Oswald Bastable and Others. Nesbit Edith

pennies, and two or three gold pieces too. I know now how the man feels who holds the plate at the door in church.

      Noël's poetry stall was much more paying than I thought it would be. I believe nobody really likes poetry, and yet everyone pretends they do, either so as not to hurt Noël's feelings, or because they think well-brought-up people ought to like poetry, even Noël's. Of course, Macaulay and Kipling are different. I don't mind them so much myself.

      Noël wrote a lot of new poetry for the bazaar. It took up all his time, and even then he had not enough new stuff to wrap up all the sugar almonds in. So he made up with old poetry that he'd done before. Albert's uncle got one of the new ones, and said it made him a proud man. It was:

      'How noble and good and kind you are

      To come to Victor A. Plunkett's Bazaar.

      Please buy as much as you can bear,

      For the sufferer needs all you can possibly spare.

      I know you are sure to take his part,

      Because you have such a noble heart.'

      Mrs. Leslie got:

      'The rose is red, the violet's blue,

      The lily's pale, and so are you.

      Or would be if you had seen him fall

      Off the top of the ladder so tall.

      Do buy as much as you can stand,

      And lend the poor a helping hand.'

      Lord Tottenham, though, only got one of the old ones, and it happened to be the 'Wreck of the Malabar.' He was an admiral once. But he liked it. He is a nice old gentleman, but people do say he is 'excentric.'

      Father got a poem that said:

      'Please turn your eyes round in their sockets,

      And put both your hands in your pockets;

      Your eyes will show you things so gay,

      And I hope you'll find enough in your pockets to pay

      For the things you buy.

      Good-bye!'

      And he laughed and seemed pleased; but when Mrs. Morrison, Albert's mother, got that poem about the black beetle that was poisoned she was not so pleased, and she said it was horrid, and made her flesh creep. You know the poem. It says:

      'Oh, beetle, how I weep to see

      Thee lying on thy poor back:

      It is so very sad to see

      You were so leggy and black.

      I wish you were crawling about alive again,

      But many people think this is nonsense and a shame.'

      Noël would recite, no matter what we said, and he stood up on a chair, and everyone, in their blind generousness, paid sixpence to hear him. It was a long poem of his own about the Duke of Wellington, and it began:

      'Hail, faithful leader of the brave band

      Who went to make Napoleon understand

      He couldn't have everything his own way.

      We taught him this on Waterloo day.'

      I heard that much; but then he got so upset and frightened no one could hear anything till the end, when it says:

      'So praise the heroes of Waterloo,

      And let us do our duty like they had to do.'

      Everyone clapped very much, but Noël was so upset he nearly cried, and Mrs. Leslie said:

      'Noël, I'm feeling as pale as a lily again! Take me round the garden to recover myself.'

      She was as red as usual, but it saved Noël from making a young ass of himself. And we got seventeen shillings and sixpence by his reciting. So that was all right.

      We might as well not have sent out those circulars, because only the people we had written to ourselves came. Of course, I don't count those five street boys, the same Oswald had the sandwich-board fight with. They came, and they walked round and looked at the things; but they had no money to spend, it turned out, and only came to be disagreeable and make fun. So Albert's uncle asked them if they did not think their families would be lonely without them, and he and I saw them off at the gate. Then they stood outside and made rude noises. And another stranger came, and Oswald thought perhaps the circular was beginning to bear fruit. But the stranger asked for the master of the house, and he was shown in. Oswald was just shaking up the numbers in his hat for the lottery of the Goat, and Alice and Dora were selling the tickets for half a crown each to our visitors, and explaining the dreadful misery of the poor man that all this trouble was being taken for, and we were all enjoying ourselves very much, when Sarah came to say Master Oswald was to go in to master's study at once. So he went, wondering what on earth he could have been up to now. But he could not think of anything in particular. But when his father said, 'Oswald, this gentleman is a detective from Scotland Yard,' he was glad he had told about the fives ball and the ladder, because he knew his father would now stand by him. But he did wonder whether you could be sent to prison for leaving a ladder in a slippery place, and how long they would keep you there for that crime.

      Then my father held out one of the fatal circulars, and said:

      'I suppose this is some of your work? Mr. Biggs here is bound in honour to do his best to find out when people break the laws of the land. Now, lotteries are illegal, and can be punished by law.'

      Oswald gloomily wondered how much the law could do to you. He said:

      'We didn't know, father.'

      Then his father said:

      'The best thing you can do is to tell this gentleman all about it.'

      So Oswald said:

      'Augustus Victor Plunkett fell off a ladder and broke his arm, and perhaps it was our fault for meddling with the ladder at all. So we wanted to do something to help him, and father said we might have a bazaar. It is happening now, and we had three pounds two and sevenpence last time I counted the bazaar.'

      'But what about the lottery?' said Mr. Biggs, who did not look as if he would take Oswald to prison just then, as our young hero had feared. In fact, he looked rather jolly. 'Is the prize money?'

      'No – oh no; only it's so valuable it's as good as winning money.'

      'Then it's only a raffle,' said Mr. Biggs; 'that's what it is, just a plain raffle. What is the prize?'

      'Are we to be allowed to go on with it?' asked the wary Oswald.

      'Why, yes,' said Mr. Biggs; 'if it's not money, why not? What is the valuable object?'

      'Come, Oswald,' said his father, when Oswald said nothing, 'what is the object of virtù?'

      'I'd rather not say,' said Oswald, feeling very uncomfortable.

      Mr. Biggs said something about duty being duty, and my father said:

      'Come, Oswald, don't be a young duffer. I dare say it's nothing to be ashamed of.'

      'I should think not indeed,' said Oswald, as his fond thoughts played with that beautiful Goat.

      'Well, then?'

      'Well, sir' – Oswald spoke desperately, for he wondered his father had been so patient so long, and saw that he wasn't going to go on being – 'you see, the great thing is, nobody is to know it's a G – I mean, it's a secret. No one's to know what the prize is. Only when you've won it, it will be revealed.'

      'Well,' said my father, 'if Mr. Biggs will take a glass of wine with me, we'll follow you down to the greenhouse, and he can see for himself.'

      Mr. Biggs said something about thanking father kindly, and about his duty. And presently they came down to the greenhouse. Father did not introduce Mr. Biggs to anyone – I suppose he forgot – but Oswald did while father was talking to Mrs. Leslie. And Mr. Biggs made himself very agreeable to all the