by Edith Nesbit
He sat down on the grass and began to smoke. We asked him questions about himself, and he told us many of his secret sorrows — especially about there being no work nowadays for an honest man. At last he dropped asleep in the middle of a story about a vestry he worked for that hadn’t acted fair and square by him like he had by them, or it (I don’t know if vestry is singular or plural), and we went home. But before we went we held a hurried council and collected what money we could from the little we had with us (it was ninepence halfpenny), and wrapped it in an old envelope Dicky had in his pocket and put it gently on the billowing middle of the poor tramp’s sleeping waistcoat, so that he would find it when he woke. None of the dogs said a single syllable while we were doing this, so we knew they believed him to be poor but honest, and we always find it safe to take their word for things like that.
As we went home a brooding silence fell upon us; we found out afterwards that those words of the poor tramp’s about free drinks had sunk deep in all our hearts, and rankled there.
After dinner we went out and sat with our feet in the stream. People tell you it makes your grub disagree with you to do this just after meals, but it never hurts us. There is a fallen willow across the stream that just seats the eight of us, only the ones at the end can’t get their feet into the water properly because of the bushes, so we keep changing places. We had got some liquorice root to chew. This helps thought. Dora broke a peaceful silence with this speech:
“Free drinks.”
The words awoke a response in every breast.
“I wonder some one doesn’t,” H. O. said, leaning back till he nearly toppled in, and was only saved by Oswald and Alice at their own deadly peril.
“Do for goodness sake sit still, H. O.,” observed Alice. “It would be a glorious act! I wish we could.”
“What, sit still?” asked H. O.
“No, my child,” replied Oswald, “most of us can do that when we try. Your angel sister was only wishing to set up free drinks for the poor and thirsty.”
“Not for all of them,” Alice said, “just a few. Change places now, Dicky. My feet aren’t properly wet at all.”
It is very difficult to change places safely on the willow. The changers have to crawl over the laps of the others, while the rest sit tight and hold on for all they’re worth. But the hard task was accomplished and then Alice went on:
“And we couldn’t do it for always, only a day or two — just while our money held out. Eiffel Tower lemonade’s the best, and you get a jolly lot of it for your money too. There must be a great many sincerely thirsty persons go along the Dover Road every day.”
“It wouldn’t be bad. We’ve got a little chink between us,” said Oswald.
“And then think how the poor grateful creatures would linger and tell us about their inmost sorrows. It would be most frightfully interesting. We could write all their agonied life histories down afterwards like All the Year Round Christmas numbers. Oh, do let’s!”
Alice was wriggling so with earnestness that Dicky thumped her to make her calm.
“We might do it, just for one day,” Oswald said, “but it wouldn’t be much — only a drop in the ocean compared with the enormous dryness of all the people in the whole world. Still, every little helps, as the mermaid said when she cried into the sea.”
“I know a piece of poetry about that,” Denny said.
“‘Small things are best. Care and unrest To wealth and rank are given, But little things On little wings—’
Do something or other, I forget what, but it means the same as Oswald was saying about the mermaid.”
“What are you going to call it?” asked Noël coming out of a dream.
“Call what?”
“The Free Drinks game.
“‘It’s a horrid shame If the Free Drinks game Doesn’t have a name. You would be to blame If any one came And—’”
“Oh, shut up!” remarked Dicky. “You’ve been making that rot up all the time we’ve been talking instead of listening properly.” Dicky hates poetry. I don’t mind it so very much myself, especially Macaulay’s and Kipling’s and Noël’s.
“There was a lot more—’lame’ and ‘dame’ and ‘name’ and ‘game’ and things — and now I’ve forgotten it,” Noël said, in gloom.
“Never mind,” Alice answered, “it’ll come back to you in the silent watches of the night; you see if it doesn’t. But really, Noël’s right, it ought to have a name.”
“Free Drinks Company.”
“Thirsty Travellers’ Rest.”
“The Travellers’ Joy.”
These names were suggested, but not cared for extra.
Then some one said — I think it was Oswald:
“Why not ‘The House Beautiful’?”
“It can’t be a house, it must be in the road. It’ll only be a stall.”
“The ‘Stall Beautiful’ is simply silly,” Oswald said.
“The ‘Bar Beautiful’ then,” said Dicky, who knows what the “Rose and Crown” bar is like inside, which of course is hidden from girls.
“Oh, wait a minute,” cried the Dentist, snapping his fingers like he always does when he is trying to remember things. “I thought of something, only Daisy tickled me and it’s gone — I know — let’s call it the Benevolent Bar!”
It was exactly right, and told the whole truth in two words. “Benevolent” showed it was free, and “Bar” showed what was free — e.g., things to drink. The “Benevolent Bar” it was.
We went home at once to prepare for the morrow, for of course we meant to do it the very next day. Procrastination is, you know, what — and delays are dangerous. If we had waited long we might have happened to spend our money on something else.
The utmost secrecy had to be observed, because Mrs. Pettigrew hates tramps. Most people do who keep fowls. Albert’s uncle was in London till the next evening, so we could not consult him, but we know he is always chock full of intelligent sympathy with the poor and needy.
Acting with the deepest disguise, we made an awning to cover the Benevolent Bar keepers from the searching rays of the monarch of the skies. We found some old striped sun-blinds in the attic, and the girls sewed them together. They were not very big when they were done, so we added the girls’ striped petticoats. I am sorry their petticoats turn up so constantly in my narrative, but they really are very useful, especially when the band is cut off. The girls borrowed Mrs. Pettigrew’s sewing-machine; they could not ask her leave without explanations, which we did not wish to give just then, and she had lent it to them before. They took it into the cellar to work it, so that she should not hear the noise and ask bothering questions. They had to balance it on one end of the beer-stand. It was not easy. While they were doing the sewing we boys went out and got willow poles and chopped the twigs off, and got ready as well as we could to put up the awning.
When we returned a detachment of us went down to the shop in the village for Eiffel Tower lemonade. We bought seven-and-sixpence worth; then we made a great label to say what the bar was for. Then there was nothing else to do except to make rosettes out of a blue sash of Daisy’s to show we belonged to the Benevolent Bar.
The next day was as hot as ever. We rose early from our innocent slumbers, and went out to the Dover Road to the spot we had marked down the day before. It was at a cross-roads, so as to be able to give drinks to as many people as possible.
We hid the awning and poles behind the hedge and went home to brekker.
After brek we got the big zinc bath they wash clothes in, and after filling it with clean water we just had to empty it again, because it was too heavy to lift. So we carried it vacant to the trysting-spot and left H. O. and Noël to guard it while we went and fetched separate pails of water; very heavy work, and no one who wasn’t really benevolent would have bothered about it for an instant. Oswald alone carried three pails. So did Dicky and the Dentist. Then we rolled down some empty barrels and stood up three of them by the road-side, and put planks on them
. This made a very first-class table, and we covered it with the best table-cloth we could find in the linen cupboard. We brought out several glasses and some teacups — not the best ones, Oswald was firm about that — and the kettle and spirit-lamp and the teapot, in case any weary tramp-woman fancied a cup of tea instead of Eiffel Tower. H. O. and Noël had to go down to the shop for tea; they need not have grumbled; they had not carried any of the water. And their having to go the second time was only because we forgot to tell them to get some real lemons to put on the bar to show what the drink would be like when you got it. The man at the shop kindly gave us tick for the lemons, and we cashed up out of our next week’s pocket-money.
Two or three people passed while we were getting things ready, but no one said anything except the man who said, “Bloomin’ Sunday-school treat,” and as it was too early in the day for any one to be thirsty we did not stop the wayfarers to tell them their thirst could be slaked without cost at our Benevolent Bar.
But when everything was quite ready, and our blue rosettes fastened on our breasts over our benevolent hearts, we stuck up the great placard we had made with “Benevolent Bar. Free Drinks to all Weary Travellers,” in white wadding on red calico, like Christmas decorations in church. We had meant to fasten this to the edge of the awning, but we had to pin it to the front of the table-cloth, because I am sorry to say the awning went wrong from the first. We could not drive the willow poles into the road; it was much too hard. And in the ditch it was too soft, besides being no use. So we had just to cover our benevolent heads with our hats, and take it in turns to go into the shadow of the tree on the other side of the road. For we had pitched our table on the sunny side of the way, of course, relying on our broken-reed-like awning, and wishing to give it a fair chance.
Everything looked very nice, and we longed to see somebody really miserable come along so as to be able to allieve their distress.
A man and woman were the first; they stopped and stared, but when Alice said, “Free drinks! Free drinks! Aren’t you thirsty?” they said, “No, thank you,” and went on. Then came a person from the village; he didn’t even say “Thank you” when we asked him, and Oswald began to fear it might be like the awful time when we wandered about on Christmas Day trying to find poor persons and persuade them to eat our Conscience pudding.
But a man in a blue jersey and a red bundle eased Oswald’s fears by being willing to drink a glass of lemonade, and even to say, “Thank you, I’m sure,” quite nicely.
After that it was better. As we had foreseen, there were plenty of thirsty people walking along the Dover Road, and even some from the crossroad.
We had had the pleasure of seeing nineteen tumblers drained to the dregs ere we tasted any ourselves. Nobody asked for tea.
More people went by than we gave lemonade to. Some wouldn’t have it because they were too grand. One man told us he could pay for his own liquor when he was dry, which, praise be, he wasn’t over and above, at present; and others asked if we hadn’t any beer, and when we said “No,” they said it showed what sort we were — as if the sort was not a good one, which it is.
And another man said, “Slops again! You never get nothing for nothing, not this side heaven you don’t. Look at the bloomin’ blue ribbon on ‘em! Oh, Lor’!” and went on quite sadly without having a drink.
Our Pig-man who helped us on the Tower of Mystery day went by and we hailed him, and explained it all to him and gave him a drink, and asked him to call as he came back. He liked it all, and said we were a real good sort. How different from the man who wanted the beer. Then he went on.
One thing I didn’t like, and that was the way boys began to gather. Of course we could not refuse to give drinks to any traveller who was old enough to ask for it, but when one boy had had three glasses of lemonade and asked for another, Oswald said:
“I think you’ve had jolly well enough. You can’t be really thirsty after all that lot.”
The boy said, “Oh, can’t I? You’ll just see if I can’t,” and went away. Presently he came back with four other boys, all bigger than Oswald; and they all asked for lemonade. Oswald gave it to the four new ones, but he was determined in his behavior to the other one, and wouldn’t give him a drop. Then the five of them went and sat on a gate a little way off and kept laughing in a nasty way, and whenever a boy went by they called out:
“I say, ‘ere’s a go,” and as often as not the new boy would hang about with them. It was disquieting, for though they had nearly all had lemonade, we could see it had not made them friendly.
A great glorious glow of goodness gladdened (those go all together and are called alliteration) our hearts when we saw our own tramp coming down the road. The dogs did not growl at him as they had at the boys or the beer-man. (I did not say before that we had the dogs with us, but of course we had, because we had promised never to go out without them.)
Oswald said, “Hullo,” and the tramp said, “Hullo.”
Then Alice said, “You see we’ve taken your advice; we’re giving free drinks. Doesn’t it all look nice?”
“It does that,” said the tramp. “I don’t mind if I do.”
So we gave him two glasses of lemonade succeedingly, and thanked him for giving us the idea. He said we were very welcome, and if we’d no objection he’d sit down a bit and put on a pipe. He did, and after talking a little more he fell asleep. Drinking anything seemed to end in sleep with him. I always thought it was only beer and things made people sleepy, but he was not so. When he was asleep he rolled into the ditch, but it did not wake him up.
The boys were getting very noisy, and they began to shout things, and to make silly noises with their mouths, and when Oswald and Dicky went over to them and told them to just chuck it, they were worse than ever. I think perhaps Oswald and Dicky might have fought and settled them — though there were eleven, yet back to back you can always do it against overwhelming numbers in a book — only Alice called out:
“Oswald, here’s some more, come back!”
We went. Three big men were coming down the road, very red and hot, and not amiable-looking. They stopped in front of the Benevolent Bar and slowly read the wadding and red-stuff label.
Then one of them said he was blessed, or something like that, and another said he was too. The third one said, “Blessed or not, a drink’s a drink. Blue ribbon though by — —” (a word you ought not to say, though it is in the Bible and the catechism as well). “Let’s have a liquor, little missy.”
The dogs were growling, but Oswald thought it best not to take any notice of what the dogs said, but to give these men each a drink. So he did. They drank, but not as if they cared about it very much, and then they set their glasses down on the table, a liberty no one else had entered into, and began to try and chaff Oswald. Oswald said in an undervoice to H. O.:
“Just take charge. I want to speak to the girls a sec. Call if you want anything.” And then he drew the others away, to say he thought there’d been enough of it, and considering the boys and the new three men, perhaps we’d better chuck it and go home. We’d been benevolent nearly four hours anyway.
While this conversation and the objections of the others were going on, H. O. perpetuated an act which nearly wrecked the Benevolent Bar.
Of course Oswald was not an eye or ear witness of what happened, but from what H. O. said in the calmer moments of later life, I think this was about what happened:
One of the big disagreeable men said to H. O.:
“Ain’t got such a thing as a drop o’ spirit, ‘ave yer?”
H. O. said no, we hadn’t, only lemonade and tea.
“Lemonade and tea! blank” (bad word I told you about) “and blazes,” replied the bad character, for such he afterwards proved to be. “What’s that then?”
He pointed to a bottle labelled Dewar’s whiskey, which stood on the table near the spirit-kettle.
“Oh, is that what you want?” said H. O., kindly.
The man is understood to have said
he should bloomin’ well think so, but H. O. is not sure about the bloomin’.
He held out his glass with about half the lemonade in it, and H. O. generously filled up the tumbler out of the bottle labelled Dewar’s whiskey. The man took a great drink, and then suddenly he spat out what happened to be left in his mouth just then, and began to swear. It was then that Oswald and Dicky rushed upon the scene. The man was shaking his fist in H. O.’s face, and H. O. was still holding on to the bottle we had brought out the methylated spirit in for the lamp, in case of any one wanting tea, which they hadn’t.
“If I was Jim,” said the second ruffian, for such indeed they were, when he had snatched the bottle from H. O. and smelt it, “I’d chuck the whole show over the hedge, so I would, and you young gutter-snipes after it, so I wouldn’t.”
Oswald saw in a moment that in point of strength, if not numbers, he and his party were outmatched, and the unfriendly boys were drawing gladly near. It is no shame to signal for help when in distress — the best ships do it every day. Oswald shouted “Help! help!” Before the words were out of his brave yet trembling lips our own tramp leaped like an antelope from the ditch and said:
“Now then, what’s up?”
The biggest of the three men immediately knocked him down. He lay still.
The biggest then said, “Come on — any more of you? Come on!”
“OSWALD ACTUALLY HIT OUT AT THE BIG MAN”
Oswald was so enraged at this cowardly attack that he actually hit out at the big man — and he really got one in just above the belt. Then he shut his eyes, because he felt that now all was indeed up. There was a shout and a scuffle, and Oswald opened his eyes in astonishment at finding himself still whole and unimpaired. Our own tramp had artfully stimulated insensibleness, to get the men off their guard, and then had suddenly got his arms round a leg each of two of the men, and pulled them to the ground, helped by Dicky, who saw his game and rushed in at the same time, exactly like Oswald would have done if he had not had his eyes shut ready to meet his doom.