How unfriendly and treacherous everything was! Even the kind old mulberry, stripped of its leaves, seemed to scowl and threaten to reach down and clutch him. The laburnum, which in summer was a slim gold girl, pointed thin derisive fingers at him. Across neighboring walls came an icy breeze, which whispered, “Cut off his head. Cut off his head.” As he tiptoed down the path, the gravel turned beneath his tread. Dead leaves rustled. His breath came pantingly and steamed through the shadows. He hoped Uncle Waffles would come to meet him. And yet he dreaded. He could still feel the shaking of his uncle's clammy hand as he had felt it last night in the darkness of the cab. Sometimes he fancied that he saw him crouched beneath the bushes. He paused irresolute. Should he go forward or----? He glanced back. The windows were wells of blackness--hollow sockets from which the sight had been gouged out. He fixed his gaze on the window ahead, the loft-window behind the ivy, which spied on the garden. He had always expected to see a man's face there. It was to be a face about which the hair hung long and lank, with the mouth pendulous and the eyes cavernous.--What would Kay think if she could see him now? He raised the latch of the door which led into the yard. He looked round, hesitating on the threshold. His imagination told him he would be clutched forward. Nothing happened. In the stable it was dark as death. He set his burdens down before entering, so that he might be ready for a hasty exit. He stood still, his left hand pressed against the door-post; if he had to run, he would push himself off with a flying start. He was even afraid of Uncle Waffles now. Heavy breathing! Where was it? He called. He heard something whirr, and jumped back. The same instant he recognized the sound: it was the turning of a pedal on its ball-bearings. From beneath the tandem tricycle, with many groans and curses, a man emerged. “Bruised all over. That's what I am.--Hulloa! You there, Peter? Oh damn! That's another on the forehead. Disfigured for life, I am. Nice way you've got of treating your poor old uncle.” He pulled himself up by his hands. Even in the dusk he looked crushed and sheepish. But every situation, however shameful, had to be made an occasion for jest. “Wonder how I came here! Tandem trikes make strange bedfellows. You must excuse my language. Your Aunt Jehane always told this little boy he must never swear.” As his uncle approached him, zigzagging and groping for support uncertainly, Peter became again aware of the stale smell of alcohol. He did not need to be told why his uncle had proved such an inferior climber. “Why, I brought you here last night--I and Mr. Grace together.--Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” “Fell! Did I fall? I'm used to falling these days. I'm a li'le bird tumbled out of its nest. Broke to the wide, I am. And nobody cares--nobody cares.”