Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  “You said it was a bargain, and you shook hands on it,” he said, and he said it quite kindly and calmly.

  Noël said he didn’t care. He wanted his cricket-ball back.

  And the girls said it was a horrid shame.

  If they had not said that, Oswald might yet have consented to let Noël have the beastly ball, but now, of course, he was not going to. He said:

  “Oh yes, I dare say. And then you would be wanting the cocoanut and things again the next minute.”

  “No, I shouldn’t,” Noël said. It turned out afterwards he and H. O. had eaten the cocoanut, which only made it worse. And it made them worse, too — which is what the book calls poetic justice.

  Dora said, “I don’t think it was fair,” and even Alice said:

  “Do let him have it back, Oswald.” I wish to be just to Alice. She did not know then about the cocoanut having been secretly wolfed up.

  We were in the garden. Oswald felt all the feelings of the hero when the opposing forces gathered about him are opposing as hard as ever they can. He knew he was not unfair, and he did not like to be jawed at just because Noël had eaten the cocoanut and wanted the ball back. Though Oswald did not know then about the eating of the cocoanut, but he felt the injustice in his soul all the same.

  Noël said afterwards he meant to offer Oswald something else to make up for the cocoanut, but he said nothing about this at the time.

  “Give it me, I say,” Noël said.

  And Oswald said, “Sha’n’t!”

  Then Noël called Oswald names, and Oswald did not answer back but just kept smiling pleasantly, and carelessly throwing up the ball and catching it again with an air of studied indifference.

  It was Martha’s fault that what happened happened. She is the bull-dog, and very stout and heavy. She had just been let loose and she came bounding along in her clumsy way, and jumped up on Oswald, who is beloved by all dumb animals. (You know how sagacious they are.) Well, Martha knocked the ball out of Oswald’s hands, and it fell on the grass, and Noël pounced on it like a hooded falcon on its prey. Oswald would scorn to deny that he was not going to stand this, and the next moment the two were rolling over on the grass, and very soon Noël was made to bite the dust. And serve him right. He is old enough to know his own mind.

  Then Oswald walked slowly away with the ball, and the others picked Noël up, and consoled the beaten, but Dicky would not take either side.

  And Oswald went up into his own room and lay on his bed, and reflected gloomy reflections about unfairness.

  Presently he thought he would like to see what the others were doing without their knowing he cared. So he went into the linen-room and looked out of its window, and he saw they were playing Kings and Queens — and Noël had the biggest paper crown and the longest stick sceptre.

  Oswald turned away without a word, for it really was sickening.

  Then suddenly his weary eyes fell upon something they had not before beheld. It was a square trap-door in the ceiling of the linen-room.

  Oswald never hesitated. He crammed the cricket-ball into his pocket and climbed up the shelves and unbolted the trap-door, and shoved it up, and pulled himself up through it. Though above all was dark and smelled of spiders, Oswald fearlessly shut the trap-door down again before he struck a match. He always carries matches. He is a boy fertile in every subtle expedient. Then he saw he was in the wonderful, mysterious place between the ceiling and the roof of the house. The roof is beams and tiles. Slits of light show through the tiles here and there. The ceiling, on its other and top side, is made of rough plaster and beams. If you walk on the beams it is all right — if you walk on the plaster you go through with your feet. Oswald found this out later, but some fine instinct now taught the young explorer where he ought to tread and where not. It was splendid. He was still very angry with the others, and he was glad he had found out a secret they jolly well didn’t know.

  He walked along a dark, narrow passage. Every now and then cross-beams barred his way, and he had to creep under them. At last a small door loomed before him with cracks of light under and over. He drew back the rusty bolts and opened it. It opened straight on to the leads, a flat place between two steep red roofs, with a parapet two feet high back and front, so that no one could see you. It was a place no one could have invented better than, if they had tried, for hiding in.

  Oswald spent the whole afternoon there. He happened to have a volume of Percy’s Anecdotes in his pocket, the one about lawyers, as well as a few apples. While he read he fingered the cricket-ball, and presently it rolled away, and he thought he would get it by-and-by.

  When the tea-bell rang he forgot the ball and went hurriedly down, for apples do not keep the inside from the pangs of hunger.

  Noël met him on the landing, got red in the face, and said:

  “It wasn’t quite fair about the ball, because H. O. and I had eaten the cocoanut. You can have it.”

  “I don’t want your beastly ball,” Oswald said, “only I hate unfairness. However, I don’t know where it is just now. When I find it you shall have it to bowl with as often as you want.”

  “Then you’re not waxy?”

  And Oswald said “No,” and they went in to tea together. So that was all right. There were raisin cakes for tea.

  Next day we happened to want to go down to the river quite early. I don’t know why; this is called Fate, or Destiny. We dropped in at the “Rose and Crown” for some ginger-beer on our way. The landlady is a friend of ours and lets us drink it in her back parlor, instead of in the bar, which would be improper for girls.

  We found her awfully busy, making pies and jellies, and her two sisters were hurrying about with great hams and pairs of chickens and rounds of cold beef and lettuces and pickled salmon and trays of crockery and glasses.

  “It’s for the angling competition,” she said.

  We said, “What’s that?”

  “Why,” she said, slicing cucumber like beautiful machinery while she said it, “a lot of anglers come down some particular day and fish one particular bit of the river. And the one that catches most fish gets the prize. They’re fishing the pen above Stoneham Lock. And they all come here to dinner. So I’ve got my hands full and a trifle over.”

  We said, “Couldn’t we help?”

  But she said, “Oh no, thank you. Indeed not, please. I really am so I don’t know which way to turn. Do run along, like dears.”

  So we ran along like these timid but graceful animals.

  Need I tell the intellectual reader that we went straight off to the pen above Stoneham Lock to see the anglers competing? Angling is the same thing as fishing.

  I am not going to try and explain locks to you. If you’ve never seen a lock you could never understand even if I wrote it in words of one syllable and pages and pages long. And if you have, you’ll understand without my telling you. It is harder than Euclid if you don’t know beforehand. But you might get a grown-up person to explain it to you with books or wooden bricks.

  I will tell you what a pen is because that is easy. It is the bit of river between one lock and the next. In some rivers “pens” are called “reaches,” but pen is the proper word.

  We went along the towing-path; it is shady with willows, aspens, alders, elders, oaks and other trees. On the banks are flowers — yarrow, meadow-sweet, willow herb, loose-strife, and lady’s bed-straw. Oswald learned the names of all these trees and plants on the day of the picnic. The others didn’t remember them, but Oswald did. He is a boy of what they call relenting memory.

  The anglers were sitting here and there on the shady bank among the grass and the different flowers I have named. Some had dogs with them, and some umbrellas, and some had only their wives and families.

  We should have liked to talk to them and ask how they liked their lot, and what kinds of fish there were, and whether they were nice to eat, but we did not like to.

  Denny had seen anglers before and he knew they liked to be talked to, but though
he spoke to them quite like to equals he did not ask the things we wanted to know. He just asked whether they’d had any luck, and what bait they used.

  And they answered him back politely. I am glad I am not an angler. It is an immovable amusement, and, as often as not, no fish to speak of after all.

  Daisy and Dora had stayed at home: Dora’s foot was nearly well, but they seem really to like sitting still. I think Dora likes to have a little girl to order about. Alice never would stand it. When we got to Stoneham Lock, Denny said he should go home and fetch his fishing-rod. H. O. went with him. This left four of us — Oswald, Alice, Dicky, and Noël. We went on down the towing-path.

  The lock shuts up (that sounds as if it was like the lock on a door, but it is very otherwise) between one pen of the river and the next; the pen where the anglers were was full right up over the roots of the grass and flowers.

  But the pen below was nearly empty.

  “You can see the poor river’s bones,” Noël said.

  And so you could.

  Stones and mud and dried branches, and here and there an old kettle or a tin pail with no bottom to it, that some bargee had chucked in.

  From walking so much along the river we knew many of the bargees. Bargees are the captains and crews of the big barges that are pulled up and down the river by slow horses. The horses do not swim. They walk on the towing-path, with a rope tied to them, and the other end to the barge. So it gets pulled along. The bargees we knew were a good friendly sort, and used to let us go all over the barges when they were in a good temper. They were not at all the sort of bullying, cowardly fiends in human form that the young hero at Oxford fights a crowd of, single-handed, in books.

  The river does not smell nice when its bones are showing. But we went along down, because Oswald wanted to get some cobbler’s wax in Falding village for a bird-net he was making.

  But just above Falding Lock, where the river is narrow and straight, we saw a sad and gloomy sight — a big barge sitting flat on the mud because there was not water enough to float her.

  There was no one on board, but we knew by a red flannel waistcoat that was spread out to dry on top that the barge belonged to friends of ours.

  Then Alice said, “They have gone to find the man who turns on the water to fill the pen. I dare say they won’t find him. He’s gone to his dinner, I shouldn’t wonder. What a lovely surprise it would be if they came back to find their barge floating high and dry on a lot of water! Do let’s do it. It’s a long time since any of us did a kind action deserving of being put in the Book of Golden Deeds.”

  We had given that name to the minute-book of that beastly “Society of the Wouldbegoods.” Then you could think of the book if you wanted to without remembering the Society. I always tried to forget both of them.

  Oswald said, “But how? You don’t know how. And if you did we haven’t got a crow-bar.”

  I cannot help telling you that locks are opened with crow-bars. You push and push till a thing goes up and the water runs through. It is rather like the little sliding-door in the big door of a hen-house.

  “I know where the crow-bar is,” Alice said. “Dicky and I were down here yesterday when you were su—” She was going to say sulking, I know, but she remembered manners ere too late, so Oswald bears her no malice. She went on: “Yesterday, when you were up-stairs. And we saw the water-tender open the lock and the weir sluices. It’s quite easy, isn’t it, Dicky?”

  “As easy as kiss your hand,” said Dicky; “and what’s more, I know where he keeps the other thing he opens the sluices with. I votes we do.”

  “Do let’s, if we can,” Noël said, “and the bargees will bless the names of their unknown benefactors. They might make a song about us, and sing it on winter nights as they pass round the wassail bowl in front of the cabin fire.”

  Noël wanted to very much; but I don’t think it was altogether for generousness, but because he wanted to see how the sluices opened. Yet perhaps I do but wrong the boy.

  We sat and looked at the barge a bit longer, and then Oswald said, well, he didn’t mind going back to the lock and having a look at the crow-bars. You see Oswald did not propose this; he did not even care very much about it when Alice suggested it.

  But when we got to Stoneham Lock, and Dicky dragged the two heavy crow-bars from among the elder bushes behind a fallen tree, and began to pound away at the sluice of the lock, Oswald felt it would not be manly to stand idly apart. So he took his turn.

  “DICKY DRAGGED THE TWO HEAVY BARS”

  It was very hard work, but we opened the lock sluices, and we did not drop the crow-bar into the lock either, as I have heard of being done by older and sillier people.

  The water poured through the sluices all green and solid, as if it had been cut with a knife, and where it fell on the water underneath the white foam spread like a moving counterpane. When we had finished the lock we did the weir — which is wheels and chains — and the water pours through over the stones in a magnificent water-fall and sweeps out all round the weir-pool.

  The sight of the foaming water-falls was quite enough reward for our heavy labors, even without the thought of the unspeakable gratitude that the bargees would feel to us when they got back to their barge and found her no longer a stick-in-the-mud, but bounding on the free bosom of the river.

  When we had opened all the sluices we gazed awhile on the beauties of nature, and then went home, because we thought it would be more truly noble and good not to wait to be thanked for our kind and devoted action — and besides, it was nearly dinner-time, and Oswald thought it was going to rain.

  On the way home we agreed not to tell the others, because it would be like boasting of our good acts.

  “They will know all about it,” Noël said, “when they hear us being blessed by the grateful bargees, and the tale of the Unknown Helpers is being told by every village fireside. And then they can write it in the Golden Deed book.”

  So we went home. Denny and H. O. had thought better of it, and they were fishing in the moat. They did not catch anything.

  Oswald is very weather-wise — at least, so I have heard it said, and he had thought there would be rain. There was. It came on while we were at dinner — a great, strong, thundering rain, coming down in sheets — the first rain we had had since we came to the Moat House.

  We went to bed as usual. No presentiment of the coming awfulness clouded our young mirth. I remember Dicky and Oswald had a wrestling match, and Oswald won.

  In the middle of the night Oswald was awakened by a hand on his face. It was a wet hand and very cold. Oswald hit out, of course, but a voice said, in a hoarse, hollow whisper:

  “Don’t be a young ass! Have you got any matches? My bed’s full of water; it’s pouring down from the ceiling.”

  Oswald’s first thought was that perhaps by opening those sluices we had flooded some secret passage which communicated with the top of Moat House, but when he was properly awake he saw that this could not be, on account of the river being so low.

  He had matches. He is, as I said before, a boy full of resources. He struck one and lit a candle, and Dicky, for it was indeed he, gazed with Oswald at the amazing spectacle.

  Our bedroom floor was all wet in patches. Dicky’s bed stood in a pond, and from the ceiling water was dripping in rich profusion at a dozen different places. There was a great wet patch in the ceiling, and that was blue, instead of white like the dry part, and the water dripped from different parts of it.

  In a moment Oswald was quite unmanned.

  “Krikey!” he said, in a heart-broken tone, and remained an instant plunged in thought.

  “What on earth are we to do?” Dicky said.

  And really for a short time even Oswald did not know. It was a blood-curdling event, a regular facer. Albert’s uncle had gone to London that day to stay till the next. Yet something must be done.

  The first thing was to rouse the unconscious others from their deep sleep, because the water was beginning
to drip on to their beds, and though as yet they knew it not, there was quite a pool on Noël’s bed, just in the hollow behind where his knees were doubled up, and one of H. O.’s boots was full of water, that surged wildly out when Oswald happened to kick it over.

  We woke them — a difficult task, but we did not shrink from it.

  Then we said, “Get up, there is a flood! Wake up, or you will be drowned in your beds! And it’s half-past two by Oswald’s watch.”

  They awoke slowly and very stupidly. H. O. was the slowest and stupidest.

  The water poured faster and faster from the ceiling.

  We looked at each other and turned pale, and Noël said:

  “Hadn’t we better call Mrs. Pettigrew?”

  But Oswald simply couldn’t consent to this. He could not get rid of the feeling that this was our fault somehow for meddling with the river, though of course the clear star of reason told him it could not possibly be the case.

  We all devoted ourselves, heart and soul, to the work before us. We put the bath under the worst and wettest place, and the jugs and basins under lesser streams, and we moved the beds away to the dry end of the room. Ours is a long attic that runs right across the house.

  But the water kept coming in worse and worse. Our night-shirts were wet through, so we got into our other shirts and knickerbockers, but preserved bareness in our feet. And the floor kept on being half an inch deep in water, however much we mopped it up.

  We emptied the basins out of the window as fast as they filled, and we baled the bath with a jug without pausing to complain how hard the work was. All the same, it was more exciting than you can think. But in Oswald’s dauntless breast he began to see that they would have to call Mrs. Pettigrew.

  A new water-fall broke out between the fire-grate and the mantel-piece, and spread in devastating floods. Oswald is full of ingenious devices. I think I have said this before, but it is quite true; and perhaps even truer this time than it was last time I said it.

  He got a board out of the box-room next door, and rested one end in the chink between the fire-place and the mantel-piece, and laid the other end on the back of a chair, then we stuffed the rest of the chink with our nightgowns, and laid a towel along the plank, and behold, a noble stream poured over the end of the board right into the bath we put there ready. It was like Niagara, only not so round in shape. The first lot of water that came down the chimney was very dirty. The wind whistled outside. Noël said, “If it’s pipes burst, and not the rain, it will be nice for the water-rates.” Perhaps it was only natural after this for Denny to begin with his everlasting poetry. He stopped mopping up the water to say: