"Don’t you call this being up?" you suggest.
"Oh, no; we’re not really up, you know, because we’re not properly dressed." The fact is self – evident. "Pa’s always very tired in the morning," the voice continues; "of course, that’s because he works hard all day. Are you ever tired in the morning?"
At this point he turns and notices, for the first time, that the three other children have also entered, and are sitting in a semi – circle on the floor. From their attitude it is clear they have mistaken the whole thing for one of the slower forms of entertainment, some comic lecture or conjuring exhibition, and are waiting patiently for you to get out of bed and do something. It shocks him, the idea of their being in the guest’s bedchamber. He peremptorily orders them out. They do not answer him, they do not argue; in dead silence, and with one accord they fall upon him. All you can see from the bed is a confused tangle of waving arms and legs, suggestive of an intoxicated octopus trying to find bottom. Not a word is spoken; that seems to be the etiquette of the thing. If you are sleeping in your pyjamas, you spring from the bed, and only add to the confusion; if you are wearing a less showy garment, you stop where you are and shout commands, which are utterly unheeded. The simplest plan is to leave it to the eldest boy. He does get them out after a while, and closes the door upon them. It re – opens immediately, and one, generally Muriel, is shot back into the room. She enters as from a catapult. She is handicapped by having long hair, which can be used as a convenient handle. Evidently aware of this natural disadvantage, she clutches it herself tightly in one hand, and punches with the other. He opens the door again, and cleverly uses her as a battering – ram against the wall of those without. You can hear the dull crash as her head enters among them, and scatters them. When the victory is complete, he comes back and resumes his seat on the bed. There is no bitterness about him; he has forgotten the whole incident.
"I like the morning," he says, "don’t you?"
"Some mornings," you agree, "are all right; others are not so peaceful."
He takes no notice of your exception; a far – away look steals over his somewhat ethereal face.
"I should like to die in the morning," he says; "everything is so beautiful then."
"Well," you answer, "perhaps you will, if your father ever invites an irritable man to come and sleep here, and doesn’t warn him beforehand."
He descends from his contemplative mood, and becomes himself again.
"It’s jolly in the garden," he suggests; "you wouldn’t like to get up and have a game of cricket, would you?"
It was not the idea with which you went to bed, but now, as things have turned out, it seems as good a plan as lying there hopelessly awake; and you agree.
You learn, later in the day, that the explanation of the proceeding is that you, unable to sleep, woke up early in the morning, and thought you would like a game of cricket. The children, taught to be ever courteous to guests, felt it their duty to humour you. Mrs. Harris remarks at breakfast that at least you might have seen to it that the children were properly dressed before you took them out; while Harris points out to you, pathetically, how, by your one morning’s example and encouragement, you have undone his labour of months.
