THE NICE MAN AND THE KIDS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3773, 6 July 1926, Page 81

THE NICE MAN AND THE KIDS.

By

ALICE. A. KENNY.

(Copyright.—Fob the Witness.) Lucy was a broken-hearted girl. Her aunt, with whom she lived, had decided at the last moment that she must have the children out of the way on her “ At home” day, and naturally it fill to Lucy’s lot to take them away. Clare, their elder sister, would not have taken charge of them even if she had been asked to do so, and of course she was not asked because she always helped to entertain at her mother’s “ At homes.”

Vbout ordinary “At homes ” Lucy cared little, but tliis one was a great event. The Entertaining Comedy Company was playing one night in Harrington; its star actor was Air Lucian Neville, whose mother was a friend of Lucy’s aunt, Mrs Gordon, and the afternoon was given in liis honour. Everyone said he was perfectly lovely, and Clare was greatly excited about the affair; so Lucy, the exile, was brokenhearted when she gathered the tribe, the picnic basket, the rug, the bat and ball, Beryl’s doll, and baby’s teddy bear, and trailed them all through the orchard and across the road to the paddock where the big oak tree grew. Lucy spread the rug under the tree, and wanted to remain there and mope with a-book, but she was the children’s best-loved playmate, and they dragged her off to play. After about two hours of great activity they thought of the shady tree and the lemonade in the basket, and began to straggle in the direction of the oak. Lucy followed slowly after them, having painful inward visions of the unimaginably beautiful Mr Lucian Neville in her aunt’s drawing room. She was .not going to the play—the prices were too high,—but she had studied the posters, and knew exactly how he looked in “Tried By Burning Fires,” when he stepped in front of the persecuted heroine and defied the world and, apparently, the police for her sake. No doubt he would look different in a drawing room, with his hair brushed and his collar buttoned, and no one to defy, but he could not look less beautiful. Not to be there was a bitter haruship, worthy of tears if Lucy had been given to weeping over her disappointments. The children had reached the tree, and as Lucy drew near she noticed that a hush had fallen on them. Seven little backs and seven shining heads occupied the foreground, but they were mute, motionless, like a row little worshippers in some sacred place. With some curiosity she hastened her steps. No wonder the children stared. She stopped short, her eyes a 3 round, her lips as still as theirs. For on the rug, iu the leafy shade, lay a young man fast asleep! And what a young inan! From his dusty but elegant shoes, and silk socks, up to his marvellous tie and shining head he was perfect, and his unconscious face was as nice as his beautiful socks, and his hands very shapely and well cared for—Altogether an impossible-apparition for their paddock. “He’s asleep,” explained Beryl very unnecessarily as the stranger stirred. Lucy was on her knees behind the group of seated children when the unknown woke, and sat up in the middle of their rug. He looked at them, they looked at him; he saw, perhaps a little mistily, seven faces like a bunch of roses, unwinkingly regarding him, and one, a little older and paler, with aii arresting pair of grey eyes. He smiled a whimsical smile, so sweet and funny that the whole eight were immediately liis slaves. One of his eyebrows arched itself, and tne corners of his mouth went up delightfully.

“I might—hie—have known it,” Jie said affectionately. “ I guessed when I saw this rug spread for me on a moss—on a mossy bank whereon the wild thyme grows—that the fairies were about. I’ve always been a part—a par-tic—a great favourite of the fairies. Alusic, stringed instruments, off stage. Madam Titania, fairies, elves, and sprites, permit me to make my bow.” He rose and, hat in hand, executed a low bow with a curious lurch in it.

“To ho! Mariners all! ”he sang out. M I’ve got them back; my legs I mean—to be accurate I mean I’ve got the use of them.” He sat down again and smiled winningly. “Have you had an injury to your legs? ” asked Lucy timidly. “ Temporary only; a weakness came over me as I was walking near here on my way to a place of torment, and ] was glad to stretch my limbs on the rug. I fear I have been i trusive. I must have fallen asleep like the rude shipboy mentioned by William H. Shakespeare; sleep must have sealed up my eyes and rocked my brains—something rocked them — possibly that last one.” “Perhaps you’d feel better,” said Aucy kindly, ‘Mf you had some afternoon tea with us; we've got the thermos here, and there’s plenty, because the children prefer lemonade.”

“I should love it,” said the young man, “after my recent terrible experience.’’ He took a hasty glance at his wrist watch and grimaced. Did you have a terrible experience?” asked Bill, the youngest boy but one. “Not on our road?” “Sir, in faith I did. Zounds and oasboots, yes!” “Did you meet a bear?” “No, no, not a bear, except one in a pram—l met a certain homely devil in plus fours, and he said, “Another little drink won’t do you any harm !”Not knowing what I’d had thus quoth he, yea and verily. It was a mistake, mark you, and mine, for it did. What delightful teaWhat am I sitting on?—Oh Air Teddy Bear, a thousand pardons!” “Aly bear,” said Baby reaching out his arms for his toy as the stranger drew it from under him. “Here you are. I have my faults, hut I would never stoop to rob a fellow-man of his teddy. Never, sir. I once hada teddy of my own, and it saved my life in a great peril.” “Tell us about it,” begged Mollie, almost sitting on his knee. “I will, only you’ll have to excuse my emotion and let me finish^this sandwich first.” The children were draped all over him, and Beryl’s hat was on his head, before he finished the moving tale of the brave and sagacious teddy bear. “What’s sa—gacious?” asked Bill. “Fond of soap and water,” was the prompt reply. Lucy hung on his words, almost as enthralled as the children and plied him with everything the basket contained. He was nothing loth, and ate bread and jam, apples and toffee with the rest. “Tell us some more,” clamoured the children. “Lucy isn’t he a nice man.” “Is your name Lucy, little Grey-eyes?” he asked with interest. “ Yes.” “And do you dwell in unfrequented ways beside the river*Dove? Tell you some more? Why vou kids do want a lot. I can hardlv breathe, much less recite with this heavy-weight two-vear-old putting a strange hold on me. Well listen and I’ll tell vou a sad, sad, poem I made myself. “The king sat on his golden throne, the orb was on his knee; he said I am about to prom-ul-gate a wise decree and added in an undertone, “just nass the mace to me.” But that important wise decree was not prom-ul-gated, for they passed him inadvertantly, the nutmeg in its stead.” _ “I’m sure you can sing,” said Lucy, “and I wish you would.” “I can sing,” volunteered Beryl, carried away by the atmosphere of joyance and revelry the stranger had created, beneath the oak tree, and she began to pipe out a school song in a very true and pretty little voice. Everyone ioined mirthfully in as if it were a game, but one by one they all dropped out and left the stranger to sing alone. He was not it all bashful and went on to sing all sorts of odd little songs, some of them funny, some about fairies, which Mollie particularly liked, n nd one about a lady called Lucy, which made Lucy colour up. He whistled like a bird too, and when at last he btood up to go his feet went to dancing little steps as if they were as full of gaiety as his face. “I have enjoyed myself,” he said. “In this instance the cup that steals men’s wits awav and leads them into many singular situations, including the lock-up, led my straying feet into an ambush of fairies. Ladies and gentlemen all. I am your debtor for a much needed interval of repose in which to—er—sleep it off; for the sight of all your prettv friendlv faces; for your jam bread, and your toffee, and for vour' generous appreciation of my humble efforts to instruct and amuse. Drunk or sober I shall ever look back upon this as a well-spent afternoon. Smallest of the tribe, may I kiss you good-bye?” Baby obliged him with moist enthusiasm and one little face after another was lifted to his lips. Little arma w T ent round his neck, and he hugged and kissed each child Lucy, still sitting on the grass, did not know whether to take flight or not, and suddenly his hand was under her chin, and he kissed her on the mouth. It was a wonderful kiss; he put his lips so firmly and gently on hers that Lucy shivered with emotion, and could have cried. Then he jumped her gaily to her feet and uttered an exclamation. “My stars! are you grown up' I say have I been too familiar? I thought you were a little thing of fourteen or so.” “I —l’m nineteen,” said Lucy “Oh! that’s all right then. Let me kiss you again in a respectful grown-up manner.” “Oh, no, please.” “Why not? I am a homeless rover, and this little glimpse of domestic life haa been very dear to me. You might have some pity on a lonely fate-driven man who’ moves from town to town, from railway stati6n to railway station, from one condemned country theatre to another, and travels with a blighted human menagerie. I must depart—and probably I’ll never see you again. Pity me, you innocenteyed darling. Tell me your name and address that I may inscribe them on my heart—and give me one kiss.” Lucy gave him all he asked, mortal maiden could not withstand that golden voice, those winning looks. And bow sweet, bow exciting those gay irrespolir Bible kisses were. When she told him her name and ftd dress he tottered and moaned.