Five Children and It
you're not yourself in the morning we'll ask the milkman to ask the
doctor to come."
The poor grown-up Lamb (St. Maur was really one of his Christian names)
seemed now too bewildered to resist.
"Since you seem all to be as mad as the whole worshipful company of
hatters," he said bitterly, "I suppose I _had_ better take you home. But
you're not to suppose I shall pass this over. I shall have something to
say to you all to-morrow morning."
"Yes, you will, my Lamb," said Anthea under her breath, "but it won't be
at all the sort of thing you think it's going to be."
In her heart she could hear the pretty, soft little loving voice of the
baby Lamb--so different from the affected tones of the dreadful grown-up
Lamb (one of whose names was Devereux)--saying, "Me love Panty--wants to
come to own Panty."
"Oh, let's go home, for goodness' sake," she said. "You shall say
whatever you like in the morning--if you can," she added in a whisper.
It was a gloomy party that went home through the soft evening. During
Anthea's remarks Robert had again made play with the pin and the bicycle
tyre, and the Lamb (whom they had to call St. Maur or Devereux or
Hilary) seemed really at last to have had his fill of bicycle-mending.
So the machine was wheeled.
The sun was just on the point of setting when they arrived at the White
House. The four elder children would have liked to linger in the lane
till the complete sunsetting turned the grown-up Lamb (whose Christian
names I will not further weary you by repeating) into their own dear
tiresome baby brother. But he, in his grown-upness, insisted on going
on, and thus he was met in the front garden by Martha.
Now you remember that, as a special favour, the Psammead had arranged
that the servants in the house should never notice any change brought
about by the wishes of the children. Therefore Martha merely saw the
usual party, with the baby Lamb, about whom she had been desperately
anxious all the afternoon, trotting beside Anthea, on fat baby legs,
while the children, of course, still saw the grown-up Lamb (never mind
what names he was christened by), and Martha rushed at him and caught
him in her arms, exclaiming--
"Come to his own Martha, then--a precious poppet!"
The grown-up Lamb (whose names shall now be buried in oblivion)
struggled furiously. An expression of intense horror and annoyance was
seen on his face. But Martha was stronger than he. She lifted him up and
carried him into the house. None of the children will ever forget that
picture. The neat grey-flannel-suited grown-up young man with the green
necktie and the little black mustache--fortunately, he was slightly
built, and not tall--struggling in the sturdy arms of Martha, who
bore him away helpless, imploring him, as she went, to be a good boy
now, and come and have his nice bremmink! Fortunately, the sun set as
they reached the doorstep, the bicycle disappeared, and Martha was seen
to carry into the house the real live darling sleepy two-year-old Lamb.
The grown-up Lamb (nameless henceforth) was gone for ever.
"For ever," said Cyril, "because, as soon as ever the Lamb's old enough
to be bullied, we must jolly well begin to bully him, for his own
sake--so that he mayn't grow up like _that_."
"You shan't bully him," said Anthea stoutly,--"not if I can stop it."
"We must tame him by kindness," said Jane.
"You see," said Robert, "if he grows up in the usual way, there'll be
plenty of time to correct him as he goes along. The awful thing to-day
was his growing up so suddenly. There was no time to improve him at
all."
"He doesn't want any improving," said Anthea as the voice of the Lamb
came cooing through the open door, just as she had heard it in her heart
that afternoon--
"Me loves Panty--wants to come to own Panty!"
CHAPTER X
SCALPS
Probably the day would have been a greater success if Cyril had not been
reading _The Last of the Mohicans_. The story was running in his head at
breakfast, and as he took his third cup of tea he said dreamily, "I wish
there were Red Indians in England--not big ones, you know, but little
ones, just about the right size for us to fight."
Everyone disagreed with him at the time and no one attached any
importance to the incident. But when they went down to the sand-pit to
ask for a hundred pounds in two-shilling pieces with Queen Victoria's
head on, to prevent mistakes--which they had always felt to be a really
reasonable wish that must turn out well--they found out that they had
done it again! For the Psammead, which was very cross and sleepy,
said--
"Oh, don't bother me. You've had your wish."
"I didn't know it," said Cyril.
"Don't you remember yesterday?" said the Sand-fairy, still more
disagreeably. "You asked me to let you have your wishes wherever you
happened to be, and you wished this morning, and you've got it."
"Oh, have we?" said Robert. "What is it?"
"So you've forgotten?" said the Psammead, beginning to burrow. "Never
mind; you'll know soon enough. And I wish you joy of it! A nice thing
you've let yourselves in for!"
"We always do somehow," said Jane sadly.
And now the odd thing was that no one could remember anyone's having
wished for anything that morning. The wish about the Red Indians had not
stuck in anyone's head. It was a most anxious morning. Everyone was
trying to remember what had been wished for, and no one could, and
everyone kept expecting something awful to happen every minute. It was
most agitating; they knew from what the Psammead had said, that they
must have wished for something more than usually undesirable, and they
spent several hours in most agonizing uncertainty. It was not till
nearly dinner-time that Jane tumbled over _The Last of the
Mohicans_,--which had of course, been left face downwards on the
floor,--and when Anthea had picked her and the book up she suddenly
said, "I know!" and sat down flat on the carpet.
"Oh, Pussy, how awful! It was Indians he wished for--Cyril--at
breakfast, don't you remember? He said, 'I wish there were Red Indians
in England,'--and now there are, and they're going about scalping people
all over the country, as likely as not."
"Perhaps they're only in Northumberland and Durham," said Jane
soothingly. It was almost impossible to believe that it could really
hurt people much to be scalped so far away as that.
"Don't you believe it!" said Anthea. "The Sammyadd said we'd let
ourselves in for a nice thing. That means they'll come _here_. And
suppose they scalped the Lamb!"
"Perhaps the scalping would come right again at sunset," said Jane; but
she did not speak so hopefully as usual.
"Not it!" said Anthea. "The things that grow out of the wishes don't go.
Look at the fifteen shillings! Pussy, I'm going to break something, and
you must let me have every penny of money you've got. The Indians will
come _here_, don't you see? That Spiteful Psammead as good as said so.
You see what my plan is? Come on!"
Jane did not see at all. But she followed her sister meekly into
mother's bedroom.
Anthea lifted down the heavy water-jug--it had a pattern of storks and
long grasses on it, which Anthea never forgot. She carried it into the
dressing-room, and carefully emptied the water out of it into the bath.
Then she took the jug back into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor.
You know how a jug always breaks if you happen to drop it by accident.
If you happen to drop it on purpose, it is quite different. Anthea
dropped that jug three times, and it was as unbroken as ever. So at last
she had to take her father's boot-tree and break the jug with that in
cold blood. It was heartless work.
Next she broke open the missionary-box with the poker. Jane told her
that it was wrong, of course, but Anthea shut her lips very tight and
then said--
"Don't be silly--it's a matter of life and death."
There was not very much in the missionary-box,--only
seven-and-fourpence,--but the girls between them had nearly four
shillings. This made over eleven shillings, as you will easily see.
Anthea tied up the money in a corner of her pocket-handkerchief. "Come
on, Jane!" she said, and ran down to the farm. She knew that the farmer
was going into Rochester that afternoon. In fact it had been arranged
that he was to take the four children with him. They had planned this in
the happy hour when they believed that they we're going to get that
hundred pounds, in two-shilling pieces, out of the Psammead. They had
arranged to pay the farmer two shillings each for the ride. Now Anthea
hastily explained to him that they could not go, but would he take
Martha and the Baby instead? He agreed, but he was not pleased to get
only half-a-crown instead of eight shillings.
Then the girls ran home again. Anthea was agitated, but not flurried.
When she came to think it over afterwards, she could not help seeing
that she had acted with the most far-seeing promptitude, just like a
born general. She fetched a little box from her corner drawer, and went
to find Martha, who was laying the cloth and not in the best of tempers.
"Look here," said Anthea. "I've broken the water jug in mother's room."
"Just like you--always up to some mischief," said Martha, dumping down a
salt-cellar with a bang.
"Don't be cross, Martha dear," said Anthea. "I've got enough money to
pay for a new one--if only you'll be a dear and go and buy it for us.
Your cousins keep a china-shop, don't they? And I would like you to get
it to-day, in case mother comes home to-morrow. You know she said she
might perhaps."
"But you're all going into town yourselves," said Martha.
"We can't afford to, if we get the new jug," said Anthea; "but we'll pay
for you to go, if you'll take the Lamb. And I say, Martha, look
here--I'll give you my Liberty box, if you'll go. Look, it's most
awfully pretty--all inlaid with real silver and ivory and ebony, like
King Solomon's temple."
"I see," said Martha,--"no, I don't want your box, miss. What you want
is to get the precious Lamb off your hands for the afternoon. Don't you
go for to think I don't see through you!"
This was so true that Anthea longed to deny it at once. Martha had no
business to know so much. But she held her tongue.
Martha set down the bread with a bang that made it jump off its
trencher.
"I _do_ want the jug got," said Anthea softly. "You _will_ go, won't
you?"
"Well, just for this once, I don't mind; but mind you don't get into
none of your outrageous mischief while I'm gone--that's all!"
"He's going earlier than he thought," said Anthea eagerly. "You'd better
hurry and get dressed. Do put on that lovely purple frock, Martha, and
the hat with the pink cornflowers, and the yellow-lace collar. Jane'll
finish laying the cloth, and I'll wash the Lamb and get him ready."
As she washed the unwilling Lamb and hurried him into his best clothes,
Anthea peeped out of the window from time to time; so far all was
well--she could see no Red Indians. When with a rush and a scurry and
some deepening of the damask of Martha's complexion she and the Lamb had
been got off, Anthea drew a deep breath.
"_He's_ safe!" she said, and, to Jane's horror, flung herself down on
the floor and burst into floods of tears. Jane did not understand at all
how a person could be so brave and like a general, and then suddenly
give way and go flat like an air-balloon when you prick it. It is better
not to go flat, of course, but you will observe that Anthea did not give
way till her aim was accomplished. She had got the dear Lamb out of
danger--she felt certain that the Red Indians would be round the White