectacles, making a precarious living by saying
he was the only man that Jas. Hook had feared.
Wendy, of course, had stood by taking no part in the fight, though watching
Peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she became prominent
again. She praised them equally, and shuddered delightfully when Michael
showed her the place where he had killed one; and then she took them into
Hook's cabin and pointed to his watch which was hanging on a nail. It said “half-
past one!”
The lateness of the hour was almost the biggest thing of all. She got them to
bed in the pirates' bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure; all but Peter, who
strutted up and down on the deck, until at last he fell asleep by the side of Long
Tom. He had one of his dreams that night, and cried in his sleep for a long time,
and Wendy held him tightly.
 Chapter 16 THE RETURN HOME
By three bells that morning they were all stirring their stumps [legs]; for there
was a big sea running; and Tootles, the bo'sun, was among them, with a rope's
end in his hand and chewing tobacco. They all donned pirate clothes cut off at
the knee, shaved smartly, and tumbled up, with the true nautical roll and hitching
their trousers.
It need not be said who was the captain. Nibs and John were first and second
mate. There was a woman aboard. The rest were tars [sailors] before the mast,
and lived in the fo'c'sle. Peter had already lashed himself to the wheel; but he
piped all hands and delivered a short address to them; said he hoped they would
do their duty like gallant hearties, but that he knew they were the scum of Rio
and the Gold Coast, and if they snapped at him he would tear them. The bluff
strident words struck the note sailors understood, and they cheered him lustily.
Then a few sharp orders were given, and they turned the ship round, and nosed
her for the mainland.
Captain Pan calculated, after consulting the ship's chart, that if this weather
lasted they should strike the Azores about the 21st of June, after which it would
save time to fly.
Some of them wanted it to be an honest ship and others were in favour of
keeping it a pirate; but the captain treated them as dogs, and they dared not
express their wishes to him even in a round robin [one person after another, as
they had to Cpt. Hook]. Instant obedience was the only safe thing. Slightly got a
dozen for looking perplexed when told to take soundings. The general feeling
was that Peter was honest just now to lull Wendy's suspicions, but that there
might be a change when the new suit was ready, which, against her will, she was
making for him out of some of Hook's wickedest garments. It was afterwards
whispered among them that on the first night he wore this suit he sat long in the
cabin with Hook's cigar-holder in his mouth and one hand clenched, all but for
the forefinger, which he bent and held threateningly aloft like a hook.
Instead of watching the ship, however, we must now return to that desolate
home from which three of our characters had taken heartless flight so long ago.
It seems a shame to have neglected No. 14 all this time; and yet we may be sure
that Mrs. Darling does not blame us. If we had returned sooner to look with
sorrowful sympathy at her, she would probably have cried, “Don't be silly; what
do I matter? Do go back and keep an eye on the children.” So long as mothers
are like this their children will take advantage of them; and they may lay to [bet
on] that.
Even now we venture into that familiar nursery only because its lawful
occupants are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on in advance of them
to see that their beds are properly aired and that Mr. and Mrs. Darling do not go
out for the evening. We are no more than servants. Why on earth should their
beds be properly aired, seeing that they left them in such a thankless hurry?
Would it not serve them jolly well right if they came back and found that their
parents were spending the week-end in the country? It would be the moral lesson
they have been in need of ever since we met them; but if we contrived things in
this way Mrs. Darling would never forgive us.
One thing I should like to do immensely, and that is to tell her, in the way
authors have, that the children are coming back, that indeed they will be here on
Thursday week. This would spoil so completely the surprise to which Wendy
and John and Michael are looking forward. They have been planning it out on
the ship: mother's rapture, father's shout of joy, Nana's leap through the air to
embrace them first, when what they ought to be prepared for is a good hiding.
How delicious to spoil it all by breaking the news in advance; so that when they
enter grandly Mrs. Darling may not even offer Wendy her mouth, and Mr.
Darling may exclaim pettishly, “Dash it all, here are those boys again.”
However, we should get no thanks even for this. We are beginning to know Mrs.
Darling by this time, and may be sure that she would upbraid us for depriving
the children of their little pleasure.
“But, my dear madam, it is ten days till Thursday week; so that by telling you
what's what, we can save you ten days of unhappiness.”
“Yes, but at what a cost! By depriving the children of ten minutes of delight.”
“Oh, if you look at it in that way!”
“What other way is there in which to look at it?”
You see, the woman had no proper spirit. I had meant to say extraordinarily
nice things about her; but I despise her, and not one of them will I say now. She
does not really need to be told to have things ready, for they are ready. All the
beds are aired, and she never leaves the house, and observe, the window is open.
For all the use we are to her, we might well go back to the ship. However, as we
are here we may as well stay and look on. That is all we are, lookers-on. Nobody
really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of
them will hurt.
 The only change to be seen in the night-nursery is that between nine and six
the kennel is no longer there. When the children flew away, Mr. Darling felt in
his bones that all the blame was his for having chained Nana up, and that from
first to last she had been wiser than he. Of course, as we have seen, he was quite
a simple man; indeed he might have passed for a boy again if he had been able to
take his baldness off; but he had also a noble sense of justice and a lion's courage
to do what seemed right to him; and having thought the matter out with anxious
care after the flight of the children, he went down on all fours and crawled into
the kennel. To all Mrs. Darling's dear invitations to him to come out he replied
sadly but firmly:
“No, my own one, this is the place for me.”
In the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he would never leave the kennel
until his children came back. Of course this was a pity; but whatever Mr. Darling
did he had to do in excess, otherwise he soon gave up doing it. And there never
was a more humble man than the once proud George Darling, as he sat in the
kennel of an evening talking with his wife of their children and all their pretty
ways.
Very touching was his deference to Nana. He would not let her come into the
kennel, but on all other matters he followed her wishes implicitly.
Every morning the kennel was carried with Mr. Darling in it to a cab, which
conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in the same way at six.
Something of the strength of character of the man will be seen if we remember
how sensitive he was to the opinion of neighbours: this man whose every
movement now attracted surprised attention. Inwardly he must have suffered
torture; but he preserved a calm exterior even when the young criticised his little
home, and he always lifted his hat courteously to any lady who looked inside.
It may have been Quixotic, but it was magnificent. Soon the inward meaning
of it leaked out, and the great heart of the public was touched. Crowds followed
the cab, cheering it lustily; charming girls scaled it to get his autograph;
interviews appeared in the better class of papers, and society invited him to
dinner and added, “Do come in the kennel.”
On that eventful Thursday week, Mrs. Darling was in the night-nursery
awaiting George's return home; a very sad-eyed woman. Now that we look at her
closely and remember the gaiety of her in the old days, all gone now just because
she has lost her babes, I find I won't be able to say nasty things about her after
all. If she was too fond of her rubbishy children, she couldn't help it. Look at her
in her chair, where she has fallen asleep. The corner of her mouth, where one
looks first, is almost withered up. Her hand moves restlessly on her breast as if
she had a pain there. Some like Peter best, and some like Wendy best, but I like
her best. Suppose, to make her happy, we whisper to her in her sleep that the
brats are coming back. They are really within two miles of the window now, and
flying strong, but all we need whisper is that they are on the way. Let's.
It is a pity we did it, for she has started up, calling their names; and there is no
one in the room but Nana.
“O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come back.”
Nana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was put her paw gently on her
mistress's lap; and they were sitting together thus when the kennel was brought
back. As Mr. Darling puts his head out to kiss his wife, we see that his face is
more worn than of yore, but has a softer expression.
He gave his hat to Liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no imagination,
and was quite incapable of understanding the motives of such a man. Outside,
the crowd who had accompanied the cab home were still cheering, and he was
naturally not unmoved.
“Listen to them,” he said; “it is very gratifying.”
“Lots of little boys,” sneered Liza.
“There were several adults to-day,” he assured her with a faint flush; but when
she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for her. Social success had not
spoilt him; it had made him sweeter. For some time he sat with his head out of
the kennel, talking with Mrs. Darling of this success, and pressing her hand
reassuringly when she said she hoped his head would not be turned by it.
“But if I had been a weak man,” he said. “Good heavens, if I had been a weak
man!”
“And, George,” she said timidly, “you are as full of remorse as ever, aren't
you?”
“Full of remorse as ever, dearest! See my punishment: living in a kennel.”
“But it is punishment, isn't it, George? You are sure you are not enjoying it?”
“My love!”
You may be sure she begged his pardon; and then, feeling drowsy, he curled
round in the kennel.
“Won't you play me to sleep,” he asked, “on the nursery piano?” and as she
was crossing to the day-nursery he added thoughtlessly, “And shut that window.
I feel a draught.”
 “O George, never ask me to do that. The window must always be left open for
them, always, always.”
Now it was his turn to beg her pardon; and she went into the day-nursery and
played, and soon he was asleep; and while he slept, Wendy and John and
Michael flew into the room.
Oh no. We have written it so, because that was the charming arrangement
planned by them before we left the ship; but something must have happened
since then, for it is not they who have flown in, it is Peter and Tinker Bell.
Peter's first words tell all.
“Quick Tink,” he whispered, “close the window; bar it! That's right. Now you
and I must get away by the door; and when Wendy comes she will think her
mother has barred her out; and she will have to go back with me.”
Now I understand what had hitherto puzzled me, why when Peter had
exterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and leave Tink to escort
the children to the mainland. This trick had been in his head all the time.
Instead of feeling that he was behaving badly he danced with glee; then he
peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing. He whispered to Tink, “It's
Wendy's mother! She is a pretty lady, but not so pretty as my mother. Her mouth
is full of thimbles, but not so full as my mother's was.”
Of course he knew nothing whatever about his mother; but he sometimes
bragged about her.
He did not know the tune, which was “Home, Sweet Home,” but he knew it
was saying, “Come back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy”; and he cried exultantly, “You
will never see Wendy again, lady, for the window is barred!”
He peeped in again to see why the music had stopped, and now he saw that
Mrs. Darling had laid her head on the box, and that two tears were sitting on her
eyes.
“She wants me to unbar the window,” thought Peter, “but I won't, not I!”
He peeped again, and the tears were still there, or another two had taken their
place.
“She's awfully fond of Wendy,” he said to himself. He was angry with her
now for not seeing why she could not have Wendy.
The reason was so simple: “I'm fond of her too. We can't both have her, lady.”
But the lady would not make the best of it, and he was unhappy. He ceased to
look at her, but even then she would not let go of him. He skipped about and
made funny faces, but when he stopped it was just as if she were inside him,
knocking.
“Oh, all right,” he said at last, and gulped. Then he unbarred the window.
“Come on, Tink,” he cried, with a frightful sneer at the laws of nature; “we don't
want any silly mothers;” and he flew away.
Thus Wendy and John and Michael found the window open for them after all,
which of course was more than they deserved. They alighted on the floor, quite
unashamed of themselves, and the youngest one had already forgotten his home.
“John,” he said, looking around him doubtfully, “I think I have been here
before.”
“Of course you have, you silly. There is your old bed.”
“So it is,” Michael said, but not with much conviction.
“I say,” cried John, “the kennel!” and he dashed across to look into it.
“Perhaps Nana is inside it,” Wendy said.
But John whistled. “Hullo,” he said, “there's a man inside it.”
“It's father!” exclaimed Wendy.
“Let me see father,” Michael begged eagerly, and he took a good look. “He is
not so big as the pirate I killed,” he said with such frank disappointment that I
am glad Mr. Darling was asleep; it would have been sad if those had been the
first words he heard his little Michael say.
Wendy and John had been taken aback somewhat at finding their father in the
kennel.
“Surely,” said John, like one who had lost faith in his memory, “he used not to
sleep in the kennel?”
“John,” Wendy said falteringly, “perhaps we don't remember the old life as
well as we thought we did.”
A chill fell upon them; and serve them right.
“It is very careless of mother,” said that young scoundrel John, “not to be here
when we come back.”
It was then that Mrs. Darling began playing again.
“It's mother!” cried Wendy, peeping.
“So it is!” said John.
“Then are you not really our mother, Wendy?” asked Michael, who was surely
sleepy.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Wendy, with her first real twinge of remorse [for having
gone], “it was quite time we came back.”
“Let us creep in,” John suggested, “and put our hands over her eyes.”
But Wendy, who saw that they must break the joyous news more gently, had a
better plan.
“Let us all slip into our beds, and be there when she comes in, just as if we
had never been away.”
And so when Mrs. Darling went back to the night-nursery to see if her
husband was asleep, all the beds were occupied. The children waited for her cry
of joy, but it did not come. She saw them, but she did not believe they were
there. You see, she saw them in their beds so often in her dreams that she thought
this was just the dream hanging around her still.
She sat down in the chair by the fire, where in the old days she had nursed
them.
They could not understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all the three of them.
“Mother!” Wendy cried.
“That's Wendy,” she said, but still she was sure it was the dream.
“Mother!”
“That's John,” she said.
“Mother!” cried Michael. He knew her now.
“That's Michael,” she said, and she stretched out her arms for the three little
selfish children they would never envelop again. Yes, they did, they went round
Wendy and John and Michael, who had slipped out of bed and run to her.
“George, George!” she cried when she could speak; and Mr. Darling woke to
share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in. There could not have been a lovelier
sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the
window. He had had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know;
but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for
ever barred.
 Chapter 17 WHEN WENDY GREW UP
I hope you want to know what became of the other boys. They were waiting
below to give Wendy time to explain about them; and when they had counted
five hundred they went up. They went up by the stair, because they thought this
would make a better impression. They stood in a row in front of Mrs. Darling,
with their hats off, and wishing they were not wearing their pirate clothes. They
said nothing, but their eyes asked her to have them. They ought to have looked at
Mr. Darling also, but they forgot about him.
Of course Mrs. Darling said at once that she would have them; but Mr.
Darling was curiously depressed, and they saw that he considered six a rather
large number.
“I must say,” he said to Wendy, “that you don't do things by halves,” a
grudging remark which the twins thought was pointed at them.
The first twin was the proud one, and he asked, flushing, “Do you think we
should be too much of a handful, sir? Because, if so, we can go away.”
“Father!” Wendy cried, shocked; but still the cloud was on him. He knew he
was behaving unworthily, but he could not help it.
“We could lie doubled up,” said Nibs.
“I always cut their hair myself,” said Wendy.
“George!” Mrs. Darling exclaimed, pained to see her dear one showing
himself in such an unfavourable light.
Then he burst into tears, and the truth came out. He was as glad to have them
as she was, he said, but he thought they should have asked his consent as well as
hers, instead of treating him as a cypher [zero] in his own house.
“I don't think he is a cypher,” Tootles cried instantly. “Do you think he is a
cypher, Curly?”
“No, I don't. Do you think he is a cypher, Slightly?”
“Rather not. Twin, what do you think?”
It turned out that not one of them thought him a cypher; and he was absurdly
gratified, and said he would find space for them all in the drawing-room if they
fitted in.
“We'll fit in, sir,” they assured him.
“Then follow the leader,” he cried gaily. “Mind you, I am not sure that we
have a drawing-room, but we pretend we have, and it's all the same. Hoop la!”
He went off dancing through the house, and they all cried “Hoop la!” and
danced after him, searching for the drawing-room; and I forget whether they
found it, but at any rate they found corners, and they all fitted in.
As for Peter, he saw Wendy once again before he flew away. He did not
exactly come to the window, but he brushed against it in passing so that she
could open it if she liked and call to him. That is what she did.
“Hullo, Wendy, good-bye,” he said.
“Oh dear, are you going away?”
“Yes.”
“You don't feel, Peter,” she said falteringly, “that you would like to say
anything to my parents about a very sweet subject?”
“No.”
“About me, Peter?”
“No.”
Mrs. Darling came to the window, for at present she was keeping a sharp eye
on Wendy. She told Peter that she had adopted all the other boys, and would like
to adopt him also.
“Would you send me to school?” he inquired craftily.
“Yes.”
“And then to an office?”
“I suppose so.”
“Soon I would be a man?”
“Very soon.”
“I don't want to go to school and learn solemn things,” he told her
passionately. “I don't want to be a man. O Wendy's mother, if I was to wake up
and feel there was a beard!”
“Peter,” said Wendy the comforter, “I should love you in a beard;” and Mrs.
Darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.
“Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man.”
 “But where are you going to live?”
“With Tink in the house we built for Wendy. The fairies are to put it high up
among the tree tops where they sleep at nights.”
“How lovely,” cried Wendy so longingly that Mrs. Darling tightened her grip.
“I thought all the fairies were dead,” Mrs. Darling said.
“There are always a lot of young ones,” explained Wendy, who was now quite
an authority, “because you see when a new baby laughs for the first time a new
fairy is born, and as there are always new babies there are always new fairies.
They live in nests on the tops of trees; and the mauve ones are boys and the
white ones are girls, and the blue ones are just little sillies who are not sure what
they are.”
“I shall have such fun,” said Peter, with eye on Wendy.
“It will be rather lonely in the evening,” she said, “sitting by the fire.”
“I shall have Tink.”
“Tink can't go a twentieth part of the way round,” she reminded him a little
tartly.
“Sneaky tell-tale!” Tink called out from somewhere round the corner.
“It doesn't matter,” Peter said.
“O Peter, you know it matters.”
“Well, then, come with me to the little house.”
“May I, mummy?”
“Certainly not. I have got you home again, and I mean to keep you.”
“But he does so need a mother.”
“So do you, my love.”
“Oh, all right,” Peter said, as if he had asked her from politeness merely; but
Mrs. Darling saw his mouth twitch, and she made this handsome offer: to let
Wendy go to him for a week every year to do his spring cleaning. Wendy would
have preferred a more permanent arrangement; and it seemed to her that spring
would be long in coming; but this promise sent Peter away quite gay again. He
had no sense of time, and was so full of adventures that all I have told you about
him is only a halfpenny-worth of them. I suppose it was because Wendy knew
this that her last words to him were these rather plaintive ones:
“You won't forget me, Peter, will you, before spring cleaning time comes?”
Of course Peter promised; and then he flew away. He took Mrs. Darling's kiss
with him. The kiss that had been for no one else, Peter took quite easily. Funny.
But she seemed satisfied.
Of course all the boys went to school; and most of them got into Class III, but
Slightly was put first into Class IV and then into Class V. Class I is the top class.
Before they had attended school a week they saw what goats they had been not
to remain on the island; but it was too late now, and soon they settled down to
being as ordinary as you or me or Jenkins minor [the younger Jenkins]. It is sad
to have to say that the power to fly gradually left them. At first Nana tied their
feet to the bed-posts so that they should not fly away in the night; and one of
their diversions by day was to pretend to fall off buses [the English double-
deckers]; but by and by they ceased to tug at their bonds in bed, and found that
they hurt themselves when they let go of the bus. In time they could not even fly
after their hats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was that
they no longer believed.
Michael believed longer than the other boys, though they jeered at him; so he
was with Wendy when Peter came for her at the end of the first year. She flew
away with Peter in the frock she had woven from leaves and berries in the
Neverland, and her one fear was that he might notice how short it had become;
but he never noticed, he had so much to say about himself.
She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new
adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.
“Who is Captain Hook?” he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch
enemy.
“Don't you remember,” she asked, amazed, “how you killed him and saved all
our lives?”
“I forget them after I kill them,” he replied carelessly.
When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see her
he said, “Who is Tinker Bell?”
“O Peter,” she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not
remember.
“There are such a lot of them,” he said. “I expect she is no more.”
I expect he was right, for fairies don't live long, but they are so little that a
short time seems a good while to them.
Wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday to Peter;
it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was exactly as
fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning in the little house on
the tree tops.
 Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because the old
one simply would not meet; but he never came.
“Perhaps he is ill,” Michael said.
“You know he is never ill.”
Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, “Perhaps there is no
such person, Wendy!” and then Wendy would have cried if Michael had not been
crying.
Peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he never knew
he had missed a year.
That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer she
tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was untrue to him
when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years came and went
without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again Wendy was a
married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little dust in the box in
which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown up. You need not be sorry for
her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her
own free will a day quicker than other girls.
All the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely worth
while saying anything more about them. You may see the twins and Nibs and
Curly any day going to an office, each carrying a little bag and an umbrella.
Michael is an engine-driver [train engineer]. Slightly married a lady of title, and
so he became a lord. You see that judge in a wig coming out at the iron door?
That used to be Tootles. The bearded man who doesn't know any story to tell his
children was once John.
Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange to think that Peter
did not alight in the church and forbid the banns [formal announcement of a
marriage].
Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be written
in ink but in a golden splash.
She was called Jane, and always had an odd inquiring look, as if from the
moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask questions. When she was
old enough to ask them they were mostly about Peter Pan. She loved to hear of
Peter, and Wendy told her all she could remember in the very nursery from
which the famous flight had taken place. It was Jane's nursery now, for her father
had bought it at the three per cents [mortgage rate] from Wendy's father, who
was no longer fond of stairs. Mrs. Darling was now dead and forgotten.
 There were only two beds in the nursery now, Jane's and her nurse's; and there
was no kennel, for Nana also had passed away. She died of old age, and at the
end she had been rather difficult to get on with; being very firmly convinced that
no one knew how to look after children except herself.
Once a week Jane's nurse had her evening off; and then it was Wendy's part to
put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was Jane's invention to raise the
sheet over her mother's head and her own, thus making a tent, and in the awful
darkness to whisper:
“What do we see now?”
“I don't think I see anything to-night,” says Wendy, with a feeling that if Nana
were here she would object to further conversation.
“Yes, you do,” says Jane, “you see when you were a little girl.”
“That is a long time ago, sweetheart,” says Wendy. “Ah me, how time flies!”
“Does it fly,” asks the artful child, “the way you flew when you were a little
girl?”
“The way I flew? Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever did
really fly.”
“Yes, you did.”
“The dear old days when I could fly!”
“Why can't you fly now, mother?”
“Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way.”
“Why do they forget the way?”
“Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only the gay
and innocent and heartless who can fly.”
“What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I were gay and innocent
and heartless.”
Or perhaps Wendy admits she does see something.
“I do believe,” she says, “that it is this nursery.”
“I do believe it is,” says Jane. “Go on.”
They are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter flew in
looking for his shadow.
“The foolish fellow,” says Wendy, “tried to stick it on with soap, and when he
could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on for him.”
“You have missed a bit,” interrupts Jane, who now knows the story better than
her mother. “When you saw him sitting on the floor crying, what did you say?”
“I sat up in bed and I said, 'Boy, why are you crying?'”
“Yes, that was it,” says Jane, with a big breath.
“And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies and the pirates
and the redskins and the mermaids' lagoon, and the home under the ground, and
the little house.”
“Yes! which did you like best of all?”
“I think I liked the home under the ground best of all.”
“Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter ever said to you?”
“The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Just always be waiting for me, and
then some night you will hear me crowing.'”
“Yes.”
“But, alas, he forgot all about me,” Wendy said it with a smile. She was as
grown up as that.
“What did his crow sound like?” Jane asked one evening.
“It was like this,” Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter's crow.
“No, it wasn't,” Jane said gravely, “it was like this;” and she did it ever so
much better than her mother.
Wendy was a little startled. “My darling, how can you know?”
“I often hear it when I am sleeping,” Jane said.
“Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the only one
who heard it awake.”
“Lucky you,” said Jane.
And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and the
story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her bed. Wendy
was sitting on the floor, very close to the fire, so as to see to darn, for there was
no other light in the nursery; and while she sat darning she heard a crow. Then
the window blew open as of old, and Peter dropped in on the floor.
He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had all
his first teeth.
He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring
to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.
“Hullo, Wendy,” he said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking
chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might have been the
nightgown in which he had seen her first.
“Hullo, Peter,” she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible.
Something inside her was crying “Woman, Woman, let go of me.”
“Hullo, where is John?” he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.
“John is not here now,” she gasped.
“Is Michael asleep?” he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.
“Yes,” she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as well as to
Peter.
“That is not Michael,” she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on her.
Peter looked. “Hullo, is it a new one?”
“Yes.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Girl.”
Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.
“Peter,” she said, faltering, “are you expecting me to fly away with you?”
“Of course; that is why I have come.” He added a little sternly, “Have you
forgotten that this is spring cleaning time?”
She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring cleaning times
pass.
“I can't come,” she said apologetically, “I have forgotten how to fly.”
“I'll soon teach you again.”
“O Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me.”
She had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him. “What is it?” he cried,
shrinking.
“I will turn up the light,” she said, “and then you can see for yourself.”
For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid. “Don't
turn up the light,” he cried.
She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl
heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were
wet-eyed smiles.
Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when
the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply.
“What is it?” he cried again.
 She had to tell him.
“I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago.”
“You promised not to!”
“I couldn't help it. I am a married woman, Peter.”
“No, you're not.”
“Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.”
“No, she's not.”
But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with
his dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on the floor instead
and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she could
have done it so easily once. She was only a woman now, and she ran out of the
room to try to think.
Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed, and
was interested at once.
“Boy,” she said, “why are you crying?”
Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.
“Hullo,” he said.
“Hullo,” said Jane.
“My name is Peter Pan,” he told her.
“Yes, I know.”
“I came back for my mother,” he explained, “to take her to the Neverland.”
“Yes, I know,” Jane said, “I have been waiting for you.”
When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post
crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the room in
solemn ecstasy.
“She is my mother,” Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by his
side, with the look in her face that he liked to see on ladies when they gazed at
him.
“He does so need a mother,” Jane said.
“Yes, I know,” Wendy admitted rather forlornly; “no one knows it so well as
I.”
“Good-bye,” said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the shameless
Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving about.
Wendy rushed to the window.
 “No, no,” she cried.
“It is just for spring cleaning time,” Jane said, “he wants me always to do his
spring cleaning.”
“If only I could go with you,” Wendy sighed.
“You see you can't fly,” said Jane.
Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse of
her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky until they
were as small as stars.
As you look at Wendy, you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure
little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a common grown-up,
with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring cleaning time, except when he
forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells
him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. When Margaret grows up
she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter's mother in turn; and thus it will go
on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.
THE END

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