Why had he passed him so churlishly by and refused his outstretched hand? But there was more in it than that. Mr. Zanti attracted him most compellingly. The gaily-dressed genial man spoke to him of all the glitter and adventure of the outside world. Back, crowding upon him, came all those adventurous thoughts and desires that he had known before in Mr. Zanti's company--but tinged now by that grey threatening background of Scaw House and its melancholy inhabitants! What would he not give to escape? Perhaps Mr. Zanti!... The little green room began to extend its narrow walls and to include in its boundaries flashing rivers, shining cities, wide and bounteous plains. Beyond the shop--dark now with its treasures mysteriously gleaming--the steep little street held up its lamps to be transformed into yellow flame, and at its foot by the wooden jetty, as the night fell, the sea crept ever more secretly with its white fingers gleaming below the shingles of the beach.

Here was wonder and glory enough with the wind tearing and beating outside the windows, blowing the young flowers of the lamps up and down inside their glass houses and screaming down the chimneys for sheer zest of life.... But here it all had its centre in this little room "with Mr.

Emilio Zanti's chuckling for no reason at all and spreading his broad fat hand over Peter Westcott's knee.

"Well, Mr. Peter, and 'ave you been to London in all these years? Or perhaps you 'ave forgotten that you ever wanted to go there?"

No, Peter was still of the same mind but Treliss and a few miles up and down the road were as much of the world as he'd had the pleasure of seeing--except for school in Devonshire--

"And you'd still go, my leetle friend?"

"Yes--I want to go--I hate being in an office here."

"And what is it zat you will do when you are there?"

Suddenly, in a flash, illuminating the little room, shining over the whole world, Peter knew what it was that he would do.

"I will write."

"Write what?"

"Stories."

With that word muttered, his head hanging, his cheeks flushing, as though it were something of which he was most mightily ashamed, he knew what it was he had been wanting all these months. The desire had been there, the impulse had been there ... now with the spoken word the blind faltering impulse was changed into definite certainty.

Mr. Zanti thought it a tremendous joke. He roared, shouted with riotous laughter. "Oh, ze boy--he will be the death of me--'I will write stories'--Oh yes, so easy, so very simple. 'I will write stories'--Oh yes."

But Peter was very solemn. He did not like his great intention to be laughed at.

"I mean it," he said rather gruffly.

"Oh yes, that's of course--but that is enough. Oh dear, yes ... well, my friend, I like you. You are very strong, you are brave I can see--you have a fine spirit. One thing you lack--with all you English it is the same."

He paused interrogatively but Peter did not seem to wish to know what this quality was.

"Yes, it is ze Humour--you do not see how funny life is--always--always funny. Death, murder, robberies, violences--always funny--you are. Oh!

so solemn and per'aps you will be annoyed, think it tiresome, because I laugh--"

"No," said Peter gravely, "I like your laughing."

"Ah! That is well." Suddenly he jerked his body forward and stared into Peter's face.

"Well!... Will you come?"

Peter hung back, his face white. He was only conscious that Zachary, quiet and smiling in the background, watched him intently.

"What!... with you ... to London!"

"Yes ... wiz me--what of your father? Will he be furious, hey?"

"He won't like it--" Peter continued slowly. "But I don't care. I'll leave him--But I should have no money--nothing!"

"An', no matter--I will take you to London for nothing and then--if you like it--you may work for me. Two pounds a week--you would be useful."

"What should I do?"

"I have a bookshop--you would look after ze books and also ze customers." This seemed to amuse Mr. Zanti very much. "Two pounds a week is a lot of money for ze work--and you will have time--ho yes--much time for your stories."

Peter's eyes burned. London--a bookshop--freedom. Oh! wonderful world!

His heart was beating so that words would not come.

"Oh!" he murmured. "Oh!"

"Ah, that's well!" Mr. Zanti clapped him on the shoulder. "There is no need for you to say now. On ze Wednesday in Easter week I go--before then you will tell me. We shall get on together, I know it. If you will 'ave a leetle more of ze Humour you will be a very pleasant boy--and useful--Ho, yes!"

To Peter then the shop was not visible--a mist hung about his eyes.

"Much time for your stories"... said Mr. Zanti, and he shouted with laughter as his big form hung before Peter. The large white hand with the flashing rings enclosed Peter's.

For a moment the hands were on his shoulders and in his nostrils was the pungent scent of the hair-oil that Mr. Zanti affected--afterwards silence.

Peter said farewell to Zachary and promised to come soon and see him again. The little bell tinkled behind him and he was in the street.

The great wind caught him and blew him along the cobbles. The flying mountains of cloud swept like galleons across the moor, and in Peter's heart was overwhelming triumph ... the lights of London lit the black darkness of the high sea road.

IV

The doors of Scaw House clanged behind him and at once he was aware that his father had to be faced. Supper was eaten in silence. Peter watched his father and his grandfather. Here were the three of them alone. What his grandfather was his father would one day be, what his father was, he ... yes, he must escape. He stared at the room's dreary furniture, he listened to the driving rain and he was conscious that, from the other side of the table, his father's eyes were upon him.

"Father," he said, "I want to go away." His heart was thumping.

Mr. Westcott got up from his place at the table and stood, with his legs a little apart, looking down at his son.

"Why?"

"I'm doing no good here. That office is no use to me. I shall never be a solicitor. I'm nearly eighteen and I shall never get on here. I remember things... my mother..." his voice choked.

His father smiled. "And where do you want to go?"

"To London."

"Oh! and what will you do there?"

"I have a friend--he has a bookshop there. He will give me two pounds a week at first so that I should be quite independent--"

"All very nice," Mr. Westcott was grave again. "And so you are tired of Treliss?"

"Not only Treliss--this house--everything. I hate it."

"You have no regret at leaving me?"