Jack dropped to his knees in tears amid the wreckage of the clocks, crying bitterly. "He wouldn't save us. He wouldn't even try. Daddy didn't even… try."
He was sobbing so hard he couldn't speak. Hook glanced at Smee, and they shared a conspiratorial wink and grin. Then quickly Hook knelt at Jack's side, his arm resting comfortingly about the boy's shoulder.
"Oh, well, Jack," he said, his voice smooth as syrup. "He may yet try, you know. He will, in fact, I think, try." He waited for the tear-streaked face to lift and the damp eyes to meet his own. He wore a mask of sad understanding for the boy. "The question is, lad, when that time comes, do you want to be saved? Do you want to go back to… more disappointment? Do you want to go back with… him?"
Hook shook his head quickly. "No, don't answer now. No, no, no. Now's the time for other things. Now's the time for being whatever you want, be it pirate or…"
A twinkle came into his dark eye. Jack hesitated. "Or what?" he asked curiously.
Hook's smile was dazzling. One arm came out from where it had been hidden behind his back. Wedged in the crook of his claw was Jack's baseball.
He held it out to the boy. Jack's eyes went wide, and he reached eagerly to accept it.
"So tell me, Jack," Hook asked softly. "Have I ever made a promise I haven't kept?"
The click of Hook's teeth was like the closing of a trap.
Hook Throws a Curve
While the nefarious Hook was coming to grips, so to speak, with the ghosts of his past, Peter Banning was in the process of confronting some hard truths about his present. Foremost among these was the continuing and growing belief of the Lost Boys that he was-well, you know who-when he wasn't.
"En garde," hissed Rufio.
He stood toe to toe with Peter in a clearing at the base of the Nevertree, a wary look in his dark eyes. Both wielded swords with varying degrees of confidence. Rufio looked as if he had been bom clasping his. Peter looked as if he wasn't sure which end was pointed.
"Take it easy on me," he pleaded. He was already breathing heavily. "I'm just a beginner, remember."
"Yeah, sure," Rufio growled. "I saw de coconuts. I am watching you, ugly mon."
He went into a crouch, dark limbs crooking smoothly, black eyes intense, red feathery spikes like streaks of fire through his black hair. Peter tried to imitate him without success. This was a bad idea, he thought. This was a terrible idea. As usual, it was Tink's idea. It wasn't enough that he run and jump and be slung about; it was also necessary that he learn to sword-fight. Sword-fight, for heaven's sake! What did he know about sword fighting? He could barely manage to slice a roast at Sunday dinner!
Rufio circled to his left, feinting. Peter circled with him, not knowing what else to do. Rufio can teach you, Tink had insisted. Rufio's the best. He can show you all the tricks. He can help you remember.
Sure, but when all was said and done, would he be alive to say thanks?
Gathered all about, the Lost Boys cheered, some for Peter, most for Rufio. Last night was last night and quickly forgotten. Rufio was still the boss.
Tink flashed down out of the cooling shadows to land on the tip of Peter's sword. "Remember what I told you," she admonished. "Back straight, shoulders relaxed. Step in there to meet him, don't be afraid. Take care of him the way you took care of those coconuts."
Peter shot her an irritated glance. "I told you, I don't know how I did that! It was a reflex!"
Rufio's sword kissed his own with a click.
"Lik dis, mon," the other said, smiling. "Uno, dos, tres …"
And his blade flashed inside Peter's like a striking snake. Peter heard a shredding of cloth and felt a draft. When he looked down, he found his pants in a heap about his ankles. Cries of disapproval went up from the Lost Boys.
"I complain of you!" they shouted as one.
Rufio ignored them. He lifted the Pan sword, threw back his head, and crowed.
"Ya can't fly, ya can't fight, and mon, you rally can't crow!"
Pockets shoved forward, floppy hat bobbing. ''Thad's nod fair. He hasn't dun nuttin' to make himself proud. How cud he crow?"
The Lost Boys shouted in agreement, coming to Peter's defense. Rufio eyed them sourly for a moment, then smiled wickedly.
"So tell me, then. Wot coul' de fat mon do?"
Pockets's small face tightened. "Lods of tings," he insisted enthusiastically. "He cud swallow fire!" Peter's hands came up to his throat in horror. "He cud write a letter or draw a picture! He cud play Lost Boys and Indians!" The dark eyes went wide. "I know! He cud go into town and steal Hook's hook!"
Peter's gasp of dismay was drowned out by the howls of approval that erupted from the Lost Boys. They surged forward excitedly, crowding about, clapping him on the back, trying to slap hands with him, all the while yelling, "Steal Hook's hook! Steal Hook's hook!"
Standing apart from the others, certain that his fondest wish was about to be fulfilled, Rufio grinned like the proverbial cat.
Another dumb idea, thought Peter bleakly. The dumbest yet.
Nevertheless, here he was, going along with it as if he believed it nothing of the sort. It was as if he had lost all sense of proportion in his life, as if he would do anything that anyone suggested simply because he didn't seem to have any ideas of his own. Removal from the real world to Neverland had stripped him of his ability to think and act like a rational person. How else could he explain sneaking into the pirate town to steal Hook's hook, all for the purpose of impressing a bunch of raggedy, dirty-faced Lost Boys so that they would believe he was someone he wasn't and help him save his kids from a lunatic?
Of course, there was more to it than that, but Peter Banning was in no position to reason it through. He was an adult cast back into a children's world, where dreams were real and adventures the order of the day. Peter had spent too much time immersed in rules of law and legalese, none of which makes much sense to the average person and most of which is written by people who skipped through their childhood as quickly as they could so that they could be adults. Peter was not one of these, but he had spent sufficient time among them to begin to think as they did, and he had forgotten all about being a little boy. Making money and closing deals had replaced building sandbox castles and riding merry-go-rounds. Winning lawsuits had supplanted watching Fourth of July fireworks. Playing board games had assumed a completely different context. Peter had been too long without any real understanding of what makes life worth living, and he was struggling badly to survive the lessons that would give that understanding back to him.
So all he could think about on what would turn out to be the most important morning of his life as a grown-up was how foolish he was to let a bunch of children manipulate him.
The four pirates lurched down the town's rotting boardwalk, three of surprising height, the fourth shorter but meaner looking. They wore tricornes, greatcoats, sashes, and boots. An eye patch and scraggly beard hid most of one's face, and a bandanna and scars hid most of another's. The shortest of the four had a face so twisted and lined that no pirate cared to give it more than a passing glance before hurrying on. An arsenal of weapons was strapped about each one, cutlasses and flintlocks tucked in belts, daggers and dirks poking out from everywhere.
As they passed a candy store the three larger pirates swung about abruptly, and a familiar face peered out from between the folds of one coat just above the belt.
'' Sugarplums!'' breathed Thud Butt before a hand shoved his face back inside again.
For the pirates were not pirates at all, of course, but Peter and his Lost Boy followers. Thud Butt and Pockets made up one pirate, Ace and No Nap another, Latchboy and Don't Ask a third, and Peter the fourth. Too Small, who really was, had been left home. Tink rode in the brim of Peter's tricorne, issuing directions.