On attaining the age of eight, or thereabout, children fly awayfrom the Gardens, and never come back. When next you meet themthey are ladies and gentlemen holding up their umbrellas to haila hansom.

Where the girls go to I know not, to some private place, Isuppose, to put up their hair, but the boys have gone toPilkington's. He is a man with a cane. You may not go toPilkington's in knickerbockers made by your mother, make she everso artfully. They must be real knickerbockers. It is his sternrule. Hence the fearful fascination of Pilkington's.

He may be conceived as one who, baiting his hook with realknickerbockers, fishes all day in the Gardens, which are to himbut a pool swarming with small fry.

Abhorred shade! I know not what manner of man thou art in theflesh, sir, but figure thee bearded and blackavised, and of alean tortuous habit of body, that moves ever with a swish. Everymorning, I swear, thou readest avidly the list of male births inthy paper, and then are thy hands rubbed gloatingly the one uponthe other. 'Tis fear of thee and thy gown and thy cane, whichare part of thee, that makes the fairies to hide by day; wertthou to linger but once among their haunts between the hours ofLock-out and Open Gates there would be left not one single gentleplace in all the Gardens. The little people would flit. Howmuch wiser they than the small boys who swim glamoured to thycrafty hook. Thou devastator of the Gardens, I know thee,Pilkington.

I first heard of Pilkington from David, who had it from OliverBailey.

This Oliver Bailey was one of the most dashing figures in theGardens, and without apparent effort was daily drawing nearer thecompletion of his seventh year at a time when David seemed unableto get beyond half-past five. I have to speak of him in the pasttense, for gone is Oliver from the Gardens (gone to Pilkington's)but he is still a name among us, and some lordly deeds areremembered of him, as that his father shaved twice a day. Oliverhimself was all on that scale.

His not ignoble ambition seems always to have been to be wreckedupon an island, indeed I am told that he mentioned itinsinuatingly in his prayers, and it was perhaps inevitable thata boy with such an outlook should fascinate David. I am proud,therefore, to be able to state on wood that it was Oliver himselfwho made the overture.

On first hearing, from some satellite of Oliver's, of WreckedIslands, as they are called in the Gardens, David said wistfullythat he supposed you needed to be very very good before you hadany chance of being wrecked, and the remark was conveyed toOliver, on whom it made an uncomfortable impression. For a timehe tried to evade it, but ultimately David was presented to himand invited gloomily to say it again. The upshot was that Oliveradvertised the Gardens of his intention to be good until he waseight, and if he had not been wrecked by that time, to be asjolly bad as a boy could be. He was naturally so bad that at theKindergarten Academy, when the mistress ordered whoever had donethe last naughty deed to step forward, Oliver's custom had beento step forward, not necessarily because he had done it, butbecause he presumed he very likely had.

The friendship of the two dated from this time, and at first Ithought Oliver discovered generosity in hasting to David as to anequal; he also walked hand in hand with him, and even reprovedhim for delinquencies like a loving elder brother. But 'tis agray world even in the Gardens, for I found that a newarrangement had been made which reduced Oliver to life-size. Hehad wearied of well-doing, and passed it on, so to speak, to hisfriend. In other words, on David now devolved the task of beinggood until he was eight, while Oliver clung to him so closelythat the one could not be wrecked without the other.

When this was made known to me it was already too late to breakthe spell of Oliver, David was top-heavy with pride in him, and,faith, I began to find myself very much in the cold, for Oliverwas frankly bored by me and even David seemed to think it wouldbe convenient if I went and sat with Irene. Am I affecting tolaugh? I was really distressed and lonely, and rather bitter; andhow humble I became. Sometimes when the dog Joey is unable, byfrisking, to induce Porthos to play with him, he stands on hishind legs and begs it of him, and I do believe I was sometimes ashumble as Joey. Then David would insist on my being suffered tojoin them, but it was plain that he had no real occasion for me.

It was an unheroic trouble, and I despised myself. For years Ihad been fighting Mary for David, and had not wholly failedthough she was advantaged by the accident of relationship; was Inow to be knocked out so easily by a seven year old? Ireconsidered my weapons, and I fought Oliver and beat him. Figure to yourself those two boys become as faithful to me as mycoat-tails.

With wrecked islands I did it. I began in the most unpretentiousway by telling them a story which might last an hour, andfavoured by many an unexpected wind it lasted eighteen months. It started as the wreck of the simple Swiss family who looked upand saw the butter tree, but soon a glorious inspiration of thenight turned it into the wreck of David A---- and Oliver Bailey. At first it was what they were to do when they were wrecked, butimperceptibly it became what they had done. I spent much of mytime staring reflectively at the titles of the boys' stories inthe booksellers' windows, whistling for a breeze, so to say, forI found that the titles were even more helpful than the stories. We wrecked everybody of note, including all Homer's most takingcharacters and the hero of Paradise Lost. But we suffered themnot to land. We stripped them of what we wanted and left them towander the high seas naked of adventure. And all this was merelythe beginning.

By this time I had been cast upon the island. It was not my ownproposal, but David knew my wishes, and he made it all right forme with Oliver. They found me among the breakers with a largedog, which had kept me afloat throughout that terrible night. Iwas the sole survivor of the ill-fated Anna Pink. So exhaustedwas I that they had to carry me to their hut, and great was mygratitude when on opening my eyes, I found myself in thatromantic edifice instead of in Davy Jones's locker. As we walkedin the Gardens I told them of the hut they had built; and theywere inflated but not surprised. On the other hand they lookedfor surprise from me.

"Did we tell you about the turtle we turned on its back?" askedOliver, reverting to deeds of theirs of which I had previouslytold them.

"You did."

"Who turned it?" demanded David, not as one who neededinformation but after the manner of a schoolmaster.

"It was turned," I said, "by David A----, the younger of the twoyouths."

"Who made the monkeys fling cocoa-nuts at him?" asked the olderof the two youths.

"Oliver Bailey," I replied.

"Was it Oliver," asked David sharply, "that found the cocoa-nut-tree first?"

"On the contrary," I answered, "it was first observed by David,who immediately climbed it, remarking, 'This is certainly thecocos-nucifera, for, see, dear Oliver, the slender columnssupporting the crown of leaves which fall with a grace that noart can imitate.'"

"That's what I said," remarked David with a wave of his hand.

"I said things like that, too," Oliver insisted.

"No, you didn't then," said David.

"Yes, I did so."

"No, you didn't so."

"Shut up."

"Well, then, let's hear one you said."

Oliver looked appealingly at me. "The following," I announced,"is one that Oliver said: 'Truly dear comrade, though the perilsof these happenings are great, and our privations calculated tobreak the stoutest heart, yet to be rewarded by such fair sightsI would endure still greater trials and still rejoice even as thebird on yonder bough.'"

"That's one I said!" crowed Oliver.

"I shot the bird," said David instantly.

"What bird?"

"The yonder bird."

"No, you didn't."

"Did I not shoot the bird?"

"It was David who shot the bird," I said, "but it was Oliver whosaw by its multi-coloured plumage that it was one of thePsittacidae, an excellent substitute for partridge."

"You didn't see that," said Oliver, rather swollen.

"Yes, I did."

"What did you see?"

"I saw that."

"What?"

"You shut up."

"David shot it," I summed up, "and Oliver knew its name, but Iate it. Do you remember how hungry I was?"

"Rather!" said David.

"I cooked it," said Oliver.

"It was served up on toast," I reminded them.

"I toasted it," said David.

"Toast from the bread-fruit-tree," I said, "which (as you bothremarked simultaneously) bears two and sometimes three crops in ayear, and also affords a serviceable gum for the pitching ofcanoes."

"I pitched mine best," said Oliver.

"I pitched mine farthest," said David.

"And when I had finished my repast," said I, "you amazed me byhanding me a cigar from the tobacco-plant."

"I handed it," said Oliver.

"I snicked off the end," said David.

"And then," said I, "you gave me a light."

"Which of us?" they cried together.

"Both of you," I said. "Never shall I forget my amazement when Isaw you get that light by rubbing two sticks together."

At this they waggled their heads. "You couldn't have done it!"said David.

"No, David," I admitted, "I can't do it, but of course I knowthat all wrecked boys do it quite easily. Show me how you didit."

But after consulting apart they agreed not to show me. I was notshown everything.

David was now firmly convinced that he had once been wrecked onan island, while Oliver passed his days in dubiety. They used toargue it out together and among their friends. As I unfolded thestory Oliver listened with an open knife in his hand, and Davidwho was not allowed to have a knife wore a pirate-string roundhis waist. Irene in her usual interfering way objected to thisbauble and dropped disparaging remarks about wrecked islandswhich were little to her credit. I was for defying her, butDavid, who had the knack of women, knew a better way; he craftilyproposed that we "should let Irene in," in short, should wreckher, and though I objected, she proved a great success andrecognised the yucca filamentosa by its long narrow leaves thevery day she joined us. Thereafter we had no more scoffing fromIrene, who listened to the story as hotly as anybody.

This encouraged us in time to let in David's father and mother,though they never knew it unless he told them, as I have no doubthe did. They were admitted primarily to gratify David, who wasvery soft-hearted and knew that while he was on the island theymust be missing him very much at home. So we let them in, andthere was no part of the story he liked better than that whichtold of the joyous meeting. We were in need of another woman atany rate, someone more romantic looking than Irene, and Mary, Ican assure her now, had a busy time of it. She was constantlybeing carried off by cannibals, and David became quite an adeptat plucking her from the very pot itself and springing from cliffto cliff with his lovely burden in his arms. There was seldom aSaturday in which David did not kill his man.

I shall now provide the proof that David believed it all to be astrue as true. It was told me by Oliver, who had it from our herohimself. I had described to them how the savages had tattooedDavid's father, and Oliver informed me that one night shortlyafterward David was discovered softly lifting the blankets offhis father's legs to have a look at the birds and reptiles etchedthereon.

Thus many months passed with no word of Pilkington, and you maybe asking where he was all this time. Ah, my friends, he wasvery busy fishing, though I was as yet unaware of his existence. Most suddenly I heard the whirr of his hated reel, as he struck afish. I remember that grim day with painful vividness, it was awet day, indeed I think it has rained for me more or less eversince. As soon as they joined me I saw from the manner of thetwo boys that they had something to communicate. Oliver nudgedDavid and retired a few paces, whereupon David said to mesolemnly,

"Oliver is going to Pilkington's."

I immediately perceived that it was some school, but so littledid I understand the import of David's remark that I called outjocularly, "I hope he won't swish you, Oliver."

Evidently I had pained both of them, for they exchanged glancesand retired for consultation behind a tree, whence David returnedto say with emphasis,

"He has two jackets and two shirts and two knickerbockers, allreal ones."

"Well done, Oliver!" said I, but it was the wrong thing again,and once more they disappeared behind the tree. Evidently theydecided that the time for plain speaking was come, for now Davidannounced bluntly:

"He wants you not to call him Oliver any longer."

"What shall I call him?"

"Bailey."

"But why?"

"He's going to Pilkington's. And he can't play with us any moreafter next Saturday."

"Why not?"

"He's going to Pilkington's."

So now I knew the law about the thing, and we moved on together,Oliver stretching himself consciously, and methought that evenDavid walked with a sedater air.

"David," said I, with a sinking, "are you going to Pilkington's?"

"When I am eight," he replied.

"And sha'n't I call you David then, and won't you play with me inthe Gardens any more?"

He looked at Bailey, and Bailey signalled him to be firm.

"Oh, no," said David cheerily.

Thus sharply did I learn how much longer I was to have of him.Strange that a little boy can give so much pain. I dropped hishand and walked on in silence, and presently I did my mostchurlish to hurt him by ending the story abruptly in a very cruelway. "Ten years have elapsed," said I, "since I last spoke, andour two heroes, now gay young men, are revisiting the wreckedisland of their childhood. 'Did we wreck ourselves,' said one,'or was there someone to help us?' And the other who was theyounger, replied, 'I think there was someone to help us, a manwith a dog. I think he used to tell me stories in the KensingtonGardens, but I forget all about him; I don't remember even hisname.'"

This tame ending bored Bailey, and he drifted away from us, butDavid still walked by my side, and he was grown so quiet that Iknew a storm was brewing. Suddenly he flashed lightning on me."It's not true," he cried, "it's a lie!" He gripped my hand. "Isha'n't never forget you, father."

Strange that a little boy can give so much pleasure.

Yet I could go on. "You will forget, David, but there was once aboy who would have remembered."

"Timothy?" said he at once. He thinks Timothy was a real boy,and is very jealous of him. He turned his back to me, and stoodalone and wept passionately, while I waited for him. You may besure I begged his pardon, and made it all right with him, and hadhim laughing and happy again before I let him go. Butnevertheless what I said was true. David is not my boy, and hewill forget. But Timothy would have remembered.