Harding's Luck. Эдит Несбит

you mean?" he said doubtfully.

      "Oh, don't call names," said the man; "we'll take the road, and if kind people gives us a helping hand, well, so much the better for all parties, if wot they learnt me at Sunday School's any good. Well, there it is. Take it or leave it."

      The sun shot long golden beams through the gaps in the hedge. A bird paused in its flight on a branch quite close and clung there swaying. A real live bird. Dickie thought of the kitchen at home, the lamp that smoked, the dirty table, the fender full of ashes and dirty paper, the dry bread that tasted of mice, and the water out of the broken earthenware cup. That would be his breakfast, when he had gone to bed crying after his aunt had slapped him.

      "I'll come," said he, "and thank you kindly."

      "Mind you," said the man carefully, "this ain't no kidnapping. I ain't 'ticed you away. You come on your own free wish, eh?"

      "Oh, yes."

      "Can you write?"

      "Yes," said Dickie, "if I got a pen."

      "I got a pencil—hold on a bit." He took out of his pocket a new envelope, a new sheet of

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      "HE LAY FACE DOWNWARD ON THE ROAD AND TURNED UP HIS BOOT."

      [Page 23.

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      paper, and a new pencil ready sharpened by machinery. It almost looked, Dickie thought, as though he had brought them out for some special purpose. Perhaps he had.

      "Now," said the man, "you take an' write—make it flat agin the sole of me boot." He lay face downward on the road and turned up his boot, as though boots were the most natural writing-desks in the world.

      "Now write what I say: 'Mr. Beale. Dear Sir. Will you please take me on tramp with you? I 'ave no father nor yet mother to be uneasy' (Can you spell 'uneasy'? That's right—you are a scholar!), 'an' I asks you let me come alonger you.' (Got that? All right, I'll stop a bit till you catch up. Then you say) 'If you take me along I promise to give you all what I earns or gets anyhow, and be a good boy, and do what you say. And I shall be very glad if you will. Your obedient servant——' What's your name, eh?"

      "Dickie Harding."

      "Get it wrote down, then. Done? I'm glad I wasn't born a table to be wrote on. Don't it make yer legs stiff, neither!"

      He rolled over, took the paper and read it slowly and with difficulty. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket.

      "Now we're square," he said. "That'll stand true and legal in any police-court in England, that will. And don't you forget it."

      To the people who live in Rosemary Terrace the words "police-court" are very alarming ​indeed. Dickie turned a little paler and said, "Why police? I ain't done nothing wrong writin' what you telled me?"

      "No, my boy," said the man, "you ain't done no wrong; you done right. But there's bad people in the world—police and such—as might lay it up to me as I took you away against your will. They could put a man away for less than that."

      "But it ain't agin my will," said Dickie; "I want to!"

      "That's what I say," said the man cheerfully. "So now we're agreed upon it, if you'll step it we'll see about a doss for to-night; and to-morrow we'll sleep in the bed with the green curtains."

      "I see that there in a book," said Dickie, charmed. "He Reward the Wake, the last of the English, and I wunnered what it stood for."

      "It stands for laying out," said the man (and so it does, though that's not at all what the author of "Hereward" meant it to mean) "laying out under a 'edge or a 'ay stack or such and lookin' up at the stars till you goes by-by. An' jolly good business, too, fine weather. An' then you 'oofs it a bit and resties a bit, and some one gives you something to 'elp you along the road, and in the evening you 'as a glass of ale at the Publy Kows, and finds another set o' green bed curtains. An' on Saturday you gets in a extra lot of prog, and a Sunday you stays where you be and washes of your shirt."

      "Do you have adventures?" asked Dick, ​recognising in this description a rough sketch of the life of a modern knight-errant.

      "'Ventures? I believe you!" said the man. "Why, only last month a brute of a dog bit me in the leg, at a back door Sutton way. An' once I see a elephant."

      "Wild?" asked Dickie, thrilling.

      "Not azackly wild—with a circus 'e was. But big! Wild ones ain't 'alf the size, I lay! And you meets soldiers, and parties in red coats ridin' on horses, with spotted dawgs, and motors as run you down and take your 'ead off afore you know you're dead if you don't look alive. Adventures? I should think so!"

      "Ah!" said Dickie, and a full silence fell between them.

      "Tired?" asked Mr. Beale presently.

      "Just a tiddy bit, p'raps," said Dickie bravely, "but I can stick it."

      "We'll get summat with wheels for you to-morrow," said the man, "if it's only a sugar-box; an' I can tie that leg of yours up to make it look like as if it was cut off."

      "It's this 'ere nasty boot as makes me tired," said Dickie.

      "Hoff with it," said the man obligingly; "down you sets on them stones and hoff with it! T'other too if you like. You can keep to the grass."

      The dewy grass felt pleasantly cool and clean to Dickie's tired little foot, and when they crossed the road where a water-cart had dripped it was delicious to feel the cool mud squeeze up ​between your toes. That was charming; but it was pleasant, too, to wash the mud off on the wet grass. Dickie always remembered that moment. It was the first time in his life that he really enjoyed being clean. In the hospital you were almost too clean; and you didn't do it yourself. That made all the difference. Yet it was the memory of the hospital that made him say, "I wish I could 'ave a bath."

      "So you shall," said Mr. Beale; "a reg'ler wash all over—this very night. I always like a wash meself. Some blokes think it pays to be dirty. But it don't. If you're clean they say 'Honest Poverty,' an' if you're dirty they say 'Serve you right.' We'll get a pail or something this very night."

      "You are good," said Dickie. "I do like you."

      Mr. Beale looked at him through the deepening twilight—rather queerly, Dickie thought. Also he sighed heavily.

      "Oh, well—all's well as has no turning; and things don't always—— What I mean to say, you be a good boy and I'll do the right thing by you."

      "I know you will," said Dickie, with enthusiasm. "I know 'ow good you are!"

      "Bless me!" said Mr. Beale uncomfortably. "Well, there. Step out, sonny, or we'll never get there this side Christmas."

      *****

      Now you see that Mr. Beale may be a cruel, wicked man who only wanted to get hold of Dickie so as to make money out of him; and he ​may be going to be very unkind indeed to Dickie when once he gets him away into the country, and is all alone with him—and his having that paper and envelope and pencil all ready looks odd, doesn't it? Or he may be a really benevolent person. Well, you'll know all about it presently.

      *****

      "And—here we are," said Mr. Beale, stopping in a side-street at an open door from which yellow light streamed welcomingly. "Now mind you don't contradict anything wot I say to people. And don't you forget you're my nipper, and you got to call me daddy."

      "I'll call you farver," said Dickie. "I got a daddy of my own, you know."

      "Why," said Mr. Beale, stopping suddenly, "you said he was dead."

      "So he is," said Dickie; "but 'es my daddy all the same."

      "Oh, come on," said Mr. Beale impatiently. And they went in.