d told it to them the night before. But the cans were so high and
narrow he decided that it was impossible. Someone slammed the door of
the van. There came a bump and a jar, and the train moved out onto a
siding till it should go back to Amber Guiting when the 1.30 from London
came in. Tony sat quite still in the dark, stuffy van. His little heart
was beating with hammer strokes against his ribs, but his face expressed
nothing but scorn.

Again his father had lied to him. Again he had said he was going to do
one thing when he fully intended to do another. The pleasantness, the
kindliness, the apparent desire for Tony's society were a cheat. Tony
spoke rapidly to himself in Hindustani, and by the time he had finished
expressing his views Hugo Tancred hadn't a shred of character left.

He didn't know when the train would go back to Amber Guiting. It might
not be till evening. Tony could wait. Some time it would go back, and
once in that dear, safe place all would be well.

He disliked the sound of Paddington; it had to do with London, he knew.
He didn't mind London, but he wasn't going there with his father, and no
Meg and no Jan and no little Fay and no kind sahibs who were _real_
sahibs.

He was very hungry, and his eyes grew a bit misty as he thought of
little Fay consuming scones and milk at the "elevens" Meg was always so
careful they should have.

A new and troubling thought perturbed him. Did Auntie Jan know he had
gone at all? Would she be frightened? Would she get that look on her
dear face that he couldn't bear to see? That Auntie Jan loved them both
with her whole heart was now one of the fixed stars in Tony's firmament
of beliefs. He began to think that perhaps it would be better for Auntie
Jan to give his father some of her twinkly things and let him go away
and leave them in peace; but he dismissed that thought as cowardly and
unworthy of a sahib.

Oh, dear! it was very long sitting in the dark, scrunched up behind
those cans. He must tell himself stories to pass the time; and he
started to relate the interminable legend of Cocky-locky and Henny-Penny
who by their superior subtlety evaded the snares set for them by
Toddy-Loddy the fox. He felt a sort of kinship with those harried fowls.
Gradually the constant repetition of the various other birds involved,
"Juckie-Puckie, Goosie-Loosie, Turkey-lurkey and Swannie-Lonnie," had a
soothing effect, and Tony fell asleep.

* * * *