re at
this very moment witnessing the coloured history of Dick Whittinglon,
the history that he had pursued ceaselessly during all these days and
nights--that picture of them all in the lighted theatre--once more
nearly overcame him. But he pulled himself together.

He sniffed, left his dirty handkerchief, and went slowly and sorrowfully
to drag out his toy village from its corner and see whether anything
could be done with it.... After all, he was going to school in
September. His punishment could not be quite limitless. Hamlet had just
shown his approval of this manly conduct by strolling up and sniffing
at the Noah family, who were, as usual, on their way to church, when the
door suddenly opened, and in came Uncle Samuel.

Jeremy had forgotten his uncle, and now blinked up at him from the
floor, where he was squatting, rather ashamed of his swollen eyes and
red nose.

Uncle Samuel, however, had no time for details; he was apparently in
a hurry. He did not wear his blue painting-smock, but was in a
comparatively clean black suit, and on the back of his head was a
squashy brown hat.

"Come on," he said, "or we shall be too late."

Jeremy choked. "Too late?" he repeated.

"You're coming, aren't you--to the Pantomime? They sent me back for
you."

The room suddenly got on to its legs, like the food and the families
during Alice's feast in the "Looking Glass," and swung round, lurching
from side to side, and causing the fire to run into the gas and the gas
to fly out of the window.

"I--don't--understand," Jeremy stammered.

"Well, if you don't understand in half a shake," said Uncle Samuel,
"you won't see any of the show at all. Go on. Wash your face. There are
streaks of dirt all down it as though you were a painted Indian; stick
on your cap and coat and boots and come along."

Exactly as one moves in sleep so Jeremy now moved. He had once had a
wonderful dream, in which he had been at a meal that included every
thing that he had most loved--fish-cakes, sausages, ices, strawberry
jam, sponge-cake, chocolates, and scrambled eggs--and he had been
able to eat, and eat, and had never been satisfied, and had never felt
sick--a lovely dream.

He often thought of it. And now in the same bewildering fashion he found
his boots and cap and coat and then, deliberately keeping from him the
thought of the Pantomime lest he should suddenly wake up, he said:

"I'm ready, Uncle."

Samuel Trefusia looked at him.

"You