Knock Three Times!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” asked Molly with interest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” cried both children together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV

Jack’s Misfortune

THE children were obliged to walk quickly in order to keep pace with their guide, who trotted along rapidly, never troubling to glance round to see if they were coming. Once they had left the clearing and the queer little house behind them, and plunged into the wood, they found it quite dark; and darker still as they got farther in. Strange crackly noises could be heard from time to time behind the bushes and trees, which suggested all sorts of things to you if you happened to be a little girl or boy with a fairly active imagination.

Of course, there was always Old Nancy’s gift—the matches—if the darkness grew unbearable. Both Jack and Molly remembered the matches, but they did not feel quite sure whether this was the proper time to use them, as they were afraid of offending their guide if they suggested that his lantern did not give enough light.

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

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

“Eh?” asked Mr Papingay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” Molly asked.

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

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

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

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

“What is it now?” inquired Molly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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