The Railway Children by E. Nesbit (classic books for 11 year olds TXT) 📗

“WHAT ought to be directed? Who to?” asked the boy, suddenly and very feebly.

“Oh,” said Bobbie, “now you're better! Hold your teeth and don't let it hurt too much. Now!”

She had folded the petticoat, and lifting his leg laid it on the cushion of folded flannel.

“Don't faint again, PLEASE don't,” said Bobbie, as he groaned. She hastily wetted her handkerchief with milk and spread it over the poor leg.

“Oh, that hurts,” cried the boy, shrinking. “Oh—no, it doesn't—it's nice, really.”

“What's your name?” said Bobbie.

“Jim.”

“Mine's Bobbie.”

“But you're a girl, aren't you?”

“Yes, my long name's Roberta.”

“I say—Bobbie.”

“Yes?”

“Wasn't there some more of you just now?”

“Yes, Peter and Phil—that's my brother and sister. They've gone to get someone to carry you out.”

“What rum names. All boys'.”

“Yes—I wish I was a boy, don't you?”

“I think you're all right as you are.”

“I didn't mean that—I meant don't you wish YOU were a boy, but of course you are without wishing.”

“You're just as brave as a boy. Why didn't you go with the others?”

“Somebody had to stay with you,” said Bobbie.

“Tell you what, Bobbie,” said Jim, “you're a brick. Shake.” He reached out a red-jerseyed arm and Bobbie squeezed his hand.

“I won't shake it,” she explained, “because it would shake YOU, and that would shake your poor leg, and that would hurt. Have you got a hanky?”

“I don't expect I have.” He felt in his pocket. “Yes, I have. What for?”

She took it and wetted it with milk and put it on his forehead.

“That's jolly,” he said; “what is it?”

“Milk,” said Bobbie. “We haven't any water—”

“You're a jolly good little nurse,” said Jim.

“I do it for Mother sometimes,” said Bobbie—“not milk, of course, but scent, or vinegar and water. I say, I must put the candle out now, because there mayn't be enough of the other one to get you out by.”

“By George,” said he, “you think of everything.”

Bobbie blew. Out went the candle. You have no idea how black-velvety the darkness was.

“I say, Bobbie,” said a voice through the blackness, “aren't you afraid of the dark?”

“Not—not very, that is—”

“Let's hold hands,” said the boy, and it was really rather good of him, because he was like most boys of his age and hated all material tokens of affection, such as kissing and holding of hands. He called all such things “pawings,” and detested them.

The darkness was more bearable to Bobbie now that her hand was held in the large rough hand of the red-jerseyed sufferer; and he, holding her little smooth hot paw, was surprised to find that he did not mind it so much as he expected. She tried to talk, to amuse him, and “take his mind off” his sufferings, but it is very difficult to go on talking in the dark, and presently they found themselves in a silence, only broken now and then by a—

“You all right, Bobbie?”

or an—

“I'm afraid it's hurting you most awfully, Jim. I AM so sorry.”

And it was very cold.

* * * * * *

Peter and Phyllis tramped down the long way of the tunnel towards daylight, the candle-grease dripping over Peter's fingers. There were no accidents unless you count Phyllis's catching her frock on a wire, and tearing a long, jagged slit in it, and tripping over her bootlace when it came undone, or going down on her hands and knees, all four of which were grazed.

“There's no end to this tunnel,” said Phyllis—and indeed it did seem very very long.

“Stick to it,” said Peter; “everything has an end, and you get to it if you only keep all on.”

Which is quite true, if you come to think of it, and a useful thing to remember in seasons of trouble—such as measles, arithmetic, impositions, and those times when you are in disgrace, and feel as though no one would ever love you again, and you could never—never again—love anybody.

“Hurray,” said Peter, suddenly, “there's the end of the tunnel—looks just like a pin-hole in a bit of black paper, doesn't it?”

The pin-hole got larger—blue lights lay along the sides of the tunnel. The children could see the gravel way that lay in front of them; the air grew warmer and sweeter. Another twenty steps and they were out in the good glad sunshine with the green trees on both sides.

Phyllis drew a long breath.

“I'll never go into a tunnel again as long as ever I live,” said she, “not if there are twenty hundred thousand millions hounds inside with red jerseys and their legs broken.”

“Don't be a silly cuckoo,” said Peter, as usual. “You'd HAVE to.”

“I think it was very brave and good of me,” said Phyllis.

“Not it,” said Peter; “you didn't go because you were brave, but because Bobbie and I aren't skunks. Now where's the nearest house, I wonder? You can't see anything here for the trees.”

“There's a roof over there,” said Phyllis, pointing down the line.

“That's the signal-box,” said Peter, “and you know you're not allowed to speak to signalmen on duty. It's wrong.”

“I'm not near so afraid of doing wrong as I was of going into that tunnel,” said Phyllis. “Come on,” and she started to run along the line. So Peter ran, too.

It was very hot in the sunshine, and both children were hot and breathless by the time they stopped, and bending their heads back to look up at the open windows of the signal-box, shouted “Hi!” as loud as their breathless state allowed. But no one answered. The signal-box stood quiet as an empty nursery, and the handrail of its steps was hot to the hands of the children as they climbed softly up. They peeped in at the open door.