Our 'stratagem'--I have always liked the word, ever since I read _Tales of a Grandfather_, which I thought a great take-in, as it's just a history book, neither more nor less, and the only exciting part is when you come upon stratagems--succeeded. As we got close up to the parrot's house, next door to Mother Wylie's, you understand, _and_, of course, next door to the invisible princess's, we heard a sound. It was a sort of rather angry squeak or croak, but loud enough to be an excuse for our stopping short and looking up.
And then, as we still did not speak, Master Poll, his round eyes glaring at us, I felt certain, was forced to open the conversation.
'Pretty Poll,' he began, of course. 'Pretty Poll.'
'All right,' I called back. 'Good morning, Pretty Poll. A fine day.'
'Wants his dinner,' he went on. 'I say, wants his dinner.'
'Really, does he?' I said, in a mocking tone, which he understood, and beginning to get angry--just what I wanted.
'Naughty boy! naughty boy!' he screeched, very loudly. Pete and I grinned with satisfaction!
THERE'S an old proverb that mamma has often quoted to us, for she's awfully keen on our all being 'plucky,' and, on the whole, I think we are--
I have sometimes thought it would suit Peterkin to turn it into 'Fortune favours the determined.' Not that he's _not_ 'plucky,' but there's nothing like him for sticking to a thing, once he has got it into his head. And certainly fortune favoured him at the time I am writing about. Nothing could have suited us better than the parrot's screeching out to us 'naughty boy, naughty boy.'
I suppose he had been taught to say it to errand-boys and boys like that who mocked at him. But we did not want to set up a row, so I replied gently--
'No, no, Polly, good boys. Polly shall have his dinner soon.'
'Good Polly, good Polly,' he repeated with satisfaction.
And then--what _do_ you think happened? The door-window of the drawing-room of the next house, _the_ house, was pushed open a little bit, and out peeped a child's head, a small head with smooth short dark hair, but a little girl's head. We could tell that at once by the way it was combed, or brushed, even if we had not seen, as we did, a white muslin pinafore, with lace ruffly things that only a girl would wear. My heart really began to beat quite loudly, as if I'd been running fast--we had been so excited about her, you see, and afterwards Pete told me his did too.