The incident, or rather series of incidents, to which the non-appearance of Mr. Libby led up, enchanted them. They chuckled over the mysterious Thomas for a whole day, but it was not till evening, at bedtime, that Tod whispered to Peter how, like “Sentimental Tommy,” he had “found a way.”
Sitting on the side of his bed, he announced gleefully: “Tell you what it is, Peter, we’ll be a parent! A parent with a delicate kid! And we’ll write long-winded letters in scratchy, small handwriting, you know, like the masters write....”
“But,” Peter interrupted excitedly, “how are we to get the answers? It wouldn’t be any fun if we didn’t.”
“The answers,” Tod replied calmly, “will come to the post office here, where we’re living, you juggins! You bet there’ll be answers. They’re awfully keen after the oof at the good old school. Why, they scent a new boy a mile off. He shall go into old Pig-Face’s house, just to pay him out for all his beastliness to you, and I’ll pester the Head about him and his delicate chest, and all that sort of rot that parents _do_ write, don’t you know.”
Peter gasped. “But how can he ‘go’ into anybody’s house if there isn’t a him to go?”
“What an ass you are, Peter! _Was_ there a Thomas Libby? And how many people’s houses was he going to, pray?”
“The parent’s name,” Tod announced proudly, “is Theopompus Buggins.”
“Theopompus!” Peter echoed dubiously. “It doesn’t sound very real somehow--and is the kid to be young Theopompus?”
“No,” said Tod firmly, “_his_ name is Archibald, and Mr. Buggins is his uncle.”
“I thought he was to be a parent,” Peter objected in a dissatisfied voice.
“Well, an uncle is a sort of parent; probably the kid’s an orphan.”
There was silence for a minute while Peter digested this view of the matter. But still he was not quite satisfied, for presently he said: “Tod, would _you_ believe in anyone called ‘Theopompus Buggins’?”
“Well, no, I’m not sure that I would,” Tod admitted. “Why?”
“I think,” Peter suggested beguilingly, “that we had better have a commoner name, don’t you?”
“P’r’aps we had,” Tod sighed. “Let’s have Jones--Theopompus Jones, now.”
“Jones is all right,” Peter allowed graciously, “but I don’t fancy Theopompus much, it’s such a peculiar name.”