by Edith Nesbit
‘My goodness! what a strong glass!’ said the aunt.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Edward, gently taking it from her. He looked at the ship through the glass’s other end till she got to her proper size again and then smaller. He just stopped in time to prevent its disappearing altogether.
‘I’ll take care of it for you,’ said the aunt. And for the first time in their lives Edward said ‘No’ to his aunt.
It was a terrible moment.
Edward, quite frenzied by his own courage, turned the glass on one object after another — the furniture grew as he looked, and when he lowered the glass the aunt was pinned fast between a monster table-leg and a great chiffonier.
‘There!’ said Edward. ‘And I shan’t let you out till you say you won’t take it to take care of either.’
‘Oh, have it your own way,’ said the aunt, faintly, and closed her eyes. When she opened them the furniture was its right size and Edward was gone. He had twinges of conscience, but the aunt never mentioned the subject again. I have reason to suppose that she supposed that she had had a fit of an unusual and alarming nature.
Next day the boys in the camp were to go back to their slums. Edward and Gustus parted on the seashore and Edward cried. He had never met a boy whom he liked as he liked Gustus. And Gustus himself was almost melted.
‘I will say for you you’re more like a man and less like a snivelling white rabbit now than what you was when I met you. Well, we ain’t done nothing to speak of with that there conjuring trick of yours, but we’ve ‘ad a right good time. So long. See you ‘gain some day.’
Edward hesitated, spluttered, and still weeping flung his arms round Gustus.
‘‘Ere, none o’ that,’ said Gustus, sternly. ‘If you ain’t man enough to know better, I am. Shake ‘ands like a Briton; right about face — and part game.’
He suited the action to the word.
Edward went back to his aunt snivelling, defenceless but happy. He had never had a friend except Gustus, and now he had given Gustus the greatest treasure that he possessed.
For Edward was not such a white rabbit as he seemed. And in that last embrace he had managed to slip the little telescope into the pocket of the reefer coat which Gustus wore, ready for his journey.
It was the greatest treasure that Edward had, but it was also the greatest responsibility, so that while he felt the joy of self-sacrifice he also felt the rapture of relief. Life is full of such mixed moments.
And the holidays ended and Edward went back to his villa. Be sure he had given Gustus his home address, and begged him to write, but Gustus never did.
Presently Edward’s father came home from India, and they left his aunt to her villa and went to live at a jolly little house on a sloping hill at Chiselhurst, which was Edward’s father’s very own. They were not rich, and Edward could not go to a very good school, and though there was enough to eat and wear, what there was was very plain. And Edward’s father had been wounded, and somehow had not got a pension.
Now one night in the next summer Edward woke up in his bed with the feeling that there was some one in the room. And there was. A dark figure was squeezing itself through the window. Edward was far too frightened to scream. He simply lay and listened to his heart. It was like listening to a cheap American clock. The next moment a lantern flashed in his eyes and a masked face bent over him.
‘Where does your father keep his money?’ said a muffled voice.
‘In the b-b-b-b-bank,’ replied the wretched Edward, truthfully.
‘I mean what he’s got in the house.’
‘In his trousers pocket,’ said Edward, ‘only he puts it in the dressing-table drawer at night.’
‘You must go and get it,’ said the burglar, for such he plainly was.
‘Must I?’ said Edward, wondering how he could get out of betraying his father’s confidence and being branded as a criminal.
‘Yes,’ said the burglar in an awful voice, ‘get up and go.’
‘No,’ said Edward, and he was as much surprised at his courage as you are.
‘Bravo!’ said the burglar, flinging off his mask. ‘I see you aren’t such a white rabbit as what I thought you.’
‘It’s Gustus,’ said Edward. ‘Oh, Gustus, I’m so glad! Oh, Gustus, I’m so sorry! I always hoped you wouldn’t be a burglar. And now you are.’
‘I am so,’ said Gustus, with pride, ‘but,’ he added sadly, ‘this is my first burglary.’
‘Couldn’t it be the last?’ suggested Edward.
‘That,’ replied Gustus, ‘depends on you.’
‘I’ll do anything,’ said Edward, ‘anything.’
‘You see,’ said Gustus, sitting down on the edge of the bed in a confidential attitude, with the dark lantern in one hand and the mask in the other, ‘when you’re as hard up as we are, there’s not much of a living to be made honest. I’m sure I wonder we don’t all of us turn burglars, so I do. And that glass of yours — you little beggar — you did me proper — sticking of that thing in my pocket like what you did. Well, it kept us alive last winter, that’s a cert. I used to look at the victuals with it, like what I said I would. A farden’s worth o’ pease-pudden was a dinner for three when that glass was about, and a penn’orth o’ scraps turned into a big beef-steak almost. They used to wonder how I got so much for the money. But I’m always afraid o’ being found out — or of losing the blessed spy-glass — or of some one pinching it. So we got to do what I always said — make some use of it. And if I go along and nick your father’s dibs we’ll make our fortunes right away.’
‘No,’ said Edward, ‘but I’ll ask father.’
‘Rot.’ Gustus was crisp and contemptuous. ‘He’d think you was off your chump, and he’d get me lagged.’
‘It would be stealing,’ said Edward.
‘Not when you’ll pay it back.’
‘Yes, it would,’ said Edward. ‘Oh, don’t ask me — I can’t.’
‘Then I shall,’ said Gustus. ‘Where’s his room.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ said Edward. ‘I’ve got a half-sovereign of my own. I’ll give you that.’
‘Lawk!’ said Gustus. ‘Why the blue monkeys couldn’t you say so? Come on.’
He pulled Edward out of bed by the leg, hurried his clothes on anyhow, and half-dragged, half-coaxed him through the window and down by the ivy and the chicken-house roof.
They stood face to face in the sloping garden and Edward’s teeth chattered. Gustus caught him by his hand, and led him away.
At the other end of the shrubbery, where the rockery was, Gustus stooped and dragged out a big clinker — then another, and another. There was a hole like a big rabbit-hole. If Edward had really been a white rabbit it would just have fitted him.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Gustus, and went, head-foremost. ‘Come on,’ he said, hollowly, from inside. And Edward, too, went. It was dreadful crawling into that damp hole in the dark. As his head got through the hole he saw that it led to a cave, and below him stood a dark figure. The lantern was on the ground.
‘Come on,’ said Gustus, ‘I’ll catch you if you fall.’
With a rush and a scramble Edward got in.
‘It’s caves,’ said Gustus. ‘A chap I know that goes about the country bottoming cane-chairs, ‘e told me about it. And I nosed about and found he lived here. So then I thought what a go. So now we’ll put your half-shiner down and look at it, and we’ll have a gold-mine, and you can pretend to find it.’
‘Halves!’ said Edward, briefly and firmly.
‘You’re a man,’ said Gustus. ‘Now, then!’ He led the way through a maze of chalk caves till they came to a convenient spot, which he had marked. And now Edward emptied his pockets on the sand — he had brought all the contents of his money-box, and there was more silver than gold, and more copper than either, and more odd rubbish than there was anything else. You know what a boy’s pockets are like. Stones and putty, and slate-pencils and marbles — I urge in excuse that Edward was a very little
boy — a bit of plasticine, one or two bits of wood.
‘No time to sort ‘em,’ said Gustus, and, putting the lantern in a suitable position, he got out the glass and began to look through it at the tumbled heap.
And the heap began to grow. It grew out sideways till it touched the walls of the recess, and outwards till it touched the top of the recess, and then it slowly worked out into the big cave and came nearer and nearer to the boys. Everything grew — stones, putty, money, wood, plasticine.
Edward patted the growing mass as though it were alive and he loved it, and Gustus said:
‘Here’s clothes, and beef, and bread, and tea, and coffee — and baccy — and a good school, and me a engineer. I see it all a-growing and a-growing.’
‘Hi — stop!’ said Edward suddenly.
Gustus dropped the telescope. It rolled away into the darkness.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ said Edward.
‘What?’ said Gustus.
‘My hand,’ said Edward, ‘it’s fast between the rock and the gold and things. Find the glass and make it go smaller so that I can get my hand out.’
But Gustus could not find the glass. And, what is more, no one ever has found it to this day.
‘It’s no good,’ said Gustus, at last. ‘I’ll go and find your father. They must come and dig you out of this precious Tom Tiddler’s ground.’
‘And they’ll lag you if they see you. You said they would,’ said Edward, not at all sure what lagging was, but sure that it was something dreadful. ‘Write a letter and put it in his letter-box. They’ll find it in the morning.’
‘And leave you pinned by the hand all night? Likely — I don’t think,’ said Gustus.
‘I’d rather,’ said Edward, bravely, but his voice was weak. ‘I couldn’t bear you to be lagged, Gustus. I do love you so.’
‘None of that,’ said Gustus, sternly. ‘I’ll leave you the lamp; I can find my way with matches. Keep up your pecker, and never say die.’
‘I won’t,’ said Edward, bravely. ‘Oh, Gustus!’
* * * * *
That was how it happened that Edward’s father was roused from slumbers by violent shakings from an unknown hand, while an unknown voice uttered these surprising words: —
‘Edward is in the gold and silver and copper mine that we’ve found under your garden. Come and get him out.’
When Edward’s father was at last persuaded that Gustus was not a silly dream — and this took some time — he got up.
He did not believe a word that Gustus said, even when Gustus added ‘S’welp me!’ which he did several times.
But Edward’s bed was empty — his clothes gone.
Edward’s father got the gardener from next door — with, at the suggestion of Gustus, a pick — the hole in the rockery was enlarged, and they all got in.
And when they got to the place where Edward was, there, sure enough, was Edward, pinned by the hand between a piece of wood and a piece of rock. Neither the father nor the gardener noticed any metal. Edward had fainted.
They got him out; a couple of strokes with the pick released his hand, but it was bruised and bleeding.
They all turned to go, but they had not gone twenty yards before there was a crash and a loud report like thunder, and a slow rumbling, rattling noise very dreadful to hear.
‘Get out of this quick, sir,’ said the gardener; ‘the roof’s fell in; this part of the caves ain’t safe.’
Edward was very feverish and ill for several days, during which he told his father the whole story — of which his father did not believe a word. But he was kind to Gustus, because Gustus was evidently fond of Edward.
When Edward was well enough to walk in the garden his father and he found that a good deal of the shrubbery had sunk, so that the trees looked as though they were growing in a pit.
It spoiled the look of the garden, and Edward’s father decided to move the trees to the other side.
When this was done the first tree uprooted showed a dark hollow below it. The man is not born who will not examine and explore a dark hollow in his own grounds. So Edward’s father explored.
This is the true story of the discovery of that extraordinary vein of silver, copper, and gold which has excited so much interest in scientific and mining circles. Learned papers have been written about it, learned professors have been rude to each other about it, but no one knows how it came there except Gustus and Edward and you and me. Edward’s father is quite as ignorant as any one else, but he is much richer than most of them; and, at any rate, he knows that it was Gustus who first told him of the gold-mine, and who risked being lagged — arrested by the police, that is — rather than let Edward wait till morning with his hand fast between wood and rock.
So Edward and Gustus have been to a good school, and now they are at Winchester, and presently they will be at Oxford. And when Gustus is twenty-one he will have half the money that came from the gold-mine. And then he and Edward mean to start a school of their own. And the boys who are to go to it are to be the sort of boys who go to the summer camp of the Grand Redoubt near the sea — the kind of boy that Gustus was.
So the spy-glass will do some good after all, though it was so unmanageable to begin with.
Perhaps it may even be found again. But I rather hope it won’t. It might, really, have done much more mischief than it did — and if any one found it, it might do more yet.
There is no moral to this story, except.... But no — there is no moral.
ACCIDENTAL MAGIC; OR DON’T TELL ALL YOU KNOW
Quentin de Ward was rather a nice little boy, but he had never been with other little boys, and that made him in some ways a little different from other little boys. His father was in India, and he and his mother lived in a little house in the New Forest. The house — it was a cottage really, but even a cottage is a house, isn’t it? — was very pretty and thatched and had a porch covered with honeysuckle and ivy and white roses, and straight red hollyhocks were trained to stand up in a row against the south wall of it. The two lived quite alone, and as they had no one else to talk to they talked to each other a good deal. Mrs. de Ward read a great many books, and she used to tell Quentin about them afterwards. They were usually books about out of the way things, for Mrs. de Ward was interested in all the things that people are not quite sure about — the things that are hidden and secret, wonderful and mysterious — the things people make discoveries about. So that when the two were having their tea on the little brick terrace in front of the hollyhocks, with the white cloth flapping in the breeze, and the wasps hovering round the jam-pot, it was no uncommon thing for Quentin to say thickly through his bread and jam: —
‘I say, mother, tell me some more about Atlantis.’ Or, ‘Mother, tell me some more about ancient Egypt and the little toy-boats they made for their little boys.’ Or, ‘Mother, tell me about the people who think Lord Bacon wrote Shakespeare.’
And his mother always told him as much as she thought he could understand, and he always understood quite half of what she told him.
They always talked the things out thoroughly, and thus he learned to be fond of arguing, and to enjoy using his brains, just as you enjoy using your muscles in the football field or the gymnasium.
Also he came to know quite a lot of odd, out of the way things, and to have opinions of his own concerning the lost Kingdom of Atlantis, and the Man with the Iron Mask, the building of Stonehenge, the Pre-dynastic Egyptians, cuneiform writings and Assyrian sculptures, the Mexican pyramids and the shipping activities of Tyre and Sidon.
Quentin did no regular lessons, such as most boys have, but he read all sorts of books and made notes from them, in a large and straggling handwriting.
You will already have supposed that Quentin was a prig. But he wasn’t, and you would have owned this if you had seen him scampering through the greenwood on his quiet New Forest pony, or setting snares for the rabbits that would get into the garden and eat the precious lettuces and parsley. Also he fished
in the little streams that run through that lovely land, and shot with a bow and arrows. And he was a very good shot too.
Besides this he collected stamps and birds’ eggs and picture post-cards, and kept guinea-pigs and bantams, and climbed trees and tore his clothes in twenty different ways. And once he fought the grocer’s boy and got licked and didn’t cry, and made friends with the grocer’s boy afterwards, and got him to show him all he knew about fighting, so you see he was really not a mug. He was ten years old and he had enjoyed every moment of his ten years, even the sleeping ones, because he always dreamed jolly dreams, though he could not always remember what they were.
I tell you all this so that you may understand why he said what he did when his mother broke the news to him.
He was sitting by the stream that ran along the end of the garden, making bricks of the clay that the stream’s banks were made of. He dried them in the sun, and then baked them under the kitchen stove. (It is quite a good way to make bricks — you might try it sometimes.) His mother came out, looking just as usual, in her pink cotton gown and her pink sunbonnet; and she had a letter in her hand.
‘Hullo, boy of my heart,’ she said, ‘very busy?’
‘Yes,’ said Quentin importantly, not looking up, and going on with his work. ‘I’m making stones to build Stonehenge with. You’ll show me how to build it, won’t you, mother.’
‘Yes, dear,’ she said absently. ‘Yes, if I can.’
‘Of course you can,’ he said, ‘you can do everything.’
She sat down on a tuft of grass near him.
‘Quentin dear,’ she said, and something in her voice made him look up suddenly.
‘Oh, mother, what is it?’ he asked.
‘Daddy’s been wounded,’ she said; ‘he’s all right now, dear — don’t be frightened. Only I’ve got to go out to him. I shall meet him in Egypt. And you must go to school in Salisbury, a very nice school, dear, till I come back.’
