New Treasure Seekers; Or, The Bastable Children in Search of a Fortune

by E. Nesbit

  _THE LADY AND THE LICENSE; OR, FRIENDSHIP'S GARLAND_

  "MY DEAR KIDDIES,--Miss Sandal's married sister has just come home from Australia, and she feels very tired. No wonder, you will say, after such a long journey. So she is going to Lymchurch to rest. Now I want you all to be very quiet, because when you are in your usual form you aren't exactly restful, are you? If this weather lasts you will be able to be out most of the time, and when you are indoors for goodness' sake control your lungs and your boots, especially H.O.'s. Mrs. Bax has travelled about a good deal, and once was nearly eaten by cannibals. But I hope you won't bother her to tell you stories. She is coming on Friday. I am glad to hear from Alice's letter that you enjoyed the Primrose Fete. Tell Noel that 'poetticle' is not the usual way of spelling the word he wants. I send you ten shillings for pocket-money, and again implore you to let Mrs. Bax have a little rest and peace.

  "Your loving "FATHER."

  "PS.--If you want anything sent down, tell me, and I will get Mrs. Bax to bring it. I met your friend Mr. Red House the other day at lunch."

  When the letter had been read aloud, and we had each read it toourselves, a sad silence took place.

  Dicky was the first to speak.

  "It _is_ rather beastly, I grant you," he said, "but it might be worse."

  "I don't see how," said H.O. "I do wish Father would jolly well learn toleave my boots alone."

  "It might be worse, I tell you," said Dicky. "Suppose instead of tellingus to keep out of doors it had been the other way?"

  "Yes," said Alice, "suppose it had been, 'Poor Mrs. Bax requires to becheered up. Do not leave her side day or night. Take it in turns to makejokes for her. Let not a moment pass without some merry jest'? Oh yes,it might be much, much worse."

  "Being able to get out all day makes it all right about trying to makethat two pounds increase and multiply," remarked Oswald. "Now who'sgoing to meet her at the station? Because after all it's her sister'shouse, and we've got to be polite to visitors even if we're in a housewe aren't related to."

  This was seen to be so, but no one was keen on going to the station. Atlast Oswald, ever ready for forlorn hopes, consented to go.

  We told Mrs. Beale, and she got the best room ready, scrubbingeverything till it smelt deliciously of wet wood and mottled soap. Andthen we decorated the room as well as we could.

  "She'll want some pretty things," said Alice, "coming from the land ofparrots and opossums and gum-trees and things."

  We did think of borrowing the stuffed wild-cat that is in the bar at the"Ship," but we decided that our decorations must be very quiet--and thewild-cat, even in its stuffed state, was anything but; so we borrowed astuffed roach in a glass box and stood it on the chest of drawers. Itlooked very calm. Sea-shells are quiet things when they are vacant, andMrs. Beale let us have the four big ones off her chiffonnier.

  The girls got flowers--bluebells and white wood-anemones. We might havehad poppies or buttercups, but we thought the colours might be too loud.We took some books up for Mrs. Bax to read in the night. And we took thequietest ones we could find.

  "Sonnets on Sleep," "Confessions of an Opium Eater," "Twilight of theGods," "Diary of a Dreamer," and "By Still Waters," were some of them.The girls covered them with grey paper, because some of the bindingswere rather gay.

  The girls hemmed grey calico covers for the drawers and thedressing-table, and we drew the blinds half-down, and when all was donethe room looked as quiet as a roosting wood-pigeon.

  We put in a clock, but we did not wind it up.

  "She can do that herself," said Dora, "if she feels she can bear to hearit ticking."

  Oswald went to the station to meet her. He rode on the box beside thedriver. When the others saw him mount there I think they were sorry theyhad not been polite and gone to meet her themselves. Oswald had a jollyride. We got to the station just as the train came in. Only one lady gotout of it, so Oswald knew it must be Mrs. Bax. If he had not been toldhow quiet she wanted to be he would have thought she looked ratherjolly. She had short hair and gold spectacles. Her skirts were short,and she carried a parrot-cage in her hand. It contained our parrot, andwhen we wrote to tell Father that it and Pincher were the only things wewanted sent we never thought she would have brought either.

  "Mrs. Bax, I believe," was the only break Oswald made in the politesilence that he took the parrot-cage and her bag from her in.

  "How do you do?" she said very briskly for a tired lady; and Oswaldthought it was noble of her to make the effort to smile. "Are you Oswaldor Dicky?"

  Oswald told her in one calm word which he was, and then Pincher rolledmadly out of a dog-box almost into his arms. Pincher would not bequiet. Of course he did not understand the need for it. Oswald conversedwith Pincher in low, restraining whispers as he led the way to the"Ship's" fly. He put the parrot-cage on the inside seat of the carriage,held the door open for Mrs. Bax with silent politeness, closed it asquietly as possible, and prepared to mount on the box.

  "Oh, won't you come inside?" asked Mrs. Bax. "Do!"

  "No, thank you," said Oswald in calm and mouse-like tones; and to avoidany more jaw he got at once on to the box with Pincher.

  So that Mrs. Bax was perfectly quiet for the whole six miles--unless youcount the rattle and shake-up-and-down of the fly. On the box Oswald andPincher "tasted the sweets of a blissful re-union," like it says innovels. And the man from the "Ship" looked on and said how well bredPincher was. It was a happy drive.

  There was something almost awful about the sleek, quiet tidiness of theothers, who were all standing in a row outside the cottage to welcomeMrs. Bax. They all said, "How do you do?" in hushed voices, and alllooked as if butter would not melt in any of their young mouths. I neversaw a more soothing-looking lot of kids.

  She went to her room, and we did not see her again till tea-time.

  Then, still exquisitely brushed and combed, we sat round the board--insilence. We had left the tea-tray place for Mrs. Bax, of course. Butshe said to Dora--

  "Wouldn't you like to pour out?"

  And Dora replied in low, soft tones, "If you wish me to, Mrs. Bax. Iusually do." And she did.

  We passed each other bread-and-butter and jam and honey with silentcourteousness. And of course we saw that she had enough to eat.

  "Do you manage to amuse yourself pretty well here?" she asked presently.

  We said, "Yes, thank you," in hushed tones.

  "What do you do?" she asked.

  We did not wish to excite her by telling her what we did, so Dickymurmured--

  "Nothing in particular," at the same moment that Alice said--

  "All sorts of things."

  "Tell me about them," said Mrs. Bax invitingly.

  We replied by a deep silence. She sighed, and passed her cup for moretea.

  "Do you ever feel shy," she asked suddenly. "I do, dreadfully, with newpeople."

  We liked her for saying that, and Alice replied that she hoped she wouldnot feel shy with us.

  "I hope not," she said. "Do you know, there was such a funny woman inthe train? She had seventeen different parcels, and she kept countingthem, and one of them was a kitten, and it was always under the seatwhen she began to count, so she always got the number wrong."

  We should have liked to hear about that kitten--especially what colourit was and how old--but Oswald felt that Mrs. Bax was only trying totalk for our sakes, so that we shouldn't feel shy, so he simply said,"Will you have some more cake?" and nothing more was said about thekitten.

  Mrs. Bax seemed very noble. She kept trying to talk to us about Pincher,and trains and Australia, but we were determined she should be quiet, asshe wished it so much, and we restrained our brimming curiosity aboutopossums up gum-trees, a
nd about emus and kangaroos and wattles, andonly said "Yes" or "No," or, more often, nothing at all.

  When tea was over we melted away, "like snow-wreaths in Thawjean," andwent out on the beach and had a yelling match. Our throats felt asthough they were full of wool, from the hushed tones we had used intalking to Mrs. Bax. Oswald won the match. Next day we kept carefullyout of the way, except for meals. Mrs. Bax tried talking again atbreakfast-time, but we checked our wish to listen, and passed thepepper, salt, mustard, bread, toast, butter, marmalade, and even thecayenne, vinegar, and oil, with such politeness that she gave up.

  We took it in turns to watch the house and drive away organ-grinders. Wetold them they must not play in front of that house, because there wasan Australian lady who had to be kept quiet. And they went at once. Thiscost us expense, because an organ-grinder will never consent to fly thespot under twopence a flight.

  We went to bed early. We were quite weary with being so calm and still.But we knew it was our duty, and we liked the feel of having done it.

  The day after was the day Jake Lee got hurt. Jake is the man who drivesabout the country in a covered cart, with pins and needles, and combsand frying-pans, and all the sort of things that farmers' wives arelikely to want in a hurry, and no shops for miles. I have always thoughtJake's was a beautiful life. I should like to do it myself. Well, thisparticular day he had got his cart all ready to start and had got hisfoot on the wheel to get up, when a motor-car went by puffing andhooting. I always think motor-cars seem so rude somehow. And the horsewas frightened; and no wonder. It shied, and poor Jake was thrownviolently to the ground, and hurt so much that they had to send for thedoctor. Of course we went and asked Mrs. Jake if we could doanything--such as take the cart out and sell the things to the farmers'wives.

  But she thought not.

  It was after this that Dicky said--

  "Why shouldn't we get things of our own and go and sell them--withBates' donkey?"

  Oswald was thinking the same thing, but he wishes to be fair, so he ownsthat Dicky spoke first. We all saw at once that the idea was a good one.

  "Shall we dress up for it?" H.O. asked. We thought not. It is alwaysgood sport to dress up, but I have never heard of people selling thingsto farmers' wives in really beautiful disguises.

  "We ought to go as shabby as we can," said Alice; "but somehow thatalways seems to come natural to your clothes when you've done a fewinteresting things in them. We have plenty of clothes that look poor butdeserving. What shall we buy to sell?"

  "Pins and needles, and tape and bodkins," said Dora.

  "Butter," said Noel; "it is terrible when there is no butter."

  "Honey is nice," said H.O., "and so are sausages."

  "Jake has ready-made shirts and corduroy trousers. I suppose a farmer'sshirt and trousers may give at any moment," said Alice, "and if he can'tget new ones he has to go to bed till they are mended."

  Oswald thought tin-tacks, and glue, and string must often be needed tomend barns and farm tools with if they broke suddenly. And Dicky said--

  "I think the pictures of ladies hanging on to crosses in foaming seasare good. Jake told me he sold more of them than anything. I supposepeople suddenly break the old ones, and home isn't home without a ladyholding on to a cross."

  We went to Munn's shop, and we bought needles and pins, and tapes andbodkins, a pound of butter, a pot of honey and one of marmalade, andtin-tacks, string, and glue. But we could not get any ladies withcrosses, and the shirts and trousers were too expensive for us to dareto risk it. Instead, we bought a head-stall for eighteenpence, becausehow providential we should be to a farmer whose favourite horse hadescaped and he had nothing to catch it with; and three tin-openers, incase of a distant farm subsisting entirely on tinned things, and theonly opener for miles lost down the well or something. We also boughtseveral other thoughtful and far-sighted things.

  That night at supper we told Mrs. Bax we wanted to go out for the day.She had hardly said anything that supper-time, and now she said--

  "Where are you going? Teaching Sunday school?"

  As it was Monday, we felt her poor brain was wandering--most likely forwant of quiet. And the room smelt of tobacco smoke, so we thought someone had been to see her and perhaps been too noisy for her. So Oswaldsaid gently--

  "No, we are not going to teach Sunday school."

  Mrs. Bax sighed. Then she said--

  "I am going out myself to-morrow--for the day."

  "I hope it will not tire you too much," said Dora, with soft-voiced andcautious politeness. "If you want anything bought we could do it foryou, with pleasure, and you could have a nice, quiet day at home."

  "Thank you," said Mrs. Bax shortly; and we saw she would do what shechose, whether it was really for her own good or not.

  She started before we did next morning, and we were careful to bemouse-quiet till the "Ship's" fly which contained her was out ofhearing. Then we had another yelling competition, and Noel won with thatnew shriek of his that is like railway engines in distress; and then wewent and fetched Bates' donkey and cart and packed our bales in it andstarted, some riding and some running behind.

  Any faint distant traces of respectableness that were left to ourclothes were soon covered up by the dust of the road and by some of theginger-beer bursting through the violence of the cart, which had nosprings.

  The first farm we stopped at the woman really did want some pins, forthough a very stupid person, she was making a pink blouse, and wesaid--

  "Do have some tape! You never know when you may want it."

  "I believe in buttons," she said. "No strings for me, thank you."

  But when Oswald said, "What about pudding-strings? You can't button uppuddings as if they were pillows!" she consented to listen to reason.But it was only twopence altogether.

  But at the next place the woman said we were "mummickers," and told usto "get along, do." And she set her dog at us; but when Pincher sprangfrom the inmost recesses of the cart she called her dog off. But toolate, for it and Pincher were locked in the barking, scuffling, growlingembrace of deadly combat. When we had separated the dogs she went intoher house and banged the door, and we went on through the green flatmarshes, among the buttercups and may-bushes.

  "I wonder what she meant by 'mummickers'?" said H.O.

  "She meant she saw our high-born airs through our shabby clothes," saidAlice. "It's always happening, especially to princes. There's nothing sohard to conceal as a really high-bred air."

  "I've been thinking," said Dicky, "whether honesty wouldn't perhaps bethe best policy--not always, of course; but just this once. If peopleknew what we were doing it for they might be glad to help on the goodwork---- What?"

  So at the next farm, which was half hidden by trees, like the picture atthe beginning of "Sensible Susan," we tied the pony to the gate-post andknocked at the door. It was opened by a man this time, and Dora said tohim--

  "We are honest traders. We are trying to sell these things to keep alady who is poor. If you buy some you will be helping too. Wouldn't youlike to do that? It is a good work, and you will be glad of itafterwards, when you come to think over the acts of your life."

  "Upon my word an' 'onner!" said the man, whose red face was surroundedby a frill of white whiskers. "If ever I see a walkin' Tract 'ere itstands!"

  "She doesn't mean to be tractish," said Oswald quickly; "it's only herway. But we really are trying to sell things to help a poor person--nohumbug, sir--so if we _have_ got anything you want we shall be glad. Andif not--well, there's no harm in asking, is there, sir?"

  The man with the frilly whiskers was very pleased to be called"sir"--Oswald knew he would be--and he looked at everything we'd got,and bought the head-stall and two tin-openers, and a pot of marmalade,and a ball of string, and a pair of braces. This came to four andtwopence, and we were very pleased. It really seemed that our businesswas establishing itself root and branch.

  When it came to its being dinner-time, which was first noticed throug
hH.O. beginning to cry and say he did not want to play any more, it wasfound that we had forgotten to bring any dinner. So we had to eat someof our stock--the jam, the biscuits, and the cucumber.

  "I feel a new man," said Alice, draining the last of the ginger-beerbottles. "At that homely village on the brow of yonder hill we shallsell all that remains of the stock, and go home with money in bothpockets."

  But our luck had changed. As so often happens, our hearts beat high withhopeful thoughts, and we felt jollier than we had done all day. Merrylaughter and snatches of musical song re-echoed from our cart, and fromround it as we went up the hill. All Nature was smiling and gay. Therewas nothing sinister in the look of the trees or the road--or anything.

  Dogs are said to have inside instincts that warn them of intendingperils, but Pincher was not a bit instinctive that day somehow. Hesported gaily up and down the hedge-banks after pretending rats, andonce he was so excited that I believe he was playing at weasels andstoats. But of course there was really no trace of these savage denizensof the jungle. It was just Pincher's varied imagination.

  We got to the village, and with joyful expectations we knocked at thefirst door we came to.

  Alice had spread out a few choice treasures--needles, pins, tape, aphotograph-frame, and the butter, rather soft by now, and the last ofthe tin-openers--on a basket-lid, like the fish-man does with herringsand whitings and plums and apples (you cannot sell fish in the countryunless you sell fruit too. The author does not know why this is).

  The sun was shining, the sky was blue. There was no sign at all of theintending thunderbolt, not even when the door was opened. This was doneby a woman.

  She just looked at our basket-lid of things any one might have beenproud to buy, and smiled. I saw her do it. Then she turned hertraitorous head and called "Jim!" into the cottage.

  A sleepy grunt rewarded her.

  "Jim, I say!" she repeated. "Come here directly minute."

  Next moment Jim appeared. He was Jim to her because she was his wife, Isuppose, but to us he was the Police, with his hair ruffled--from hishateful sofa-cushions, no doubt--and his tunic unbuttoned.

  "What's up?" he said in a husky voice, as if he had been dreaming thathe had a cold. "Can't a chap have a minute to himself to read the paperin?"

  "You told me to," said the woman. "You said if any folks come to thedoor with things I was to call you, whether or no."

  Even now we were blind to the disaster that was entangling us in themeshes of its trap. Alice said--

  "We've sold a good deal, but we've _some_ things left--very nice things.These crochet needles----"

  But the Police, who had buttoned up his tunic in a hurry, said quitefiercely--

  "Let's have a look at your license."

  "We didn't bring any," said Noel, "but if you will give us an orderwe'll bring you some to-morrow." He thought a lisen was a thing to sellthat we ought to have thought of.

  "None of your lip," was the unexpected reply of the now plainly brutalconstable. "Where's your license, I say?"

  "We have a license for our dog, but Father's got it," said Oswald,always quick-witted, but not, this time, quite quick enough.

  "Your 'awker's license is what I want, as well you knows, you younglimb. Your pedlar's license--your license to sell things. You ain't halfso half-witted as you want to make out."

  "We haven't got a pedlar's license," said Oswald. If we had been in abook the Police would have been touched to tears by Oswald's simplehonesty. He would have said "Noble boy!" and then gone on to say he hadonly asked the question to test our honour. But life is not really atall the same as books. I have noticed lots of differences. Instead ofbehaving like the book-Police, this thick-headed constable said--

  "Blowed if I wasn't certain of it! Well, my young blokes, you'll justcome along o' me to Sir James. I've got orders to bring up the next caseafore him."

  "_Case!_" said Dora. "_Oh, don't!_ We didn't know we oughtn't to. Weonly wanted----"

  "Ho, yes," said the constable, "you can tell all that to the magistrate;and anything you say will be used against you."

  "I'm sure it will," said Oswald. "Dora, don't lower yourself to speak tohim. Come, we'll go home."

  The Police was combing its hair with a half-toothless piece of comb, andwe turned to go. But it was vain.

  Ere any of our young and eager legs could climb into the cart the Policehad seized the donkey's bridle. We could not desert our noble steed--andbesides, it wasn't really ours, but Bates's, and this made any hope offlight quite a forlorn one. For better, for worse, we had to go with thedonkey.

  "Don't cry, for goodness' sake!" said Oswald in stern undertones. "Biteyour lips. Take long breaths. Don't let him see we mind. This beast'sonly the village police. Sir James will be a gentleman. _He'll_understand. Don't disgrace the house of Bastable. Look here! Fall intoline--no, Indian file will be best, there are so few of us. Alice, ifyou snivel I'll never say you ought to have been a boy again. H.O., shutyour mouth; no one's going to hurt you--you're too young."

  "I _am_ trying," said Alice, gasping.

  "Noel," Oswald went on--now, as so often, showing the brilliantqualities of the born leader and general--"don't _you_ be in a funk.Remember how Byron fought for the Greeks at Missy-what's-its-name. _He_didn't grouse, and he was a poet, like you! Now look here, let's be_game_. Dora, you're the eldest. Strike up--any tune. We'll _march_ up,and show this sneak we Bastables aren't afraid, whoever else is."

  You will perhaps find it difficult to believe, but we _did_ strike up.We sang "The British Grenadiers," and when the Police told us to stow itwe did not. And Noel said--

  "Singing isn't dogs or pedlaring. You don't want a license for that."

  "I'll soon show you!" said the Police.

  But he had to jolly well put up with our melodious song, because he knewthat there isn't really any law to prevent you singing if you want to.

  We went on singing. It soon got easier than at first, and we followedBates's donkey and cart through some lodge gates and up a drive with bigtrees, and we came out in front of a big white house, and there was alawn. We stopped singing when we came in sight of the house, and gotready to be polite to Sir James. There were some ladies on the lawn inpretty blue and green dresses. This cheered us. Ladies are seldom quiteheartless, especially when young.

  The Police drew up Bates's donkey opposite the big front door withpillars, and rang the bell. Our hearts were beating desperately. We castglances of despair at the ladies. Then, quite suddenly, Alice gave ayell that wild Indian war-whoops are simply nothing to, and tore acrossthe lawn and threw her arms round the green waist of one of the ladies.

  "Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried; "oh, save us! We haven't done anythingwrong, really and truly we haven't."

  And then we all saw that the lady was our own Mrs. Red House, that weliked so much. So we all rushed to her, and before that Police had gotthe door answered we had told her our tale. The other ladies had turnedaway when we approached her, and gone politely away into a shrubbery.

  "There, there," she said, patting Alice and Noel and as much of theothers as she could get hold of. "Don't you worry, dears, don't. I'llmake it all right with Sir James. Let's all sit down in a comfy heap,and get our breaths again. I am so glad to see you all. My husband metyour father at lunch the other day. I meant to come over and see youto-morrow."

  You cannot imagine the feelings of joy and safeness that we felt now wehad found someone who knew we were Bastables, and not vagrant outcastslike the Police thought.

  The door had now been answered. We saw the base Police talking to theperson who answered it. Then he came towards us, very red in the face.

  "Leave off bothering the lady," he said, "and come along of me. SirJames is in his lib_ra_ry, and he's ready to do justice on you, so heis."

  Mrs. Red House jumped up, and so did we. She said with smiles, as ifnothing was wrong--

  "Good morning, Inspector!"

  He looked pleased and surprised, as well he might,
for it'll be longenough before he's within a mile of being _that_.

  "Good morning, miss, I'm sure," he replied.

  "I think there's been a little mistake, Inspector," she said. "I expectit's some of your men--led away by zeal for their duties. But I'm sure_you'll_ understand. I am staying with Lady Harborough, and thesechildren are very dear friends of mine."

  The Police looked very silly, but he said something about hawkingwithout a license.

  "Oh no, not _hawking_," said Mrs. Red House, "not _hawking_, surely!They were just _playing_ at it, you know. Your subordinates must havebeen quite mistaken."

  Our honesty bade us say that he was his own only subordinate, and thathe hadn't been mistaken; but it is rude to interrupt, especially a lady,so we said nothing.

  The Police said firmly, "You'll excuse me, miss, but Sir James expresslytold me to lay a information directly next time I caught any of 'em atit without a license."

  "But, you see, you didn't catch them at it." Mrs. Red House took somemoney out of her purse. "You might just give this to your subordinatesto console them for the mistake they've made. And look here, thesemistakes do lead to trouble sometimes. So I'll tell you what I'll do.I'll promise not to tell Sir James a word about it. _So_ nobody will beblamed."

  We listened breathless for his reply. He put his hands behind him--

  "Well, miss," he said at last, "you've managed to put the Force in thewrong somehow, which isn't often done, and I'm blest if I know how youmake it out. But there's Sir James a-waiting for me to come before himwith my complaint. What am I a-goin' to say to him?"

  "Oh, anything," said Mrs. Red House; "surely some one else has donesomething wrong that you can tell him about?"

  "There was a matter of a couple of snares and some night lines," he saidslowly, drawing nearer to Mrs. Red House; "but I couldn't take no money,of course."

  "Of course not," she said; "I beg your pardon for offering it. But I'llgive you my name and address, and if ever I can be of any use toyou----"

  She turned her back on us while she wrote it down with a stumpy pencilhe lent her; but Oswald could swear that he heard money chink, and thatthere was something large and round wrapped up in the paper she gavehim.

  "Sorry for any little misunderstanding," the Police now said, feelingthe paper with his fingers; "and my respects to you, miss, and youryoung friends. I'd best be going."

  And he went--to Sir James, I suppose. He seemed quite tamed. I hope thepeople who set the snares got off.

  "So _that's_ all right," said Mrs. Red House. "Oh, you dear children,you must stay to lunch, and we'll have a splendid time."

  "What a darling Princess you are!" Noel said slowly. "You are a witchPrincess, too, with magic powers over the Police."

  "It's not a very pretty sort of magic," she said, and she sighed.

  "Everything about you is pretty," said Noel. And I could see himbeginning to make the faces that always precur his poetry-fits. Butbefore the fit could break out thoroughly the rest of us awoke from ourstupor of grateful safeness and began to dance round Mrs. Red House in aring. And the girls sang--

  "The rose is red, the violet's blue, Carnation's sweet, and so are you,"

  over and over again, so we had to join in; though I think "She's a jollygood fellow would have been more manly and less like a poetry book."

  Suddenly a known voice broke in on our singing.

  "_Well!_" it said. And we stopped dancing. And there were the other twoladies who had politely walked off when we first discovered Mrs. RedHouse. And one of them was Mrs. Bax--of all people in the world! And shewas smoking a cigarette. So now we knew where the smell of tobacco camefrom, in the White House.

  We said, "_Oh!_" in one breath, and were silent.

  "Is it possible," said Mrs. Bax, "that these are the Sunday-schoolchildren I've been living with these three long days?"

  "We're sorry," said Dora, softly; "we wouldn't have made a noise if we'dknow you were here."

  "So I suppose," said Mrs. Bax. "Chloe, you seem to be a witch. How haveyou galvanised my six rag dolls into life like this?"

  "Rag dolls!" said H.O., before we could stop him. "I think you're jollymean and ungrateful; and it was sixpence for making the organs fly."

  "My brain's reeling," said Mrs. Bax, putting her hands to her head.

  "H.O. is very rude, and I am sorry," said Alice, "but it _is_ hard to becalled rag dolls, when you've only tried to do as you were told."

  And then, in answer to Mrs. Red House's questions, we told how fatherhad begged us to be quiet, and how we had earnestly tried to. When itwas told, Mrs. Bax began to laugh, and so did Mrs. Red House, and atlast Mrs. Bax said--

  "Oh, my dears! you don't know how glad I am that you're really alive! Ibegan to think--oh--I don't know what I thought! And you're not ragdolls. You're heroes and heroines, every man jack of you. And I do thankyou. But I never wanted to be quiet like _that_. I just didn't want tobe bothered with London and tiresome grown-up people. And now let'senjoy ourselves! Shall it be rounders, or stories about cannibals?"

  "Rounders first and stories after," said H.O. And it was so.

  Mrs. Bax, now that her true nature was revealed, proved to be A1. Theauthor does not ask for a jollier person to be in the house with. We hadrare larks the whole time she stayed with us.

  And to think that we might never have known her true character if shehadn't been an old school friend of Mrs. Red House's, and if Mrs. RedHouse hadn't been such a friend of ours!

  "Friendship," as Mr. William Smith so truly says in his book aboutLatin, "is the crown of life."

  _THE POOR AND NEEDY_

  "WHAT shall we do to-day, kiddies?" said Mrs. Bax. We had discovered hertrue nature but three days ago, and already she had taken us out in asailing-boat and in a motor car, had given us sweets every day, andtaught us eleven new games that we had not known before; and only fourof the new games were rotters. How seldom can as much be said for thegames of a grown-up, however gifted!

  The day was one of cloudless blue perfectness, and we were all baskingon the beach. We had all bathed. Mrs. Bax said we might. There arepoints about having a grown-up with you, if it is the right kind. Youcan then easily get it to say "Yes" to what you want, and after that, ifanything goes wrong it is their fault, and you are pure from blame. Butnothing had gone wrong with the bathe, and, so far, we were all alive,and not cold at all, except our fingers and feet.

  "What would you _like_ to do?" asked Mrs. Bax. We were far away fromhuman sight along the beach, and Mrs. Bax was smoking cigarettes asusual.

  "I don't know," we all said politely. But H.O. said--

  "What about poor Miss Sandal?"

  "Why poor?" asked Mrs. Bax.

  "Because she is," said H.O.

  "But how? What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Bax.

  "Why, isn't she?" said H.O.

  "Isn't she what?" said Mrs. Bax.

  "What you said why about," said H.O.

  She put her hands to her head. Her short hair was still damp and rumpledfrom contact with the foaming billows of ocean.

  "Let's have a fresh deal and start fair," she said; "why do you think mysister is poor?"

  "I forgot she was your sister," said H.O., "or I wouldn't have saidit--honour bright I wouldn't."

  "Don't mention it," said Mrs. Bax, and began throwing stones at a groinin amiable silence.

  We were furious with H.O., first because it is such bad manners to throwpeople's poverty in their faces, or even in their sisters' faces, likeH.O. had just done, and second because it seemed to have put out of Mrs.Bax's head what she was beginning to say about what would we like to do.

  So Oswald presently remarked, when he had aimed at the stump she wasaiming at, and hit it before she did, for though a fair shot for a lady,she takes a long time to get her eye in.

  "Mrs. Bax, we should like to do whatever _you_ like to do." This wasreal politeness and true too, as it happened, because by this time wecould quite trust her not to wan
t to do anything deeply duffing.

  "That's very nice of you," she replied, "but don't let me interfere withany plans of yours. My own idea was to pluck a waggonette from thenearest bush. I suppose they grow freely in these parts?"

  "There's one at the 'Ship,'" said Alice; "it costs seven-and-six topluck it, just for going to the station."

  "Well, then! And to stuff our waggonette with lunch and drive over toLynwood Castle, and eat it there."

  "A picnic!" fell in accents of joy from the lips of one and all.

  "We'll also boil the billy in the castle courtyard, and eat buns in theshadow of the keep."

  "Tea as well?" said H.O., "with buns? You can't be poor and needy anyway, whatever your----"

  We hastily hushed him, stifling his murmurs with sand.

  "I always think," said Mrs. Bax dreamily, "that 'the more the merrier,'is peculiarly true of picnics. So I have arranged--always subject toyour approval, of course--to meet your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Red House,there, and----"

  We drowned her conclusive remarks with a cheer. And Oswald, alwayswilling to be of use, offered to go to the 'Ship' and see about thewaggonette. I like horses and stable-yards, and the smell of hay andstraw, and talking to ostlers and people like that.

  There turned out to be two horses belonging to the best waggonette, oryou could have a one-horse one, much smaller, with the blue cloth of thecushions rather frayed, and mended here and there, and green in patchesfrom age and exposition to the weather.

  Oswald told Mrs. Bax this, not concealing about how shabby the littleone was, and she gloriously said--

  "The pair by all means! We don't kill a pig every day!"

  "No, indeed," said Dora, but if "killing a pig" means having a lark,Mrs. Bax is as good a pig-killer as any I ever knew.

  It was splendid to drive (Oswald, on the box beside the driver, who hadhis best coat with the bright buttons) along the same roads that we hadtrodden as muddy pedestrinators, or travelled along behind Bates'sdonkey.

  It was a perfect day, as I said before. We were all clean and had oursecond-best things on. I think second-bests are much more comfy thanfirst-bests. You feel equivalent to meeting any one, and have "a heartfor any fate," as it says in the poetry-book, and yet you are notstarched and booted and stiffened and tightened out of all humanfeelings.

  Lynwood Castle is in a hollow in the hills. It has a moat all round itwith water-lily leaves on it. I suppose there are lilies when inseason. There is a bridge over the moat--not the draw kind of bridge.And the castle has eight towers--four round and four square ones, and acourtyard in the middle, all green grass, and heaps of stones--straybits of castle, I suppose they are--and a great white may-tree in themiddle that Mrs. Bax said was hundreds of years old.

  Mrs. Red House was sitting under the may-tree when we got there, nursingher baby, in a blue dress and looking exactly like a picture on the topof a chocolate-box.

  The girls instantly wanted to nurse the baby so we let them. And weexplored the castle. We had never happened to explore one thoroughlybefore. We did not find the deepest dungeon below the castle moat,though we looked everywhere for it, but we found everything else you canthink of belonging to castles--even the holes they used to pour boilinglead through into the eyes of besiegers when they tried to squint up tosee how strong the garrison was in the keep--and the little slits theyshot arrows through, and the mouldering remains of the portcullis. Wewent up the eight towers, every single one of them, and some parts werejolly dangerous, I can tell you. Dicky and I would not let H.O. and Noelcome up the dangerous parts. There was no lasting ill-feeling aboutthis. By the time we had had a thorough good explore lunch was ready.

  It was a glorious lunch--not too many meaty things, but all sorts ofcakes and sweets, and grapes and figs and nuts.

  We gazed at the feast, and Mrs. Bax said--

  "There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread you've got."

  "_They_ had currant wine," said Noel, who has only just read the book byMr. Charles Dickens.

  "Well, so have you," said Mrs. Bax. And we had. Two bottles of it.

  "I never knew any one like you," said Noel to Mrs. Red House, dreamilywith his mouth full, "for knowing the things people really like to eat,not the things that are good for them, but what they _like_, and Mrs.Bax is just the same."

  "It was one of the things they taught at our school," said Mrs. Bax. "Doyou remember the Saturday night feasts, Chloe, and how good the cocoanutice tasted after extra strong peppermints?"

  "Fancy you knowing _that_!" said H.O. "I thought it was us found _that_out."

  "I really know much more about things to eat than _she_ does," said Mrs.Bax. "I was quite an old girl when she was a little thing in pinafores.She was such a nice little girl."

  "I shouldn't wonder if she was always nice," said Noel, "even when shewas a baby!"

  Everybody laughed at this, except the existing baby, and it was asleepon the waggonette cushions, under the white may-tree, and perhaps if ithad been awake it wouldn't have laughed, for Oswald himself, thoughpossessing a keen sense of humour, did not see anything to laugh at.

  Mr. Red House made a speech after dinner, and said drink to the healthof everybody, one after the other, in currant wine, which was done,beginning with Mrs. Bax and ending with H.O.

  Then he said--

  "Somnus, avaunt! What shall we play at?" and nobody, as so oftenhappens, had any idea ready. Then suddenly Mrs. Red House said--

  "Good gracious, look there!" and we looked there, and where we were tolook was the lowest piece of the castle wall, just beside the keep thatthe bridge led over to, and what we were to look at was a strangeblobbiness of knobbly bumps along the top, that looked exactly likehuman heads.

  It turned out, when we had talked about cannibals and New Guinea, thathuman heads were just exactly what they were. Not loose heads, stuck onpikes or things like that, such as there often must have been while thecastle stayed in the olden times it was built in and belonged to, butreal live heads with their bodies still in attendance on them.

  They were, in fact, the village children.

  "Poor little Lazaruses!" said Mr. Red House.

  "There's not such a bad slice of Dives' feast left," said Mrs. Bax."Shall we----?"

  So Mr. Red House went out by the keep and called the heads in (with thebodies they were connected with, of course), and they came and ate upall that was left of the lunch. Not the buns, of course, for those weresacred to tea-time, but all the other things, even the nuts and figs,and we were quite glad that they should have them--really and truly wewere, even H.O.!

  They did not seem to be very clever children, or just the sort you wouldchoose for your friends, but I suppose you like to play, however littleyou are other people's sort. So, after they had eaten all there was,when Mrs. Red House invited them all to join in games with us we knew weought to be pleased. But village children are not taught rounders, andthough we wondered at first why their teachers had not seen to this, weunderstood presently. Because it is most awfully difficult to make themunderstand the very simplest thing.

  But they could play all the ring games, and "Nuts and May," and "ThereCame Three Knights"--and another one we had never heard of before. Thesinging part begins:--

  "Up and down the green grass, This and that and thus, Come along, my pretty maid, And take a walk with us. You shall have a duck, my dear, And you shall have a drake, And you shall have a handsome man For your father's sake."

  I forget the rest, and if anybody who reads this knows it, and willwrite and tell me, the author will not have laboured in vain.

  The grown-ups played with all their heart and soul--I expect it is butseldom they are able to play, and they enjoy the novel excitement. Andwhen we'd been at it some time we saw there was another head lookingover the wall.

  "Hullo!" said Mrs. Bax, "here's another of them, run along and ask it tocome and join in."

&nbs
p; She spoke to the village children, but nobody ran.

  "Here, you go," she said, pointing at a girl in red plaits tied withdirty sky-blue ribbon.

  "Please, miss, I'd leifer not," replied the red-haired. "Mother says weain't to play along of him."

  "Why, what's the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Red House.

  "His father's in jail, miss, along of snares and night lines, and no onewon't give his mother any work, so my mother says we ain't to demeanourselves to speak to him."

  "But it's not the child's fault," said Mrs. Red House, "is it now?"

  "I don't know, miss," said the red-haired.

  "But it's cruel," said Mrs. Bax. "How would you like it if your fatherwas sent to prison, and nobody would speak to you?"

  "Father's always kep' hisself respectable," said the girl with the dirtyblue ribbon. "You can't be sent to gaol, not if you keeps yourselfrespectable, you can't, miss."

  "And do none of you speak to him?"

  The other children put their fingers in their mouths, and looked silly,showing plainly that they didn't.

  "Don't you feel sorry for the poor little chap?" said Mrs. Bax.

  No answer transpired.

  "Can't you imagine how you'd feel if it was _your_ father?"

  "My father always kep' hisself respectable," the red-haired girl saidagain.

  "Well, I shall ask him to come and play with us," said Mrs. Red House."Little pigs!" she added in low tones only heard by the author and Mr.Red House.

  But Mr. Red House said in a whisper that no one overheard except Mrs. R.H. and the present author.

  "Don't, Puss-cat; it's no good. The poor little pariah wouldn't like it.And these kids only do what their parents teach them."

  If the author didn't know what a stainless gentleman Mr. Red House is hewould think he heard him mutter a word that gentlemen wouldn't say.

  "Tell off a detachment of consolation," Mr. Red House went on; "lookhere, _our_ kids--who'll go and talk to the poor little chap?"

  We all instantly said, "_I_ will!"

  The present author was chosen to be the one.

  When you think about yourself there is a kind of you that is not whatyou generally are but that you know you would like to be if only youwere good enough. Albert's uncle says this is called your ideal ofyourself. I will call it your best I, for short. Oswald's "best I" wasglad to go and talk to that boy whose father was in prison, but theOswald that generally exists hated being out of the games. Yet the wholeOswald, both the best and the ordinary, was pleased that he was the onechosen to be a detachment of consolation.

  He went out under the great archway, and as he went he heard the gamesbeginning again. This made him feel noble, and yet he was ashamed offeeling it. Your feelings are a beastly nuisance, if once you begin tolet yourself think about them. Oswald soon saw the broken boots of theboy whose father was in jail so nobody would play with him, standing onthe stones near the top of the wall where it was broken to match theboots.

  He climbed up and said, "Hullo!"

  To this remark the boy replied, "Hullo!"

  Oswald now did not know what to say. The sorrier you are for people theharder it is to tell them so.

  But at last he said--

  "I've just heard about your father being where he is. It's beastly roughluck. I hope you don't mind my saying I'm jolly sorry for you."

  The boy had a pale face and watery blue eyes. When Oswald said this hiseyes got waterier than ever, and he climbed down to the ground before hesaid--

  "I don't care so much, but it do upset mother something crool."

  It is awfully difficult to console those in affliction. Oswald thoughtthis, then he said--

  "I say; never mind if those beastly kids won't play with you. It isn'tyour fault, you know."

  "Nor it ain't father's neither," the boy said; "he broke his arma-falling off of a rick, and he hadn't paid up his club money along ofmother's new baby costing what it did when it come, so there warn'tnothing--and what's a hare or two, or a partridge? It ain't as if it waspheasants as is as dear to rear as chicks."

  Oswald did not know what to say, so he got out his newpen-and-pencil-combined and said--

  "Look here! You can have this to keep if you like."

  The pale-eyed boy took it and looked at it and said--

  "You ain't foolin' me?"

  And Oswald said no he wasn't, but he felt most awfully rum and uncomfy,and though he wanted most frightfully to do something for the boy hefelt as if he wanted to get away more than anything else, and he neverwas gladder in his life than when he saw Dora coming along, and shesaid--

  "You go back and play, Oswald. I'm tired and I'd like to sit down abit."

  She got the boy to sit down beside her, and Oswald went back to theothers.

  Games, however unusually splendid, have to come to an end. And when thegames were over and it was tea, and the village children were sent away,and Oswald went to call Dora and the prisoner's son, he found nothingbut Dora, and he saw at once, in his far-sighted way, that she had beencrying.

  It was one of the A1est days we ever had, and the drive home was good,but Dora was horribly quiet, as though the victim of dark interiorthoughts.

  And the next day she was but little better.

  We were all paddling on the sands, but Dora would not. And presentlyAlice left us and went back to Dora, and we all saw across the sandywaste that something was up.

  And presently Alice came down and said--

  "Dry your feet and legs and come to a council. Dora wants to tell yousomething."

  We dried our pink and sandy toes and we came to the council. Then Alicesaid: "I don't think H.O. is wanted at the council, it isn't anythingamusing; you go and enjoy yourself by the sea, and catch the nice littlecrabs, H.O. dear."

  H.O. said: "You always want me to be out of everything. I can becouncils as well as anybody else."

  "Oh, H.O.!" said Alice, in pleading tones, "not if I give you ahalfpenny to go and buy bulls-eyes with?"

  So then he went, and Dora said--

  "I can't think how I could do it when you'd all trusted me so. And yet Icouldn't help it. I remember Dicky saying when you decided to give it meto take care of--about me being the most trustworthy of all of us. I'mnot fit for any one to speak to. But it did seem the really right thingat the time, it really and truly did. And now it all looks different."

  "What has she done?" Dicky asked this, but Oswald almost knew.

  "Tell them," said Dora, turning over on her front and hiding her facepartly in her hands, and partly in the sand.

  "She's given all Miss Sandal's money to that little boy that the fatherof was in prison," said Alice.

  "It was one pound thirteen and sevenpence halfpenny," sobbed Dora.

  "You ought to have consulted us, I do think, really," said Dicky. "Ofcourse, I see you're sorry now, but I do think that."

  "How could I consult you?" said Dora; "you were all playing Cat andMouse, and he wanted to get home. I only wish you'd heard what he toldme--that's all--about his mother being ill, and nobody letting her doany work because of where his father is, and his baby brother ill, poorlittle darling, and not enough to eat, and everything as awful as youcan possibly think. I'll save up and pay it all back out of my ownmoney. Only do forgive me, all of you, and say you don't despise me fora forger and embezzlementer. I couldn't help it."

  "I'm glad you couldn't," said the sudden voice of H.O., who had sneakedup on his young stomach unobserved by the council. "You shall have allmy money too, Dora, and here's the bulls-eye halfpenny to begin with."He crammed it into her hand. "Listen? I should jolly well think I didlisten," H.O. went on. "I've just as much right as anybody else to be inat a council, and I think Dora was quite right, and the rest of you arebeasts not to say so, too, when you see how she's blubbing. Suppose ithad been _your_ darling baby-brother ill, and nobody hadn't given younothing when they'd got pounds and pounds in their silly pockets?"

  He now hugged Dora, who responded.


  "It wasn't her own money," said Dicky.

  "If you think _you're_ our darling baby-brother----" said Oswald.

  But Alice and Noel began hugging Dora and H.O., and Dicky and I felt itwas no go. Girls have no right and honourable feelings about business,and little boys are the same.

  "All right," said Oswald rather bitterly, "if a majority of the councilbacks Dora up, we'll give in. But we must all save up and repay themoney, that's all. We shall all be beastly short for ages."

  "Oh," said Dora, and now her sobs were beginning to turn into sniffs,"you don't know how I felt! And I've felt most awful ever since, butthose poor, poor people----"

  At this moment Mrs. Bax came down on to the beach by the wooden stepsthat lead from the sea-wall where the grass grows between the stones.

  "Hullo!" she said, "hurt yourself, my Dora-dove?"

  Dora was rather a favourite of hers.

  "It's all right now," said Dora.

  "_That's_ all right," said Mrs. Bax, who has learnt inanti-what's-its-name climes the great art of not asking too manyquestions. "Mrs. Red House has come to lunch. She went this morning tosee that boy's mother--you know, the boy the others wouldn't play with?"

  We said "Yes."

  "Well, Mrs. Red House has arranged to get the woman some work--like thedear she is--the woman told her that the little lady--and that's you,Dora--had given the little boy one pound thirteen and sevenpence."

  Mrs. Bax looked straight out to sea through her gold-rimmed spectacles,and went on--

  "That must have been about all you had among the lot of you. I don'twant to jaw, but I think you're a set of little bricks, and I must sayso or expire on the sandy spot."

  There was a painful silence.

  H.O. looked, "There, what did I tell you?" at the rest of us.

  Then Alice said, "We others had nothing to do with it. It was Dora'sdoing." I suppose she said this because we did not mean to tell Mrs. Baxanything about it, and if there was any brickiness in the act we wishedDora to have the consolement of getting the credit of it.

  But of course Dora couldn't stand that. She said--

  "Oh, Mrs. Bax, it was very wrong of me. It wasn't my own money, and I'dno business to, but I was so sorry for the little boy and his mother andhis darling baby-brother. The money belonged to some one else."

  "Who?" Mrs. Bax asked ere she had time to remember the excellentAustralian rule about not asking questions.

  And H.O. blurted out, "It was Miss Sandal's money--every penny," beforewe could stop him.

  Once again in our career concealment was at an end. The rule aboutquestions was again unregarded, and the whole thing came out.

  It was a long story, and Mrs. Red House came out in the middle, butnobody could mind her hearing things.

  When she knew all, from the plain living to the pedlar who hadn't alicense, Mrs. Bax spoke up like a man, and said several kind things thatI won't write down.

  She then went on to say that her sister was not poor and needy at all,but that she lived plain and thought high just because she liked it!

  We were very disappointed as soon as we had got over our hardlybelieving any one could--like it, I mean--and then Mrs. Red House said--

  "Sir James gave me five pounds for the poor woman, and she sent backthirty of your shillings. She had spent three and sevenpence, and theyhad a lovely supper of boiled pork and greens last night. So now you'veonly got that to make up, and you can buy a most splendid present forMiss Sandal."

  It is difficult to choose presents for people who live plain and thinkhigh because they like it. But at last we decided to get books. Theywere written by a person called Emerson, and of a dull character, butthe backs were very beautiful, and Miss Sandal was most awfully pleasedwith them when she came down to her cottage with her partially repairedbrother, who had fallen off the scaffold when treating a bricklayer totracts.

  This is the end of the things we did when we were at Lymchurch in MissSandal's house.

  It is the last story that the present author means ever to be the authorof. So goodbye, if you have got as far as this.

  Your affectionate author, OSWALD BASTABLE.

  * * * * *

  Transcriber's Notes:

  Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

  Page 39, "Noel" changed to "Noel" (cost?" Noel asked)

  Page 77, "peacable" changed to "peaceable" (the peaceable quietness)

  Page 162, "alway" changed to "alway" (they always sing in)

  Page 196, "Its" changed to "It's" (It's not much to do)

  Page 217, "But" changed to "but" (but he will just say)

  Page 221, "birds" changed to "bird's" (like a bird's)

  Page 289, "anenomes" changed to "anemones" (wood-anemones)

  Page 294, "Mr." changed to "Mrs." (talking to Mrs. Bax.)

  Varied hyphenation retained: armchair and arm-chair; boathouse andboat-house; halfway and half-way; postmark and post-mark; stationmasterand station-master; tablecloths and table-cloths; thoroughbred andthorough-bred; wastepaper and waste-paper; motor car; motor-car.

  Both Krikey and crikey and handkie and hankie were used and retained.