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 kno
ws 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.
"'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.