[Illustration: "EDRED OBEYED, AND THE MOULDIESTWARP LEANED TOWARDS HIMAND SPOKE IN HIS EAR"

_Frontispiece. _] [_Page 260_]

HARDING'S LUCK

_By_

E. NESBIT

 Author of "The Wouldbegoods, " "The Treasure Seekers, " Etc. 

[Illustration]

 WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. R. MILLAR

 NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS

 Copyright, 1910, by FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

 Copyright, 1909, by E. NESBIT BLAND

 _All rights reserved_

 _September, 1910_

 TO

 ROSAMUND PHILIPPA PHILIPS

 WITH

 E. NESBIT'S LOVE

Contents

 CHAPTER PAGE I. TINKLER AND THE MOONFLOWER 1 II. BURGLARS 31 III. THE ESCAPE 58 IV. WHICH WAS THE DREAM? 82 V. "TO GET YOUR OWN LIVING" 115 VI. BURIED TREASURE 144 VII. DICKIE LEARNS MANY THINGS 178 VIII. GOING HOME 208 IX. KIDNAPPED 228 X. THE NOBLE DEED 250 XI. LORD ARDEN 275 XII. THE END 300

Illustrations

 "EDRED OBEYED, AND THE MOULDIESTWARP LEANED TOWARDS HIM AND SPOKE IN HIS EAR" _Frontispiece_

 FACING PAGE

 "'GIMME, ' SAID DICKIE--'GIMME A PENN'ORTH O' THAT THERE'" 6

 "'IT _IS_ A MOONFLOWER, OF COURSE, ' HE SAID" 12

 "'HERE, HUMPHREYS, PUT THESE IN A JUG OF WATER TILL I GO HOME'" 16

 "HE LAY FACE DOWNWARD ON THE ROAD AND TURNED UP HIS BOOT" 24

 "'IT ONLY PAWNS FOR A SHILLIN', ' SAID DICKIE" 38

 "THREE OR FOUR FACES LOOKED DOWN AT DICKIE" 70

 "HE MADE, WITH TRIPLE LINES OF SILVERY SEEDS, A SIX-POINTED STAR" 80

 "''TIS THE PICTURE, ' HE SAID PROUDLY, 'OF MY OLD SHIP, "THE GOLDEN VENTURE"'" 98

 "THE GALLEY WAS DECKED WITH FRESH FLOWERS" 102

 "'AN' I OFF'S WITH ME COAT, AND FLOPS IT DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PUDDLE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE GAL'" 134

 "'OH, WHAT A LONG TIME SINCE I HAVE SEEN THEE!' DICKIE CRIED" 148

 "IT HURT, BUT DICKIE LIKED IT" 158

 "'ELFRIDA!' SAID BOTH BOYS AT ONCE" 272

 "'I HAVE KILLED A MAN, ' HE SAID" 290

 "'I'VE THOUGHT OF NOTHING ELSE FOR A MONTH, ' SAID DICKIE" 304

HARDING'S LUCK

Harding's Luck

CHAPTER I

TINKLER AND THE MOONFLOWER

DICKIE lived at New Cross. At least the address was New Cross, butreally the house where he lived was one of a row of horrid little housesbuilt on the slope where once green fields ran down the hill to theriver, and the old houses of the Deptford merchants stood stately intheir pleasant gardens and fruitful orchards. All those good fields andhappy gardens are built over now. It is as though some wicked giant hadtaken a big brush full of yellow ochre paint, and another full of mudcolor, and had painted out the green in streaks of dull yellow andfilthy brown; and the brown is the roads and the yellow is the houses. Miles and miles and miles of them, and not a green thing to be seenexcept the cabbages in the greengrocers' shops, and here and there somepoor trails of creeping-jenny drooping from a dirty window-sill. Thereis a little yard at the back of each house; this is called "the garden, "and some of these show green--but they only show it to the houses' backwindows. You cannot see it from the street. These gardens are green, because green is the color that most pleases and soothes men's eyes; andhowever you may shut people up between bars of yellow and mud color, andhowever hard you may make them work, and however little wage you may paythem for working, there will always be found among those people some menwho are willing to work a little longer, and for no wages at all, sothat they may have green things growing near them. 

But there were no green things growing in the garden at the back of thehouse where Dickie lived with his aunt. There were stones and bones, andbits of brick, and dirty old dish-cloths matted together with grease andmud, worn-out broom-heads and broken shovels, a bottomless pail, and themouldy remains of a hutch where once rabbits had lived. But that was avery long time ago, and Dickie had never seen the rabbits. A boy hadbrought a brown rabbit to school once, buttoned up inside his jacket, and he had let Dickie hold it in his hands for several minutes beforethe teacher detected its presence and shut it up in a locker till schoolshould be over. So Dickie knew what rabbits were like. And he was fondof the hutch for the sake of what had once lived there. 

And when his aunt sold the poor remains of the hutch to a man with abarrow who was ready to buy anything, and who took also the pails andthe shovels, giving threepence for the lot, Dickie was almost as unhappyas though the hutch had really held a furry friend. And he hated the manwho took the hutch away, all the more because there were emptyrabbit-skins hanging sadly from the back of the barrow. 

It is really with the going of that rabbit-hutch that this story begins. Because it was then that Dickie, having called his aunt a Beast, and hitat her with his little dirty fist, was well slapped and put out into thebereaved yard to "come to himself, " as his aunt said. He threw himselfdown on the ground and cried and wriggled with misery and pain, andwished--ah, many things. 

"Wot's the bloomin' row now?" the Man Next Door suddenly asked; "beenhittin' of you?"

"They've took away the 'utch, " said Dickie. 

"Well, there warn't nothin' in it. "

"I diden want it took away, " wailed Dickie. 

"Leaves more room, " said the Man Next Door, leaning on his spade. It wasSaturday afternoon and the next-door garden was one of the green ones. There were small grubby daffodils in it, and dirty-faced littleprimroses, and an arbor beside the water-butt, bare at this time of theyear, but still a real arbor. And an elder-tree that in the hot weatherhad flat, white flowers on it big as tea-plates. And a lilac-tree withbrown buds on it. Beautiful. "Say, matey, just you chuck it! Chuck it, Isay! How in thunder can I get on with my digging with you 'owlin' yer'ead off?" inquired the Man Next Door. "You get up and peg along in an'arst your aunt if she'd be agreeable for me to do up her garden a bit. Icould do it odd times. You'd like that. "

"Not 'arf!" said Dickie, getting up. 

"Come to yourself, eh?" sneered the aunt. "You mind, and let it be thelast time you come your games with me, my beauty. You and yourtantrums!"

Dickie said what it was necessary to say, and got back to the "garden. "

"She says she ain't got no time to waste, an' if you 'ave she don't carewhat you does with it. "

"There's a dirty mug you've got on you, " said the Man Next Door, leaningover to give Dickie's face a rub with a handkerchief hardly cleaner. "Now I'll come over and make a start. " He threw his leg over the fence. "You just peg about an' be busy pickin' up all them fancy articles, andnex' time your aunt goes to Buckingham Palace for the day we'll have abonfire. "

"Fifth o' November?" said Dickie, sitting down and beginning to draw tohimself the rubbish that covered the ground. 

"Fifth of anything you like, so long as _she_ ain't about, " said he, driving in the spade. "'Ard as any old door-step it is. Never mind, we'll turn it over, and we'll get some little seedses and some littleplantses and we shan't know ourselves. "

"I got a 'apenny, " said Dickie. 

"Well, I'll put one to it, and you leg 'long and buy seedses. That's wotyou do. "

Dickie went. He went slowly, because he was lame. And he was lamebecause his "aunt" had dropped him when he was a baby. She was not anice woman, and I am glad to say that she goes out of this story almostat once. But she did keep Dickie when his father died, and she mighthave sent him to the work-house. For she was not really his aunt, butjust the woman of the house where his father had lodged. It was good ofher to keep Dickie, even if she wasn't very kind to him. And as that isall the good I can find to say about her, I will say no more. With hislittle crutch, made out of a worn-out broom cut down to his littleheight, he could manage quite well in spite of his lameness. 

[Illustration: "'GIMME, ' SAID DICKIE--'GIMME A PENN'ORTH O' THATTHERE. '"]

He found the corn-chandler's--a really charming shop that smelled likestables and had deep dusty bins where he would have liked to play. Abovethe bins were delightful little square-fronted drawers, labelled Rape, Hemp, Canary, Millet, Mustard, and so on; and above the drawers picturesof the kind of animals that were fed on the kind of things that the shopsold. Fat, oblong cows that had eaten Burley's Cattle Food, stoutpillows of wool that Ovis's Sheep Spice had fed, and, brightest and bestof all, an incredibly smooth-plumaged parrot, rainbow-colored, cocking ablack eye bright with the intoxicating qualities of Perrokett's ArtisticBird Seed. 

"Gimme, " said Dickie, leaning against the counter and pointing a grimythumb at the wonder--"gimme a penn'orth o' that there!"

"Got the penny?" the shopman asked carefully. 

Dickie displayed it, parted with it, and came home nursing a paper bagfull of rustling promises. 

"Why, " said the Man Next Door, "that ain't seeds. It's parrot food, thatis. "

"It said the Ar-something Bird Seed, " said Dickie, downcast; "I thoughtit 'ud come into flowers like birds--same colors as wot the poll parrotwas, dontcherknow?"

"And so it will like as not, " said the Man Next Door comfortably. "I'llset it along this end soon's I've got it turned over. I lay it'll comeup something pretty. "

So the seed was sown. And the Man Next Door promised two more pennieslater for _real_ seed. Also he transplanted two of the primroses whosefaces wanted washing. 

It was a grand day for Dickie. He told the whole story of it that nightwhen he went to bed to his only confidant, from whom he hid nothing. Theconfidant made no reply, but Dickie was sure this was not because theconfidant didn't care about the story. The confidant was a blackenedstick about five inches long, with little blackened bells to it like thebells on dogs' collars. Also a rather crooked bit of something whitishand very hard, good to suck, or to stroke with your fingers, or to digholes in the soap with. Dickie had no idea what it was. His father hadgiven it to him in the hospital where Dickie was taken to say good-byeto him. Good-bye had to be said because of father having fallen off thescaffolding where he was at work and not getting better. "You stick tothat, " father had said, looking dreadfully clean in the strange bedamong all those other clean beds; "it's yourn, your very own. My dadgive it to me, and it belonged to his dad. Don't you let any one takeit away. Some old lady told the old man it 'ud bring us luck. So long, old chap. "

Dickie remembered every word of that speech, and he kept the treasure. There had been another thing with it, tied on with string. But Aunt Maudhad found that, and taken it away "to take care of, " and he had neverseen it again. It was brassy, with a white stone and some sort ofpattern on it. He had the treasure, and he had not the least idea whatit was, with its bells that jangled such pretty music, and its whitespike so hard and smooth. He did not know--but I know. It was arattle--a baby's old-fashioned rattle--or, if you would rather call itthat, a "coral and bells. "

"And we shall 'ave the fairest flowers of hill and dale, " said Dickie, whispering comfortably in his dirty sheets, "and greensward. Oh! Tinklerdear, 'twill indeed be a fair scene. The gayest colors of the rainbowamid the Ague Able green of fresh leaves. I do love the Man Next Door. He has indeed a 'art of gold. "

That was how Dickie talked to his friend Tinkler. You know how he talkedto his aunt and the Man Next Door. I wonder whether you know that mostchildren can speak at least two languages, even if they have never had aforeign nurse or been to foreign climes--or whether you think that youare the only child who can do this. 

Believe me, you are not. Parents and guardians would be surprised tolearn that dear little Charlie has a language quite different from theone he uses to them--a language in which he talks to the cook and thehousemaid. And yet another language--spoken with the real accent too--inwhich he converses with the boot-boy and the grooms. 

Dickie, however, had learned his second language from books. The teacherat his school had given him six--"Children of the New Forest, " "QuentinDurward, " "Hereward the Wake, " and three others--all paper-backed. Theymade a new world for Dickie. And since the people in books talked inthis nice, if odd, way, he saw no reason why he should not--to a friendwhom he could trust. 

I hope you're not getting bored with all this. 

You see, I must tell you a little about the kind of boy Dickie was andthe kind of way he lived, or you won't understand his adventures. And hehad adventures--no end of adventures--as you will see presently. 

Dickie woke, gay as the spring sun that was trying to look in at himthrough his grimy windows. 

"Perhaps he'll do some more to the garden to-day!" he said, and got upvery quickly. 

He got up in the dirty, comfortless room and dressed himself. But inthe evening he was undressed by kind, clean hands, and washed in a bigbath half-full of hot, silvery water, with soap that smelled like thetimber-yard at the end of the street. Because, going along to school, with his silly little head full of Artistic Bird Seeds and flowersrainbow-colored, he had let his crutch slip on a banana-skin and hadtumbled down, and a butcher's cart had gone over his poor lame foot. Sothey took the hurt foot to the hospital, and of course he had to go withit, and the hospital was much more like the heaven he read of in hisbooks than anything he had ever come across before. 

He noticed that the nurses and the doctors spoke in the kind of wordsthat he had found in his books, and in a voice that he had not foundanywhere; so when on the second day a round-faced, smiling lady in awhite cap said, "Well, Tommy, and how are we to-day?" he replied--

"My name is far from being Tommy, and I am in Lux Ury and Af Fluence, Ithank you, gracious lady. "

At which the lady laughed and pinched his cheek. 

When she grew to know him better, and found out where he had learned totalk like that, she produced more books. And from them he learned morenew words. They were very nice to him at the hospital, but when theysent him home they put his lame foot into a thick boot with a horrid, clumpy sole and iron things that went up his leg. 

His aunt and her friends said, "How kind!" but Dickie hated it. The boysat school made game of it--they had got used to the crutch--and that wasworse than being called "Old Dot-and-go-one, " which was what Dickie hadgot used to--so used that it seemed almost like a pet name. 

And on that first night of his return he found that he had been robbed. They had taken his Tinkler from the safe corner in his bed where theticking was broken, and there was a soft flock nest for a boy's bestfriend. 

He knew better than to ask what had become of it. Instead he searchedand searched the house in all its five rooms. But he never foundTinkler. 

Instead he found next day, when his aunt had gone out shopping, a littlesquare of cardboard at the back of the dresser drawer, among the dirtydusters and clothes pegs and string and corks and novelettes. 

It was a pawn-ticket--"Rattle. One shilling. "

Dickie knew all about pawn-tickets. You, of course, don't. Well, asksome grown-up person to explain; I haven't time. I want to get on withthe story. 

[Illustration: "'IT _IS_ A MOONFLOWER, OF COURSE, ' HE SAID"

[_Page 13_]

Until he had found that ticket he had not been able to think of anythingelse. He had not even cared to think about his garden and wonder whetherthe Artistic Bird Seeds had come up parrot-colored. He had been a verylong time in the hospital, and it was August now. And the nurses hadassured him that the seeds must be up long ago--he would find everythingflowering, you see if he didn't. 

And now he went out to look. There was a tangle of green growth at theend of the garden, and the next garden was full of weeds. For the ManNext Door had gone off to look for work down Ashford way, where thehop-gardens are, and the house was to let. 

A few poor little pink and yellow flowers showed stunted among the greenwhere he had sowed the Artistic Bird Seed. And, towering high aboveeverything else--oh, three times as high as Dickie himself--there was aflower--a great flower like a sunflower, only white. 

"Why, " said Dickie, "it's as big as a dinner-plate. "

It was. 

It stood up, beautiful and stately, and turned its cream-white facetowards the sun. 

"The stalk's like a little tree, " said Dickie; and so it was. 

It had great drooping leaves, and a dozen smaller white flowers stoodout below it on long stalks, thinner than that needed to support themoonflower itself. 

"It _is_ a moonflower, of course, " he said, "if the other kind'ssunflowers. I love it! I love it! I love it!"

He did not allow himself much time for loving it, however; for he hadbusiness in hand. He had, somehow or other, to get a shilling. Becausewithout a shilling he could not exchange that square of cardboard with"Rattle" on it for his one friend, Tinkler. And with the shilling hecould. (This is part of the dismal magic of pawn-tickets which somegrown-up will kindly explain to you. )

"I can't get money by the sweat of my brow, " said Dickie to himself;"nobody would let me run their errands when they could get a boy withboth legs to do them. Not likely. I wish I'd got something I couldsell. "

He looked round the yard--dirtier and nastier than ever now in the partsthat the Man Next Door had not had time to dig. There was certainlynothing there that any one would want to buy, especially now therabbit-hutch was gone. Except ... Why, of course--the moonflowers!

He got the old worn-down knife out of the bowl on the back kitchen sink, where it nestled among potato peelings like a flower among foliage, andcarefully cut half a dozen of the smaller flowers. Then he limped up toNew Cross Station, and stood outside, leaning on his crutch, and holdingout the flowers to the people who came crowding out of the station afterthe arrival of each train--thick, black crowds of tired people, in toogreat a hurry to get home to their teas to care much about him or hisflowers. Everybody glanced at them, for they were wonderful flowers, aswhite as water-lilies, only flat--the real sunflower shape--and theircentres were of the purest yellow gold color. 

"Pretty, ain't they?" one black-coated person would say to another. Andthe other would reply--

"No. Yes. I dunno! Hurry up, can't you?"

It was no good. Dickie was tired, and the flowers were beginning todroop. He turned to go home, when a sudden thought brought the blood tohis face. He turned again quickly and went straight to the pawnbroker's. You may be quite sure he had learned the address on the card by heart. 

He went boldly into the shop, which had three handsome gold ballshanging out above its door, and in its window all sorts of prettythings--rings, and chains, and brooches, and watches, and china, andsilk handkerchiefs, and concertinas. 

"Well, young man, " said the stout gentleman behind the counter, "whatcan we do for you?"

"I want to pawn my moonflowers, " said Dickie. 

The stout gentleman roared with laughter, and slapped a stout leg with astout hand. 

"Well, that's a good 'un!" he said, "as good a one as ever I heard. Why, you little duffer, they'd be dead long before you came back to redeemthem, that's certain. "

"You'd have them while they were alive, you know, " said Dickie gently. 

"What are they? Don't seem up to much. Though I don't know that I eversaw a flower just like them, come to think of it, " said the pawnbroker, who lived in a neat villa at Brockley and went in for gardening in agentlemanly, you-needn't-suppose-I-can't-afford-a-real-gardener-if-I-likesort of way. 

"They're moonflowers, " said Dickie, "and I want to pawn them and thenget something else out with the money. "

"Got the ticket?" said the gentleman, cleverly seeing that he meant "getout of pawn. "

"Yes, " said Dickie; "and it's my own Tinkler that my daddy gave mebefore he died, and my aunt Missa propagated it when I was in hospital. "

The man looked carefully at the card. 

"All right, " he said at last; "hand over the flowers. They are not sobad, " he added, more willing to prize them now that they were his(things do look different when they are your own, don't they?). "Here, Humphreys, put these in a jug of water till I go home. And get thisout. "

[Illustration: "'HERE, HUMPHREYS, PUT THESE IN A JUG OF WATER TILL I GOHOME'"

[_Page 16_]

A pale young man in spectacles appeared from a sort of dark cave at theback of the shop, took flowers and ticket, and was swallowed up again inthe darkness of the cave. 

"Oh, thank you!" said Dickie fervently. "I shall live but to repay yourbounteous gen'rosity. "

"None of your cheek, " said the pawnbroker, reddening, and there was anawkward pause. 

"It's not cheek; I meant it, " said Dickie at last, speaking veryearnestly. "You'll see, some of these days. I read an interesting NarRataive about a Lion the King of Beasts and a Mouse, that small and TyMorous animal, which if you have not heard it I will now Pur seed torelite. "

"You're a rum little kid, I don't think, " said the man. "Where do youlearn such talk?"

"It's the wye they talk in books, " said Dickie, suddenly returning tothe language of his aunt. "You bein' a toff I thought you'd unnerstand. My mistike. No 'fense. "

"Mean to say you can talk like a book when you like, and cut it offshort like that?"

"I can Con-vers like Lords and Lydies, " said Dickie, in the accentsof the gutter, "and your noble benefacteriness made me seek to expressmy feelinks with the best words at me Command. "

"Fond of books?"

"I believe you, " said Dickie, and there were no more awkward pauses. 

When the pale young man came back with something wrapped in a bit ofclean rag, he said a whispered word or two to the pawnbroker, whounrolled the rag and looked closely at the rattle. 

"So it is, " he said, "and it's a beauty too, let alone anything else. "

"Isn't he?" said Dickie, touched by this praise of his treasuredTinkler. 

"I've got something else here that's got the same crest as your rattle. "

"Crest?" said Dickie; "isn't that what you wear on your helmet in theheat and press of the Tower Nament?"

The pawnbroker explained that crests no longer live exclusively onhelmets, but on all sorts of odd things. And the queer little animal, drawn in fine scratches on the side of the rattle, was, it seemed, acrest. 

"Here, Humphreys, " he added, "give it a rub up and bring that sealhere. "

The pale young man did something to Tinkler with some pinky powder and abrush and a wash-leather, while his master fitted together the twohalves of a broken white cornelian. 

"It came out of a seal, " he said, "and I don't mind making you a presentof it. "

"Oh!" said Dickie, "you are a real rightern. " And he rested his crutchagainst the counter expressly to clasp his hands in ecstasy as boys inbooks did. 

"My young man shall stick it together with cement, " the pawnbroker wenton, "and put it in a little box. Don't you take it out till to-morrowand it'll be stuck fast. Only don't go trying to seal with it, or thesealing-wax will melt the cement. It'll bring you luck, I shouldn'twonder. "

(It did; and such luck as the kind pawnbroker never dreamed of. But thatcomes further on in the story. )

Dickie left the shop without his moonflowers, indeed, but with hisTinkler now whitely shining, and declared to be "real silver, and mindyou take care of it, my lad, " his white cornelian seal carefully packedin a strong little cardboard box with metal corners. Also abroken-backed copy of "Ingoldsby Legends" and one of "Mrs. Markham'sEnglish History, " which had no back at all. "You must go on trying toimprove your mind, " said the pawnbroker fussily. He was very pleasedwith himself for having been so kind. "And come back and see me--saynext month. "

"I will, " said Dickie. "A thousand blessings from a grateful heart. Iwill come back. I say, you are good! Thank you, thank you--I will comeback next month, and tell you everything I have learned from the PerruSal of your books. "

"Perusal, " said the pawnbroker--"that's the way to pernounce it. Good-bye, my man, and next month. "

But next month found Dickie in a very different place from thepawnbroker's shop, and with a very different person from the pawnbrokerwho in his rural retirement at Brockley gardened in such a gentlemanlyway. 

Dickie went home--his aunt was still out. His books told him thattreasure is best hidden under loose boards, unless of course your househas a secret panel, which his had not. There was a loose board in hisroom, where the man "saw to" the gas. He got it up, and pushed histreasures as far in as he could--along the rough, crumbly surface of thelath and plaster. 

Not a moment too soon. For before the board was coaxed quite back intoits place the voice of the aunt screamed up. 

"Come along down, can't you? I can hear you pounding about up there. Come along down and fetch me a ha'porth o' wood--I can't get the kettleto boil without a fire, can I?"

When Dickie came down his aunt slightly slapped him, and he took thehalfpenny and limped off obediently. 

It was a very long time indeed before he came back. Because before hegot to the shop with no window to it, but only shutters that were put upat night, where the wood and coal were sold, he saw a Punch and Judyshow. He had never seen one before, and it interested him extremely. Helonged to see it unpack itself and display its wonders, and he followedit through more streets than he knew; and when he found that it was notgoing to unpack at all, but was just going home to its bed in an oldcoach-house, he remembered the fire-wood; and the halfpenny clutchedtight and close in his hand seemed to reproach him warmly. 

He looked about him, and knew that he did not at all know where he was. There was a tall, thin, ragged man lounging against a stable door in theyard where the Punch and Judy show lived. He took his clay pipe out ofhis mouth to say--

"What's up, matey? Lost your way?"

Dickie explained. 

"It's Lavender Terrace where I live, " he ended--"Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Street, Deptford. "

"I'm going that way myself, " said the man, getting away from the wall. "We'll go back by the boat if you like. Ever been on the boat?"

"No, " said Dickie. 

"Like to?"

"Don't mind if I do, " said Dickie. 

It was very pleasant with the steamboat going along in such a hurry, pushing the water out of the way, and puffing and blowing, and somethingbeating inside it like a giant's heart. The wind blew freshly, and theragged man found a sheltered corner behind the funnel. It was sosheltered, and the wind had been so strong that Dickie felt sleepy. Whenhe said, "'Ave I bin asleep?" the steamer was stopping at a pier at astrange place with trees. 

"Here we are!" said the man. "'Ave you been asleep? Not 'alf! Stiryourself, my man; we get off here. "

"Is this Deptford?" Dickie asked. And the people shoving and crushing toget off the steamer laughed when he said it. 

"Not exackly, " said the man, "but it's all right. This 'ere's where weget off. You ain't had yer tea yet, my boy. "

It was the most glorious tea Dickie had ever imagined. Fried eggs andbacon--he had one egg and the man had three--bread and butter--and ifthe bread was thick, so was the butter--and as many cups of tea as youliked to say thank you for. When it was over the man asked Dickie if hecould walk a little way, and when Dickie said he could they set out inthe most friendly way side by side. 

"I like it very much, and thank you kindly, " said Dickie presently. "Andthe tea and all. An' the egg. And this is the prettiest place ever Isee. But I ought to be getting 'ome. I shall catch it a fair treat as itis. She was waitin' for the wood to boil the kettle when I come out. "

"Mother?"

"Aunt. Not me real aunt. Only I calls her that. "

"She any good?"

"Ain't bad when she's in a good temper. "

"That ain't what she'll be in when you gets back. Seems to me you'vegone and done it, mate. Why, it's hours and hours since you and me gotacquainted. Look! the sun's just going. "

It was, over trees more beautiful than anything Dickie had ever seen, for they were now in a country road, with green hedges and green grassgrowing beside it, in which little round-faced flowers grew--daisiesthey were--even Dickie knew that. 

"I got to stick it, " said Dickie sadly. "I'd best be getting home. "

"I wouldn't go 'ome, not if I was you, " said the man. "I'd go out andsee the world a bit, I would. "

"What--me?" said Dickie. 

"Why not? Come, I'll make you a fair offer. Ye come alonger me an' seelife! I'm a-goin' to tramp as far as Brighton and back, all alongsidethe sea. Ever seed the sea?"

"No, " said Dickie. "Oh, no--no, I never. "

"Well, you come alonger me. I ain't 'it yer, have I, like what yer auntdo? I give yer a ride in a pleasure boat, only you went to sleep, and Igive you a tea fit for a hemperor. Ain't I?"

"You 'ave that, " said Dickie. 

"Well, that'll show you the sort of man I am. So now I make you a fairoffer. You come longer me, and be my little 'un, and I'll be your daddy, and a better dad, I lay, nor if I'd been born so. What do you say, matey?"

The man's manner was so kind and hearty, the whole adventure was sowonderful and new.... 

"Is it country where you going?" said Dickie, looking at the greenhedge. 

"All the way, pretty near, " said the man. "We'll tramp it, taking iteasy, all round the coast, where gents go for their outings. They'vealways got a bit to spare then. I lay you'll get some color in themcheeks o' yours. They're like putty now. Come, now. What you say? Is ita bargain?"

[Illustration: "HE LAY FACE DOWNWARD ON THE ROAD AND TURNED UP HIS BOOT"

[_Page 25_]

"It's very kind of you, " said Dickie, "but what call you got to do it?It'll cost a lot--my victuals, I mean. What call you got to do it?"

The man scratched his head and hesitated. Then he looked up at the skyand then down at the road--they were resting on a heap of stones. 

At last he said, "You're a sharp lad, you are--bloomin' sharp. Well, Iwon't deceive you, matey. I want company. Tramping alone ain't no beanoto me. An' as I gets my living by the sweat of charitable ladies an'gents it don't do no harm to 'ave a little nipper alongside. They comesdown 'andsomer if there's a nipper. An' I like nippers. Some blokesdon't, but I do. "

Dickie felt that this was true. But--"We'll be beggars, you mean?" hesaid doubtfully. 

"Oh, don't call names, " said the man; "we'll take the road, and if kindpeople gives us a helping hand, well, so much the better for allparties, if wot they learned me at Sunday-school's any good. Well, thereit is. Take it or leave it. "

The sun shot long golden beams through the gaps in the hedge. A birdpaused in its flight on a branch quite close and clung there swaying. Areal live bird. Dickie thought of the kitchen at home, the lamp thatsmoked, the dirty table, the fender full of ashes and dirty paper, thedry bread that tasted of mice, and the water out of the brokenearthenware cup. That would be his breakfast, when he had gone to bedcrying 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 newenvelope, a new sheet of paper, and a new pencil ready sharpened bymachinery. It almost looked, Dickie thought, as though he had broughtthem out for some special purpose. Perhaps he had. 

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

"Now write what I say: 'Mr. Beale. Dear Sir. Will you please take me ontramp with you? I 'ave no father nor yet mother to be uneasy' (Can youspell 'uneasy'? That's right--you _are_ a scholar!), 'an' I asks you letme come alonger you. ' (Got that? All right, I'll stop a bit till youcatch up. Then you say) 'If you take me along I promise to give you allwhat I earns or gets anyhow, and be a good boy, and do what you say. AndI shall be very glad if you will. Your obedient servant----' What's yourname, eh?"

"Dickie Harding. "

"Get it wrote down, then. Done? I'm glad I wasn't born a table to bewrote 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 anypolice-court in England, that will. And don't you forget it. "

To the people who live in Rosemary Terrace the words "police-court" arevery alarming indeed. Dickie turned a little paler and said, "Whypolice? 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 upto me as I took you away against your will. They could put a man awayfor 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 agreedupon it, if you'll step it we'll see about a doss for to-night; andto-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'snot at all what the author of "Hereward" meant it to mean)--"laying outunder a 'edge or a 'aystack or such and lookin' up at the stars till yougoes 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 atthe Publy Kows, and finds another set o' green bed curtains. An' onSaturday you gets in a extra lot of prog, and a Sunday you stays whereyou be and washes of your shirt. "

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

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

"Wild?" asked Dickie, thrilling. 

"Not azackly wild--with a circus 'e was. But big! Wild ones ain't 'alfthe size, I lay! And you meets soldiers, and parties in red coatsridin' on horses, with spotted dawgs, and motors as run you down andtake 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'sonly a sugar-box; an' I can tie that leg of yours up to make it looklike 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 stonesand 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 littlefoot, and when they crossed the road where a water-cart had dripped itwas delicious to feel the cool mud squeeze up between your toes. Thatwas charming; but it was pleasant, too, to wash the mud off on the wetgrass. Dickie always remembered that moment. It was the first time inhis life that he really enjoyed being clean. In the hospital you werealmost too clean; and you didn't do it yourself. That made all thedifference. Yet it was the memory of the hospital that made him say, "Iwish I could 'ave a bath. "

"So you shall, " said Mr. Beale; "a reg'ler wash all over--this verynight. I always like a wash meself. Some blokes think it pays to bedirty. But it don't. If you're clean they say 'Honest Poverty, ' an' ifyou're dirty they say 'Serve you right. ' We'll get a pail or somethingthis 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 byyou. "

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

"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 toget hold of Dickie so as to make money out of him; and he may be goingto be very unkind indeed to Dickie when once he gets him away into thecountry, and is all alone with him--and his having that paper andenvelope and pencil all ready looks odd, doesn't it? Or he may be areally benevolent person. Well, you'll know all about it presently. 

 * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

BURGLARS

DICKIE fell asleep between clean, coarse sheets in a hard, narrow bed, for which fourpence had been paid. 

"Put yer clobber under yer bolster, likewise yer boots, " was the lastinstruction of his new friend and "father. "

There had been a bath--or something equally cleansing--in a pail near afire where ragged but agreeable people were cooking herrings, sausages, and other delicacies on little gridirons or pans that they unrolled fromthe strange bundles that were their luggage. One man who had no gridironcooked a piece of steak on the kitchen tongs. Dickie thought him veryclever. A very fat woman asked Dickie to toast a herring for her on abit of wood; and when he had done it she gave him two green apples. 

He laid in bed and heard jolly voices talking and singing in the kitchenbelow. And he thought how pleasant it was to be a tramp, and what jollyfellows the tramps were; for it seemed that all these nice people were"on the road, " and this place where the kitchen was, and the goodcompany and the clean bed for fourpence, was a Tramps' Hotel--one ofmany that are scattered over the country and called "CommonLodging-Houses. "

The singing and laughing went on long after he had fallen asleep, andif, later in the evening, there were loud-voiced arguments, or quarrelseven, Dickie did not hear them. 

Next morning, quite early, they took the road. From some mysterioussource Mr. Beale had obtained an old double perambulator, which musthave been made, Dickie thought, for very fat twins, it was so broad androomy. Artfully piled on the front part was all the furniture needed bytravellers who mean to sleep every night at the Inn of the Silver Moon. (That is the inn where they have the beds with the green curtains. )

"What's all that there?" Dickie asked, pointing to the odd knobblybundles of all sorts and shapes tied on to the perambulator's front. 

"All our truck what we'll want on the road, " said Beale. 

"And that pillowy bundle on the seat. "

"That's our clothes. I've bought you a little jacket to put on o' nightsif it's cold or wet. An' when you want a lift--why, here's yourcarriage, and you can sit up 'ere and ride like the Lord Mayor, and I'llbe yer horse; the bundles'll set on yer knee like a fat babby. Tell yerwhat, mate--looks to me as if I'd took a fancy to you. "

"I 'ave to you, I know that, " said Dickie, settling his crutch firmlyand putting his hand into Mr. Beale's. Mr. Beale looked down at thetouch. 

"Swelp me!" he said helplessly. Then, "Does it hurt you--walking?"

"Not like it did 'fore I went to the orspittle. They said I'd be able towalk to rights if I wore that there beastly boot. But that 'urts worsenanythink. "

"Well, " said Mr. Beale, "you sing out when you get tired and I'll giveyer a ride. "

"Oh, look, " said Dickie--"the flowers!"

"They're only weeds, " said Beale. They were, in fact, convolvuluses, little pink ones with their tendrils and leaves laid flat to the dryearth by the wayside, and in a water-meadow below the road level bigwhite ones twining among thick-growing osiers and willows. 

Dickie filled his hands with the pink ones, and Mr. Beale let him. 

"They'll die directly, " he said. 

"But I shall have them while they're alive, " said Dickie, as he had saidto the pawnbroker about the moonflowers. 

It was a wonderful day. All the country sights and sounds, that youhardly notice because you have known them every year as long as you canremember, were wonderful magic to the little boy from Deptford. Thegreen hedge, the cows looking over them; the tinkle of sheep-bells; the"baa" of the sheep; the black pigs in a sty close to the road, theirbreathless rooting and grunting and the shiny, blackleaded cylindersthat were their bodies; the stubbly fields where barley stood insheaves--real barley, like the people next door but three gave to theirhens; the woodland shadows and the lights of sudden water; shoulders ofbrown upland pressed against the open sky; the shrill thrill of theskylark's song, "like canary birds got loose"; the splendor ofdistance--you never see distance in Deptford; the magpie that perched ona stump and cocked a bright eye at the travellers; the thing thatrustled a long length through dead leaves in a beech coppice, and was, it appeared, a real live snake--all these made the journey a royalprogress to Dickie of Deptford. He forgot that he was lame, forgot thathe had run away--a fact that had cost him a twinge or two of fear orconscience earlier in the morning. He was happy as a prince is happy, new-come to his inheritance, and it was Mr. Beale, after all, who wasthe first to remember that there was a carriage in which a tired littleboy might ride. 

"In you gets, " he said suddenly; "you'll be fair knocked. You can lookabout you just as well a-sittin' down, " he added, laying the crutchacross the front of the perambulator. "Never see such a nipper fornoticing, neither. Hi! there goes a rabbit. See 'im? Crost the roadthere? See him?"

Dickie saw, and the crown was set on his happiness. A rabbit. Like theones that his fancy had put in the mouldering hutch at home. 

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

"'E ain't loose--'e's wild, " Mr. Beale explained; "'e ain't never bincaught. Lives out 'ere with 'is little friendses, " he added after aviolent effort of imagination--"in 'oles in the ground. Gets 'is ownmeals and larks about on 'is own. "

"How beautiful!" said Dickie, wriggling with delight. This life of therabbit, as described by Mr. Beale, was the child's first glimpse offreedom. "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 abag of eels?"

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

"It's better'n Fiff of November, " said Dickie; "and I do like you. Ilike 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 overthe crest a lady and a little girl. 

"Hout yer gets, " said Mr. Beale quickly; "walk as 'oppy as you can, andif they arsts you you say you ain't 'ad nothing to eat since las' nightand 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 girldrew near he stopped altogether and touched his cap. Dickie, quick toimitate, 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'sa '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 itwas, and struck to her innards. She died in the infirmary. Three monthsago 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'tget 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'lllie 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'ssilver--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 whatstore I sets by it. "

"A shillin's a lot, I grant you that, " said Beale eagerly; "but Iwouldn't go to take away the nipper's little bit o' pleasure, not forno shilling I wouldn't, " he ended nobly, with a fond look at Dickie. 

[Illustration: "'IT ONLY PAWNS FOR A SHILLIN', ' SAID DICKIE"

[_Page 37_]

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

"Yes, isn't he, mother?" said the little girl. "May I give the littleboy 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 suchglances as might pass between two actors as the curtain goes down on asuccessful dramatic performance. 

"You did that bit fine, " said Beale--"fine, you did. You been therebefore, ain't ye?"

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

"You stick to that, " said Beale, radiant with delight; "you're a fairmasterpiece, you are; you earned it honest if ever a kid done. Pats youon 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 gethalf a crown and a penny out of the charitable; and far from beingashamed of their acts, they were bubbling over with merriment anddelight at their own cleverness. Please do not be too shocked. Rememberthat neither of them knew any better. To the elder tramp lies andbegging were natural means of livelihood. To the little tramp thewhole 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 thisrate. "

"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 thisain't, not by no means. There's a 'aystack a bit out of the town, if Iremember right. Come on, mate. "

And Dickie for the first time slept out-of-doors. Have you ever sleptout-of-doors? The night is full of interesting little sounds that willnot, at first, let you sleep--the rustle of little wild things in thehedges, the barking of dogs in distant farms, the chirp of crickets andthe croaking of frogs. And in the morning the birds wake you, and youcurl down warm among the hay and look up at the sky that is growinglighter and lighter, and breathe the chill, sweet air, and go to sleepagain wondering how you have ever been able to lie of nights in one ofthose shut-up boxes with holes in them which we call houses. 

The new game of begging and inventing stories to interest the peoplefrom whom it was worth while to beg went on gaily, day by day and weekby week; and Dickie, by constant practice, grew so clever at taking hispart 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 manwho got up suddenly out of the hedge and said he'd been hanging off andon expecting them for nigh on a week, Mr. Beale sent Dickie into a fieldto look for mushrooms--which didn't grow there--expressly that he mighthave a private conversation with the red-whiskered man--a conversationwhich 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 nobloomin' 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 agaff any day to 'ear 'im. My word! I ain't sure as I 'adn't better stickto 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 'edoesn'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 itspoils 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 mansaid quite crossly--

"Seems to me you're a bit dotty about this 'ere extry double nipper. Inever knew you took like it afore. "

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

"I 'ope 'e's clever enough to do wot 'e's told. Keep 'is mugshut--that's all. "

"He's clever enough for hanythink, " said Beale, "and close as wax. 'E'sgot a silver toy 'idden away somewhere--it only pops for a bob--andd'you think 'e'll tell me where it's stowed? Not 'im, and us such palsas never was, and 'is jaw wagging all day long. But 'e's never let itout. "

"Oh, stow it!" said the other impatiently; "I don't want to 'ear no moreabout 'im. If 'e's straight 'e'll do for me, and if he ain't I'll dofor 'im. See? An' now you and me'll have a word or two particler, andsettle up about this 'ere job. I got the plan drawed out. It's a easyjob as ever I see. Seems to me Tuesday's as good a day as any. Tip-topper--Sir Edward Talbot, that's 'im--'e's in furrin parts for 'is'ealth, 'e is. Comes 'ome end o' next month. Little surprise for 'im, eh? You'll 'ave to train it. Abrams 'e'll be there Monday. And see 'ere. . . " He sank his voice to a whisper. 

When Dickie came back, without mushrooms, the red-whiskered man wasgone. 

"See that bloke just now?" said Mr. Beale. 

"Yuss, " said Dickie. 

"Well, you never see 'im. If any one arsts you if you ever see 'im, younever set eyes on 'im in all your born--not to remember 'im. Might apassed 'im in a crowd--see?"

"Yuss, " said Dickie again. 

"'Tasn't been 'arf a panto neither! Us two on the road, " Mr. Beale wenton. 

"Not 'arf!"

"Well, now we're a-goin' in the train like dooks--an' after that we'rea-goin' to 'ave a rare old beano. I give you _my_ word!"

Dickie was full of questions, but Mr. Beale had no answers for them. "You jes' wait;" "hold on a bit;" "them as lives longest seesmost"--these were the sort of remarks which were all that Dickie couldget out of him. 

It was not the next day, which was a Saturday, that they took the trainlike dukes. Nor was it Sunday, on which they took a rest and washedtheir shirts, according to Mr. Beale's rule of life. 

They took the train on Monday, and it landed them in a very bright townby the sea. Its pavements were of red brick and its houses of whitestone, and its bow-windows and balconies were green, and Dickie thoughtit was the prettiest town in the world. They did not stay there, butwalked out across the downs, where the skylarks were singing, and on adip of the downs came upon great stone walls and towers very strong andgray. 

"What's that there?" said Dickie. 

"It's a carstle--like wot the King's got at Windsor. "

"Is it a king as lives 'ere, then?" Dickie asked. 

"No! Nobody don't live 'ere, mate, " said Mr. Beale. "It's a ruin, thisis. Only howls and rats lives in ruins. "

"Did any one ever live in it?"

"I shouldn't wonder, " said Mr. Beale indifferently. "Yes, course theymust 'ave, come to think of it. But you learned all that at school. It'swhat they call 'ist'ry. "

Dickie, after some reflection, said, "D'jever 'ear of Here Ward?"

"I knowed a Jake Ward wunst. "

"Here Ward the Wake. He ain't a bloke you'd know--_'e's_ in 'istry. Tellyou if you like. "

The tale of Hereward the Wake lasted till the jolting perambulator cameto anchor in a hollow place among thick furze bushes. The bare, thickstems of the furze held it up like a roof over their heads as they sat. It was like a little furze house. 

Next morning Mr. Beale shaved, a thing he had not done since they leftLondon. Dickie held the mug and the soap. It was great fun, and, afterwards, Mr. Beale looked quite different. That was great fun too. And he got quite a different set of clothes out of his bundles, and putthem on. And that was the greatest fun of all. 

"Now, then, " he said, "we're a-goin' to lay low 'ere all d'y, we are. And then come evening we're a-goin' to 'ave our beano. That red'eadedchap wot you never see 'e'll lift you up to a window what's got bars toit, and you'll creep through, you being so little, and you'll go soft'sa mouse the way I'll show you, and undo the side-door. There's a key anda chain and a bottom bolt. The top bolt's cut through, and all theothers is oiled. That won't frighten you, will it?"

"No, " said Dickie. "What should it frighten me for?"

"Well, it's like this, " said Mr. Beale a little embarrassed. "Supposeyou was to get pinched?"

"What 'ud pinch me? A dawg?"

"There won't be no dawg. A man, or a lady, or somebody in the 'ouse. Supposen they was to nab you--what 'ud you say?"

Dickie was watching his face carefully. 

"Whatever you tells me to say, " he said. 

The man slapped his leg gently. 

"If that ain't the nipper all over! Well, if they was to nab you, youjust say what I tells you to. And then, first chance you get, you slipaway from 'em and go to the station. An' if they comes arter you, yousay you're a-goin' to your father at Dover. And first chance you get youslip off, and you come to that 'ouse where you and me slep' atGravesend. I've got the dibs for yer ticket done up in this 'ere beltI'm a-goin' to put on you. But don't you let on to any one it'sGravesend you're a-coming to. See?"

"An' if I don't get pinched?"

"Then you just opens the door and me and that redheaded bloke we comesin. "

"What for?" asked Dickie. 

"To look for some tools 'e mislaid there a year ago when 'e was on aplumbing job--and they won't let 'im 'ave them back, not by fair means, they won't. That's what for. "

"Rats!" said Dickie briefly. "I ain't a baby. It's burgling, that's whatit is. "

"You'll a jolly sight too fond of calling names, " said Beale anxiously. "Never mind what it is. You be a good boy, matey, and do what you'retold. That's what you do. You know 'ow to stick it on if you're pinched. If you ain't you just lay low till we comes out with the ... Theplumber's tools. See?"

"And if I'm nabbed, what is it I am to say?"

"You must let on as a strange chap collared you on the road, a strangechap with a black beard and a red 'ankercher, and give you a licking ifyou didn't go and climb in at the window. Say you lost your father inthe town, and this chap said he knew where 'e was, and if you see me youdon't know me. Nor yet that redheaded chap wot you never see. " He lookeddown at the small, earnest face turned up to his own. "You _are_ alittle nipper, " he said affectionately. "I don't know as I ever noticedbefore quite wot a little 'un you was. Think you can stick it? Youshan't go without you wants to, matey. There!"

"It's splendid!" said Dickie; "it is an adventure for a bold knight. Ishall feel like Here Ward when he dressed in the potter's clothes andwent to see King William. "

He spoke in the book voice. 

"There you go, " said Mr. Beale, "but don't you go and talk to 'em likethat if they pinches you; they'd never let you loose again. Think they'dgot a marquis in disguise, so they would. "

Dickie thought all day about this great adventure. He did not tell Mr. Beale so, but he was very proud of being so trusted. If you come tothink of it, burgling must be a very exciting profession. And Dickie hadno idea that it was wrong. It seemed to him a wholly delightful andsporting amusement. 

While he was exploring the fox-runs among the thick stems of the grassMr. Beale lay at full length and pondered. 

"I don't more'n 'arf like it, " he said to himself. "Ho yuss. I knowthat's wot I got him for--all right. But 'e's such a jolly littlenipper. I wouldn't like anything to 'appen to 'im, so I wouldn't. "

Dickie took his boots off and went to sleep as usual, and in the middleof the night Mr. Beale woke him up and said, "It's time. "

There was no moon that night, and it was very, very dark. Mr. Bealecarried Dickie on his back for what seemed a very long way along darkroads, under dark trees, and over dark meadows. A dark bush divideditself into two parts and one part came surprisingly towards them. Itturned out to be the red-whiskered man, and presently from a ditchanother man came. And they all climbed a chill, damp park-fence, andcrept along among trees and shrubs along the inside of a high park wall. Dickie, still on Mr. Beale's shoulders, was astonished to find howquietly this big, clumsy-looking man could move. 

Through openings in the trees and bushes Dickie could see the wide park, like a spread shadow, dotted with trees that were like shadows too. Andon the other side of it the white face of a great house showed only alittle paler than the trees about it. There were no lights in the house. 

They got quite close to it before the shelter of the trees ended, for alittle wood lay between the wall and the house. 

Dickie's heart was beating very fast. Quite soon, now, his part in theadventure would begin. 

"'Ere--catch 'old, " Mr. Beale was saying, and the red-whiskered man tookDickie in his arms, and went forward. The other two crouched in thewood. 

Dickie felt himself lifted, and caught at the window-sill with hishands. It was a damp night and smelled of earth and dead leaves. Thewindow-sill was of stone, very cold. Dickie knew exactly what to do. Mr. Beale had explained it over and over again all day. He settled himselfon the broad window-ledge and held on to the iron window-bars while thered-whiskered man took out a pane of glass, with treacle and ahandkerchief, so that there should be no noise of breaking or fallingglass. Then Dickie put his hand through and unfastened the window, whichopened like a cupboard door. Then he put his feet through the narrowspace between two bars and slid through. He hung inside with his handsholding the bars, till his foot found the table that he had been told toexpect just below, and he got from that to the floor. 

"Now I must remember exactly which way to go, " he told himself. But hedid not need to remember what he had been told. For quite certainly, andmost oddly, he _knew_ exactly where the door was, and when he had creptto it and got it open he found that he now knew quite well which way toturn and what passages to go along to get to that little side-door thathe was to open for the three men. It was exactly as though he had beenthere before, in a dream. He went as quietly as a mouse, creeping onhands and knee, the lame foot dragging quietly behind him. 

I will not pretend that he was not frightened. He was, very. But he wasmore brave than he was frightened, which is the essence of bravery, after all. He found it difficult to breathe quietly, and his heart beatso loudly that he felt almost sure that if any people were awake in thehouse they would hear it, even up-stairs in their beds. But he got tothe little side-door, and feeling with sensitive, quick fingers foundthe well-oiled bolt, and shot it back. Then the chain--holding the looseloop of it in his hand so that it should not rattle, he slipped its ballfrom the socket. Only the turning of the key remained, and Dickieaccomplished that with both hands, for it was a big key, kneeling on hisone sound knee. Then very gently he turned the handle, and pulled--andthe door opened, and he crept from behind it and felt the cool, sweetair of the night on his face. 

It seemed to him that he had never known what silence was before--ordarkness. For the door opened into a close box arbor, and no sky couldbe seen, or any shapes of things. Dickie felt himself almost burstingwith pride. What an adventure! And he had carried out his part of itperfectly. He had done exactly what he had been told to do, and he haddone it well. He stood there, on his one useful foot, clinging to theedge of the door, and it was not until something touched him that heknew that Mr. Beale and the other men were creeping through the doorthat he had opened. 

And at that touch a most odd feeling came to Dickie--the last feeling hewould have expected--a feeling of pride mixed with a feeling of shame. Pride in his own cleverness, and another kind of pride that made thatcleverness seem shameful. He had a feeling, very queer and very strong, that he, Dickie, was not the sort of person to open doors for theletting in of burglars. He felt as you would feel if you suddenly foundyour hands covered with filth, not good honest dirt, but slimy filth, and would not understand how you could have let it get there. 

He caught at the third shape that brushed by him. 

"Father, " he whispered, "don't do it. Go back, and I'll fasten it all upagain. Oh! don't, father. "

"Shut your mug!" whispered the red-whiskered man. Dickie knew his voiceeven in that velvet-black darkness. "Shut your mug, or I'll give youwhat for!"

"Don't, father, " said Dickie, and said it all the more for that threat. 

"I can't go back on my pals, matey, " said Mr. Beale; "you see that, don't yer?"

Dickie did see. The adventure was begun: it was impossible to stop. Itwas helped and had to be eaten, as they say in Norfolk. He crouchedbehind the open door, and heard the soft pad-pad of the three men's feeton the stones of the passage grow fainter and fainter. They had woolensocks over their boots, which made their footsteps sound no louder thanthose of padded pussy-feet. Then the soft rustle-pad died away, and itwas perfectly quiet, perfectly dark. Dickie was tired; it was long pasthis proper bedtime, and the exertion of being so extra clever had beenvery tiring. He was almost asleep when a crack like thunder brought himstark, staring awake--there was a noise of feet on the stairs, boots, ablundering, hurried rush. People came rushing past him. There wasanother sharp thunder sound and a flash like lightning, only muchsmaller. Some one tripped and fell; there was a clatter like pails, andsomething hard and smooth hit him on the knee. Then another hurriedpresence dashed past him into the quiet night. Another--No! there was awoman's voice. 

"Edward, you shan't! Let them go! You shan't--no!"

And suddenly there was a light that made one wink and blink. A tall ladyin white, carrying a lamp, swept down the stairs and caught at a man whosprang into being out of the darkness into the lamplight. 

"Take the lamp, " she said, and thrust it on him. Then with unbelievablequickness she bolted and chained the door, locked it, and, turning, sawDickie. 

"What's this?" she said. "Oh, Edward, quick--here's one of them! . . . Why--it's a child----"

Some more people were coming down the stairs, with candles and excitedvoices. Their clothes were oddly bright. Dickie had never seendressing-gowns before. They moved in a very odd way, and then began togo round and round like tops. 

The next thing that Dickie remembers is being in a room that seemed fullof people and lights and wonderful furniture, with some one holding aglass to his lips, a little glass, that smelled of public-houses, verynasty. 

"No!" said Dickie, turning away his head. 

"Better?" asked a lady; and Dickie was astonished to find that he was onher lap. 

"Yes, thank you, " he said, and tried to sit up, but lay back againbecause that was so much more pleasant. He had had no idea that anyone's lap could be so comfortable. 

"Now, young man, " said a stern voice that was not a lady's, "just youtell us how you came here, and who put you up to it. "

"I got in, " said Dickie feebly, "through the butler's pantry window, "and as he said it he wondered how he had known that it was the butler'spantry. It is certain that no one had told him. 

"What for?" asked the voice, which Dickie now perceived came from agentleman in rumpled hair and a very loose pink flannel suit, withcordy things on it such as soldiers have. 

"To let----" Dickie stopped. This was the moment he had been socarefully prepared for. He must think what he was saying. 

"Yes, " said the lady gently, "it's all right--poor little chap, don't befrightened--nobody wants to hurt you!"

"I'm not frightened, " said Dickie--"not now. "

"To let----?" reminded the lady, persuasively. 

"To let the man in. "

"What man?"

"I dunno. "

"There were three or four of them, " said the gentleman in pink; "four orfive----"

"What man, dear?" the lady asked again. 

"The man as said 'e knew w'ere my farver was, " said Dickie, rememberingwhat he had been told to say; "so I went along of 'im, an' then in thewood 'e said 'e'd give me a dressing down if I didn't get through thewinder and open the door; 'e said 'e'd left some tools 'ere and youwouldn't let 'im 'ave them. "

"You see, " said the lady, "the child didn't know. He's perfectlyinnocent. " And she kissed Dickie's hair very softly and kindly. 

Dickie did not understand then why he suddenly felt as though he weregoing to choke. His head felt as though it were going to burst. His earsgrew very hot, and his hands and feet very cold. 

"I know'd right enough, " he said suddenly and hoarsely; "an' I needn'ta-gone if I 'adn't wanted to. "

"He's feverish, " said the lady, "he doesn't know what he's saying. Lookhow flushed he is. "

"I wanted to, " said Dickie; "I thought it 'ud be a lark. And it wastoo. "

He expected to be shaken and put down. He wondered where his crutch was. Mr. Beale had had it under his arm. How could he get to Gravesendwithout a crutch? But he wasn't shaken or put down; instead, the ladygathered him up in her arms and stood up, holding him. 

"I shall put him to bed, " she said; "you shan't ask him any morequestions to-night. There's time enough in the morning. "

She carried Dickie out of the drawing-room and away from the otherpeople to a big room with blue walls and blue and gray curtains andbeautiful furniture. There was a high four-post bed with blue silkcurtains and more pillows than Dickie had ever seen before. The ladywashed him with sweet-smelling water in a big basin with blue and goldflowers on it, dressed him in a lace-trimmed nightgown, which must havebeen her own, for it was much too big for any little boy. 

Then she put him into the soft, warm bed that was like a giant's pillow, tucked him up and kissed him. Dickie put thin arms round her neck. 

"I do like you, " he said, "but I want farver. "

"Where is he? No, you must tell me that in the morning. Drink up thismilk"--she had it ready in a glass that sparkled in a pattern--"and thengo sound asleep. Everything will be all right, dear. "

"May Heavens, " said Dickie, sleepily, "bless you, generous BeanFactress!"

 * * * * *

"A most extraordinary child, " said the lady, returning to her husband. "I can't think who it is that he reminds me of. Where are the others?"

"I packed them off to bed. There's nothing to be done, " said herhusband. "We ought to have gone after those men. "

"They didn't get anything, " she said. 

"No--dropped it all when I fired. Come on, let's turn in. Poor Eleanor, you must be worn out. "

"Edward, " said the lady, "I wish we could adopt that little boy. I'msure he comes of good people--he's been kidnapped or something. "

"Don't be a dear silly one!" said Sir Edward. 

 * * * * *

That night Dickie slept in sheets of the finest linen, scented withlavender. He was sunk downily among pillows, and over him lay a downquilt covered with blue-flowered satin. On the foot-board of the greatbed was carved a shield and a great dog on it. 

Dickie's clothes lay, a dusty, forlorn little heap, in a statelytapestry-covered chair. And he slept, and dreamed of Mr. Beale, and thelittle house among the furze, and the bed with the green curtains. 

CHAPTER III

THE ESCAPE

WHEN Lady Talbot leaned over the side of the big bed to awaken DickieHarding she wished with all her heart that she had just such a littleboy of her own; and when Dickie awoke and looked in her kind eyes hefelt quite sure that if he had had a mother she would have been likethis lady. 

"Only about the face, " he told himself, "not the way she's got up; noryet her hair nor nuffink of that sort. "

"Did you sleep well?" she asked him, stroking his hair withextraordinary gentleness. 

"A fair treat, " said he. 

"Was your bed comfortable?"

"Ain't it soft, neither, " he answered. "I don't know as ever I felt ofanythink quite as soft without it was the geese as 'angs up along theBroadway Christmas-time. "

"Why, the bed's made of goose-feathers, " she said, and Dickie wasdelighted by the coincidence. 

"'Ave you got e'er a little boy?" he asked, pursuing his first wakingthought. 

"No, dear; if I had I could lend you some of his clothes. As it is, weshall have to put you into your own. " She spoke as though she weresorry. 

Dickie saw no matter for regret. "My father 'e bought me a little coatfor when it was cold of a night lying out. "

"Lying out? Where?"

"In the bed with the green curtains, " said Dickie. This led to HereWard, and Dickie would willingly have told the whole story of that heroin full detail, but the lady said after breakfast, and now it was timefor our bath. And sure enough there was a bath of steaming water beforethe fireplace, which was in quite another part of the room, so thatDickie had not noticed the cans being brought in by a maid in a pinkprint dress and white cap and apron. 

"Come, " said the lady, turning back the bed-clothes. 

Somehow Dickie could not bear to let that lady see him crawl clumsilyacross the floor, as he had to do when he moved without his crutch. Itwas not because he thought she would make fun of him; perhaps it wasbecause he knew she would not. And yet without his crutch, how else washe to get to that bath? And for no reason that he could have given hebegan to cry. 

The lady's arms were round him in an instant. 

"What is it, dear? Whatever is it?" she asked; and Dickie sobbed out--

"I ain't got my crutch, and I can't go to that there barf without I gotit. Anything 'ud do--if 'twas only an old broom cut down to me 'eighth. I'm a cripple, they call it, you see. I can't walk like wot you can. "

She carried him to the bath. There was scented soap, there was a sponge, and a warm, fluffy towel. 

"I ain't had a barf since Gravesend, " said Dickie, and flushed at theindiscretion. 

"Since _when_, dear?"

"Since Wednesday, " said Dickie anxiously. 

He and the lady had breakfast together in a big room with long windowsthat the sun shone in at, and, outside, a green garden. There were a lotof things to eat in silver dishes, and the very eggs had silver cups tosit in, and all the spoons and forks had dogs scratched on them like theone that was carved on the foot-board of the bed up-stairs. All exceptthe little slender spoon that Dickie had to eat his egg with. And onthat there was no dog, but something quite different. 

"Why, " said he, his face brightening with joyous recognition, "myTinkler's got this on it--just the very moral of it, so 'e 'as. "

Then he had to tell all about Tinkler, and the lady looked thoughtfuland interested; and when the gentleman came in and kissed her, and said, How were we this morning, Dickie had to tell about Tinkler all overagain; and then the lady said several things very quickly, beginningwith, "I told you so, Edward, " and ending with "I knew he wasn't acommon child. "

Dickie missed the middle part of what she said because of the way hisegg behaved, suddenly bursting all down one side and running over intothe salt, which, of course, had to be stopped at all costs by some meansor other. The tongue was the easiest. 

The gentleman laughed. "Weh! don't eat the egg-cup, " he said. "We shallwant it again. Have another egg. "

But Dickie's pride was hurt, and he wouldn't. The gentleman must be verystupid, he thought, not to know the difference between licking andeating. And as if anybody could eat an egg-cup, anyhow! He was glad whenthe gentleman went away. 

After breakfast Dickie was measured for a crutch--that is to say, abroom was held up beside him and a piece cut off its handle. Then thelady wrapped flannel around the hairy part of the broom and sewed blackvelvet over that. It was a beautiful crutch, and Dickie said so. Alsohe showed his gratitude by inviting the lady to look "'ow spry 'e was on'is pins, " but she only looked a very little while, and then turned andgazed out of the window. So Dickie had a good look at the room and thefurniture--it was all different from anything he ever remembered seeing, and yet he couldn't help thinking he had seen them before, thesehigh-backed chairs covered with flowers, like on carpets; the carvedbookcases with rows on rows of golden-beaded books; the bow-fronted, shining sideboard, with handles that shone like gold, and the cornercupboard with glass doors and china inside, red and blue and goldy. Itwas a very odd feeling. I don't think that I can describe it better thanby saying that he looked at all these things with a double pleasure--thepleasure of looking at new and beautiful things, and the pleasure ofseeing again things old and beautiful which he had not seen for a verylong time. 

His limping survey of the room ended at the windows, when the ladyturned suddenly, knelt down, put her hand under his chin and looked intohis eyes. 

"Dickie, " she said, "how would you like to stay here and be _my_ littleboy?"

"I'd like it right enough, " said he, "only I got to go back to father. "

"But if father says you may?"

"'E won't, " said Dickie, with certainty, "an' besides, there's Tinkler. "

"Well, you're to stay here and be my little boy till we find out wherefather is. We shall let the police know. They're sure to find him. "

"The pleece!" Dickie cried in horror. "Why, father, 'e ain't donenothing. "

"No, no, of course not, " said the lady in a hurry; "but the police knowall sorts of things--about where people are, I know, and what they'redoing--even when they haven't _done_ anything. "

"The pleece knows a jolly sight too much, " said Dickie, in gloom. 

And now all Dickie's little soul was filled with one longing; all hislittle brain awake to one only thought: the police were to be set on thetrack of Beale, the man whom he called father; the man who had been kindto him, had wheeled him in a perambulator for miles and miles throughenchanted country; the man who had bought him a little coat "to put ono' nights if it was cold or wet"; the man who had shown him thewonderful world to which he awakens who has slept in the bed with thegreen curtains. 

The lady's house was more beautiful than anything he had everimagined--yet not more beautiful than certain things that he almostimagined that he remembered. The lady was better than beautiful, shewas dear. Her eyes were the eyes to which it is good to laugh--her armswere the arms in which it is good to cry. The tree-dotted parkland wasto Dickie the Land of Heart's Desire. 

But father--Beale--who had been kind, whom Dickie loved!... 

The lady left him alone with a book, beautiful beyond his dreams--threegreat volumes with pictures of things that had happened and been sincethe days of Hereward himself. The author's charming name was Green, andrecalled curtains and nights under the stars. 

But even those beautiful pictures could not keep Dickie's thoughts fromMr. Beale: "father" by adoption and love. If the police were set to findout "where he was and what he was doing?"... Somehow or other Dickiemust get to Gravesend, to that house where there had been a bath, orsomething like it, in a pail, and where kindly tramp-people had toastedherrings and given apples to little boys who helped. 

He had helped then. And by all the laws of fair play there ought to besome one now to help him. 

The beautiful book lay on the table before him, but he no longer saw it. He no longer cared for it. All he cared for was to find a friend whowould help him. And he found one. And the friend who helped him was anenemy. 

The smart, pink-frocked, white-capped, white-aproned maid, who, unseenby Dickie, had brought the bath-water and the bath, came in with aduster. She looked malevolently at Dickie. 

"Shovin' yourself in, " she said rudely. 

"I ain't, " said he. 

"If she wants to make a fool of a kid, ain't I got clever brothers andsisters?" inquired the maid, her chin in the air. 

"Nobody says you ain't, and nobody ain't makin' a fool of me, " saidDickie. 

"Ho no. Course they ain't, " the maid rejoined. "People comes 'erewithout e'er a shirt to their backs and makes fools of their betters. That's the way it is, ain't it? Ain't she arst you to stay and be 'erlittle boy?"

"Yes, " said Dickie. 

"Ah, I thought she 'ad, " said the maid triumphantly; "and you'll stay. But if I'm expected to call you Master Whatever-your-silly-name-is, Igives a month's warning, so I tell you straight. "

"I don't want to stay, " said Dickie--"at least----"

"Oh, tell me another, " said the girl impatiently, and left him, withouthaving made the slightest use of the duster. 

Dickie was taken for a drive in a little carriage drawn by acream-colored pony with a long tail--a perfect dream of a pony, and thelady allowed him to hold the reins. But even amid this delight heremembered to ask whether she had put the police on to father yet, andwas relieved to hear that she had not. 

It was Markham who was told to wash Dickie's hands when the drive wasover, and Markham was the enemy with the clever brothers and sisters. 

"Wash 'em yourself, " she said among the soap and silver and marble andsponges. "It ain't my work. "

"You'd better, " said Dickie, "or the lady'll know the difference. Itain't my work neither, and I ain't so used to washing as what you are, and that's the truth. "

So she washed him, not very gently. 

"It's no use your getting your knife into me, " he said as the towel wasplied. "I didn't _arst_ to come 'ere, did I?"

"No, you little thief!"

"Stow that!" said Dickie, and after a quick glance at his set lips shesaid, "Well, next door to, anyhow. I should be ashamed to show my face'ere, if I was you, after last night. There, you're dry now. Cut alongdown to the dining-room. The servants' hall's good enough for honestpeople as don't break into houses. "

All through that day of wonder, which included real roses that you couldpick and smell and real gooseberries that you could gather and eat, aswell as picture-books, a clockwork bear, a musical box, and a doll'shouse almost as big as a small villa, an idea kept on hammering at theother side of a locked door in Dickie's mind, and when he was in bed itgot the door open and came out and looked at him. And he recognized itat once as a really useful idea. 

"Markham will bring you some warm milk. Drink it up and sleep well, darling, " said the lady; and with the idea very near and plain he puthis arms round her neck and hugged her. 

"Good-bye, " he said; "you _are_ good. I do love you. " The lady went awayvery pleased. 

When Markham came with the milk Dickie said, "You want me gone, don'tyou?"

Markham said she didn't care. 

"Well, but how am I to get away--with my crutch?"

"Mean to say you'd cut and run if you was the same as me--about thelegs, I mean?"

"Yes, " said Dickie. 

"And not nick anything?"

"Not a bloomin' thing, " said he. 

"Well, " said Markham, "you've got a spirit, I will say that. "

"You see, " said Dickie, "I wants to get back to farver. "

"Bless the child, " said Markham, quite affected by this. 

"Why don't you help me get out? Once I was outside the park I'd do allright. "

"Much as my place is worth, " said Markham; "don't you say another wordgetting me into trouble. "

But Dickie said a good many other words, and fell asleep quite satisfiedwith the last words that had fallen from Markham. These words were:"We'll see. "

It was only just daylight when Markham woke him. She dressed himhurriedly, and carried him and his crutch down the back stairs and intothat very butler's pantry through whose window he had crept at thebidding of the red-haired man. No one else seemed to be about. 

"Now, " she said, "the gardener he has got a few hampers ready--fruit andflowers and the like--and he drives 'em to the station 'fore any one'sup. They'd only go to waste if 'e wasn't to sell 'em. See? An' he's aparticular friend of mine; and he won't mind an extry hamper more orless. So out with you. Joe, " she whispered, "you there?"

Joe, outside, whispered that he was. And Markham lifted Dickie to thewindow. As she did so she kissed him. 

"Cheer-oh, old chap!" she said. "I'm sorry I was so short. An' you dowant to get out of it, don't you?"

"No error, " said Dickie; "an' I'll never split about him selling thevegetables and things. "

"You're too sharp to live, " Markham declared; and next moment he wasthrough the window, and Joe was laying him in a long hamper half-filledwith straw that stood waiting. 

"I'll put you in the van along with the other hampers, " whispered Joe ashe shut the lid. "Then when you're in the train you just cut the stringwith this 'ere little knife I'll make you a present of and out you gets. I'll make it all right with the guard. He knows me. And he'll put youdown at whatever station you say. "

"Here, don't forget 'is breakfast, " said Markham, reaching her armthrough the window. It was a wonderful breakfast. Five cold rissoles, alot of bread and butter, two slices of cake, and a bottle of milk. Andit was fun eating agreeable and unusual things, lying down in the roomyhamper among the smooth straw. The jolting of the cart did not worryDickie at all. He was used to the perambulator; and he ate as much as hewanted to eat, and when that was done he put the rest in his pocket andcurled up comfortably in the straw, for there was still quite a lot leftof what ordinary people consider night, and also there was quite a lotleft of the sleepiness with which he had gone to bed at the end of thewonderful day. It was not only just body-sleepiness: the kind you getafter a long walk or a long play day. It was mind-sleepiness--Dickie hadgone through so much in the last thirty-six hours that his poor littlebrain felt quite worn out. He fell asleep among the straw, fingering theclasp-knife in his pocket, and thinking how smartly he would cut thestring when the time came. 

[Illustration: "THREE OR FOUR FACES LOOKED DOWN AT DICKIE"

[_Page 70_]

And he slept for a very long time. Such a long time that when he didwake up there was no longer any need to cut the string of the hamper. Some one else had done that, and the lid of the basket was open, andthree or four faces looked down at Dickie, and a girl's voice said--

"Why, it's a little boy! And a crutch--oh, dear!" Dickie sat up. Thelittle crutch, which was lying corner-wise above him in the hamper, jerked out and rattled on the floor. 

"Well, I never did--never!" said another voice. "Come out, dearie; don'tbe frightened. "

"How kind people are!" Dickie thought, and reached his hands to slenderwhite hands that were held out to him. A lady in black--her figure wasas slender as her hands--drew him up, put her arms round him, and liftedhim on to a black bentwood chair. 

His eyes, turning swiftly here and there, showed him that he was in ashop--a shop full of flowers and fruit. 

"Mr. Rosenberg, " said the slender lady--"oh, do come here, please! Thisextra hamper----"

A dark, handsome, big-nosed man came towards them. 

"It's a dear little boy, " said the slender lady, who had a pale, kindface, dark eyes, and very red lips. 

"It'th a practical joke, I shuppothe, " said the dark man. "Our gardeningfriend wanth a liththon: and I'll thee he getth it. "

"It wasn't his fault, " said Dickie, wriggling earnestly in his highchair; "it was my fault. I fell asleep. "

The girls crowded round him with questions and caresses. 

"I ought to have cut the string in the train and told the guard--he's afriend of the gardener's, " he said, "but I was asleep. I don't know asever I slep' so sound afore. Like as if I'd had sleepy-stuff--you know. Like they give me at the orspittle. "

I should not like to think that Markham had gone so far as to put"sleepy-stuff" in that bottle of milk; but I am afraid she was not veryparticular, and she may have thought it best to send Dickie to sleep sothat he could not betray her or her gardener friend until he was veryfar away from both of them. 

"But why, " asked the long-nosed gentleman--"why put boyth in bathketth?Upthetting everybody like thith, " he added crossly. 

"It was, " said Dickie slowly, "a sort of joke. I don't want to goupsetting of people. If you'll lift me down and give me me crutch I'll'ook it. "

But the young ladies would not hear of his hooking it. 

"We may keep him, mayn't we, Mr. Rosenberg?" they said; and he judgedthat Mr. Rosenberg was a kind man or they would not have dared to speakso to him; "let's keep him till closing-time, and then one of us willsee him home. He lives in London. He says so. "

Dickie had indeed murmured "words to this effect, " as policemen call itwhen they are not quite sure what people really _have_ said. 

"Ath you like, " said Mr. Rosenberg, "only you muthn't let him interferewith bithneth; thath all. "

They took him away to the back of the shop. They were dear girls, andthey were very nice to Dickie. They gave him grapes, and a banana, andsome Marie biscuits, and they folded sacks for him to lie on. 

And Dickie liked them and was grateful to them--and watched hisopportunity. Because, however kind people were, there was one thing hehad to do--to get back to the Gravesend lodging-house, as his "father"had told him to do. 

The opportunity did not come till late in the afternoon, when one of thegirls was boiling a kettle on a spirit-lamp, and one had gone out to getcakes in Dickie's honor, which made him uncomfortable, but duty is duty, and over the Gravesend lodging-house the star of duty shone andbeckoned. The third young lady and Mr. Rosenberg were engaged inanimated explanations with a fair young gentleman about a basket ofroses that had been ordered, and had not been sent. 

"Cath, " Mr. Rosenberg was saying--"cath down enthureth thpeedydelivery. "

And the young lady was saying, "I am extremely sorry, sir; it was amisunderstanding. "

And to the music of their two voices Dickie edged along close to thegrapes and melons, holding on to the shelf on which they lay so as notto attract attention by the tap-tapping of his crutch. 

He passed silently and slowly between the rose-filled window and theheap of bananas that adorned the other side of the doorway, turned thecorner, threw his arm over his crutch, and legged away for dear lifedown a sort of covered Arcade; turned its corner and found himself in awilderness of baskets and carts and vegetables, threaded his way throughthem, in and out among the baskets, over fallen cabbage-leaves, underhorses' noses, found a quiet street, a still quieter archway, pulledout the knife--however his adventure ended he was that knife to thegood--and prepared to cut the money out of the belt Mr. Beale hadbuckled round him. 

And the belt was not there! Had he dropped it somewhere? Or had he andMarkham, in the hurry of that twilight dressing, forgotten to put it on?He did not know. All he knew was that the belt was not on him, and thathe was alone in London, without money, and that at Gravesend his fatherwas waiting for him--waiting, waiting. Dickie knew what it meant towait. 

He went out into the street, and asked the first good-natured-lookingloafer he saw the way to Gravesend. 

"Way to your grandmother, " said the loafer; "don't you come saucing ofme. "

"But which is the way?" said Dickie. 

The man looked hard at him and then pointed with a grimy thumb over hisshoulder. 

"It's thirty mile if it's a yard, " he said. "Got any chink?"

"I lost it, " said Dickie. "My farver's there awaitin' for me. "

"Garn!" said the man; "you don't kid me so easy. "

"I ain't arstin' you for anything except the way, " said Dickie. 

"More you ain't, " said the man, hesitated, and pulled his hand out ofhis pocket. "Ain't kiddin'? Sure? Father at Gravesend? Take your Bible?"

"Yuss, " said Dickie. 

"Then you take the first to the right and the first to the left, andyou'll get a blue 'bus as'll take you to the 'Elephant. ' That's a bit ofthe way. Then you arst again. And 'ere--this'll pay for the 'bus. " Heheld out coppers. 

This practical kindness went to Dickie's heart more than all the kissesof the young ladies in the flower-shop. The tears came into his eyes. 

"Well, you _are_ a pal, and no error, " he said. "Do the same for yousome day, " he added. 

The lounging man laughed. 

"I'll hold you to that, matey, " he said; "when you're a-ridin' in yercarriage an' pair p'raps you'll take me on ter be yer footman. "

"When I am, I will, " said Dickie, quite seriously. And then they bothlaughed. 

The "Elephant and Castle" marks but a very short stage of the weary waybetween London and Gravesend. When he got out of the tram Dickie askedthe way again, this time of a woman who was selling matches in thegutter. She pointed with the blue box she held in her hand. 

"It's a long way, " she said, in a tired voice; "nigh on thirty mile. "

"Thank you, missis, " said Dickie, and set out, quite simply, to walkthose miles--nearly thirty. The way lay down the Old Kent Road, andpresently Dickie was in familiar surroundings. For the Old Kent Roadleads into the New Cross Road, and that runs right through the yellowbrick wilderness where Dickie's aunt lived. He dared not follow the roadthrough those well-known scenes. At any moment he might meet his aunt. And if he met his aunt ... He preferred not to think of it. 

Outside the "Marquis of Granby" stood a van, and the horses' heads wereturned away from London. If one could get a lift? Dickie lookedanxiously to right and left, in front and behind. There were woodenboxes in the van, a lot of them, and on the canvas of the tilt waspainted in fat, white letters--

 +----------------+ | FRY'S TONIC | | | | THE ONLY CURE | +----------------+

There would be room on the top of the boxes--they did not reach withintwo feet of the tilt. 

Should he ask for a lift, when the carter came out of the "Marquis"? Orshould he, if he could, climb up and hide on the boxes and take hischance of discovery on the lift? He laid a hand on the tail-board. 

"Hi, Dickie!" said a voice surprisingly in his ear; "that you?"

Dickie owned that it was, with the feeling of a trapped wild animal, andturned and faced a boy of his own age, a schoolfellow--the one, in fact, who had christened him "Dot-and-go-one. "

"Oh, what a turn you give me!" he said; "thought you was my aunt. Don'tyou let on you seen me. "

"Where you been?" asked the boy curiously. 

"Oh, all about, " Dickie answered vaguely. "Don't you tell me aunt. "

"Yer aunt? Don't you know?" The boy was quite contemptuous with him fornot knowing. 

"Know? No. Know what?"

"She shot the moon--old Hurle moved her; says he don't remember whereto. She give him a pint to forget's what I say. "

"Who's livin' there now?" Dickie asked, interest in his aunt's addressswallowed up in a sudden desperate anxiety. 

"No one don't live there. It's shut up to let apply Roberts 796Broadway, " said the boy. "I say, what'll you do?"

"I don't know, " said Dickie, turning away from the van, which hadabruptly become unimportant. "Which way you goin'?"

"Down home--go past your old shop. Coming?"

"No, " said Dickie. "So long--see you again some day. I got to go thisway. " And he went it. 

All the same the twilight saw him creeping down the old road to thehouse whose back-yard had held the rabbit-hutch, the garden where he hadsowed the parrot food, and where the moonflowers had come up so whiteand beautiful. What a long time ago! It was only a month really, but allthe same, what a long time!

The news of his aunt's departure had changed everything. The steadfastdesire to get to Gravesend, to find his father, had given way, at anyrate for the moment, to a burning anxiety about Tinkler and the whitestone. Had his aunt found them and taken them away? If she hadn't andthey were still there, would it not be wise to get them at once? Becauseof course some one else might take the house and find the treasures. Yes, it would certainly be wise to go to-night, to get in by the frontwindow--the catch had always been broken--to find his treasures, or atany rate to make quite sure whether he had lost them or not. 

No one noticed him as he came down the street, very close to therailings. There are so many boys in the streets in that part of theworld. And the front window went up easily. He climbed in, dragging hiscrutch after him. 

He got up-stairs very quickly, on hands and knees, went straight to theloose board, dislodged it, felt in the hollow below. Oh, joy! His handsfound the soft bundle of rags that he knew held Tinkler and the seal. Heput them inside the front of his shirt and shuffled down. It was not toolate to do a mile or two of the Gravesend road. But the moonflower--hewould like to have one more look at that. 

He got out into the garden--there stood the stalk of the flower verytall in the deepening dusk. He touched the stalk. It was dry andhard--three or four little dry things fell from above and rattled on hishead. 

"Seeds, o' course, " said Dickie, who knew more about seeds now than hehad done when he saved the parrot seeds. One does not tramp the countryfor a month, at Dickie's age, without learning something about seeds. 

He got out the knife that should have cut the string of the basket inthe train, opened it and cut the stalk of the moonflower, very carefullyso that none of the seeds should be, and only a few were, lost. He creptinto the house holding the stalk upright and steady as an acolytecarries a processional cross. 

[Illustration: "HE MADE, WITH TRIPLE LINES OF SILVERY SEEDS, ASIX-POINTED STAR"

[_Page 81_]

The house was quite dark now, but a street lamp threw its light into thefront room, bare, empty, and dusty. There was a torn newspaper on thefloor. He spread a sheet of it out, kneeled by it and shook themoonflower head over it. The seeds came rattling out--dozens and dozensof them. They were bigger than sunflower seeds and flatter and rounder, and they shone like silver, or like the pods of the plant we callhonesty. 

"Oh, beautiful, beautiful!" said Dickie, letting the smooth shapes slidethrough his fingers. Have you ever played with mother-of-pearl cardcounters? The seeds of the moonflower were like those. 

He pulled out Tinkler and the seal and laid them on the heap of seeds. And then knew quite suddenly that he was too tired to travel any furtherthat night. 

"I'll doss here, " he said; "there's plenty papers"--he knew byexperience that, as bed-clothes, newspapers are warm, if noisy--"and geton in the morning afore people's up. "

He collected all the paper and straw--there was a good deal litteredabout in the house--and made a heap in the corner, out of the way of thewindow. He did not feel afraid of sleeping in an empty house, only verylordly and magnificent because he had a whole house to himself. Thefood still left in his pockets served for supper, and you could drinkquite well at the wash-house tap by putting your head under and turningit on very slowly. 

And for a final enjoyment he laid out his treasures on thenewspaper--Tinkler and the seal in the middle and the pearly countersarranged in patterns round them, circles and squares and oblongs. Theseeds lay very flat and fitted close together. They were excellent formaking patterns with. And presently he made, with triple lines ofsilvery seeds, a six-pointed star, something like this--

[Illustration]

 ^ / \ _____/___\_____ \ / \ / \ / \ / ^ ^ / \ / \ /___\_____/___\ \ / \ / v

with the rattle and the seal in the middle, and the light from thestreet lamp shone brightly on it all. 

"That's the prettiest of the lot, " said Dickie Harding, alone in theempty house. 

And then the magic began. 

CHAPTER IV

WHICH WAS THE DREAM?

THE two crossed triangles of white seeds, in the midst Tinkler and thewhite seal, lay on the floor of the little empty house, grew dim andfaint before Dickie's eyes, and his eyes suddenly smarted and felt tiredso that he was very glad to shut them. He had an absurd fancy that hecould see, through his closed eyelids, something moving in the middle ofthe star that the two triangles made. But he knew that this must benonsense, because, of course, you cannot see through your eyelids. Hiseyelids felt so heavy that he could not take the trouble to lift themeven when a voice spoke quite near him. He had no doubt but that it wasthe policeman come to "take him up" for being in a house that was nothis. 

"Let him, " said Dickie to himself. He was too sleepy to be afraid. 

But for a policeman, who is usually of quite a large pattern, the voicewas unusually soft and small. It said briskly--

"Now, then, where do you want to go to?"

"I ain't particular, " said Dickie, who supposed himself to be listeningto an offer of a choice of police-stations. 

There were whispers--two small and soft voices. They made a sleepymusic. 

"He's more yours than mine, " said one. 

"You're more his than I am, " said the other. 

"You're older than I am, " said the first. 

"You're stronger than I am, " said the second. 

"Let's spin for it, " said the first voice, and there was a humming soundending in a little tinkling fall. 

"That settles it, " said the second voice--"here?"

"And when?"

"Three's a good number. "

Then everything was very quiet, and sleep wrapped Dickie like a softcloak. When he awoke his eyelids no longer felt heavy, so he openedthem. "That was a rum dream, " he told himself, as he blinked in broaddaylight. 

He lay in bed--a big, strange bed--in a room that he had never seenbefore. The windows were low and long, with small panes, and the lightwas broken by upright stone divisions. The floor was of dark wood, strewn strangely with flowers and green herbs, and the bed was afour-post bed like the one he had slept in at Talbot House; and in thegreen curtains was woven a white pattern, very like the thing that wasengraved on Tinkler and on the white seal. On the coverlet lavender andother herbs were laid. And the wall was hung with pictures done inneedlework--tapestry, in fact, though Dickie did not know that this wasits name. All the furniture was heavily built of wood heavily carved. Anenormous dark cupboard or wardrobe loomed against one wall. High-backedchairs with tapestry seats were ranged in a row against another. Thethird wall was almost all window, and in the fourth wall the fireplacewas set with a high-hooded chimney and wide, open hearth. 

Near the bed stood a stool, or table, with cups and bottles on it, andon the necks of the bottles parchment labels were tied that stuck outstiffly. A stout woman in very full skirts sat in a large armchair atthe foot of the bed. She wore a queer white cap, the like of whichDickie had never seen, and round her neck was a ruff which reminded himof the cut-paper frills in the ham and beef shops in the New Cross Road. 

"What a curious dream!" said Dickie. 

The woman looked at him. 

"So thou'st found thy tongue, " she said; "folk must look to have curiousdreams who fall sick of the fever. But thou'st found thy tongue atlast--thine own tongue, not the wandering tongue that has wagged so fastthese last days. "

"But I thought I was in the front room at----" Dickie began. 

"Thou'rt here, " said she; "the other is the dream. Forget it. And do nottalk of it. To talk of such dreams brings misfortune. And 'tis time forthy posset. "

She took a pipkin from the hearth, where a small fire burned, though itwas summer weather, as Dickie could see by the green tree-tops thatswayed and moved outside in the sun, poured some gruel out of it into asilver basin. It had wrought roses on it and "Drink me and drink again"in queer letters round the rim; but this Dickie only noticed later. Shepoured white wine into the gruel, and, having stirred it with a silverspoon, fed Dickie as one feeds a baby, blowing on each spoonful to coolit. The gruel was very sweet and pleasant. Dickie stretched in the downybed, felt extremely comfortable, and fell asleep again. 

Next time he awoke it was with many questions. "How'd I come 'ere? 'AveI bin run over agen? Is it a hospital? Who are you?"

"Now don't you begin to wander again, " said the woman in the cap. "You're here at home in the best bed in your father's house at Deptford. And you've had the plague-fever. And you're better. Or ought to be. Butif you don't know your own old nurse----"

"I never 'ad no nurse, " said Dickie, "old nor new. So there. You'rea-takin' me for some other chap, that's what it is. Where did you gethold of me? I never bin here before. "

"Don't wander, I tell you, " repeated the nurse briskly. "You lie stilland think, and you'll see you'll remember me very well. Forget your oldnurse--why, you will tell me next that you've forgotten your own name. "

"No, I haven't, " said Dickie. 

"What is it, then?" the nurse asked, laughing a fat, comfortable laugh. 

Dickie's reply was naturally "Dickie Harding. "

"Why, " said the nurse, opening wide eyes at him under gray brows, "you_have_ forgotten it. They do say that the fever hurts the memory, butthis beats all. Dost mean to tell me the fever has mazed thy poor brainstill thou don't know that thy name's Richard ----?" And Dickie heard hername a name that did not sound to him at all like Harding. 

"Is that my name?" he asked. 

"It is indeed, " she answered. 

Dickie felt an odd sensation of fixedness. He had expected when he wentto sleep that the dream would, in sleep, end, and that he would wake tofind himself alone in the empty house at New Cross. But he had wakenedto the same dream once more, and now he began to wonder whether hereally belonged here, and whether this were the real life, and theother--the old, sordid, dirty New Cross life--merely a horrid dream, theconsequence of his fever. He lay and thought, and looked at the rich, pleasant room, the kind, clear face of the nurse, the green, greenbranches of the trees, the tapestry and the rushes. At last he spoke. 

"Nurse, " said he. 

"Ah! I thought you'd come to yourself, " she said. "What is it, mydearie?"

"If I am really the name you said, I've forgotten it. Tell me all aboutmyself, will you, Nurse?"

"I thought as much, " she muttered, and then began to tell him wonderfulthings. 

She told him how his father was Sir Richard--the King had made him aknight only last year--and how this place where they now were was hisfather's country house. "It lies, " said the nurse, "among the pleasantfields and orchards of Deptford. " And how he, Dickie, had been very sickof the pestilential fever, but was now, thanks to the blessing and tothe ministrations of good Dr. Carey, on the highroad to health. 

"And when you are strong enough, " said she, "and the house purged of thecontagion, your cousins from Sussex shall come and stay a while herewith you, and afterwards you shall go with them to their town house, andsee the sights of London. And now, " she added, looking out of thewindow, "I spy the good doctor a-coming. Make the best of thyself, dearheart, lest he bleed thee and drench thee yet again, which I know in myheart thou'rt too weak for it. But what do these doctors know of babes?Their medicines are for strong men. "

The idea of bleeding was not pleasant to Dickie, though he did not atall know what it meant. He sat up in bed, and was surprised to find thathe was not nearly so tired as he thought. The excitement of all thesehappenings had brought a pink flush to his face, and when the doctor, ina full black robe and black stockings and a pointed hat, stood by hisbedside and felt his pulse, the doctor had to own that Dickie was almostwell. 

"We have wrought a cure, Goody, " he said; "thou and I, we have wrought acure. Now kitchen physic it is that he needs--good broth and gruel andpanada, and wine, the Rhenish and the French, and the juice of theorange and the lemon, or, failing those, fresh apple-juice squeezed fromthe fruit when you shall have brayed it in a mortar. Ha, my cure pleasesthee? Well, smell to it, then. 'Tis many a day since thou hadst theheart to. "

He reached the gold knob of his cane to Dickie's nose, and Dickie wassurprised to find that it smelled sweet and strong, something likegrocers' shops and something like a chemist's. There were little holesin the gold knob, such as you see in the tops of pepper castors, and thescent seemed to come through them. 

"What is it?" Dickie asked. 

"He has forgotten everything, " said the nurse quickly; "'tis the gooddoctor's pomander, with spices and perfumes in it to avert contagion. "

"As it warms in the hand the perfumes give forth, " said the doctor. "Nowthe fever is past there must be a fumigatory. Make a good brew, Goody, make a good brew--amber and nitre and wormwood--vinegar and quinces andmyrrh--with wormwood, camphor, and the fresh flowers of the camomile. And musk--forget not musk--a strong thing against contagion. Let thevapor of it pass to and fro through the chamber, burn the herbs from thefloor and all sweepings on this hearth; strew fresh herbs and flowers, and set all clean and in order, and give thanks that you are not settingall in order for a burying. "

With which agreeable words the black-gowned doctor nodded and smiled atthe little patient, and went out. 

And now Dickie literally did not know where he was. It was all sodifficult. Was he Dickie Harding who had lived at New Cross, and sownthe Artistic Parrot Seed, and taken the open road with Mr. Beale? Orwas he that boy with the other name whose father was a knight, and wholived in a house in Deptford with green trees outside the windows? Hecould not remember any house in Deptford that had green trees in itsgarden. And the nurse had said something about the pleasant fields andorchards. Those, at any rate, were not in the Deptford he knew. Perhapsthere were two Deptfords. He knew there were two Bromptons and twoRichmonds (one in Yorkshire). There was something about the way thingshappened at this place that reminded him of that nice Lady Talbot whohad wanted him to stay and be her little boy. Perhaps this new boy whoseplace he seemed to have taken had a real mother of his own, as nice asthat nice lady. 

The nurse had dropped all sorts of things into an iron pot with threelegs, and had set it to boil in the hot ashes. Now it had boiled, andtwo maids were carrying it to and fro in the room, as the doctor hadsaid. Puffs of sweet, strong, spicy steam rose out of it as they jerkedit this way and that. 

"Nurse, " Dickie called; and she came quickly. "Nurse, have I got amother?"

She hugged him. "Indeed thou hast, " she said, "but she lies sick at yourfather's other house. And you have a baby brother, Richard. "

"Then, " said Dickie, "I think I will stay here, and try to remember whoI am--I mean who you say I am--and not try to dream any more about NewCross and Mr. Beale. If this is a dream, it's a better dream than theother. I want to stay here, Nurse. Let me stay here and see my motherand my little brother. "

"And shalt, my lamb--and shalt, " the nurse said. 

And after that there was more food, and more sleep, and nights, anddays, and talks, and silences, and very gradually, yet very quickly, Dickie learned about this new boy who was, and wasn't, himself. He toldthe nurse quite plainly that he remembered nothing about himself, andafter he had told her she would sit by his side by the hour and tell himof things that had happened in the short life of the boy whose place hefilled, the boy whose name was _not_ Dickie Harding. And as soon as shehad told him a thing he found he remembered it--not as one remembers atale that is told, but as one remembers a real thing that has happened. 

And days went on, and he became surer and surer that he was really thisother Richard, and that he had only dreamed all that old life in NewCross with his aunt and in the pleasant country roads with Mr. Beale. And he wondered how he could ever have dreamed such things. 

Quite soon came the day when the nurse dressed him in clothes strange, but strangely comfortable and fine, and carried him to the window, fromwhich, as he sat in a big oak chair, he could see the green fields thatsloped down to the river, and the rigging and the masts of the shipsthat went up and down. The rigging looked familiar, but the shape of theships was quite different. They were shorter and broader than the shipsthat Dickie Harding had been used to see, and they, most of them, roseup much higher out of the water. 

"I should like to go and look at them closer, " he told the nurse. 

"Once thou'rt healed, " she said, "thou'lt be forever running down to thedockyard. Thy old way--I know thee, hearing the master mariners' tales, and setting thy purpose for a galleon of thine own and the golden SouthAmericas. "

"What's a galleon?" said Dickie. And was told. The nurse was verypatient with his forgettings. 

He was very happy. There seemed somehow to be more room in this new lifethan in the old one, and more time. No one was in a hurry, and there wasnot another house within a quarter of a mile. All green fields. Also hewas a person of consequence. The servants called him "Master Richard, "and he felt, as he heard them, that being called Master Richard meantnot only that the servants respected him as their master's son, butthat he was somebody from whom great things were expected. That he hadduties of kindness and protection to the servants; that he was expectedto grow up brave and noble and generous and unselfish, to care for thosewho called him master. He felt now very fully, what he had felt vaguelyand dimly at Talbot Court, that he was not the sort of person who oughtto do anything mean and dishonorable, such as being a burglar, andclimbing in at pantry windows; that when he grew up he would be expectedto look after his servants and laborers, and all the men and women whomhe would have under him--that their happiness and well-being would behis charge. And the thought swelled his heart, and it seemed that he wasborn to a great destiny. He--little lame Dickie Harding of Deptford--hewould hold these people's lives in his hand. Well, he knew what poorpeople wanted; he had been poor--or he had dreamed that he was poor--itwas all the same. Dreams and real life were so very much alike. 

So Dickie changed, every hour of every day and every moment of everyhour, from the little boy who lived at New Cross among the yellow housesand the ugliness, who tramped the white roads, and slept at the Inn ofthe Silver Moon, to Richard of the other name who lived well and sleptsoftly, and knew himself called to a destiny of power and helpfulkindness. For his nurse had told him that his father was a rich man; andthat father's riches would be his one day, to deal with for the good ofthe men under him, for their happiness and the glory of God. It was agreat and beautiful thought, and Dickie loved it. 

He loved, indeed, everything in this new life--the shapes and colors offurniture and hangings, the kind old nurse, the friendly, laughingmaids, the old doctor with his long speeches and short smiles, his bed, his room, the ships, the river, the trees, the gardens--the very skyseemed cleaner and brighter than the sky that had been over the Deptfordthat Dickie Harding had known. 

And then came the day when the nurse, having dressed him, bade him walkto the window, instead of being carried, as, so far, he had been. 

"Where ... " he asked, hesitatingly, "where's my... ? Where have you putthe crutch?"

Then the old nurse laughed. 

"Crutch?" she said. "Come out of thy dreams. Thou silly boy! Thou wantsno crutch with two fine, straight, strong legs like thou's got. Come, use them and walk. "

Dickie looked down at his feet. In the old New Cross days he had notliked to look at his feet. He had not looked at them in these new days. Now he looked. Hesitated. 

"Come, " said the nurse encouragingly. 

He slid from the high bed. One might as well try. Nurse seemed tothink.... He touched the ground with both feet, felt the floor firm andeven under them--as firm and even under the one foot as under the other. He stood up straight, moved the foot that he had been used to move--thenthe other, the one that he had never moved. He took two steps, three, four--and then he turned suddenly and flung himself against the side ofthe bed and hid his face in his arms. 

"What, weeping, my lamb?" the nurse said, and came to him. 

"Oh, Nurse, " he cried, clinging to her with all his might. "I dreamedthat I was lame! And I thought it was true. And it isn't!--it isn't!--itisn't!"

 * * * * *

Quite soon Dickie was able to walk down-stairs and out into the gardenalong the grassy walks and long alleys where fruit trees trained overtrellises made such pleasant green shade, and even to try to learn toplay at bowls on the long bowling-green behind the house. The house wasby far the finest house Dickie had ever been in, and the garden was morebeautiful even than the garden at Talbot Court. But it was not only thebeauty of the house and garden that made Dickie's life a new and fulldelight. To limp along the leafy ways, to crawl up and down the carvedstaircase would have been a pleasure greater than any Dickie had everknown; but he could leap up and down the stairs three at a time, hecould run in the arched alleys--run and jump as he had seen otherchildren do, and as he had never thought to do himself. Imagine what youwould feel if you had lived wingless all your life among people whocould fly. That is how lame people feel among us who can walk and run. And now Dickie was lame no more. 

His feet seemed not only to be strong and active, but clever on theirown account. They carried him quite without mistake to the blacksmith'sat the village on the hill--to the centre of the maze of clipped hedgesthat was the centre of the garden, and best of all they carried him tothe dockyard. 

Girls like dolls and tea-parties and picture-books, but boys like to seethings made and done; else how is it that any boy worth his salt willleave the newest and brightest toys to follow a carpenter or a plumberround the house, fiddle with his tools, ask him a thousand questions, and watch him ply his trade? Dickie at New Cross had spent many an hourwatching those interesting men who open square trap-doors in thepavement and drag out from them yards and yards of wire. I do not knowwhy the men do this, but every London boy who reads this will know. 

And when he got to the dockyard his obliging feet carried him to a manin a great leather apron, busy with great beams of wood and tools thatDickie had never seen. And the man greeted him as an old friend, kissedhim on both cheeks--which he didn't expect, and felt much too oldfor--and spread a sack for him that he might sit in the sun on a bigbaulk of timber. 

"Thou'rt a sight for sore eyes, Master Richard, " he said; "it's many along day since thou was here to pester me with thy questions. And all'sstrong again--no bones broken? And now I'll teach thee to make agalleon, like as I promised. "

"Will you, indeed?" said Dickie, trembling with joy and pride. 

"That will I, " said the man, and threw up his pointed beard in a jollylaugh. "And see what I've made thee while thou'st been lazying in bed--areal English ship of war. "

He laid down the auger he held and went into a low, rough shed, and nextmoment came out with a little ship in his hand--a perfect model of thestrange high-built ships Dickie could see on the river. 

[Illustration: "'TIS THE PICTURE, ' SAID HE PROUDLY, 'OF MY OLD SHIP, "THE GOLDEN VENTURE"'"

[_Page 97_]

"'Tis the picture, " said he, proudly, "of my old ship, _The GoldenVenture_, that I sailed in with Master Raleigh, and help to sink theaccursed Armada, and clip the King of Spain his wings, and singe hisbeard. "

"The Armada!" said Dickie, with a new and quite strange feeling, ratherlike going down unexpectedly in a lift. "The _Spanish_ Armada?"

"What other?" asked the ship-builder. "Thou'st heard the story athousand times. "

"I want to hear it again, " Dickie said. And heard the story of England'sgreat danger and her great escapes. It was just the same story as theone you read in your history book--and yet how different, when it wastold by a man who had been there, who had felt the danger, known theescape. Dickie held his breath. 

"And so, " the story ended, "the breath of the Lord went forth and thestorm blew, and fell on the fleet of Spain, and scattered them; and theywent down in our very waters, they and their arms and their treasure, their guns and their gunners, their mariners and their men-of-war. Andthe remnant was scattered and driven northward, and some were wrecked onthe rocks, and some our ships met and dealt with, and some poor few madeshift to get back across the sea, trailing home like wounded mallards, to tell the King their master what the Lord had done for England. "

"How long ago was it, all this?" Dickie asked. If his memory served itwas hundreds of years ago--three, five--he could not remember how many, but hundreds. Could this man, whose hair was only just touched withgray, be hundreds of years old?

"How long?--a matter of twenty years or thereabouts, " said theship-builder. "See, the pretty little ship; and thy very own, for I madeit for thee. "

It was indeed a pretty little ship, being a perfect model of anElizabethan ship, built up high at bow and stern, "for, " as Sebastianexplained, "majesty and terror of the enemy", and with deck and orlop, waist and poop, hold and masts--all complete with forecastle and cabin, masts and spars, port-holes and guns, sails, anchor, and carvedfigure-head. The woodwork was painted in white and green and red, and atbow and stern was richly carved and gilded. 

"For me, " Dickie said--"really for me? And you made it yourself!"

"Truth to tell, I began it long since in the long winter evenings, " saidhis friend, "and now 'tis done and 'tis thine. See, I shall put an apronon thee and thou shalt be my 'prentice and learn to build another quaintship like her--to be her consort; and we will sail them together in thepond in thy father's garden. "

Dickie, still devouring the little _Golden Venture_ with his eyes, submitted to the leather apron, and felt in his hand the smooth handleof the tool Sebastian put there. 

"But, " he said, "I don't understand. You remember the Armada--twentyyears ago. I thought it was hundreds and hundreds. "

"Twenty years ago--or nearer eighteen, " said Sebastian; "thou'lt have tolearn to reckon better than that if thou'st to be my 'prentice. 'Twas inthe year of grace 1588, and we are now in the year 1606. This makes iteighteen years, to my reckoning. "

"It was 1906 in my dream, " said Dickie--"I mean in my fever. "

"In fever, " Sebastian said, "folk travel far. Now, hold the wood so, andthe knife thus. "

Then every day Dickie went down to the dockyard when lessons were done. For there were lessons now, with a sour-faced tutor in a black gown, whom Dickie disliked extremely. The tutor did not seem to like Dickieeither. "The child hath forgot in his fever all that ever he learned ofme, " he complained to the old nurse, who nodded wisely and said he wouldsoon learn all afresh. And he did, very quickly, learn a great deal, andalways it was more like remembering than learning. And a second tutor, very smart in red velvet and gold, with breeches like balloons and ashort cloak and a ruff, who was an extremely jolly fellow, came in themornings to teach him to fence, to dance, and to run and to leap and toplay bowls, and promised in due time to teach him wrestling, catching, archery, pall-mall, rackets, riding, tennis, and all sports and gamesproper for a youth of gentle blood. 

And weeks went by, and still his father and mother had not come, and hehad learned a little Greek and more Latin, could carve a box with thearms of his house on the lid, and make that lid fit; could bow like acourtier and speak like a gentleman, and play a simple air on the violthat hung in the parlor for guests to amuse themselves with while theywaited to see the master or mistress. 

And then came the day when old nurse dressed him in his best--a suit ofcut velvet, purple slashed with gold-color, and a belt with a littlesword to it, and a flat cap--and Master Henry, the games-master, tookhim in a little boat to a gilded galley full of gentlemen and ladies allfinely dressed, who kissed him and made much of him and said how he wasgrown since the fever. And one gentleman, very fine indeed, appeared tobe his uncle, and a most charming lady in blue and silver seemed to behis aunt, and a very jolly little boy and girl who sat by him and talkedmerrily all the while were his little cousins. Cups of wine and silverdishes of fruit and cakes were handed round: the galley was decked withfresh flowers, and from another boat quite near came the sound of music. The sun shone overhead and the clear river sparkled and more and moreboats, all gilded and flower-wreathed, appeared on the water. Then therewas a sound of shouting, the river suddenly grew alive with the glitterof drawn swords, the butterfly glitter of ladies waved scarves andhandkerchiefs, and a great gilded barge came slowly down-stream, followed by a procession of smaller craft. Every one in the galley stoodup: the gentlemen saluted with their drawn swords, the ladies flutteredtheir scarves. 

[Illustration: "THE GALLEY WAS DECKED WITH FRESH FLOWERS"

[_Page 102_]

"His Majesty and the Queen, " the little cousins whispered as the StateBarge went by. 

Then all the galleys fell into place behind the King's barge, and thelong, beautiful procession went slowly on down the river. 

Dickie was very happy. The little cousins were so friendly and jolly, the grown-up people so kind--everything so beautiful and so clean. Itwas a perfect day. 

The river was very beautiful; it ran between banks of willows and alderswhere loosestrife and meadowsweet and willow-herb and yarrow grew talland thick. There were water-lilies in shady back-waters, and beautifulgardens sloping down to the water. 

At last the boats came to a pretty little town among trees. 

"This is where we disembark, " said the little girl cousin. "The Kinglies here to-night at Sir Thomas Bradbury's. And we lie at ourgrandfather's house. And to-morrow it is the Masque in Sir Thomas'sPark. And we are to see it. I am glad thou'st well of thy fever, Richard. I shouldn't have liked it half so well if thou hadn't beenhere, " she said, smiling. And of course that was a very nice thing tohave said to one. 

"And then we go home to Deptford with thee, " said the boy cousin. "Weare to stay a month. And we'll see thy galleon, and get old Sebastian tomake me one too.... "

"Yes, " said Dickie, as the boat came against the quay. "What _is_ thisplace?"

"Gravesend, thou knowest that, " said the little cousins, "or hadst thouforgotten that, too, in thy fever?"

"Gravesend?" Dickie repeated, in quite a changed voice. 

"Come, children, " said the aunt--oh, what a different aunt to the onewho had slapped Dickie in Deptford, sold the rabbit-hutch, and shot themoon!--"you boys remember how I showed you to carry my train. And mygirl will not forget how to fling the flowers from the gilt basket asthe King and Queen come down the steps. "

The grandfather's house and garden--the stately, white-hairedgrandfather, whom they called My Lord, and who was, it seemed, theaunt's father--the banquet, the picture-gallery, the gardens lit up bylittle colored oil lamps hung in festoons from tree to tree, the blazingtorches, the music, the Masque--a sort of play without words in whichevery one wore the most wonderful and beautiful dresses, and the Queenherself took a part dressed all in gauze and jewels and white swan'sfeathers--all these things were like a dream to Dickie, and through itall the words kept on saying themselves to him very gently, veryquietly, and quite without stopping--

"Gravesend. That's where the lodging-house is where Beale is waiting foryou--the man you called father. You promised to go there as soon as youcould. Why haven't you gone? Gravesend. That's where the lodging-houseis where Beale----" And so on, over and over again. 

And how can any one enjoy anything when this sort of thing keeps onsaying itself under and over and through and between everything he seesand hears and feels and thinks? And the worst of it was that now, forthe first time since he had found that he was not lame, he felt--morethan felt, he knew--that the old New Cross life had not been a feverdream, and that Beale, who had been kind to him and taken him throughthe pleasant country and slept with him in the bed with the greencurtains, was really waiting for him at Gravesend. 

"And this is all a dream, " said Dickie, "and I _must_ wake up. "

But he couldn't wake up. 

And the trees and grass and lights and beautiful things, the kindlygreat people with their splendid dresses, the King and Queen, the auntsand uncles and the little cousins--all these things refused to fade awayand jumble themselves up as things do in dreams. They remained solid andreal. He knew that this must be a dream, and that Beale and Gravesendand New Cross and the old lame life were the real thing, and yet hecould not wake up. All the same the light had gone out of everything, and it is small wonder that when he got home at last, very tired indeed, to his father's house at Deptford he burst into tears as nurse wasundressing him. 

"What ails my lamb?" she asked. 

"I can't explain; you wouldn't understand, " said Dickie. 

"Try, " said she, very earnestly. 

He looked round the room at the tapestries and the heavy furniture. 

"I can't, " he said. 

"Try, " she said again. 

"It's ... Don't laugh, Nurse. There's a dream that feels real--about adreadful place--oh, so different from this. But there's a man waitingthere for me that was good to me when I was--when I wasn't ... That wasgood to me; he's waiting in the dream and I want to get back to him. AndI can't. "

"Thou'rt better here than in that dreadful place, " said the nurse, stroking his hair. 

"Yes--but Beale. I know he's waiting there. I wish I could bring himhere. "

"Not yet, " said the nurse surprisingly; "'tis not easy to bring those welove from one dream to another. "

"One dream to another?"

"Didst never hear that all life is a dream?" she asked him. "But thoushalt go. Heaven forbid that one of thy race should fail a friend. Look!there are fresh sheets on thy bed. Lie still and think of him that wasgood to thee. "

He lay there, very still. He had decided to wake up--to wake up to theold, hard, cruel life--to poverty, dulness, lameness. There was no otherthing to be done. He _must_ wake up and keep his promise to Beale. Butit was hard--hard--hard. The beautiful house, the beautiful garden, thegames, the boat-building, the soft clothes, the kind people, theuplifting sense that he was Somebody ... Yet he must go. Yes, if hecould he would. 

The nurse had taken burning wood from the hearth and set it on a silverplate. Now she strewed something on the glowing embers. 

"Lie straight and still, " she said, "and wish thyself where thou wastwhen thou leftest that dream. "

He did so. A thick, sweet smoke rose from the little fire in the silverplate, and the nurse was chanting something in a very low voice. 

 "Men die, Man dies not. Times fly, Time flies not. "

That was all he heard, though he heard confusedly that there was more. 

He seemed to sink deep into a soft sea of sleep, to be rocked on itstide, and then to be flung by its waves, roughly, suddenly, on some hardshore of awakening. He opened his eyes. He was in the little bare frontroom in New Cross. Tinkler and the white seal lay on the floor amongwhite moonflower seeds confusedly scattered, and the gas lamp from thestreet shone through the dirty panes on the newspapers and sacking. 

"What a dream!" said Dickie, shivering, and very sleepy. "Oh, what adream!" He put Tinkler and the seal in one pocket, gathered up themoon-seeds and put them in the other, drew the old newspapers over himand went to sleep. 

 * * * * *

The morning sun woke him. 

"How odd, " said he, "to dream all that--weeks and weeks, in just alittle bit of one little night! If it had only been true!"

He jumped up, eager to start for Gravesend. Since he had wakened out ofthat wonderful dream on purpose to go to Gravesend, he might as wellstart at once. But his jump ended in a sickening sideways fall, and hishead knocked against the wainscot. 

"I had forgotten, " he said slowly. "I shouldn't have thought any dreamcould have made me forget about my foot. "

For he had indeed forgotten it, had leaped up, eagerly, confidently, asa sound child leaps, and the lame foot had betrayed him, thrown himdown. 

He crawled across to where the crutch lay--the old broom, cut down, thatLady Talbot had covered with black velvet for him. 

"And now, " he said, "I must get to Gravesend. " He looked out of thewindow at the dismal, sordid street. "I wonder, " he said, "if Deptfordwas ever really like it was in my dream--the gardens and the clean riverand the fields?"

He got out of the house when no one was looking, and went off down thestreet. 

"Clickety-clack" went the crutch on the dusty pavement. 

His back ached; his lame foot hurt; his "good" leg was tired and stiff, and his heart, too, was very tired. About this time, in the dream he hadchosen to awaken from, for the sake of Beale, a bowl of porridge wouldbe smoking at the end of a long oak table, and a great carved chair beset for a little boy who was not there. 

Dickie strode on manfully, but the pain in his back made him feel sick. 

"I don't know as I can do it, " he said. 

Then he saw the three gold balls above the door of the friendlypawnbroker. 

He looked, hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and went in. 

"Hullo!" said the pawnbroker, "here we are again. Want to pawn therattle, eh?"

"No, " said Dickie, "but what'll you give me on the seal you gave me?"

The pawnbroker stared, frowned, and burst out laughing. 

"If you don't beat all!" he said. "I give you a present, and you come topledge it with me! You should have been one of our people! So you wantto pledge the seal. Well, well!"

"I'd much rather not, " said Dickie seriously, "because I love it verymuch. But I must have my fare to Gravesend. My father's there, waitingfor me. And I don't want to leave Tinkler behind. "

He showed the rattle. 

"What's the fare to Gravesend?"

"Don't know. I thought you'd know. Will you give me the fare for theseal?"

The pawnbroker hesitated and looked hard at him. "No, " he said, "no. Theseal's not worth it. Not but what it's a very good seal, " he added, "very good indeed. "

"See here, " said Dickie suddenly, "I know what honor is now, and theword of a gentleman. You will not let me pledge the seal with you. Thenlet me pledge my word--my word of honor. Lend me the money to take me toGravesend, and by the honor of a gentleman I will repay you within amonth. "

The voice was firm; the accent, though strange, was not the accent ofDeptford street boys. It was the accent of the boy who had had twotutors and a big garden, a place in the King's water-party, and aknowledge of what it means to belong to a noble house. 

The pawnbroker looked at him. With the unerring instinct of his race, heknew that this was not play-acting, that there was something behindit--something real. The sense of romance, of great things all about themtranscending the ordinary things of life--this in the Jews has survivedcenturies of torment, shame, cruelty, and oppression. This inheritedsense of romance in the pawnbroker now leaped to answer Dickie's appeal. (And I do hope I am not confusing you; stick to it; read it again if youdon't understand. What I mean is that the Jews always see the bigbeautiful things; they don't just see that gray is made of black andwhite; they see how incredibly black black can be, and that there may bea whiteness transcending all the whitest dreams in the world. )

"You're a rum little chap, " was what the pawnbroker said, "but I likeyour pluck. Every man's got to make a fool of himself one time or theother, " he added, apologizing to the spirit of business. 

"You mean you will?" said Dickie eagerly. 

"More fool me, " said the Jew, feeling in his pocket. 

"You won't be sorry; not in the end you won't, " said Dickie, as thepawnbroker laid certain monies before him on the mahogany counter. "You'll lend me this? You'll trust me?"

"Looks like it, " said the Jew. 

"Then some day I shall do something for you. I don't know what, butsomething. We never forget, we----" He stopped. He remembered that hewas poor little lame Dickie Harding, with no right to that other namewhich had been his in the dream. 

He picked up the coins, put them in his pocket--felt the moon-seeds. 

"I cannot repay your kindness, " he said, "though some day I will repayyour silver. But these seeds--the moon-seeds, " he pulled out a handful. "You liked the flowers?" He handed a generous score across the red-brownpolished wood. 

"Thank you, my lad, " said the pawnbroker. "I'll raise them in gentleheat. "

"I think they grow best by moonlight, " said Dickie. 

 * * * * *

So he came to Gravesend and the common lodging-house, and a weary, sad, and very anxious man rose up from his place by the fire when theclickety-clack of the crutch sounded on the threshold. 

"It's the nipper!" he said; and came very quickly to the door and gothis arm round Dickie's shoulders. "The little nipper, so it ain't! Ithought you'd got pinched. No, I didn't, I knew your clever ways--I knewyou was bound to turn up. "

"Yes, " said Dickie, looking round the tramps' kitchen, and rememberingthe long, clean tapestry-hung dining-hall of his dream. "Yes, I wasbound to turn up. You wanted me to, didn't you?" he added. 

"Wanted you to?" Beale answered, holding him close, and looking at himas men look at some rare treasure gained with much cost and after longseeking. "Wanted you? Not 'arf! I _don't_ think, " and drew him in andshut the door. 

"Then I'm glad I came, " said Dickie. But in his heart he was not glad. In his heart he longed for that pleasant house where he was the youngmaster, and was not lame any more. But in his soul he was glad, becausethe soul is greater than the heart, and knows greater things. And nowDickie loved Beale more than ever, because for him he had sacrificed hisdream. So he had gained something. Because loving people is the bestthing in the world--better even than being loved. Just think this out, will you, and see if I am not right. 

There were herrings for tea. And in the hard bed, with his clothes andhis boots under the pillows, Dickie slept soundly. 

But he did not dream. 

Yet when he woke in the morning, remembering many things, he said tohimself--

"Is this the dream? Or was the other the dream?"

And it seemed a foolish question--with the feel of the coarse sheetsand the smell of the close room, and Mr. Beale's voice saying, "Rouseup, nipper, there's sossingers for breakfast. "

CHAPTER V

"TO GET YOUR OWN LIVING"

"NO, " said Mr. Beale, "we ain't a-goin' to crack no more cribs. It'slow--that's what it is. I quite grant you it's low. So I s'pose we'll'ave to take the road again. "

Dickie and he were sitting in the sunshine on a sloping field. They hadbeen sitting there all the morning, and Dickie had told Mr. Beale allhis earthly adventures from the moment the redheaded man had lifted himup to the window of Talbot Court to the time when he had come in by theopen door of the common lodging-house. 

"What a nipper it is, though!" said Mr. Beale regretfully. "For theburgling, I mean--sharp--clever--no one to touch him. But I don't cottonto it myself, " he added quickly, "not the burgling, I don't. You'realways liable to get yourself into trouble over it, one way or theother--that's the worst of it. I don't know how it is, " he endedpensively, "but somehow it _always_ leads to trouble. "

Dickie picked up seven straws from among the stubble and idly plaitedthem together; the nurse had taught him this in the dream when he wasstill weak from the fever. 

"That's very flash, that what you're doing, " said Beale; "who learnedyou that?"

"I learned it in a dream, " said Dickie slowly. "I dreamed I 'ad afever--and--I'll tell you if you like: it's a good yarn--good as HereWard, very near. "

Beale lay back on the dry stubble, his pipe between his teeth. 

"Fire away, " he said, and Dickie fired away. 

When the long tale ended, the sun was beginning to go down towards itsbed in the west. There was a pause. 

"You'd make a tidy bit on the 'alls, " said Beale, quite awestruck. "Thethings you think of! When did you make all that up?"

"I dreamed it, I tell you, " said Dickie. 

"You always could stick it on, " said Mr. Beale admiringly. 

"I ain't goin' to stick it on never no more, " said Dickie. "They calledit lying and cheating, where I was--in my dream, I mean. "

"Once let a nipper out of yer sight, " said Mr. Beale sadly, "and seewhat comes of it! 'No. 2' a-goin' to stick it on no more! Then how's usto get a honest living? Answer me that, young chap. "

"I don't know, " said Dickie, "but we got to do it som'ow. "

"It ain't to be done--not with all the unemployed there is about, " saidMr. Beale. "Besides, you've got a regular gift for sticking it on--atalent I call it. And now you want to throw it away. But you can't. We_got_ to live. "

"In the dream, " said Dickie, "there didn't seem to be no unemployed. Every one was 'prenticed to a trade. I wish it was like that here. "

"Well, it ain't, " said Mr. Beale shortly. "I wasn't never 'prenticed tono trade, no more'n what you'll be. "

"Worse luck, " said Dickie. "But I started learning a lot ofthings--games mostly, in the dream, I did--and I started making aboat--a galleon they called it. All the names is different there. And Icarved a little box--a fair treat it was--with my father's arms on it. "

"Yer father's _what_?"

"Coat of arms. Gentlemen there all has different things--patterns like;they calls 'em coats of arms, and they put it on their silver and ontheir carriages and their furniture. "

"Put _what_?" Beale asked again. 

"The blazon. All gentlepeople have it. "

"Don't you come the blazing toff over me, " said Beale with suddenfierceness, "'cause I won't 'ave it. See? It's them bloomin' Talbots putall this rot into your head. "

"The Talbots?" said Dickie. "Oh! the Talbots ain't been gentry morethan a couple of hundred years. Our family's as old as King Alfred. "

"Stow it, I say!" said Beale, more fiercely still. "I see what you'reafter; you want us to part company, that's what you want. Well, go. Goback to yer old Talbots and be the nice lady's little boy with velvetkicksies and a clean anky once a week. That's what you do. "

Dickie looked forlornly out over the river. 

"I can't 'elp what I dreams, can I?" he said. "In the dream I'd got lotsof things. Uncles and aunts an' a little brother. I never seen himthough. An' a farver and muvver an' all. It's different 'ere. I ain'tgot nobody but you 'ere--farver. "

"Well, then, " said Beale more gently, "what do you go settin' ofyourself up agin me for?"

"I ain't, " said Dickie. "I thought you liked me to tell you everythink. "

Silence. Dickie could not help noticing the dirty shirt, the dirty face, the three days' beard, the filthy clothes of his friend, and he thoughtof his other friend, Sebastian of the Docks. He saw the pale bluereproachful eyes of Beale looking out of that dirty face, and he spokealoud, quite without meaning to. 

"All that don't make no difference, " he said. 

"Eh?" said Beale with miserable, angry eyes. 

"Look 'ere, " said Dickie desperately. "I'm a-goin' to show you. This'ere's my Tinkler, what I told you about, what pawns for a bob. Iwouldn't show it to no one but you, swelp me, I wouldn't. "

He held the rattle out. 

Beale took it. "It's a fancy bit, I will say, " he owned. 

"Look 'ere, " said Dickie, "what I mean to say----"

He stopped. What was the use of telling Beale that he had come back outof the dream just for _his_ sake? Beale who did not believe in thedream--did not understand it--hated it?

"Don't you go turning agin me, " he said; "whether I dream or not, youand me'll stand together. I'm not goin' to do things wot's wrong--low, dirty tricks--so I ain't. But I knows we can get on without that. Whatwould you _like_ to do for your living if you could choose?"

"I warn't never put to no trade, " said Beale, "'cept being 'andy with a'orse. I was a wagoner's mate when I was a boy. I likes a 'orse. Or adawg, " he added. "I ain't no good wiv me 'ands--not at working, youknow--not to say working. "

Dickie suppressed a wild notion he had had of getting into that dreamagain, learning some useful trade there, waking up and teaching it toMr. Beale. 

"Ain't there _nothing_ else you'd like to do?" he asked. 

"I don't know as there is, " said Mr. Beale drearily; "without it waspigeons. "

Then Dickie wondered whether things that you learned in dreams would"_stay_ learned. " Things you learned to do with your hands. The Greekand the Latin "stayed learned" right enough and sang in his brainencouragingly. 

"Don't you get shirty if I talks about that dream, " he said. "You dunnowhat a dream it was. I wasn't kidding you. I did dream it, honor bright. I dreamed I could carve wood--make boxes and things. I wish I 'ad a bitof fine-grained wood. I'd like to try. I've got the knife they give meto cut the string of the basket in the train. It's jolly sharp. "

"What sort o' wood?" Beale asked. 

"It was mahogany I dreamed I made my box with, " said Dickie. "I wouldlike to try. "

"Off 'is poor chump, " Beale murmured with bitter self-reproach; "mydoin' too--puttin' 'im on to a job like Talbot Court, the nipper is. "

He stretched himself and got up. 

"I'll get yer a bit of mahogany from somewheres, " he said very gently. "I didn't mean nothing, old chap. You keep all on about yer dreams. Idon't mind. I likes it. Let's get a brace o' kippers and make a night ofit. "

So they went back to the Gravesend lodging-house. 

Next day Mr. Beale produced the lonely leg of a sofa--mahogany, a fatround turned leg, old and seasoned. 

"This what you want?" he asked. 

Dickie took it eagerly. "I do wonder if I can, " he said. "I feel justexactly like as if I could. I say, farver, let's get out in the woodssomewheres quiet and take our grub along. Somewheres where nobody can'tsay, 'What you up to?' and make a mock of me. "

They found a place such as Dickie desired, a warm, sunny nest in theheart of a green wood, and all through the long, warm hours of theautumn day Mr. Beale lay lazy in the sunshine while Dickie, very paleand determined, sliced, chipped, and picked at the sofa leg with theknife the gardener had given him. 

It was hard to make him lay the work down even for dinner, which was ofa delicious and extravagant kind--new bread, German sausage, and beer ina flat bottle. For from the moment when the knife touched the woodDickie knew that he had not forgotten, and that what he had done in theDeptford dockyard under the eyes of Sebastian, the shipwright who hadhelped to sink the Armada, he could do now alone in the woods beyondGravesend. 

It was after dinner that Mr. Beale began to be interested. 

"Swelp me!" he said; "but you've got the hang of it somehow. A box, ain't it?"

"A box, " said Dickie, smoothing a rough corner; "a box with a lid thatfits. And I'll carve our arms on the top--see, I've left that bitstickin' up a purpose. "

It was the hardest day's work Dickie had ever done. He stuck to it andstuck to it and stuck to it till there was hardly light left to see itby. But before the light was wholly gone the box had wholly come--withthe carved coat of arms and the lid that fitted. 

"Well, " said Mr. Beale, striking a match to look at it; "if that ain't afair treat! There's many a swell bloke 'ud give 'arf a dollar for thatto put 'is baccy in. You've got a trade, my son, that's sure. Why didn'tyou let on before as you could? Blow the beastly match! It's burned mefinger. "

The match went out and Beale and Dickie went back to supper in thecrowded, gas-lit room. When supper was over--it was tripe and onions andfried potatoes, very luxurious--Beale got up and stood before the fire. 

"I'm a-goin' to 'ave a hauction, I am, " he said to the company at large. "Here's a thing and a very pretty thing, a baccy-box, or a snuff-box, or a box to shut yer gold money in, or yer diamonds. What offers?"

"'And it round, " said a black-browed woman, with a basket covered inAmerican cloth no blacker than her eyes. 

"That I will, " said Beale readily. "I'll 'and it round _in_ me 'and. AndI'll do the 'andin' meself. "

He took it round from one to another, showed the neat corners, the neatcarving, the neat fit of the square lid. 

"Where'd yer nick that?" asked a man with a red handkerchief. 

"The nipper made it. "

"Pinched it more likely, " some one said. 

"I see 'im make it, " said Beale, frowning a little. 

"Let me 'ave a squint, " said a dingy gray old man sitting apart. Forsome reason of his own Beale let the old man take the box into his hand. But he kept very close to him and he kept his eyes on the box. 

"All outer one piece, " said the old man. "I dunno oo made it an' I don'tcare, but that was made by a workman as know'd his trade. I was acabinet-maker once, though you wouldn't think it to look at me. Thereain't nobody here to pay what that little hobjec's worth. Hoil it upwith a drop of cold linseed and leave it all night, and then in themorning you rub it on yer trouser leg to shine it, and then rub it inthe mud to dirty it, and then hoil it again and dirty it again, andyou'll get 'arf a thick 'un for it as a genuwine hold antique. That'swot you do. "

"Thankee, daddy, " said Beale, "an' so I will. "

He slipped the box in his pocket. When Dickie next saw the box it lookedas old as any box need look. 

"Now we'll look out for a shop where they sells these 'ere hold antics, "said Beale. They were on the road and their faces were set towardsLondon. Dickie's face looked pinched and white. Beale noticed it. 

"You don't look up to much, " he said; "warn't your bed to your liking?"

"The bed was all right, " said Dickie, thinking of the bed in the dream. "I diden sleep much, though. "

"Any more dreams?" Beale asked kindly enough. 

"No, " said Dickie. "I think p'raps it was me wanting so to dream itagain kep' me awake. "

"I dessey, " said Beale, picking up a straw to chew. 

Dickie limped along in the dust, the world seemed very big and hard. Itwas a long way to London and he had not been able to dream that dreamagain. Perhaps he would never be able to dream it. He stumbled on a bigstone and would have fallen but that Beale caught him by the arm, and ashe swung round by that arm Beale saw that the boy's eyes were thick withtears. 

"Ain't 'urt yerself, 'ave yer?" he said--for in all their wanderingsthese were the first tears Dickie had shed. 

"No, " said Dickie, and hid his face against Beale's coat sleeve. "It'sonly----"

"What is it, then?" said Beale, in the accents of long-disusedtenderness; "tell your old farver, then----"

"It's silly, " sobbed Dickie. 

"Never you mind whether it's silly or not, " said Beale. "You out withit. "

"In that dream, " said Dickie, "I wasn't lame. "

"Think of that now, " said Beale admiringly. "You best dream that everynight. Then you won't mind so much of a daytime. "

"But I mind more, " said Dickie, sniffing hard; "much, much more. "

Beale, without more words, made room for him in the crowdedperambulator, and they went on. Dickie's sniffs subsided. Silence. Presently--

"I say, farver, I'm sorry I acted so silly. You never see me blub aforeand you won't again, " he said; and Beale said awkwardly, "That's allright, mate. "

"You pretty flush?" the boy asked later on. 

"Not so dusty, " said the man. 

"'Cause I wanter give that there little box to a chap I know wot lent methe money for the train to come to you at Gravesend. "

"Pay 'im some other day when we're flusher. "

"I'd rather pay 'im now, " said Dickie. "I could make another box. There's a bit of the sofer leg left, ain't there?"

There was, and Dickie worked away at it in the odd moments that clusterround meal times, the half-hours before bed and before the morningstart. Mr. Beale begged of all likely foot-passengers, but he noted thatthe "nipper" no longer "stuck it on. " For the most part he was quitesilent. Only when Beale appealed to him he would say, "Farver's verygood to me. I don't know what I should do without farver. "

And so at last they came to New Cross again, and Mr. Beale stepped infor half a pint at the Railway Hotel, while Dickie went clickety-clackalong the pavement to his friend the pawnbroker. 

"Here we are again, " said that tradesman; "come to pawn the rattle?"

Dickie laughed. Pawning the rattle seemed suddenly to have become avery old and good joke between them. 

"Look 'ere, mister, " he said; "that chink wot you lent me to get toGravesend with. " He paused, and added in his other voice, "It was verygood of you, sir. "

"I'm not going to lend you any more, if that's what you're after, " saidthe Jew, who had already reproached himself for his confidinggenerosity. 

"It's not that I'm after, " said Dickie, with dignity. "I wish to repayyou. "

"Got the money?" said the Jew, laughing not unkindly. 

"No, " said Dickie; "but I've got this. " He handed the little box acrossthe counter. 

"Where'd you get it?"

"I made it. "

The pawnbroker laughed again. "Well, well, I'll ask no questions andyou'll tell me no lies, eh?"

"I shall certainly tell you no lies, " said Dickie, with the dignity ofthe dream boy who was not a cripple and was heir to a great and gentlename; "will you take it instead of the money?"

The pawnbroker turned the box over in his hands, while kindness andhonesty struggled fiercely within him against the habits of a businesslife. Dickie eyed the china vases and concertinas and teaspoons tiedtogether in fan shape, and waited silently. 

"It's worth more than what I lent you, " the man said at last with aneffort; "and it isn't every one who would own that, mind you. "

"I know it isn't, " said Dickie; "will you please take it to pay my debtto you, and if it is worth more, accept it as a grateful gift from onewho is still gratefully your debtor. "

"You'd make your fortune on the halls, " said the man, as Beale had said;"the way you talk beats everything. All serene. I'll take the box infull discharge of your debt. But you might as well tell me where you gotit. "

"I made it, " said Dickie, and put his lips together very tightly. 

"You did--did you? Then I'll tell you what. I'll give you four bob forevery one of them you make and bring to me. You might do different coatsof arms--see?"

"I was only taught to do one, " said Dickie. 

Just then a customer came in--a woman with her Sunday dress and a pairof sheets to pawn because her man was out of work and the children werehungry. 

"Run along, now, " said the Jew, "I've nothing more for you to-day. "Dickie flushed and went. 

Three days later the crutch clattered in at the pawnbroker's door, andDickie laid two more little boxes on the counter. 

"Here you are, " he said. The pawnbroker looked and exclaimed andquestioned and wondered, and Dickie went away with eight silvershillings in his pocket, the first coins he had ever carried in hislife. They seemed to have been coined in some fairy mint; they were sodifferent from any other money he had ever handled. 

Mr. Beale, waiting for him by New Cross Station, put his empty pipe inhis pocket and strolled down to meet him. Dickie drew him down a sidestreet and held out the silver. "Two days' work, " he said. "We ain't nocall to take the road 'cept for a pleasure trip. I got a trade, I 'ave. 'Ow much a week's four bob a day? Twenty-four bob I make it. "

"Lor!" said Mr. Beale, with his mouth open. 

"Now I tell you what, you get 'old of some more old sofy legs and astone and a strap to sharpen my knife with. And there we are. Twenty-four shillings a week for a chap an' 'is nipper ain't so dusty, farver, is it? I've thought it all up and settled it all out. So long asthe weather holds we'll sleep in the bed with the green curtains, andI'll 'ave a green wood for my workshop, and when the nights get coldwe'll rent a room of our very own and live like toffs, won't us?"

The child's eyes were shining with excitement. 

"'Pon my sam, I believe you _like_ work, " said Mr. Beale in tones ofintense astonishment. 

"I like it better'n cadgin', " said Dickie. 

They did as Dickie had said, and for two days Mr. Beale was content toeat and doze and wake and watch Dickie's busy fingers and eat and dozeagain. But on the third day he announced that he was getting the fidgetsin his legs. 

"I must do a prowl, " he said; "I'll be back afore sundown. Don't youforget to eat your dinner when the sun comes level the top of that hightree. So long, matey. "

Mr. Beale slouched off in the sunshine in his filthy old clothes, andDickie was left to work alone in the green and golden wood. It was verystill. Dickie hardly moved at all, and the chips that fell from his workfell more softly than the twigs and acorns that dropped now and thenfrom some high bough. A goldfinch swung on a swaying hazel branch andlooked at him with bright eyes, unafraid; a grass snake slid swiftlyby--it was out on particular business of its own, so it was not afraidof Dickie nor he of it. A wood-pigeon swept rustling wings across theglade where he sat, and once a squirrel ran right along a bough to lookdown at him and chatter, thickening its tail as a cat does hers when sheis angry. 

It was a long and very beautiful day, the first that Dickie had everspent alone. He worked harder than ever, and when by the lessening lightit was impossible to work any longer, he lay back against a tree root torest his tired back and to gloat over the thought that he had made twoboxes in one day--eight shillings--in one single day, eight splendidshillings. 

The sun was quite down before Mr. Beale returned. He looked unnaturallyfat, and as he sat down on the moss something inside the front of hisjacket moved and whined. 

"Oh! what is it?" Dickie asked, sitting up, alert in a moment; "not adawg? Oh! farver, you don't know how I've always wanted a dawg. "

"Well, you've a-got yer want now, three times over, you 'ave, " saidBeale, and, unbuttoning his jacket, took out a double handful of soft, fluffy sprawling arms and legs and heads and tails--three little fat, white puppies. 

"Oh, the jolly little beasts!" said Dickie; "ain't they fine? Where didyou get them?"

"They was give me, " said Mr. Beale, re-knotting his handkerchief, "by alady in the country. "

He fixed his eyes on the soft blue of the darkening sky. 

"Try another, " said Dickie calmly. 

"Ah! it ain't no use trying to deceive the nipper--that sharp he is, "said Beale, with a mixture of pride and confusion. "Well, then, not todeceive you, mate, I bought 'em. "

"What with?" said Dickie, lightning quick. 

"With--with money, mate--with money, of course. "

"How'd you get it?"

No answer. 

"You didn't pinch it?"

"No--on my sacred sam, I didn't, " said Beale eagerly; "pinching leads totrouble. I've 'ad my lesson. "

"You cadged it, then?" said Dickie. 

"Well, " said Beale sheepishly, "what if I did?"

"You've spoiled everything, " said Dickie, furious, and he flung the twonewly finished boxes violently to the ground, and sat frowning with eyesdowncast. 

Beale, on all fours, retrieved the boxes. 

"Two, " he said, in awestruck tones; "there never was such a nipper!"

"It doesn't matter, " said Dickie in a heartbroken voice, "you've spoiledeverything, and you lie to me, too. It's all spoiled. I wish I'd nevercome back outer the dream, so I do. "

"Now lookee here, " said Beale sternly, "don't you come this over us, 'cause I won't stand it, d'y 'ear? Am I the master or is it you? D'yethink I'm going to put up with being bullied and druv by a little nipperlike as I could lay out with one 'and as easy as what I could one ofthem pups?" He moved his foot among the soft, strong little things thatwere uttering baby-growls and biting at his broken boot with theirlittle white teeth. 

"Do, " said Dickie bitterly, "lay me out if you want to. I don't care. "

"Now, now, matey"--Beale's tone changed suddenly to affectionateremonstrance--"I was only kiddin'. Don't take it like that. You know Iwouldn't 'urt a 'air of yer 'ed, so I wouldn't. "

"I wanted us to live honest by our work--we was doing it. And you'velowered us to the cadgin' again. That's what I can't stick, " saidDickie. 

"It wasn't. I didn't have to do a single bit of patter for it anyhow. Itwas a wedding, and I stopped to 'ave a squint, and there'd been awater-cart as 'ad stopped to 'ave a squint too, and made a puddle as bigas a tea-tray, and all the path wet. An' the lady in her white, shelooks at the path and the gent 'e looks at 'er white boots--an' I off'swith me coat like that there Rally gent you yarned me about, and flopsit down in the middle of the puddle, right in front of the gal. And shetips me a smile like a hangel and 'olds out 'er hand--in 'er whiteglove and all--and yer know what my 'ands is like, matey. "

[Illustration: "'AN' I OFF'S WITH ME COAT, AND FLOPS IT DOWN IN THEMIDDLE OF THE PUDDLE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE GAL'"

[_Page 133_]

"Yes, " said Dickie, "go on. "

"And she just touched me 'and and walks across me coat. And the peoplelaughed and clapped--silly apes! And the gent 'e tipped me a thick 'un, and I spotted the pups a month ago, and I knew I could have 'em for fivebob, so I got 'em. And I'll sell em for thribble the money, you see if Idon't. An' I thought you'd be as pleased as pleased--me actin' so silly, like as if I was one of them yarns o' yourn an' all. And then firstminute I gets 'ere, you sets on to me. But that's always the way. "

"Please, please forgive me, father, " said Dickie, very much ashamed ofhimself; "I am so sorry. And it _was_ nice of you and I am pleased--andI do love the pups--and we won't sell all three, will us? I would solike to have one. I'd call it 'True. ' One of the dogs in my dream wascalled that. You do forgive me, don't you, father?"

"Oh! that's all right, " said Beale. 

Next day again a little boy worked alone in a wood, and yet not alone, for a small pup sprawled and yapped and scrapped and grunted round himas he worked. No squirrels or birds came that day to lighten Dickie'ssolitude, but True was more to him than many birds or squirrels. A womanthey had overtaken on the road had given him a bit of blue ribbon forthe puppy's neck, in return for the lift which Mr. Beale had given herbasket on the perambulator. She was selling ribbons and cottons andneedles from door to door, and made a poor thing of it, she told them. "An' my grandfather 'e farmed 'is own land in Sussex, " she told them, looking with bleared eyes across the fields. 

Dickie only made a box and a part of a box that day. And while he satmaking it, far away in London a respectable-looking man was walking upand down Regent Street among the shoppers and the motors and carriages, with a fluffy little white dog under each arm. And he sold both thedogs. 

"One was a lady in a carriage, " he told Dickie later on. "Arst 'er twothick 'uns, I did. Never turned a hair, no more I didn't. She didn'tcare what its price was, bless you. Said it was a dinky darling and shewanted it. Gent said he'd get her plenty better. No--she wanted that. An' she got it too. A fool and his money's soon parted's what I say. Andt'other one I let 'im go cheap, for fourteen bob, to a blackclergyman--black as your hat he was, from foreign parts. So now we'rebloomin' toffs, an' I'll get a pair of reach-me-downs this very bloomin'night. And what price that there room you was talkin' about?"

It was the beginning of a new life. Dickie wrote out their accounts on alarge flagstone near the horse trough by the "Chequers, " with a bit ofbilliard chalk that a man gave him. 

It was like this:--

 Got Box 4 Box 4 Box 4 Box 4 Dog 40 Dog 14 ---- 70

 Spent Dogs 4 Grub 19 Tram 4 Leg 2 ---- 29

and he made out before he rubbed the chalk off the stone that thedifference between twenty-nine shillings and seventy was about twopounds--and that was more than Dickie had ever had, or Beale either, formany a long year. 

Then Beale came, wiping his mouth, and they walked idly up the road. Lodgings. Or rather _a_ lodging. A room. But when you have had what iscalled the key of the street for years enough, you hardly know where tolook for the key of a room. 

"Where'd you like to be?" Beale asked anxiously. "You like countrybest, don't yer?"

"Yes, " said Dickie. 

"But in the winter-time?" Beale urged. 

"Well, town then, " said Dickie, who was trying to invent a box of a newand different shape to be carved next day. 

"I could keep a lookout for likely pups, " said Beale; "there's a plentyhere and there all about--and you with your boxes. We might go to threebob a week for the room. "

"I'd like a 'ouse with a garden, " said Dickie. 

"Go back to yer Talbots, " said Beale. 

"No--but look 'ere, " said Dickie, "if we was to take a 'ouse--just alittle 'ouse, and let half of it. "

"We ain't got no sticks to put in it. "

"Ain't there some way you get furniture without payin' for it?"

"'Ire systim. But that's for toffs on three quid a week, reg'lar wages. They wouldn't look at us. "

"We'll get three quid right enough afore we done, " said Dickie firmly;"and if you want London, I'd like our old house because of the seeds Isowed in the garden; I lay they'll keep on a-coming up, forever andever. That's what annuals means. The chap next door told me. It meansflowers as comes up fresh every year. Let's tramp up, and I'll show itto you--where we used to live. "

And when they had tramped up and Dickie had shown Mr. Beale thesad-faced little house, Mr. Beale owned that it would do 'em a fairtreat. 

"But we must 'ave some bits of sticks or else nobody won't let us haveno 'ouses. "

They flattened their noses against the front window. The newspapers anddirty sackings still lay scattered on the floor as they had fallen fromDickie when he had got up in the morning after the night when he had hadThe Dream. 

The sight pulled at Dickie's heart-strings. He felt as a man might feelwho beheld once more the seaport from which in old and beautiful days hehad set sail for the shores of romance, the golden splendor of TheFortunate Islands. 

"I could doss 'ere again, " he said wistfully; "it 'ud save fourpence. Both 'ouses both sides is empty. Nobody wouldn't know. "

"We don't need to look to our fourpences so sharp's all that, " saidBeale. 

"I'd like to. "

"Wonder you ain't afeared. "

"I'm used to it, " said Dickie; "it was our own 'ouse, you see. "

"You come along to yer supper, " said Beale; "don't be so flash with yerown 'ouses. "

They had supper at a coffee-shop in the Broadway. 

"Two mugs, four billiard balls, and 'arf a dozen door-steps, " was Mr. Beale's order. You or I, more polite if less picturesque, would perhapshave said, "Two cups of tea, four eggs, and some thick bread andbutter. " It was a pleasant meal. Only just at the end it turned intosomething quite different. The shop was one of those old-fashioned ones, divided by partitions like the stalls in a stable, and over the top ofthis partition there suddenly appeared a head. 

Dickie's mug paused in air half-way to his mouth, which remained open. 

"What's up?" Beale asked, trying to turn on the narrow seat and look up, which he couldn't do. 

"It's 'im, " whispered Dickie, setting down the mug. "That red'eaded chapwot I never see. "

And then the redheaded man came round the partition and sat down besideBeale and talked to him, and Dickie wished he wouldn't. He heard littleof the conversation; only "better luck next time" from the redheadedman, and "I don't know as I'm taking any" from Beale, and at the partingthe redheaded man saying, "I'll doss same shop as wot you do, " and Bealegiving the name of the lodging-house where, on the way to thecoffee-shop, Beale had left the perambulator and engaged their beds. 

"Tell you all about it in the morning" were the last words of theredheaded one as he slouched out, and Dickie and Beale were left tofinish the door-steps and drink the cold tea that had slopped into theirsaucers. 

When they went out Dickie said--

"What did he want, farver--that redheaded chap?"

Beale did not at once answer. 

"I wouldn't if I was you, " said Dickie, looking straight in front of himas they walked. 

"Wouldn't what?"

"Whatever he wants to. "

"Why, I ain't told you yet what he _does_ want. "

"'E ain't up to no good--I know that. "

"'E's full of notions, that's wot 'e is, " said Beale. "If some of 'isnotions come out right 'e'll be a-ridin' in 'is own cart and 'orse aforewe know where we are--and us a-tramping in 'is dust. "

"Ridin' in Black Maria, more like, " said Dickie. 

"Well, I ain't askin' _you_ to do anything, am I?" said Beale. 

"No!--you ain't. But whatever you're in, I'm a-goin' to be in, that'sall. "

"Don't you take on, " said Beale comfortably; "I ain't said I'll be inanything yet, 'ave I? Let's 'ear what 'e says in the morning. If 'is layain't a safe lay old Beale won't be in it--you may lay to that. "

"Don't let's, " said Dickie earnestly. "Look 'ere, father, let us go, both two of us, and sleep in that there old 'ouse of ours. I don't wantthat red'eaded chap. He'll spoil everything--I know 'e will, just aswe're a-gettin' along so straight and gay. Don't let's go to that theredoss; let's lay in the old 'ouse. "

"Ain't I never to 'ave never a word with nobody without it's you?" saidBeale, but not angrily. 

"Not with 'im; 'e ain't no class, " said Dickie firmly; "and oh! farver, I do so wanter sleep in that 'ouse, that was where I 'ad The Dream, youknow. "

"Oh, well--come on, then, " said Beale; "lucky we've got our thick coatson. "

It was quite easy for Dickie to get into the house, just as he had donebefore, and to go along the passage and open the front door for Mr. Beale, who walked in as bold as brass. They made themselves comfortablewith the sacking and old papers--but one at least of the two missed theluxury of clean air and soft moss and a bed canopy strewn with stars. Mr. Beale was soon asleep and Dickie lay still, his heart beating to thetune of the hope that now at last, in this place where it had oncecome, his dream would come again. But it did not come--even sleep, plain, restful, dreamless sleep, would not come to him. At last he couldlie still no longer. He slipped from under the paper, whose rustling didnot disturb Mr. Beale's slumbers, and moved into the square of lightthrown through the window by the street lamp. He felt in his pockets, pulled out Tinkler and the white seal, set them on the floor, and, movedby memories of the great night when his dream had come to him, arrangedthe moon-seeds round them in the same pattern that they had lain in onthat night of nights. And the moment that he had lain the last seed, completing the crossed triangles, the magic began again. All was as ithad been before. The tired eyes that must close, the feeling thatthrough his closed eyelids he could yet see something moving in thecentre of the star that the two triangles made. 

"Where do you want to go to?" said the same soft small voice that hadspoken before. But this time Dickie did not reply that he was "notparticular. " Instead, he said, "Oh, _there!_ I want to go there!"feeling quite sure that whoever owned that voice would know as well ashe, or even better, where "there" was, and how to get to it. 

And as on that other night everything grew very quiet, and sleep wrappedDickie round like a soft garment. When he awoke he lay in the bigfour-post bed with the green and white curtains; about him were thetapestry walls and the heavy furniture of The Dream. 

"Oh!" he cried aloud, "I've found it again!--I've found it!--I've foundit!"

And then the old nurse with the hooped petticoats and the queer cap andthe white ruff was bending over him; her wrinkled face was alight withlove and tenderness. 

"So thou'rt awake at last, " she said. "Did'st thou find thy friend inthy dreams?"

Dickie hugged her. 

"I've found the way back, " he said; "I don't know which is the dream andwhich is real--but _you_ know. "

"Yes, " said the old nurse, "I know. The one is as real as the other. "

He sprang out of bed and went leaping round the room, jumping on tochairs and off them, running and dancing. 

"What ails the child?" the nurse grumbled; "get thy hose on, for shame, taking a chill as like as not. What ails thee to act so?"

"It's the not being lame, " Dickie explained, coming to a standstill bythe window that looked out on the good green garden. "You don't know howwonderful it seems, just at first, you know, _not_ to be lame. "

CHAPTER VI

BURIED TREASURE

AND then, as he stood there in the sunshine, he suddenly knew. 

Having succeeded in dreaming once again the dream which he had so longedto dream, Dickie Harding looked out of the window of the dream-house inDeptford into the dream-garden with its cut yew-trees and box avenuesand bowling-greens, and perceived without doubt that this was no dream, but real--as real as the other Deptford where he had sown Artistic BirdSeed and gathered moonflowers and reaped the silver seeds of magic, forit _was_ magic. Dickie was sure of it now. He had not lived in the timeof the First James, be sure, without hearing magic talked of. And itseemed quite plain to him that if this that had happened to him was notmagic, then there never was and never would be any magic to happen toany one. He turned from the window and looked at the tapestry-hungroom--the big bed, the pleasant, wrinkled face of the nurse--and he knewthat all this was as real as anything that had happened to him in thatother life where he was a little lame boy who took the road with adirty tramp for father, and lay in the bed with green curtains. 

"Was thy friend well, in thy dream?" the nurse asked. 

"Yes, oh, yes, " said Dickie, "and I carved boxes in my dream, and soldthem, and I want to learn a lot more things, so that when I go backagain--I mean when I dream that dream again--I shall be able to earnmore money. "

"'Tis shame that one of thy name should have to work for money, " saidthe nurse. 

"It _isn't_ my name there, " said Dickie; "and old Sebastian told meevery one ought to do some duty to his country, or he wasn't worth hismeat and ale. And you don't know how good it is having money that you've_earned yourself_. "

"I ought to, " she said; "I've earned mine long enough. Now haste anddress--and then breakfast and thy fencing lesson. "

When the fencing lesson was over, Dickie hesitated. He wanted, ofcourse, to hurry off to Sebastian and to go on learning how to make agalleon. But also he wanted to learn some trade that he could teachBeale at Deptford, and he knew, quite as surely as any master craftsmancould have known it, that nothing which required delicate handling, suchas wood-carving or the making of toy boats, could ever be mastered byBeale. But Beale was certainly fond of dogs. Dickie remembered howlittle True had cuddled up to him and nestled inside his coat when helay down to sleep under the newspapers and the bits of sacking inLavender Terrace, Rosemary Lane. 

So Dickie went his way to the kennels to talk to the kennelman. He hadbeen there before with Master Roger Fry, his fencing master, but he hadnever spoken to the kennelman. And when he got to the kennels he knockedon the door of the kennelman's house and called out, "What ho! withinthere!" just as people do in old plays. And the door was thrown open bya man in a complete suit of leather, and when Dickie looked in thatman's face he saw that it was the face of the man who had lived nextdoor in Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Lane--the man who dug up the gardenfor the parrot seed. 

"Why, " said Dickie, "it's you!"

"Who would it be but me, little master?" the man asked with a respectfulsalute, and Dickie perceived that though this man had the face of theMan Next Door, he had not the Man Next Door's memories. 

"Do you live here?" he asked cautiously--"always, I mean. "

"Where else should I live?" the man asked, "that have served my lord, your father, all my time, boy and man, and know every hair of every dogmy lord owns. "

Dickie thought that was a good deal to know--and so it was. 

He stayed an hour at the kennels and came away knowing very much moreabout dogs than he did before, though some of the things he learnedwould surprise a modern veterinary surgeon very much indeed. But thedogs seemed well and happy, though they were doctored with herb teainstead of stuff from the chemist's, and the charms that were said overthem to make them swift and strong certainly did not make them any theless strong and swift. 

When Dickie had learned as much about dogs as he felt he could bear forthat day, he felt free to go down to the dockyard and go on learning howships were built. Sebastian looked up at the voice and ceased the blowswith which his axe was smoothing a great tree trunk that was to be amast, and smiled in answer to his smile. 

"Oh, what a long time since I have seen thee!" Dickie cried. 

And Sebastian, gently mocking him, answered, "A great while indeed--twowhole long days. And those thou'st spent merrymaking in the King's waterpageant. Two days--a great while, a great, great while. "

"I want you to teach me everything you know, " said Dickie, picking upan awl and feeling its point. 

[Illustration: "'OH, WHAT A LONG TIME SINCE I HAVE SEEN THEE!' DICKIECRIED"

[_Page 147_]

"Have patience with me, " laughed Sebastian; "I will teach thee all thoucanst learn, but not all in one while. Little by little, slow and sure. "

"You must not think, " said Dickie, "that it's only play, and that I donot need to learn because I am my father's son. "

"Should I think so?" Sebastian asked; "I that have sailed with CaptainDrake and Captain Raleigh, and seen how a gentleman venturer needs toturn his hand to every guess craft? If thou's so pleased to learn asSebastian is to teach, then he'll be as quick to teach as thou to learn. And so to work!"

He fetched out from the shed the ribs of the little galleon that he andDickie had begun to put together, and the two set to work on it. It wasa happy day. And one happiness was to all the other happinesses of thatday as the sun is to little stars--and that happiness was the happinessof being once more a little boy who did not need to use a crutch. 

And now the beautiful spacious life opened once more for Dickie, and helearned many things and found the days all good and happy and all thenights white and peaceful, in the big house and the beautiful garden onthe slopes above Deptford. And the nights had no dreams in them, and inthe days Dickie lived gaily and worthily, the life of the son of agreat and noble house, and now he had no prickings of conscience aboutBeale, left alone in the little house in Deptford. Because one day hesaid to his nurse--

"How long did it take me to dream that dream about making the boxes andearning the money in the ugly place I told you of?"

"Dreams about that place, " she answered him, "take none of _our_ timehere. And dreams about this place take none of what is time in thatother place. "

"But my dream endured all night, " objected Dickie. 

"Not so, " said the nurse, smiling between her white cap frills. "It was_after_ the dream that sleep came--a whole good nightful of it. "

So Dickie felt that for Beale no time at all had passed, and that whenhe went back--which he meant to do--he would get back to Deptford at thesame instant as he left it. Which is the essence of this particular kindof white magic. And thus it happened that when he did go back to Mr. Beale he went because his heart called him, and not for any other reasonat all. 

Days and weeks and months went by and it was autumn, and the apples wereripe on the trees, and the grapes ripe on the garden walls andtrellises. And then came a day when all the servants seemed suddenly togo mad--a great rushing madness of mops and brooms and dusters and pailsand everything in the house already perfectly clean was cleaned anew, and everything that was already polished was polished freshly, and whenDickie had been turned out of three rooms one after the other, hadtumbled over a pail and had a dish-cloth pinned to his doublet by anangry cook, he sought out the nurse, very busy in the linen-room, andasked her what all the fuss was about. 

"It can't be a spring-cleaning, " he said, "because it's the wrong timeof year. "

"Never say I did not tell thee, " she answered, unfolding a greatembroidered cupboard cloth and holding it up critically. "To-morrow thyfather and mother come home, and thy baby-brother, and to-day sennightthy little cousins come to visit thee. "

"How perfectly glorious!" said Dickie. "But you _didn't_ tell me. "

"If I didn't 'twas because you never asked. "

"I--I didn't dare to, " he said dreamily; "I was so afraid. You see, I'venever seen them. "

"Afraid?" she said, laying away the folded cloth and taking out anotherfrom the deep press, oaken, with smooth-worn, brown iron hinges andlock; "never seen thy father and mother, forsooth!"

"Perhaps it was the fever, " said Dickie, feeling rather deceitful. "Yousaid it made me forget things. I don't remember them. Not at all, Idon't. "

"Do not say that to them, " the nurse said, looking at him very gravely. 

"I won't. Unless they ask me, " he added. "Oh, nurse, let me do somethingtoo. What can I do to help?"

"Thou canst gather such flowers as are left in the garden to make anosegay for thy mother's room; and set them in order in fair water. Andbid thy tutor teach thee a welcome song to say to them when they comein. "

Gathering the flowers and arranging them was pleasant and easy. Askingso intimate a favor from the sour-faced tutor whom he so much dislikedwas neither easy nor pleasant. But Dickie did it. And the tutor wasdelighted to set him to learn a particularly hard and uninterestingpiece of poetry, beginning--

 "Happy is he Who, to sweet home retired, Shuns glory so admired And to himself lives free; While he who strives with pride to climb the skies Falls down with foul disgrace before he dies. "

Dickie could not help thinking that the father and mother who were to behis in this beautiful world might have preferred something simpler andmore affectionate from their little boy than this difficult piece whoselast verse was the only one which seemed to Dickie to mean anything inparticular. In this verse Dickie was made to remark that he hoped peoplewould say of him, "He died a good old man, " which he did _not_ hope, andindeed had never so much as thought of. The poetry, he decided, wouldhave been nicer if it had been more about his father and mother and lessabout fame and trees and burdens. He felt this so much that he tried towrite a poem himself, and got as far as--

 "They say there is no other Can take the place of mother. I say there is no one I'd rather See than my father. "

But he could not think of any more to say, and besides, he had ahaunting idea that the first two lines--which were quite the best--werenot his own make-up. So he abandoned the writing of poetry, decidingthat it was not his line, and painfully learned the dismal versesappointed by his tutor. 

But he never got them said. When the bustle of arrival had calmed alittle, Dickie, his heart beating very fast indeed, found himself led byhis tutor into the presence of the finest gentleman and the dearest ladyhe had ever beheld. The tutor gave him a little push so that he had togo forward two steps and to stand alone on the best carpet, which hadbeen spread in their honor, and hissed in a savage whisper--

"Recite your song of welcome. "

"'Happy the man, '" began Dickie, in tones of gloom, and tremblinglypronounced the first lines of that unpleasing poem. 

But he had not got to "strive with pride" before the dear lady caughthim in her arms, exclaiming, "Bless my dear son! how he has grown!" andthe fine gentleman thumped him on the back, and bade him "bear himselflike a gentleman's son, and not like a queasy square-toes. " And theyboth laughed, and he cried a little, and the tutor seemed to be blottedout, and there they were, all three as jolly as if they had known eachother all their lives. And a stout young nurse brought the baby, andDickie loved it and felt certain it loved him, though it only said, "Googa goo, " exactly as your baby-brother does now, and got hold of Dickie'shair and pulled it and would not let go. 

There was a glorious dinner, and Dickie waited on this new father ofhis, changed his plate, and poured wine out of a silver jug into thesilver cup that my lord drank from. And after dinner the dearlady-mother must go all over the house to see everything, because shehad been so long away, and Dickie walked in the garden among the ripeapples and grapes with his father's hand on his shoulder, the happiest, proudest boy in all Deptford--or in all Kent either. 

His father asked what he had learned, and Dickie told, dwelling, perhaps, more on the riding, and the fencing, and the bowls, and themusic than on the sour-faced tutor's side of the business. 

"But I've learned a lot of Greek and Latin, too, " he added in a hurry, "and poetry and things like that. "

"I fear, " said the father, "thou dost not love thy book. "

"I do, sir; yet I love my sports better, " said Dickie, and looked up tomeet the fond, proud look of eyes as blue as his own. 

"Thou'rt a good, modest lad, " said his father when they began theirthird round of the garden, "not once to ask for what I promised thee. "

Dickie could not stand this. "I might have asked, " he said presently, "but I have forgot what the promise was--the fever----"

"Ay, ay, poor lad! And of a high truth, too! Owned he had forgot! Come, jog that poor peaked remembrance. "

Dickie could hardly believe the beautiful hope that whispered in hisear. 

"I almost think I remember, " he said. "Father--did you promise----?"

"I promised, if thou wast a good lad and biddable and constant at thybook and thy manly exercises, to give thee, so soon as thou should'sthave learned to ride him----"

"A little horse?" said Dickie breathlessly; "oh, father, not a littlehorse?" It was good to hear one's father laugh that big, jolly laugh--tofeel one's father's arm laid like that across one's shoulders. 

The little horse turned round to look at them from his stall in the bigstables. It was really rather a big horse. 

What colored horse would you choose--if a horse were to be yours for thechoosing? Dickie would have chosen a gray, and a gray it was. 

"What is his name?" Dickie asked, when he had admired the gray's everypoint, had had him saddled, and had ridden him proudly round the pasturein his father's sight. 

"We call him Rosinante, " said his father, "because he is so fat, " and helaughed, but Dickie did not understand the joke. He had not read "DonQuixote, " as you, no doubt, have. 

"I should like, " said Dickie, sitting square on the gray, "to call himCrutch. May I?"

"_Crutch?_" the father repeated. 

"Because his paces are so easy, " Dickie explained. He got off the horsevery quickly and came to his father. "I mean even a lame boy could ridehim. Oh! father, I am so happy!" he said, and burrowed his nose in avelvet doublet, and perhaps snivelled a little. "I am so glad I am notlame. "

"Fancy-full as ever, " said his father; "come, come! Thou'rt weak yetfrom the fever. Be a man. Remember of what blood thou art. And thymother--she also hath a gift for thee--from thy grandfather. Hast thouforgotten that? It hangs to the book learning. A reward--and thou hastearned it. "

"I've forgotten that, too, " said Dickie. "You aren't vexed because Iforget? I can't help it, father. "

"That I'll warrant thou cannot. Come, now, to thy mother. My little son!The Earl of Scilly chid me but this summer for sparing the rod andspoiling the child. But thy growth in all things bears out in what Ianswered him. I said: 'The boys of our house, my lord, take that pridein it that they learn of their own free will what many an earl's sonmust be driven to with rods. ' He took me. His own son is little betterthan an idiot, and naught but the rod to blame for it, I verilybelieve. "

They found the lady-mother and her babe by a little fire in a widehearth. 

"Our son comes to claim the guerdon of learning, " the father said. Andthe lady stood up with the babe in her arms. 

"Call the nurse to take him, " she said. But Dickie held out his arms. 

"Oh, mother, " he said, and it was the first time in all his life that hehad spoken that word to any one. "Mother, do let me hold him. "

A warm, stiff bundle was put into his careful arms, and his littlebrother instantly caught at his hair. It hurt, but Dickie liked it. 

The lady went to one of the carved cabinets and with a bright key from avery bright bunch unlocked one of the heavy panelled doors. She drew outof the darkness within a dull-colored leather bag embroidered in goldthread and crimson silk. 

"He has forgot, " said Sir Richard in an undertone, "what it was that thegrandfather promised him. Though he has well earned the same. 'Tis thefever. "

The mother put the bag in Dickie's hands. 

"Count it out, " she said, taking her babe from him; and Dickie untiedthe leathern string, and poured out on to the polished long table whatthe bag held. Twenty gold pieces. 

"And all with the image of our late dear Queen, " said the mother; "theimage of that incomparable virgin Majesty whose example is a beacon forall time to all virtuous ladies. "

[Illustration: "IT HURT, BUT DICKIE LIKED IT"

[_Page 157_]

"Ah, yes, indeed, " said the father; "put them up in the bag, boy. Theyare thine own to thee, to spend as thou wilt. "

"Not unwisely, " said the mother gently. 

"As he wills, " the father firmly said; "wisely or unwisely. As he wills. And none, " he added, "shall ask how they be spent. "

The lady frowned; she was a careful housewife, and twenty gold pieceswere a large sum. 

"I will not waste it, " said Dickie. "Mother, you may trust me not towaste it. "

It was the happiest moment of his life to Dickie. The little horse--thegold pieces.... Yes, but much more, the sudden, good, safe feeling offather and mother and little brother; of a place where he belonged, where he loved and was loved. And by his equals. For he felt that, asfar as a child can be the equal of grown people, he was the equal ofthese. And Beale was not his equal, either in the graces of the body orin the inner treasures of mind and heart. And hitherto he had loved onlyBeale; had only, so far as he could remember, been loved by Beale and bythat shadowy father, his "Daddy, " who had died in hospital, and dying, had given him the rattle, his Tinkler, that was Harding's Luck. And inthe very heart of that happiest moment came, like a sharp daggerprick, the thought of Beale. What wonders could be done for Beale withthose twenty-five gold sovereigns? For Dickie thought of them just assovereigns--and so they were. 

And as these people who loved him, who were his own, drew nearer andnearer to his heart--his heart, quickened by love of them, felt itselfdrawn more and more to Mr. Beale. Mr. Beale, the tramp, who had beenkind to him when no one else was. Mr. Beale, the tramp and housebreaker. 

So when the nurse took him, tired with new happinesses, to thatbeautiful tapestried room of his, he roused himself from his good softsleepiness to say--

"Nurse, you know a lot of things, don't you?"

"I know what I know, " she answered, undoing buttons with speed andauthority. 

"You know that other dream of mine--that dream of mine, I mean, thedream of a dreadful place?"

"And then?"

"Could I take anything out of this dream--I mean out of this time intothe other one?"

"You could, but you must bring it back when you come again. And youcould bring things thence. Certain things: your rattle, your moon-seeds, your seal. "

He stared at her. 

"You _do_ know things, " he said; "but I want to take things there andleave them there. "

She knitted thoughtful brows. 

"There's three hundred thick years between now and then, " she said. "Oh, yes, I know. And if you held it in your hand, you'd lose it like as notin some of the years you go through. Money's mortal heavy and travelsslow. Slower than the soul of you, my lamb. Some one would have time tosee it and snatch it and hold to it. "

"Isn't there any way?" Dickie asked, insisting to himself that he wasn'tsleepy. 

"There's the way of everything--the earth, " she said; "bury it, and liedown on the spot where it's buried, and then, when you get back into theother dream, the kind, thick earth will have hid your secret, and youcan dig it up again. It will be there ... Unless other hands have dugthere in the three hundred years. You must take your chance of that. "

"Will you help me?" Dickie asked. "I shall need to dig it very deep if Iam to cheat three hundred years. And suppose, " he added, struck by asudden and unpleasing thought, "there's a house built on the place. Ishould be mixed up with the house. Two things can't be in the same placeat the same time. My tutor told me that. And the house would be so muchstronger than me--it would get the best of it, and where should I bethen?"

"I'll ask where thou'd be, " was the very surprising answer. "I'll asksome one who knows. But it'll take time--put thy money in the greatpress, and I'll keep the key. And next Friday as ever is, come yourlittle cousins. "

They came. It was more difficult with them than it was with thegrown-ups to conceal the fact that he had not always been the Dickie hewas now; but it was not so difficult as you might suppose. It was noharder than not talking about the dreams you had last night. 

And now he had indeed a full life: head-work, bodily exercises, work, home life, and joyous hours of play with two children who understoodplay as the poor little, dirty Deptford children do not and cannotunderstand it. 

He lived and learned, and felt more and more that this was the life towhich he really belonged. And days and weeks and months went by andnothing happened, and that is the happiest thing that can happen to anyone who is already happy. 

Then one night the nurse said--

"I have asked. You are to bury your treasure under the window of thesolar parlor, and lie down and sleep on it. You'll take no harm, andwhen you're asleep I will say the right words, and you'll wake under thesame skies and not under a built house, like as you feared. "

She wrapped him in a warm cloth mantle of her own, when she took himfrom his bed that night after all the family were asleep, and put on hisshoes and led him to the hole she had secretly dug in below the window. They had put his embroidered leather bag of gold in a littlewrought-iron coffer that Sebastian had given him, and the nurse hadtightly fastened the join of lid and box with wax and resin. The box waswrapped in a silk scarf, and the whole packet put into a big earthenwarejar with a lid, and the join of lid and jar was smeared with resin andcovered with clay. The nurse had shown him how to do all this. 

"Against the earth spirits and the three hundred years, " she said. 

Now she lifted the jar into the hole, and together they filled the holewith earth, treading it in with their feet. 

"And when you would return, " said the nurse, "you know the way. "

"Do I?"

"You lay the rattle, the seal, and the moon-seeds as before, and listento the voices. "

And then Dickie lay down in the cloth cloak, and the nurse sat by himand held his hand till he fell asleep. It was June now, and the scent ofthe roses was very sweet, and the nightingales kept him awake awhile. But the sky overhead was an old friend of his, and as he lay he couldsee the shining of the dew among the grass blades of the lawn. It waspleasant to lie again in the bed with the green curtains. 

When he awoke there was his old friend the starry sky, and for a momenthe wondered. Then he remembered. He raised himself on his elbow. Therewere houses all about--little houses with lights in some of the windows. A broken paling was quite close to him. There was no grass near, onlyrough trampled earth; the smell all about him was not of roses, but ofdust-bins, and there were no nightingales--but far away he could hearthat restless roar that is the voice of London, and near at hand thefoolish song and unsteady footfall of a man going home from the "Cat andWhistle. " He scratched a cross on the hard ground with a broken bit of aplate to mark the spot, got up and crept on hands and knees to thehouse, climbed in and found the room where Beale lay asleep. 

 * * * * *

"Father, " said Dickie, next morning, as Mr. Beale stretched and gruntedand rubbed sleepy eyes with his unwashed fists in the cold daylight thatfilled the front room of 15, Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Lane. "You gotto take this house--that's what you got to do; you remember. "

"Can't say I do, " said Beale, scratching his head; "but if the nippersays so, it _is_ so. Let's go and get a mug and a door-step, and thenwe'll see. "

"You get it--if you're hungry, " said Dickie. "I'd rather wait here incase anybody else was to take the house. You go and see 'im now. 'E'llthink you're a man in reg'lar work by your being up so early. "

"P'raps, " said Beale thoughtfully, running his hand over the rustlingstubble of his two days' beard--"p'raps I'd best get a wash and brush-upfirst, eh? It might be worth it in the end. I'll 'ave to go to the dossto get our pram and things, any'ow. "

The landlord of the desired house really thought Mr. Beale a quiterespectable working man, and Mr. Beale accounted for their lack offurniture by saying, quite truthfully, that he and his nipper had comeup from Gravesend, doing a bit of work on the way. 

"I could, " he added, quite untruthfully, "give you the gentleman Iworked with for me reference--Talbott, 'is name is--a bald man with asquint and red ears--but p'raps this'll do as well. " He pulled out ofone pocket all their money--two pounds eighteen shillings--except sixpennies which he had put in the other pocket to rattle. He rattled themnow. "I'm anxious, " he said, confidentially, "to get settled on accountof the nipper. I don't deceive you; we 'oofed it up, not to waste ourlittle bit, and he's a hoppy chap. "

"That's odd, " said the landlord; "there was a lame boy lived there alongof the last party that had it. It's a cripple's home by rights, I shouldthink. "

Beale had not foreseen this difficulty, and had no story ready. So hetried the truth. 

"It's the same lad, mister, " he said; "that's why I'm rather set on the'ouse. You see, it's 'ome to 'im like, " he added sentimentally. 

"You 'is father?" said the landlord sharply. And again Beale wasinspired to truthfulness--quite a lot of it. 

"No, " he said cautiously, "wish I was. The fact is, the little chap'saunt wasn't much class. An' I found 'im wandering. An' not 'avin' noneof my own, I sort of adopted 'im. "

"Like Wandering Hares at the theatre, " said the landlord, who had beentold by Dickie's aunt that the "ungrateful little warmint" had run away. "I see. "

"And 'e's a jolly little chap, " said Beale, warming to his subject andforgetting his caution, "as knowing as a dog-ferret; and hispatter--enough to make a cat laugh, 'e is sometimes. And I'll pay a weekdown if you like, mister--and we'll get our bits of sticks in to-day. "

"Well, " said the landlord, taking a key from a nail on the wall, "let'sgo down and have a look at the 'ouse. Where's the kid?"

"'E's there awaitin' for me, " said Beale; "couldn't get 'im away. "

Dickie was very polite to the landlord, at whom in unhappier days he hadsometimes made faces, and when the landlord went he had six of theirshillings and they had the key. 

"So now we've got a 'ome of our own, " said Beale, rubbing his hands whenthey had gone through the house together; "an Englishman's 'ome is 'iscastle--and what with the boxes you'll cut out and the dogs what I'llpick up, Buckingham Palace'll look small alongside of us--eh, matey?"

They locked up the house and went to breakfast, Beale gay as a lark andDickie rather silent. He was thinking over a new difficulty. It was allvery well to bury twenty sovereigns and to know exactly where they were. And they were his own beyond a doubt. But if any one saw thosesovereigns dug up, those sovereigns would be taken away from him. No onewould believe that they were his own. And the earthenware pot was sobig. And so many windows looked out on the garden. No one could hope todig up a big thing like that from his back garden without attracting_some_ attention. Besides, he doubted whether he were strong enough todig it up, even if he could do so unobserved. He had not thought of thiswhen he had put the gold there in that other life. He was so muchstronger then. He sighed. 

"Got the 'ump, mate?" asked Beale, with his mouth full. 

"No, I was just a-thinkin'. "

"We'd best buy the sticks first thing, " said Beale; "it's a cruel world. 'No sticks, no trust' is the landlord's motto. "

Do you want to know what sticks they bought? I will tell you. Theybought a rusty old bedstead, very big, with laths that hung loose like ahammock, and all its knobs gone and only bare screws sticking upspikily. Also a flock mattress and pillows of a dull dust color to go onthe bed, and some blankets and sheets, all matching the mattress to ashade. They bought a table and two chairs, and a kitchen fender with around steel moon--only it was very rusty--and a hand-bowl for the sink, and a small zinc bath, "to wash your shirt in, " said Mr. Beale. Fourplates, two cups and saucers, two each of knives, forks, and spoons, atin teapot, a quart jug, a pail, a bit of Kidderminster carpet, half apound of yellow soap, a scrubbing-brush and broom, two towels, akettle, a saucepan and a baking-dish, and a pint of paraffin. Also therewas a tin lamp to hang on the wall with a dazzling crinkled tinreflector. This was the only thing that was new, and it cost tenpencehalfpenny. All the rest of the things together cost twenty-six shillingsand sevenpence halfpenny, and I think they were cheap. 

But they seemed very poor and very little of them when they were dumpeddown in the front room. The bed especially looked far from its best--amere heap of loose iron. 

"And we ain't got our droring-room suit, neither, " said Mr. Beale. "Lady's and gent's easy-chairs, four hoccasionals, pianner, and foomedoak booreau. "

"Curtains, " said Dickie--"white curtains for the parlor and short blindseverywhere else. I'll go and get 'em while you clean the winders. Thatold shirt of mine. It won't hang through another washing. Clean 'em withthat. "

"You don't give your orders, neither, " said Beale contentedly. 

The curtains and a penn'orth of tacks, a hammer borrowed from aneighbor, and an hour's cheerful work completed the fortification of theEnglishman's house against the inquisitiveness of passers-by. But thelandlord frowned anxiously as he went past the house. 

"Don't like all that white curtain, " he told himself; "not much be'indit, if you ask me. People don't go to that extreme in Nottingham lacewithout there's something to hide--a house full of emptiness, mostlikely. "

Inside Dickie was telling a very astonished Mr. Beale that there wasmoney buried in the garden. 

"It was give me, " said he, "for learning of something--and we've got toget it up so as no one sees us. I can't think of nothing but build achicken-house and then dig inside of it. I wish I was cleverer. HereWard would have thought of something first go off. "

"Don't you worry, " said Beale; "you're clever enough for this poorworld. _You're_ all right. Come on out and show us where you put it. Just peg with yer foot on the spot, looking up careless at the sky. "

They went out. And Dickie put his foot on the cross he had scratchedwith the broken bit of plate. It was close to the withered stalk of themoonflower. 

"This 'ere garden's in a poor state, " said Beale in a loud voice; "wantsturning over's what _I_ think--against the winter. I'll get a spade and'ave a turn at it this very day, so I will. This 'ere old artichook'sgot some roots, I lay. "

The digging began at the fence and reached the moonflower, whose rootswere indeed deep. Quite a hole Mr. Beale dug before the tall stalksloped and fell with slow dignity, like a forest tree before the axe. Then the man and the child went in and brought out the kitchen table andchairs, and laid blankets over them to air in the autumn sunlight. Dickie played at houses under the table--it was not the sort of game heusually played, but the neighbors could not know that. The tablehappened to be set down just over the hole that had held the roots ofthe moonflower. Dickie dug a little with a trowel in the blanket house. 

After dark they carried the blankets and things in. Then one of theblankets was nailed up over the top-floor window, and on the ironbedstead's dingy mattress the resin was melted from the lid of the potthat Mr. Beale had brought in with the other things from the garden. Also it was melted from the crack of the iron casket. Mr. Beale's eyes, always rather prominent, almost resembled the eyes of the lobster or thesnail as their gaze fell on the embroidered leather bag. And when Dickieopened this and showered the twenty gold coins into a hollow of the drabticking, he closed his eyes and sighed, and opened them again and said--

"_Give_ you? They give you that. I don't believe you. "

"You got to believe me, " said Dickie firmly. "I never told you a lie, did I?"

"Come to think of it, I don't know as you ever did, " Beale admitted. 

"Well, " said Dickie, "they was give me--see?"

"We'll never change 'em, though, " said Beale despondently. "We'd getlagged for a cert. They'd say we pinched 'em. "

"No, they won't. 'Cause I've got a friend as'll change 'em for me, andthen we'll 'ave new clobber and some more furniture, and a carpet and acrockery basin to wash our hands and faces in 'stead of that old tinthing. And a bath we'll 'ave. And you shall buy some more pups. And I'llget some proper carving tools. And our fortune's made. See?"

"You nipper, " said Beale, slowly and fondly, "the best day's work ever Idone was when I took up with you. You're straight, you are--one of thebest. Many's the boy would 'ave done a bunk and took the shiners alongwith him. But you stuck to old Beale, and he'll stick to you. "

"That's all right, " said Dickie, beginning to put the bright coins backinto the bag. 

"But it ain't all right, " Beale insisted stubbornly; "it ain't no good. I must 'ave it all out, or bust. I didn't never take you along of me'cause I fancied you like what I said. I was just a-looking out for anipper to shove through windows--see?--along of that redheaded chap whatyou never set eyes on. "

"I've known that a long time, " said Dickie, gravely watching the candleflicker on the bare mantel-shelf. 

"I didn't mean no good to you, not at first I didn't, " said Beale, "whenyou wrote on the sole of my boot. I'd bought that bit of paper andpencil a-purpose. There!"

"You ain't done me no 'arm, anyway, " said Dickie. 

"No--I know I ain't. 'Cause why? 'Cause I took to you the very firstday. I allus been kind to you--you can't say I ain't. " Mr. Beale wasconfused by the two desires which make it difficult to confess anythingtruthfully--the desire to tell the worst of oneself and the desire to dofull justice to oneself at the same time. It is so very hard not toblacken the blackness, or whiten the whiteness, when one comes to tryingto tell the truth about oneself. "But I been a beast all the same, " saidMr. Beale helplessly. 

"Oh, stow it!" Dickie said; "now you've told me, it's all square. "

"You won't keep a down on me for it?"

"Now, should I?" said Dickie, exasperated and very sleepy. "Now all isopen as the day and we can pursue our career as honorable men andcomrades in all high emprise. I mean, " he explained, noticing Mr. Beale's open mouth and eyes more lobster-like than ever--"I mean that'sall right, farver, and you see it don't make any difference to me. Iknows you're straight now, even if it didn't begin just like that. Let'sget to bed, shan't us?"

Mr. Beale dreamed that he was trying to drown Dickie in a pond full ofstewed eels. Dickie didn't dream at all. 

 * * * * *

You may wonder why, since going to the beautiful other world took notime and was so easy, Dickie did not do it every night, or even at oddtimes during the day. 

Well, the fact was he dared not. He loved the other life so much that hefeared that, once again there, he might not have the courage to returnto Mr. Beale and Deptford and the feel of dirty clothes and the smell ofdust-bins. It was no light thing to come back from that to this. And nowhe made a resolution--that he would not set out the charm of Tinkler andseal and moon-seeds until he had established Mr. Beale in an honorablecalling and made a life for him in which he could be happy. A greatundertaking for a child? Yes. But then Dickie was not an ordinary child, or none of these adventures would ever have happened to him. 

The pawnbroker, always a good friend to Dickie, had the wit to see thatthe child was not lying when he said that the box and the bag and thegold pieces had been given to him. 

He changed the gold pieces stamped with the image of Queen Elizabeth forothers stamped with the image of Queen Victoria. And he gave five poundsfor the wrought-iron box, and owned that he should make a little--a verylittle--out of it. "And if your grand society friends give you any moretreasures, you know the house to come to--the fairest house in thetrade, though I say it. "

"Thank you very much, " said Dickie; "you've been a good friend to me. Ihope some day I shall do you a better turn than the little you make outof my boxes and things. "

The Jew sold the wrought-iron box that very week for twenty guineas. 

And Dickie and Mr. Beale now possessed twenty-seven pounds. New clotheswere bought--more furniture. Twenty-two pounds of the money was put inthe savings bank. Dickie bought carving tools and went to theGoldsmiths' Institute to learn to use them. The front bedroom was fittedwith a bench for Dickie. The back sitting-room was a kennel for the dogswhich Mr. Beale instantly began to collect. The front room was aparlor--a real parlor. A decent young woman--Amelia by name--wasengaged to come in every day and "do for" them. The clothes they worewere clean; the food they ate was good. Dickie's knowledge of an orderedlife in a great house helped him to order life in a house that waslittle. And day by day they earned their living. The new life was fairlystarted. And now Dickie felt that he might dare to go back through thethree hundred years to all that was waiting for him there. 

"But I will only stay a month, " he told himself, "a month here and amonth there, that will keep things even. Because if I were longer therethan I am here I should not be growing up so fast here as I shouldthere. And everything would be crooked. And how silly if I were a grownman in that life and had to come back and be a little boy in this!"

I do not pretend that the idea did not occur to Dickie, "Now that Bealeis fairly started he could do very well without me. " But Dickie knewbetter. He dismissed the idea. Besides, Beale had been good to him andhe loved him. 

The white curtains had now no sordid secrets to keep--and when thelandlord called for the rent Mr. Beale was able to ask him to stepin--into a comfortable room with a horsehair sofa and a big, worneasy-chair, a carpet, four old mahogany chairs, and a table with a cleanblue-and-red checked cloth on it. There was a bright clock on themantelpiece, and vases with chrysanthemums in them, and there were redwoollen curtains as well as the white lace ones. 

"You're as snug as snug in here, " said the landlord. 

"Not so dusty, " said Beale, shining from soap; "'ave a look at mydawgs?"

He succeeded in selling the landlord a pup for ten shillings and cameback to Dickie sitting by the pleasant firelight. 

"It's all very smart, " he said, "but don't you never feel the fidgets inyour legs? I've kep' steady, and keep steady I will. But in thespring--when the weather gets a bit open--what d'you say to shutting upthe little 'ouse and taking the road for a bit? Gentlemen do it even, "he added wistfully. "Walking towers they call 'em. "

"I'd like it, " said Dickie, "but what about the dogs?"

"Oh! Amelia'd do for them a fair treat, all but Fan and Fly, as 'ud goalong of us. I dunno what it is, " he said, "makes me 'anker so after theroad. I was always like it from a boy. Couldn't get me to school, sothey couldn't--allus after birds' nests or rabbits or the like. Not butwhat I liked it well enough where I was bred. I didn't tell you, did I, we passed close longside our old 'ome that time we slep' among the furzebushes? I don't s'pose my father's alive now. But 'e was a game oldchap--shouldn't wonder but what he'd stuck it out. "

"Let's go and see him some day, " said Dickie. 

"I dunno, " said Beale; "you see, I was allus a great hanxiety to 'im. And besides, I shouldn't like to find 'im gone. Best not know nothing. That's what I say. "

But he sighed as he said it, and he filled his pipe in a thoughtfulsilence. 

CHAPTER VII

DICKIE LEARNS MANY THINGS

THAT night Dickie could not sleep. And as he lay awake a great resolvegrew strong within him. He would try once more the magic of themoon-seeds and the rattle and the white seal, and try to get back intothat other world. So he crept down into the parlor where a little layerof clear, red fire still burned. 

And now the moon-seeds and the voices and the magic were over and Dickieawoke, thrilled to feel how cleverly he had managed everything, movedhis legs in the bed, rejoicing that he was no longer lame. Then heopened his eyes to feast them on the big, light tapestried room. But theroom was not tapestried. It was panelled. And it was rather dark. And itwas so small as not to be much better than a cupboard. 

This surprised Dickie more than anything else that had ever happened tohim, and it frightened him a little too. If the spell of the moon-seedsand the rattle and the white seal was not certain to take him where hewished to be, nothing in the world was certain. He might be anywherewhere he didn't wish to be--he might be any one whom he did not wish tobe. 

"I'll never try it again, " he said: "if I get out of this I'll stick tothe wood-carving, and not go venturing about any more among dreams andthings. "

He got up and looked out of a narrow window. From it he saw a garden, but it was not a garden he had ever seen before. It had marble seats, balustrades, and the damp dews of autumn hung chill about its almostunleafed trees. 

"It might have been worse; it might have been a prison yard, " he toldhimself. "Come, keep your heart up. Wherever I've come to it's anadventure. "

He turned back to the room and looked for his clothes. There were noclothes there. But the shirt he had on was like the shirt he had sleptin at the beautiful house. 

He turned to open the door, and there was no door. All was dark, evenpanelling. He was not shut in a room but in a box. Nonsense, boxes didnot have beds in them and windows. 

And then suddenly he was no longer the clever person who had managedeverything so admirably--who was living two lives with such credit inboth, who was managing a grown man for that grown man's good; but just alittle boy rather badly frightened. 

The little shirt was the only thing that helped, and that only gave himthe desperate courage to beat on the panels and shout, "Nurse! Nurse!Nurse----!"

A crack of light split and opened between two panels, they slid back andbetween them the nurse came to him--the nurse with the ruff and thefrilled cap and the kind, wrinkled face. 

He got his arms round her big, comfortable waist. 

"There, there, my lamb!" she said, petting him. His clothes hung overher arm, his doublet and little fat breeches, his stockings and theshoes with rosettes. 

"Oh, I _am_ here--oh, I am so glad. I thought I'd got to somewheredifferent. "

She sat down on the bed and began to dress him, soothing him back toconfidence with gentle touches and pet names. 

"Listen, " she said, when it came to the silver sugar-loaf buttons of thedoublet. "You must listen carefully. It is a month since you went away. "

"But I thought time didn't move--I thought.... "

"It was the money upset everything, " she said; "it always does upseteverything. I ought to have known. Now attend carefully. No one knowsyou have been away. You've seemed to be here, learning and playing anddoing everything like you used. And you're on a visit now to yourcousins at your uncle's town house. And you all have lessonstogether--thy tutor gives them. And thy cousins love him no better thanthou dost. All thou hast to do is to forget thy dream, and take up thylife here--and be slow to speak, for a day or two, till thou hast grownused to thine own place. Thou'lt have lessons alone to-day. One of thecousins goes with his mother to be her page and bear her train at theKing's revels at Whitehall, and the other must sit and sew her sampler. Her mother says she hath run wild too long. "

So Dickie had lessons alone with his detested tutor, and his relief fromthe panic fear of the morning raised his spirits to a degree thatunfortunately found vent in what was, for him, extreme naughtiness. Hedrew a comic picture of his tutor--it really was rather like--with ascroll coming out of his mouth, and on the scroll the words, "Because Iam ugly I need not be hateful!" His tutor, who had a nasty way ofcreeping up behind people, came up behind him at the wrong moment. Dickie was caned on both hands and kept in. Also his dinner was of breadand water, and he had to write out two hundred times, "I am a bad boy, and I ask the pardon of my good tutor. The fifth day of November, 1608. "So he did not see his aunt and cousin in their Whitehall finery--and itwas quite late in the afternoon before he even saw his other cousin, whohad been sampler-sewing. He would not have written out the lines, hefelt sure he would not, only he thought of his cousin and wanted to seeher again. For she was the only little girl friend he had. 

When the last was done he rushed into the room where she was--he wasastonished to find that he knew his way about the house quite well, though he could not remember ever having been there before--and criedout--

"Thy task done? Mine is, too. Old Parrot-nose kept me hard at it, but Ithought of thee, and for this once I did all his biddings. So now we arefree. Come play ball in the garden!"

His cousin looked up from her sampler, set the frame down and jumped up. 

"I am so glad, " she said. "I do hate this horrid sampler!"

And as she said it Dickie had a most odd feeling, rather as if a clockhad struck, or had stopped striking--a feeling of sudden change. But hecould not wait to wonder about it or to question what it was that hereally felt. His cousin was waiting. 

"Come, Elfrida, " he said, and held out his hand. They went together intothe garden. 

Now if you have read a book called "The House of Arden" you will alreadyknow that Dickie's cousins were called Edred and Elfrida, and that theirfather, Lord Arden, had a beautiful castle by the sea, as well as ahouse in London, and that he and his wife were great favorites at theCourt of King James the First. If you have not read that book, anddidn't already know these things--well, you know them now. And Arden wasDickie's own name too, in this old life, and his father was Sir RichardArden, of Deptford and Aylesbury. And his tutor was Mr. Parados, calledParrot-nose "for short" by his disrespectful pupils. 

Dickie and Elfrida played ball, and they played hide-and-seek, and theyran races. He preferred play to talk just then; he did not want to letout the fact that he remembered nothing whatever of the doings of thelast month. Elfrida did not seem very anxious to talk, either. Thegarden was most interesting, and the only blot on the scene was theblack figure of the tutor walking up and down with a sour face and histhumbs in one of his dull-looking books. 

The children sat down on the step of one of the stone seats, and Dickiewas wondering why he had felt that queer clock-stopping feeling, when hewas roused from his wonderings by hearing Elfrida say--

 "Please to remember The Fifth of November, The gunpowder treason and plot. I see no reason Why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot. "

"How odd!" he thought. "I didn't know that was so old as all this. " Andhe remembered hearing his father, Sir Richard Arden, say, "Treason's adangerous word to let lie on your lips these days. " So he said--

"'Tis not a merry song, cousin, nor a safe one. 'Tis best not to sing oftreason. "

"But it didn't come off, you know, and he's always burnt in the end. "

So already Guy Fawkes burnings went on. Dickie wondered whether therewould be a bonfire to-night. It _was_ the Fifth of November. He had hadto write the date two hundred times so he was fairly certain of it. Hewas afraid of saying too much or too little. And for the life of him hecould not remember the date of the Gunpowder Plot. Still he must saysomething, so he said--

"Are there more verses?"

"No, " said Elfrida. 

"I wonder, " he said, trying to feel his way, "what treason the balladdeals with?"

He felt it had been the wrong thing to say, when Elfrida answered insurprised tones--

"Don't you know? _I_ know. And I know some of the names of theconspirators and who they wanted to kill and everything. "

"Tell me" seemed the wisest thing to say, and he said it as carelesslyas he could. 

"The King hadn't been fair to the Catholics, you know, " said Elfrida, who evidently knew all about the matter, "so a lot of them decided tokill him and the Houses of Parliament. They made a plot--there were awhole lot of them in it. "

The clock-stopping feeling came on again. Elfrida was different somehow. The Elfrida who had gone on the barge to Gravesend and played with himat the Deptford house had never used such expressions as "a whole lot ofthem in it. " He looked at her and she went on--

"They said Lord Arden was in it, but he wasn't, and some of them were topretend to be hunting and to seize the Princess Elizabeth and proclaimher Queen, and the rest were to blow the Houses of Parliament up whenthe King went to open them. "

"I never heard this tale from my tutor, " said Dickie. And withoutknowing why he felt uneasy, and because he felt uneasy he laughed. Thenhe said, "Proceed, cousin. "

Elfrida went on telling him about the Gunpowder Plot, but he hardlylistened. The stopped-clock feeling was growing so strong. But he heardher say, "Mr. Tresham wrote to his relation, Lord Monteagle, that theywere going to blow up the King, " and he found himself saying, "WhatKing?" though he knew the answer perfectly well. 

"Why, King James the First, " said Elfrida, and suddenly the horribletutor pounced and got Elfrida by the wrist. Then all in a momenteverything grew confused. Mr. Parados was asking questions and littleElfrida was trying to answer them, and Dickie understood that theGunpowder Plot _had not happened y_et, and that Elfrida had given thewhole show away. How did she know? And the verse?

"Tell me all--every name, every particular, " the loathsome tutor wassaying, "or it will be the worse for thee and thy father. "

Elfrida was positively green with terror, and looked appealingly atDickie. 

"Come, sir, " he said, in as manly a voice as he could manage, "youfrighten my cousin. It is but a tale she told. She is always merry andfull of many inventions. "

But the tutor would not be silenced. 

"And it's in history, " he heard Elfrida say. 

What followed was a mist of horrible things. When the mist clearedDickie found himself alone in the house with Mr. Parados, the nurse, andthe servants, for the Earl and Countess of Arden, Edred, and Elfridawere lodged in the Tower of London on a charge of high treason. 

For this was, it seemed, the Fifth of November, the day on which theGunpowder Plot should have been carried out; and Elfrida it was, and notMr. Tresham, Lord Monteagle's cousin, who had given away the wholebusiness. 

But how had Elfrida known? Could it be that she had dreams like his, andin those dreams visited later times when all this was matter of history?Dickie's brain felt fat--swollen--as though it would burst, and he wasglad to go to bed--even in that cupboardy place with the panels. But hebegged the nurse to leave the panel open. 

And when he woke next day it was all true. His aunt and uncle and histwo cousins were in the Tower and gloom hung over Arden House in Soholike a black thunder-cloud over a mountain. And the days went on, andlessons with Mr. Parados were a sort of Inquisition torture to Dickie. For the tutor never let a day pass without trying to find out whetherDickie had shared in any way that guilty knowledge of Elfrida's whichhad, so Mr. Parados insisted, overthrown the fell plot of the Papistsand preserved to a loyal people His Most Gracious Majesty James theFirst. 

And then one day, quite as though it were the most natural thing in theworld, his cousin Edred and Lady Arden his aunt were set free from theTower and came home. The King had suddenly decided that they at leasthad had nothing to do with the plot. Lady Arden cried all the time, and, as Dickie owned to himself, "there was enough to make her. " But Edredwas full of half thought-out plans and schemes for being revenged on oldParrot-nose. And at last he really did arrange a scheme for gettingElfrida out of the Tower--a perfectly workable scheme. And what is more, it worked. If you want to know how it was done, ask some grown-up totell you how Lady Nithsdale got her husband out of the Tower when he wasa prisoner there, and in danger of having his head cut off, and you willreadily understand the kind of scheme it was. A necessary part of it wasthe dressing up of Elfrida in boy's clothes, and her coming out of theTower, pretending to be Edred, who, with Richard, had come in to visitLord Arden. Then the guard at the Tower gateway was changed, and anotherEdred came out, and they all got into a coach, and there was Elfridaunder the coach seat among the straw and other people's feet, and theyall hugged each other in the dark coach as it jolted through the snowystreets to Arden House in Soho. 

Dickie, feeling very small and bewildered among all these dangeroushappenings, found himself suddenly caught by the arm. The nurse's handit was. 

"Now, " she said, "Master Richard will go take off his fine suit, and----" He did not hear the end, for he was pushed out of the room. Very discontentedly he found his way to his panelled bed-closet, andtook off the smart velvet and fur which he had worn in his visit to theTower, and put on his every-day things. You may be sure he made everypossible haste to get back to his cousins. He wanted to talk over thewhole wonderful adventure with them. He found them whispering in acorner. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"We're going to be even with old Parrot-nose, " said Edred, "but youmustn't be in it, because we're going away, and you've got to stay here, and whatever we decide to do you'll get the blame of it. "

"I don't see, " said Richard, "why I shouldn't have a hand in what I'vewanted to do these four years. " He had not known that he had known thetutor for four years, but as he said the words he felt that they weretrue. 

"There is a reason, " said Edred. "You go to bed, Richard. "

"Not me, " said Dickie of Deptford firmly. 

"If we tell you, " said Elfrida, explaining affectionately, "you won'tbelieve us. "

"You might at least, " said Richard Arden, catching desperately at thegrand manner that seemed to suit these times of ruff and sword and cloakand conspiracy--"you might at least make the trial. "

"Very well, I will, " said Elfrida abruptly. "No, Edred, he has a rightto hear. He's one of us. He won't give us away. Will you, Dickie dear?"

"You know I won't, " Dickie assured her. 

"Well, then, " said Elfrida slowly, "we are.... You listen hard andbelieve with both hands and with all your might, or you won't be able tobelieve at all. We are not what we seem, Edred and I. We don't reallybelong here at all. I don't know what's become of the _real_ Elfrida andEdred who belong to this time. Haven't we seemed odd to you at all?Different, I mean, from the Edred and Elfrida you've been used to?"

The remembrance of the stopped-clock feeling came strongly on Dickie andhe nodded. 

"Well, that's because we're _not_ them. We don't belong here. We belongthree hundred years later in history. Only we've got a charm--because inour time Edred is Lord Arden, and there's a white mole who helps us, andwe can go anywhere in history we like. "

"Not quite, " said Edred. 

"No; but there are chests of different clothes, and whatever clothes weput on we come to that time in history. I know it sounds like sillyuntruths, " she added rather sadly, "and I knew you wouldn't believe it, but it _is_ true. And now we're going back to our times--QueenAlexandra, you know, and King Edward the Seventh and electric light andmotors and 1908. Don't try to believe it if it hurts you, Dickie dear. Iknow it's most awfully rum--but it's the real true truth. "

Richard said nothing. Had never thought it possible but that he was theonly one to whom things like this happened. 

"You don't believe it, " said Edred complacently. "I knew you wouldn't. "

Dickie felt a swimming sensation. It _was_ impossible that thiswonderful change should happen to any one besides himself. This justmeant that the whole thing was a dream. And he said nothing. 

"Never mind, " said Elfrida in comforting tones; "don't try to believeit. I know you can't. Forget it. Or pretend we were just kidding you. "

"Well, it doesn't matter, " Edred said. "What can we do to pay out oldParrot-nose?"

Then Richard found a voice and words. 

"I don't like it, " he said. "It's never been like this before. It makesit seem not real. It's only a dream, really, I suppose. And I'd got tobelieve that it was really real. "

"I don't understand a word you're saying, " said Edred; and, darting to acorner, produced a photographic camera, of the kind called "Brownie. "

"Look here, " he said, "you've never seen anything like _this_ before. This comes from the times we belong to. "

Richard knew it well. A boy at school had had one. And he had borrowedit once. And the assistant master had had a larger one of the same kind. It was horrible to him, this intrusion of the scientific attainments ofthe ugly times in which he was born into the beautiful times that he hadgrown to love. 

"Oh, stow it!" he said. "I know now it's all a silly dream. But it's notworth while to pretend I don't know a Kodak when I see it. That's aBrownie. "

"If you've dreamed about our time, " said Elfrida.... "Did you ever dreamof fire carriages and fire-boats, and----"

Richard explained that he was not a baby, that he knew all aboutrailways and steamboats and the triumphs of civilization. And added thatKent made 615 against Derbyshire last Thursday. Edred and Elfrida beganto ask questions. Dickie was much too full of his own questionings toanswer theirs. 

"I shan't tell you anything more, " he said. "But I'll help you to geteven with old Parrot-nose. " And suggested shovelling the snow off theroof into the room of that dismal tyrant through the skylightconveniently lighting it. 

But Edred wanted that written down--about Kent and Derbyshire--so thatthey might see, when they got back to their own times, whether it wastrue. And Dickie found he had a bit of paper in his doublet on which towrite it. It was a bill--he had had it in his hand when he made themagic moon-seed pattern, and it had unaccountably come with him. It wasa bill for three ship's guns and compasses and six flags, which Mr. Beale had bought for him in London for the fitting out of a little shiphe had made to order for the small son of the amiable pawnbroker. Hescribbled on the back of this bill, gave it to Edred, and then they allwent out on the roof and shovelled snow in on to Mr. Parados, and whenhe came out on the roof very soon and angry, they slipped round thechimney-stacks and through the trap-door, and left him up on the roof inthe snow, and shut the trap-door and hasped it. 

And then the nurse caught them and Richard was sent to bed. But he didnot go. There was no sleep in that house that night. Sleepiness filledit like a thick fog. Dickie put out his rushlight and stayed quiet for alittle while, but presently it was impossible to stay quiet anothermoment, so very softly and carefully he crept out and hid behind a tallpress at the end of the passage. He felt that strange things werehappening in the house and that he must know what they were. Presentlythere were voices below, voices coming up the stairs--the nurse's voice, his cousins', and another voice. Where had he heard that other voice?The stopped-clock feeling was thick about him as he realized that thiswas one of the voices he had heard on that night of the first magic--thevoice that had said, "He is more yours than mine. "

The light the nurse carried gleamed and disappeared up the second flightof stairs. Dickie followed. He had to follow. He could not be left outof this, the most mysterious of all the happenings that had sowonderfully come to him. 

He saw, when he reached the upper landing, that the others were by thewindow, and that the window was open. A keen wind rushed through it, andby the blown candle's light he could see snowflakes whirled into thehouse through the window's dark, star-studded square. There waswhispering going on. He heard her words, "Here. So! Jump. "

And then a little figure--Edred it must be; no, Elfrida--climbed up onto the window-ledge. And jumped out. Out of the third-floor windowundoubtedly jumped. Another followed it--that was Edred. 

"It _is_ a dream, " said Dickie to himself, "but if they've been made tojump out, to punish them for getting even with old Parrot-nose oranything, I'll jump too. "

He rushed past the nurse, past her voice and the other voice that wastalking with hers, made one bound to the window, set his knee on it, stood up and jumped; and he heard, as his knee touched the icywindow-sill, the strange voice say, "Another, " and then he was in theair falling, falling. 

"I shall wake when I reach the ground, " Dickie told himself, "and then Ishall know it's all only a dream, a silly dream. "

But he never reached the ground. He had not fallen a couple of yardsbefore he was caught by something soft as heaped feathers or driftedsnow; it moved and shifted under him, took shape; it was a chair--no, acarriage. And there were reins in his hand--white reins. And a horse?No--a swan with wide, white wings. He grasped the reins and guided thestrange steed to a low swoop that should bring him near the flare oftorches in the street, outside the great front door. And as the swanlaid its long neck low in downward flight he saw his cousins in acarriage like his own rise into the sky and sail away towards the south. Quite without meaning to do it he pulled on the reins; the swan rose. Hepulled again and the carriage stopped at the landing window. 

Hands dragged him in. The old nurse's hands. The swan glided awaybetween snow and stars, and on the landing inside the open window thenurse held him fast in her arms. 

"My lamb!" she said; "my dear, foolish, brave lamb!"

Dickie was pulling himself together. 

"If it's a dream, " he said slowly, "I've had enough. I want to wake up. If it's real--real, with magic in it--you've got to explain it all tome--every bit. I can't go on like this. It's not fair. "

"Oh, tell him and have done, " said the voice that had begun all themagic, and it seemed to him that something small and white slid alongthe wainscot of the corridor and vanished quite suddenly, just as acandle flame does when you blow the candle out. 

"I will, " said the nurse. "Come, love, I _will_ tell you everything. "She took him down into a warm curtained room, blew to flame the grayashes on the open hearth, gave him elder wine to drink, hot and spiced, and kneeling before him, rubbing his cold, bare feet, she told him. 

"There are certain children born now and then--it does not often happen, but now and then it does--children who are not bound by time as otherpeople are. And if the right bit of magic comes their way, thosechildren have the power to go back and forth in time just as otherchildren go back and forth in space--the space of a room, aplaying-field, or a garden alley. Often children lose this power whenthey are quite young. Sometimes it comes to them gradually so that theyhardly know when it begins, and leaves them as gradually, like a dreamwhen you wake and stretch yourself. Sometimes it comes by the saying ofa charm. That is how Edred and Elfrida found it. They came from the timethat you were born in, and they have been living in this time with you, and now they have gone back to their own time. Didn't you notice anydifference in them? From what they were at Deptford?"

"I should think I did, " said Dickie--"at least, it wasn't that I_noticed_ any difference so much as that I _felt_ something queer. Icouldn't understand it--it felt stuffy--as if something was going toburst. "

"That was because they were not the cousins you knew at Deptford. "

"But where have the real cousins I knew at Deptford been then--all thistime--while those other kids were here pretending to be them?" Dickieasked. 

"Oh, they were somewhere else--in Julius Cæsar's time, to be exact--butthey don't know it, and never will know it. They haven't the charm. Tothem it will be like a dream that they have forgotten. "

"But the swans and the carriages and the voice--and jumping out of thewindow... " Dickie urged. 

"The swans were white magic--the white Mouldiwarp of Arden did allthat. "

Then she told him all about the white Mouldiwarp of Arden, and how itwas the badge of Arden's house--its picture being engraved on Tinkler, and how it had done all sorts of magic for Edred and Elfrida, and woulddo still more. 

Dickie and the nurse sat most of the night talking by the replenishedfire, for the tale seemed endless. Dickie learned that the Edred andElfrida who belonged to his own times had a father who was supposed tobe dead. "I am forbidden to tell them, " said the nurse, "but _thou_canst help them, and shalt. "

"I should like that, " said Dickie--"but can't _I_ see the whiteMouldiwarp?"

"I dare not--even _I_ dare not call it again to-night, " the nurse owned. "But maybe I will teach thee a little spell to bring it on another day. It is an angry little beast at times, but kindly, and hard-working. "

Then Dickie told her about the beginnings of the magic, and how he hadheard _two_ voices, one of them the Mouldiwarp's. 

"There are three white Mouldiwarps friends to thy house, " she toldhim--"the Mouldiwarp who is the badge, and the Mouldiwarp who is thecrest, and the Great Mouldiwarp who sits on the green and whitecheckered field of the Ardens' shield of arms. It was the first two whotalked of thee. "

"And how can I find my cousins and help them to find their father?"

"Lay out the moon-seeds and the other charms, and wish to be where theyare going. Then thou canst speak with them. Wish to be there a weekbefore they come, that thou mayst know the place and the folk. "

"Now?" Dickie asked, but not eagerly, for he was very tired. 

"Not now, my lamb, " she said; and so at last Dickie went to bed, hisweary brain full of new things more dream-like than any dreams he hadever had. 

After this he talked with the nurse every day, and learned more and morewonders, of which there is no time now for me to tell you. But they areall written in the book of "The House of Arden. " In that book, too, itis written how Dickie went back from the First James's time to the timeof the Eighth Henry, and took part in the merry country life of thosedays, and there found the old nurse herself, Edred and Elfrida, andhelped them to recover their father from a far country. There also youmay read of the marvels of the white clock, and the cliff that nonecould climb, and the children who were white cats, and the Mouldiwarpwho became as big as a polar bear, with other wonders. And when all thiswas over, Elfrida and Edred wanted Dickie to come back with them totheir own time. But he would not. He went back instead to the time heloved, when James the First was King. And when he woke in the littlepanelled room it seemed to him that all this was only dreams andfancies. 

In the course of this adventure he met the white Mouldiwarp, and it wasjust a white mole, very funny and rather self-important. The secondMouldiwarp he had not yet met. I have told you all these things veryshortly, because they were so dream-like to Dickie, and not at all reallike the double life he had been leading. 

"That always happens, " said the nurse; "if you stumble into some oneelse's magic it never feels real. But if you bring them into yours it'squite another pair of sleeves. Those children can't get any more magicof their own now, but you could take them into yours. Only for thatyou'd have to meet them in your own time that you were born in, andyou'll have to wait till it's summer, because that's where they are now. They're seven months ahead of you in your own time. "

"But, " said Dickie, very much bewildered, as I am myself, and as I amafraid you too must be, "if they're seven months ahead, won't theyalways be seven months ahead?"

"Odds bodikins, " said the nurse impatiently, "how often am I to tell youthat there's no such thing as time? But there's seasons, and the seasonthey came out of was summer, and the season you'll go back to 'tisautumn--so you _must_ live the seven months in their time, and thenit'll be summer and you'll meet them. "

"And what about Lord Arden in the Tower? Will he be beheaded fortreason?" Dickie asked. 

"Oh, _that's_ part of their magic. It isn't in your magic at all. LordArden will be safe enough. And now, my lamb, I've more to tell thee. Butcome into thy panelled chamber where thy tutor cannot eavesdrop andbetray us, and have thee given over to him wholly, and me burned for awitch. "

These terrible words kept Dickie silent till he and the nurse were safein his room, and then he said, "Come with me to my time, nurse--theydon't burn people for witches there. "

"No, " said the nurse, "but they let them live such lives in their uglytowns that my life here with all its risks is far better worth living. Thou knowest how folk live in Deptford in thy time--how all the greentrees are gone, and good work is gone, and people do bad work for justso much as will keep together their worn bodies and desolate souls. Andsometimes they starve to death. And they won't burn me if thou'lt onlykeep a still tongue. Now listen. " She sat down on the edge of the bed, and Dickie cuddled up against her stiff bodice. 

"Edred and Elfrida first went into the past to look for treasure. It isa treasure buried in Arden Castle by the sea, which is their home. Theywant the treasure to restore the splendor of the old Castle, which inyour time is fallen into ruin and decay, and to mend the houses of thetenants, and to do good to the poor and needy. But you know that nowthey have used their magic to get back their father, and can no longeruse it to look for treasure. But your magic will hold. And if you layout your moon-seeds round _them_, in the old shape, and stand with themin the midst, holding your Tinkler and your white seal, you will all gowhithersoever you choose. "

"I shall choose to go straight to the treasure, of course, " saidpractical Dickie, swinging his feet in their rosetted shoes. 

"That thou canst not. Thou canst only choose some year in the past--anyyear--go into it and then seek for the treasure there and then. "

"I'll do it, " Dickie said, "and then I may come back to you, mayn't I?"

"If thou'rt not needed elsewhere. The Ardens stay where duty binds them, and go where duty calls. "

"But I'm not an Arden _there_, " said Dickie sadly. 

"Thou'rt Richard Arden there as here, " she said; "thy grandfather's namegot changed, by breathing hard on it, from Arden to Harden, and thatagain to Harding. Thus names are changed ever and again. And Dickie ofDeptford has the honor of the house of Arden to uphold there as here, then as now. "

"I shall call myself Arden when I go back, " said Dickie proudly. 

"Not yet, " she said; "wait. "

"If you say so, " said Dickie rather discontentedly. 

"The time is not ripe for thee to take up all thine honors there, " shesaid. "And now, dear lamb, since thy tutor is imagining unkind things inhis heart for thee, go quickly. Set out thy moon-seeds and, when thouhearest the voices, say, 'I would see both Mouldiwarps, ' and thou shaltsee them both. "

"Thank you, " said Dickie. "I do want to see them both. "

See them he did, in a blue-gray mist in which he could feel nothingsolid, not even the ground under his feet or the touch of his clenchedfingers against his palms. 

They were very white, the Mouldiwarps, outlined distinctly against thegray blueness, and the Mouldiwarp he had seen in that wonderfuladventure in the far country smiled, as well as a mole can, and said--

"Thou'rt a fair sprig of de old tree, Muster Dickie, so 'e be, " in thethick speech of the peasant people round about Talbot house where Dickiehad once been a little burglar. 

"He is indeed a worthy scion of the great house we serve, " said theother Mouldiwarp with precise and gentle utterance. "As Mouldierwarp tothe Ardens I can but own that I am proud of him. "

The Mouldierwarp had, as well as a gentle voice, a finer nose than theMouldiwarp, his fur was more even and his claws sharper. 

"Eh, you be a gentleman, you be, " said the Mouldiwarp, "so's 'e--sothere's two of ye sure enough. "

It was very odd to see and hear these white moles talking like realpeople and looking like figures on a magic-lantern screen. But Dickiedid not enjoy it as much as perhaps you or I would have done. It was nothis pet kind of magic. He liked the good, straightforward, old-fashionedkind of magic that he was accustomed to--the kind that just took you outof one life into another life, and made both lives as real one as theother. Still one must always be polite. So he said--

"I am very glad to see you both. "

"There's purty manners, " the Mouldiwarp said. 

"The pleasure is ours, " said the Mouldierwarp instantly. Dickie couldnot help seeing that both these old creatures were extremely pleasedwith him. 

"When shall I see the other Mouldiwarp?" he asked, to keep up theconversation--"the one on our shield of arms?"

"You mean the Mouldiestwarp?" said the Mouldier, as I will now call himfor short; "you will not see him till the end of the magic. He is verygreat. I work the magic of space, my brother here works the magic oftime, and the Great Mouldiestwarp controls us, and many things beside. You must only call on him when you wish to end our magics and to work amagic greater than ours. "

"What could be greater?" Dickie asked, and both the creatures lookedvery pleased. 

"He is a worthier Arden than those little black and white chits ofthine, " the Mouldier said to the Mouldy (which is what, to save time, wewill now call the Mouldiwarp). 

"An' so should be--an' so should be, " said the Mouldy shortly. "All'sfor the best, and the end's to come. Where'd ye want to go, my lord?"

"I'm not 'my lord'; I'm only Richard Arden, " said Dickie, "and I wantto go back to Mr. Beale and stay with him for seven months, and then tofind my cousins. "

"Back thou goes then, " said the Mouldy; "that part's easy. "

"And for the second half of thy wish no magic is needed but the magic ofsteadfast heart and the patient purpose, and these thou hast without anyhelping or giving of ours, " said the courtly Mouldierwarp. 

They waved their white paws on the gray-blue curtain of mist, and beholdthey were not there any more, and the blue-gray mist was only thenight's darkness turning to dawn, and Dickie was able again to feelsolid things--the floor under him, his hand on the sharp edge of thearmchair, and the soft, breathing, comfortable weight of True, asleepagainst his knee. He moved, the dog awoke, and Dickie felt its soft nosenuzzled into his hand. 

"And now for seven months' work, and not one good dream, " said Dickie, got up, put Tinkler and the seal and the moon-seeds into a very safeplace, and crept back to bed. 

He felt rather heroic. He did not want the treasure. It was not for him. He was going to help Edred and Elfrida to get it. He did not want thelife at Lavender Terrace. He was going to help Mr. Beale to live it. Solet him feel a little bit of a hero, since that was what indeed he was, even though, of course, all right-minded children are modest and humble, and fully sensible of their own intense unimportance, no matter howheroically they may happen to be behaving. 

CHAPTER VIII

GOING HOME

IN Deptford the seven months had almost gone by; Dickie had worked much, learned much, and earned much. Mr. Beale, a figure of cleanly habit andincreasing steadiness, seemed like a plant growing quickly towards thesun of respectability, or a lighthouse rising bright and important outof a swirling sea--of dogs. 

For the dog-trade prospered exceedingly, and Mr. Beale had grown knowingin thoroughbreeds and the prize bench, had learned all about distemperand doggy fits, and when you should give an ailing dog sal-volatile andwhen you should merely give it less to eat. And the money in the bankgrew till it, so to speak, burst the bank-book, and had to be allowed tooverflow into a vast sea called Consols. 

The dogs also grew, in numbers as well as in size, and the neighbors, who had borne a good deal very patiently, began, as Mr. Beale said, to"pass remarks. "

"It ain't so much the little 'uns they jib at, " said Mr. Beale, takinghis pipe out of his mouth and stretching his legs in the back-yard, "though to my mind they yaps far more aggravatin'. It's the cockerspannel and the Great Danes upsets them. "

"The cocker spannel has got rather a persevering bark, " said Dickie, looking up at the creeping-jenny in the window-boxes. No flowers wouldgrow in the garden, now trampled hard by the india-rubber-soled feet ofmany dogs; but Dickie did his best with window-boxes, and every windowwas underlined by a bright dash of color--creeping-jenny, Bromptonstocks, stonecrop, and late tulips, and all bought from the barrows inthe High Street, made a brave show. 

"I don't say as they're actin' unneighborly in talking about the pleece, so long as they don't do no _more_ than talk, " said Beale, with studiedfairness and moderation. "What I do say is, I wish we 'ad moreelbow-room for 'em. An' as for exercisin' of 'em all every day, like thebooks say--well, 'ow's one pair of 'ands to do it, let alone legs, andyou in another line of business and not able to give yer time to 'em?"

"I wish we had a bigger place, too, " said Dickie; "we could afford onenow. Not but what I should be sorry to leave the old place, too. We've'ad some good times here in our time, farver, ain't us?" He sighed withthe air of an old man looking back on the long-ago days of youth. 

"You lay to it we 'as, " said Mr. Beale; "but this 'ere back-yard, itain't a place where dogs can what you call exercise, not to _call_ itexercise. Now is it?"

"Well, then, " said Dickie, "let's get a move on us. "

"Ah, " said Mr. Beale, laying his pipe on his knee, "now you're talkin'. Get a move on us. That's what I 'oped you'd say. 'Member what I says toyou in the winter-time that night Mr. Fuller looked in for his bit o'rent--about me gettin' of the fidgets in my legs? An' I says, 'Why nottake to the road a bit, now and again?' an' you says, 'We'll see aboutthat, come summer. ' And 'ere _is_ come summer. What if we was to takethe road a bit, mate--where there's room to stretch a chap's legswithout kickin' a dog or knockin' the crockery over? There's the olepram up-stairs in the back room as lively as ever she was--only wants alittle of paint to be fit for a dook, she does. An' 'ere's me, an''ere's you, an' 'ere's the pick of the dogs. Think of it, matey--the bedwith the green curtains, and the good smell of the herrings you toastsyerself and the fire you makes outer sticks, and the little starsesa-comin' out and a-winkin' at you, and all so quiet, a-smokin' yer pipetill it falls outer yer mouth with sleepiness, and no fear o' settin'the counterpin afire. What you say, matey, eh?"

Dickie looked lovingly at the smart back of the little house--its crispwhite muslin blinds, its glimpses of neat curtains, its flowers; andthen another picture came to him--he saw the misty last light faintingbeyond the great shoulders of the downs, and the "little starses"shining so bright and new through the branches of fir trees thatinterlaced above, a sweet-scented bed of soft fallen brown pine-needles. 

"What say, mate?" Mr. Beale repeated; and Dickie answered--

"Soon as ever you like's what I say. And what I say is, the sooner thebetter. "

Having made up his mind to go, Mr. Beale at once found a dozen reasonswhy he could not leave home, and all the reasons were four-footed, andwagged loving tails at him. He was anxious, in fact, about the dogs. Could he really trust Amelia?

"Dunno oo you _can_ trust then, " said Amelia, tossing a still handsomehead. "Anybody 'ud think the dogs was babbies, to hear you. "

"So they are--to me--as precious as, anyway. Look here, you just comeand live 'ere, 'Melia--see? An' we'll give yer five bob a week. An' thenipper 'e shall write it all down in lead-pencil on a bit o' paper foryou, what they're to 'ave to eat an' about their physic and which of'em's to have what. "

This took some time to settle, and some more time to write down. Andthen, when the lick of paint was nearly dry on the perambulator and alltheir shirts and socks were washed and mended, and lying on the kitchenwindow-ledge ready for packing, what did Mr. Beale do but go out onemorning and come back with a perfectly strange dachshund. 

"An' I can't go and leave the little beast till he knows 'imself a bitin 'is noo place, " said Mr. Beale, "an' 'ave 'im boltin' off graciousknows where, and being pinched or carted off to the Dogs' Home, or that. Can I, now?"

The new dog was very long, very brown, very friendly and charming. Whenit had had its supper it wagged its tail, turned a clear and gentle eyeon Dickie, and without any warning stood on its head. 

"Well, " said Mr. Beale, "if there ain't money in that beast! A trick dog'e is. 'E's wuth wot I give for 'im, so 'e is. Knows more tricks thanthat 'ere, I'll be bound. "

He did. He was a singularly well-educated dog. Next morning Mr. Beale, coming down-stairs, was just in time to bang the front door in the faceof Amelia coming in, pail-laden, from "doing" the steps, and this toprevent the flight of the new dog. The door of one of the dog-rooms wasopen, and a fringe of inquisitive dogs ornamented the passage. 

"What you open that door at all for?" Mr. Beale asked Amelia. 

"I didn't, " she said, and stuck to it. 

That afternoon Beale, smoking in the garden, got up, as he often did, tolook through the window at the dogs. He gazed a moment, mutteredsomething, and made one jump to the back door. It was closed. Amelia wasgiving the scullery floor a "thorough scrub over, " and had fastened thedoor to avoid having it opened with suddenness against her steaming pailor her crouching form. 

But Mr. Beale got in at the back-door and out at the front just in timeto see the dachshund disappearing at full speed, "like a bit of browntoffee-stick, " as he said, round the end of the street. They never sawthat dog again. 

"Trained to it, " Mr. Beale used to say sadly whenever he told the story;"trained to it from a pup, you may lay your life. I see 'im as plain asI see you. 'E listens an' 'e looks, and 'e doesn't 'ear nor see nobody. An' 'e ups on his 'ind legs and turns the 'andle with 'is little twistyfront pawses, clever as a monkey, and hout 'e goes like a harrow in abow. Trained to it, ye see. I bet his master wot taught 'im that's soldhim time and again, makin' a good figure every time, for 'e was a'andsome dawg as ever I see. Trained the dawg to open the door and bunk'ome. See? Clever, I call it. "

"It's a mean trick, " said Dickie when Beale told him of the loss of thedog; "that's what I call it. I'm sorry you've lost the dog. "

"I ain't exactly pleased myself, " said Beale, "but no use crying overbroken glass. It's the cleverness I think of most, " he said admiringly. "Now I'd never a thought of a thing like that myself--not if I'd livedto a hundred, so I wouldn't. _You_ might 'ave, " he told Dickieflatteringly, "but I wouldn't myself. "

"We don't need to, " said Dickie hastily. "We earns our livings. We don'tneed to cheat to get our livings. "

"No, no, dear boy, " said Mr. Beale, more hastily still; "course wedon't. That's just what I'm a-saying, ain't it? We shouldn't never 'avethought o' that. No need to, as you say. The cleverness of it!"

This admiration of the cleverness by which he himself had been cheatedset Dickie thinking. He said, very gently and quietly, after a littlepause--

"This 'ere walking tower of ours. We pays our own way? No cadging?"

"I should 'ope you know me better than that, " said Beale virtuously;"not a patter have I done since I done the Rally and started in the dogline. "

"Nor yet no dealings with that redheaded chap what I never see?"

"Now, is it likely?" Beale asked reproachfully. "I should 'ope we're acut above a low chap like wot 'e is. The pram's dry as a bone and shinyas yer 'at, and we'll start the first thing in the morning. "

And in the early morning, which is fresh and sweet even in Deptford, they bade farewell to Amelia and the dogs and set out. 

Amelia watched them down the street and waved a farewell as they turnedthe corner. "It'll be a bit lonesome, " she said. "One thing, I shan't beburgled, with all them dogs in the house. "

The voices of the dogs, as she went in and shut the door, seemed toassure her that she would not even be so very lonely. 

And now they were really on the road. And they were going to Arden--tothat place by the sea where Dickie's uncle, in the other life, had acastle, and where Dickie was to meet his cousins, after his seven monthsof waiting. 

You may think that Dickie would be very excited by the thought ofmeeting, in this workaday, nowadays world, the children with whom he hadhad such wonderful adventures in the other world, the dream world--tooexcited, perhaps, to feel really interested in the little every-dayhappenings of "the road. " But this was not so. The present was after allthe real thing. The dreams could wait. The knowledge that they werethere, waiting, made all the ordinary things more beautiful and moreinteresting. The feel of the soft dust underfoot, the bright, dewy grassand clover by the wayside, the lessening of houses and the growingwideness of field and pasture, all contented and delighted Dickie. Hefelt to the full all the joy that Mr. Beale felt in "'oofing it, " andwhen as the sun was sinking they overtook a bent, slow-going figure, itwas with a thrill of real pleasure that Dickie recognized the woman whohad given him the blue ribbon for True. 

True himself, now grown large and thick of coat, seemed to recognize afriend, gambolled round her dreadful boots, sniffed at her witheredhand. 

"Give her a lift with her basket, shall us?" Dickie whispered to Mr. Beale and climbed out of the perambulator. "I can make shift to do thislast piece. "

So the three went on together, in friendly silence. As they nearedOrpington the woman said, "Our road parts here; and thank you kindly. Akindness is never wasted, so they say. "

"That ain't nothing, " said Beale; "besides, there's the blue ribbon. "

"That the dog?" the woman asked. 

"Same ole dawg, " said Beale, with pride. 

"A pretty beast, " she said. "Well--so long. "

She looked back to smile and nod to them when she had taken her basketand the turning to the right, and Dickie suddenly stiffened all over, asa pointer does when it sees a partridge. 

"I say, " he cried, "you're the nurse----"

"I've nursed a many in my time, " she called back. 

"But in the dream ... You know. "

"Dreams is queer things, " said the woman. "And, " she added, "least saidis soonest mended. "

"But ... " said Dickie. 

"Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut's a good motto, " said she, nodded again, and turned resolutely away. 

"Not very civil, I don't think, " said Beale, "considerin'----"

"Oh, she's all right, " said Dickie, wondering very much, and veryanxious that Beale should not wonder. "May I ride in the pram, farver?My foot's a bit blistered, I think. We ain't done so much walkin'lately, 'ave us?"

"Ain't tired in yourself, are you?" Mr. Beale asked, "'cause there's aplace called Chevering Park, pretty as a picture--I thought we might layout there. I'm a bit 'ot in the 'oof meself; but I can stick it if youcan. "

Dickie could; and when they made their evening camp in a deep gully softwith beech-leaves, and he looked out over the ridge--cautiously, becauseof keepers--at the smoothness of a mighty slope, green-gray in the dusk, where rabbits frisked and played, he was glad that he had not yielded tohis tiredness and stopped to rest the night anywhere else. CheveringPark is a very beautiful place, I would have you to know. And thetravellers were lucky. The dogs were good and quiet, and no keeperdisturbed their rest or their masters. Dickie slept with True in hisarms, and it was like a draught of soft magic elixir to lie once more inthe still, cool night and look up at the stars through the trees. 

"Can't think why they ever invented houses, " he said, and then he fellasleep. 

By short stages, enjoying every step of every day's journey, they wentslowly and at their ease through the garden-land of Kent. Dickie lovedevery minute of it, every leaf in the hedge, every blade of grass by theroadside. And most of all he loved the quiet nights when he fell asleepunder the stars with True in his arms. 

It was all good, all.... And it was worth waiting and working for sevenlong months, to feel the thrill that Dickie felt when Beale, as theytopped a ridge of the great South Downs, said suddenly, "There's thesea, " and, a dozen yards further on, "There's Arden Castle. "

There it lay, gray and green, with its old stones and ivy--the sameCastle which Dickie had seen on the day when they lay among the furzebushes and waited to burgle Talbot Court. There were red roofs at oneside of the Castle where a house had been built among the ruins. As theydrew nearer, and looked down at Arden Castle, Dickie saw two littlefigures in its green courtyard, and wondered whether they could possiblybe Edred and Elfrida, the little cousins whom he had met in King Jamesthe First's time, and who, the nurse said, really belonged to the timesof King Edward the Seventh, or Nowadays, just as he did himself. Itseemed as though it could hardly be true; but, if it were true, howsplendid! What games he and they could have! And what a play-place itwas that spread out before him--green and glorious, with the sea on oneside and the downs on the other, and in the middle the ruins of ArdenCastle. 

But as they went on through the furze bushes Dickie perceived that Mr. Beale was growing more and more silent and uneasy. 

"What's up?" Dickie asked at last. "Out with it, farver. "

"It ain't nothing, " said Mr. Beale. 

"You ain't afraid those Talbots will know you again?"

"Not much I ain't. They never see my face; and I 'adn't a beard thattime like what I've got now. "

"Well, then?" said Dickie. 

"Well, if you must 'ave it, " said Beale, "we're a-gettin' very near myole dad's place, and I can't make me mind up. "

"I thought we was settled we'd go to see 'im. "

"I dunno. If 'e's under the daisies I shan't like it--I tell youstraight I shan't like it. But we're a long-lived stock--p'raps 'e's allright. I dunno. "

"Shall I go up by myself to where he lives and see if he's all right?"

"Not much, " said Mr. Beale; "if I goes I goes, and if I stays away Istays away. It's just the not being able to make me mind up. "

"If he's there, " said Dickie, "don't you think you _ought_ to go, juston the chance of him being there and wanting you?"

"If you come to oughts, " said Beale, "I oughter gone 'ome any time thistwenty year. Only I ain't. See?"

"Well, " said Dickie, "it's your lookout. I know what I should do if itwas me. "

Remembrance showed him the father who had leaned on his shoulder as theywalked about the winding walks of the pleasant garden in oldDeptford--the father who had given him the little horse, and insistedthat his twenty gold pieces should be spent as he chose. 

"I dunno, " said Beale. "What you think? Eh, matey?"

"I think _let's_, " said Dickie. "I lay if he's alive it 'ud be as goodas three Sundays in the week to him to see you. You was his little boyonce, wasn't you?"

"Ay, " said Beale; "he was wagoner's mate to one of Lord Arden's men. 'Eused to ride me on the big cart-horses. 'E was a fine set-up chap. "

To hear the name of Arden on Beale's lips gave Dickie a very odd, half-pleasant, half-frightened feeling. It seemed to bring certainthings very near. 

"Let's, " he said again. 

"All right, " said Beale, "only if it all goes wrong it ain't myfault--an' there used to be a foot-path a bit further on. You cutthrough the copse and cater across the eleven-acre medder, and bearalong to the left by the hedge an' it brings you out under Arden Knoll, where my old man's place is. "

So they cut and catered and bore along, and came out under Arden Knoll, and there was a cottage, with a very neat garden full of gay flowers, and a brick pathway leading from the wooden gate to the front door. Andby the front door sat an old man in a Windsor chair, with a brownspaniel at his feet and a bird in a wicker cage above his head, and hewas nodding, for it was a hot day, and he was an old man and tired. 

"Swelp me, I can't do it!" whispered Beale. "I'll walk on a bit. Youjust arst for a drink, and sort of see 'ow the land lays. It might turn'im up seeing me so sudden. Good old dad!"

He walked quickly on, and Dickie was left standing by the gate. Then thebrown spaniel became aware of True, and barked, and the old man said, "Down, Trusty!" in his sleep, and then woke up. 

His clear old eyes set in many wrinkles turned full on Dickie by thegate. 

"May I have a drink of water?" Dickie asked. 

"Come in, " said the old man. 

And Dickie lifted the latch of smooth, brown, sun-warmed iron, and wentup the brick path, as the old man slowly turned himself about in thechair. 

"Yonder's the well, " he said; "draw up a bucket, if thy leg'll let thee, poor little chap!"

"I draws water with my arms, not my legs, " said Dickie cheerfully. 

"There's a blue mug in the wash-house window-ledge, " said the old man. "Fetch me a drop when you've had your drink, my lad. "

Of course, Dickie's manners were too good for him to drink first. Hedrew up the dripping oaken bucket from the cool darkness of the well, fetched the mug, and offered it brimming to the old man. Then he drank, and looked at the garden ablaze with flowers--blush-roses and damaskroses, and sweet-williams and candytuft, white lilies and yellow lilies, pansies, larkspur, poppies, bergamot, and sage. 

It was just like a play at the Greenwich Theatre, Dickie thought. He hadseen a scene just like that, where the old man sat in the sun and theProdigal returned. 

Dickie would not have been surprised to see Beale run up the brick pathand throw himself on his knees, exclaiming, "Father, it is I--yourerring but repentant son! Can you forgive me? If a lifetime ofrepentance can atone ... " and so on. 

If Dickie had been Beale he would certainly have made the speech, beginning, "Father, it is I. " But as he was only Dickie, he said--

"Your name's Beale, ain't it?"

"It might be, " old Beale allowed. 

"I seen your son in London. 'E told me about yer garden. "

"I should a thought 'e'd a-forgot the garden same as 'e's forgot me, "said the old man. 

"'E ain't forgot you, not 'e, " said Dickie; "'e's come to see you, an'e's waiting outside now to know if you'd like to see 'im. "

"Then 'e oughter know better, " said the old man, and shouted in a thin, high voice, "Jim, Jim, come along in this minute!"

Even then Beale didn't act a bit like the prodigal in the play. He justunlatched the gate without looking at it--his hand had not forgotten theway of it, for all it was so long since he had passed through that gate. And he walked slowly and heavily up the path and said, "Hullo, dad!--howgoes it?"

And the old man looked at him with his eyes half shut and said, "Why, it_is_ James--so it is, " as if he had expected it to be some one quitedifferent. 

And they shook hands, and then Beale said, "The garden's looking well. "

And the old man owned that the garden 'ud do all right if it wasn't forthe snails. 

That was all Dickie heard, for he thought it polite to go away. Ofcourse, they could not be really affectionate with a stranger about. Sohe shouted from the gate something about "back presently, " and went offalong the cart track towards Arden Castle and looked at it quiteclosely. It was the most beautiful and interesting thing he had everseen. But he did not see the children. 

When he went back the old man was cooking steak over the kitchen fire, and Beale was at the sink straining summer cabbage in a colander, asthough he had lived there all his life and never anywhere else. He wasin his shirt-sleeves too, and his coat and hat hung behind theback-door. 

So then they had dinner, when the old man had set down the frying-panexpressly to shake hands with Dickie, saying, "So this is the lad youtold me about. Yes, yes. " It was a very nice dinner, with coldgooseberry pastry as well as the steak and vegetables. The kitchen waspleasant and cozy though rather dark, on account of the white climbingrose that grew round the window. After dinner the men sat in the sun andsmoked, and Dickie occupied himself in teaching the spaniel and Truethat neither of them was a dog who deserved to be growled at. Dickie hadjust thrown back his head in a laugh at True's sulky face and stifflyplanted paws, when he felt the old man's dry, wrinkled hand under hischin. 

"Let's 'ave a look at you, " he said, and peered closely at the child. "Where'd you get that face, eh? What did you say your name was?"

"Harding's his name, " said Beale. "Dickie Harding. "

"Dickie _Arden_, I should a-said if you'd asked _me_, " said the old man. "Seems to me it's a reg'lar Arden face he's got. But my eyes ain't sogood as wot they was. What d'you say to stopping along of me a bit, myboy? There's room in the cottage for all five of us. My son James heretells me you've been's good as a son to him. "

"I'd love it, " said Dickie. So that was settled. There were two bedroomsfor Beale and his father, and Dickie slept in a narrow, whitewashed slipof a room that had once been a larder. The brown spaniel and True slepton the rag hearth-rug in the kitchen. And everything was as cozy as cozycould be. 

"We can send for any of the dawgs any minute if we feel we can't stickit without 'em, " said Beale, smoking his pipe in the front garden. 

"You mean to stay a long time, then, " said Dickie. 

"I dunno. You see, I was born and bred 'ere. The air tastes good, don'tit? An' the water's good. Didn't you notice the tea tasted quitedifferent from what it does anywhere else? That's the soft water, thatis. An' the old chap.... Yes--and there's one or two otherthings--yes--I reckon us'll stop on 'ere a bit. "

And Dickie was very glad. For now he was near Arden Castle, and couldsee it any time that he chose to walk a couple of hundred yards andlook down. And presently he would see Edred and Elfrida. Would they knowhim? That was the question. Would they remember that he and they hadbeen cousins and friends when James the First was King?

CHAPTER IX

KIDNAPPED

AND now New Cross seemed to go backwards and very far away, its dirtystreets, its sordid shifts, its crowds of anxious, unhappy people, whonever had quite enough of anything, and Dickie's home was in a pleasantcottage from whose windows you could see great green rolling downs, andthe smooth silver and blue of the sea, and from whose door you stepped, not on to filthy pavements, but on to a neat brick path, leading betweenbeds glowing with flowers. 

Also, he was near Arden, the goal of seven months' effort. Now he wouldsee Edred and Elfrida again, and help them to find the hidden treasure, as he had once helped them to find their father. 

This joyful thought put the crown on his happiness. 

But he presently perceived that though he was so close to Arden Castlehe did not seem to be much nearer to the Arden children. It is not aneasy thing to walk into the courtyard of a ruined castle and ring thebell of a strange house and ask for people whom you have only met indreams, or as good as dreams. And I don't know how Dickie would havemanaged if Destiny had not kindly come to his help, and arranged that, turning a corner in the lane which leads to the village, he should comeface to face with Edred and Elfrida Arden. And they looked exactly likethe Edred and Elfrida whom he had played with and quarrelled with in thedream. He halted, leaning on his crutch, for them to come up and speakto him. They came on, looking hard at him--the severe might have calledit staring--looked, came up to him, and passed by without a word! But hesaw them talking eagerly to each other. 

Dickie was left in the lane looking after them. It was a miserablemoment. But quite quickly he roused himself. They were talking to eachother eagerly, and once Elfrida half looked round. Perhaps it was hisshabby clothes that made them not so sure whether he was the Dickie theyhad known. If they did not know him it should not be his fault. Hebalanced himself on one foot, beat with his crutch on the ground, andshouted, "Hi!" and "Hullo!" as loud as he could. The other childrenturned, hesitated, and came back. 

"What is it?" the little girl called out; "have you hurt yourself?" Andshe came up to him and looked at him with kind eyes. 

"No, " said Dickie; "but I wanted to ask you something. "

The other two looked at him and at each other, and the boy said, "Righto. "

"You're from the Castle, aren't you?" he said. "I was wondering whetheryou'd let me go down and have a look at it?"

"Of course, " said the girl. "Come on. "

"Wait a minute, " said Dickie, nerving himself to the test. If theydidn't remember him they'd think he was mad, and never show him theCastle. Never mind! Now for it!

"Did you ever have a tutor called Mr. Parados?" he asked. And again theothers looked at him and at each other. "Parrot-nose for short, " Dickiehastened to add; "and did you ever shovel snow on to his head and thenride away in a carriage drawn by swans?"

"It _is_ you!" cried Elfrida, and hugged him. "Edred, it _is_ Dickie! Wewere saying, _could_ it be you? Oh! Dickie darling, how did you hurtyour foot?"

Dickie flushed. "My foot's always been like that, " he said, "in Nowadaystime. When we met in the magic times I was like everybody else, wasn'tI?"

Elfrida hugged him again, and said no more about the foot. Instead, shesaid, "Oh, how ripping it is to really and truly find you here! Wethought you couldn't be real because we wrote a letter to you at theaddress it said on that bill you gave us. And the letter came back with'not known' outside. "

"What address was it?" Dickie asked. 

"Laurie Grove, New Cross, " Edred told him. 

"Oh, that was just an address Mr. Beale made up to look grand with, "said Dickie. "I remember his telling me about it. He's the man I livewith; I call him father because he's been kind to me. But my own daddy'sdead. "

"Let's go up on the downs, " said Elfrida, "and sit down, and you tell usall about everything from the very beginning. "

So they went up and sat among the furze bushes, and Dickie told them allhis story--just as much of it as I have told to you. And it took a longtime. And then they reminded each other how they had met in the magic ordream world, and how Dickie had helped them to save their father--whichhe did do, only I have not had time to tell you about it; but it is allwritten in "The House of Arden. "

"But our magic is all over now, " said Edred sadly. "We had to give upever having any more magic, so as to get father back. And now we shallnever find the treasure or be able to buy back the old lands and restorethe Castle and bring the water back to the moat, and build nice, dry, warm, cozy cottages for the tenants. But we've got father. "

"Well, but look here, " said Dickie. "We got _my_ magic all right, andold nurse said I could work it for you, and that's really what I've comefor, so that we can look for the treasure together. "

"That's awfully jolly of you, " said Elfrida. 

"What is your magic?" Edred asked; and Dickie pulled out Tinkler and thewhite seal and the moon-seeds, and laid them on the turf and explained. 

And in the middle of the explanation a shadow fell on the children andthe Tinkler and the moon-seeds and the seal, and there was a big, handsome gentleman looking down at them and saying--

"Introduce your friend, Edred. "

"Oh, Dickie, this is my father, " cried Edred, scrambling up. And Dickieadded very quickly, "My name's Dick Harding. " It took longer for Dickieto get up because of the crutch, and Lord Arden reached his hand down tohelp him. He must have been a little surprised when the crippled childin the shabby clothes stood up, and instead of touching his forehead, aspoor children are taught to do, held out his hand and said--

"How do you do, Lord Arden?"

"I am very well, I thank you, " said Lord Arden. "And where did youspring from? You are not a native of these parts, I think?"

"No, but my adopted father is, " said Dickie, "and I came from Londonwith him, to see his father, who is old Mr. Beale, and we are staying athis cottage. "

Lord Arden sat down beside them on the turf and asked Dickie a good manyquestions about where he was born, and who he had lived with, and whathe had seen and done and been. 

Dickie answered honestly and straightforwardly. Only of course he didnot tell about the magic, or say that in that magic world he and LordArden's children were friends and cousins. And all the time they weretalking Lord Arden's eyes were fixed on his face, except when theywandered to Tinkler and the white seal. Once he picked these up, andlooked at the crest on them. 

"Where did you get these?" he asked. 

Dickie told. And then Lord Arden handed the seal and Tinkler to him andwent on with his questions. 

At last Elfrida put her arms round her father's neck and whispered. "Iknow it's not manners, but Dickie won't mind, " she said before thewhispering began. 

"Yes, certainly, " said Lord Arden when the whispering was over; "it'stea-time. Dickie, you'll come home to tea with us, won't you?"

"I must tell Mr. Beale, " said Dickie; "he'll be anxious if I don't. "

"Shall I hurt you if I put you on my back?" Lord Arden asked, and nextminute he was carrying Dickie down the slope towards Arden Castle, whileEdred went back to Beale's cottage to say where Dickie was. When Edredgot back to Arden Castle tea was ready in the parlor, and Dickie wasresting in a comfortable chair. 

"Isn't old Beale a funny old man?" said Edred. "He said Arden Castle wasthe right place for Dickie, with a face like that. What could he havemeant? What are you doing that for?" he added in injured tones, forElfrida had kicked his hand under the table. 

Before tea was over there was a sound of horses' hoofs and carriagewheels in the courtyard. And the maid-servant opened the parlor door andsaid, "Lady Talbot. " Though he remembered well enough how kind she hadbeen to him, Dickie wished he could creep under the table. It was toohard; she must recognize him. And now Edred and Elfrida, and Lord Arden, who was so kind and jolly, they would all know that he had once been aburglar, and that she had wanted to adopt him, and that he had beenungrateful and had run away. He trembled all over. It was too hard. 

Lady Talbot shook hands with the others, and then turned to him. "Andwho is your little friend?" she asked Edred, and in the same breathcried out--"Why, it's my little runaway!"

Dickie only said: "I wasn't ungrateful, I wasn't--I had to go. " But hiseyes implored. 

And Lady Talbot--Dickie will always love her for that--understood. Not aword about burglars did she say, only--

"I wanted to adopt Dickie once, Lord Arden, but he would not stay. "

"I had to get back to father, " said Dickie. 

"Well, at any rate it's pleasant to see each other again, " she said. "Ialways hoped we should some day. No sugar, thank you, Elfrida"--and thensat down and had tea and was as jolly as possible. The only thing whichmade Dickie at all uncomfortable was when she turned suddenly to themaster of the house and said, "Doesn't he remind you of any one, LordArden?"

And Lord Arden said, "Perhaps he does, " with that sort of look thatpeople have when they mean: "Not before the children! I'd rather talkabout it afterwards if you don't mind. "

Then the three were sent out to play, and Dickie was shown the castleruins, while Lord Arden and Lady Talbot walked up and down on thedaisied grass, and talked for a long time. Dickie knew they were talkingabout him, but he did not mind. He had that feeling you sometimes haveabout grown-up people, that they really do understand, and are to betrusted. 

"You'll be too fine presently to speak to the likes of us, you nipper, "said Beale, when a smart little pony cart had brought Dickie back to thecottage. "You an' your grand friends. Lord Arden indeed----"

"They was as jolly as jolly, " said Dickie; "nobody weren't never kinderto me nor what Lord Arden was an' Lady Talbot too--without it was you, farver. "

"Ah, " said Beale to the old man, "'e knows how to get round his oldfather, don't 'e?"

"What does he want to talk that way for?" the old man asked. "'E cantalk like a little gentleman all right 'cause we 'eard 'im. "

"Oh, that's the way we talks up London way, " said Dickie. "I learned totalk fine out o' books. "

Mr. Beale said nothing, but that night he actually read for nearly tenminutes in a bound volume of the _Wesleyan Magazine_. And he was asleepover the same entertaining work when Lord Arden came the next afternoon. 

You will be able to guess what he came about. And Dickie had a sort offeeling that perhaps Lord Arden might have seen by his face, as oldBeale had, that he was an Arden. So neither he nor you will be muchsurprised. The person to be really surprised was Mr. Beale. 

"You might a-knocked me down with a pickaxe, " said Beale later, "so helpme three men and a boy you might. It's a rum go. My lord 'e says there'ssome woman been writing letters to 'im this long time saying she'd got'old of 'is long-lost nephew or cousin or something, and a-wanting toget money out of him--though what for, goodness knows. An' 'e saysyou're a Arden by rights, you nipper you, an' 'e wants to take you andbring you up along of his kids--so there's an end of you and me, Dickie, old boy. I didn't understand more than 'arf of wot 'e was saying. But Itumbled to that much. It's all up with you and me and Amelia and thedogs and the little 'ome. You're a-goin' to be a gentleman, you are--an'I'll have to take to the road by meself and be a poor beast of a cadgeragain. That's what it'll come to, I know. "

"Don't you put yourself about, " said Dickie calmly. "I ain't a-goin' toleave yer. Didn't Lady Talbot ask me to be her boy--and didn't I cutstraight back to you? I'll play along o' them kids if Lord Arden'll letme. But I ain't a-goin' to leave you, not yet I ain't. So don't you gosnivelling afore any one's 'urt yer, farver. See?"

But that was before Lord Arden had his second talk with Mr. Beale. Afterthat it was--

"Look 'ere, you nipper, I ain't a-goin' to stand in your light. You'regoin' up in the world, says you. Well, you ain't the only one. LordArden's bought father's cottage an' 'e's goin' to build on to it, andI'm to 'ave all the dawgs down 'ere, and sell 'em through the paperslike. And you'll come an' 'ave a look at us sometimes. "

"And what about Amelia?" said Dickie, "and the little ones?"

"Well, I did think, " said Beale, rubbing his nose thoughtfully, "ofasking 'Melia to come down 'ere along o' the dawgs. Seems a pity toseparate 'em somehow. It was Lord Arden put it into my 'ed. 'You oughterbe married you ought, ' 'e says to me pleasant like, man to man; 'ain'tthere any young woman I could give a trifle to, to set you and her up inhousekeeping?' So then I casts about, and I thinks of 'Melia. As well'er as anybody, and she's used to the dawgs. And the trifle's an hundredpounds. That's all. _That's all!_ So I'm sending to her by this post, and it's an awful toss up getting married, but 'Melia ain't like astranger, and it couldn't ever be the same with us two and nipper afterall this set out. What you say?"

I don't know what Dickie said; what he felt was something like this:--

"I _have_ tried to stick to Beale, and help him along, and I did comeback from the other old long-ago world to help him, and I have beensticking to things I didn't like so as to help him and get him settled. He was my bit of work, and now some one else comes along and takes mywork out of my hands, and finishes it. And here's Beale provided for andsettled. And I meant to provide for him myself. And I don't like it!"

That was what he felt at first. But afterwards he had to own that it was"a jolly lucky thing for Beale. " And for himself too. He found that tobe at Arden Castle with Edred and Elfrida all day, at play and atlessons, was almost as good as being with them in the beautiful olddream-life. All the things that he had hated in this modern life, whenhe was Dickie of Deptford, ceased to trouble him now that he was RichardArden. For the difference between being rich and poor is as great as thedifference between being warm and cold. 

After that first day a sort of shyness came over the three children, andthey spoke no more of the strange adventures they had had together, butjust played at all the ordinary every-day games, till they almost forgotthat there was any magic, had ever been any. The fact was, the life theywere leading was so happy in itself that they needed no magic to makethem contented. It was not till after the wedding of 'Melia and Mr. Beale that Dickie remembered that to find the Arden Treasure for hiscousins had been one of his reasons for coming back to this, theNowadays world. 

I wish I had time to tell you about the wedding. I could write a wholebook about it. How Amelia came down from London and was married in ArdenChurch. How she wore a white dress and a large hat with a wreath oforange blossoms, a filmy veil, and real kid gloves--all gifts of MissEdith Arden, Lord Arden's sister. How Lord Arden presented an enormouswedding cake and a glorious wedding breakfast, and gave away the bride, and made a speech saying he owed a great debt to Mr. Beale for hiskindness to his nephew Richard Arden, and how surprised every one was tohear Dickie's new name. How all the dogs wore white favors and had eacha crumb of wedding cake; and how when the wedding feast was over and theguests gone, the bride tucked up her white dress under a big apron andset about arranging in the new rooms the "sticks" of furniture whichDickie and Beale had brought together from the little home in Deptford, and which had come in a van by road all the way to Arden. 

The Ardens had gone back to the Castle, and Dickie with them, and oldBeale was smoking in his usual chair by his front door--so there was noone to hear Beale's compliment to his bride. He came behind her and puthis arm round her as she was dusting the mantelpiece. "Go on with you, "said the new Mrs. Beale; "any one 'ud think we was courting. "

"So we be, " said Beale, and kissed 'Melia for the first time. "We gotall our courtin' to do now. See? I might a-picked an' choosed, " he addedreflectively, "but there--I dare say I might a-done worse. "

'Melia blushed with pleasure at the compliment, and went on with thedusting. 

 * * * * *

It was as the Ardens walked home over the short turf that Lord Ardensaid to his sister, "I wish all the cottages about here were likeBeale's. It didn't cost so very much. If I could only buy back the restof the land, I'd show some people what a model village is like. Only Ican't buy it back. He wants far more than we can think of managing. "

And Dickie heard what he said. That was why, when next he was alone withhis cousins, he began--

"Look here--you aren't allowed to use your magic any more, to go andlook for the treasure. But _I_ am. And I vote we go and look for it. Andthen your father can buy back the old lands, and build the new cottagesand mend up Arden Castle, and make it like it used to be. "

"Oh, let's, " said Elfrida, with enthusiasm. But Edred unexpectedlyanswered, "I don't know. " The three children were sitting in the windowof the gate-tower looking down on the green turf of the Castle yard. 

"What do you mean you don't know?" Elfrida asked briskly. 

"I _mean_ I don't know, " said Edred stolidly; "we're all right as weare, _I_ think. I used to think I liked magic and things. But if youcome to think of it something horrid happened to us every single time wewent into the past with our magic. We were always being chased or put inprison or bothered somehow or other. The only really nice thing was whenwe saw the treasure being hidden, because that looked like a picture andwe hadn't to do anything. And we don't know where the treasure is, anyhow. And I don't like adventures nearly so much as I used to think Idid. We're all right and jolly as we are. What I say is, 'Don't let's. '"

This cold water damped the spirit of the others only for a few minutes. 

"You know, " Elfrida explained to Dickie, "our magic took us to look fortreasure in the past. And once a film of a photograph that we'd stuck upbehaved like a cinematograph, and then we saw the treasure being hiddenaway. "

"Then let's just go where that was--mark the spot, come home and thendig it up. "

"It wasn't buried, " Elfrida explained; "it was put into a sort ofcellar, with doors, and we've looked all over what's left of the Castle, and there isn't so much as a teeny silver ring to be found. "

"I see, " said Dickie. "But suppose I just worked the magic and wished tobe where the treasure is?"

"I won't, " cried Edred, and in his extreme dislike to the idea he kickedwith his boots quite violently against the stones of the tower; "notmuch I won't. I expect the treasure's bricked up. We should look nicebricked up in a vault like a wicked nun, and perhaps forgotten the wayto get out. Not much. "

"You needn't make such a fuss about it, " said Elfrida, "nobody's goingto get bricked up in vaults. " And Dickie added, "You're quite right, oldchap. I didn't think about that. "

"We must do _something_, " Elfrida said impatiently. 

"How would it be, " Dickie spoke slowly, "if I tried to see theMouldierwarp? He is stronger than the Mouldiwarp. He might advise us. Suppose we work the magic and just ask to see him?"

"I don't want to go away from here, " said Edred firmly. 

"You needn't. I'll lay out the moon-seeds and things on the floorhere--you'll see. "

So Dickie made the crossed triangles of moon-seeds and he and hiscousins stood in it and Dickie said, "Please can we see theMouldierwarp?" just as you say, "Please can I see Mr. So-and-so?" whenyou have knocked at the door of Mr. So-and-so's house and some one hasopened the door. 

Immediately everything became dark, but before the children had time towish that it was light again a disc of light appeared on the curtain ofdarkness, and there was the Mouldierwarp, just as Dickie had seen himonce before. 

He bowed in a courtly manner, and said--

"What can I do for you to-day, Richard Lord Arden?"

"He's not Lord Arden, " said Edred. "_I_ used to be. But even _I'm_ notLord Arden now. My father is. "

"Indeed?" said the Mouldierwarp with an air of polite interest. "Youinterest me greatly. But my question remains unanswered. "

"I want, " said Dickie, "to find the lost treasure of Arden, so that theold Castle can be built up again, and the old lands bought back, and theold cottages made pretty and good to live in. Will you please adviseme?"

The Mouldierwarp in the magic-lantern picture seemed to scratch his nosethoughtfully with his fore paw. 

"It can be done, " he said, "but it will be hard. It is almostimpossible to find the treasure without waking the Mouldiestwarp, whosits on the green-and-white checkered field of Ardens' shield of arms. And he can only be awakened by some noble deed. Yet noble deeds maychance at any time. And if you go to seek treasure of one kind you mayfind treasure of another. I have spoken. "

It began to fade away, but Elfrida cried, "Oh, _don't_ go. You're justlike the Greek oracles. Won't you tell us something plain andstraightforward?"

"I will, " said the Mouldierwarp, rather shortly. 

 "Great Arden's Lord no treasure shall regain Till Arden's Lord is lost and found again. "

"And father _was_ lost and found again, " said Edred, "so that's allright. "

 "Set forth to seek it with courageous face. And seek it in the most unlikely place. "

And with that it vanished altogether, and the darkness with it; andthere were the three children and Tinkler and the white seal and themoon-seeds and the sunshine on the floor of the room in the tower. 

"That's useful, " said Edred scornfully. "As if it wasn't just asdifficult to know the unlikely places as the likely ones. "

"I'll tell you what, " said Dickie. And then the dinner bell rang, andthey had to go without Dickie's telling them what, and to eat roastmutton and plum-pie, and behave as though they were just ordinarychildren to whom no magic had ever happened. There was little chance ofmore talk that day. 

Edred and Elfrida were to be taken to Cliffville immediately afterdinner to be measured for new shoes, and Dickie was to go up to spendthe afternoon with Beale and 'Melia and the dogs. Still, in the fewmoments when they were all dressed and waiting for the dog-cart to comeround, Dickie found a chance to whisper to Elfrida--

"Let's all think of unlikely places as hard as ever we can. Andto-morrow we'll decide on the unlikeliest and go there. Edred needn't bein it if he doesn't want to. _You're_ keen, aren't you?"

"Rather!" was all there was time for Elfrida to say. 

The welcome that awaited Dickie at Beale's cottage from Beale, Amelia, and, not least, the dogs, was enough to drive all thoughts of unlikelyplaces out of anybody's head. And besides, there were always so manyinteresting things to do at the cottage. He helped to wash True, cleanedthe knives, and rinsed lettuce for tea; helped to dry the tea-things, and to fold the washing when Mrs. Beale brought it in out of the yardin dry, sweet armfuls of white folds. 

It was dusk when he bade them good-night, embracing each dog in turn, and set out to walk the little way to the crossroads, where the dog-cartreturning from Cliffville would pick him up. But the dog-cart was alittle late, because the pony had dropped a shoe and had had to be takento the blacksmith's. 

So when Dickie had waited a little while he began to think, as onealways does when people don't keep their appointments, that perhaps hehad mistaken the time, or that the clock at the cottage was slow. Andwhen he had waited a little longer, it seemed simply silly to be waitingat all. So he picked up his crutch and got up from the milestone wherehe had been sitting and set off to walk down to the Castle. 

As he went he thought many things, and one of the things he thought wasthat the memories of King James's time had grown dim and distant--helooked down on Arden Castle and loved it, and felt that he asked nobetter than to live there all his life with his cousins and theirfather, and that, after all, the magic of a dream-life was not needed, when life itself was so good and happy. 

And just as he was thinking this a twig cracked sharply in the hedge. Then a dozen twigs rustled and broke, and something like a great blackbird seemed to fly out at him and fold him in its wings. 

It was not a bird--he knew that the next moment--but a big, dark cloak, that some one had thrown over his head and shoulders, and through itstrong hands were holding him. 

"Hold yer noise!" said a voice; "if you so much as squeak it'll be theworse for you. "

"Help!" shouted Dickie instantly. 

He was thrown on to the ground. Hands fumbled, his face was cleared ofthe cloak, and a handkerchief with a round pebble in it was stuffed intohis mouth so that he could not speak. Then he was dragged behind a hedgeand held there, while two voices whispered above him. The cloak was overhis head again now, and he could see nothing, but he could hear. Heheard one of the voices say, "Hush! they're coming. " And then he heardthe sound of hoofs and wheels, and Lord Arden's jolly voice saying, "Hemust have walked on; we shall catch him up all right. " Then the sound ofwheels and hoofs died away, and hard hands pulled him to his feet andthrust the crutch under his arm. 

"Step out!" said one of the voices, "and step out sharp--see?--or I'lll'arn you! There's a carriage awaiting for you. "

He stepped out; there was nothing else to be done. They had taken thecloak from his eyes now, and he saw presently that they were nearing acoster's barrow. 

They laid him in the barrow, covered him with the cloak, and putvegetable marrows and cabbages on that. They only left him a little roomto breathe. 

"Now lie still for your life!" said the second voice. "If you stir ainch I'll lick you till you can't stand! And now you know. "

So he lay still, rigid with misery and despair. For neither of thesevoices was strange to him. He knew them both only too well. 

CHAPTER X

THE NOBLE DEED

WHEN Lord Arden and Elfrida and Edred reached the castle and found thatDickie had not come back, the children concluded that Beale hadpersuaded him to stay the night at the cottage. And Lord Arden thoughtthat the children must be right. He was extremely annoyed both withBeale and with Dickie for making such an arrangement without consultinghim. 

"It is impertinent of Beale and thoughtless of the boy, " he said; "and Ishall speak a word to them both in the morning. "

But when Edred and Elfrida were gone to bed Lord Arden found that hecould not feel quite sure or quite satisfied. Suppose Dickie was not atBeale's? He strolled up to the cottage to see. Everything was dark atthe cottage. He hesitated, then knocked at the door. At the third knockBeale, very sleepy, put his head out of the window. 

"Who's there?" said he. 

"I am here, " said Lord Arden. "Richard is asleep, I suppose?"

"I suppose so, my lord, " said Beale, sleepy and puzzled. 

"You have given me some anxiety. I had to come up to make sure he washere. "

"But 'e _ain't_ 'ere, " said Beale. "Didn't you pick 'im up with thedog-cart, same as you said you would?"

"No, " shouted Lord Arden. "Come down, Beale, and get a lantern. Theremust have been an accident. "

The bedroom window showed a square of light, and Lord Arden below heardBeale blundering about above. 

"'Ere's your coat, " Mrs. Beale's voice sounded; "never mind lacing up ofyour boots. You orter gone a bit of the way with 'im. "

"Well, I offered for to go, didn't I?" Beale growled, blundered down thestairs and out through the wash-house, and came round the corner of thehouse with a stable lantern in his hand. He came close to where LordArden stood--a tall, dark figure in the starlight--and spoke in a voicethat trembled. 

"The little nipper, " he said; and again, "the little nipper. Ifanything's happened to 'im! Swelp me! gov'ner--my lord, I mean. What Imeanter say, if anything's 'appened to _'im_! One of the best!"

The two men went quickly towards the gate. As they passed down thequiet, dusty road Beale spoke again. 

"I wasn't no good--I don't deceive you, guv'ner--a no account man Iwas, swelp me! And the little 'un, 'e tidied me up and told me tales andkep' me straight. It was 'is doing me and 'Melia come together. An' thedogs an' all. An' the little one. An' 'e got me to chuck the cadgin'. An' worse. 'E don't know what I was like when I met 'im. Why, I set outto make a blighted burglar of 'im--you wouldn't believe!"

And out the whole story came as Lord Arden and he went along the grayroad, looking to right and left where no bushes were nor stones, onlythe smooth curves of the down, so that it was easy to see that no littleboy was there either. 

They looked for Dickie to right and left and here and there underbushes, and by stiles and hedges, and with trembling hearts theysearched in the little old chalk quarry, and the white moon came up verylate to help them. But they did not find him, though they roused a dozenmen in the village to join in the search, and old Beale himself, whoknew every yard of the ground for five miles round, came out with thespaniel who knew every inch of it for ten. But True rushed about thehouse and garden whining and yelping so piteously that 'Melia tied himup, and he stayed tied up. 

And so, when Edred and Elfrida came down to breakfast, Mrs. Honeysettmet them with the news that Dickie was lost and their father still outlooking for him. 

"It's that beastly magic, " said Edred as soon as the children werealone. "He's done it once too often, and he's got stuck some time inhistory and can't get back. "

"And we can't do anything. We can't get to him, " said Elfrida. "Oh! ifonly we'd got the old white magic and the Mouldiwarp to help us, wecould find out what's become of him. "

"Perhaps he has fallen down a disused mine, " Edred suggested, "and islying panting for water, and his faithful dog has jumped down after himand broken all its dear legs. "

Elfrida melted to tears at this desperate picture, melted to aspeechless extent. 

"We can't do anything, " said Edred again; "don't snivel like that, forgoodness' sake, Elfrida. This is a man's job. Dry up. I can't think, with you blubbing like that. "

"I'm not, " said Elfrida untruly, and sniffed with some intensity. 

"If you could make up some poetry now, " Edred went on, "would that beany good?"

"Not without the dresses, " she sniffed. "You know we always had dressesfor our magic, or nearly always; and they have to be dead and gonepeople's dresses, and you'll only go to the dead and gone people's timewhen the dresses were worn. Oh! dear Dickie, and if he's really down amine, or things like that, what's the good of anything?"

"I'm going to try, anyway, " said Edred, "at least you must too. BecauseI can't make poetry. "

"No more can I when I'm as unhappy as this. Poetry's the last thing youthink of when you're mizzy. "

"We could dress up, anyway, " said Edred hopefully. "The bits of armorout of the hall, and the Indian feather head-dresses father broughthome, and I have father's shooting-gaiters and brown paper tops, and youcan have Aunt Edith's Roman sash. It's in the right-hand corner drawer. I saw it on the wedding day when I went to get her prayer-book. "

"I don't want to dress up, " said Elfrida; "I want to find Dickie. "

"I don't want to dress up either, " said Edred; "but we must dosomething, and perhaps, I know it's just only perhaps, it might help ifwe dressed up. Let's try it, anyway. "

Elfrida was too miserable to argue. Before long two most miserablechildren faced each other in Edred's bedroom, dressed as Red Indians sofar as their heads and backs went. Then came lots of plate armor forchest and arms; then, in the case of Elfrida, petticoats and Roman sashand Japanese wickerwork shoes and father's shooting-gaiters made tolook like boots by brown paper tops. And in the case of Edred, legscased in armor that looked like cricket pads, ending in jointedfoot-coverings that looked like chrysalises. (I am told the correctplural is chrysalides, but life would be dull indeed if one always usedthe correct plural. ) They were two forlorn faces that looked at eachother as Edred said--

"Now the poetry. "

"I can't, " said Elfrida, bursting into tears again; "I _can't_! Sothere. I've been trying all the time we've been dressing, and I can onlythink of--

 "Oh, call dear Dickie back to me, I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee, Where is dear Dickie gone?

And I know that's no use. "

"I should think not, " said Edred. "Why, it isn't your own poetry at all. It's Felicia M. Hemans'. I'll try. " And he got a pencil and paper andtry he did, his very hardest, be sure. But there are some things thatthe best and bravest cannot do. And the thing Edred couldn't do was tomake poetry, however bad. He simply couldn't do it, any more than youcan fly. It wasn't in him, any more than wings are on you. 

 "Oh, Mouldiwarp, you said we must Not have any more magic. But we trust You won't be hard on us, because Dickie is lost And we don't know how to find him. "

That was the best Edred could do, and I tell it to his credit, he reallydid feel doubtful whether what he had so slowly and carefully writtenwas indeed genuine poetry. So much so, that he would not show it toElfrida until she had begged very hard indeed. At about the thirtieth"Do, please! Edred, do!" he gave her the paper. No little girl was evermore polite than Elfrida or less anxious to hurt the feelings of others. But she was also quite truthful, and when Edred said in an ashamed, muffled voice, "Is it all right, do you think?" the best she could findby way of answer was, "I don't know much about poetry. We'll try it. "

And they did try it, and nothing happened. 

"I knew it was no good, " Edred said crossly; "and I've made an ass ofmyself for nothing. "

"Well, I've often made one of myself, " said Elfrida comfortingly, "and Iwill again if you like. But I don't suppose it'll be any more good thanyours. "

Elfrida frowned fiercely and the feathers on her Indian head-dressquivered with the intensity of her effort. 

"Is it coming?" Edred asked in anxious tones, and she noddeddistractedly. 

 "Great Mouldiestwarp, on you we call To do the greatest magic of all; To show us how we are to find Dear Dickie who is lame and kind. Do this for us, and on our hearts we swore We'll never ask you for anything more. "

"I don't see that it's so much better than mine, " said Edred, "and itought to be _swear_, not _swore_. "

"I don't think it is. But you didn't finish yours. And it couldn't be'swear, ' because of rhyming, " Elfrida explained. "But I'm sure if theMouldiestwarp hears it he won't care tuppence whether it's swear orswore. He is much too great. He's far above grammar, I'm sure. "

"I wish every one was, " sighed Edred, and I dare say you have often feltthe same. 

"Well, fire away! Not that it's any good. Don't you remember you canonly get at the Mouldiestwarp by a noble deed? And wanting to findDickie isn't noble. "

"No, " she agreed; "but then if we could get Dickie back by doing a nobledeed we'd do it like a shot, wouldn't we?"

"Oh! I suppose so, " said Edred grumpily; "fire away, can't you?"

Elfrida fired away, and the next moment it was plain that Elfrida'spoetry was more potent than Edred's; also that a little bad grammar is atrifle to a mighty Mouldiwarp. 

For the walls of Edred's room receded further and further, till thechildren found themselves in a great white hall with avenues of tallpillars stretching in every direction as far as you could see. The hallwas crowded with people dressed in costumes of all countries and allages--Chinamen, Indians, Crusaders in armor, powdered ladies, doubletedgentlemen, Cavaliers in curls, Turks in turbans, Arabs, monks, abbesses, jesters, grandees with ruffs round their necks, and savages with kiltsof thatch. Every kind of dress you can think of was there. Only all thedresses were white. It was like a _redoute_, which is a fancy-dress ballwhere the guests may wear any dress they choose, only all the dressesmust be of one color. 

Elfrida saw the whiteness all about her and looked down anxiously at herclothes and Edred's, which she remembered to have been of rather oddcolors. Everything they wore was white now. Even the Roman sash, insteadof having stripes blue and red and green and black and yellow, was offive different shades of white. If you think there are not so manyshades of white, try to paper a room with white paper and get it at fivedifferent shops. 

The people round the children pushed them gently forward. And then theysaw that in the middle of the hall was a throne of silver, spread with afringed cloth of checkered silver and green, and on it, with theMouldiwarp standing on one side and the Mouldierwarp on the other, theMouldiestwarp was seated in state and splendor. He was much larger thaneither of the other moles, and his fur was as silvery as the feathers ofa swan. 

Every one in the room was looking at the two children, and it seemedimpossible for them not to advance, though slowly and shyly, right tothe front of the throne. 

Arrived there, it seemed right to bow, very low. So they did it. 

Then the Mouldiwarp said--

"What brings you here?"

"Kind magic, " Elfrida answered. 

And the Mouldierwarp said--

"What is your desire?"

And Edred said, "We want Dickie, please. "

Then the Mouldiestwarp said, and it was to Edred that he said it--

"Dickie is in the hands of those who will keep him from you for many aday unless you yourself go, alone, and rescue him. It will be difficult, and it will be dangerous. Will you go?"

"Me? Alone?" said Edred rather blankly. "Not Elfrida?"

"Dickie can only be ransomed at a great price, and it must be paid byyou. It will cost you more to do it than it would cost Elfrida, becauseshe is braver than you are. "

Here was a nice thing for a boy to have said to him, and before allthese people too! To ask a chap to do a noble deed and in the samebreath to tell him he is a coward!

Edred flushed crimson, and a shudder ran through the company. 

"Don't turn that horrible color, " whispered a white toreador who wasclose to him. "This is the _white_ world. No crimson allowed. "

Elfrida caught Edred's hand. 

"Edred is quite as brave as me, " she said. "He'll go. Won't you?"

"Of course I will, " said Edred impatiently. 

"Then ascend the steps of the throne, " said the Mouldiestwarp, verykindly now, "and sit here by my side. "

Edred obeyed, and the Mouldiestwarp leaned towards him and spoke in hisear. 

So that neither Elfrida nor any of the great company in the White Hallcould hear a word, only Edred alone. 

"If you go to rescue Richard Arden, " the Mouldiestwarp said, "you makethe greatest sacrifice of your life. For he who was called RichardHarding is Richard Arden, and it is he who is Lord Arden and not you oryour father. And if you go to his rescue you will be taking from yourfather the title and the Castle, and you will be giving up your place asheir of Arden to your cousin Richard who is the rightful heir. "

"But how is he the rightful heir?" Edred asked, bewildered. 

"Three generations ago, " said the Mouldiestwarp, "a little baby wasstolen from Arden. Death came among the Ardens and that child became theheir to the name and the lands of Arden. The man who stole the childtook it to a woman in Deptford, and gave it in charge to her to nurse. She knew nothing but that the child's clothes were marked Arden, andthat it had, tied to its waist, a coral and bells engraved with a coatof arms. The man who had stolen the child said he would return in amonth. He never returned. He fought in a duel and was killed. But thenight before the duel he wrote a letter saying what he had done and putit in a secret cupboard behind a picture of a lady who was born anArden, at Talbot Court. And there that letter is to this day. "

"I hope I shan't forget it all, " said Edred. 

"None ever forgets what I tell them, " said the Mouldiestwarp. "Findingthat the man did not return, the Deptford woman brought up the child asher own. He grew up, was taught a trade and married a working girl. Thename of Arden changed itself, as names do, to Harding. Their child wasthe father of Richard whom you know. And he is Lord Arden. "

"Yes, " said Edred submissively. 

"You will never tell your father this, " the low, beautiful voice wenton; "you must not even tell your sister till you have rescued Dickie andmade the sacrifice. This is the one supreme chance of all your life. Every soul has one such chance, a chance to be perfectly unselfish, absolutely noble and true. You can take this chance. But you must takeit alone. No one can help you. No one can advise you. And you must keepthe nobler thought in your own heart till it is a noble deed. Then, humbly and thankfully in that you have been permitted to do so fine andbrave a thing and to draw near to the immortals of all ages who havesuch deeds to do and have done them, you may tell the truth to the onewho loves you best, your sister Elfrida. "

"But isn't Elfrida to have a chance to be noble too?" Edred asked. 

"She will have a thousand chances to be good and noble. And she willtake them all. But she will never know that she has done it, " said theMouldiestwarp gravely. "Now--are you ready to do what is to be done?"

"It seems very unkind to daddy, " said Edred, "stopping his being LordArden and everything. "

"To do right often seems unkind to one or another, " said theMouldiestwarp, "but think. How long would your father wish to keep hishouse and his castle if he knew that they belonged to some one else?"

"I see, " said Edred, still doubtfully. "No, of course he wouldn't. Well, what am I to do?"

"When Dickie's father died, a Deptford woman related to Dickie's motherkept the child. She was not kind to him. And he left her. Later she meta man who had been a burglar. He had entered Talbot Court, opened apanel, and found that old letter that told of Dickie's birth. He and shehave kidnapped Dickie, hoping to get him to sign a paper promising topay them money for giving him the letter which tells how he is heir toArden. But already they have found out that a letter signed by a childis useless and unlawful. And they dare not let Richard go for fear ofpunishment. So, if you choose to do nothing your father is safe and youwill inherit Arden. "

"What am I to do?" Edred asked again--"to get Dickie back, I mean. "

"You must go alone and at night to Beale's cottage, open the door andyou will find Richard's dog asleep before the fire. You must unchain thedog and take him to the milestone by the crossroads. Then go where thedog goes. You will need a knife to cut cords with. And you will needall your courage. Look in my eyes. "

Edred looked in the eyes of the Mouldiestwarp and saw that they were nolonger a mole's eyes but were like the eyes of all the dear people hehad ever known, and through them the soul of all the brave people he hadever read about looked out at him and said, "Courage, Edred. Be one ofus. "

"Now look at the people on the Hall, " said the Mouldiestwarp. 

Edred looked. And behold, they were no longer strangers. He knew themall. Joan of Arc and Peter the Hermit, Hereward and Drake, Elsa whosebrothers were swans, St. George who killed the dragon, Blondel who sangto his king in prison, Lady Nithsdale who brought her husband safe outof the cruel Tower. There were captains who went down with their ships, generals who died fighting for forlorn hopes, patriots, kings, nuns, monks, men, women, and children--all with that light in their eyes whichbrightens with splendor the dreams of men. 

And as he came down off the throne the great ones crowded round him, clasping his hand and saying--

"Be one of us, Edred. Be one of us. "

Then an intense white light shone so that the children could see nothingelse. And then suddenly there they were again within the narrow wallsof Edred's bedroom. 

"Well, " said Elfrida in tones of brisk commonplace, "what did it say toyou? I say, you do look funny. "

"Don't!" said Edred crossly. He began to tear off the armor. "Here, helpme to get these things off. "

"But what did it say?" Elfrida asked, helpfully. 

"I can't tell you. I'm not going to tell any one till it's over. "

"Oh, just as you like, " said Elfrida; "keep your old secrets, " and lefthim. 

That was hard, wasn't it?

"I can't help it, I tell you. Oh! Elfrida, if _you're_ going to botherit's just a little bit too much, that's all. "

"You really mustn't tell me?"

"I've told you so fifty times, " he said. Which was untrue. You know hehad really only told her twice. 

"Very well, then, " she said heroically, "I won't ask you a single thing. But you'll tell me the minute you can, won't you? And you'll let mehelp?"

"Nobody can help, no one can advise me, " Edred said. "I've got to do itoff my own bat if I do it at all. Now you just shut up, I want tothink. "

This unusual desire quite awed Elfrida. But it irritated her too. 

"Perhaps you'd like me to go away, " she said ironically. 

And Edred's wholly unexpected reply was, "Yes, please. "

So she went. 

And when she was gone Edred sat down on the box at the foot of his bedand tried to think. But it was not easy. 

"I ought to go, " he told himself. 

"But think of your father, " said something else which was himself too. 

He thought so hard that his thoughts got quite confused. His head grewvery hot, and his hands and feet very cold. Mrs. Honeysett came in, exclaimed at his white face, felt his hands, said he was in a highfever, and put him to bed with wet rags on his forehead and hot-waterbottles to his feet. Perhaps he was feverish. At any rate he could neverbe sure afterwards whether there really had been a very polite andplausible black mole sitting on his pillow most of the day saying allthose things which the part of himself that he liked least agreed with. Such things as--

"Think of your father. 

"No one will ever know. 

"Dickie will be all right somehow. 

"Perhaps you only dreamed that about Dickie being shut up somewhere andit's not true. 

"Anyway, it's not your business, is it?" And so on. You know the sort ofthing. 

Elfrida was not allowed to come into the room for fear Edred should beill with something catching. So he lay tossing all day, hearing theblack mole, or something else, say all these things and himself saying, "I must go. 

"Oh! poor Dickie. 

"I promised to go. 

"Yes, I will go. "

And late that night when Lord Arden had come home and had gone to bed, tired out by a long day's vain search for the lost Dickie, and wheneverybody was asleep, Edred got up and dressed. He put his bedroomcandle and matches in his pocket, crept down-stairs and out of the houseand up to Beale's. It was a slow and nervous business. More than once onthe staircase he thought he heard a stair creak behind him, and againand again as he went along the road he fancied he heard a soft footsteppad-padding behind him, but of course when he looked round he could seeno one was there. So presently he decided that it was cowardly to keeplooking round, and besides, it only made him more frightened. So he keptsteadily on and took no notice at all of a black patch by the sweetbrierbush by Beale's cottage door just exactly as if some one was crouchingin the shadow. 

He pressed his thumb on the latch and opened the door very softly. Something moved inside and a chain rattled. Edred's heart gave a soft, uncomfortable jump. But it was only True, standing up to receivecompany. He saw the whiteness of the dog and made for it, felt for thechain, unhooked it from the staple in the wall, and went out again, closing the door after him, and followed very willingly by True. Againhe looked suspiciously at the shadow of the great sweetbrier, but thedog showed no uneasiness, so Edred knew that there was nothing to beafraid of. True, in fact, was the greatest comfort to him. He toldElfrida afterwards that it was all True's doing; he could never, he wassure, have gone on without that good companion. 

True followed at the slack chain's end till they got to the milestone, and then suddenly he darted ahead and took the lead, the chain stretchedtaut, and the boy had all his work cut out to keep up with the dog. Upthe hill they went on to the downs, and in and out among the furzebushes. The night was no longer dark to Edred. His eyes had got used tothe gentle starlight, and he followed the dog among the gorse andbrambles without stumbling and without hurting himself against themillion sharp spears and thorns. 

Suddenly True paused, sniffed, sneezed, blew through his nose and beganto dig. 

"Come on, come on, good dog, " said Edred, "come on, True, " for his fancypictured Dickie a prisoner in some lonely cottage, and he longed to getto it and set him free and get safe back home with him. So he pulled atthe chain. But True only shook himself and went on digging. The spot hehad chosen was under a clump of furze bigger than any they had passed. The sharp furze-spikes pricked his nose and paws, but True was not thedog to be stopped by little things like that. He only stopped every nowand then to sneeze and blow, and then went on digging. 

Edred remembered the knife he had brought. It was the big pruning-knifeout of the drawer in the hall. He pulled it out. He would cut away someof the furze branches. Perhaps Dickie was lying bound, hidden in themiddle of the furze bush. 

"Dickie, " he said softly, "Dickie. "

But no one answered. Only True sneezed and snuffed and blew and went ondigging. 

So then Edred took hold of a branch of furze to cut it, and it was looseand came away in his hand without any cutting. He tried another. Thattoo was loose. He took off his jacket and threw it over his hands toprotect them, and seizing an armful of furze pulled, and fell back, agreat bundle of the prickly stuff on top of him. True was pulling likemad at the chain. Edred scrambled up; the furze he had pulled awaydisclosed a hole, and True was disappearing down it. Edred saw, as thedog dragged him close to the hole, that it was a large one, though onlypart of it had been uncovered. He stooped to peer in, his foot slippedon the edge, and he fell right into it, the dog dragging all the time. 

"Stop, True; lie down, sir!" he said, and the dog paused, though thechain was still strained tight. 

Then Edred was glad of his bedroom candle. He pulled it out and lightedit and blinked, perceiving almost at once that he was in the beginningof an underground passage. He looked up; he could see above him thestars plain through a net of furze bushes. He stood up and True went on. Next moment he knew that he was in the old smugglers' cave that he andElfrida had so often tried to find. 

The dog and the boy went on, along a passage, down steps cut in therock, through a rough, heavy door, and so into the smugglers' caveitself, an enormous cavern as big as a church. Out of an opening at theupper end a stream of water fell, and ran along the cave clear betweenshores of smooth sand. 

And, lying on the sand near the stream, was something dark. 

True gave a bound that jerked the chain out of Edred's hand, and leapedupon the dark thing, licking it, whining, and uttering little dog moansof pure love and joy. For the dark something was Dickie, fast asleep. Hewas bound with cords, his poor lame foot tied tight to the other one. His arms were bound too. And now he was awake. 

"Down, True!" he said. "Hush! Ssh!"

"Where are they--the man and woman?" Edred whispered. 

"Oh, Edred! You! You perfect brick!" Dickie whispered back. "They're inthe further cave. I heard them snoring before I went to sleep. "

"Lie still, " said Edred; "I've got a knife. I'll cut the cords. "

He cut them, and Dickie tried to stand up. But his limbs were too stiff. Edred rubbed his legs, while Dickie stretched his fingers to get thepins and needles out of his arms. 

Edred had stuck the candle in the sand. It made a ring of light roundthem. That was why they did not see a dark figure that came quietlycreeping across the sand towards them. It was quite close to them beforeEdred looked up. 

[Illustration: "'ELFRIDA!' SAID BOTH BOYS AT ONCE"

_Page_ 272]

"Oh!" he gasped, and Dickie, looking up, whispered, "It's all up--_run_. Never mind me. I shall get away all right. "

"No, " said Edred, and then with a joyous leap of the heart perceivedthat the dark figure was Elfrida in her father's ulster. 

("I hadn't time to put on my stockings, " she explained later. "You'dhave known me a mile off by my white legs if I hadn't covered them upwith this. ")

"Elfrida!" said both boys at once. 

"Well, you didn't think I was going to be out of it, " she said. "I'vebeen behind you all the way, Edred. Don't tell me anything. I won't askany questions, only come along out of it. Lean on me. "

They got him up to the passage, one on each side, and by that timeDickie could use his legs and his crutch. They got home and roused LordArden, and told him Dickie was found and all about it, and he roused thehouse, and he and Beale and half-a-dozen men from the village went up tothe cave and found that wicked man and woman in a stupid sleep, and tiedtheir hands and marched them to the town and to the police-station. 

When the man was searched the letter was found on him which the man--itwas that redheaded man you have heard of--had taken from TalbotCourt. 

"I wish you joy of your good fortune, my boy, " said Lord Arden when hehad read the letter. "Of course we must look into things, but I feel nodoubt at all that you _are_ Lord Arden!"

"I don't want to be, " said Dickie, and that was true. Yet at the sametime he did want to be. The thought of being Richard, Lord Arden, he whohad been just little lame Dickie of Deptford, of owning this gloriouscastle, of being the master of an old name and an old place, thisthought sang in his heart a very beautiful tune. Yet what he said wastrue. There is so often room in our hearts for two tunes at a time. "Idon't want to be. You ought to be, sir. You've been so kind to me, " hesaid. 

"My dear boy, " said the father of Edred and Elfrida, "I did very wellwithout the title and the castle, and if they're yours I shall do verywell without them again. You shall have your rights, my dear boy, and Ishan't be hurt by it. Don't you think that. "

Dickie thought several things and shook the other's hand very hard. 

The tale of Dickie's rescue from the cave was the talk of thecountryside. True was praised much, but Edred more. Why had no one elsethought of putting the dog on the scent? Edred said that it was mostlyTrue's doing. And the people praised his modesty. And nobody, exceptperhaps Elfrida, ever understood what it had cost Edred to go that nightthrough the dark and rescue his cousin. 

Edred's father and Mrs. Honeysett agreed that Edred had done it in thedelirium of a fever, brought on by his anxiety about his friend andplaymate. People do, you know, do odd things in fevers that they wouldnever do at other times. 

The redheaded man and the woman were tried at the assizes and punished. If you ask me how they knew about the caves which none of the countrypeople seemed to know of, I can only answer that I don't know. Only Iknow that every one you know knows lots of things that you don't knowthey know. 

When they all went a week later to explore the caves, they found acurious arrangement of brickwork and cement and clay, shutting up a holethrough which the stream had evidently once flowed out into the openair. It now flowed away into darkness. Lord Arden pointed out how itscourse had been diverted and made to run down underground to the sea. 

"We might let it come back to the moat, " said Edred. "It used to runthat way. It says so in the 'History of Arden. '"

"We must decide that later, " said his father, who had a long bluelawyer's letter in his pocket. 

CHAPTER XI

LORD ARDEN

THERE was a lot of talk and a lot of letter-writing before any oneseemed to be able to be sure who was Lord Arden. If the father of Edredand Elfrida had wanted to dispute about it no doubt there would havebeen enough work to keep the lawyers busy for years, and seas of inkwould have been spilled and thunders of eloquence spent on the question. But as the present Lord Arden was an honest man and only too anxiousthat Dickie should have everything that belonged to him, even thelawyers had to cut their work short. 

When Edred saw how his father tried his best to find out the truth aboutDickie's birth, and how willing he was to give up what he had thoughtwas his own, if it should prove to be _not_ his, do you think he was notglad to know that he had done his duty, and rescued his cousin, and hadnot, by any meanness or any indecision, brought dishonor on the name ofArden? As for Elfrida, when she knew the whole story of that night ofrescue, she admired her brother so much that it made him almostuncomfortable. However, she now looked up to him in all things andconsulted him about everything, and, after all, this is very pleasantfrom your sister, especially when every one has been rather in the habitof suggesting that she is better than you are, as well as cleverer. 

To Dickie Lord Arden said, "Of course, if anything _should_ happen toshow that I am really Lord Arden, you won't desert us, Dickie. You shallgo to school with Edred and be brought up like my very own son. "

And, like Lord Arden's very own son, Dickie lived at the house in ArdenCastle, and grew to love it more and more. He no longer wanted to getaway from these present times to those old days when James the First wasKing. The times you are born in are always more home-like than any othertimes can be. When Dickie lived miserably at Deptford he always longedto go to those old times, as a man who is unhappy at home may wish totravel to other countries. But a man who is happy in his home does notwant to leave it. And at Arden Dickie was happy. The training he had hadin the old-world life enabled him to take his place and to beunembarrassed with the Ardens and their friends as he was with theBeales and theirs. "A little shy, " the Ardens' friends told each other, "but what fine manners! And to think he was only a tramp! Lord Arden hascertainly done wonders with him!"

So Lord Arden got the credit of all that Dickie had learned from histutors in James the First's time. 

It is not in the nature of any child to brood continually on the past orthe future. The child lives in the present. And Dickie lived at Ardenand loved it, and enjoyed himself; and Lord Arden bought him a pony, sothat his lame foot was hardly any drag at all. The other children had adonkey-cart, and the three made all sorts of interesting expeditions. 

Once they went over to Talbot Court, and saw the secret place whereEdward Talbot had hidden his confession about having stolen the Ardenbaby, three generations before. Also they saw the portrait of the LadyTalbot who had been a Miss Arden. In rose-colored brocade she was, witha green silk petticoat and her powdered hair dressed high over a greatcushion, but her eyes and her mouth were the eyes of Dickie of Deptford. 

Lady Talbot was very charming to the children, played hide-and-seek withthem, and gave them a delightful and varied tea in the yew arbor. 

"I'm glad you wouldn't let me adopt you, Richard, " she said, whenElfrida and Edred had been sent to her garden to get a basket of peachesto take home with them, "because just when I had become entirelyattached to you, you would have found out your real relations, andwhere would your poor foster-mother have been then?"

"If I could have stayed with you I would, " said Dickie seriously. "I didlike you most awfully, even then. You are very like the Lady Arden whosehusband was shut up in the Tower for the Gunpowder Plot. "

"So they tell me, " said Lady Talbot, "but how do you know it?"

"I don't know, " said Dickie confused, "but you _are_ like her. "

"You must have seen a portrait of her. There's one in the NationalPortrait Gallery. She was a Delamere, and my name was Delamere, too, before I was married. She was one of the same family, you see, dear. "

Dickie put his arms round her waist as she sat beside him, and laid hishead on her shoulder. 

"I wish you'd really been my mother, " he said, and his thoughts wereback in the other days with the mother who wore a ruff and hoop. LadyTalbot hugged him tenderly. 

"My dear little Dickie, " she said, "you don't wish it as much as I do. "

"There are all sorts of things a chap can't be sure of--things youmustn't tell any one. Secrets, you know--honorable secrets. But if itwas your own mother it would be different. But if you haven't got amother you have to decide everything for yourself. "

"Won't you let me help you?" she asked. 

Dickie, his head on her shoulder, was for one wild moment tempted totell her everything--the whole story, from beginning to end. But he knewthat she could not understand it--or even believe it. No grown-up personcould. A chap's own mother might have, perhaps--but perhaps not, too. 

"I can't tell you, " he said at last, "only I don't think I want to beLord Arden. At least, I do, frightfully. It's so splendid, all thethings the Ardens did--in history, you know. But I don't want to turnpeople out--and you know Edred came and saved me from those people. Itfeels hateful when I think perhaps they'll have to turn out just becauseI happened to turn up. Sometimes I feel as if I simply couldn't bearit. "

"You dear child!" she said; "of course you feel that. But don't let yourmind dwell on it. Don't think about it. You're only a little boy. Behappy and jolly, and don't worry about grown-up things. Leave grown-upthings to the grown-ups. "

"You see, " Dickie told her, "somehow I've always had to worry aboutgrown-up things. What with Beale, and one thing and another. "

"That was the man you ran away from me to go to?"

"Yes, " said Dickie gravely; "you see, I was responsible for Beale. "

"And now? Don't you feel responsible any more?"

"No, " said Dickie, in businesslike tones; "you see, I've settled Bealein life. You can't be responsible for married people. They'reresponsible for each other. So now I've got only my own affairs to thinkof. And the Ardens. I don't know what to do. "

"Do? why, there's nothing _to_ do except to enjoy yourself and learnyour lessons and be happy, " she told him. "Don't worry your little head. Just enjoy yourself, and forget that you ever had any responsibilities. "

"I'll try, " he told her, and then the others came back with theirpeaches, and there was nothing more to be said but "Thank you very much"and good-bye. 

 * * * * *

Exploring the old smugglers' caves was exciting and delightful, asexploring caves always is. It turned out that more than one old man inthe village had heard from his father about the caves and the smugglingthat had gone on in those parts in old ancient days. But they had notthought it their place to talk about such things, and I suspect that intheir hearts they did not more than half believe them. Old Beale said--

"Why didn't you ask me? I could a-told you where they was. Only Ishouldn't a done fear you'd break your precious necks. "

Of course the children were desperately anxious to open up the brickworkand let the stream come out into the light of day; only their fatherthought it would be too expensive. But Edred and Elfrida worried andbothered in a perfectly gentle and polite way till at last a very jollygentleman in spectacles, who came down to spend a couple of days, tooktheir part. From the moment he owned himself an engineer Edred andElfrida gave him no peace, and he seemed quite pleased to be taken tosee the caves. He pointed out that the removal of the simple dam wouldsend the water back into the old channel. It would be perfectly simpleto have the brickwork knocked out, and to let the stream find its wayback, if it could, to its old channel, and thence down the arched waywhich Edred and Elfrida told him they were certain was under a moundbelow the Castle. 

"You know a lot about it, don't you?" he said good-humoredly. 

"Yes, " said Edred simply. 

Then they all went down to the mound, and the engineer then poked andprodded it and said he should not wonder if they were not so far out. And then Beale and another man came with spades, and presently there wasthe arch, as good as ever, and they exclaimed and admired and went backto the caves. 

It was a grand moment when the bricks had been taken out and daylightpoured into the cave, and nothing remained but to break down the dam andlet the water run out of the darkness into the sunshine. You can imaginewith what mixed feelings the children wondered whether they would ratherstay in the cave and see the dam demolished, or stay outside and see thestream rush out. In the end the boys stayed within, and it was onlyElfrida and her father who saw the stream emerge. They sat on a hillockamong the thin harebells and wild thyme and sweet lavender-colored gipsyroses, with their eyes fixed on the opening in the hillside, and waitedand waited and waited for a very long time. 

"Won't you mind frightfully, daddy, " Elfrida asked during this longwaiting, "if it turns out that you're not Lord Arden?"

He paused a moment before he decided to answer her without reserve. 

"Yes, " he said, "I shall mind, frightfully. And that's just why we mustdo everything we possibly can to prove that Dickie is the rightful heir, so that whether he has the title or I have it you and I may never haveto reproach ourselves for having left a single stone unturned to givehim his rights--whatever they are. "

"And you, yours, daddy. "

"And me, mine. Anyhow, if he is Lord Arden I shall probably be appointedhis guardian, and we shall all live together here just the same. Only Ishall go back to being plain Arden. "

"I believe Dickie _is_ Lord Arden, " Elfrida began, and I am not at allsure that she would not have gone on to give her reasons, including thewhole story which the Mouldiestwarp had told to Dickie; but at thatmoment there was a roaring, rushing sound from inside the cave, and aflash of shiny silver gleamed across that dark gap in the hillside. There was a burst of imprisoned splendor. The stream leaped out andflowed right and left over the dry grass, till it lapped in tiny wavesagainst their hillock--"like sand castles, " as Elfrida observed. Itspread out in a lake, wider and wider; but presently gathered itselftogether and began to creep down the hill, winding in and out among thehillocks in an ever-deepening stream. 

"Come on, childie, let's make for the moat. We shall get there first, ifwe run our hardest, " Elfrida's father said. And he ran, with his littledaughter's hand in his. 

They got there first. The stream, knowing its own mind better andbetter as it recognized its old road, reached the Castle, and bydinner-time all the grass round the Castle was under water. By tea-timethe water in the moat was a foot or more deep, and when they got up nextmorning the Castle was surrounded by a splendid moat fifty feet wide, and a stream ran from it, in a zigzag way it is true, but still it ran, to the lower arch under the mound, and disappeared there, to rununderground into the sea. They enjoyed the moat for one whole day, andthen the stream was dammed again and condemned to run underground tillnext spring, by which time the walls of the Castle would have beenexamined and concrete laid to their base, lest the water should creepthrough and sap the foundations. 

"It's going to be a very costly business, it seems, " Elfrida heard herfather say to the engineer, "and I don't know that I ought to do it. ButI can't resist the temptation. I shall have to economize in otherdirections, that's all. "

When Elfrida had heard this she went to Dickie and Edred, who werefishing in the cave, and told them what she had heard. 

"And we _must_ have another try for the treasure, " she said. "Whoeverhas the Castle will want to restore it; they've got those pictures of itas it used to be. And then there are all the cottages to rebuild. DearDickie, you're so clever, do think of some way to find the treasure. "

So Dickie thought. 

And presently he said--

"You once saw the treasure being carried to the secret room--in apicture, didn't you?"

They told him yes. 

"Then why didn't you go back to that time and see it really?"

"We hadn't the clothes. Everything in our magic depended on clothes. "

"Mine doesn't. Shall we go?"

"There were lots of soldiers in the picture, " said Edred, "andfighting. "

"I'm not afraid of soldiers, " said Elfrida very quickly, "and you're notafraid of _anything_, Edred--you know you aren't. "

"You can't be or you couldn't have come after me right into the cave inthe middle of the night. Come on. Stand close together and I'll spreadout the moon-seeds. "

So Dickie said, and they stood, and he spread the moon-seeds out, and hewished to be with the party of men who were hiding the treasure. Butbefore he spread out the seeds he took certain other things in his lefthand and held them closely. And instantly they were. 

They were standing very close together, all three of them, in a niche ina narrow, dark passage, and men went by them carrying heavy chests, andgreat sacks of leather, and bundles tied up in straw and inhandkerchiefs. The men had long hair and the kind of clothes you knowwere worn when Charles the First was King. And the children wore thedresses of that time and the boys had little swords at their sides. Whenthe last bundle had been carried, the last chest set down with a dump onthe stone floor of some room beyond, the children heard a door shut anda key turned, and then the men came back all together along the passage, and the children followed them. Presently torchlight gave way todaylight as they came out into the open air. But they had to come onhands and knees, for the path sloped steeply up and the opening was verylow. The chests must have been pushed or pulled through. They couldnever have been carried. 

The children turned and looked at the opening. It was in the courtyardwall, the courtyard that was now a smooth grass lawn and not the rough, daisied grass plot dotted with heaps of broken stone and masonry thatthey were used to see. And as they looked two men picked up a greatstone and staggered forward with it and laid it on the stone floor ofthe secret passage just where it ended at the edge of the grass. Thenanother stone and another. The stones fitted into their places like bitsof a Chinese puzzle. There was mortar or cement at their edges, andwhen the last stone was replaced no one could tell those stones from theother stones that formed the wall. Only the grass in front of them wastrampled and broken. 

"Fetch food and break it about, " said the man who seemed to be incommand, "that it may look as though the men had eaten here. And tramplethe grass at other places. I give the Roundhead dogs another hour tobreak down our last defense. Children, go to your mother. This is noplace for you. "

They knew the way. They had seen it in the picture. Edred and Elfridaturned to go. But Dickie whispered, "Don't wait for me. I've somethingyet to do. "

And when the soldiers had gone to get food and strew it about, as theyhad been told to do, Dickie crept up to the stones that had beenremoved, from which he had never taken his eyes, knelt down andscratched on one of the stones with one of the big nails he had broughtin his hand. It blunted over and he took another, hiding in the chapeldoorway when the men came back with the food. 

"Every man to his post and God save us all!" cried the captain when thefood was spread. They clattered off--they were in their armor now--andDickie knelt down again and went on scratching with the nail. 

The air was full of shouting, and the sound of guns, and the clash ofarmor, and a shattering sound like a giant mallet striking a giantdrum--a sound that came and came again at five-minute intervals--and theshrieks of wounded men. Dickie pressed up the grass to cover the markshe had made on the stone, so low as to be almost underground and quitehidden by the grass roots. 

Then he brushed the stone dust from his hands and stood up. 

The treasure was found and its hiding-place marked. Now he would findEdred and Elfrida, and they would go back. Whether he was Lord of Ardenor no, it was he and no other who had restored the fallen fortunes ofthat noble house. 

He turned to go the way his cousins had gone. He could see themen-at-arms crowding in the archway of the great gate tower. From awindow to his right a lady leaned, pale with terror, and with her wereEdred and Elfrida--he could just see their white faces. He made for thedoor below that window. But it was too late. That dull, thudding soundcame again, and this time it was followed by a great crash and a greatshouting. The blue sky showed through the archway where the tall gateshad been and under the arch was a mass of men shouting, screaming, struggling, and the gleam of steel and the scarlet of brave blood. 

Dickie forgot all about the door below the window, forgot all about hiscousins, forgot that he had found the treasure and that it was now hisbusiness to get himself and the others safely back to their own times. He only saw the house he loved broken into by men he hated; he saw themen he loved spending their blood like water to defend that house. 

He drew the little sword that hung at his side and shouting "An Arden!an Arden!" he rushed towards the swaying, staggering _mêlée_. He reachedit just as the leader of the attacking party had hewn his way throughthe Arden men and taken his first step on the flagged path of thecourtyard. The first step was his last. He stopped, a big, burly fellowin a leathern coat and steel round cap, and looked, bewildered, at thelittle figure coming at him with all the fire and courage of the Ardensburning in his blue eyes. The big man laughed, and as he laughed Dickielunged with his sword--the way his tutor had taught him--and the littlesword--no tailor's ornament to a Court dress, but a piece of truesteel--went straight and true up into the heart of that big rebel. Theman fell, wrenching the blade from Dickie's hand. 

A shout of fury went up from the enemy. A shout of pride and triumphfrom the Arden men. Men struggled and fought all about him. Next momentDickie's hands were tied with a handkerchief, and he stood therebreathless and trembling with pride. 

[Illustration: "'I HAVE KILLED A MAN, ' HE SAID"

_Page 290_]

"I have killed a man, " he said; "I have killed a man for the King andfor Arden. "

They shut him up in the fuel shed and locked the door. Pride and angerfilled him. He could think of nothing but that one good thrust for thegood cause. But presently he remembered. 

He had brought his cousins here--he must get them back safely. But how?On a quiet evening on the road Beale had taught him how to untie handstied behind the back. He remembered the lesson now and set to work--butit was slow work. And all the time he was thinking, thinking. How couldhe get out? He knew the fuel shed well enough. The door was strong, there was a beech bar outside. But it was not roofed with tile or lead, as the rest of the Castle was. And Dickie knew something about thatch. Not for nothing had he watched the men thatching the oast-house by theMedway. When his hands were free he stood up and felt for the pins thatfasten the thatch. 

Suddenly his hands fell by his side. Even if he got out, how could hefind his cousins? He would only be found by the rebels and be lockedaway more securely. He lay down on the floor, lay quite still there. Itwas despair. This was the end of all his cleverness. He had broughtEdred and Elfrida into danger, and he could not get them back again. Hisanger had led him to defy the Roundheads, and to gratify his hate ofthem he had sacrificed those two who trusted him. He lay there a longtime, and if he cried a little it was very dark in the fuel house, andthere was no one to see him. 

He was not crying, however, but thinking, thinking, thinking, and tryingto find some way out, when he heard a little scratch, scratching on thecorner of the shed. He sat up and listened. The scratching went on. Heheld his breath. Could it be that some one was trying to get in to helphim? Nonsense, of course it was only a rat. Next moment a voice spoke soclose to him that he started and all but cried out. 

"Bide where you be, lad, bide still; 'tis only me--old Mouldiwarp ofArden. You be a bold lad, by my faith, so you be. Never an Arden better. Never an Arden of them all. "

"Oh, Mouldiwarp, dear Mouldiwarp, do help me! I led them into this--helpme to get them back safe. Do, do, do!"

"So I will, den--dere ain't no reason in getting all of a fluster. Itain't fitten for a lad as 'as faced death same's what you 'ave, " saidthe voice. "I've made a liddle tunnel for 'e--so I 'ave--'ere in dis'ere corner--you come caten wise crose the floor and you'll feel it. Youcrawl down it, and outside you be sure enough. "

Dickie went towards the voice, and sure enough, as the voice said, therewas a hole in the ground, just big enough, it seemed, for him to crawldown on hands and knees. 

"I'll go afore, " said the Mouldiwarp, "you come arter. Dere's naught tobe afeared on, Lord Arden. "

"Am I really Lord Arden?" said Dickie, pausing. 

"Sure's I'm alive you be, " the mole answered; "yer uncle'll tell it youwith all de lawyer's reasons to-morrow morning as sure's sure. Comealong, den. Dere ain't no time to lose. "

So Dickie went down on his hands and knees, and crept down the moletunnel of soft, sweet-smelling earth, and then along, and then up--andthere they were in the courtyard. There, too, were Edred and Elfrida. 

The three children hugged each other, and then turned to the Mouldiwarp. 

"How can we get home?"

"The old way, " he said; and from the sky above a swan carriage suddenlyswooped. "In with you, " said the Mouldiwarp; "swan carriages can takeyou from one time to another just as well as one place to another. Butwe don't often use 'em--'cause why? swans is dat contrary dey won't goinvisible not for no magic, dey won't. So everybody can see 'em. Stillwe can't pick nor choose when it's danger like dis 'ere. In with you. Beoff with you. This is the last you'll see o' me. Be off afore thesoldiers sees you. "

They squeezed into the swan carriage, all three. The white wings spreadand the whole equipage rose into the air unseen by any one but aRoundhead sentinel, who with great presence of mind gave the alarm, andwas kicked for his pains, because when the guard turned out there wasnothing to be seen. 

The swans flew far too fast for the children to see where they weregoing, and when the swans began to flap more slowly so that the childrencould have seen if there had been anything to see, there was nothing tobe seen, because it was quite dark. And the air was very cold. Butpresently a light showed ahead, and next moment there they were in thecave, and stepped out of the carriage on the exact spot where Dickie hadset out the moon-seeds and Tinkler and the white seal. 

The swan carriage went back up the cave with a swish and rustle ofwings, and the children went down the hill as quickly as theycould--which was not very quickly because of Dickie's poor lame foot. The boy who had killed a Cromwell's man with his little sword had notbeen lame. 

Arrived in the courtyard, Dickie proudly led the way and stooped toexamine the stones near the ruined arch that had been the chapel door. Alas! there was not a sign of the inscription which Dickie had scratchedon the stone when the Roundheads were battering at the gates of ArdenCastle. 

Then Edred said, "Aha!" in a tone of triumph. 

"_I_ took notice, too, " he explained. "It's the fifth stone from thechapel door under the little window with the Arden arms carved over it. There's no other window with that over it. I'll get the cold chisel. "

He got it, and when he came back Dickie was on his knees by the wall, and he had dug with his hands and uncovered the stone where he hadscratched with the nails. And there was the mark--19. R. D. 08. Only thenail had slipped once or twice while he was doing the 9, so that itlooked much more like a five--15. R. D. 08. 

"There, " he said, "that's what I scratched!"

"That?" said Edred. "Why, that's always been there. We found that whenwe were digging about, trying to find the treasure. Quite at thebeginning, didn't we, Elf?"

And Elfrida agreed that this was so. 

"Well, I scratched it, anyway, " said Dickie. "Now, then, let me go aheadwith the chisel. "

Edred let him: he knew how clever Dickie was with his hands, for had henot made a work-box for Elfrida and a tool-chest for Edred, both withlids that fitted?

Dickie got the point of the chisel between the stones and pried andpressed--here and there, and at the other end--till the stone movedforward a little at a time, and they were able to get hold of it, anddrag it out. Behind was darkness, a hollow--Dickie plunged his arm in. 

"I can feel the door, " he said; "it's all right. "

"Let's fetch father, " suggested Elfrida; "he _will_ enjoy it so. "

So he was fetched. Elfrida burst into the library where her father wasbusy with many lawyers' letters and papers, and also with the lawyerhimself, a stout, jolly-looking gentleman in a tweed suit, not a bitlike the long, lean, disagreeable, black-coated lawyers you read aboutin books. 

"Please, daddy, " she cried, "we've found the treasure. Come and look. "

"What treasure? and how often have I told you not to interrupt me when Iam busy?"

"Oh, well, " said Elfrida, "I only thought it would amuse you, daddy. We've found a bricked-up place, and there's a door behind, and I'malmost sure it's where they hid the treasure when Cromwell's wicked mentook the Castle. "

"There is a legend to that effect, " said Elfrida's father to the lawyer, who was looking interested. "You must forgive us if our familyenthusiasms obliterate our manners. You have not said good-morning toMr. Roscoe, Elfrida. "

"Good-morning, Mr. Roscoe, " said Elfrida cheerfully. "I thought it wasthe engineer's day and not the lawyer's. I beg your pardon, you wouldn'tmind me bursting in if you knew how very important the treasure is tothe fortunes of our house. "

The lawyer laughed. "I am deeply interested in buried treasure. It wouldbe a great treat to me if Lord Arden would allow me to assist in thesearch for it. "

"There's no search _now_, " said Elfrida, "because it's found. We've beensearching for ages. Oh, daddy, do come--you'll be sorry afterwards ifyou don't. "

"If Mr. Roscoe doesn't mind, then, " said her father indulgently. And thetwo followed Elfrida, believing that they were just going to be kind andto take part in some childish game of make-believe. Their feelings werevery different when they peeped through the hole, where Dickie andEdred had removed two more stones, and saw the dusty gray of the woodendoor beyond. Very soon all the stones were out, and the door wasdisclosed. 

The lock plate bore the arms of Arden, and the door was not to beshaken. 

"We must get a locksmith, " said Lord Arden. 

"The big key with the arms on it!" cried Elfrida; "one of those in theiron box. Mightn't that----?" One flew to fetch it. 

A good deal of oil and more patience were needed before the keyconsented to turn in the lock, but it did turn--and the low passage wasdisclosed. It hardly seemed a passage at all, so thick and low hung thecurtain of dusty cobwebs. But with brooms and lanterns and much sneezingand choking, the whole party got through to the door of the treasureroom. And the other key unlocked that. And there in real fact was thetreasure just as the children had seen it--the chests and the boxes andthe leathern sacks and the bundles done up in straw and inhandkerchiefs. 

The lawyer, who had come on a bicycle, went off on it, at racing speed, to tell the Bank at Cliffville to come and fetch the treasure, and tobring police to watch over it till it should be safe in the Bank vaults. 

"And I'm child enough, " he said before he went, "as well as cautiousenough, to beg you not to bring any of it out till I come back, and notto leave guarding the entrance till the police are here. "

So when the treasure at last saw the light of day it saw it under theeyes of policemen and Bank managers and all the servants and all thefamily and the Beales and True, and half the village beside, who had gotwind of the strange happenings at the Castle and had crowded in throughthe now undefended gate. 

It was a glorious treasure--gold and silver plate, jewels and beautifularmor, along with a pile of old parchments which Mr. Roscoe said wereworth more than all the rest put together, for they were the title-deedsof great estates. 

"And now, " cried Beale, "let's 'ave a cheer for Lord Arden. Long may 'eenjoy 'is find, says I! 'Ip, 'ip, 'ooray!"

The cheers went up, given with a good heart. 

"I thank you all, " said the father of Edred and Elfrida. "I thank youall from my heart. And you may be sure that you shall share in this goodfortune. The old lands are in the market. They will be bought back. Andevery house on Arden land shall be made sound and weather-tight andcomfortable. The Castle will be restored--almost certainly. And thefortunes of Arden's tenantry will be the fortunes of Arden Castle. "

Another cheer went up. But the speaker raised his hand, and silencewaited his next words. 

"I have something else to tell you, " he said, "and as well now as later. This gentleman, Mr. Roscoe, my solicitor, has this morning brought menews that I am not Lord Arden!"

Loud murmurs of dissatisfaction from the crowd. 

"I have no claim to the title, " he went on grimly; "my father was ayounger son--the real heir was kidnapped, and supposed to be dead, so Iinherited. It is the grandson of that kidnapped heir who is Lord Arden. I know his whole history. I know what he has done, to do honor tohimself and to help others. " ("Hear, hear" from Beale. ) "I know all hislife, and I am proud that he is the head of our house. He will do foryou, when he is of age, all that I would have done. And in the meantimeI am his guardian. This is Lord Arden, " he said, throwing his arm roundthe shoulders of Dickie, little lame Dickie, who stood there leaning onhis crutch, pale as death. "This is Lord Arden, come to his own. Cheerfor him, men, as you never cheered before. Three cheers for Richard LordArden!"

CHAPTER XII

THE END

WHAT a triumph for little lame Dickie of Deptford!

 * * * * *

You think, perhaps, that he was happy as well as proud, for proud hecertainly was, with those words and those cheers ringing in his ears. Hehad just done the best he could, and tried to help Beale and the dogs, and the man who had thought himself to be Lord Arden had said, "I amproud that he should be the head of our house, " and all the Arden folkhad cheered. It was worth having lived for. 

The unselfish kindness and affection of the man he had displaced, thelove of his little cousins, the devotion of Beale, the fact that he wasLord of Arden, and would soon be lord of all the old acres--theknowledge that now he would learn all he chose to learn and hold in hishand some day the destinies of these village folk, all loyal to the nameof Arden, the thought of all that he could be and do--all these things, you think, should have made him happy. 

They would have made him happy, but for one thing. All this was won atthe expense of those whom he loved best--the children who were his dearcousins and playfellows, the man, their father, who had moved heaven andearth to establish Dickie's claim to the title, and had been contentquietly to stand aside and give up title, castle, lands, and treasure tothe little cripple from Deptford. 

Dickie thought of that, and almost only of that, in the days thatfollowed. 

The life he had led in that dream-world, when James the First was King, seemed to him now a very little thing compared with the present glory, of being the head of the house of Arden, of being the Providence, theloving over-lord of all these good peasant folk, who loved his name. 

Yet the thought of those days when he was plain Richard Arden, son ofSir Richard Arden, living in the beautiful house at Deptford, fretted atall his joy in his present state. That, and the thought of all he owedto him who had been Lord of Arden until he came, with his lame foot andhis heirship, fretted his soul as rust frets steel. These people hadreceived him, loved him, been kind to him when he was only a tramp boy. And he was repaying them by taking away from them priceless possessions. For so he esteemed the lordship of Arden and the old lands and the oldCastle. 

Suppose he gave them up--the priceless possessions? Suppose he went awayto that sure retreat that was still left him--the past? It was asacrifice. To give up the here and now, for the far off, the almostforgotten. All that happy other life, that had once held all for whichhe cared, seemed thin and dream-like beside the vivid glories of thelife here, now. Yet he remembered how once that life, in King James'stime, had seemed the best thing in the world, and how he had chosen tocome back from it, to help a helpless middle-aged ne'er-do-weel of atramp--Beale. Well, he had helped Beale. He had done what he set out todo. For Beale's sake he had given up the beautiful life for the sordidlife. And Beale was a new man, a man that Dickie had made. Surely now hecould give up one beautiful life for another--for the sake of these, hisflesh and blood, who had so readily, so kindly, so generously set him inthe place that had been theirs?

More and more it came home to Dickie that this was what he had to do. Togo back to the times when James the First was King, and never to returnto these times at all. It would be very bitter--it would be like leavinghome never to return. It was exile. Well, was Richard Lord Arden to beafraid of exile--or of anything else? He must not just disappear either, or they would search and search for him, and never know that he wasgone forever. He must slip away, and let the father of Edred and Elfridabe, as he had been, Lord Arden. He must make it appear that he, RichardLord Arden, was dead. He thought over this very carefully. But if heseemed to be dead, Edred and Elfrida would be very unhappy. Well, theyshould not be unhappy. He would tell them. And then they would know thathe had behaved well, and as an Arden should. Don't be hard on him forlonging for just this "little human praise. " There are very few of uswho can do without it; who can bear not to let some one, very near anddear, know that we have behaved rather decently on those occasions whenthat is what we have done. 

It took Dickie a long time to think out all this, clearly, and with nomistakes. But at last his mind was made up. 

And then he asked Edred and Elfrida to come up to the cave with him, because he had something to tell them. When they were all there, sittingon the smooth sand by the underground stream, Dickie said--

"Look here. I'm not going on being Lord Arden. "

"You can't help it, " said Edred. 

"Yes, I can. You know how I went and lived in King James's time. Well, I'm going there again--for good. "

[Illustration: "'I'VE THOUGHT OF NOTHING ELSE FOR A MONTH, ' SAID DICKIE"

_Page 304_]

"You shan't, " said Elfrida. "I'll tell father. "

"I've thought of all that, " Dickie said, "and I'm going to ask theMouldiwarps to make it so that you _can't_ tell. I can't stay here andfeel that I'm turning you and your father out. And think what Edred didfor me, in this very cave. No, my mind's made up. "

It was, and they could not shake it. 

"But we shan't ever see you again. "

Dickie admitted that this was so. 

"And oh, Dickie, " said Elfrida, with deep concern, "you won't ever seeus again either. Think of that. Whatever will you do without us?"

"That, " said Dickie, "won't be so bad as you think. The Elfrida andEdred who live in those times are as like you as two pins. No, theyaren't really! Oh, don't make it any harder. I've got to do it. "

There was that in his voice which silenced and convinced them. They feltthat he had, indeed, to do it. 

"I could never be happy here--never, " he went on; "but I shall be happythere. And you'll never forget me, though there are one or two things Iwant you to forget. And I'm going now. "

"Oh, not now; wait and think, " Elfrida implored. 

"I've thought of nothing else for a month, " said Dickie, and began tolay out the moon-seeds on the smooth sand. 

"Now, " he said, when the pattern was complete, "I shall hold Tinkler andthe white seal in my hand and take them with me. When I've gone, you canput the moon-seeds in your pocket and go home. When they ask you where Iam, say I am in the cave. They will come and find my clothes, andthey'll think I was bathing and got drowned. "

"I can't bear it, " said Elfrida, bursting into sobs. "I can't, and Iwon't. "

"I shan't be really dead, silly, " Richard told her. "We're bound to meetagain some day. People who love each other can't help meeting again. Oldnurse told me so, and she knows everything. Good-bye, Elfrida. " Hekissed her. "Good-bye, Edred, old chap. I'd like to kiss you too, if youdon't mind. I know boys don't, but in the times I'm going to men kisseach other. Raleigh and Drake did, you know. "

The boys kissed shyly and awkwardly. 

"And now, good-bye, " said Richard, and stepped inside the crossedtriangles of moon-seeds. 

"I wish, " he said slowly, "oh, dear Mouldiwarps of Arden, grant me theselast wishes. I wish Edred and Elfrida may never be able to tell what Ihave done. And I wish that in a year they may forget what I have done, and let them not be unhappy about me, because I shall be very happy. Iknow I shall, " he added doubtfully, and paused. 

"Oh, Dickie, _don't_, " the other children cried out together. He wenton--

"I wish my uncle may restore the Castle, and take care of the poorpeople so that there _aren't_ any poor people, and every one'scomfortable, just as I meant to do. "

He took off his cap and coat and flung them outside the circle, hisboots too. 

"I wish I may go back to James the First's time, and live out my lifethere, and do honor in my life and death to the house of Arden. "

The children blinked. Dickie and Tinkler and the white seal were gone, and only the empty ring of moon-seeds lay on the sand. 

 * * * * *

"Shocking bathing fatality, " the newspapers said. "Lord Arden drowned. The body not yet recovered. "

It never was recovered, of course. Elfrida and Edred said nothing. Nowonder, their elders said. The shock was too great and too sudden. 

The father of Edred and Elfrida is Lord Arden now. He has done all thatDickie would have done. He has made Arden the happiest and mostprosperous village in England, and the stream beside which Dickie badefarewell to his cousins flows, a broad moat round the waters of theCastle, restored now to all its own splendor. 

There is a tablet in the church which tells of the death by drowning ofRichard, Sixteenth Lord Arden. The children read it every Sunday for ayear, and knew that it did not tell the truth. But by the time themoon-seeds had grown and flowered and shed their seeds in the Castlegarden they ceased to know this, and talked often, sadly and fondly, ofdear cousin Dickie who was drowned. And at the same time they ceased toremember that they had ever been out of their own time into the past, sothat if they were to read this book they would think it all nonsense andmake-up, and not in the least recognize the story as their own. 

But whatever else is forgotten, Dickie is remembered. And he who gave uphis life here for the sake of those he loved will live as long as lifeshall beat in the hearts of those who loved him. 

 * * * * *

And Dickie himself. I see him in his ruff and cloak, with his littlesword by his side, living out the life he has chosen in the old Englandwhen James the First was King. I see him growing in grace and favor, versed in book learning, expert in all noble sports and exercises. ForDickie is not lame now. 

I see the roots of his being taking fast hold of his chosen life, andthe life that he renounced receding, receding till he can hardly see itany more. 

I see him, a tall youth, straight and strong, lending the old nurse hisarm to walk in the trim, beautiful garden at Deptford. And I hear himsay--

"When I was a little boy, nurse, I had mighty strange dreams--of anotherlife than this. "

"Forget them, " she says; "dreams go to the making of all proper men. Butnow thou art a man; forget the dreams of thy childhood, and play the manto the glory of God and of the house of Arden. And let thy dreams be ofthe life to come, compared to which all lives on earth are only dreams. And in that life all those who have loved shall meet and be togetherforevermore, in that life when all the dear and noble dreams of theearthly life shall at last and forever be something more than dreams. "

THE END

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

List of Illustrations, "HUMPREYS" changed to "HUMPHREYS" (HERE, HUMPHREYS, PUT THESE)

Page 6, "pennorth" changed to "penn'orth" (gimme a penn'orth)

Page 249, "two" changed to "too" (only too well)