CHAPTER 15. 'LO, THE POOR INDIAN!'
It was all very well for Father to ask us not to make a row because theIndian Uncle was coming to talk business, but my young brother's bootsare not the only things that make a noise. We took his boots away andmade him wear Dora's bath slippers, which are soft and woolly, andhardly any soles to them; and of course we wanted to see the Uncle,so we looked over the banisters when he came, and we were as quietas mice--but when Eliza had let him in she went straight down to thekitchen and made the most awful row you ever heard, it sounded like theDay of judgement, or all the saucepans and crockery in the house beingkicked about the floor, but she told me afterwards it was only thetea-tray and one or two cups and saucers, that she had knocked over inher flurry. We heard the Uncle say, 'God bless my soul!' and thenhe went into Father's study and the door was shut--we didn't see himproperly at all that time.
I don't believe the dinner was very nice. Something got burned I'msure--for we smelt it. It was an extra smell, besides the mutton.
I know that got burned. Eliza wouldn't have any of us in the kitchenexcept Dora--till dinner was over. Then we got what was left of thedessert, and had it on the stairs--just round the corner where theycan't see you from the hall, unless the first landing gas is lighted.Suddenly the study door opened and the Uncle came out and went and feltin his greatcoat pocket. It was his cigar-case he wanted. We saw thatafterwards. We got a much better view of him then. He didn't look likean Indian but just like a kind of brown, big Englishman, and of coursehe didn't see us, but we heard him mutter to himself--
'Shocking bad dinner! Eh!--what?'
When he went back to the study he didn't shut the door properly. Thatdoor has always been a little tiresome since the day we took the lockoff to get out the pencil sharpener H. O. had shoved into the keyhole.We didn't listen--really and truly--but the Indian Uncle has a very bigvoice, and Father was not going to be beaten by a poor Indian in talkingor anything else--so he spoke up too, like a man, and I heard him say itwas a very good business, and only wanted a little capital--and he saidit as if it was an imposition he had learned, and he hated having tosay it. The Uncle said, 'Pooh, pooh!' to that, and then he said hewas afraid that what that same business wanted was not capital butmanagement. Then I heard my Father say, 'It is not a pleasant subject:I am sorry I introduced it. Suppose we change it, sir. Let me fill yourglass.' Then the poor Indian said something about vintage--and thata poor, broken-down man like he was couldn't be too careful. And thenFather said, 'Well, whisky then,' and afterwards they talked aboutNative Races and Imperial something or other and it got very dull.
So then Oswald remembered that you must not hear what people do notintend you to hear--even if you are not listening and he said, 'We oughtnot to stay here any longer. Perhaps they would not like us to hear--'
Alice said, 'Oh, do you think it could possibly matter?' and went andshut the study door softly but quite tight. So it was no use stayingthere any longer, and we went to the nursery.
Then Noel said, 'Now I understand. Of course my Father is making abanquet for the Indian, because he is a poor, broken-down man. We mighthave known that from "Lo, the poor Indian!" you know.'
We all agreed with him, and we were glad to have the thing explained,because we had not understood before what Father wanted to have peopleto dinner for--and not let us come in.
'Poor people are very proud,' said Alice, 'and I expect Father thoughtthe Indian would be ashamed, if all of us children knew how poor hewas.'
Then Dora said, 'Poverty is no disgrace. We should honour honestPoverty.'
And we all agreed that that was so.
'I wish his dinner had not been so nasty,' Dora said, while Oswald putlumps of coal on the fire with his fingers, so as not to make a noise.He is a very thoughtful boy, and he did not wipe his fingers on histrouser leg as perhaps Noel or H. O. would have done, but he just rubbedthem on Dora's handkerchief while she was talking.
'I am afraid the dinner was horrid.' Dora went on. 'The table lookedvery nice with the flowers we got. I set it myself, and Eliza made meborrow the silver spoons and forks from Albert-next-door's Mother.'
'I hope the poor Indian is honest,' said Dicky gloomily, 'when you are apoor, broken-down man silver spoons must be a great temptation.'
Oswald told him not to talk such tommy-rot because the Indian was arelation, so of course he couldn't do anything dishonourable. And Dorasaid it was all right any way, because she had washed up the spoons andforks herself and counted them, and they were all there, and she hadput them into their wash-leather bag, and taken them back toAlbert-next-door's Mother.
'And the brussels sprouts were all wet and swimmy,' she went on, 'andthe potatoes looked grey--and there were bits of black in the gravy--andthe mutton was bluey-red and soft in the middle. I saw it when it cameout. The apple-pie looked very nice--but it wasn't quite done in theapply part. The other thing that was burnt--you must have smelt it, wasthe soup.'
'It is a pity,' said Oswald; 'I don't suppose he gets a good dinnerevery day.'
'No more do we,' said H. O., 'but we shall to-morrow.'
I thought of all the things we had bought with our half-sovereign--therabbit and the sweets and the almonds and raisins and figs and thecoconut: and I thought of the nasty mutton and things, and while I wasthinking about it all Alice said--
'Let's ask the poor Indian to come to dinner with _us_ to-morrow.' Ishould have said it myself if she had given me time.
We got the little ones to go to bed by promising to put a note on theirdressing-table saying what had happened, so that they might know thefirst thing in the morning, or in the middle of the night if theyhappened to wake up, and then we elders arranged everything.
I waited by the back door, and when the Uncle was beginning to go Dickywas to drop a marble down between the banisters for a signal, so that Icould run round and meet the Uncle as he came out.
This seems like deceit, but if you are a thoughtful and considerate boyyou will understand that we could not go down and say to the Uncle inthe hall under Father's eye, 'Father has given you a beastly, nastydinner, but if you will come to dinner with us tomorrow, we will showyou our idea of good things to eat.' You will see, if you think it over,that this would not have been at all polite to Father.
So when the Uncle left, Father saw him to the door and let him out, andthen went back to the study, looking very sad, Dora says.
As the poor Indian came down our steps he saw me there at the gate.
I did not mind his being poor, and I said, 'Good evening, Uncle,' justas politely as though he had been about to ascend into one of the gildedchariots of the rich and affluent, instead of having to walk to thestation a quarter of a mile in the mud, unless he had the money for atram fare.
'Good evening, Uncle.' I said it again, for he stood staring at me.I don't suppose he was used to politeness from boys--some boys areanything but--especially to the Aged Poor.
So I said, 'Good evening, Uncle,' yet once again. Then he said--
'Time you were in bed, young man. Eh!--what?'
Then I saw I must speak plainly with him, man to man. So I did. I said--
'You've been dining with my Father, and we couldn't help hearing yousay the dinner was shocking. So we thought as you're an Indian, perhapsyou're very poor'--I didn't like to tell him we had heard the dreadfultruth from his own lips, so I went on, 'because of "Lo, the poorIndian"--you know--and you can't get a good dinner every day. And we arevery sorry if you're poor; and won't you come and have dinner withus to-morrow--with us children, I mean? It's a very, very gooddinner--rabbit, and hardbake, and coconut--and you needn't mind usknowing you're poor, because we know honourable poverty is no disgrace,and--' I could have gone on much longer, but he interrupted me tosay--'Upon my word! And what's your name, eh?'
'Oswald Bastable,' I said; and I do hope you people who are reading thisstory have not guessed before that I was Oswald all the time.
'Oswald Bastable, eh? Bless my soul!'
said the poor Indian. 'Yes, I'lldine with you, Mr Oswald Bastable, with all the pleasure in life. Verykind and cordial invitation, I'm sure. Good night, sir. At one o'clock,I presume?'
'Yes, at one,' I said. 'Good night, sir.'
Then I went in and told the others, and we wrote a paper and put it onthe boy's dressing-table, and it said--
'The poor Indian is coming at one. He seemed very grateful to me for mykindness.'
We did not tell Father that the Uncle was coming to dinner with us,for the polite reason that I have explained before. But we had to tellEliza; so we said a friend was coming to dinner and we wanted everythingvery nice. I think she thought it was Albert-next-door, but she was ina good temper that day, and she agreed to cook the rabbit and to make apudding with currants in it. And when one o'clock came the Indian Unclecame too. I let him in and helped him off with his greatcoat, which wasall furry inside, and took him straight to the nursery. We were to havedinner there as usual, for we had decided from the first that he wouldenjoy himself more if he was not made a stranger of. We agreed to treathim as one of ourselves, because if we were too polite, he might thinkit was our pride because he was poor.
He shook hands with us all and asked our ages, and what schools we wentto, and shook his head when we said we were having a holiday just now. Ifelt rather uncomfortable--I always do when they talk about schools--andI couldn't think of anything to say to show him we meant to treat himas one of ourselves. I did ask if he played cricket. He said he had notplayed lately. And then no one said anything till dinner came in. We hadall washed our faces and hands and brushed our hair before he came in,and we all looked very nice, especially Oswald, who had had his haircut that very morning. When Eliza had brought in the rabbit and goneout again, we looked at each other in silent despair, like in books.It seemed as if it were going to be just a dull dinner like the one thepoor Indian had had the night before; only, of course, the things toeat would be nicer. Dicky kicked Oswald under the table to make him saysomething--and he had his new boots on, too!--but Oswald did not kickback; then the Uncle asked--
'Do you carve, sir, or shall I?'
Suddenly Alice said--
'Would you like grown-up dinner, Uncle, or play-dinner?'
He did not hesitate a moment, but said, 'Play-dinner, by all means.Eh!--what?' and then we knew it was all right.
So we at once showed the Uncle how to be a dauntless hunter. The rabbitwas the deer we had slain in the green forest with our trusty yew bows,and we toasted the joints of it, when the Uncle had carved it, on bitsof firewood sharpened to a point. The Uncle's piece got a little burnt,but he said it was delicious, and he said game was always nicer when youhad killed it yourself. When Eliza had taken away the rabbit bones andbrought in the pudding, we waited till she had gone out and shut thedoor, and then we put the dish down on the floor and slew the pudding inthe dish in the good old-fashioned way. It was a wild boar at bay, andvery hard indeed to kill, even with forks. The Uncle was very fierceindeed with the pudding, and jumped and howled when he speared it, butwhen it came to his turn to be helped, he said, 'No, thank you; think ofmy liver. Eh!--what?'
But he had some almonds and raisins--when we had climbed to the top ofthe chest of drawers to pluck them from the boughs of the great trees;and he had a fig from the cargo that the rich merchants brought in theirship--the long drawer was the ship--and the rest of us had the sweetsand the coconut. It was a very glorious and beautiful feast, and when itwas over we said we hoped it was better than the dinner last night. Andhe said:
'I never enjoyed a dinner more.' He was too polite to say what he reallythought about Father's dinner. And we saw that though he might be poor,he was a true gentleman.
He smoked a cigar while we finished up what there was left to eat, andtold us about tiger shooting and about elephants. We asked him aboutwigwams, and wampum, and mocassins, and beavers, but he did not seemto know, or else he was shy about talking of the wonders of his nativeland.
We liked him very much indeed, and when he was going at last, Alicenudged me, and I said--'There's one and threepence farthing left outof our half-sovereign. Will you take it, please, because we do like youvery much indeed, and we don't want it, really; and we would rather youhad it.' And I put the money into his hand.
'I'll take the threepenny-bit,' he said, turning the money over andlooking at it, 'but I couldn't rob you of the rest. By the way, wheredid you get the money for this most royal spread--half a sovereign yousaid--eh, what?'
We told him all about the different ways we had looked for treasure, andwhen we had been telling some time he sat down, to listen better and atlast we told him how Alice had played at divining-rod, and how it reallyhad found a half-sovereign.
Then he said he would like to see her do it again. But we explained thatthe rod would only show gold and silver, and that we were quite surethere was no more gold in the house, because we happened to have lookedvery carefully.
'Well, silver, then,' said he; 'let's hide the plate-basket, and littleAlice shall make the divining-rod find it. Eh!--what?'
'There isn't any silver in the plate-basket now,' Dora said. 'Elizaasked me to borrow the silver spoons and forks for your dinner lastnight from Albert-next-door's Mother. Father never notices, but shethought it would be nicer for you. Our own silver went to have the dentstaken out; and I don't think Father could afford to pay the man fordoing it, for the silver hasn't come back.'
'Bless my soul!' said the Uncle again, looking at the hole in the bigchair that we burnt when we had Guy Fawkes' Day indoors. 'And how muchpocket-money do you get? Eh!--what?'
'We don't have any now,' said Alice; 'but indeed we don't want the othershilling. We'd much rather you had it, wouldn't we?'
And the rest of us said, 'Yes.' The Uncle wouldn't take it, but he askeda lot of questions, and at last he went away. And when he went he said--
'Well, youngsters, I've enjoyed myself very much. I shan't forget yourkind hospitality. Perhaps the poor Indian may be in a position to askyou all to dinner some day.'
Oswald said if he ever could we should like to come very much, but hewas not to trouble to get such a nice dinner as ours, because we coulddo very well with cold mutton and rice pudding. We do not like thesethings, but Oswald knows how to behave. Then the poor Indian went away.
We had not got any treasure by this party, but we had had a very goodtime, and I am sure the Uncle enjoyed himself.
We were so sorry he was gone that we could none of us eat much tea;but we did not mind, because we had pleased the poor Indian and enjoyedourselves too. Besides, as Dora said, 'A contented mind is a continualfeast,' so it did not matter about not wanting tea.
Only H. O. did not seem to think a continual feast was a contented mind,and Eliza gave him a powder in what was left of the red-currant jellyFather had for the nasty dinner.
But the rest of us were quite well, and I think it must have been thecoconut with H. O. We hoped nothing had disagreed with the Uncle, but wenever knew.
CHAPTER 16. THE END OF THE TREASURE-SEEKING
Now it is coming near the end of our treasure-seeking, and the end wasso wonderful that now nothing is like it used to be. It is like asif our fortunes had been in an earthquake, and after those, you know,everything comes out wrong-way up.
The day after the Uncle speared the pudding with us opened in gloom andsadness. But you never know. It was destined to be a day when thingshappened. Yet no sign of this appeared in the early morning. Then allwas misery and upsetness. None of us felt quite well; I don't know why:and Father had one of his awful colds, so Dora persuaded him not to goto London, but to stay cosy and warm in the study, and she made him somegruel. She makes it better than Eliza does; Eliza's gruel is all littlelumps, and when you suck them it is dry oatmeal inside.
We kept as quiet as we could, and I made H. O. do some lessons, like theG. B. had advised us to. But it was very dull. There are some dayswhen you seem to have got to the end of all the things that could everpossibly happen
to you, and you feel you will spend all the rest of yourlife doing dull things just the same way. Days like this are generallywet days. But, as I said, you never know.
Then Dicky said if things went on like this he should run away to sea,and Alice said she thought it would be rather nice to go into a convent.H. O. was a little disagreeable because of the powder Eliza had givenhim, so he tried to read two books at once, one with each eye, justbecause Noel wanted one of the books, which was very selfish of him, soit only made his headache worse. H. O. is getting old enough to learn byexperience that it is wrong to be selfish, and when he complained abouthis head Oswald told him whose fault it was, because I am older thanhe is, and it is my duty to show him where he is wrong. But he began tocry, and then Oswald had to cheer him up because of Father wanting to bequiet. So Oswald said--
'They'll eat H. O. if you don't look out!' And Dora said Oswald was toobad.
Of course Oswald was not going to interfere again, so he went to lookout of the window and see the trams go by, and by and by H. O. came andlooked out too, and Oswald, who knows when to be generous and forgiving,gave him a piece of blue pencil and two nibs, as good as new, to keep.
As they were looking out at the rain splashing on the stones in thestreet they saw a four-wheeled cab come lumbering up from the way thestation is. Oswald called out--
'Here comes the coach of the Fairy Godmother. It'll stop here, you seeif it doesn't!'
So they all came to the window to look. Oswald had only said that aboutstopping and he was stricken with wonder and amaze when the cab reallydid stop. It had boxes on the top and knobby parcels sticking out ofthe window, and it was something like going away to the seaside andsomething like the gentleman who takes things about in a carriage withthe wooden shutters up, to sell to the drapers' shops. The cabman gotdown, and some one inside handed out ever so many parcels of differentshapes and sizes, and the cabman stood holding them in his arms andgrinning over them.
Dora said, 'It is a pity some one doesn't tell him this isn't thehouse.' And then from inside the cab some one put out a foot feeling forthe step, like a tortoise's foot coming out from under his shellwhen you are holding him off the ground, and then a leg came and moreparcels, and then Noel cried--
'It's the poor Indian!'
And it was.
Eliza opened the door, and we were all leaning over the banisters.Father heard the noise of parcels and boxes in the hall, and he came outwithout remembering how bad his cold was. If you do that yourself whenyou have a cold they call you careless and naughty. Then we heard thepoor Indian say to Father--
'I say, Dick, I dined with your kids yesterday--as I daresay they'vetold you. Jolliest little cubs I ever saw! Why didn't you let me seethem the other night? The eldest is the image of poor Janey--and as toyoung Oswald, he's a man! If he's not a man, I'm a nigger! Eh!--what?And Dick, I say, I shouldn't wonder if I could find a friend to put abit into that business of yours--eh?'
Then he and Father went into the study and the door was shut--and wewent down and looked at the parcels. Some were done up in old, dirtynewspapers, and tied with bits of rag, and some were in brown paper andstring from the shops, and there were boxes. We wondered if the Unclehad come to stay and this was his luggage, or whether it was to sell.Some of it smelt of spices, like merchandise--and one bundle Alice feltcertain was a bale. We heard a hand on the knob of the study door aftera bit, and Alice said--
'Fly!' and we all got away but H. O., and the Uncle caught him by theleg as he was trying to get upstairs after us.
'Peeping at the baggage, eh?' said the Uncle, and the rest of us camedown because it would have been dishonourable to leave H. O. alone in ascrape, and we wanted to see what was in the parcels.
'I didn't touch,' said H. O. 'Are you coming to stay? I hope you are.'
'No harm done if you did touch,' said the good, kind, Indian man to allof us. 'For all these parcels are _for you_.'
I have several times told you about our being dumb with amazement andterror and joy, and things like that, but I never remember us beingdumber than we were when he said this.
The Indian Uncle went on: 'I told an old friend of mine what apleasant dinner I had with you, and about the threepenny-bit, and thedivining-rod, and all that, and he sent all these odds and ends aspresents for you. Some of the things came from India.'
'Have you come from India, Uncle?' Noel asked; and when he said 'Yes'we were all very much surprised, for we never thought of his being thatsort of Indian. We thought he was the Red kind, and of course his notbeing accounted for his ignorance of beavers and things.
He got Eliza to help, and we took all the parcels into the nursery andhe undid them and undid them and undid them, till the papers lay thickon the floor. Father came too and sat in the Guy Fawkes chair. I cannotbegin to tell you all the things that kind friend of Uncle's had sentus. He must be a very agreeable person.
There were toys for the kids and model engines for Dick and me, and alot of books, and Japanese china tea-sets for the girls, red and whiteand gold--there were sweets by the pound and by the box--and long yardsand yards of soft silk from India, to make frocks for the girls--and areal Indian sword for Oswald and a book of Japanese pictures for Noel,and some ivory chess men for Dicky: the castles of the chessmen areelephant-and-castles. There is a railway station called that; I neverknew what it meant before. The brown paper and string parcels had boxesof games in them--and big cases of preserved fruits and things. And theshabby old newspaper parcels and the boxes had the Indian things in. Inever saw so many beautiful things before. There were carved fansand silver bangles and strings of amber beads, and necklaces of uncutgems--turquoises and garnets, the Uncle said they were--and shawls andscarves of silk, and cabinets of brown and gold, and ivory boxes andsilver trays, and brass things. The Uncle kept saying, 'This is for you,young man,' or 'Little Alice will like this fan,'or 'Miss Dora wouldlook well in this green silk, I think. Eh!--what?'
And Father looked on as if it was a dream, till the Uncle suddenly gavehim an ivory paper-knife and a box of cigars, and said, 'My old friendsent you these, Dick; he's an old friend of yours too, he says.' And hewinked at my Father, for H. O. and I saw him. And my Father winked back,though he has always told us not to.
That was a wonderful day. It was a treasure, and no mistake! I never sawsuch heaps and heaps of presents, like things out of a fairy-tale--andeven Eliza had a shawl. Perhaps she deserved it, for she did cook therabbit and the pudding; and Oswald says it is not her fault if her noseturns up and she does not brush her hair. I do not think Eliza likesbrushing things. It is the same with the carpets. But Oswald tries tomake allowances even for people who do not wash their ears.
The Indian Uncle came to see us often after that, and his friend alwayssent us something. Once he tipped us a sovereign each--the Uncle broughtit; and once he sent us money to go to the Crystal Palace, and the Uncletook us; and another time to a circus; and when Christmas was near theUncle said--
'You remember when I dined with you, some time ago, you promised to dinewith me some day, if I could ever afford to give a dinner-party. Well,I'm going to have one--a Christmas party. Not on Christmas Day, becauseevery one goes home then--but on the day after. Cold mutton and ricepudding. You'll come? Eh!--what?'
We said we should be delighted, if Father had no objection, because thatis the proper thing to say, and the poor Indian, I mean the Uncle, said,'No, your Father won't object--he's coming too, bless your soul!'
We all got Christmas presents for the Uncle. The girls made him ahandkerchief case and a comb bag, out of some of the pieces of silk hehad given them. I got him a knife with three blades; H. O. got a sirenwhistle, a very strong one, and Dicky joined with me in the knife, andNoel would give the Indian ivory box that Uncle's friend had sent on thewonderful Fairy Cab day. He said it was the very nicest thing he had,and he was sure Uncle wouldn't mind his not having bought it with hisown money.
I think Father's business must have got better--perhaps Uncle'
s friendput money in it and that did it good, like feeding the starving. Anywaywe all had new suits, and the girls had the green silk from India madeinto frocks, and on Boxing Day we went in two cabs--Father and the girlsin one, and us boys in the other.
We wondered very much where the Indian Uncle lived, because we had notbeen told. And we thought when the cab began to go up the hill towardsthe Heath that perhaps the Uncle lived in one of the poky little housesup at the top of Greenwich. But the cab went right over the Heath and inat some big gates, and through a shrubbery all white with frost likea fairy forest, because it was Christmas time. And at last we stoppedbefore one of those jolly, big, ugly red houses with a lot of windows,that are so comfortable inside, and on the steps was the Indian Uncle,looking very big and grand, in a blue cloth coat and yellow sealskinwaistcoat, with a bunch of seals hanging from it.
'I wonder whether he has taken a place as butler here?' said Dicky.
'A poor, broken-down man--'
Noel thought it was very likely, because he knew that in these bighouses there were always thousands of stately butlers.
The Uncle came down the steps and opened the cab door himself, which Idon't think butlers would expect to have to do. And he took us in. Itwas a lovely hall, with bear and tiger skins on the floor, and a bigclock with the faces of the sun and moon dodging out when it was day ornight, and Father Time with a scythe coming out at the hours, and thename on it was 'Flint. Ashford. 1776'; and there was a fox eating astuffed duck in a glass case, and horns of stags and other animals overthe doors.
'We'll just come into my study first,' said the Uncle, 'and wish eachother a Merry Christmas.' So then we knew he wasn't the butler, but itmust be his own house, for only the master of the house has a study.
His study was not much like Father's. It had hardly any books, butswords and guns and newspapers and a great many boots, and boxes halfunpacked, with more Indian things bulging out of them.
We gave him our presents and he was awfully pleased. Then he gave us hisChristmas presents. You must be tired of hearing about presents, butI must remark that all the Uncle's presents were watches; there was awatch for each of us, with our names engraved inside, all silver exceptH. O.'s, and that was a Waterbury, 'To match his boots,' the Uncle said.I don't know what he meant.
Then the Uncle looked at Father, and Father said, 'You tell them, sir.'
So the Uncle coughed and stood up and made a speech. He said--
'Ladies and gentlemen, we are met together to discuss an importantsubject which has for some weeks engrossed the attention of thehonourable member opposite and myself.'
I said, 'Hear, hear,' and Alice whispered, 'What happened to theguinea-pig?' Of course you know the answer to that.
The Uncle went on--
'I am going to live in this house, and as it's rather big for me, yourFather has agreed that he and you shall come and live with me. And so,if you're agreeable, we're all going to live here together, and, pleaseGod, it'll be a happy home for us all. Eh!--what?'
He blew his nose and kissed us all round. As it was Christmas I didnot mind, though I am much too old for it on other dates. Then he said,'Thank you all very much for your presents; but I've got a present hereI value more than anything else I have.'
I thought it was not quite polite of him to say so, till I saw thatwhat he valued so much was a threepenny-bit on his watch-chain, and, ofcourse, I saw it must be the one we had given him.
He said, 'You children gave me that when you thought I was the poorIndian, and I'll keep it as long as I live. And I've asked some friendsto help us to be jolly, for this is our house-warming. Eh!--what?'
Then he shook Father by the hand, and they blew their noses; and thenFather said, 'Your Uncle has been most kind--most--'
But Uncle interrupted by saying, 'Now, Dick, no nonsense!' Then H. O.said, 'Then you're not poor at all?' as if he were very disappointed.The Uncle replied, 'I have enough for my simple wants, thank you, H.O.; and your Father's business will provide him with enough for yours.Eh!--what?'
Then we all went down and looked at the fox thoroughly, and made theUncle take the glass off so that we could see it all round and then theUncle took us all over the house, which is the most comfortable one Ihave ever been in. There is a beautiful portrait of Mother in Father'ssitting-room. The Uncle must be very rich indeed. This ending is likewhat happens in Dickens's books; but I think it was much jollier tohappen like a book, and it shows what a nice man the Uncle is, the wayhe did it all.
Think how flat it would have been if the Uncle had said, when we firstoffered him the one and threepence farthing, 'Oh, I don't want yourdirty one and three-pence! I'm very rich indeed.' Instead of which hesaved up the news of his wealth till Christmas, and then told us allin one glorious burst. Besides, I can't help it if it is like Dickens,because it happens this way. Real life is often something like books.
Presently, when we had seen the house, we were taken into thedrawing-room, and there was Mrs Leslie, who gave us the shillings andwished us good hunting, and Lord Tottenham, and Albert-next-door'sUncle--and Albert-next-door, and his Mother (I'm not very fond of her),and best of all our own Robber and his two kids, and our Robber had anew suit on. The Uncle told us he had asked the people who had been kindto us, and Noel said, 'Where is my noble editor that I wrote the poetryto?'
The Uncle said he had not had the courage to ask a strange editor todinner; but Lord Tottenham was an old friend of Uncle's, and he hadintroduced Uncle to Mrs Leslie, and that was how he had the pride andpleasure of welcoming her to our house-warming. And he made her a bowlike you see on a Christmas card.
Then Alice asked, 'What about Mr Rosenbaum? He was kind; it would havebeen a pleasant surprise for him.'
But everybody laughed, and Uncle said--
'Your father has paid him the sovereign he lent you. I don't think hecould have borne another pleasant surprise.'
And I said there was the butcher, and he was really kind; but they onlylaughed, and Father said you could not ask all your business friends toa private dinner.
Then it was dinner-time, and we thought of Uncle's talk about coldmutton and rice. But it was a beautiful dinner, and I never saw such adessert! We had ours on plates to take away into another sitting-room,which was much jollier than sitting round the table with the grown-ups.But the Robber's kids stayed with their Father. They were very shy andfrightened, and said hardly anything, but looked all about with verybright eyes. H. O. thought they were like white mice; but afterwards wegot to know them very well, and in the end they were not so mousy. Andthere is a good deal of interesting stuff to tell about them; but Ishall put all that in another book, for there is no room for it in thisone. We played desert islands all the afternoon and drank Uncle's healthin ginger wine. It was H. O. that upset his over Alice's green silkdress, and she never even rowed him. Brothers ought not to havefavourites, and Oswald would never be so mean as to have a favouritesister, or, if he had, wild horses should not make him tell who it was.
And now we are to go on living in the big house on the Heath, and it isvery jolly.
Mrs Leslie often comes to see us, and our own Robber andAlbert-next-door's uncle. The Indian Uncle likes him because he has beenin India too and is brown; but our Uncle does not like Albert-next-door.He says he is a muff. And I am to go to Rugby, and so are Noel and H.O., and perhaps to Balliol afterwards. Balliol is my Father's college.It has two separate coats of arms, which many other colleges are notallowed. Noel is going to be a poet and Dicky wants to go into Father'sbusiness.
The Uncle is a real good old sort; and just think, we should never havefound him if we hadn't made up our minds to be Treasure Seekers! Noelmade a poem about it--
Lo! the poor Indian from lands afar, Comes where the treasure seekers are; We looked for treasure, but we find The best treasure of all is the Uncle good and kind.
I thought it was rather rot, but Alice would show it to the Uncle, andhe liked it very much. He kissed Alice and he smacked
Noel on the back,and he said, 'I don't think I've done so badly either, if you cometo that, though I was never a regular professional treasure seeker.Eh!--what?'
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