FullReads

All the newspapers contained enormous biographies of King Maximilian and much sketchier accounts of Terry, who was, according to the three versions, eight, fourteen, and four years of age. And all three had pictures, lots of pictures—Maximilian in the uniform of a Czechoslovakian Horse Marine; Maximilian opening the Museum of Osteothermodynamics in Tzetokoskavar, capital of Slovaria; Terry in the rle of the Poor Little Blind Boy (he recovered his sight, of course, when the Kind Rich Lady and the Big-hearted Surgeon got hold of him) in the film “Out of the Night”; Terry gardening at Poppy Peaks—Terry was known to be as fond of gardening as Presidential candidates are of haymaking; the Hotel Picardie—X marks the spot; and sixteen lovely portraits of Queen Sidonie.

But the Evening Era had the greatest triumph of all—an account of Josephus the Hound, with a photograph furnished by the courtesy of the Bond Street Dog and Animal Shop. Only it was the photograph of a greyhound. But Terry was slightly comforted by a full-page advertisement of his film “Kiddies Kourageous,” which the enterprising Halcyon Theater was going to revive.

The three boys crouched over the papers; even Josephus was crouching, under the table.

“All the ‘tecs in the United Kingdom will be looking for us. We must cut and run,” moaned Ginger. Then, with such concentration as he had never given to any intellectual problem, even the question of transmuting a shilling tip into two-and-six, he considered, “No, we must ‘ide. They’ll be watching even the roads. We’ll lay up for a couple of days, and then start out by midnight. Yuss. ‘Ide under ‘edges. ”

“Splendid. Just like escaping from German prison camps!” gloated Terry. “But where shall we hide till—Oh! At your uncle Henry’s! You said he lived in London. And he’ll tell us all about pirates. You said he was a pirate once, didn’t—”

Ginger looked dark-browed; Ginger looked distressed. “Now. Can’t be done. Me uncle ‘Ennery and me isn’t on speaking terms. ”

“Then you’ll just have to get on speaking terms! It’s the only place we’ve got. ”

“Now. Can’t. ”

“Nonsense!” It was Max, very vigorous. “Of course an old pirate would be glad to greet young ones. You’ll take us there at once, Ginger. ”

“I will not!”

“Do you hear me, Bundock?” Terry and Ginger stared equally at the change in the amiable Max’s voice. “I’m not requesting it; I’m giving a command. Do you happen to remember who I am?”

Ginger looked more scared than ever; he snapped back into his training as a hotel servant; he quivered, “Very well, sir, but I don’t advise it; not Uncle ‘Ennery I don’t. ”

But he led them, sneaking through alleys, craftily taking roundabout bus lines, shivering every time they fancied a policeman was looking at them, across the river and into the district of Bermondsey. It was, to Max and Terry, a London altogether different from the city of Palladian clubs, snug Georgian houses about tranquil squares, haughty shops and immaculate streets that they had known. They were bewildered by a waste of houses, two stories high, made of stone or a grimy grayish-yellow brick, set side by side, without grass or trees—miles of brick dog kennels, broken only by bristling railroad tracks, warehouses like prisons, innumerable public houses that smelled of stale beer, and vast streets that were as disordered as they were noisy.

They left a bus on Abbey Road, and Ginger guided them up a side street full of little shops. It was six o’clock now, with smoke-streaked fog settling down again; the bars were open and into them streamed navvies with trousers tied above the ankles, old charwomen in shawls and aprons, scrawny children with beer cans. They were all contemptuously indifferent to a stray American small boy, these thirsty workers.

“Let’s hurry to your uncle’s,” Terry begged.

“You won’t like ’im,” said Ginger darkly.

“But you said he was so jolly! That time he sang ‘Knocked ‘Em in the Old Kent Road’ to the Empress of Japan. ”

“Oh. thattime,” observed Ginger.

His steps slackened. For all their urging, for all Josephus’ cheerful leaping, Ginger loitered, till they came to a hand laundry and, pointing through a steamy window at a small squirrel-toothed narrow-shouldered man who was turning a wringer, Ginger muttered, “That’s ’im; that’s Uncle ‘Ennery. ”