"Oh, you hypocrite!" said Cecilia.
"Coward!" said I.
I was sitting on one of those dumpy hassock sort of things. John looked
down at me vindictively for a moment and then a horrid smile started
spreading about his nasty face.
"Christopher," he said very gently, "wouldn't it be a good thing if we
pushed Uncle Alan over and knocked his slippers off, and then I'll sit on
him while you tickle his feet?"
Now it sounds silly, but a cold prespiration came over me. Being tickled is
so hopelessly undignified. And, anyhow, I simply can't stand it on the
feet.
"John," I said severely, "don't be absurd."
Christopher gurgled.
"He's afraid," he said. "Come on, Dad."
I saw that they really meant it, and I can only suppose that I was carried
away by one of those panics that you read of as attacking the bravest at
times. Anyhow, quite suddenly I found myself moving rapidly round the
table, out of the door and up the stairs. Halfway up I stopped to listen.
Cecilia and John were laughing loudly and coarsely and Christopher was
chanting "Uncle's got the wind up" in a piercing treble.
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