“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.
“Ah, old lady,” said Peter, hanging up his gun.
“It was me told him mothers are called old lady,” Michael whispered to Curly.
“I complain of Michael,” said Curly instantly.
The first twin came to Peter. “Father, we want to dance.”
“Dance away, my little man,” said Peter, who was in high good humour.
“But we want you to dance.”
Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be scandalised.
“Me! My old bones would rattle.”
“And mummy too.”
“What,” cried Wendy, “the mother of such an armful, dance!”