Wilberforce by H. S. Cross Page B

no collapsed shed but merely a cat fight amongst dustbins, loud enough to wake the dead.
    He slid to the ground and held his arm against his chest as a part of his mind carried on jauntily with its caper: He must stay hidden down yonder snicket, in case the cats roused anyone. He mustn’t be caught just as his adventure was beginning. He could watch for the van, and then, oh, what ripping yarns he’d have! He’d outgrown ripping yarns long ago, of course, but even Stalky grew up to stalk in India. If he was bound for Wales, it could only be because his full-grown courage demanded broad horizons. It was a shame the post bag wasn’t big enough to fit inside of. That would have been the best plan; instead, he’d have to wait for the driver to load the bag and return to the cab before he slipped in the back. Oh, it would require timing, exquisite timing, and although it might hurt quite a bit given his tedious arm, he would prevail. He would, because that was the only turn his story could take!
    As this corner of his mind prattled, he felt fatigued. A light flicked on above the post office, startling him to his feet and driving him farther down the snicket. He unlatched a gate and scarpered into the garden behind the houses. Presently, a woman in dressing gown emerged from the back of the post office and began to upbraid the cats. Other lights came on, in the house belonging to the garden and in the one next door. Morgan stayed hidden until the woman went back inside, but his mind continued painting a dashing picture of hitchhiking across the countryside, of food stolen from dustbins—unfortunately, the cats had got to Fridaythorpe’s—of Huns thwarted, rescues achieved; even Stalky’s attack on the Khye-Kheens would pale beside the campaigns that awaited him.
    In the middle of the garden, there was a boulder surrounded by a patch of dirt. Morgan sat down on the rock and let his head rest upon his knees. He had no intention of falling asleep; he was merely huddling to conserve warmth and to rest his arm. His mind demanded he keep an ear for any approaching vehicle. Wearily, Morgan agreed.
    When Emily ran away, it was daytime, and spring, and she left carrying a cloth as if for a picnic. She ran away demanding that no one follow her because she had perfect confidence that someone would. Not only someone, but the one person she wished to follow her, their father. She had probably performed the entire drama to force a crisis, a kind of closeness through confrontation with the person she trusted and loved and needed.
    There was no one Morgan could expect to come after him. Even if the Academy could stir itself to realize he was missing, it would be midmorning at the earliest. He could not expect his father to come north looking for him. Even if someone filed a missing person report, how much interest could the constabulary take? He might be a schoolboy, but boys his age worked down the mines, in shipyards, in a hundred and one trades across the land. Soon he’d even be able to vote in elections, should they ever deign to occur. In all likelihood, the Academy would dispose him for bunking off.
    But his father would worry, and so would his sisters, inconsolably. When they finally found him, Veronica would tear strips off him and then start all over again in the morning. She would make him feel wretched, as wretched as he deserved. Silly, vain, pathetic.
    Though what should he do instead? Return to the Academy, haul himself back through the woods, back to the House, the dorm, and the two he had lied to? (And wasn’t he the worst sort of liar, the kind everyone believed…?)
    Morgan raised his head and saw that all the lights had gone out, save the one in the house whose garden this was. The curtain lay askew as if someone had pulled it aside and not replaced it properly. He could see a wall and a bookcase, but nothing else—except for a garden door, which was opening and revealing a man,