They called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves before him; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was not really good for him.
"The great white father," he would say to them in a very lordly manner, as they grovelled at his feet, "is glad to see the Piccaninny warriors protecting his wigwam from the pirates."
"Me Tiger Lily," that lovely creature would reply. "Peter Pan save me, me his velly nice friend. Me no let pirates hurt him."
She was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it his due, and he would answer condescendingly, "It is good. Peter Pan has spoken."
Always when he said, "Peter Pan has spoken," it meant that they must now shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were by no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon as just ordinary braves. They said "How-do?" to them, and things like that; and what annoyed the boys was that Peter seemed to think this all right.
Secretly Wendy sympathised with them a little, but she was far too loyal a housewife to listen to any complaints against father. "Father knows best," she always said, whatever her private opinion must be. Her private opinion was that the redskins should not call her a squaw.
We have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as the Night of Nights, because of its adventures and their upshot. The day, as if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful, and now the redskins in their blankets were at their posts above, while, below, the children were having their evening meal; all except Peter, who had gone out to get the time. The way you got the time on the island was to find the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock struck.
This meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat round the board, guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their chatter and recriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was positively deafening. To be sure, she did not mind noise, but she simply would not have them grabbing things, and then excusing themselves by saying that Tootles had pushed their elbow. There was a fixed rule that they must never hit back at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to Wendy by raising the right arm politely and saying, "I complain of so-and-so"; but what usually happened was that they forgot to do this or did it too much.
"Silence," cried Wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them that they were not all to speak at once. "Is your calabash empty, Slightly darling?"
"Not quite empty, mummy," Slightly said, after looking into an imaginary mug.
"He hasn"t even begun to drink his milk," Nibs interposed.
This was telling, and Slightly seized his chance.
"I complain of Nibs," he cried promptly.
John, however, had held up his hand first.
"Well, John?"
"May I sit in Peter"s chair, as he is not here?"
"Sit in father"s chair, John!" Wendy was scandalised. "Certainly not."
"He is not really our father," John answered. "He didn"t even know how a father does till I showed him."
This was grumbling. "We complain of John," cried the twins.
Tootles held up his hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed he was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him.
"I don"t suppose," Tootles said diffidently, "that I could be father."
"No, Tootles."
Once Tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of going on.
"As I can"t be father," he said heavily, "I don"t suppose, Michael, you would let me be baby?"
"No, I won"t," Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.
"As I can"t be baby," Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier, "do you think I could be a twin?"
"No, indeed," replied the twins; "it"s awfully difficult to be a twin."
"As I can"t be anything important," said Tootles, "would any of you like to see me do a trick?"
"No," they all replied.
Then at last he stopped. "I hadn"t really any hope," he said.
The hateful telling broke out again.
"Slightly is coughing on the table."
"The twins began with mammee-apples."
"Curly is taking both tappa rolls and yams."
"Nibs is speaking with his mouth full."
"I complain of the twins."
"I complain of Curly."
"I complain of Nibs."
"Oh dear, oh dear," cried Wendy, "I"m sure I sometimes think that children are more trouble than they are worth."
She told them to clear away, and sat down to her work-basket: a heavy load of stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.
"Wendy," remonstrated Michael, "I"m too big for a cradle."
"I must have somebody in a cradle," she said almost tartly, "and you are the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a house."
While she sewed they played around her; such a group of happy faces and dancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become a very familiar scene this in the home under the ground, but we are looking on it for the last time.
There was a step above, and Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to recognise it.
"Children, I hear your father"s step. He likes you to meet him at the door."
Above, the redskins crouched before Peter.
"Watch well, braves. I have spoken."
And then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from his tree. As so often before, but never again.
He had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for Wendy.
"Peter, you just spoil them, you know," Wendy simpered.