By three bells that morning they were all stirring their stumps
[legs]; for there was a big sea running; and Tootles, the bo’sun,
was among them, with a rope’s end in his hand and chewing
tobacco. They all donned pirate clothes cut off at the knee,
shaved smartly, and tumbled up, with the true nautical roll and
hitching their trousers.
It need not be said who was the captain. Nibs and John were
first and second mate. There was a woman aboard. The rest were
tars [sailors] before the mast, and lived in the fo’c’sle. Peter
had already lashed himself to the wheel; but he piped all hands
and delivered a short address to them; said he hoped they would
do their duty like gallant hearties, but that he knew they were
the scum of Rio and the Gold Coast, and if they snapped at him he
would tear them. The bluff strident words struck the note
sailors understood, and they cheered him lustily. Then a few
sharp orders were given, and they turned the ship round, and nosed
her for the mainland.
Captain Pan calculated, after consulting the ship’s chart, that
if this weather lasted they should strike the Azores about the
21st of June, after which it would save time to fly.
Some of them wanted it to be an honest ship and others were in
favour of keeping it a pirate; but the captain treated them as
dogs, and they dared not express their wishes to him even in a
round robin [one person after another, as they had to Cpt. Hook].
Instant obedience was the only safe thing. Slightly got a dozen
for looking perplexed when told to take soundings. The general
feeling was that Peter was honest just now to lull Wendy’s
suspicions, but that there might be a change when the new suit
was ready, which, against her will, she was making for him out of
some of Hook’s wickedest garments. It was afterwards whispered
among them that on the first night he wore this suit he sat long
in the cabin with Hook’s cigar-holder in his mouth and one hand
clenched, all but for the forefinger, which he bent and held
threateningly aloft like a hook.
Instead of watching the ship, however, we must now return to
that desolate home from which three of our characters had taken
heartless flight so long ago. It seems a shame to have neglected
No. 14 all this time; and yet we may be sure that Mrs. Darling
does not blame us. If we had returned sooner to look with
sorrowful sympathy at her, she would probably have cried, “Don’t
be silly; what do I matter? Do go back and keep an eye on the
children.” So long as mothers are like this their children will
take advantage of them; and they may lay to [bet on] that.
Even now we venture into that familiar nursery only because its
lawful occupants are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on
in advance of them to see that their beds are properly aired and
that Mr. and Mrs. Darling do not go out for the evening. We are
no more than servants. Why on earth should their beds be
properly aired, seeing that they left them in such a thankless
hurry? Would it not serve them jolly well right if they came
back and found that their parents were spending the week-end in
the country? It would be the moral lesson they have been in need
of ever since we met them; but if we contrived things in this way
Mrs. Darling would never forgive us.
One thing I should like to do immensely, and that is to tell
her, in the way authors have, that the children are coming back,
that indeed they will be here on Thursday week. This would spoil
so completely the surprise to which Wendy and John and Michael
are looking forward. They have been planning it out on the ship:
mother’s rapture, father’s shout of joy, Nana’s leap through the
air to embrace them first, when what they ought to be prepared
for is a good hiding. How delicious to spoil it all by breaking
the news in advance; so that when they enter grandly Mrs. Darling
may not even offer Wendy her mouth, and Mr. Darling may exclaim
pettishly, “Dash it all, here are those boys again.” However, we
should get no thanks even for this. We are beginning to know
Mrs. Darling by this time, and may be sure that she would upbraid
us for depriving the children of their little pleasure.
“But, my dear madam, it is ten days till Thursday week; so that
by telling you what’s what, we can save you ten days of
“Yes, but at what a cost! By depriving the children of ten
minutes of delight.”
“Oh, if you look at it in that way!”
“What other way is there in which to look at it?”
You see, the woman had no proper spirit. I had meant to say
extraordinarily nice things about her; but I despise her, and not
one of them will I say now. She does not really need to be told
to have things ready, for they are ready. All the beds are aired,
and she never leaves the house, and observe, the window is open.
For all the use we are to her, we might well go back to the ship.
However, as we are here we may as well stay and look on. That is
all we are, lookers-on. Nobody really wants us. So let us watch
and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.
The only change to be seen in the night-nursery is that between
nine and six the kennel is no longer there. When the children
flew away, Mr. Darling felt in his bones that all the blame was
his for having chained Nana up, and that from first to last she
had been wiser than he. Of course, as we have seen, he was quite
a simple man; indeed be might have passed for a boy again if he
had been able to take his baldness off; but he had also a noble
sense of justice and a lion’s courage to do what seemed right to
him; and having thought the matter out with anxious care after
the flight of the children, he went down on all fours and crawled
into the kennel. To all Mrs. Darling’s dear invitations to him
to come out he replied sadly but firmly:
“No, my own one, this is the place for me.”
In the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he would never
leave the kennel until his children came back. Of course this
was a pity; but whatever Mr. Darling did he had to do in excess,
otherwise he soon gave up doing it. And there never was a more
humble man than the once proud George Darling, as he sat in the
kennel of an evening talking with his wife of their children and
all their pretty ways.
Very touching was his deference to Nana. He would not let her
come into the kennel, but on all other matters he followed her
Every morning the kennel was carried with Mr. Darling in it to
a cab, which conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in
the same way at six. Something of the strength of character of
the man will be seen if we remember how sensitive he was to the
opinion of neighbours: this man whose every movement now
attracted surprised attention. Inwardly he must have suffered
torture; but he preserved a calm exterior even when the young
criticised his little home, and he always lifted his hat
courteously to any lady who looked inside.
It may have been Quixotic, but it was magnificent. Soon the
inward meaning of it leaked out, and the great heart of the
public was touched. Crowds followed the cab, cheering it
lustily; charming girls scaled it to get his autograph;
interviews appeared in the better class of papers, and society
invited him to dinner and added, “Do come in the kennel.”
On that eventful Thursday week, Mrs. Darling was in the night-
nursery awaiting George’s return home; a very sad-eyed woman.
Now that we look at her closely and remember the gaiety of her in
the old days, all gone now just because she has lost her babes, I
find I won’t be able to say nasty things about her after all. If
she was too fond of her rubbishy children, she couldn’t help it.
Look at her in her chair, where she has fallen asleep. The
corner of her mouth, where one looks first, is almost withered
up. Her hand moves restlessly on her breast as if she had a
pain there. Some like Peter best, and some like Wendy best, but
I like her best. Suppose, to make her happy, we whisper to her
in her sleep that the brats are coming back. They are really
within two miles of the window now, and flying strong, but all
we need whisper is that they are on the way. Let’s.
It is a pity we did it, for she has started up, calling their
names; and there is no one in the room but Nana.
“O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come back.”
Nana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was put her paw
gently on her mistress’s lap; and they were sitting together thus
when the kennel was brought back. As Mr. Darling puts his head
out to kiss his wife, we see that his face is more worn than of
yore, but has a softer expression.
He gave his hat to Liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no
imagination, and was quite incapable of understanding the motives
of such a man. Outside, the crowd who had accompanied the cab
home were still cheering, and he was naturally not unmoved.
“Listen to them,” he said; “it is very gratifying.”
“Lots of little boys,” sneered Liza.
“There were several adults to-day,” he assured her with a faint
flush; but when she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for
her. Social success had not spoilt him; it had made him sweeter.
For some time he sat with his head out of the kennel, talking with
Mrs. Darling of this success, and pressing her hand reassuringly
when she said she hoped his head would not be turned by it.
“But if I had been a weak man,” he said. “Good heavens, if I
had been a weak man!”
“And, George,” she said timidly, “you are as full of remorse as
ever, aren’t you?”
“Full of remorse as ever, dearest! See my punishment: living
in a kennel.”
“But it is punishment, isn’t it, George? You are sure you are
not enjoying it?”
You may be sure she begged his pardon; and then, feeling
drowsy, he curled round in the kennel.
“Won’t you play me to sleep,” he asked, “on the nursery piano?”
and as she was crossing to the day-nursery he added
thoughtlessly, “And shut that window. I feel a draught.”
“O George, never ask me to do that. The window must always be
left open for them, always, always.”
Now it was his turn to beg her pardon; and she went into the
day-nursery and played, and soon he was asleep; and while he
slept, Wendy and John and Michael flew into the room.
Oh no. We have written it so, because that was the charming
arrangement planned by them before we left the ship; but
something must have happened since then, for it is not they who
have flown in, it is Peter and Tinker Bell.
Peter’s first words tell all.
“Quick Tink,” he whipered, “close the window; bar it! That’s
right. Now you and I must get away by the door; and when Wendy
comes she will think her mother has barred her out; and she will
have to go back with me.”
Now I understand what had hitherto puzzled me, why when Peter
had exterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and
leave Tink to escort the children to the mainland. This trick
had been in his head all the time.
Instead of feeling that he was behaving badly he danced with
glee; then he peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing.
He whispered to Tink, “It’s Wendy’s mother! She is a pretty
lady, but not so pretty as my mother. Her mouth is full of
thimbles, but not so full as my mother’s was.”
Of course he knew nothing whatever about his mother; but he
sometimes bragged about her.
He did not know the tune, which was “Home, Sweet Home,” but he
knew it was saying, “Come back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy”; and he
cried exultantly, “You will never see Wendy again, lady, for the
window is barred!”
He peeped in again to see why the music had stopped, and now he
saw that Mrs. Darling had laid her head on the box, and that two
tears were sitting on her eyes.
“She wants me to unbar the window,” thought Peter, “but I
won’t, not I!”
He peeped again, and the tears were still there, or another two
had taken their place.
“She’s awfully fond of Wendy,” he said to himself. He was
angry with her now for not seeing why she could not have Wendy.
The reason was so simple: “I’m fond of her too. We can’t both
have her, lady.”
But the lady would not make the best of it, and he was unhappy.
He ceased to look at her, but even then she would not let go of
him. He skipped about and made funny faces, but when he stopped
it was just as if she were inside him, knocking.
“Oh, all right,” he said at last, and gulped. Then he unbarred
the window. “Come on, Tink,” he cried, with a frightful sneer at
the laws of nature; “we don’t want any silly mothers”; and he
Thus Wendy and John and Michael found the window open for them
after all, which of course was more than they deserved. They
alighted on the floor, quite unashamed of themselves, and the
youngest one had already forgotten his home.
“John,” he said, looking around him doubtfully, “I think I have
been here before.”
“Of course you have, you silly. There is your old bed.”
“So it is,” Michael said, but not with much conviction.
“I say,” cried John, “the kennel!” and he dashed across to look
“Perhaps Nana is inside it,” Wendy said.
But John whistled. “Hullo,” he said, “there’s a man inside
“It’s father!” exclaimed Wendy.
“Let me see father,” Michael begged eagerly, and he took a good
look. “He is not so big as the pirate I killed,” he said with
such frank disappointment that I am glad Mr. Darling was asleep;
it would have been sad if those had been the first words he heard
his little Michael say.
Wendy and John had been taken aback somewhat at finding their
father in the kennel.
“Surely,” said John, like one who had lost faith in his memory,
“he used not to sleep in the kennel?”
“John,” Wendy said falteringly, “perhaps we don’t remember the
old life as well as we thought we did.”
A chill fell upon them; and serve them right.
“It is very careless of mother,” said that young scoundrel
John, “not to be here when we come back.”
It was then that Mrs. Darling began playing again.
“It’s mother!” cried Wendy, peeping.
“So it is!” said John.
“Then are you not really our mother, Wendy?” asked Michael, who
was surely sleepy.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Wendy, with her first real twinge of
remorse [for having gone], “it was quite time we came back,”
“Let us creep in,” John suggested, “and put our hands over her
But Wendy, who saw that they must break the joyous news more
gently, had a better plan.
“Let us all slip into our beds, and be there when she comes in,
just as if we had never been away.”
And so when Mrs. Darling went back to the night-nursery to see
if her husband was asleep, all the beds were occupied. The
children waited for her cry of joy, but it did not come. She saw
them, but she did not believe they were there. You see, she saw
them in their beds so often in her dreams that she thought this
was just the dream hanging around her still.
She sat down in the chair by the fire, where in the old days
she had nursed them.
They could not understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all
the three of them.
“Mother!” Wendy cried.
“That’s Wendy,” she said, but still she was sure it was the
“That’s John,” she said.
“Mother!” cried Michael. He knew her now.
“That’s Michael,” she said, and she stretched out her arms for
the three little selfish children they would never envelop again.
Yes, they did, they went round Wendy and John and Michael, who
had slipped out of bed and run to her.
“George, George!” she cried when she could speak; and Mr.
Darling woke to share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in. There
could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see
it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had
had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but
he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he
must be for ever barred.