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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Hush!" she whispered, "he's listening again." At the same moment a sound came from beneath the floor on the other side of the room, and Jimbo saw the trap-door being slowly raised above the level of the floor. "Your number is 102," said a voice that sounded like the rushing of a river. Instantly the trap-door dropped again, and he heard heavy steps rumbling away into the interior of the house.
For how could they know, these two adventurous, dreaming children, that Thought makes images which, regardless of space, may flash about the world, and reach minds anywhere that are sweetly tuned to their acceptance? 'What's that? Look out! Gare! Hold tight! In his sudden excitement Jimbo mixed questions with commands. He had caught her by the hand.
"But never talk about him again unless you can't help it; he always knows when he's being talked about, and he likes it, because it gives him more power." Jimbo only stared at her without comprehending. Then his mind jumped to something else he wanted badly to have explained, and he asked her about his number, and why he was called No. 102.
The Starlight Express ran regularly every night, Jimbo having constructed a perfect time-table that answered all requirements, and was sufficiently elastic to fit instantly any scale that time and space demanded. Rogers and the children talked of little else, and their adventures in the daytime seemed curiously fed by details of information gleaned elsewhere. But where?
Apparently it was soon decided, for he walked sedately up to her and said very gravely, with her serious eyes fixed on his face, "Miss Lake, are you really Miss Lake?" "Of course I am." "You're not a trick of His, like the voices, I mean?" "No, Jimbo, I am really Miss Lake, the discharged governess who frightened you." There was profound anxiety in every word.
Some one wasted by love was in her mind perhaps. 'It is, child, because they get so frightfully thin, he went on, 'that they end by getting thinner than the thin end of a wedge. The eyes of Mother twinkled, but the children still stared, waiting. They had never heard of this phrase about the wedge. Indeed Jane Anne shared with Jimbo total ignorance of the word at all.
The child struggled with the old soul for possession. "Have you got any circulation?" he asked abruptly at length. "I mean, has your heart stopped beating?" But the smile called up by his words froze on her lips. She crossed to the window and stood with her back to the fading light, avoiding his eyes. "My case, Jimbo, is a little different from yours," she said presently.
But in Jimbo's imagination it was especially haunted, and if he had ceased to reveal to the others what he knew went on under its roof, it was only because they were unable to follow him, and were inclined to greet his extravagant recitals with "Now, Jimbo, you know perfectly well you're only making up."
Riquette leaped like a silent shadow after them, but before she reached the roof of red-brown tiles that sloped down to the yard, Jimbo and Monkey were already far away. She strained her big green eyes in vain, seeing nothing but the tops of the plane trees, thick with tiny coming leaves, the sweep of vines and sky, and the tender, mothering night beyond.
The result was that hands were stretched out for second cups long before she had completed the first round. Her own tea began usually when everybody else had finished and lasted well, some time. 'Here's a letter I got, announced Jimbo, pulling a very dirty scrap of paper from a pocket hidden beneath many folds of blouse.
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