by Edith Nesbit
‘The prize number is six hundred and sixty-six. Who has it?’
And Mr. Biggs took a step forward and held out his paper.
‘The prize is yours! I congratulate you,’ said Oswald warmly.
Then he went into the stovehouse, and hastily placing a wreath of paper roses on the Goat’s head, that Alice had got ready for the purpose, he got out the Goat by secretly showing it a bit of cocoanut ice, and led it by the same means to the feet of the happy winner.
‘Here is your prize,’ said Oswald, with feelings of generous pride. ‘I am very glad you’ve got him. He’ll be a comfort to you, and make up for all the trouble you’ve had over our lottery — raffle, I mean.’
And he placed the ungoated end of the rope in the unresisting hand of the fortunate detective.
Neither Oswald nor any of the rest of us has ever been able to make out why everyone should have laughed so. But they did. They said the lottery was the success of the afternoon. And the ladies kept on congratulating Mr. Biggs.
At last people began to go, and the detective, so unexpectedly made rich beyond his wildest dreams, said he, too, must be going. He had tied the Goat to the greenhouse door, and now he moved away. But we all cried out:
‘You’ve forgotten your Goat!’
‘No, I haven’t,’ he said very earnestly; ‘I shall never forget that Goat to my dying hour. But I want to call on my aunt just close by, and I couldn’t very well take the Goat to see her.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ H. O. said; ‘it’s a very nice Goat.’
‘She’s frightened of them,’ said he. ‘One ran at her when she was a little girl. But if you will allow me, sir’ — and he winked at my father, which is not manners—’if you’ll allow me, I’ll call in for the Goat on my way to the station.’
We got five pounds thirteen and fivepence by the bazaar and the raffle. We should have had another ten shillings from father, but he had to give it to Mr. Biggs, because we had put him to the trouble of coming all the way from Scotland Yard, because he thought our circular was from some hardened criminal wishing to cheat his trustful fellow-creatures. We took the money to Augustus Victor Plunkett next morning, and I tell you he was pleased.
We waited till long after dark for the detective to return for his rich prize. But he never came. I hope he was not set upon and stabbed in some dark alley. If he is alive, and not imprisoned, I can’t see why he didn’t come back. I often think anxiously of him. Because, of course, detectives have many enemies among felons, who think nothing of stabbing people in the back, so that being murdered in a dark alley is a thing all detectives are constantly liable to.
THE RUNAWAYS
It was after we had had the measles, that fell and blighting disorder which we got from Alice picking up five deeply infected shillings that a bemeasled family had wrapped in a bit of paper to pay the doctor with and then carelessly dropped in the street. Alice held the packet hotly in her muff all through a charity concert. Hence these tears, as it says in Virgil. And if you have ever had measles you will know that this is not what is called figuring speech, because your eyes do run like mad all the time.
When we were unmeasled again we were sent to stay at Lymchurch with a Miss Sandal, and her motto was plain living and high thinking. She had a brother, and his motto was the same, and it was his charity concert that Alice held the fatal shillings in her muff throughout of. Later on he was giving tracts to a bricklayer, and fell off a scaffold in his giddy earnestness, and Miss Sandal had to go and nurse him. So the six of us stayed in the plain living, high thinking house by ourselves, and old Mrs. Beale from the village came in every day and did the housework. She was of humble birth, but was a true lady in minding her own affairs, which is what a great many ladies do not know how to do at all. We had no lessons to do, and we were thus free to attend to any adventures which came along. Adventures are the real business of life. The rest is only in-betweenness — what Albert’s uncle calls padding. He is an author.
Miss Sandal’s house was very plain and clean, with lots of white paint, and very difficult to play in. So we were out a good deal. It was seaside, so, of course, there was the beach, and besides that the marsh — big green fields with sheep all about, and wet dykes with sedge growing, and mud, and eels in the mud, and winding white roads that all look the same, and all very interesting, as though they might lead to almost anything that you didn’t expect. Really, of course, they lead to Ashford and Romney and Ivychurch, and real live places like that. But they don’t look it.
The day when what I am going to tell you about happened, we were all leaning on the stone wall looking at the pigs. The pigman is a great friend of ours — all except H. O., who is my youngest brother. His name is Horace Octavius, and if you want to know why we called him H. O. you had better read ‘The Treasure Seekers’ and find out. He had gone to tea with the schoolmaster’s son — a hateful kid.
‘Isn’t that the boy you’re always fighting?’ Dora asked when H. O. said he was going.
‘Yes,’ said H. O., ‘but, then, he keeps rabbits.’
So then we understood and let him go.
Well, the rest of us were gazing fondly on the pigs, and two soldiers came by.
We asked them where they were off to.
They told us to mind our own business, which is not manners, even if you are a soldier on private affairs.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Oswald, who is the eldest. And he advised the soldiers to keep their hair on. The little they had was cut very short.
‘I expect they’re scouts or something,’ said Dicky; ‘it’s a field-day, or a sham-fight, or something, as likely as not.’
‘Let’s go after them and see,’ said Oswald, ever prompt in his decidings. So we did.
We ran a bit at first, so as not to let the soldiers have too much of a lead. Their red coats made it quite easy to keep them in sight on the winding white marsh road. But we did not catch them up: they seemed to go faster and faster. So we ran a little bit more every now and then, and we went quite a long way after them. But they didn’t meet any of their officers or regiments or things, and we began to think that perchance we were engaged in the disheartening chase of the wild goose. This has sometimes occurred.
There is a ruined church about two miles from Lymchurch, and when we got close to that we lost sight of the red coats, so we stopped on the little bridge that is near there to reconnoitre.
The soldiers had vanished.
‘Well, here’s a go!’ said Dicky.
‘It is a wild-goose chase,’ said Noël. ‘I shall make a piece of poetry about it. I shall call the title the “Vanishing Reds, or, the Soldiers that were not when you got there.”’
‘You shut up!’ said Oswald, whose eagle eye had caught a glimpse of scarlet through the arch of the ruin.
None of the others had seen this. Perhaps you will think I do not say enough about Oswald’s quickness of sight, so I had better tell you that is only because Oswald is me, and very modest. At least, he tries to be, because he knows it is what a true gentleman ought to.
‘They’re in the ruins,’ he went on. ‘I expect they’re going to have an easy and a pipe — out of the wind.’
‘I think it’s very mysterious,’ said Noël. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if they’re going to dig for buried treasure. Let’s go and see.’
‘No,’ said Oswald, who, though modest, is thoughtful. ‘If we do they’ll stop digging, or whatever they’re doing. When they’ve gone away, we’ll go and see if the ground is scratched about.’
So we delayed where we were, but we saw no more scarlet.
In a little while a dull-looking man in brown came by on a bicycle. He stopped and got off.
‘Seen a couple of Tommies about here, my lad?’ he said to Oswald.
Oswald does not like being called anybody’s lad, especially that kind of man’s; but he did not want to spoil the review, or field-day, or sham-fight, or whatever it might be, so he said:
‘Yes; they�
�re up in the ruins.’
‘You don’t say so!’ said the man. ‘In uniform, I suppose? Yes, of course, or you wouldn’t have known they were soldiers. Silly cuckoos!’
He wheeled his bicycle up the rough lane that leads to the old ruin.
‘It can’t be buried treasure,’ said Dicky.
‘I don’t care if it is,’ said Oswald. ‘We’ll see what’s happening. I don’t mind spoiling his sport. “My ladding” me like that!’
So we followed the man with the bicycle. It was leaning against the churchyard gate when we got there. The man off it was going up to the ruin, and we went after him.
He did not call out to the soldiers, and we thought that odd; but it didn’t make us think where it might have made us if we had had any sense. He just went creeping about, looking behind walls and inside arches, as though he was playing at hide-and-seek. There is a mound in the middle of the ruin, where stones and things have fallen during dark ages, and the grass has grown all over them. We stood on the mound, and watched the bicycling stranger nosing about like a ferret.
There is an archway in that ruin, and a flight of steps goes down — only five steps — and then it is all stopped up with fallen stones and earth. The stranger stopped at last at this arch, and stooped forward with his hands on his knees, and looked through the arch and down the steps. Then he said suddenly and fiercely:
‘Come out of it, will you?’
And the soldiers came. I wouldn’t have. They were two to his one. They came cringing out like beaten dogs. The brown man made a sort of bound, and next minute the two soldiers were handcuffed together, and he was driving them before him like sheep.
‘Back you go the same way as what you come,’ he said.
And then Oswald saw the soldiers’ faces, and he will never forget what they looked like.
He jumped off the mound, and ran to where they were.
‘What have they done?’ he asked the handcuffer.
‘Deserters,’ said the man. ‘Thanks to you, my lad, I got ’em as easy as kiss your hand.’
Then one of the soldiers looked at Oswald. He was not very old — about as big as a fifth-form boy. And Oswald answered what the soldier looked at him.
‘I’m not a sneak,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have told if I’d known. If you’d told me, instead of saying to mind my own business I’d have helped you.’
The soldier didn’t answer, but the bicycle man did.
‘Then you’d ‘a helped yourself into the stone jug, my lad,’ said he. ‘Help a dirty deserter? You’re young enough to know better. Come along, you rubbish!’
And they went.
When they were gone Dicky said:
‘It’s very rum. I hate cowards. And deserters are cowards. I don’t see why we feel like this.’
Alice and Dora and Noël were now discovered to be in tears.
‘Of course we did right to tell. Only when the soldier looked at me ...’ said Oswald.
‘Yes,’ said Dicky, ‘that’s just it.’
In deepest gloom the party retraced its steps.
As we went, Dora said with sniffs:
‘I suppose it was the bicycle man’s duty.’
‘Of course,’ said Oswald, ‘but it wasn’t our duty. And I jolly well wish we hadn’t!’
‘And such a beautiful day, too,’ said Noël, sniffing in his turn.
It was beautiful. The afternoon had been dull, but now the sun was shining flat across the marshes, making everything look as if it had been covered all over with the best gold-leaf — marsh and trees, and roofs and stacks, and everything.
That evening Noël wrote a poem about it all. It began:
‘Poor soldiers, why did you run away
On such a beautiful, beautiful day?
If you had run away in the rain,
Perhaps they would never have found you again,
Because then Oswald would not have been there
To show the hunter the way to your lair.’
Oswald would have licked him for that — only Noël is not very strong, and there is something about poets, however young, that makes it rather like licking a girl. So Oswald did not even say what he thought — Noël cries at the least thing. Oswald only said, ‘Let’s go down to our pigman.’
And we all went except Noël. He never will go anywhere when in the midst of making poetry. And Alice stayed with him, and H. O. was in bed.
We told the pigman all about the deserters, and about our miserable inside remorsefulness, and he said he knew just how we felt.
‘There’s quite enough agin a pore chap that’s made a bolt of it without the rest of us a-joinin’ in,’ he said. ‘Not as I holds with deserting — mean trick I call it. But all the same, when the odds is that heavy — thousands to one — all the army and the navy and the pleece and Parliament and the King agin one pore silly bloke. You wouldn’t ‘a done it a purpose, I lay.’
‘Not much,’ said Oswald in gloomy dejection. ‘Have a peppermint? They’re extra strong.’
When the pigman had had one he went on talking.
‘There’s a young chap, now,’ he said, ‘broke out of Dover Gaol. I ‘appen to know what he’s in for — nicked a four-pound cake, he did, off of a counter at a pastrycook’s — Jenner’s it was, in the High Street — part hunger, part playfulness. But even if I wasn’t to know what he was lagged for, do you think I’d put the coppers on to him? Not me. Give a fellow a chance is what I say. But don’t you grizzle about them there Tommies. P’raps it’ll be the making of ’em in the end. A slack-baked pair as ever wore boots. I seed ‘em. Only next time just you take and think afore you pipes up — see?’
We said that we saw, and that next time we would do as he said. And we went home again. As we went Dora said:
‘But supposing it was a cruel murderer that had got loose, you ought to tell then.’
‘Yes,’ said Dicky; ‘but before you do tell you ought to be jolly sure it is a cruel murderer, and not a chap that’s taken a cake because he was hungry. How do you know what you’d do if you were hungry enough?’
‘I shouldn’t steal,’ said Dora.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Dicky; and they argued about it all the way home, and before we got in it began to rain in torrents.
Conversations about food always make you feel as though it was a very long time since you had had anything to eat. Mrs. Beale had gone home, of course, but we went into the larder. It is a generous larder. No lock, only a big wooden latch that pulls up with a string, like in Red Riding Hood. And the floor is clean damp red brick. It makes ginger-nuts soft if you put the bag on this floor. There was half a rhubarb pie, and there were meat turnovers with potato in them. Mrs. Beale is a thoughtful person, and I know many people much richer that are not nearly so thoughtful.
We had a comfortable feast at the kitchen table, standing up to eat, like horses.
Then we had to let Noël read us his piece of poetry about the soldier; he wouldn’t have slept if we hadn’t. It was very long, and it began as I have said, and ended up:
‘Poor soldiers, learn a lesson from to-day,
It is very wrong to run away;
It is better to stay
And serve your King and Country — hurray!’
Noël owned that Hooray sounded too cheerful for the end of a poem about soldiers with faces like theirs were.
‘But I didn’t mean it about the soldiers. It was about the King and Country. Half a sec. I’ll put that in.’ So he wrote:
‘P.S. — I do not mean to be unkind,
Poor soldiers, to you, so never mind.
When I say hurray or sing,
It is because I am thinking of my Country and my King.’
‘You can’t sing Hooray,’ said Dicky. So Noël went to bed singing it, which was better than arguing about it, Alice said. But it was noisier as well.
Oswald and Dicky always went round the house to see that all the doors were bolted and the shutters up. This is what the head of the ho
use always does, and Oswald is the head when father is not there. There are no shutters upstairs, only curtains. The White House, which is Miss Sandal’s house’s name, is not in the village, but ‘quite a step’ from it, as Mrs. Beale says. It is the first house you come to as you come along the road from the marsh.
We used to look in the cupboard and under the beds for burglars every night. The girls liked us to, though they wouldn’t look themselves, and I don’t know that it was much good. If there is a burglar, it’s sometimes safer for you not to know it. Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to find a burglar, especially as he would be armed to the teeth as likely as not. However, there is not much worth being a burglar about, in houses where the motto is plain living and high thinking, and there never was anyone in the cupboards or under the beds.
Then we put out all the lights very carefully in case of fire — all except Noël’s. He does not like the dark. He says there are things in it that go away when you light a candle, and however much you talk reason and science to him, it makes no difference at all.
Then we got into our pyjamas. It was Oswald who asked father to let us have pyjamas instead of nightgowns; they are so convenient for dressing up when you wish to act clowns, or West Indian planters, or any loose-clothed characters. Then we got into bed, and then we got into sleep.
Little did the unconscious sleepers reck of the strange destiny that was advancing on them by leaps and bounds through the silent watches of the night.
Although we were asleep, the rain went on raining just the same, and the wind blowing across the marsh with the fury of a maniac who has been transformed into a blacksmith’s bellows. And through the night, and the wind, and the rain, our dreadful destiny drew nearer and nearer. I wish this to sound as if something was going to happen, and I hope it does. I hope the reader’s heart is now standing still with apprehensionness on our account, but I do not want it to stop altogether, so I will tell you that we were not all going to be murdered in our beds, or pass peacefully away in our sleeps with angel-like smiles on our young and beautiful faces. Not at all. What really happened was this. Some time must have elapsed between our closing our eyes in serene slumber and the following narrative: