A Great Man

‘Well?’ said Tom Knight, determined not to commit himself, and waiting wanly for a chance, like a duellist.

‘What’s all this noise for? I told you I specially wanted you to go to sleep at once to-night.’

‘Yes,’ said Tom, staring at the counterpane and picking imaginary bits off it. ‘And you might have known I shouldn’t go to sleep after that!’

‘And here it’s nearly midnight!’ Aunt Annie proceeded. ‘What do you want?’

‘You—you’ve left the comb in my hair,’ said Tom. He nearly cried.

Every night Aunt Annie curled Tom’s hair.

‘Is it such a tiny boy that it couldn’t take it out itself?’ Aunt Annie said kindly, going to the cot and extracting the comb. ‘Now try to sleep.’ She kissed him.

‘And I’ve heard burglars,’ Tom continued, without moving.

‘Oh no, you’ve not,’ Aunt Annie pronounced sharply. ‘You can’t hear burglars every night, you know.’

‘I heard running about, and doors shutting and things.’

‘That was Uncle Henry and me. Will you promise to be a good boy if I tell you a secret?’

‘I shan’t promise,’ Tom replied. ‘But if it’s a good secret I’ll try—hard.’

‘Well, you’ve got a cousin, a little boy, ever so little! There! What do you think of that?’

‘I knew someone had got into the house!’ was Tom’s dispassionate remark. ‘What’s his name?’

‘He hasn’t any name yet, but he will have soon.’

‘Did he come up the stairs?’ Tom asked.

Aunt Annie laughed. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Then, he must have come through the window or down the chimney; and he wouldn’t come down the chimney ‘cause of the soot. So he came through the window. Whose little boy is he? Yours?’

‘No. Aunt Susan’s.’

‘I suppose she knows he’s come?’

‘Oh yes. She knows. And she’s very glad. Now go to sleep. And I’ll tell Aunt Susan you’ll be a good boy.’

‘You’d better not,’ Tom warned her. ‘I don’t feel sure. And I say, auntie, will there come any more little boys to-night?’

‘I don’t think so, dear.’ Aunt Annie smiled. She was half way through the door, and spoke into the passage.

‘But are you sure?’ Tom persisted.

‘Yes, I’m sure. Go to sleep.’

‘Doesn’t Aunt Susan want another one?’

‘No, she doesn’t. Go to sleep, I say.’

‘‘Cause, when I came, another little boy came just afterwards, and he died, that little boy did. And mamma, too. Father told me.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Aunt Annie, closing the door. ‘Bee-by.’

‘I didn’t promise,’ Tom murmured to his conscience. ‘But it’s a good secret,’ he added brazenly. He climbed over the edge of the cot, and let himself down gently till his feet touched the floor. He found his clothes, which Aunt Annie invariably placed on a chair in a certain changeless order, and he put some of them on, somehow. Then he softly opened the door and crept down the stairs to the second-floor. He was an adventurous and incalculable child, and he desired to see the baby.

Persons who called on Mr. Henry Knight in his private capacity rang at the side-door to the right of the shop, and were instructed by the shop-caretaker to mount two flights of stairs, having mounted which they would perceive in front of them a door, where they were to ring again. This door was usually closed, but to-night Tom found it ajar. He peeped out and downwards, and thought of the vast showroom below and the wonderful regions of the street. Then he drew in his head, and concealed himself behind the plush portiere. From his hiding-place he could watch the door of Uncle Henry’s and Aunt Susan’s bedroom, and he could also, whenever he felt inclined, glance down the stairway.

He waited, with the patience and the fatalism of infancy, for something to happen.

After an interval of time not mathematically to be computed, Tom heard a step on the stairs, and looked forth. A tall gentleman wearing a high hat and carrying a black bag was ascending. In a flash Tom recollected a talk with his dead father, in which that glorious and gay parent had explained to him that he, Tom, had been brought to his mother’s room by the doctor in a black bag.

Tom pulled open the door at the head of the stairs, went outside, and drew the door to behind him.

‘Are you the doctor?’ he demanded, staring intently at the bag to see whether anything wriggled within.

‘Yes, my man,’ said the doctor. It was Quain Short, wrenched from the Alhambra.

‘Well, they don’t want another one. They’ve got one,’ Tom asserted, still observing the bag.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Aunt Annie said particularly that they didn’t want another one.’

‘Who is it that has come? Do you know his name? Christopher—is that it?’