Harding's luck. Nesbit Edith

hutch at home.

      "It's got loose," said Dickie, trying to scramble out of the perambulator; "let's catch 'im and take 'im along."

      "'E ain't loose – 'e's wild," Mr. Beale explained; "'e ain't never bin caught. Lives out 'ere with 'is little friendses," he added after a violent effort of imagination – "in 'oles in the ground. Gets 'is own meals and larks about on 'is own."

      "How beautiful!" said Dickie, wriggling with delight. This life of the rabbit, as described by Mr. Beale, was the child's first glimpse of freedom. "I'd like to be a rabbit."

      "You much better be my little nipper," said Beale. "Steady on, mate. 'Ow'm I to wheel the bloomin' pram if you goes on like as if you was a bag of eels?"

      They camped by a copse for the midday meal, sat on the grass, made a fire of sticks, and cooked herrings in a frying-pan, produced from one of the knobbly bundles.

      "It's better'n Fiff of November," said Dickie; "and I do like you. I like you nexter my own daddy and Mr. Baxter next door."

      "That's all right," said Mr. Beale awkwardly.

      It was in the afternoon that, half-way up a hill, they saw coming over the crest a lady and a little girl.

      "Hout yer gets," said Mr. Beale quickly; "walk as 'oppy as you can, and if they arsts you you say you ain't 'ad nothing to eat since las' night and then it was a bit o' dry bread."

      "Right you are," said Dickie, enjoying the game.

      "An' mind you call me father."

      "Yuss," said Dickie, exaggerating his lameness in the most spirited way. It was acting, you see, and all children love acting.

      Mr. Beale went more and more slowly, and as the lady and the little girl drew near he stopped altogether and touched his cap. Dickie, quick to imitate, touched his.

      "Could you spare a trifle, mum," said Beale, very gently and humbly, "to 'elp us along the road? My little chap, 'e's lame like wot you see. It's a 'ard life for the likes of 'im, mum."

      "He ought to be at home with his mother," said the lady.

      Beale drew his coat sleeve across his eyes.

      "'E ain't got no mother," he said; "she was took bad sudden – a chill it was, and struck to her innards. She died in the infirmary. Three months ago it was, mum. And us not able even to get a bit of black for her."

      Dickie sniffed.

      "Poor little man!" said the lady; "you miss your mother, don't you?"

      "Yuss," said Dickie sadly; "but farver, 'e's very good to me. I couldn't get on if it wasn't for farver."

      "Oh, well done, little 'un!" said Mr. Beale to himself.

      "We lay under a 'aystack last night," he said aloud, "and where we'll lie to-night gracious only knows, without some kind soul lends us a 'elping 'and."

      The lady fumbled in her pocket, and the little girl said to Dickie —

      "Where are all your toys?"

      "I ain't got but two," said Dickie, "and they're at 'ome; one of them's silver – real silver – my grandfarver 'ad it when 'e was a little boy."

      "But if you've got silver you oughtn't to be begging," said the lady, shutting up her purse. Beale frowned.

      "It only pawns for a shilling," said Dickie, "and farver knows what store I sets by it."

      "A shillin's a lot, I grant you that," said Beale eagerly; "but I wouldn't go to take away the nipper's little bit o' pleasure, not for no shilling I wouldn't," he ended nobly, with a fond look at Dickie.

      "You're a kind father," said the lady.

      "Yes, isn't he, mother?" said the little girl. "May I give the little boy my penny?"

      The two travellers were left facing each other, the richer by a penny, and oh – wonderful good fortune – a whole half-crown. They exchanged such glances as might pass between two actors as the curtain goes down on a successful dramatic performance.

      "You did that bit fine," said Beale – "fine, you did. You been there before, ain't ye?"

      "No, I never," said Dickie; "'ere's the steever."

      "You stick to that," said Beale, radiant with delight; "you're a fair masterpiece, you are; you earned it honest if ever a kid done. Pats you on the napper, she does, and out with 'arf a dollar! A bit of all right, I call it!"

      They went on up the hill as happy as any one need wish to be.

      They had told lies, you observe, and had by these lies managed to get half a crown and a penny out of the charitable; and far from being ashamed of their acts, they were bubbling over with merriment and delight at their own cleverness. Please do not be too shocked. Remember that neither of them knew any better. To the elder tramp lies and begging were natural means of livelihood. To the little tramp the whole thing was a new and entrancing game of make-believe.

      By evening they had seven-and-sixpence.

      "Us'll 'ave a fourpenny doss outer this," said Beale. "Swelp me Bob, we'll be ridin' in our own moty afore we know where we are at this rate."

      "But you said the bed with the green curtains," urged Dickie.

      "Well, p'rhaps you're right. Lay up for a rainy day, eh? Which this ain't, not by no means. There's a 'aystack a bit out of the town, if I remember right. Come on, mate."

      And Dickie for the first time slept out-of-doors. Have you ever slept out-of-doors? The night is full of interesting little sounds that will not, at first, let you sleep – the rustle of little wild things in the hedges, the barking of dogs in distant farms, the chirp of crickets and the croaking of frogs. And in the morning the birds wake you, and you curl down warm among the hay and look up at the sky that is growing lighter and lighter, and breathe the chill, sweet air, and go to sleep again wondering how you have ever been able to lie of nights in one of those shut-up boxes with holes in them which we call houses.

      The new game of begging and inventing stories to interest the people from whom it was worth while to beg went on gaily, day by day and week by week; and Dickie, by constant practice, grew so clever at taking his part in the acting that Mr. Beale was quite dazed with admiration.

      "Blessed if I ever see such a nipper," he said, over and over again.

      And when they got nearly to Hythe, and met with the red-whiskered man who got up suddenly out of the hedge and said he'd been hanging off and on expecting them for nigh on a week, Mr. Beale sent Dickie into a field to look for mushrooms – which didn't grow there – expressly that he might have a private conversation with the red-whiskered man – a conversation which began thus —

      "Couldn't get 'ere afore. Couldn't get a nipper."

      "'E's 'oppy, 'e is; 'e ain't no good."

      "No good?" said Beale. "That's all you know! 'E's a wunner, and no bloomin' error. Turns the ladies round 'is finger as easy as kiss yer 'and. Clever as a traindawg 'e is – an' all outer 'is own 'ead. And to 'ear the way 'e does the patter to me on the road. It's as good as a gaff any day to 'ear 'im. My word! I ain't sure as I 'adn't better stick to the road, and keep away from old 'ands like you, Jim."

      "Doin' well, eh?" said Jim.

      "Not so dusty," said Mr. Beale cautiously; "we mugger along some'ow. An' 'e's got so red in the face, and plumped out so, they'll soon say 'e doesn't want their dibs."

      "Starve 'im a bit," said the red-whiskered man cheerfully.

      Mr. Beale laughed. Then he spat thoughtfully. Then he said —

      "It's rum – I likes to see the little beggar stokin' up, for all it spoils the market. If 'e gets a bit fat 'e makes it up in cleverness. You should 'ear 'im!" and so forth and so on, till the red-whiskered man said quite crossly —

      "Seems to me you're a bit dotty about this 'ere extry double nipper. I never knew you took like it afore."

      "Fact is," said Beale, with an air of great candor, "it's 'is cleverness does me. It ain't as I'm silly about 'im – but 'e's that clever."

      "I