He was "frightfully strong," too,
stronger than Weeden, for he could take a child under each arm and
another on his back--and run! He never smiled when he told his
stories, and, though this made them seem extra real, it also alarmed
deliciously--in the terrible places. Perched on his gigantic knees,
they felt "like up the cedar," and when he stretched an arm or leg it
was the great cedar branch swaying in the wind.
His manner, too, was stern to severity, and his voice was so deep
sometimes that they could "feel it rumbling inside," as though he had
"swallowed the dinner gong." He was a very important man somewhere;
Daddy was just in the Stationery Office, but Uncle Felix was an
author, and the very title necessarily included awe. He wrote
"storical-novuls." His name was often in the newspapers. They
connected him with the "Govunment." It had to do somewhere with the
Police. No one trifled with Uncle Felix. Yet, strange to say, the
children never could be properly afraid of him, although they tried
very hard. Their audacity, their familiarity, their daring astonished
everybody. The gardeners and coachmen, to say nothing of the indoor
servants, treated him as though he was some awful emperor.
Pages:
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82