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[Copy of a holiday letter from Gus Cutaway, of the Upper Remove, Shellboro’, to his particular chum and messmate, Joseph Rackett]:—

Dear Jossy,—If you want a motto in life, I’ll give you one—“‘Ware kids!” Don’t you have anything to do with kids, unless you want to lose all your pocket money, and be made a fool of before the fellows, and get yourself in a regular high old mess all round.

You needn’t think I don’t know what I’m talking about. I do. Promise you’ll never say a word to anybody, especially to any of the fellows, and I’ll tell you.

It was on breaking-up day. You know, all of you went off by the 2 train, and I had to wait till the 3.15. That’s the worst of going through London; the trains never go at the right time. It came in up to time, for a wonder, and I bagged a second-class carriage to myself, and laid in some grub and a B.O.P. and made up my mind to enjoy myself.

What do you think? Just as the bell was ringing, a female with a kid rushed on to the platform and made a dive for my carriage. I can tell you I was riled. But that wasn’t half of it.

“Are you going to Waterloo, young gentleman?” asks the female, as out of breath as you like.

“Yes—why?” said I.

“Would you be so kind as to look after Tommy? His father will be there to meet him. He’s got his ticket; haven’t you, Tommy? Say ‘Thank you’ to the kind young gentleman. Bye, bye; be a good boy.”

“Right forward,” sings out the guard.

“Love to daddy,” says the female.

“Stand away from the train,” shouts the porter.

And then we were off. And here was I, left alone in a carriage with a kid called Tommy, that I was to give over to a chap called daddy at Waterloo!

How would you have liked it yourself, Jossy? I was awfully disgusted. And, of course, till the train was off, I never thought of saying, “I can’t,” and then it was too late. I can tell you it’s a bit rough on a fellow to be served that way. If ever you’re going by train and see a female and a kid coming along, hop out of the carriage till you see which carriage they get into; and then go and get into another.

I made up my mind I’d leave the little cad to himself, so I started to read. At least I pretended to. Really I took a good squint at him while he wasn’t looking. He was a kid of about four and a half, I fancy, with a turnippy head and a suit of togs that must have been new, he was so jolly proud of them. He sat staring at the lamp and swinging his legs for a good bit. Then he got hold of the window-strap and fooled about with that. Then he remembered his swagger togs and looked himself all over, and stuck his hands in his pocket. He twigged me looking at him as he did so.

“I’ve got a knife,” he said, as cool as if he’d known me a couple of terms.

“Who said you hadn’t?” I responded.

“It’s in my pocket,” he said.

“Oh,” said I. I didn’t want to encourage him.

He pulled it out, staring at me all the time. Then he slipped down off the seat and brought it up to me.

“Open it,” he said.

“Open it yourself,” said I.

“I can’t,” said he. “Open it! Open it!”

“All right, keep your temper,” said I, and I opened it. A beastly blunt thing it was. “There you are; take it.”

“I want to sit beside you,” he said, when he’d got it.

“Do you? I don’t want you. Haven’t you got all the rest of the carriage?”

“Lift Tommy up,” he whined.

I’d a good mind to chuck him out of the window.

“Lift yourself up,” I said, “and shut up. I want to read.” Then I’m bothered if the young cad didn’t begin yelling! Just because I didn’t lift him up. I never saw such a blub-baby in all my life. I couldn’t make out what he was up to at first. I thought he was curtseying and seeing how long he could hold his breath. But when it did come out, my eye! I thought the engine-driver would hear. I was in a regular funk; I thought he’d got a fit or something; I never heard such yelling. He was black in the face over it, and dancing. I’d a good mind to pull the cord and stop the train. But I thought I’d see if I could pull him round first.

So I picked him up and stuck him up on the seat. Would you believe it, Jossy? The moment he was up he stopped howling and began grinning. It had all been a plant to get me to lift him up; and as soon as he’d made me do it he laughed at me!

I can tell you it’s not pleasant to be made a fool of, even by a kid.

“I’m sitting beside you now,” he said, as much as to tell me he’d scored one off me.

I was too disgusted to take any further notice of him. I suppose he saw I was riled, and began to be a bit civil. He pulled a nasty sticky bit of chocolate out of his pocket and held it up to my nose.

“A sweetie for you,” he said.

I didn’t want to have him yelling again, so I took it. Ugh!—all over dust and hairs, and half melted.

He watched me gulp it down, and then, to my relief, got hold of the Boy’s Own Paper and began looking at the pictures. He got sick of that soon, and went and looked out of the window. Then he came and sat by me again, and began to get jolly familiar. He stroked my cheeks with his horrid sticky hand, and then climbed up on the seat and tried to lark with my cap. Then just because I didn’t shut him up, he clambered up on my back and nearly throttled me with his arms round my neck; and—what do you think?—he began to kiss me!

That was a drop too much.

“Stow it, kid!” I said.

“Dear, dear!” he said, getting regularly maudlin, and kissing me at about two a second.

“Let go, do you hear? you’re scrugging me.”

“Nice mannie,” he said.

I didn’t know what to do until I luckily thought of my grub.

“Like a bun?” said I.

He let me go and was down beside me like a shot. You should have seen him walk into that bun! His face was all over it, and the crumbs were about an inch deep all over the place. When he got near the end of bun No. 1, he looked up as near choking as they make them, and said—

“I like buns awfully.”

“All right, have another,” said I. You see as his governor was going to meet him in town, it didn’t matter much to me if he got gripes at night. Anything to keep him quiet.

After the third bun he was about full up, and said he was thirsty. I couldn’t make the young ass understand that I had no water in the carriage. He kept on saying he was thirsty for half an hour, till we came to a station. I had made up my mind I would get into another carriage at the first stop we came to; but, somehow, it seemed rather low to leave the kid in the lurch. So I bought him a glass of milk instead, which set him up again. Nobody else got in the carriage—knew better—and off we went again.

He’d got an awful lot to say for himself; about dicky-birds and puff-puffs, and dogs, and trouser-pockets and rot of that sort, and didn’t seem to care much whether I listened or no. Then, just when I thought he had about run dry and was getting sleepy, he rounded on me with—

“Tell me a story.”

“Me? I don’t know any stories.”

“Oh yes; a funny one, please.”

“I tell you I don’t know any—what about?”

“‘The Three Bears.’”

“I don’t know anything about ‘three bears,’” said I.

“Do! do!! do!!!” he said, beginning to get crusty.

So I did my best. He kept saying I was all wrong, and putting me right; he might just as well have told it himself. I told him so. But he took no notice, and went on badgering me for more stories.

I can tell you I was getting sick of it!

When I made up a story for him to laugh at, he looked so solemn and said—

“Not that; a funny one.”

And when I told him a fairy tale, he snapped up and said he didn’t like it.

It ended in my telling him the “The Three Bears” over and over again. It was about the sixty-fifth time of telling that we got to Vauxhall, and had to give up tickets.

“Now, young un, look out for your governor when we get in—I don’t know him, you know.”

The young ass didn’t know what I meant.

“Look out for daddy, then,” I said.

He promptly stuck his head out of the window and said the ticket-collector was daddy; then that the porter was; then that a sweep on the platform was.

It wasn’t very hopeful for spotting the real daddy at Waterloo. I told him to shut up and wait till we got there.

When we got there, I stuck him up at the window, as large as life, for his governor to see. There were a lot of people about; but I can tell you I was pretty queer when no one owned him. We hung about a quarter of an hour, asking everybody we met if they’d come to meet a kid, and watching them all go off in cabs, till we had the platform to ourselves.

“Here’s a go, kid!” said I; “daddy’s not come.”

“I ’spex,” says he, “when the middling-size bear found his porridge eaten up, he wondered who it was.”

“Shut up about the bears,” said I. “What about your gov—your daddy? Where does he live?”

“In London town,” said he, as soon as I could knock those bears out of his head.

“Whereabouts? What street?”

“London town.”

“Do you mean to say—look here, what’s your name? Tommy what?”

“It’s Tommy,” he said.

“I know that. Is it Tommy Jones, or Tommy Robinson, or what?”

“It’s Tommy,” he repeated. “My name’s Tommy.”

Here was a nice go! Stranded with a kid that didn’t know his own name, or where his governor lived! The worst of it was, I had to stop in London that night as there was no train on. My pater had written to get a room for me at the Euston Hotel, so that I should be on the spot for starting home first train in the morning.

I was regularly stumped, I can tell you. It never turned a feather on the kid, his governor not turning up; and I couldn’t make the idiot understand anything. He hung on to me singing and saying, “Who’s been tasting my porridge and eaten it all up?” or else cheeking the porters, or else trying to whistle to make the trains go.

I thought I’d better leave word with the station-master where I’d gone, in case any one turned up; and then there was nothing for it but to take a cab across to the hotel.

The kid was no end festive to have a ride in the cab. It would have been in a little better taste if he’d held his tongue, and shown a little regret for the jolly mess he’d let me into. But, bless you, he didn’t care two straws.

“What will daddy say when he can’t find you?” I said, trying to get him to look at things seriously.

“Daddy will say, ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair, and broken the bottom out?’” said he, still harping on those blessed bears. I gave him up after that, and let him jaw on.

When we got to the hotel I was in another fix. The chap in charge said he’d got instructions about one young gentleman, but not two.

“Oh, I’m looking after this boy,” said I, “till to-morrow; I’ll have him in my room.”

The chap looked as if he didn’t like it. And, of course, just when he was thinking it over, the young cad must go and cheek him.

“What makes that ugly man so red on his nose?” he asks at the top of his voice, for every one to hear.

The chap was no end riled at that, and looked as if he’d kick us out. When he’d cooled down he said—

“You wait here; I’ll attend to you presently.”

That was a nice go! If I had had tin enough I should have gone somewhere else; but I’d only got enough for the journey to-morrow, and so thought I’d better hang on here, where the governor had arranged.

The kid went on anyhow while we were waiting in the hall. He ran and stood in front of people, and he pulled waiters’ coat-tails, and got mixed up with the luggage, and called out to me to know where the ugly red-nosed man had gone. At last I had to pull him in.

“Look here, kid!” said I; “if you don’t hold your jaw and sit here quietly, I’ll give you to a policeman.”

“Tell me about the bears, then.”

Oh, how I loathed those bears! Think of me, captain of my eleven, in that rackety hall, with people coming and going, and a row enough to deafen you, telling a kid about The Three Bears! You may grin, Jossy; but I was reduced to it.

After a time the hotel chap came and said we were to have a double-bedded room, and he should charge half-extra for the kid, and if we wanted dinner we’d better look sharp, as it was just beginning.

So we went up and washed—at least I had to wash the kid’s sticky hands and face for him—and then came down to table d’hôte. I was in a regular funk lest any of our fellows, or any one I knew, should see me. We got squeezed in between a lady in grand evening dress, and a professor chap with blue spectacles; and as they were both attending to their neighbours, I hoped we might scrape through without a scene.

You should have seen that kid tuck in! I mildly suggested that he’d better not have any mock-turtle soup; but he began to get up steam for a bowl and a half, so I gave it up.

He said it was ugly stuff, but for all that he polished off a plate of it, and then walked into salmon. After that he had a turn at roast pork and apple sauce, and after that a cabinet pudding and some Gorgonzola cheese. He was very anxious to have some beer, like the professor, or some wine, like the lady; but I put my foot down there, and let him have lemonade instead. You should have seen people stare at him! The professor glared as if he was a rum animal.

“Your brother?” said he.

“Not exactly,” said I.

“Uncommon appetite. Would you mind telling me in the morning what sort of night he had? I shall be curious to know.”

The lady glared too, chiefly because the kid had sprinkled her silk dress with melted butter, and pork gravy and lemonade. He caught her eye once, and said out loud to her—

“Our cat’s called Flossy; what’s your cat called?”

The lady turned away; whereupon the kid began his cheek again.

“That lady,” said he to me and the company at large, “has got a nice dress and a nasty face. I like nice faces bestest—do you?”

“Shut up, or I’ll clout your ear,” snarled I, in a regular perspiration of disgust.

“What’s clout?” inquired he. Then, feeling his ears, “My ears don’t stick out like that man’s over there, do they?”

“Do you hear? shut up, you little fool!”

“We’ve got a donkey at home, and his——”

Here I could stand it no longer, and lugged him off, whether he liked it or no.

He was just as bad in the reading-room. He wouldn’t sit still unless I told him stories, and made a regular nuisance of himself to the other people. Then (I suppose it was his big feed) he began to get crusty, and blubbered when I talked sharply to him, and presently set up a regular good old howl.

“Why don’t you put the child to bed?” said a lady; “he’s no business up at this hour.”

Nice, wasn’t it?

I had to sneak off with him upstairs, howling all the way. He wouldn’t stop till I gave him a mild cuff on the head. That seemed to bring him round enough to demand the “The Three Bears” once more.

Anything to keep him still; so at it I went again.

Then I told him to go to bed; and he told me to undress him, as he couldn’t do the buttons.

I can’t make out how I got him out of his togs. Then he kicked up no end of a shine because I was going to stick him in bed without his bath.

“I’ve got no bath,” said I; “wait till the morning.”

“Tommy wants his bath. Bring it! bring it!!” he shrieked.

Finally I had to mess him about in a basin in cold water, which set him yelling worse than ever. Then I had to put him in my night-gown, for he’d got none of his own.

“I want to get in beside you,” he said, as I stuck him in bed.

“I’m not going to bed yet,” said I; “not likely, at eight o’clock!”

More yells; and a chambermaid came and knocked at the door to know what was the matter.

I tried all I knew to quiet him down. He wouldn’t listen to me, not even when I tried to tell him his “Three Bears.” He bellowed out one incessant “Want to get in beside you! Want to get in beside you!!” till finally I chucked up the sponge and actually went to bed to oblige him.

He simmered down after that; and I began to hope he’d drop off and get to sleep. But bless you, Jossy, was it likely, after those buns and the dinner he’d had?

We had a fearful night, I can tell you. He kicked till I was black and blue, and rolled over and over till I hadn’t a stitch on me. Then he wanted some water to drink. Then he wanted the gas alight. Then he began to blubber for his mother. Then he wanted the clothes on. Then he wanted them off. Then he got his feet entangled in the night-gown. Then he wanted some chocolates. Then he wanted to know who was talking in the next room. Then he wanted the pillow turned over. Then he wanted a story told him, and shut me up before I’d begun one sentence of it. Then he wanted me to put my arm round him. Then he wanted me to lie over on the edge of the bed. Then he had a pain in his “tummy,” and called on me to make it well, and howled because I couldn’t.

Poor little beggar! He was in a jolly bad way, and I couldn’t well cut up rough; but I can tell you it was the worst night I ever spent. He didn’t quiet down till about three in the morning; and then he went off with his head on my chest and his hand on my nose, and I daren’t for the life of me shift an inch, for fear of bringing it all on again.

I suppose I must have dropped off myself at last; for the next thing I remember, it was broad daylight, and the young cad was sitting on the top of me as merry as a cricket, trying to prize my eyes open with his fingers.

“Can’t you let a chap be?” grunted I; “haven’t you made a beast enough of yourself all night without starting again now?”

“I want to see your eyes,” said he.

Then he began to jump up and down on the top of me and explained that he was “riding in the puff-puff.”

I wished to goodness he was! Of course I had to wake up, and then we had those brutal “Three Bears” on again for an hour, till it was time to get up.

He insisted on being tubbed all over, with soap, and criticised me all the while.

“Boys who spill on the carpet must be whipped,” said he. “Mother will whip you, and you’ll cry—ha, ha!”

“I don’t care,” said I, “as long as she clears you off.”

He never seemed to understand what I said, and wasn’t a bit set down by this.

Then came the same old game of getting him into his togs, and parting his horrid hair, and blowing his nose, and all that.

I can tell you I was about sick of it when it was done.

When we got down in the hall, the first chap we met was the hotel man.

“There’s the ugly man with the red nose,” sings out, the kid. “I can see him—there is he!” pointing with all his might.

“Look here, young gentleman,” said the man, coming to me, “we aren’t used to be kept awake all night by your noise or your baby’s. You may tell your papa he needn’t send you here again. There’s half a dozen of my visitors leaving to-day, because they couldn’t get a wink of sleep all night.”

“No more could I,” said I.

He was going to say something more, but just then a man came in from the street. Directly he spotted the kid, he rushed up to him.

“Why, it is Tommy,” said he.

Tommy put on a grin, and dug his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a knife,” said he, “of my very own.”

“Are you the young gentleman who left the message at Waterloo?” said the man. “Why, the letter I got said the train got in at 8 a.m., not 8 p.m. You don’t know what a turn it gave me to go down there this morning and not see him. Have you had him here all night?”

“Rather,” said I.

“Daddy, there’s an ugly man came to this house. I can see him now, with a red nose. Look there!”

“I hope he’s been a good boy,” said the proud father. “I’m sure I’m much obliged. I’m afraid he’s been a trouble to you. I’ve got a cab here. My word, I’m glad I’ve got you safe, Tommy, my boy. Come, say good-bye to the kind gentleman.”

“He was naughty, and spilt the water on the floor. He must be whipped—ha, ha!” observed Tommy, by way of farewell.

He didn’t seem to care twopence about leaving me, and chucked me up for his governor as if I’d been a railway porter. However, I can tell you I was glad to see the back of him, and didn’t envy his governor a little bit.

Of course, I’d lost my first train home, and had to wait till mid-day, to endure the scowls of the hotel man, and the frowns of all the people who had been kept awake by the kid’s row. Among others there was the professor.

“Well,” said he, “what sort of night did baby have?”

“Middling,” said I.

“I expected it would be middling,” said he.

Now, Jossy, you know what I mean by “’Ware kids.” Keep all this mum, whatever you do. I wouldn’t have any of the fellows hear about it for the world. I can tell you, I feel as if I deserve a week’s holiday longer than the rest of you. Never you utter the words “Three Bears” in my hearing, or there’ll be a row.

Yours truly, Gus. Cutaway