by E. Nesbit
Robert said “Bosh!” and went on.
“Let me out, I tell you,” cried Jane, and was taken out, very white, and trembling a little.
“You’ve no idea what it’s like,” said she; “it’s like stones on you—or like chains.”
“Look here,” Cyril said, “if this is to do us any good, it’s no good our staying gasping at it like this. Let’s fill our pockets and go and buy things. Don’t you forget, it won’t last after sunset. I wish we’d asked the Sammyadd why things don’t turn to stone. Perhaps this will. I’ll tell you what, there’s a pony and cart in the village.”
“Do you want to buy that?” asked Jane.
“No, silly,—we’ll hire it. And then we’ll go to Rochester and buy heaps and heaps of things. Look here, let’s each take as much as we can carry. But it’s not sovereigns. They’ve got a man’s head on one side and a thing like the ace of spades on the other. Fill your pockets with it, I tell you, and come along. You can talk as we go—if you must talk.”
Cyril sat down and began to fill his pockets.
“You made fun of me for getting father to have nine pockets in my suit,” said he, “but now you see!”
They did. For when Cyril had filled his nine pockets and his handkerchief and the space between himself and his shirt front with the gold coins, he had to stand up. But he staggered, and had to sit down again in a hurry.
“Throw out some of the cargo,” said Robert. “You’ll sink the ship, old chap. That comes of nine pockets.”
And Cyril had to do so.
Then they set off to walk to the village. It was more than a mile, and the road was very dusty indeed, and the sun seemed to get hotter and hotter, and the gold in their pockets got heavier and heavier.
It was Jane who said, “I don’t see how we’re to spend it all. There must be thousands of pounds among the lot of us. I’m going to leave some of mine behind this stump in the hedge. And directly we get to the village we’ll buy some biscuits; I know it’s long past dinner-time.” She took out a handful or two of gold and hid it in the hollows of an old hornbeam. “How round and yellow they are,” she said. “Don’t you wish they were made of gingerbread and we were going to eat them?”
“Well, they’re not, and we’re not,” said Cyril. “Come on!”
But they came on heavily and wearily. Before they reached the village, more than one stump in the hedge concealed its little hoard of hidden treasure. Yet they reached the village with about twelve hundred guineas in their pockets. But in spite of this inside wealth they looked quite ordinary outside, and no one would have thought they could have more than a half-crown each at the outside. The haze of heat, the blue of the wood smoke, made a sort of dim misty cloud over the red roofs of the village. The four sat down heavily on the first bench to which they came. It happened to be outside the Blue Boar Inn.
It was decided that Cyril should go into the Blue Boar and ask for ginger-beer, because, as Anthea said, “It was not wrong for men to go into beer-saloons, only for children. And Cyril is nearer being a man than us, because he is the eldest.” So he went. The others sat in the sun and waited.
“Oh, how hot it is!” said Robert. “Dogs put their tongues out when they’re hot; I wonder if it would cool us at all to put out ours?”
“We might try,” Jane said; and they all put their tongues out as far as ever they could go, so that it quite stretched their throats, but it only seemed to make them thirstier than ever, besides annoying everyone who went by. So they took their tongues in again, just as Cyril came back with ginger-beer.
“I had to pay for it out of my own money, though, that I was going to buy rabbits with,” he said. “They wouldn’t change the gold. And when I pulled out a handful the man just laughed and said it was card-counters. And I got some sponge-cakes too, out of a glass jar on the bar-counter. And some biscuits with caraways in.”
The sponge-cakes were both soft and dry and the biscuits were dry too, and yet soft, which biscuits ought not to be. But the ginger-beer made up for everything.
“It’s my turn now to try to buy something with the money,” Anthea said; “I’m next eldest. Where is the pony-cart kept?”
It was at The Chequers, and Anthea went in the back way to the yard, because they all knew that little girls ought not to go into the bars of beer-saloons. She came out, as she herself said, “pleased but not proud.”
“He’ll be ready in a brace of shakes, he says,” she remarked, “and he’s to have one sovereign—or whatever it is—to drive us into Rochester and back, besides waiting there till we’ve got everything we want. I think I managed very well.”
“You think yourself jolly clever, I daresay,” said Cyril moodily. “How did you do it?”
“I wasn’t jolly clever enough to go taking handfuls of money out of my pocket, to make it seem cheap, anyway,” she retorted. “I just found a young man doing something to a horse’s legs with a sponge and a pail. And I held out one sovereign, and I said—‘Do you know what this is?’ He said ‘No,’ and he’d call his father. And the old man came, and he said it was a spade guinea; and he said was it my own to do as I liked with, and I said ‘Yes’; and I asked about the pony-cart, and I said he could have the guinea if he’d drive us into Rochester. And his name is S. Crispin. And he said, ‘Right oh.’”
It was a new sensation to be driven in a smart pony-trap along pretty country roads; it was very pleasant too (which is not always the case with new sensations), quite apart from the beautiful plans of spending the money which each child made as they went along, silently of course and quite to itself, for they felt it would never have done to let the old innkeeper hear them talk in the affluent sort of way in which they were thinking. The old man put them down by the bridge at their request.
“If you were going to buy a carriage and horses, where would you go?” asked Cyril, as if he were only asking for the sake of something to say.
“Billy Peasemarsh, at the Saracen’s Head,” said the old man promptly. “Though all forbid I should recommend any man where it’s a question of horses, no more than I’d take anybody else’s recommending if I was a-buying one. But if your pa’s thinking of a rig of any sort, there ain’t a straighter man in Rochester, nor civiller spoken, than Billy, though I says it.”
“Thank you,” said Cyril. “The Saracen’s Head.”
And now the children began to see one of the laws of nature turn upside down and stand on its head like an acrobat. Any grown-up person would tell you that money is hard to get and easy to spend. But the fairy money had been easy to get, and spending it was not only hard, it was almost impossible. The trades-people of Rochester seemed to shrink, to a trades-person, from the glittering fairy gold (“furrin money” they called it, for the most part).
To begin with, Anthea, who had had the misfortune to sit on her hat earlier in the day, wished to buy another. She chose a very beautiful one, trimmed with pink roses and the blue breasts of peacocks. It was marked in the window, “Paris Model, three guineas.”
“I’m glad,” she said, “because it says guineas, and not sovereigns, which we haven’t got.”
But when she took three of the spade guineas in her hand, which was by this time rather dirty owing to her not having put on gloves before going to the gravel-pit, the black-silk young lady in the shop looked very hard at her, and went and whispered something to an older and uglier lady, also in black silk, and then they gave her back the money and said it was not current coin.
“It’s good money,” said Anthea, “and it’s my own.”
“I daresay,” said the lady, “but it’s not the kind of money that’s fashionable now, and we don’t care about taking it.”
“I believe they think we’ve stolen it,” said Anthea, rejoining the others in the street; “if we had gloves they wouldn’t think we were so dishonest. It’
s my hands being so dirty fills their minds with doubts.”
So they chose a humble shop, and the girls bought cotton gloves, the kind at a shilling, but when they offered a guinea the woman looked at it through her spectacles and said she had no change; so the gloves had to be paid for out of Cyril’s money with which he meant to buy rabbits and so had the green imitation crocodile-skin purse at nine-pence which had been bought at the same time. They tried several more shops, the kinds where you buy toys and perfume and silk handkerchiefs and books, and fancy boxes of stationery, and photographs of objects of interest in the vicinity. But nobody cared to change a guinea that day in Rochester, and as they went from shop to shop they got dirtier and dirtier, and their hair got more and more untidy, and Jane slipped and fell down on a part of the road where a water cart had just gone by. Also they got very hungry, but they found no one would give them anything to eat for their guineas.
After trying two baker shops in vain, they became so hungry, perhaps from the smell of the cake in the shops, as Cyril suggested, that they formed a plan of campaign in whispers and carried it out in desperation. They marched into a third baker shop,—Beale was his name,—and before the people behind the counter could interfere each child had seized three new penny buns, clapped the three together between its dirty hands, and taken a big bite out of the triple sandwich. Then they stood at bay, with the twelve buns in their hands and their mouths very full indeed. The shocked baker’s man bounded round the corner.
“Here,” said Cyril, speaking as distinctly as he could, and holding out the guinea he got ready before entering the shops, “pay yourself out of that.”
Mr. Beale snatched the coin, bit it, and put it in his pocket.
“Off you go,” he said, brief and stern like the man in the song.
“But the change?” said Anthea, who had a saving mind.
“Change!” said the man, “I’ll change you! Hout you goes; and you may think yourselves lucky I don’t send for the police to find out where you got it!”
In the Gardens of the Castle the millionaires finished the buns, and though the curranty softness of these were delicious, and acted like a charm in raising the spirits of the party, yet even the stoutest heart quailed at the thought of venturing to sound Mr. Billy Peasemarsh at the Saracen’s Head on the subject of a horse and carriage. The boys would have given up the idea, but Jane was always a hopeful child, and Anthea generally an obstinate one, and their earnestness prevailed.
The whole party, by this time indescribably dirty, therefore betook itself to the Saracen’s Head. The yard-method of attack having been successful at The Chequers, was tried again here. Mr. Peasemarsh was in the yard, and Robert opened the business in these terms—
“They tell me you have a lot of horses and carriages to sell.” It had been agreed that Robert should be spokesman, because in books it is always gentlemen who buy horses, and not ladies, and Cyril had had his go at the Blue Boar.
“They tell you true, young man,” said Mr. Peasemarsh. He was a long lean man, with very blue eyes and a tight mouth and narrow lips.
“We should like to buy some, please,” said Robert politely.
“I daresay you would.”
“Will you show us a few, please? To choose from.”
“Who are you a-kiddin of?” inquired Mr. Billy Peasemarsh. “Was you sent here of a message?”
“I tell you,” said Robert, “we want to buy some horses and carriages, and a man told us you were straight and civil spoken, but I shouldn’t wonder if he was mistaken—”
“Upon my sacred!” said Mr. Peasemarsh. “Shall I trot the whole stable out for your Honor’s worship to see? Or shall I send round to the Bishop’s to see if he’s a nag or two to dispose of?”
“Please do,” said Robert, “if it’s not too much trouble. It would be very kind of you.”
Mr. Peasemarsh put his hands in his pockets and laughed, and they did not like the way he did it. Then he shouted “Willum!”
A stooping ostler appeared in a stable door.
“Here, Willum, come and look at this ’ere young dook! Wants to buy the whole stud, lock, stock, and bar’l. And ain’t got tuppence in his pocket to bless hisself with, I’ll go bail!”
Willum’s eyes followed his master’s pointing thumb with contemptuous interest.
“Do ’e, for sure?” he said.
But Robert spoke, though both the girls were now pulling at his jacket and begging him to “come along.” He spoke, and he was very angry; he said—
“I’m not a young duke, and I never pretended to be. And as for tuppence—what do you call this?” And before the others could stop him he had pulled out two fat handfuls of shining guineas, and held them out for Mr. Peasemarsh to look at. He did look. He snatched one up in his finger and thumb. He bit it, and Jane expected him to say, “The best horse in my stables is at your service.” But the others knew better. Still it was a blow, even to the most desponding, when he said shortly—
“Willum, shut the yard doors;” and Willum grinned and went to shut them.
“Good-afternoon,” said Robert hastily; “we shan’t buy any horses now, whatever you say, and I hope it’ll be a lesson to you.” He had seen a little side gate open, and was moving towards it as he spoke. But Billy Peasemarsh put himself in the way.
“Not so fast, you young off-scouring!” he said. “Willum, fetch the p’leece.”
Willum went. The children stood huddled together like frightened sheep, and Mr. Peasemarsh spoke to them till the pleece arrived. He said many things. Among other things he said—
“Nice lot you are, aren’t you, coming tempting honest men with your guineas!”
“They are our guineas,” said Cyril boldly.
“Oh, of course we don’t know all about that, no more we don’t—oh no—course not! And dragging little gells into it, too. ’Ere—I’ll let the gells go if you’ll come along to the pleece quiet.”
“We won’t be let go,” said Jane heroically; “not without the boys. It’s our money just as much as theirs, you wicked old man.”
“Where’d you get it, then?” said the man, softening slightly, which was not at all what the boys expected when Jane began to call names.
Jane cast a silent glance of agony at the others.
“Lost your tongue, eh? Got it fast enough when it’s for calling names with. Come, speak up! Where’d you get it?”
“Out of the gravel-pit,” said truthful Jane.
“Next article,” said the man.
“I tell you we did,” Jane said. “There’s a fairy there—all over brown fur—with ears like a bat’s and eyes like a snail’s, and he gives you a wish a day, and they all come true.”
“Touched in the head, eh?” said the man in a low voice; “all the more shame to you boys dragging the poor afflicted child into your sinful burglaries.”
“She’s not mad; it’s true,” said Anthea; “there is a fairy. If I ever see him again I’ll wish for something for you; at least I would if vengeance wasn’t wicked—so there!”
“Lor’ lumme,” said Billy Peasemarsh, “if there ain’t another on ’em!”
And now Willum came back, with a spiteful grin on his face, and at his back a policeman, with whom Mr. Peasemarsh spoke long in a hoarse earnest whisper.
“I daresay you’re right,” said the policeman at last. “Anyway, I’ll take ’em up on a charge of unlawful possession, pending inquiries. And the magistrate will deal with the case. Send the afflicted ones to a home, as likely as not, and the boys to a reformatory. Now then, come along, youngsters! No use making a fuss. You bring the gells along, Mr. Peasemarsh, sir, and I’ll shepherd the boys.”
Speechless with rage and horror, the four children were driven along the streets of Rochester. Tears of anger and shame blinded them, so that when Rob
ert ran right into a passer-by he did not recognise her till a well-known voice said, “Well, if ever I did! Oh, Master Robert, whatever have you been a-doing of now?” And another voice, quite as well known, said, “Panty; want go own Panty!”
They had run into Martha and the Baby!
Martha behaved admirably. She refused to believe a word of the policeman’s story, or of Mr. Peasemarsh’s either, even when they made Robert turn out his pockets in an archway and show the guineas.
“I don’t see nothing,” she said. “You’ve gone out of your senses, you two! There ain’t any gold there—only the poor child’s hands, all over dirt, and like the very chimbley. Oh that I should ever see the day!”
And the children thought this very noble of Martha, even if rather wicked, till they remembered how the Fairy had promised that the servants should never notice any of the fairy gifts. So of course Martha couldn’t see the gold, and so was only speaking the truth, and that was quite right, of course, but not extra noble.
It was getting dusk when they reached the police-station. The policeman told his tale to an inspector, who sat in a large bare room with a thing like a clumsy nursery-fender at one end to put prisoners in. Robert wondered whether it was a cell or a dock.
“Produce the coins, officer,” said the inspector.
“Turn out your pockets,” said the constable.
Cyril desperately plunged his hands in his pockets, stood still a moment, and then began to laugh—an odd sort of laugh that hurt, and that felt much more like crying. His pockets were empty. So were the pockets of the others. For of course at sunset all the fairy gold had vanished away.
