Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around
him, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the
night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to
himself, stole away through the trees.
Peter slept on. The light guttered and went out, leaving the tenement
in darkness; but still he slept. It must have been not less than ten
o clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed, wakened
by he knew not what. It was a soft cautious tapping on the door of his
tree.
Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt
for his dagger till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.
Who is that?
For long there was no answer: then again the knock.
Who are you?
No answer.
He was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In two strides he reached
the door. Unlike Slightly s door, it filled the aperture, so that he
could not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him.
I won t open unless you speak, Peter cried.
Then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.
Let me in, Peter.
It was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in excitedly, her
face flushed and her dress stained with mud.
What is it?
Oh, you could never guess! she cried, and offered him three guesses.
Out with it! he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long
as the ribbons that conjurers pull from their mouths, she told of the
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