by Edith Nesbit
“Oh, well done, little ‘un!” said Mr. Beale to himself.
“We lay under a ‘aystack last night,” he said aloud, “and where we’ll lie to-night gracious only knows, without some kind soul lends us a ‘elping ‘and.”
The lady fumbled in her pocket, and the little girl said to Dickie —
“Where are all your toys?”
“I ain’t got but two,” said Dickie, “and they’re at ‘ome; one of them’s silver — real silver — my grandfarver ‘ad it when ‘e was a little boy.”
“But if you’ve got silver you oughtn’t to be begging,” said the lady, shutting up her purse. Beale frowned.
“It only pawns for a shilling,” said Dickie, “and farver knows what store I sets by it.”
“A shillin’s a lot, I grant you that,” said Beale eagerly; “but I wouldn’t go to take away the nipper’s little bit o’ pleasure, not for no shilling I wouldn’t,” he ended nobly, with a fond look at Dickie.
“‘IT ONLY PAWNS FOR A SHILLIN’,’ SAID DICKIE”
“You’re a kind father,” said the lady.
“Yes, isn’t he, mother?” said the little girl. “May I give the little boy my penny?”
The two travellers were left facing each other, the richer by a penny, and oh — wonderful good fortune — a whole half-crown. They exchanged such glances as might pass between two actors as the curtain goes down on a successful dramatic performance.
“You did that bit fine,” said Beale—”fine, you did. You been there before, ain’t ye?”
“No, I never,” said Dickie; “‘ere’s the steever.”
“You stick to that,” said Beale, radiant with delight; “you’re a fair masterpiece, you are; you earned it honest if ever a kid done. Pats you on the napper, she does, and out with ‘arf a dollar! A bit of all right, I call it!”
They went on up the hill as happy as any one need wish to be.
They had told lies, you observe, and had by these lies managed to get half a crown and a penny out of the charitable; and far from being ashamed of their acts, they were bubbling over with merriment and delight at their own cleverness. Please do not be too shocked. Remember that neither of them knew any better. To the elder tramp lies and begging were natural means of livelihood. To the little tramp the whole thing was a new and entrancing game of make-believe.
By evening they had seven-and-sixpence.
“Us’ll ‘ave a fourpenny doss outer this,” said Beale. “Swelp me Bob, we’ll be ridin’ in our own moty afore we know where we are at this rate.”
“But you said the bed with the green curtains,” urged Dickie.
“Well, p’rhaps you’re right. Lay up for a rainy day, eh? Which this ain’t, not by no means. There’s a ‘aystack a bit out of the town, if I remember right. Come on, mate.”
And Dickie for the first time slept out-of-doors. Have you ever slept out-of-doors? The night is full of interesting little sounds that will not, at first, let you sleep — the rustle of little wild things in the hedges, the barking of dogs in distant farms, the chirp of crickets and the croaking of frogs. And in the morning the birds wake you, and you curl down warm among the hay and look up at the sky that is growing lighter and lighter, and breathe the chill, sweet air, and go to sleep again wondering how you have ever been able to lie of nights in one of those shut-up boxes with holes in them which we call houses.
The new game of begging and inventing stories to interest the people from whom it was worth while to beg went on gaily, day by day and week by week; and Dickie, by constant practice, grew so clever at taking his part in the acting that Mr. Beale was quite dazed with admiration.
“Blessed if I ever see such a nipper,” he said, over and over again.
And when they got nearly to Hythe, and met with the red-whiskered man who got up suddenly out of the hedge and said he’d been hanging off and on expecting them for nigh on a week, Mr. Beale sent Dickie into a field to look for mushrooms — which didn’t grow there — expressly that he might have a private conversation with the red-whiskered man — a conversation which began thus —
“Couldn’t get ‘ere afore. Couldn’t get a nipper.”
“‘E’s ‘oppy, ‘e is; ‘e ain’t no good.”
“No good?” said Beale. “That’s all you know! ‘E’s a wunner, and no bloomin’ error. Turns the ladies round ‘is finger as easy as kiss yer ‘and. Clever as a traindawg ‘e is — an’ all outer ‘is own ‘ead. And to ‘ear the way ‘e does the patter to me on the road. It’s as good as a gaff any day to ‘ear ‘im. My word! I ain’t sure as I ‘adn’t better stick to the road, and keep away from old ‘ands like you, Jim.”
“Doin’ well, eh?” said Jim.
“Not so dusty,” said Mr. Beale cautiously; “we mugger along some’ow. An’ ‘e’s got so red in the face, and plumped out so, they’ll soon say ‘e doesn’t want their dibs.”
“Starve ‘im a bit,” said the red-whiskered man cheerfully.
Mr. Beale laughed. Then he spat thoughtfully. Then he said —
“It’s rum — I likes to see the little beggar stokin’ up, for all it spoils the market. If ‘e gets a bit fat ‘e makes it up in cleverness. You should ‘ear ‘im!” and so forth and so on, till the red-whiskered man said quite crossly —
“Seems to me you’re a bit dotty about this ‘ere extry double nipper. I never knew you took like it afore.”
“Fact is,” said Beale, with an air of great candor, “it’s ‘is cleverness does me. It ain’t as I’m silly about ‘im — but ‘e’s that clever.”
“I ‘ope ‘e’s clever enough to do wot ‘e’s told. Keep ‘is mug shut — that’s all.”
“He’s clever enough for hanythink,” said Beale, “and close as wax. ‘E’s got a silver toy ‘idden away somewhere — it only pops for a bob — and d’you think ‘e’ll tell me where it’s stowed? Not ‘im, and us such pals as never was, and ‘is jaw wagging all day long. But ‘e’s never let it out.”
“Oh, stow it!” said the other impatiently; “I don’t want to ‘ear no more about ‘im. If ‘e’s straight ‘e’ll do for me, and if he ain’t I’ll do for ‘im. See? An’ now you and me’ll have a word or two particler, and settle up about this ‘ere job. I got the plan drawed out. It’s a easy job as ever I see. Seems to me Tuesday’s as good a day as any. Tip-topper — Sir Edward Talbot, that’s ‘im—’e’s in furrin parts for ‘is ‘ealth, ‘e is. Comes ‘ome end o’ next month. Little surprise for ‘im, eh? You’ll ‘ave to train it. Abrams ‘e’ll be there Monday. And see ‘ere . . .” He sank his voice to a whisper.
When Dickie came back, without mushrooms, the red-whiskered man was gone.
“See that bloke just now?” said Mr. Beale.
“Yuss,” said Dickie.
“Well, you never see ‘im. If any one arsts you if you ever see ‘im, you never set eyes on ‘im in all your born — not to remember ‘im. Might a passed ‘im in a crowd — see?”
“Yuss,” said Dickie again.
“‘Tasn’t been ‘arf a panto neither! Us two on the road,” Mr. Beale went on.
“Not ‘arf!”
“Well, now we’re a-goin’ in the train like dooks — an’ after that we’re a-goin’ to ‘ave a rare old beano. I give you my word!”
Dickie was full of questions, but Mr. Beale had no answers for them. “You jes’ wait;” “hold on a bit;” “them as lives longest sees most” — these were the sort of remarks which were all that Dickie could get out of him.
It was not the next day, which was a Saturday, that they took the train like dukes. Nor was it Sunday, on which they took a rest and washed their shirts, according to Mr. Beale’s rule of life.
They took the train on Monday, and it landed them in a very bright town by the sea. Its pavements were of red brick and its houses of white stone, and its bow-windows and balconies were green, and Dickie thought it was the prettiest town in the world. They did not stay there, but walked out across the downs, where the skylarks were singi
ng, and on a dip of the downs came upon great stone walls and towers very strong and gray.
“What’s that there?” said Dickie.
“It’s a carstle — like wot the King’s got at Windsor.”
“Is it a king as lives ‘ere, then?” Dickie asked.
“No! Nobody don’t live ‘ere, mate,” said Mr. Beale. “It’s a ruin, this is. Only howls and rats lives in ruins.”
“Did any one ever live in it?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Mr. Beale indifferently. “Yes, course they must ‘ave, come to think of it. But you learned all that at school. It’s what they call ‘ist’ry.”
Dickie, after some reflection, said, “D’jever ‘ear of Here Ward?”
“I knowed a Jake Ward wunst.”
“Here Ward the Wake. He ain’t a bloke you’d know—’e’s in ‘istry. Tell you if you like.”
The tale of Hereward the Wake lasted till the jolting perambulator came to anchor in a hollow place among thick furze bushes. The bare, thick stems of the furze held it up like a roof over their heads as they sat. It was like a little furze house.
Next morning Mr. Beale shaved, a thing he had not done since they left London. Dickie held the mug and the soap. It was great fun, and, afterwards, Mr. Beale looked quite different. That was great fun too. And he got quite a different set of clothes out of his bundles, and put them on. And that was the greatest fun of all.
“Now, then,” he said, “we’re a-goin’ to lay low ‘ere all d’y, we are. And then come evening we’re a-goin’ to ‘ave our beano. That red’eaded chap wot you never see ‘e’ll lift you up to a window what’s got bars to it, and you’ll creep through, you being so little, and you’ll go soft’s a mouse the way I’ll show you, and undo the side-door. There’s a key and a chain and a bottom bolt. The top bolt’s cut through, and all the others is oiled. That won’t frighten you, will it?”
“No,” said Dickie. “What should it frighten me for?”
“Well, it’s like this,” said Mr. Beale a little embarrassed. “Suppose you was to get pinched?”
“What ‘ud pinch me? A dawg?”
“There won’t be no dawg. A man, or a lady, or somebody in the ‘ouse. Supposen they was to nab you — what ‘ud you say?”
Dickie was watching his face carefully.
“Whatever you tells me to say,” he said.
The man slapped his leg gently.
“If that ain’t the nipper all over! Well, if they was to nab you, you just say what I tells you to. And then, first chance you get, you slip away from ’em and go to the station. An’ if they comes arter you, you say you’re a-goin’ to your father at Dover. And first chance you get you slip off, and you come to that ‘ouse where you and me slep’ at Gravesend. I’ve got the dibs for yer ticket done up in this ‘ere belt I’m a-goin’ to put on you. But don’t you let on to any one it’s Gravesend you’re a-coming to. See?”
“An’ if I don’t get pinched?”
“Then you just opens the door and me and that redheaded bloke we comes in.”
“What for?” asked Dickie.
“To look for some tools ‘e mislaid there a year ago when ‘e was on a plumbing job — and they won’t let ‘im ‘ave them back, not by fair means, they won’t. That’s what for.”
“Rats!” said Dickie briefly. “I ain’t a baby. It’s burgling, that’s what it is.”
“You’ll a jolly sight too fond of calling names,” said Beale anxiously. “Never mind what it is. You be a good boy, matey, and do what you’re told. That’s what you do. You know ‘ow to stick it on if you’re pinched. If you ain’t you just lay low till we comes out with the . . . the plumber’s tools. See?”
“And if I’m nabbed, what is it I am to say?”
“You must let on as a strange chap collared you on the road, a strange chap with a black beard and a red ‘ankercher, and give you a licking if you didn’t go and climb in at the window. Say you lost your father in the town, and this chap said he knew where ‘e was, and if you see me you don’t know me. Nor yet that redheaded chap wot you never see.” He looked down at the small, earnest face turned up to his own. “You are a little nipper,” he said affectionately. “I don’t know as I ever noticed before quite wot a little ‘un you was. Think you can stick it? You shan’t go without you wants to, matey. There!”
“It’s splendid!” said Dickie; “it is an adventure for a bold knight. I shall feel like Here Ward when he dressed in the potter’s clothes and went to see King William.”
He spoke in the book voice.
“There you go,” said Mr. Beale, “but don’t you go and talk to ’em like that if they pinches you; they’d never let you loose again. Think they’d got a marquis in disguise, so they would.”
Dickie thought all day about this great adventure. He did not tell Mr. Beale so, but he was very proud of being so trusted. If you come to think of it, burgling must be a very exciting profession. And Dickie had no idea that it was wrong. It seemed to him a wholly delightful and sporting amusement.
While he was exploring the fox-runs among the thick stems of the grass Mr. Beale lay at full length and pondered.
“I don’t more’n ‘arf like it,” he said to himself. “Ho yuss. I know that’s wot I got him for — all right. But ‘e’s such a jolly little nipper. I wouldn’t like anything to ‘appen to ‘im, so I wouldn’t.”
Dickie took his boots off and went to sleep as usual, and in the middle of the night Mr. Beale woke him up and said, “It’s time.”
There was no moon that night, and it was very, very dark. Mr. Beale carried Dickie on his back for what seemed a very long way along dark roads, under dark trees, and over dark meadows. A dark bush divided itself into two parts and one part came surprisingly towards them. It turned out to be the red-whiskered man, and presently from a ditch another man came. And they all climbed a chill, damp park-fence, and crept along among trees and shrubs along the inside of a high park wall. Dickie, still on Mr. Beale’s shoulders, was astonished to find how quietly this big, clumsy-looking man could move.
Through openings in the trees and bushes Dickie could see the wide park, like a spread shadow, dotted with trees that were like shadows too. And on the other side of it the white face of a great house showed only a little paler than the trees about it. There were no lights in the house.
They got quite close to it before the shelter of the trees ended, for a little wood lay between the wall and the house.
Dickie’s heart was beating very fast. Quite soon, now, his part in the adventure would begin.
“‘Ere — catch ‘old,” Mr. Beale was saying, and the red-whiskered man took Dickie in his arms, and went forward. The other two crouched in the wood.
Dickie felt himself lifted, and caught at the window-sill with his hands. It was a damp night and smelled of earth and dead leaves. The window-sill was of stone, very cold. Dickie knew exactly what to do. Mr. Beale had explained it over and over again all day. He settled himself on the broad window-ledge and held on to the iron window-bars while the red-whiskered man took out a pane of glass, with treacle and a handkerchief, so that there should be no noise of breaking or falling glass. Then Dickie put his hand through and unfastened the window, which opened like a cupboard door. Then he put his feet through the narrow space between two bars and slid through. He hung inside with his hands holding the bars, till his foot found the table that he had been told to expect just below, and he got from that to the floor.
“Now I must remember exactly which way to go,” he told himself. But he did not need to remember what he had been told. For quite certainly, and most oddly, he knew exactly where the door was, and when he had crept to it and got it open he found that he now knew quite well which way to turn and what passages to go along to get to that little side-door that he was to open for the three men. It was exactly as though he had been there before, in a dream. He went as quietly as a mouse, creeping on hands and knee, the lame foot dragging quietly behind him.
It seemed to him that he had never known what silence was before — or darkness. For the door opened into a close box arbor, and no sky could be seen, or any shapes of things. Dickie felt himself almost bursting with pride. What an adventure! And he had carried out his part of it perfectly. He had done exactly what he had been told to do, and he had done it well. He stood there, on his one useful foot, clinging to the edge of the door, and it was not until something touched him that he knew that Mr. Beale and the other men were creeping through the door that he had opened.
And at that touch a most odd feeling came to Dickie — the last feeling he would have expected — a feeling of pride mixed with a feeling of shame. Pride in his own cleverness, and another kind of pride that made that cleverness seem shameful. He had a feeling, very queer and very strong, that he, Dickie, was not the sort of person to open doors for the letting in of burglars. He felt as you would feel if you suddenly found your hands covered with filth, not good honest dirt, but slimy filth, and would not understand how you could have let it get there.
He caught at the third shape that brushed by him.
“Father,” he whispered, “don’t do it. Go back, and I’ll fasten it all up again. Oh! don’t, father.”
