Gissing let them yell for a few moments--as long as he thought the neighbours would endure it--while he gradually gathered strength and resolution, shook off the cowardice of bed.Then he strode into the nursery.As soon as they heard him raising the shades there was complete silence.They hastened to pull the blankets over themselves, and lay tense, faces on paws, with bright expectant upward eyes.They trembled a little with impatience.It was all he could do to restrain himself from patting the sleek heads, which always seemed to shine with extra polish after a night's rolling to and fro on the flattened pillows.But sternness was a part of the game at this moment.He solemnly unlatched and lowered the tall sides of the cribs.
He stood in the middle of the room, with a gesture of command."Quiet now," he said."Quiet, until I tell you!"Yelpers could not help a small whine of intense emotion, which slipped out unintended.The eyes of Groups and Bunks swivelled angrily toward their unlucky brother.It was his failing: in crises he always emitted haphazard sounds.But this time Gissing, with lenient forgiveness, pretended not to have heard.
He returned to the balcony, and reentered his couch, where he layfeigning sleep.In the nursery was a terrific stillness.
It was the rule of the game that they should lie thus, in absolute quiet, until he uttered a huge imitation snore.Once, after a particularly exhausting night, he had postponed the snore too long: he fell asleep.He did not wake for an hour, and then found the tragic three also sprawled in amazing slumber.But their pillows were wet with tears.He never succumbed again, no matter how deeply tempted.
He snored.There were three sprawling thumps, a rush of feet, and a tumbling squeeze through the screen door.Then they were on the couch and upon him, with panting yelps of glee.Their hot tongues rasped busily over his face.This was the great tickling game.Remembering his theory of conserving energy, he lay passive while they rollicked and scrambled, burrowing in the bedclothes, quivering imps of absurd pleasure.All that was necessary was to give an occasional squirm, to tweak their ribs now and then, so that they believed his heart was in the sport.Really he got quite a little rest while they were scuffling.No one knew exactly what was the imagined purpose of the lark--whether he was supposed to be trying to escape from them, or they from him.Like all the best games, it had not been carefully thought out.
"Now, children," said Gissing presently."Time to get dressed."It was amazing how fast they were growing.Already they were beginning to take a pride in trying to dress themselves.While Gissing was in the bathroom, enjoying his cold tub (and under the stimulus of that icy sluice forming excellent resolutions for the day) the children were sitting on the nursery floor eagerly studying the intricacies of their gear.By the time he returned they would have half their garments on wrong; waist and trousers front side to rear; right shoes on left feet; buttons hopelessly mismated to buttonholes; shoelacings oddly zigzagged.It was far more trouble to permit their ambitious bungling, which must be undone and painstakingly reassembled, than to have clad them all himself, swiftly revolving and garmenting them like dolls.But in these early hours of the day, patience still is robust.It was his pedagogy to encourage their innocent initiatives, so long as endurance might permit.
