days Mamma wept at intervals, and showed the woman in black all Punch's clothes—a liberty which Punch resented. "But p'raps she's a new white ayah," he[151] thought. "I'm to call her Antirosa, but she does n't call me Sahib. She says just Punch," he confided to Judy. "What is Antirosa?" [151] Judy did n't know. Neither she nor Punch had heard anything of an animal called an aunt. Their world had been Papa and Mamma, who knew everything, permitted everything, and loved everybody—even Punch when he used to go into the garden at Bombay and fill his nails with mold after the weekly nail-cutting, because, as he explained between two strokes of the slipper to his sorely tried Father, his fingers "felt so new at the ends." In an undefined way Punch judged it advisable to keep both parents between himself and the woman in black and the boy in black hair. He did not approve of them. He liked the gray man, who had expressed a wish to be called "Uncleharri." They nodded at each other when they met, and the gray man showed him a little ship with rigging that took up and down. "She is a model of the Brisk—the little Brisk that was sore exposed that day at Navarino." The gray man hummed the last words and fell into a reverie. "I'll tell you about Navarino, Punch, when we go for walks together; and you must n't touch the ship, because she's the Brisk." Long before that walk, the first of many, was taken, they roused Punch and Judy in the chill dawn of a February morning to say Good-bye; and[152] of all people in the wide earth to Papa and Mamma—both crying this time. Punch was very sleepy and Judy was cross. [152] "Don't forget us," pleaded Mamma. "Oh, my little son, don't forget us, and see that Judy remembers too." "I've told Judy to bemember," said Punch, wiggling, for his father's beard tickled his neck. "I've told Judy—ten—forty—'leven thousand times. But Ju 's so young—quite a baby—is n't she?" "Yes," said Papa, "Quite a baby, and you must be good to Judy, and make haste to learn to write and—and—and——" Punch was back in his bed again. Judy was fast asleep, and there was the rattle of a cab below. Papa and Mamma had gone away. Not to Nassick; that was across the sea. To some place much nearer, of course, and equally of course they would return. They came back after dinner-parties, and Papa had come back
Prev.
Back
Top