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such as demanding bandages; but Wendy, though glorying in having them all home again
safe and sound, was scandalised by the lateness of the hour, and cried, "To bed, to bed,"
in a voice that had to be obeyed. Next day, however, she was awfully tender, and gave
out bandages to every one, and they played till bed-time at limping about and carrying
their arms in slings.
Chapter 10. The Happy Home
One important result of the brush [with the pirates] on the lagoon was that it made the
redskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily from a dreadful fate, and now there was
nothing she and her braves would not do for him. All night they sat above, keeping watch
over the home under the ground and awaiting the big attack by the pirates which
obviously could not be much longer delayed. Even by day they hung about, smoking the
pipe of peace, and looking almost as if they wanted tit-bits to eat.
They called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves [lying down] 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.
The meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around 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 mug 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 [bashfully or timidly], "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 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?"
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