SHOWING OFF; OR, THE LOOKING-GLASS BOY
His parents had thoughtlessly christened him Hildebrand, a name which,as you see, is entirely unsuitable for school use. His friends calledhim Brandy, and that was bad enough, though it had a sort ofpirate-smuggler sound, too. But the boys who did not like him called himHilda, and this was indeed hard to bear. In vain he told them that hisname was James as well. It was not true, and they would not havebelieved it if it had been.
He had not many friends, because he was not a very nice boy. He was notvery brave, except when he was in a rage, which is a poor sort ofcourage, anyhow; and when the boys used to call him. 'Cowardy custard'and other unpleasing names, he used to try to show off to them, and makethem admire him by telling them stories of the wild boars he had killed,and the Red Indians he had fought, and of how he had been down Niagarain an open boat, and been shipwrecked on the high seas. They were notbad stories, and the boys would not have minded listening to them, butHildebrand wanted to have his stories not only listened to, butbelieved, which is quite another pair of shoes.
He had one friend who always liked his stories, and believed them almostall. This was his little sister. But he was simply horrid to her. Henever would lend her a any of his toys, and he called her 'Kiddie,'which she hated, instead of Ethel, which happened to be her name.
All this is rather dull, and exactly like many boys of youracquaintance, no doubt. But what happened to Hildebrand does not,fortunately or unfortunately, happen to everybody; I dare say it hasnever happened to you. It began on the day when Hildebrand was making acatapult, and Billson Minor came up to him in the playground and said:
'Much use it'll be to you when you've made it. You can't hit a haystacka yard off!'
'Can't I?' said Hildebrand. 'You just see! I hit a swallow on the winglast summer, and when we had a house in Thibet I shot a llama dead withone bullet. He was twenty-five feet long.'
Billson laughed, and asked a boy who was passing if he'd ever been outllama-shooting, and, if so, what his bag was. The other boy said:
'Oh, I see--little Hilda gassing again!'
Billson said:
'Gassing! Lying I call it!'
'Liar yourself!' said Hildebrand, who was now so angry that his fingerstrembled too much for him to be able to go on splicing the catapult.
'Oh, run away and play,' said Billson wearily. 'Go home to nurse, Hildadarling, and tell her to put your hair in curl-papers!'
Then Hildebrand's rage turned into a sort of courage, and he hit out atBillson, who, of course, hit back, and there was a fight. The other boyheld their coats and saw fair; and Hildebrand was badly beaten, becauseBillson was older and bigger and a better fighter, so he went home,crying with fury and pain. He went up into his own bedroom and boltedthe door, and wildly wished that he was a Red Indian, and that takingscalps was not forbidden in Clapham. Billson's, he reflected gloomily,would have been a sandy-coloured scalp, and a nice beginning to ascalp-album.
Presently he stopped crying, and let his little sister in. She had beencrying, too, outside the door, ever since he came home and pushed pasther on the stairs. She pitied his bruised face, and said it was a shameof Billson Minor to hit a boy littler than he was.
'I'm not so very little,' said Hildebrand; 'and you know how brave I am.Why, it was only last week that I was the chief of the mighty tribe ofMoccasins, who waged war against Bill Billson, the Vulture-facedRedskin----'
He told the story to its gory end, and Ethel liked it very much, andhoped it wasn't wrong to make up such things. She couldn't quite believeit all.
Then she went down, and Hildebrand had to wash his face for dinner; andwhen he looked at the boy in the looking-glass and saw the black eyeBillson Minor had given him, and the cut lip from the same giver, heclenched his fist and said:
'I wish I could make things true by saying them. Wouldn't I bung up oldBillson's peepers, that's all?'
'Well, you can if you like,' said the boy in the glass, whom Hildebrandhad thought was his own reflection.
'What?' said he, with his mouth open. He was horribly startled.
'You can if you like,' said the looking-glass boy again. 'I'll give youyour wish. Will you have it?'
'Is this a fairy-tale?' asked Hildebrand cautiously.
'Yes,' said the boy.
Hildebrand had never expected to be allowed to take part in afairy-tale, and at first he could hardly believe in such luck.
'Do you mean to say,' he said, 'that if I say I found a pot of gold inthe garden yesterday I did find a pot of gold?'
'No; you'll find it to-morrow. The thing works backwards, you see, likeall looking-glass things. You know your "Alice," I suppose? There's onlyone condition: you won't be able to see yourself in the looking-glassany more!'
'Who wants to,' said Hildebrand.
'And things you say to _yourself_ don't count.'
'There's always Ethel,' said Ethel's brother.
'You accept, then?' said the boy in the glass.
'Rather!'
'Right' And with that the looking-glass boy vanished, and Hildebrand wasleft staring at the mirror, which now reflected only the wash-hand-standand the chest of drawers, and part of the picture of Lord Roberts pinnedagainst the wall. You have no idea how odd and unpleasant it is to lookat a glass and see everything reflected as usual, except yourself,though you are right in front of it. Hildebrand felt as if he must havevanished as well as the looking-glass boy. But he was reassured when helooked down at his hands. They were still there, and still extremelydirty. The second bell had rung, and he washed them hastily and wentdown.
'How untidy your hair is!' said his mother; 'and oh, Hildebrand, what adisagreeable expression, dear! and look at your eye! You've beenfighting again.'
'I couldn't help it,' said our hero sulkily; 'he called names. Anyway, Igave him an awful licking. He's worse than I am. Potatoes, please.'
Next day Hildebrand had forgotten the words he had said at dinner. Andwhen Billson asked him if one licking was enough, and whether he,Billson, was a liar or not, Hildebrand said:
'You can lick me and make me anything you like, but you _are_, all thesame, just as much as me,' and he began to cry.
And Billson called him schoolgirl and slapped his face--because Billsonknew nothing of the promise of the looking-glass boy, that whateverHildebrand said had happened should happen.
It was a dreadful fight, and when it was over Hildebrand could hardlywalk home. He was much more hurt than he had been the day before. ButBillson Minor had to be carried home. Only he was all right again nextday, and Hildebrand wasn't, so he did not get much out of this affair,except glory, and the comfort of knowing that Billson and the other boyswould now be jolly careful how they called him anything but Pilkings,which was his father's and his mother's name, and therefore his as well.
He had to stay in bed the next day, and his father punished him forfighting, so he consoled himself by telling Ethel how he had found a potof gold in the cellar the day before, after digging in the hard earthfor hours, till his hands were all bleeding, and how he had hidden itunder his bed.
'Do let me see, Hildy dear,' she said, trying hard to believe him.
But he said, 'No, not till to-morrow.'
Next day he was well enough to go to school, but he thought he wouldjust take some candle-ends and have a look at the cellar, and see if itwas really likely that there was any gold there. It did not seemprobable, but he thought he would try, and he did. It was terribly hardwork, for he had no tools but a spade he had had at the seaside, andwhen that broke, as it did almost at once, he had to go on with a pieceof hoop-iron and the foot of an old bedstead. He went on till long pastdinner-time, and his hands were torn and bleeding, his back felt brokenin two, and his head was spinning with hunger and tiredness. At last,just as the tea-bell rang, he reached his hand down deep into the holehe had made, and felt something cold and round. He held his candle down.It was a pot, tied over with brown paper, like pickled onions. When hegot it out he t
ook off the paper. The pot was filled to the brim withgold coins. Hildebrand blew out his candle and went up. The cook stoppedhim at the top of the cellar stairs.
'What's that you got there, Master Hildy? Pickles, I lay my boots,' shesaid.
'It's not,' said he.
'Let me look,' said she.
'Let me alone,' said Hildebrand.
'Not me,' said the cook.
She had her hand on the brown paper.
Hildebrand had heard how treasure-trove has to be given up toGovernment, and he did not trust the cook.
'You'd better not,' he said quickly; 'it's not what you think it is.'
'What is it, then?'
'It's--it's _snakes_!' said Hildebrand desperately--'snakes out of thewine-cellar.'
The cook went into hysterics, and Hildebrand was punished twice, oncefor staying away from school without leave, and once for frightening theservants with silly stories. But in the confusion brought about by thecook's screams he managed to hide the pot of gold in the bottom of theboot cupboard, among the old gaiters and goloshes, and when peace wasrestored and he was sent to bed in disgrace he took the pot with him. Helay long awake thinking of the model engine he would buy for himself,also of the bay pony, the collections of coins, birds' eggs, andpostage-stamps, the fishing-rods, the guns, revolvers, and bows andarrows, the sweets and cakes and nuts, he would get all for himself. Henever thought of so much as a pennyworth of toffee for Ethel, or asilver thimble for his mother, or a twopenny cigar for Mr. Pilkings.
The first thing in the morning he jumped up and felt under the bed forthe pot of gold. His hand touched something that was not the pot. Hescreamed, and drew his hand back as quickly as though he had burned it;but what he had touched was not hot: it was cold, and thin, and alive.It was a snake. And there was another on his bed, and another on thedressing-table, and half a dozen more were gliding about inquisitivelyon the floor.
Hildebrand gathered his clothes together--a snake tumbled out of hisshirt as he lifted it--and made one bound for the door. He dressed onthe landing, and went to school without breakfast. I am glad to be ableto tell you that he did say to Sarah the housemaid:
'For goodness' sake don't go into my bedroom--it's running alive withsnakes!'
She did not believe him, of course; and, indeed, when she went up thesnakes were safe back in the pot. She did not see this, because she wasnot the kind of girl who sweeps under things every day. That nightHildebrand secretly slept in the boxroom, on a pile of newspapers, witha rag-bag and a hearthrug over him.
Next day he said to Sarah:
'Did you go into my room yesterday?'
'Of course,' said she.
'Did you take the snakes away?'
'Go along with your snakes!' she said.
So he understood that she had not seen any, and very cautiously helooked into his room, and finding it snakeless, crept in, hoping thatthe snakes had changed back into gold. But they had not--snakes and goldand pot had all vanished. Then he thought he would be very careful. Hesaid to Ethel:
'I had twenty golden sovereigns in my pocket yesterday.'
This was Saturday. Next day was Sunday, and all day long he jingled thetwenty golden sovereigns he had found that morning in his knickerbockerpocket. But they were not there on Monday. And then he saw that thoughhe could make things _happen_, he could not make them _last_. So he toldEthel he had had seven jam-tarts. He meant to eat them as soon as he gotthem. But the next day when they came he had a headache and did notwant to eat them. He might have given them to Ethel, but he didn't, andnext day they had disappeared.
It was very annoying to Hildebrand to know that he had this wonderfulpower, yet he could not get any good out of it. He tried to consult hisfather about it, but Mr. Pilkings said he had no time for romances, andhe advised Hildebrand to learn his lessons and stick to the truth. Butthis was just what Hildebrand could not do, even after the awfuloccasion when his schoolfellows began to tease him again, and, tocommand their respect, he related how he had met a bear in the lane bythe church and fought it single-handed, and been carried off more deadthan alive. Next day, of course, he had to fight the bear, which wasvery brown and clawy and toothy and fierce, and though themore-dead-than-alive feeling had gone by next day, it was not a pleasantexperience. But even that was better than the time when they laughed ata very bad construe of his--the form was in Caesar--and he told them howhe had once translated the inscription on an Egyptian Pyramid. He had nopeace for weeks after that, because he had forgotten to say how long ittook him. Every time he was alone he was wafted away to Egypt and setdown at that Pyramid. But he could not find the inscription, and if hehad found it he could not have translated it. So, in self-defence, hespent most of his waking-time with Ethel. But every night the Pyramidhad its own way, and it was not till he had cut an inscription himselfon the Pyramid with the broken blade of his pocket-knife, and translatedit into English, that he was allowed any rest at all. The inscriptionwas _Ich bin eine Gans_, and you can translate it for yourself.
But that did him good in one way; it made him fonder of Ethel. Being somuch with her, he began to see what a jolly little girl she really was.When she had measles--Hildebrand had had them, or it, last Christmas, sohe was allowed to see his sister--he was very sorry, and really wishedto do something for her. Mr. Pilkings brought her some hothouse grapesone day, and she liked them so much that they were very soon gone. ThenHildebrand, who had been very careful since the Pyramid occasion to saynothing but the truth, said:
'Ethel, some grapes and pineapples came for you yesterday.'
Ethel knew it wasn't true, but she liked the idea, and said:
'Anything else?'
'Oh yes!' said her brother--'a wax doll and a china tea-set with pinkroses on it, and books and games,' and he went on to name everything hethought she would like.
And, of course, next day the things came in a great packing-case. No oneever knew who sent them, but Mr. and Mrs. Pilkings thought it wasEthel's godfather in India. And, curiously enough, these things did notvanish away, but were eaten and enjoyed and played with as long as theylasted. Ethel has one of the dolls still, though now she is quite grownup.
Now Hildebrand began to feel sorry to see how ill and worried his motherlooked; she was tired out with nursing Ethel, so he said to Sarah:
'Mother was quite well yesterday.'
Sarah answered:
'Much you know about it; your poor ma's wore to a shadow.'
'The alligator very nearly had him.'--Page 195.]
But next day mother _was_ quite well, and this lasted, too. Then hewanted to do something for his father, and as he had heard Mr. Pilkingscomplain of his business being very bad, Hildebrand said to Ethel:
'Father made a most awful lot of money yesterday.'
And next day Mr. Pilkings came home and kissed Mrs. Pilkings in the hallunder the very eyes of Sarah and the boot-boy, and said:
'My dear, our fortune's made!'
The family did not have any nicer things to eat or wear than before, soHildebrand gained nothing by this, unless you count the pleasure he hadin seeing his father always jolly and cheerful and his mother well, andnot worried any more. Hildebrand _did_ count this, and it counted for agood deal.
But though Hildebrand was now a much happier as well as a more agreeableboy, he could not quite help telling a startling story now and then. As,for instance, when he informed the butcher's boy that there was analligator in the back-garden. The butcher's boy did not go into thegarden--indeed, he had no business there, though that would have been noreason if he had wanted to go--but next day, when Hildebrand, havingforgotten all about the matter, went out in the dusk to look for a fivesball he had lost, the alligator very nearly had him.
And when he related that adventure of the lost balloon, he had to gothrough with it next day, and it made him dizzy for months only to thinkof it.
But the worst thing of all was when Ethel was well, and he was allowedto go back to school. Somehow the fellows were
much jollier with himthan they used to be. Even Billson Minor was quite polite, and asked himhow the kid was.
'She's all right,' said Hildebrand.
'When my kiddie sister had measles,' Billson said, 'her eyes got badafterwards; she could hardly see.'
'Oh,' said Hildebrand promptly, '_my_ sister's been much worse thanthat; she couldn't see at all.'
When Hildebrand went home next day he found his mother pale and intears. The doctor had just been to see Ethel's eyes--and Ethel wasblind.
Then Hildebrand went up to his own room. He had done this--his ownlittle sister who was so fond of him. And she was such a jolly littlething, and he had made her blind, just for a silly bit of show-off toBillson Minor; and he knew that the things he had said about Ethelbefore had come true, and had not vanished like the things he saidabout himself, and he felt that this, too, would last, and Ethel wouldgo on being blind always. So he lay face down on his bed and cried, andwas sorry, and wished with all his heart that he had been a good boy,and had never looked in the glass, and wished to bung up the eyes ofBillson Minor, who, after all, was not such a bad sort of chap.
When he had cried till he could not cry any more he got up, and went tothe looking-glass to see if his eyes were red, which is alwaysinteresting. He never could remember that he couldn't see himself in theglass now. Then suddenly he knew what to do. He ran down into thestreet, and said to the first person he met:
'I say, I saw the looking-glass boy yesterday, and he let me off thingscoming true, and Ethel was all right again.'
It was a policeman, and the constable boxed his ears, and promised torun him in next time he had any of his cheek. But Hildebrand went homecalmer, and he read 'The Jungle Book' aloud to Ethel all the evening.
Next morning he ran to his looking-glass, and it was strange andwonderful to him to see his own reflection again after all these weeksof a blank mirror, and of parting his hair as well as he could just byfeeling. But it wasn't his own reflection, of course: it was thelooking-glass boy.
'I say, you look very different to what you did that day,' saidHildebrand slowly.
'So do you,' said the boy.
That other day, which was weeks ago, the looking-glass boy had beenswollen and scowling and angry, with a black eye and a cut lip, andrevengeful looks and spiteful words. Now he looked pale and a littlethinner, but his eyes were only anxious, and his mouth was kind. It wasjust the same ugly shape as ever, but it looked different. AndHildebrand was as like the boy in the glass as one pin is like anotherpin.
'I say,' said Hildebrand suddenly and earnestly, 'let me off; I don'twant it any more, thank you. And oh, do--do make my sister all rightagain.'
'Very well,' said the boy in the looking-glass; 'I'll let you off forsix months. If you haven't learned to speak the truth by then--well,you'll see. Good-bye.'
He held out his hand, and Hildebrand eagerly reached out to shake it. Hehad forgotten the looking-glass, and it smashed against his fist, andcracked all over. He never saw the boy again, and he did not want to.
When he went down Ethel's eyes were all right again, and the doctorthought it was _his_ doing, and was as proud as a King and as pleased asPunch. Hildebrand could only express his own gladness by giving Ethelevery toy he had that he thought she would like, and he was so kind toher that she cried with pleasure.
Before the six months were up Hildebrand was as truthful a boy as anyoneneed wish to meet. He made little slips now and then, just at first,about his escape from the mad bull, for instance, and about thepress-gang.
His stories did not come true next day any more, but he had to dreamthem, which was nearly as bad. So he cured himself, and did his lessons,and tried to stick to the truth; and when he told romances he let peopleknow what he was playing at. Now he is grown up he dreams his storiesfirst, and writes them afterwards; for he writes books, and also hewrites for the newspapers. When you do these things you may tell as manystories as you like, and you need not be at all afraid that any of themwill come true.