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The Tower Of Mystery
by
The girls and the white mice did not do anything boldly wicked–though of course they used to borrow Mrs. Pettigrew’s needles, which made her very nasty. Needles that are borrowed might just as well be stolen. But I say no more.
I have only told you these things to show the kind of events which occurred on the days I don’t tell you about. On the whole, we had an excellent time.
It was on the day we had the pillow-fight that we went for the long walk. Not the Pilgrimage–that is another story. We did not mean to have a pillow-fight. It is not usual to have them after breakfast, but Oswald had come up to get his knife out of the pocket of his Etons, to cut some wire we were making rabbit snares of. It is a very good knife, with a file in it, as well as a corkscrew and other things–and he did not come down at once, because he was detained by having to make an apple-pie bed for Dicky. Dicky came up after him to see what we was up to, and when he did see he buzzed a pillow at Oswald, and the fight began. The others, hearing the noise of battle from afar, hastened to the field of action, all except Dora, who couldn’t, because of being laid up with her foot, and Daisy, because she is a little afraid of us still, when we are all together. She thinks we are rough. This comes of having only one brother.
Well, the fight was a very fine one. Alice backed me up, and Noel and H. O. backed Dicky, and Denny heaved a pillow or two; but he cannot shy straight, so I don’t know which side he was on.
And just as the battle raged most fiercely, Mrs. Pettigrew came in and snatched the pillows away, and shook those of the warriors who were small enough for it. She was rough if you like. She also used language I should have thought she would be above. She said, “Drat you!” and “Drabbit you!” The last is a thing I have never heard said before. She said:
“There’s no peace of your life with you children. Drat your antics! And that poor, dear, patient gentleman right underneath, with his headache and his handwriting: and you rampaging about over his head like young bull-calves. I wonder you haven’t more sense, a great girl like you.”
She said this to Alice, and Alice answered gently, as we are told to do:
“I really am awfully sorry; we forgot about the headache. Don’t be cross, Mrs. Pettigrew; we didn’t mean to; we didn’t think.”
“You never do,” she said, and her voice, though grumpy, was no longer violent. “Why on earth you can’t take yourselves off for the day I don’t know.”
We all said, “But may we?”
She said, “Of course you may. Now put on your boots and go for a good long walk. And I’ll tell you what–I’ll put you up a snack, and you can have an egg to your tea to make up for missing your dinner. Now don’t go clattering about the stairs and passages, there’s good children. See if you can’t be quiet this once, and give the good gentleman a chance with his copying.”
She went off. Her bark is worse than her bite. She does not understand anything about writing books, though. She thinks Albert’s uncle copies things out of printed books, when he is really writing new ones. I wonder how she thinks printed books get made first of all. Many servants are like this.
She gave us the “snack” in a basket, and sixpence to buy milk with. She said any of the farms would let us have it, only most likely it would be skim. We thanked her politely, and she hurried us out of the front door as if we’d been chickens on a pansy bed.