Twelve Stories and a Dream. H. G. Wells

did the only thing possible in that mental tumult; I walked straight to the kerbstone and held up my umbrella for a cab.

      “'Ansoms,” said Gip, in a note of culminating exultation.

      I helped him in, recalled my address with an effort, and got in also. Something unusual proclaimed itself in my tail-coat pocket, and I felt and discovered a glass ball. With a petulant expression I flung it into the street.

      Gip said nothing.

      For a space neither of us spoke.

      “Dada!” said Gip, at last, “that WAS a proper shop!”

      I came round with that to the problem of just how the whole thing had seemed to him. He looked completely undamaged—so far, good; he was neither scared nor unhinged, he was simply tremendously satisfied with the afternoon's entertainment, and there in his arms were the four parcels.

      Confound it! what could be in them?

      “Um!” I said. “Little boys can't go to shops like that every day.”

      He received this with his usual stoicism, and for a moment I was sorry I was his father and not his mother, and so couldn't suddenly there, coram publico, in our hansom, kiss him. After all, I thought, the thing wasn't so very bad.

      But it was only when we opened the parcels that I really began to be reassured. Three of them contained boxes of soldiers, quite ordinary lead soldiers, but of so good a quality as to make Gip altogether forget that originally these parcels had been Magic Tricks of the only genuine sort, and the fourth contained a kitten, a little living white kitten, in excellent health and appetite and temper.

      I saw this unpacking with a sort of provisional relief. I hung about in the nursery for quite an unconscionable time. …

      That happened six months ago. And now I am beginning to believe it is all right. The kitten had only the magic natural to all kittens, and the soldiers seem as steady a company as any colonel could desire. And Gip—?

      The intelligent parent will understand that I have to go cautiously with Gip.

      But I went so far as this one day. I said, “How would you like your soldiers to come alive, Gip, and march about by themselves?”

      “Mine do,” said Gip. “I just have to say a word I know before I open the lid.”

      “Then they march about alone?”

      “Oh, QUITE, dadda. I shouldn't like them if they didn't do that.”

      I displayed no unbecoming surprise, and since then I have taken occasion to drop in upon him once or twice, unannounced, when the soldiers were about, but so far I have never discovered them performing in anything like a magical manner.

      It's so difficult to tell.

      There's also a question of finance. I have an incurable habit of paying bills. I have been up and down Regent Street several times, looking for that shop. I am inclined to think, indeed, that in that matter honour is satisfied, and that, since Gip's name and address are known to them, I may very well leave it to these people, whoever they may be, to send in their bill in their own time.