rs would endure it--while he gradually gathered strength and
resolution, shook off the cowardice of bed. Then he strode into the
nursery. As soon as they heard him raising the shades there was complete
silence. They hastened to pull the blankets over themselves, and lay
tense, faces on paws, with bright expectant upward eyes. They trembled a
little with impatience. It was all he could do to restrain himself from
patting the sleek heads, which always seemed to shine with extra
polish after a night's rolling to and fro on the flattened pillows. But
sternness was a part of the game at this moment. He solemnly unlatched
and lowered the tall sides of the cribs.

He stood in the middle of the room, with a gesture of command. "Quiet
now," he said. "Quiet, until I tell you!"

Yelpers could not help a small whine of intense emotion, which slipped
out unintended. The eyes of Groups and Bunks swivelled angrily toward
their unlucky brother. It was his failing: in crises he always emitted
haphazard sounds. But this time Gissing, with lenient forgiveness,
pretended not to have heard.

He returned to the balcony, and reentered his couch, where he lay
feigning sleep. In the nursery was a terrific stillness.

It was the rule of the game that they should lie thus, in absolute
quiet, until he uttered a huge imitation snore. Once, after a
particularly exhausting night, he had postponed the snore too long:
he fell asleep. He did not wake for an hour, and then found the tragic
three also sprawled in amazing slumber. But their pillows were wet with
tears. He never succumbed again, no matter how deeply tempted.

He snored. There were three sprawling thumps, a rush of feet, and a
tumbling squeeze through the screen door. Then they were on the couch
and upon him, with panting yelps of glee. Their hot tongues rasped
busily over his face. This was the great tickling game. Remembering his
theory of conserving energy, he lay passive while they rollicked
and scrambled, burrowing in the bedclothes, quivering imps of absurd
pleasure. All that was necessary was to give an occasional squirm, to
tweak their ribs now and then, so that they believed his heart was in
the sport. Really he got quite a little rest while they were scuffling.
No one knew exactly what was the imagined purpose of the lark--whether
he was supposed to be trying to escape from them, or they from him. Like
all the best games, it had not been carefully thought out.

"Now, children