The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (192 page)

“We are honest traders. We are trying to sell these things to keep a lady who is poor. If you buy some you will be helping too. Wouldn’t you like to do that? It is a good work, and you will be glad of it afterwards, when you come to think over the acts of your life.”

“Upon my word an’ ’onner!” said the man, whose red face was surrounded by a frill of white whiskers. “If ever I see a walkin’ Tract ’ere it stands!”

“She doesn’t mean to be tractish,” said Oswald quickly; “it’s only her way. But we really are trying to sell things to help a poor person—no humbug, sir—so if we have got anything you want we shall be glad. And if 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 and twopence, and we were very pleased. It really seemed that our business was establishing itself root and branch.

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

“I feel a new man,” said Alice, draining the last of the ginger-beer bottles. “At that homely village on the brow of yonder hill we shall sell all that remains of the stock, and go home with money in both pockets.”

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

Dogs are said to have inside instincts that warn them of intending perils, but Pincher was not a bit instinctive that day somehow. He sported gaily up and down the hedge-banks after pretending rats, and once he was so excited that I believe he was playing at weasels and stoats. But of course there was really no trace of these savage denizens of the jungle. It was just Pincher’s varied imagination.

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

Alice had spread out a few choice treasures—needles, pins, tape, a photograph-frame, and the butter, rather soft by now, and the last of the tin-openers—on a basket-lid, like the fish-man does with herrings and whitings and plums and apples (you cannot sell fish in the country unless 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 the intending thunderbolt, not even when the door was opened. This was done by a woman.

She just looked at our basket-lid of things any one might have been proud to buy, and smiled. I saw her do it. Then she turned her traitorous 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, I suppose, but to us he was the Police, with his hair ruffled—from his hateful sofa-cushions, no doubt—and his tunic unbuttoned.

“What’s up?” he said in a husky voice, as if he had been dreaming that he had a cold. “Can’t a chap have a minute to himself to read the paper in?”

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

Even now we were blind to the disaster that was entangling us in the meshes 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 quite fiercely—

“Let’s have a look at your license.”

“We didn’t bring any,” said Noël, “but if you will give us an order we’ll bring you some to-morrow.” He thought a lisen was a thing to sell that we ought to have thought of.

“None of your lip,” was the unexpected reply of the now plainly brutal constable. “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 young limb. Your pedlar’s license—your license to sell things. You ain’t half so half-witted as you want to make out.”

“We haven’t got a pedlar’s license,” said Oswald. If we had been in a book the Police would have been touched to tears by Oswald’s simple honesty. He would have said “Noble boy!” and then gone on to say he had only asked the question to test our honour. But life is not really at all the same as books. I have noticed lots of differences. Instead of behaving like the book-Police, this thick-headed constable said—

“Blowed if I wasn’t certain of it! Well, my young blokes, you’ll just come along o’ me to Sir James. I’ve got orders to bring up the next case afore him.”

“Case!” said Dora. “Oh, don’t! We didn’t know we oughtn’t to. We only 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 to him. Come, we’ll go home.”

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

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

“Don’t cry, for goodness’ sake!” said Oswald in stern undertones. “Bite your lips. Take long breaths. Don’t let him see we mind. This beast’s only the village police. Sir James will be a gentleman. He’ll understand. Don’t disgrace the house of Bastable. Look here! Fall into line—no, Indian file will be best, there are so few of us. Alice, if you snivel I’ll never say you ought to have been a boy again. H.O., shut your mouth; no one’s going to hurt you—you’re too young.”

“I am trying,” said Alice, gasping.

“Noël,” Oswald went on—now, as so often, showing the brilliant qualities 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 it we did not. And Noël 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 knew that 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 followed Bates’s donkey and cart through some lodge gates and up a drive with big trees, and we came out in front of a big white house, and there was a lawn. We stopped singing when we came in sight of the house, and got ready to be polite to Sir James. There were some ladies on the lawn in pretty blue and green dresses. This cheered us. Ladies are seldom quite heartless, especially when young.

The Police drew up Bates’s donkey opposite the big front door with pillars, and rang the bell. Our hearts were beating desperately. We cast glances of despair at the ladies. Then, quite suddenly, Alice gave a yell that wild Indian war-whoops are simply nothing to, and tore across the 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 anything wrong, really and truly we haven’t.”

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

“There, there,” she said, patting Alice and Noël and as much of the others as she could get hold of. “Don’t you worry, dears, don’t. I’ll make 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 met your father at lunch the other day. I meant to come over and see you to-morrow.”

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

The door had now been answered. We saw the base Police talking to the person 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. Sir James is in his library, and he’s ready to do justice on you, so he is.”

Mrs. Red House jumped up, and so did we. She said with smiles, as if nothing was wrong—

“Good morning, Inspector!”

He looked pleased and surprised, as well he might, for it’ll be long enough 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 expect it’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 these children are very dear friends of mine.”

The Police looked very silly, but he said something about hawking without a license.

“Oh no, not hawking,” said Mrs. Red House, “not hawking, surely! They were just playing at it, you know. Your subordinates must have been quite mistaken.”

Our honesty bade us say that he was his own only subordinate, and that he 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 expressly told me to lay a information directly next time I caught any of ’em at it without a license.”

“But, you see, you didn’t catch them at it.” Mrs. Red House took some money out of her purse. “You might just give this to your subordinates to console them for the mistake they’ve made. And look here, these mistakes 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 be blamed.”

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 the wrong somehow, which isn’t often done, and I’m blest if I know how you make it out. But there’s Sir James a-waiting for me to come before him with my complaint. What am I a-goin’ to say to him?”

“Oh, anything,” said Mrs. Red House; “surely some one else has done something wrong that you can tell him about?”

“There was a matter of a couple of snares and some night lines,” he said slowly, 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’ll give you my name and address, and if ever I can be of any use to you——”

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

“Sorry for any little misunderstanding,” the Police now said, feeling the paper with his fingers; “and my respects to you, miss, and your young friends. I’d best be going.”

And he went—to Sir James, I suppose. He seemed quite tamed. I hope the people 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!” Noël said slowly. “You are a witch Princess, 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 Noël. And I could see him beginning to make the faces that always precur his poetry-fits. But before the fit could break out thoroughly the rest of us awoke from our stupor of grateful safeness and began to dance round Mrs. Red House in a ring. 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 jolly good 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 two ladies who had politely walked off when we first discovered Mrs. Red House. And one of them was Mrs. Bax—of all people in the world! And she was smoking a cigarette. So now we knew where the smell of tobacco came from, in the White House.

We said, “Oh!” in one breath, and were silent.

“Is it possible,” said Mrs. Bax, “that these are the Sunday-school children I’ve been living with these three long days?”

“We’re sorry,” said Dora, softly; “we wouldn’t have made a noise if we’d know you were here.”

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

“Rag dolls!” said H.O., before we could stop him. “I think you’re jolly mean 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 be called 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 father had begged us to be quiet, and how we had earnestly tried to. When it was told, Mrs. Bax began to laugh, and so did Mrs. Red House, and at last Mrs. Bax said—

“Oh, my dears! you don’t know how glad I am that you’re really alive! I began to think—oh—I don’t know what I thought! And you’re not rag dolls. You’re heroes and heroines, every man jack of you. And I do thank you. But I never wanted to be quiet like that. I just didn’t want to be bothered with London and tiresome grown-up people. And now let’s enjoy 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. The author does not ask for a jollier person to be in the house with. We had rare larks the whole time she stayed with us.

And to think that we might never have known her true character if she hadn’t been an old school friend of Mrs. Red House’s, and if Mrs. Red House hadn’t been such a friend of ours!“Friendship,” as Mr. William Smith so truly says in his book about Latin, “is the crown of life.”