CHAPTER XIV

_Mr Papingay’s House in the Orange Wood_

As soon as the children entered the wood all sounds of life seemed to die away, and everything was still. No birds sang or fluttered overhead; no little wood animals scurried through the dry, dead leaves on the ground; no breeze rustled the golden leaves on the trees; the sun shone softly through the branches and cast a strange orange-coloured shimmer over the scene—which accounted for the name by which the wood was known. As Jack and Molly went along they found themselves talking to each other in whispers, afraid to disturb the brooding quietness of the wood; the sound of their footsteps on the path seemed unusually loud.

“I say, Molly, what do you say if we keep to the footpath and go straight to Mr Papingay’s house as quickly as possible and see if it really is the Leaf? Then we can search the rest of the wood afterward—if it isn’t,” suggested Jack.

Molly agreed readily. Remembering that it was rumoured that the wood was full of the Pumpkin’s spies, the children had great hopes that it was the Black Leaf in Mr Papingay’s plant-pot; for the spies would surely be stationed all around the place where the Black Leaf grew, to guard it.

“Thank goodness we know we can trust Mr Papingay,” said Molly. “If we can only find him. Oh, Jack, if only it is the Leaf, won’t it be splendid!” Molly broke off and glanced over her shoulder. “How awfully quiet everything is, Jack—just as if the wood were _listening_!... Oh! What was that!”

“It wasn’t anything. Don’t, Molly. You gave me quite a jump,” Jack said unsteadily, looking over his shoulder too. The light in the wood was beginning to fade, and under the distant trees dim shadows gathered.

“I thought I heard some twigs crackling—a snapping sound,” said Molly, wide-eyed.

“Well, you needn’t say so, Moll, if you did. But anyway, I’m not afraid—if you are.” Nevertheless Jack quickened his pace to a sharp trot, and Molly had some difficulty in keeping up with him.

“I’m not afraid, either,” she gasped.

“Nor am I,” repeated Jack, and went a little faster.

Then they both began to run.

“Of course—we ought—to—get there—as quick—as—we can—so—as not to—waste—any—time,” Molly jerked out, apologizing as it were to herself and to Jack for their sudden haste.

They ran along the footpath for a short distance until, a little way ahead of them, they saw an open space in the wood, in the centre of which stood a house.

“Let’s—stop—Molly,” said Jack, breathlessly. They both pulled up and stood still for a few moments. “It wouldn’t—do—for—us—to run in—on—on—him like this. It might look as if—as if we were—as if——oh, well, it would look funny, you know.”

Molly agreed. So they waited until they had got their breath again, then they walked casually out into the open space. The trees stood round the clearing in a wide circle, and above the house was a big expanse of sky. It seemed quite light out here after the dim light of the wood.

It was a queer-looking house that faced them, but what it was about the house that made it queer Jack and Molly could not at first make out. Around it was a square of asphalt, and drawing nearer they saw that on the asphalt, all round the four sides, were rows of narrow white streaks, that looked like railings lying down flat; and this is what they actually proved to be—only they were not real railings, they were painted on the ground with white paint. The children looked up, and then they realized what it was that made the house look funny. Nearly everything on it and about it was _not real_ but painted. The house itself was real, and so was the front door; but the knocker and handle and letter-box were all painted on. Three of the windows seemed real, but there were three more that were obviously painted on, and were obviously the work of some one not greatly skilled in the art of painting. There was a large tree painted on the asphalt, and a row of tulips, and a path bordered by painted stones that led up to the front door.

The children were gazing at these things in astonishment when the front door suddenly opened, and the owner of the house appeared on the threshold.

“Come inside,” he called affably, peering at them over the top of his spectacles. “The latch on the gate pulls downward. Don’t be afraid of the dog; he won’t hurt you if I speak to him. There, Percy, there! Down, sir! There’s a good dog!”

Jack and Molly looked round wonderingly, but could not see any signs of a dog, till their eyes caught sight of a black smudge of paint, which proved on closer acquaintance to be a black dog chained to a red kennel—both painted flat on the ground a few feet inside the gate. The children gazed at each other questioningly; then Glan’s words came back to them, “Humour him, he’s a queer old soul.”

So Molly bent down and pretended to pull the latch on the gate down; she and Jack walked carefully on to the asphalt over the flat gate, then she turned and pretended to close and latch the gate again. As they passed the painted dog, she had another happy idea. “Good dog. Good dog,” she said, and stooped and patted the asphalt.

The old man beamed down upon her. “He’s quite harmless when I tell him it’s all right,” he confided, “but you should just see him when he’s roused. Stand on the step and I’ll tell him there’s a bath-chair round the corner. He hates ’em.”

The children could not see a real step, but spying a painted white square by the front door, they stood on that.

“Now then,” cried the old man, “at ’em, Percy, at ’em! There’s a bath-chair a-comin’ round the corner!”

There was a dead silence while the painted dog gazed with unseeing eyes up at the sky, and a little breeze rustled in the tree-tops.

“Isn’t he furious?” chuckled the old man, beaming proudly from the dog to the children. “Go it, old boy! Give it ’em!”

As he seemed to expect an answer to his question, Molly said: “He—he—certainly looks very fierce, doesn’t he?”

“That’s nothing to what he can look,” said Mr Papingay, obviously delighted at Molly’s reply. “But, come inside, come inside.”

So the children entered the narrow, dark hall and Mr Papingay shut the front door behind them.

“This way,” he said, crushing past them and throwing open a door on the right. “Come inside and sit down a bit. This is my study. What do you think of it?”

As the question was asked before Jack and Molly were inside the room there was naturally a short interval before Molly could reply, politely:

“What a very—er—uncommon room.”

“All done by myself,” said the old man, waving his hand with a sweeping movement toward the walls.

The children followed the hand-sweep and saw rows upon rows of books painted round the walls. There was no doubt about them being painted. And they noticed also that the carpet, chairs, tables, curtains, and even the fireplace were all painted in this amazing room. Jack’s eyes travelled rapidly over the room, but not a single real thing could he see in it except himself, and Molly, and the old man standing in front of him; and he looked at the latter twice to make sure that he was real and not simply made of paint like the other things. But Mr Papingay was real enough with his spectacles and bald head. The only hair he possessed grew like a fringe at the back of his head, low down, just above the nape of his neck—and under his chin a little fringe of whiskers appeared; he had round, blue eyes and eyebrows set high that gave him a look of continual surprise; over a dark-coloured suit he wore a brown plaid dressing-gown, with long cord and tassels, and on his feet were a pair of very old red felt carpet slippers. And then Jack’s roving eye noticed that the buttons on his dressing-gown were painted on; but that was the only bit of paint about Mr Papingay.

“You see, it’s so handy making my own things,” he was explaining to Molly. “I can have any kind of things I like and change them as often as I like.”

“Don’t you find the chairs rather awkward to sit on?” inquired Jack.

“Not at all. Why should I?” replied the old man, slightly offended.

“Well—I—er—well, you see—they’re not real, are they?” Jack blundered on.

“Not real! What do you mean?” snapped Mr Papingay. “Of course they’re real. Sit on one and see.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack,” Molly broke in. “They certainly look most comfortable. I do think it is clever of you to make them,” she said to the old man.

“Oh, no, no. Not at all. Simple enough,” said Mr Papingay airily, appeased at once. “But you try one. They may look comfortable, but it’s nothing to what they are to sit on. You try one,” he urged.

So Molly pretended to sit down on one of the painted chairs. It was a most curious sensation. Although she knew there was no chair there she felt somehow as if she really were sitting on a chair; so that when the old man asked her, with a self-conscious smile on his face, “Now, isn’t it comfortable?” she could answer truthfully, “Yes, it really is.”

Yet, afterward, Jack told her that he had tried one of the chairs when she and the old man were not looking, and had nearly fallen on the floor. “I found it anything but comfortable—the silly old ass,” he said.

When they had admired the study to the old man’s content he led them out into the hall again and up the stairs to a curious little room he called his visitors room. As they went upstairs Molly tried to tell their host who they were and how they knew Glan and his father, but he kept up a constant stream of conversation himself and took no notice of her remarks.

The children found the visitors room more difficult than ever to be truthful and yet polite in. It had been hard to pretend the painted stair-carpet was soft and real, and that the books in the study could be taken out and read; but these things were nothing compared to the difficulties in the visitors room. It was a small, high-ceilinged room, furnished with painted chairs and tables; only, in addition to the painted furniture were painted people. Round the walls and on the floor, people standing, people sitting, ladies, gentlemen, girls and boys; some with hats on as if paying an afternoon call, some with hats off as if they had come to spend the day. But one and all, without exception, were simply painted people. On the panes of one of the real windows was painted the figure of a sandy-haired man, back view; this gentleman, who was dressed in a dull grey suit and a high white collar, was apparently looking out of the window.

As the children glanced round at these queer silent people, hesitating what to do, they became aware that the old man was murmuring some kind of introduction to a painted lady in bright purple.

“This is my dear friend, Mrs Pobjoy,” he was saying. “Mrs Pobjoy, allow me to introduce you to my two little friends—er—what are your names, by the way?”

The children told him, and took this opportunity of explaining who they were and how they knew Glan.

“Dear me, dear me!” said Mr Papingay. “How very extraordinary!” and he shook hands affably, and then he introduced them to Mr Pobjoy—a red-faced gentleman painted on the wall beside his wife.

Molly bowed politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, and gave Jack a nudge with her elbow.

“Howjer do?” said Jack, feeling an awful ass.

The painted lady in bright purple stared vacantly down at the two children.

“Mrs Pobjoy’s always delighted to see new faces, aren’t you, ma’m? Ah, ha! A regular butterfly. A regular butterfly. What do you say, Pobjoy?” and Mr Papingay gave the painted figure of Mr Pobjoy a dig in the ribs, then turned from one to the other of his painted visitors chattering and laughing, and shaking his head. “And here’s little Maudie. Well, and how is Maudie to-day?” and he stooped and playfully flicked the cheeks of a fat-faced little girl with yellow hair and a pink frock who was leaning against a painted sideboard. “Here’s a little girl to see you, Maudie. You’ll like that, won’t you?” He turned to the children. “I’m afraid she’s rather peevish this evening. She is sometimes. It’s best to take no notice—she’ll come round presently. Here’s Mr Waffer, here by the window—I won’t introduce you to him just at present, he’s probably just got an inspiration I should think, by the way he stands absorbed in the scenery outside. He’s a poet, you know.... But come over here and let Lizzie and her sister see you.” He bundled away across the room followed by the two children.

“I say, Molly,” whispered Jack, “do you think we should see the front of Mr Waffer through the window if we went outside and looked up. I _would_ like to see his face.”

“Why?” asked Molly with interest.

“Because I don’t believe he has one. Do remind me to look as we go out,” said Jack.

“This,” the old man was saying as they came up to him, “is Lizzie and here’s her sister. Very bright girls, both of them,” he added in an undertone so that the green-frocked Lizzie should not hear. And so he moved on introducing them to one after the other, and it began to look as if he would never tear himself away from the visitors room. At length Molly told him that they would not be able to stay much longer as they wished to get out of the Orange Wood before darkness came down.

“Oh, you mustn’t go yet,” he protested. “I’ve got a lot more to show you yet.... Ah! and that reminds me.... But first you must come and see my kitchen arrangements; they are absolutely first-rate; and then I have something very exciting to tell you.” He nodded his head mysteriously.

Jack and Molly exchanged significant glances. As they followed him downstairs it struck them that although he was introducing them to everything and everybody in his house, yet he had never troubled to introduce himself. He had forgotten about that. He led the way to the kitchen, and the children noticed, in passing, a servant carrying a tray, painted on the passage wall a few yards from the kitchen door. (“How tiresome it must be for her never to get any farther,” thought Molly, but she didn’t say anything.)

The kitchen was very like the other rooms, nearly all paint. It worried Molly a little to notice that the sink was painted on the wall, and she wondered however Mr Papingay managed to wash up the cups and saucers in the tin bowl that was painted inside the sink; especially as the taps and cups and saucers appeared to be real. But she was afraid to ask any questions in case it delayed the “exciting” news that they were longing to hear.

A quick glance at the kitchen window sill on entering the room showed them that there was no plant-pot there now. After Mr Papingay had taken them a tour of the kitchen and they had admired everything from the oven with the painted round of beef on the shelf to the painted egg-whisk hanging on the dresser, their host bade them be seated on a bench by the kitchen window—which happened to be a real bench, much to Jack’s relief—and then he said:

“There is something I think you ought to know.” He shut the kitchen door carefully so that the servant painted in the passage should not hear, while the children’s hearts began to beat rapidly. Mr Papingay came back and stood before them.

“The Grey Pumpkin has returned to this land,” he said solemnly, then waited for the exclamations of amazement which did not come.

“Of course, we know,” said Jack, after a short pause.

Mr Papingay looked both surprised and offended. “Why, how’s this?” he asked.

And the children told him, and explained about the search they were making.

“Well, well, well,” he said at length. “I’ve been searching for the Black Leaf too. I searched every inch of the Orange Wood thoroughly, directly I heard the Pumpkin was back again. _And_—this is what I really wanted to tell you—what do you think I did when I found that the Black Leaf wasn’t anywhere in the wood?” he asked excitedly.

“What?” cried both children together.

“Painted a Black Leaf,” he said triumphantly, beaming with joy. “And here it is.”

He opened a cupboard door behind him and disclosed a plant-pot (which was real) in which grew a black leaf (which was painted). In fact it was so entirely artificial that it wasn’t even a real leaf coloured black: it was cut out of newspaper, and painted with a thick black paint.

Jack and Molly did not speak for a moment or two. They could not. They were so thoroughly disappointed. Had they wasted all this valuable time ‘humouring’ Mr Papingay for nothing more than this? They had hardly realized how high their hopes had been, until now, when they were flung to the ground. It was with an effort that Molly kept back her tears; as for Jack, he felt he would like to kick something.

Meanwhile, Mr Papingay was perplexed at their silence. He lifted the pot down and set it on the floor in front of the bench.

“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Jack.

“I will tell you,” said Mr Papingay. “I have decided that you shall have the leaf and take it back to the City. I was wondering, only yesterday, whom I could send it by. It isn’t time for my yearly visit to the City yet, and besides, Percy has rather a nasty little cough—I can’t leave him till he’s better, poor old chap.”

“But it won’t be—be the same as the real Black Leaf,” said Jack.

“Why not? Why not?” asked the old man touchily.

“Well—it isn’t magic, is it?” objected Jack. “It won’t have any power over the Pumpkin.”

“I won’t guarantee that it isn’t magic, though it may not have the same power over the Pumpkin,” the old man admitted. “But what’s the odds! They won’t know—the people won’t know—and anyway it’s very handsome to look at—and just think of how surprised everybody will be....”

The children could see that it was no use arguing the matter. Mr Papingay was beginning to look quite hurt and annoyed, and so to humour him and to save any further delay the children thanked him and said they would be pleased to take it with them. (They little guessed then how glad they would be later on that they had taken it with them.)

“It’s very clever of you to make it,” said Molly.

Immediately Mr Papingay’s ill-humour vanished, and he smiled down at the leaf in an affectionate manner.

“Oh, I don’t know about being clever,” he said. “Well—it’s not a bad piece of work,” he admitted modestly.

“Well now—I think we really must be going,” said Molly, “or else it will be too dark in the wood for us to find our way. Shall we pick the leaf and take it with us, then?”

“It looks so well in the pot—I like it best in the pot—take the plant-pot, too,” said Mr Papingay. “I shall be coming to the City in a few days and then you must tell me all about it—what the people said when they saw it and—I suppose you _are_ going straight back to the City?” he inquired. “You won’t want to bother to search for the other Black Leaf now, until you see what the people say to this one, I’m sure.”

Self-centred Mr Papingay! He actually thought the children would be more anxious to hear what people said about his leaf, than to continue their search for the real Leaf. But the children were quite determined about continuing their work and at length made him understand that they must go on; but they were hoping, they said, to return to the City shortly when they would be very pleased to show his leaf. Mr Papingay cheered up a bit at this, and said they had better take it then, as they would be bound to reach the City before him. Then he asked them where they were going to search next.

“You needn’t bother about this wood—I’ve searched it from end to end, thoroughly—as I told you. And besides,” said Mr Papingay, “it isn’t wise to linger in this wood just now. The Pumpkin has spies about all over the place. Of course, they never touch me—Percy wouldn’t let them—but you two—! And I’m quite certain the Leaf isn’t in this wood—or I’d have had it before now.”

The children had not much faith in Mr Papingay’s careful searching, but glancing through the window they saw that it was now getting too dark to search the wood that night. They had better get out of it as quickly as possible, even if they had to return and search it in the morning.

They became aware of Mr Papingay murmuring something in the way of an apology for not asking them to stay over night there—but he was already overcrowded with visitors, the Pobjoys and others, he said. He knew of a nice little farmhouse outside the wood where they would be comfortable. The children were pleased to know of the farmhouse; not for worlds would they have spent a night in this silent wood. Mr Papingay was so careless, he would be sure to leave a window unfastened, and the Pumpkin’s spies would creep out from the trees and get into the house. At least, this is what the children felt, but they thanked Mr Papingay and told him not to apologize at all as they really couldn’t stay, but must go along.

“I’ll tell you what, then,” said Mr Papingay. “I’ll just get my lantern and come along with you and show you the quickest way out of the wood to the farmhouse.”

The children were much relieved at this, feeling that company and a light in the dusky wood before them was an unexpected blessing. After a great deal of fuss and bustle he found his lantern and escorted them through the front door—calling some final words of instruction to Percy (who remained gazing pensively up at the evening sky); they passed through the gate, or rather, stepped off the asphalt, and started out. Mr Papingay insisted on carrying his plant-pot and leaf until he should have to part with it at the end of the wood; so with this under his left arm, and his lantern swinging in his right hand he strode ahead of the children, crying cheerily:

“Come along, come along. I’ll show you a short cut out of the wood. Ah! I’m glad I brought my lantern—it’ll be dark enough in some parts of the wood.”

The children followed, gazing with puzzled expressions at his lantern. Then they understood. There would be no light from it in the darkest parts of the wood, for it was only a painted lantern.