by E. Nesbit
CHAPTER V
"TO GET YOUR OWN LIVING"
"NO," said Mr. Beale, "we ain't a-goin' to crack no more cribs. It'slow--that's what it is. I quite grant you it's low. So I s'pose we'll'ave to take the road again."
Dickie and he were sitting in the sunshine on a sloping field. They hadbeen sitting there all the morning, and Dickie had told Mr. Beale allhis earthly adventures from the moment the redheaded man had lifted himup to the window of Talbot Court to the time when he had come in by theopen door of the common lodging-house.
"What a nipper it is, though!" said Mr. Beale regretfully. "For theburgling, I mean--sharp--clever--no one to touch him. But I don't cottonto it myself," he added quickly, "not the burgling, I don't. You'realways liable to get yourself into trouble over it, one way or theother--that's the worst of it. I don't know how it is," he endedpensively, "but somehow it _always_ leads to trouble."
Dickie picked up seven straws from among the stubble and idly plaitedthem together; the nurse had taught him this in the dream when he wasstill weak from the fever.
"That's very flash, that what you're doing," said Beale; "who learnedyou that?"
"I learned it in a dream," said Dickie slowly. "I dreamed I 'ad afever--and--I'll tell you if you like: it's a good yarn--good as HereWard, very near."
Beale lay back on the dry stubble, his pipe between his teeth.
"Fire away," he said, and Dickie fired away.
When the long tale ended, the sun was beginning to go down towards itsbed in the west. There was a pause.
"You'd make a tidy bit on the 'alls," said Beale, quite awestruck. "Thethings you think of! When did you make all that up?"
"I dreamed it, I tell you," said Dickie.
"You always could stick it on," said Mr. Beale admiringly.
"I ain't goin' to stick it on never no more," said Dickie. "They calledit lying and cheating, where I was--in my dream, I mean."
"Once let a nipper out of yer sight," said Mr. Beale sadly, "and seewhat comes of it! 'No. 2' a-goin' to stick it on no more! Then how's usto get a honest living? Answer me that, young chap."
"I don't know," said Dickie, "but we got to do it som'ow."
"It ain't to be done--not with all the unemployed there is about," saidMr. Beale. "Besides, you've got a regular gift for sticking it on--atalent I call it. And now you want to throw it away. But you can't. We_got_ to live."
"In the dream," said Dickie, "there didn't seem to be no unemployed.Every one was 'prenticed to a trade. I wish it was like that here."
"Well, it ain't," said Mr. Beale shortly. "I wasn't never 'prenticed tono trade, no more'n what you'll be."
"Worse luck," said Dickie. "But I started learning a lot ofthings--games mostly, in the dream, I did--and I started making aboat--a galleon they called it. All the names is different there. And Icarved a little box--a fair treat it was--with my father's arms on it."
"Yer father's _what_?"
"Coat of arms. Gentlemen there all has different things--patterns like;they calls 'em coats of arms, and they put it on their silver and ontheir carriages and their furniture."
"Put _what_?" Beale asked again.
"The blazon. All gentlepeople have it."
"Don't you come the blazing toff over me," said Beale with suddenfierceness, "'cause I won't 'ave it. See? It's them bloomin' Talbots putall this rot into your head."
"The Talbots?" said Dickie. "Oh! the Talbots ain't been gentry morethan a couple of hundred years. Our family's as old as King Alfred."
"Stow it, I say!" said Beale, more fiercely still. "I see what you'reafter; you want us to part company, that's what you want. Well, go. Goback to yer old Talbots and be the nice lady's little boy with velvetkicksies and a clean anky once a week. That's what you do."
Dickie looked forlornly out over the river.
"I can't 'elp what I dreams, can I?" he said. "In the dream I'd got lotsof things. Uncles and aunts an' a little brother. I never seen himthough. An' a farver and muvver an' all. It's different 'ere. I ain'tgot nobody but you 'ere--farver."
"Well, then," said Beale more gently, "what do you go settin' ofyourself up agin me for?"
"I ain't," said Dickie. "I thought you liked me to tell you everythink."
Silence. Dickie could not help noticing the dirty shirt, the dirty face,the three days' beard, the filthy clothes of his friend, and he thoughtof his other friend, Sebastian of the Docks. He saw the pale bluereproachful eyes of Beale looking out of that dirty face, and he spokealoud, quite without meaning to.
"All that don't make no difference," he said.
"Eh?" said Beale with miserable, angry eyes.
"Look 'ere," said Dickie desperately. "I'm a-goin' to show you. This'ere's my Tinkler, what I told you about, what pawns for a bob. Iwouldn't show it to no one but you, swelp me, I wouldn't."
He held the rattle out.
Beale took it. "It's a fancy bit, I will say," he owned.
"Look 'ere," said Dickie, "what I mean to say----"
He stopped. What was the use of telling Beale that he had come back outof the dream just for _his_ sake? Beale who did not believe in thedream--did not understand it--hated it?
"Don't you go turning agin me," he said; "whether I dream or not, youand me'll stand together. I'm not goin' to do things wot's wrong--low,dirty tricks--so I ain't. But I knows we can get on without that. Whatwould you _like_ to do for your living if you could choose?"
"I warn't never put to no trade," said Beale, "'cept being 'andy with a'orse. I was a wagoner's mate when I was a boy. I likes a 'orse. Or adawg," he added. "I ain't no good wiv me 'ands--not at working, youknow--not to say working."
Dickie suppressed a wild notion he had had of getting into that dreamagain, learning some useful trade there, waking up and teaching it toMr. Beale.
"Ain't there _nothing_ else you'd like to do?" he asked.
"I don't know as there is," said Mr. Beale drearily; "without it waspigeons."
Then Dickie wondered whether things that you learned in dreams would"_stay_ learned." Things you learned to do with your hands. The Greekand the Latin "stayed learned" right enough and sang in his brainencouragingly.
"Don't you get shirty if I talks about that dream," he said. "You dunnowhat a dream it was. I wasn't kidding you. I did dream it, honor bright.I dreamed I could carve wood--make boxes and things. I wish I 'ad a bitof fine-grained wood. I'd like to try. I've got the knife they give meto cut the string of the basket in the train. It's jolly sharp."
"What sort o' wood?" Beale asked.
"It was mahogany I dreamed I made my box with," said Dickie. "I wouldlike to try."
"Off 'is poor chump," Beale murmured with bitter self-reproach; "mydoin' too--puttin' 'im on to a job like Talbot Court, the nipper is."
He stretched himself and got up.
"I'll get yer a bit of mahogany from somewheres," he said very gently."I didn't mean nothing, old chap. You keep all on about yer dreams. Idon't mind. I likes it. Let's get a brace o' kippers and make a night ofit."
So they went back to the Gravesend lodging-house.
Next day Mr. Beale produced the lonely leg of a sofa--mahogany, a fatround turned leg, old and seasoned.
"This what you want?" he asked.
Dickie took it eagerly. "I do wonder if I can," he said. "I feel justexactly like as if I could. I say, farver, let's get out in the woodssomewheres quiet and take our grub along. Somewheres where nobody can'tsay, 'What you up to?' and make a mock of me."
They found a place such as Dickie desired, a warm, sunny nest in theheart of a green wood, and all through the long, warm hours of theautumn day Mr. Beale lay lazy in the sunshine while Dickie, very paleand determined, sliced, chipped, and picked at the sofa leg with theknife the gardener had given him.
It was hard to make him lay the work down even for dinner, which was ofa delicious and extravagant kind--new bread, German sausage, and beer ina flat bottle. For from the moment when the knife touched the woodDickie knew that he had
not forgotten, and that what he had done in theDeptford dockyard under the eyes of Sebastian, the shipwright who hadhelped to sink the Armada, he could do now alone in the woods beyondGravesend.
It was after dinner that Mr. Beale began to be interested.
"Swelp me!" he said; "but you've got the hang of it somehow. A box,ain't it?"
"A box," said Dickie, smoothing a rough corner; "a box with a lid thatfits. And I'll carve our arms on the top--see, I've left that bitstickin' up a purpose."
It was the hardest day's work Dickie had ever done. He stuck to it andstuck to it and stuck to it till there was hardly light left to see itby. But before the light was wholly gone the box had wholly come--withthe carved coat of arms and the lid that fitted.
"Well," said Mr. Beale, striking a match to look at it; "if that ain't afair treat! There's many a swell bloke 'ud give 'arf a dollar for thatto put 'is baccy in. You've got a trade, my son, that's sure. Why didn'tyou let on before as you could? Blow the beastly match! It's burned mefinger."
The match went out and Beale and Dickie went back to supper in thecrowded, gas-lit room. When supper was over--it was tripe and onions andfried potatoes, very luxurious--Beale got up and stood before the fire.
"I'm a-goin' to 'ave a hauction, I am," he said to the company at large."Here's a thing and a very pretty thing, a baccy-box, or a snuff-box,or a box to shut yer gold money in, or yer diamonds. What offers?"
"'And it round," said a black-browed woman, with a basket covered inAmerican cloth no blacker than her eyes.
"That I will," said Beale readily. "I'll 'and it round _in_ me 'and. AndI'll do the 'andin' meself."
He took it round from one to another, showed the neat corners, the neatcarving, the neat fit of the square lid.
"Where'd yer nick that?" asked a man with a red handkerchief.
"The nipper made it."
"Pinched it more likely," some one said.
"I see 'im make it," said Beale, frowning a little.
"Let me 'ave a squint," said a dingy gray old man sitting apart. Forsome reason of his own Beale let the old man take the box into his hand.But he kept very close to him and he kept his eyes on the box.
"All outer one piece," said the old man. "I dunno oo made it an' I don'tcare, but that was made by a workman as know'd his trade. I was acabinet-maker once, though you wouldn't think it to look at me. Thereain't nobody here to pay what that little hobjec's worth. Hoil it upwith a drop of cold linseed and leave it all night, and then in themorning you rub it on yer trouser leg to shine it, and then rub it inthe mud to dirty it, and then hoil it again and dirty it again, andyou'll get 'arf a thick 'un for it as a genuwine hold antique. That'swot you do."
"Thankee, daddy," said Beale, "an' so I will."
He slipped the box in his pocket. When Dickie next saw the box it lookedas old as any box need look.
"Now we'll look out for a shop where they sells these 'ere hold antics,"said Beale. They were on the road and their faces were set towardsLondon. Dickie's face looked pinched and white. Beale noticed it.
"You don't look up to much," he said; "warn't your bed to your liking?"
"The bed was all right," said Dickie, thinking of the bed in the dream."I diden sleep much, though."
"Any more dreams?" Beale asked kindly enough.
"No," said Dickie. "I think p'raps it was me wanting so to dream itagain kep' me awake."
"I dessey," said Beale, picking up a straw to chew.
Dickie limped along in the dust, the world seemed very big and hard. Itwas a long way to London and he had not been able to dream that dreamagain. Perhaps he would never be able to dream it. He stumbled on a bigstone and would have fallen but that Beale caught him by the arm, and ashe swung round by that arm Beale saw that the boy's eyes were thick withtears.
"Ain't 'urt yerself, 'ave yer?" he said--for in all their wanderingsthese were the first tears Dickie had shed.
"No," said Dickie, and hid his face against Beale's coat sleeve. "It'sonly----"
"What is it, then?" said Beale, in the accents of long-disusedtenderness; "tell your old farver, then----"
"It's silly," sobbed Dickie.
"Never you mind whether it's silly or not," said Beale. "You out withit."
"In that dream," said Dickie, "I wasn't lame."
"Think of that now," said Beale admiringly. "You best dream that everynight. Then you won't mind so much of a daytime."
"But I mind more," said Dickie, sniffing hard; "much, much more."
Beale, without more words, made room for him in the crowdedperambulator, and they went on. Dickie's sniffs subsided. Silence.Presently--
"I say, farver, I'm sorry I acted so silly. You never see me blub aforeand you won't again," he said; and Beale said awkwardly, "That's allright, mate."
"You pretty flush?" the boy asked later on.
"Not so dusty," said the man.
"'Cause I wanter give that there little box to a chap I know wot lent methe money for the train to come to you at Gravesend."
"Pay 'im some other day when we're flusher."
"I'd rather pay 'im now," said Dickie. "I could make another box.There's a bit of the sofer leg left, ain't there?"
There was, and Dickie worked away at it in the odd moments that clusterround meal times, the half-hours before bed and before the morningstart. Mr. Beale begged of all likely foot-passengers, but he noted thatthe "nipper" no longer "stuck it on." For the most part he was quitesilent. Only when Beale appealed to him he would say, "Farver's verygood to me. I don't know what I should do without farver."
And so at last they came to New Cross again, and Mr. Beale stepped infor half a pint at the Railway Hotel, while Dickie went clickety-clackalong the pavement to his friend the pawnbroker.
"Here we are again," said that tradesman; "come to pawn the rattle?"
Dickie laughed. Pawning the rattle seemed suddenly to have become avery old and good joke between them.
"Look 'ere, mister," he said; "that chink wot you lent me to get toGravesend with." He paused, and added in his other voice, "It was verygood of you, sir."
"I'm not going to lend you any more, if that's what you're after," saidthe Jew, who had already reproached himself for his confidinggenerosity.
"It's not that I'm after," said Dickie, with dignity. "I wish to repayyou."
"Got the money?" said the Jew, laughing not unkindly.
"No," said Dickie; "but I've got this." He handed the little box acrossthe counter.
"Where'd you get it?"
"I made it."
The pawnbroker laughed again. "Well, well, I'll ask no questions andyou'll tell me no lies, eh?"
"I shall certainly tell you no lies," said Dickie, with the dignity ofthe dream boy who was not a cripple and was heir to a great and gentlename; "will you take it instead of the money?"
The pawnbroker turned the box over in his hands, while kindness andhonesty struggled fiercely within him against the habits of a businesslife. Dickie eyed the china vases and concertinas and teaspoons tiedtogether in fan shape, and waited silently.
"It's worth more than what I lent you," the man said at last with aneffort; "and it isn't every one who would own that, mind you."
"I know it isn't," said Dickie; "will you please take it to pay my debtto you, and if it is worth more, accept it as a grateful gift from onewho is still gratefully your debtor."
"You'd make your fortune on the halls," said the man, as Beale had said;"the way you talk beats everything. All serene. I'll take the box infull discharge of your debt. But you might as well tell me where you gotit."
"I made it," said Dickie, and put his lips together very tightly.
"You did--did you? Then I'll tell you what. I'll give you four bob forevery one of them you make and bring to me. You might do different coatsof arms--see?"
"I was only taught to do one," said Dickie.
Just then a customer came in--a woman with her Sunday dress and a pairof sheets to pawn because her man was out of wo
rk and the children werehungry.
"Run along, now," said the Jew, "I've nothing more for you to-day."Dickie flushed and went.
Three days later the crutch clattered in at the pawnbroker's door, andDickie laid two more little boxes on the counter.
"Here you are," he said. The pawnbroker looked and exclaimed andquestioned and wondered, and Dickie went away with eight silvershillings in his pocket, the first coins he had ever carried in hislife. They seemed to have been coined in some fairy mint; they were sodifferent from any other money he had ever handled.
Mr. Beale, waiting for him by New Cross Station, put his empty pipe inhis pocket and strolled down to meet him. Dickie drew him down a sidestreet and held out the silver. "Two days' work," he said. "We ain't nocall to take the road 'cept for a pleasure trip. I got a trade, I 'ave.'Ow much a week's four bob a day? Twenty-four bob I make it."
"Lor!" said Mr. Beale, with his mouth open.
"Now I tell you what, you get 'old of some more old sofy legs and astone and a strap to sharpen my knife with. And there we are.Twenty-four shillings a week for a chap an' 'is nipper ain't so dusty,farver, is it? I've thought it all up and settled it all out. So long asthe weather holds we'll sleep in the bed with the green curtains, andI'll 'ave a green wood for my workshop, and when the nights get coldwe'll rent a room of our very own and live like toffs, won't us?"
The child's eyes were shining with excitement.
"'Pon my sam, I believe you _like_ work," said Mr. Beale in tones ofintense astonishment.
"I like it better'n cadgin'," said Dickie.
They did as Dickie had said, and for two days Mr. Beale was content toeat and doze and wake and watch Dickie's busy fingers and eat and dozeagain. But on the third day he announced that he was getting the fidgetsin his legs.
"I must do a prowl," he said; "I'll be back afore sundown. Don't youforget to eat your dinner when the sun comes level the top of that hightree. So long, matey."
Mr. Beale slouched off in the sunshine in his filthy old clothes, andDickie was left to work alone in the green and golden wood. It was verystill. Dickie hardly moved at all, and the chips that fell from his workfell more softly than the twigs and acorns that dropped now and thenfrom some high bough. A goldfinch swung on a swaying hazel branch andlooked at him with bright eyes, unafraid; a grass snake slid swiftlyby--it was out on particular business of its own, so it was not afraidof Dickie nor he of it. A wood-pigeon swept rustling wings across theglade where he sat, and once a squirrel ran right along a bough to lookdown at him and chatter, thickening its tail as a cat does hers when sheis angry.
It was a long and very beautiful day, the first that Dickie had everspent alone. He worked harder than ever, and when by the lessening lightit was impossible to work any longer, he lay back against a tree root torest his tired back and to gloat over the thought that he had made twoboxes in one day--eight shillings--in one single day, eight splendidshillings.
The sun was quite down before Mr. Beale returned. He looked unnaturallyfat, and as he sat down on the moss something inside the front of hisjacket moved and whined.
"Oh! what is it?" Dickie asked, sitting up, alert in a moment; "not adawg? Oh! farver, you don't know how I've always wanted a dawg."
"Well, you've a-got yer want now, three times over, you 'ave," saidBeale, and, unbuttoning his jacket, took out a double handful of soft,fluffy sprawling arms and legs and heads and tails--three little fat,white puppies.
"Oh, the jolly little beasts!" said Dickie; "ain't they fine? Where didyou get them?"
"They was give me," said Mr. Beale, re-knotting his handkerchief, "by alady in the country."
He fixed his eyes on the soft blue of the darkening sky.
"Try another," said Dickie calmly.
"Ah! it ain't no use trying to deceive the nipper--that sharp he is,"said Beale, with a mixture of pride and confusion. "Well, then, not todeceive you, mate, I bought 'em."
"What with?" said Dickie, lightning quick.
"With--with money, mate--with money, of course."
"How'd you get it?"
No answer.
"You didn't pinch it?"
"No--on my sacred sam, I didn't," said Beale eagerly; "pinching leads totrouble. I've 'ad my lesson."
"You cadged it, then?" said Dickie.
"Well," said Beale sheepishly, "what if I did?"
"You've spoiled everything," said Dickie, furious, and he flung the twonewly finished boxes violently to the ground, and sat frowning with eyesdowncast.
Beale, on all fours, retrieved the boxes.
"Two," he said, in awestruck tones; "there never was such a nipper!"
"It doesn't matter," said Dickie in a heartbroken voice, "you've spoiledeverything, and you lie to me, too. It's all spoiled. I wish I'd nevercome back outer the dream, so I do."
"Now lookee here," said Beale sternly, "don't you come this over us,'cause I won't stand it, d'y 'ear? Am I the master or is it you? D'yethink I'm going to put up with being bullied and druv by a little nipperlike as I could lay out with one 'and as easy as what I could one ofthem pups?" He moved his foot among the soft, strong little things thatwere uttering baby-growls and biting at his broken boot with theirlittle white teeth.
"Do," said Dickie bitterly, "lay me out if you want to. I don't care."
"Now, now, matey"--Beale's tone changed suddenly to affectionateremonstrance--"I was only kiddin'. Don't take it like that. You know Iwouldn't 'urt a 'air of yer 'ed, so I wouldn't."
"I wanted us to live honest by our work--we was doing it. And you'velowered us to the cadgin' again. That's what I can't stick," saidDickie.
"It wasn't. I didn't have to do a single bit of patter for it anyhow. Itwas a wedding, and I stopped to 'ave a squint, and there'd been awater-cart as 'ad stopped to 'ave a squint too, and made a puddle as bigas a tea-tray, and all the path wet. An' the lady in her white, shelooks at the path and the gent 'e looks at 'er white boots--an' I off'swith me coat like that there Rally gent you yarned me about, and flopsit down in the middle of the puddle, right in front of the gal. And shetips me a smile like a hangel and 'olds out 'er hand--in 'er whiteglove and all--and yer know what my 'ands is like, matey."
"'AN' I OFF'S WITH ME COAT, AND FLOPS IT DOWN IN THEMIDDLE OF THE PUDDLE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE GAL'"
[_Page 133_]
"Yes," said Dickie, "go on."
"And she just touched me 'and and walks across me coat. And the peoplelaughed and clapped--silly apes! And the gent 'e tipped me a thick 'un,and I spotted the pups a month ago, and I knew I could have 'em for fivebob, so I got 'em. And I'll sell em for thribble the money, you see if Idon't. An' I thought you'd be as pleased as pleased--me actin' so silly,like as if I was one of them yarns o' yourn an' all. And then firstminute I gets 'ere, you sets on to me. But that's always the way."
"Please, please forgive me, father," said Dickie, very much ashamed ofhimself; "I am so sorry. And it _was_ nice of you and I am pleased--andI do love the pups--and we won't sell all three, will us? I would solike to have one. I'd call it 'True.' One of the dogs in my dream wascalled that. You do forgive me, don't you, father?"
"Oh! that's all right," said Beale.
Next day again a little boy worked alone in a wood, and yet not alone,for a small pup sprawled and yapped and scrapped and grunted round himas he worked. No squirrels or birds came that day to lighten Dickie'ssolitude, but True was more to him than many birds or squirrels. A womanthey had overtaken on the road had given him a bit of blue ribbon forthe puppy's neck, in return for the lift which Mr. Beale had given herbasket on the perambulator. She was selling ribbons and cottons andneedles from door to door, and made a poor thing of it, she told them."An' my grandfather 'e farmed 'is own land in Sussex," she told them,looking with bleared eyes across the fields.
Dickie only made a box and a part of a box that day. And while he satmaking it, far away in London a respectable-looking man was walking upand down Regent Street among the shoppers and the motors and carriages,with
a fluffy little white dog under each arm. And he sold both thedogs.
"One was a lady in a carriage," he told Dickie later on. "Arst 'er twothick 'uns, I did. Never turned a hair, no more I didn't. She didn'tcare what its price was, bless you. Said it was a dinky darling and shewanted it. Gent said he'd get her plenty better. No--she wanted that.An' she got it too. A fool and his money's soon parted's what I say. Andt'other one I let 'im go cheap, for fourteen bob, to a blackclergyman--black as your hat he was, from foreign parts. So now we'rebloomin' toffs, an' I'll get a pair of reach-me-downs this very bloomin'night. And what price that there room you was talkin' about?"
It was the beginning of a new life. Dickie wrote out their accounts on alarge flagstone near the horse trough by the "Chequers," with a bit ofbilliard chalk that a man gave him.
It was like this:--
Got Box 4 Box 4 Box 4 Box 4 Dog 40 Dog 14 ---- 70
Spent Dogs 4 Grub 19 Tram 4 Leg 2 ---- 29
and he made out before he rubbed the chalk off the stone that thedifference between twenty-nine shillings and seventy was about twopounds--and that was more than Dickie had ever had, or Beale either, formany a long year.
Then Beale came, wiping his mouth, and they walked idly up the road.Lodgings. Or rather _a_ lodging. A room. But when you have had what iscalled the key of the street for years enough, you hardly know where tolook for the key of a room.
"Where'd you like to be?" Beale asked anxiously. "You like countrybest, don't yer?"
"Yes," said Dickie.
"But in the winter-time?" Beale urged.
"Well, town then," said Dickie, who was trying to invent a box of a newand different shape to be carved next day.
"I could keep a lookout for likely pups," said Beale; "there's a plentyhere and there all about--and you with your boxes. We might go to threebob a week for the room."
"I'd like a 'ouse with a garden," said Dickie.
"Go back to yer Talbots," said Beale.
"No--but look 'ere," said Dickie, "if we was to take a 'ouse--just alittle 'ouse, and let half of it."
"We ain't got no sticks to put in it."
"Ain't there some way you get furniture without payin' for it?"
"'Ire systim. But that's for toffs on three quid a week, reg'lar wages.They wouldn't look at us."
"We'll get three quid right enough afore we done," said Dickie firmly;"and if you want London, I'd like our old house because of the seeds Isowed in the garden; I lay they'll keep on a-coming up, forever andever. That's what annuals means. The chap next door told me. It meansflowers as comes up fresh every year. Let's tramp up, and I'll show itto you--where we used to live."
And when they had tramped up and Dickie had shown Mr. Beale thesad-faced little house, Mr. Beale owned that it would do 'em a fairtreat.
"But we must 'ave some bits of sticks or else nobody won't let us haveno 'ouses."
They flattened their noses against the front window. The newspapers anddirty sackings still lay scattered on the floor as they had fallen fromDickie when he had got up in the morning after the night when he had hadThe Dream.
The sight pulled at Dickie's heart-strings. He felt as a man might feelwho beheld once more the seaport from which in old and beautiful days hehad set sail for the shores of romance, the golden splendor of TheFortunate Islands.
"I could doss 'ere again," he said wistfully; "it 'ud save fourpence.Both 'ouses both sides is empty. Nobody wouldn't know."
"We don't need to look to our fourpences so sharp's all that," saidBeale.
"I'd like to."
"Wonder you ain't afeared."
"I'm used to it," said Dickie; "it was our own 'ouse, you see."
"You come along to yer supper," said Beale; "don't be so flash with yerown 'ouses."
They had supper at a coffee-shop in the Broadway.
"Two mugs, four billiard balls, and 'arf a dozen door-steps," was Mr.Beale's order. You or I, more polite if less picturesque, would perhapshave said, "Two cups of tea, four eggs, and some thick bread andbutter." It was a pleasant meal. Only just at the end it turned intosomething quite different. The shop was one of those old-fashioned ones,divided by partitions like the stalls in a stable, and over the top ofthis partition there suddenly appeared a head.
Dickie's mug paused in air half-way to his mouth, which remained open.
"What's up?" Beale asked, trying to turn on the narrow seat and look up,which he couldn't do.
"It's 'im," whispered Dickie, setting down the mug. "That red'eaded chapwot I never see."
And then the redheaded man came round the partition and sat down besideBeale and talked to him, and Dickie wished he wouldn't. He heard littleof the conversation; only "better luck next time" from the redheadedman, and "I don't know as I'm taking any" from Beale, and at the partingthe redheaded man saying, "I'll doss same shop as wot you do," and Bealegiving the name of the lodging-house where, on the way to thecoffee-shop, Beale had left the perambulator and engaged their beds.
"Tell you all about it in the morning" were the last words of theredheaded one as he slouched out, and Dickie and Beale were left tofinish the door-steps and drink the cold tea that had slopped into theirsaucers.
When they went out Dickie said--
"What did he want, farver--that redheaded chap?"
Beale did not at once answer.
"I wouldn't if I was you," said Dickie, looking straight in front of himas they walked.
"Wouldn't what?"
"Whatever he wants to."
"Why, I ain't told you yet what he _does_ want."
"'E ain't up to no good--I know that."
"'E's full of notions, that's wot 'e is," said Beale. "If some of 'isnotions come out right 'e'll be a-ridin' in 'is own cart and 'orse aforewe know where we are--and us a-tramping in 'is dust."
"Ridin' in Black Maria, more like," said Dickie.
"Well, I ain't askin' _you_ to do anything, am I?" said Beale.
"No!--you ain't. But whatever you're in, I'm a-goin' to be in, that'sall."
"Don't you take on," said Beale comfortably; "I ain't said I'll be inanything yet, 'ave I? Let's 'ear what 'e says in the morning. If 'is layain't a safe lay old Beale won't be in it--you may lay to that."
"Don't let's," said Dickie earnestly. "Look 'ere, father, let us go,both two of us, and sleep in that there old 'ouse of ours. I don't wantthat red'eaded chap. He'll spoil everything--I know 'e will, just aswe're a-gettin' along so straight and gay. Don't let's go to that theredoss; let's lay in the old 'ouse."
"Ain't I never to 'ave never a word with nobody without it's you?" saidBeale, but not angrily.
"Not with 'im; 'e ain't no class," said Dickie firmly; "and oh! farver,I do so wanter sleep in that 'ouse, that was where I 'ad The Dream, youknow."
"Oh, well--come on, then," said Beale; "lucky we've got our thick coatson."
It was quite easy for Dickie to get into the house, just as he had donebefore, and to go along the passage and open the front door for Mr.Beale, who walked in as bold as brass. They made themselves comfortablewith the sacking and old papers--but one at least of the two missed theluxury of clean air and soft moss and a bed canopy strewn with stars.Mr. Beale was soon asleep and Dickie lay still, his heart beating to thetune of the hope that now at last, in this place where it had oncecome, his dream would come again. But it did not come--even sleep,plain, restful, dreamless sleep, would not come to him. At last he couldlie still no longer. He slipped from under the paper, whose rustling didnot disturb Mr. Beale's slumbers, and moved into the square of lightthrown through the window by the street lamp. He felt in his pockets,pulled out Tinkler and the white seal, set them on the floor, and, movedby memories of the great night when his dream had come to him, arrangedthe moon-seeds round them in the same pattern that th
ey had lain in onthat night of nights. And the moment that he had lain the last seed,completing the crossed triangles, the magic began again. All was as ithad been before. The tired eyes that must close, the feeling thatthrough his closed eyelids he could yet see something moving in thecentre of the star that the two triangles made.
"Where do you want to go to?" said the same soft small voice that hadspoken before. But this time Dickie did not reply that he was "notparticular." Instead, he said, "Oh, _there!_ I want to go there!"feeling quite sure that whoever owned that voice would know as well ashe, or even better, where "there" was, and how to get to it.
And as on that other night everything grew very quiet, and sleep wrappedDickie round like a soft garment. When he awoke he lay in the bigfour-post bed with the green and white curtains; about him were thetapestry walls and the heavy furniture of The Dream.
"Oh!" he cried aloud, "I've found it again!--I've found it!--I've foundit!"
And then the old nurse with the hooped petticoats and the queer cap andthe white ruff was bending over him; her wrinkled face was alight withlove and tenderness.
"So thou'rt awake at last," she said. "Did'st thou find thy friend inthy dreams?"
Dickie hugged her.
"I've found the way back," he said; "I don't know which is the dream andwhich is real--but _you_ know."
"Yes," said the old nurse, "I know. The one is as real as the other."
He sprang out of bed and went leaping round the room, jumping on tochairs and off them, running and dancing.
"What ails the child?" the nurse grumbled; "get thy hose on, for shame,taking a chill as like as not. What ails thee to act so?"
"It's the not being lame," Dickie explained, coming to a standstill bythe window that looked out on the good green garden. "You don't know howwonderful it seems, just at first, you know, _not_ to be lame."
