The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories

by E. Nesbit

  Alice’s stall was the smartest looking, because Miss Blake had let her have all the ribbons and things that were over from the other bazaar.

  H. O.’s stall was also nice—all on silver tea-trays, so as not to be stickier than needful.

  The poetry stall had more flowers on it than any of the others, to make up for the poetry looking so dull outside. Of course, you could not see the sweet inside the packets till you opened them. Red azaleas are prettier than poetry, I think. I think the tropic lands in ‘Westward Ho!’ had great trees with flowers like that.

  We got the Goat into the stovehouse. He was to be kept a secret till the very last. And by half-past two we were all ready, and very clean and dressed. We had all looked out everything we thought anyone could want to buy, and that we could spare, and some things we could not, and most of these were on Oswald’s table—among others, several boxes of games we had never cared about; some bags of marbles, which nobody plays now; a lot of old books; a pair of braces with wool-work on them, that an aunt once made for Oswald, and, of course, he couldn’t wear them; some bags of odd buttons for people who like sewing these things on; a lot of foreign stamps, gardening tools, Dicky’s engine, that won’t go, and a stuffed parrot, but he was moth-eaten.

  About three our friends began to come, Mrs. Leslie, and Lord Tottenham, and Albert’s uncle, and a lot of others. It was a very grand party, and they admired the bazaar very much, and all bought things. Mrs. Leslie bought the engine for ten shillings, though we told her honestly it would never go again, and Albert’s uncle bought the parrot, and would not tell us what he wanted it for. The money was put on a blue dish, so that everyone could see how it got on, and our hearts were full of joy as we saw how much silver there was among the pennies, and two or three gold pieces too. I know now how the man feels who holds the plate at the door in church.

  Noël’s poetry stall was much more paying than I thought it would be. I believe nobody really likes poetry, and yet everyone pretends they do, either so as not to hurt Noël’s feelings, or because they think well-brought-up people ought to like poetry, even Noël’s. Of course, Macaulay and Kipling are different. I don’t mind them so much myself.

  Noël wrote a lot of new poetry for the bazaar. It took up all his time, and even then he had not enough new stuff to wrap up all the sugar almonds in. So he made up with old poetry that he’d done before. Albert’s uncle got one of the new ones, and said it made him a proud man. It was:

  ‘How noble and good and kind you are

  To come to Victor A. Plunkett’s Bazaar.

  Please buy as much as you can bear,

  For the sufferer needs all you can possibly spare.

  I know you are sure to take his part,

  Because you have such a noble heart.’

  Mrs. Leslie got:

  ‘The rose is red, the violet’s blue,

  The lily’s pale, and so are you.

  Or would be if you had seen him fall

  Off the top of the ladder so tall.

  Do buy as much as you can stand,

  And lend the poor a helping hand.’

  Lord Tottenham, though, only got one of the old ones, and it happened to be the ‘Wreck of the Malabar.’ He was an admiral once. But he liked it. He is a nice old gentleman, but people do say he is ‘excentric.’

  Father got a poem that said:

  ‘Please turn your eyes round in their sockets,

  And put both your hands in your pockets;

  Your eyes will show you things so gay,

  And I hope you’ll find enough in your pockets to pay

  For the things you buy.

  Good-bye!’

  And he laughed and seemed pleased; but when Mrs. Morrison, Albert’s mother, got that poem about the black beetle that was poisoned she was not so pleased, and she said it was horrid, and made her flesh creep. You know the poem. It says:

  ‘Oh, beetle, how I weep to see

  Thee lying on thy poor back:

  It is so very sad to see

  You were so leggy and black.

  I wish you were crawling about alive again,

  But many people think this is nonsense and a shame.’

  Noël would recite, no matter what we said, and he stood up on a chair, and everyone, in their blind generousness, paid sixpence to hear him. It was a long poem of his own about the Duke of Wellington, and it began:

  ‘Hail, faithful leader of the brave band

  Who went to make Napoleon understand

  He couldn’t have everything his own way.

  We taught him this on Waterloo day.’

  I heard that much; but then he got so upset and frightened no one could hear anything till the end, when it says:

  ‘So praise the heroes of Waterloo,

  And let us do our duty like they had to do.’

  Everyone clapped very much, but Noël was so upset he nearly cried, and Mrs. Leslie said:

  ‘Noël, I’m feeling as pale as a lily again! Take me round the garden to recover myself.’

  She was as red as usual, but it saved Noël from making a young ass of himself. And we got seventeen shillings and sixpence by his reciting. So that was all right.

  We might as well not have sent out those circulars, because only the people we had written to ourselves came. Of course, I don’t count those five street boys, the same Oswald had the sandwich-board fight with. They came, and they walked round and looked at the things; but they had no money to spend, it turned out, and only came to be disagreeable and make fun. So Albert’s uncle asked them if they did not think their families would be lonely without them, and he and I saw them off at the gate. Then they stood outside and made rude noises. And another stranger came, and Oswald thought perhaps the circular was beginning to bear fruit. But the stranger asked for the master of the house, and he was shown in. Oswald was just shaking up the numbers in his hat for the lottery of the Goat, and Alice and Dora were selling the tickets for half a crown each to our visitors, and explaining the dreadful misery of the poor man that all this trouble was being taken for, and we were all enjoying ourselves very much, when Sarah came to say Master Oswald was to go in to master’s study at once. So he went, wondering what on earth he could have been up to now. But he could not think of anything in particular. But when his father said, ‘Oswald, this gentleman is a detective from Scotland Yard,’ he was glad he had told about the fives ball and the ladder, because he knew his father would now stand by him. But he did wonder whether you could be sent to prison for leaving a ladder in a slippery place, and how long they would keep you there for that crime.

  Then my father held out one of the fatal circulars, and said:

  ‘I suppose this is some of your work? Mr. Biggs here is bound in honour to do his best to find out when people break the laws of the land. Now, lotteries are illegal, and can be punished by law.’

  Oswald gloomily wondered how much the law could do to you. He said:

  ‘We didn’t know, father.’

  Then his father said:

  ‘The best thing you can do is to tell this gentleman all about it.’

  So Oswald said:

  ‘Augustus Victor Plunkett fell off a ladder and broke his arm, and perhaps it was our fault for meddling with the ladder at all. So we wanted to do something to help him, and father said we might have a bazaar. It is happening now, and we had three pounds two and sevenpence last time I counted the bazaar.’

  ‘But what about the lottery?’ said Mr. Biggs, who did not look as if he would take Oswald to prison just then, as our young hero had feared. In fact, he looked rather jolly. ‘Is the prize money?’

  ‘No—oh no; only it’s so valuable it’s as good as winning money.’

  ‘Then it’s only a raffle,’ said Mr. Biggs; ‘
that’s what it is, just a plain raffle. What is the prize?’

  ‘Are we to be allowed to go on with it?’ asked the wary Oswald.

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Mr. Biggs; ‘if it’s not money, why not? What is the valuable object?’

  ‘Come, Oswald,’ said his father, when Oswald said nothing, ‘what is the object of virtù?’

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ said Oswald, feeling very uncomfortable.

  Mr. Biggs said something about duty being duty, and my father said:

  ‘Come, Oswald, don’t be a young duffer. I dare say it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I should think not indeed,’ said Oswald, as his fond thoughts played with that beautiful Goat.

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘Well, sir’—Oswald spoke desperately, for he wondered his father had been so patient so long, and saw that he wasn’t going to go on being—‘you see, the great thing is, nobody is to know it’s a G—— I mean, it’s a secret. No one’s to know what the prize is. Only when you’ve won it, it will be revealed.’

  ‘Well,’ said my father, ‘if Mr. Biggs will take a glass of wine with me, we’ll follow you down to the greenhouse, and he can see for himself.’

  Mr. Biggs said something about thanking father kindly, and about his duty. And presently they came down to the greenhouse. Father did not introduce Mr. Biggs to anyone—I suppose he forgot—but Oswald did while father was talking to Mrs. Leslie. And Mr. Biggs made himself very agreeable to all the ladies.

  Then we had the lottery. Everyone had tickets, and Alice asked Mr. Biggs to buy one. She let him have it for a shilling, because it was the last, and we all hoped he would win the Goat. He seemed quite sure now that Oswald was not kidding, and that the prize was not money. Indeed, Oswald went so far as to tell him privately that the prize was too big to put in your pocket, and that if it was divided up it would be spoiled, which is true of Goats, but not of money.

  Everyone was laughing and talking, and wondering anxiously whatever the prize could possibly be. Oswald carried round the hat, and everyone drew a number. The winning number was six hundred and sixty-six, and Albert’s uncle said afterwards it was a curious coincidence. I don’t know what it meant, but it made Mrs. Leslie laugh. When everyone had drawn a number, Oswald rang the dinner-bell to command silence, and there was a hush full of anxious expectation. Then Oswald said:

  ‘The prize number is six hundred and sixty-six. Who has it?’

  And Mr. Biggs took a step forward and held out his paper.

  ‘The prize is yours! I congratulate you,’ said Oswald warmly.

  Then he went into the stovehouse, and hastily placing a wreath of paper roses on the Goat’s head, that Alice had got ready for the purpose, he got out the Goat by secretly showing it a bit of cocoanut ice, and led it by the same means to the feet of the happy winner.

  ‘Here is your prize,’ said Oswald, with feelings of generous pride. ‘I am very glad you’ve got him. He’ll be a comfort to you, and make up for all the trouble you’ve had over our lottery—raffle, I mean.’

  And he placed the ungoated end of the rope in the unresisting hand of the fortunate detective.

  Neither Oswald nor any of the rest of us has ever been able to make out why everyone should have laughed so. But they did. They said the lottery was the success of the afternoon. And the ladies kept on congratulating Mr. Biggs.

  At last people began to go, and the detective, so unexpectedly made rich beyond his wildest dreams, said he, too, must be going. He had tied the Goat to the greenhouse door, and now he moved away. But we all cried out:

  ‘You’ve forgotten your Goat!’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said very earnestly; ‘I shall never forget that Goat to my dying hour. But I want to call on my aunt just close by, and I couldn’t very well take the Goat to see her.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ H. O. said; ‘it’s a very nice Goat.’

  ‘She’s frightened of them,’ said he. ‘One ran at her when she was a little girl. But if you will allow me, sir’—and he winked at my father, which is not manners—‘if you’ll allow me, I’ll call in for the Goat on my way to the station.’

  We got five pounds thirteen and fivepence by the bazaar and the raffle. We should have had another ten shillings from father, but he had to give it to Mr. Biggs, because we had put him to the trouble of coming all the way from Scotland Yard, because he thought our circular was from some hardened criminal wishing to cheat his trustful fellow-creatures. We took the money to Augustus Victor Plunkett next morning, and I tell you he was pleased.

  We waited till long after dark for the detective to return for his rich prize. But he never came. I hope he was not set upon and stabbed in some dark alley. If he is alive, and not imprisoned, I can’t see why he didn’t come back. I often think anxiously of him. Because, of course, detectives have many enemies among felons, who think nothing of stabbing people in the back, so that being murdered in a dark alley is a thing all detectives are constantly liable to.

  THE RUNAWAYS

  It was after we had had the measles, that fell and blighting disorder which we got from Alice picking up five deeply infected shillings that a bemeasled family had wrapped in a bit of paper to pay the doctor with and then carelessly dropped in the street. Alice held the packet hotly in her muff all through a charity concert. Hence these tears, as it says in Virgil. And if you have ever had measles you will know that this is not what is called figuring speech, because your eyes do run like mad all the time.

  When we were unmeasled again we were sent to stay at Lymchurch with a Miss Sandal, and her motto was plain living and high thinking. She had a brother, and his motto was the same, and it was his charity concert that Alice held the fatal shillings in her muff throughout of. Later on he was giving tracts to a bricklayer, and fell off a scaffold in his giddy earnestness, and Miss Sandal had to go and nurse him. So the six of us stayed in the plain living, high thinking house by ourselves, and old Mrs. Beale from the village came in every day and did the housework. She was of humble birth, but was a true lady in minding her own affairs, which is what a great many ladies do not know how to do at all. We had no lessons to do, and we were thus free to attend to any adventures which came along. Adventures are the real business of life. The rest is only in-betweenness—what Albert’s uncle calls padding. He is an author.

  Miss Sandal’s house was very plain and clean, with lots of white paint, and very difficult to play in. So we were out a good deal. It was seaside, so, of course, there was the beach, and besides that the marsh—big green fields with sheep all about, and wet dykes with sedge growing, and mud, and eels in the mud, and winding white roads that all look the same, and all very interesting, as though they might lead to almost anything that you didn’t expect. Really, of course, they lead to Ashford and Romney and Ivychurch, and real live places like that. But they don’t look it.

  The day when what I am going to tell you about happened, we were all leaning on the stone wall looking at the pigs. The pigman is a great friend of ours—all except H. O., who is my youngest brother. His name is Horace Octavius, and if you want to know why we called him H. O. you had better read ‘The Treasure Seekers’ and find out. He had gone to tea with the schoolmaster’s son—a hateful kid.

  ‘Isn’t that the boy you’re always fighting?’ Dora asked when H. O. said he was going.

  ‘Yes,’ said H. O., ‘but, then, he keeps rabbits.’

  So then we understood and let him go.

  Well, the rest of us were gazing fondly on the pigs, and two soldiers came by.

  We asked them where they were off to.

  They told us to mind our own business, which is not manners, even if you are a soldier on private affairs.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Oswald, who is the eldest. And he advised the soldiers to keep their hair on. The little they
had was cut very short.

  ‘I expect they’re scouts or something,’ said Dicky; ‘it’s a field-day, or a sham-fight, or something, as likely as not.’

  ‘Let’s go after them and see,’ said Oswald, ever prompt in his decidings. So we did.

  We ran a bit at first, so as not to let the soldiers have too much of a lead. Their red coats made it quite easy to keep them in sight on the winding white marsh road. But we did not catch them up: they seemed to go faster and faster. So we ran a little bit more every now and then, and we went quite a long way after them. But they didn’t meet any of their officers or regiments or things, and we began to think that perchance we were engaged in the disheartening chase of the wild goose. This has sometimes occurred.

  There is a ruined church about two miles from Lymchurch, and when we got close to that we lost sight of the red coats, so we stopped on the little bridge that is near there to reconnoitre.

  The soldiers had vanished.

  ‘Well, here’s a go!’ said Dicky.

  ‘It is a wild-goose chase,’ said Noël. ‘I shall make a piece of poetry about it. I shall call the title the “Vanishing Reds, or, the Soldiers that were not when you got there.”’

  ‘You shut up!’ said Oswald, whose eagle eye had caught a glimpse of scarlet through the arch of the ruin.

  None of the others had seen this. Perhaps you will think I do not say enough about Oswald’s quickness of sight, so I had better tell you that is only because Oswald is me, and very modest. At least, he tries to be, because he knows it is what a true gentleman ought to.

  ‘They’re in the ruins,’ he went on. ‘I expect they’re going to have an easy and a pipe—out of the wind.’