Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the steps. He ran forward and seized the man's coat--it was sodden--dragging him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a boy should take command of a grown man. “You won't give me up, Peter, will you?” Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer if he could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance's kittens were to be drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn't bear that anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab and, before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace. “You remember my plan--what I told you?” Mr. Grace digressed. He twisted round on the box, craning his neck to look in at the window. “'E don't strike me as much ter make a fuss abart.” “That's 'cause you don't know him.” “Well, I ain't pining' fer an introduction.” “But you're not going back on me, Mr. Grace! He doesn't look very grand; but he's kind and gentle.” Peter was dismayed by this sudden coolness. “H'I'm not the chap ter go back on 'is friends. Hook inter the keb. I remember wot yer told me.” At the top of the Crescent they turned to the left, crawled a hundred yards and then turned to the right, going down the mews which ran behind the Terrace. The mews was unlighted and humpy. On one side stood the high closed doors of stables; on the other, rubbish heaps and the backs of jerry-built houses not yet finished building. The man at Peter's side said nothing. Every now and then he shivered and seemed to hug himself. Once or twice he twitched and muttered below his breath. There was the stale smell of alcohol and wet clothes about him. To Peter it was all so terrible that he could not put his comfort into words. This man, who swayed weakly with each jerk of the cab and crouched away from him, was a stranger--not a bit like the irresponsible joking person he had known as his Uncle Waffles. The cab stopped. Mr. Grace waddled down and blew out his lamps. Then he tapped on the window. “'Ere we are, Master Peter. H'I've counted the doors; this 'ere's the back o' yer 'ouse.” Peter stretched out his hand gropingly in the blackness and touched his uncle's. “I'm going to hide you so you'll never be found.” Ocky's voice came in a hopeless whisper. “Are you, Peter? But how---- how?” “You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one goes there but Kay and myself--it's our secret. It's too cold for Kay to go there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over the wall; then you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and lie quiet. To-morrow I'll come to you as soon as I can and bring you whatever I can get.” “You're a good boy, Peter. You're a ha'penny marvel; I always said you were.” The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless. Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. “'Ere, make 'aste. Come h'out of it, you in there.”