# Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 22

THE candles were still smoking on the cake, the children all trooping toward the hall.
"Wait, wait!" he cried. "Come back a minute!"
They turned in surprise. The Grown-Ups, very large in the doorway, looked like gigantic prison guards faced by some sudden unexpected insurrection. One of them brushed against the bronze gongs hanging at one side of the door. They jangled softly as if calling them all to attention.
"Don't let's play that game," he said breathlessly. "It's too terrible."
"What game?" asked Mrs. Richmond.
"We made up a game. A game of spies, to——" He realized that he couldn't possibly explain with the Parents standing there. He caught Joyce's eye. She looked frightened.
"Why, Martin, how silly you are," chirped Phyllis. "Of course we weren't going to play it, not really."
"He's not silly!" Joyce shouted fiercely. "I was going to play it."
​"So was I," Bunny flashed. "Phyllis is telling fibs. We were going to play it. We were going to spy on Grown-Ups, to find out whether they have a good time."
"Bunny, Bunny," said her mother reprovingly. "Tell Phyllis you're sorry. You mustn't forget she's a guest."
"Don't mention it," said Phyllis primly. "When I grow up I'm going to have a lot of children and teach them lovely manners."
"When I grow up," Bunny exclaimed, "my children won't never have to say Thank you or they're sorry unless they really mean it."
"When I grow up," Ruth said, "I'm going to do without children. They're too much of a burden."
"Perhaps when the time comes," said one of the guards, "they'll find it's not as easy as it sounds."
Martin turned hopelessly to the boys. "Ben, don't you grow up. It isn't fun. Ben, I—I advise you not to grow up."
"Quit your kidding," Ben retorted. "What's biting you?"
"Ben!" exclaimed an indignant parent. "Where on earth do you pick up that way of talking. I'm amazed at you."
Martin saw it was too late. Already something ​had happened. Just the invasion of elders into the room had changed them all.
"Mother!" he appealed. "Tell the truth, it's awfully important, cross your heart and hope to die. Do you have a good time?"
A chorus of laughter from the adults.
"Why, dear, what an absurd question. Do we look so miserable?"
"They won't tell us," he cried bitterly. "They're all liars!"
There was an appalled silence.
"It's time to get them home. Parties always upset them. Ben, stop biting your nails."
"Joyce, what on earth are you snivelling about? Really, it seems as though the more you do for them the less they appreciate it."
The rain had thinned to a drizzle. Martin stood uneasily in the hall while the others collected umbrellas and rubbers and repeated their curtsies. The house smelt of raincoats and fresh wallpaper.
"Martin, what is it? Don't you see I'm busy talking to Mrs. Clyde? What do you keep twitching my arm for?"
He had only wanted to ask her if they could invite Joyce to stay to supper. But he couldn't shout it out before everyone.
​"Well, then, if you didn't want anything special, why are you bothering me? Go and say good-bye to Joyce. Say it politely, and tell her you hope she'll come again. And after that your father wants to speak to you."
But Joyce had already gone, and when she looked back, to try to show him she understood, she did not see him. His father was asking him if a boy ten years old didn't know better than to insult his parents like that.
The end