New Treasure Seekers; Or, The Bastable Children in Search of a Fortune
_kill_ you for it, and I daresay he would if you hadn't been a craven,
white-feathered skulker and not signed your name."
It was a thunderbolt in our midst Noel behaving like this. It made
Oswald feel a sick inside feeling that perhaps Dora had been right. She
sometimes is--and Oswald hates this feeling.
Dicky was so surprised at the unheard-of cheek of his young brother that
for a moment he was speechless, and before he got over his
speechlessness Noel was crying and wouldn't have any more dinner. Alice
spoke in the eloquent language of the human eye and begged Dicky to look
over it this once. And he replied by means of the same useful organ that
he didn't care what a silly kid thought. So no more was said. When Noel
had done crying he began to write a piece of poetry and kept at it all
the afternoon. Oswald only saw just the beginning. It was called
"THE DISAPPOINTED PORTER'S FURY
_Supposed to be by the Porter himself_,"
and it began:--
"When first I opened the hamper fair
And saw the parcel inside there
My heart rejoiced like dry gardens when
It rains--but soon I changed and then
I seized my trusty knife and bowl
Of poison, and said 'Upon the whole
I will have the life of the man
Or woman who thought of this wicked plan
To deceive a trusting porter so.
No noble heart would have thought of it. No.'"
There were pages and pages of it. Of course it was all nonsense--the
poetry, I mean. And yet . . . . . . (I have seen that put in books when
the author does not want to let out all he thought at the time.)
That evening at tea-time Jane came and said--
"Master Dicky, there's an old aged man at the door inquiring if you live
here."
So Dicky thought it was the bootmaker perhaps; so he went out, and
Oswald went with him, because he wanted to ask for a bit of cobbler's
wax.
But it was not the shoemaker. It was an old man, pale in the face and
white in the hair, and he was so old that we asked him into Father's
study by the fire, as soon as we had found out it was really Dicky he
wanted to see.
When we got him there he said--
"Might I trouble you to shut the door?"
This is the way a burglar or a murderer might behave, but we did not
think he was one. He looked too old for these professions.
When the door was shut, he said--
"I ain't got much to say, young gemmen. It's only to ask was it you sent
this?"
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, and it was our list.
Oswald and Dicky looked at each other.
"Did you send it?" said the old man again.
So then Dicky shrugged his shoulders and said, "Yes."
Oswald said, "How did you know and who are you?"
The old man got whiter than ever. He pulled out a piece of paper--it was
the greenish-grey piece we'd wrapped the Turk and chains in. And it had
a label on it that we hadn't noticed, with Dicky's name and address on
it. The new bat he got at Christmas had come in it.
"That's how I know," said the old man. "Ah, be sure your sin will find
you out."
"But who are you, anyway!" asked Oswald again.
"Oh, _I_ ain't nobody in particular," he said. "I'm only the father of
the pore gell as you took in with your cruel, deceitful, lying tricks.
Oh, you may look uppish, young sir, but I'm here to speak my mind, and
I'll speak it if I die for it. So now!"
"But we didn't send it to a girl," said Dicky. "We wouldn't do such a
thing. We sent it for a--for a----" I think he tried to say for a joke,
but he couldn't with the fiery way the old man looked at him--"for a
sell, to pay a porter out for stopping me getting into a train when it
was just starting, and I missed going to the Circus with the others."
Oswald was glad Dicky was not too proud to explain to the old man. He
was rather afraid he might be.
"I never sent it to a girl," he said again.
"Ho," said the aged one. "An' who told you that there porter was a
single man? It was his wife--my pore gell--as opened your low parcel,
and she sees your lying list written out so plain on top, and, sez she
to me, 'Father,' says she, 'ere's a friend in need! All these good
things for us, and no name signed, so that we can't even say thank you.
I suppose it's some one knows how short we are just now, and hardly
enough to eat with coals the price they are,' says she to me. 'I do call
that kind and Christian,' says she, 'and I won't open not one of them
lovely parcels till Jim comes 'ome,' she says, 'and we'll enjoy the
pleasures of it together, all three of us,' says she. And when he came
home--we opened of them lovely parcels. She's a cryin' her eyes out at
home now, and Jim, he only swore once, and I don't blame him for that
one--though never an evil speaker myself--and then he set himself down
on a chair and puts his elbows on it to hide his face like--and 'Emmie,'
says he, 'so help me. I didn't know I'd got an enemy in the world. I
always thought we'd got nothing but good friends,' says he. An' I says
nothing, but I picks up the paper, and comes here to your fine house to
tell you what I think of you. It's a mean, low-down, dirty, nasty trick,
and no gentleman wouldn't a-done it. So that's all--and it's off my
chest, and good-night to you gentlemen both!"
He turned to go out. I shall not tell you what Oswald felt, except that
he did hope Dicky felt the same, and would behave accordingly. And Dicky
did, and Oswald was both pleased and surprised.
Dicky said--
"Oh, I say, stop a minute. I didn't think of your poor girl."
"And her youngest but a bare three weeks old," said the old man angrily.
"I didn't, on my honour I didn't think of anything but paying the porter
out."
"He was only a doing of his duty," the old man said.
"Well, I beg your pardon and his," said Dicky; "it was ungentlemanly,
and I'm very sorry. And I'll try to make it up somehow. Please make it
up. I can't do more than own I'm sorry. I wish I hadn't--there!"
"Well," said the old man slowly, "we'll leave it at that. Next time
p'r'aps you'll think a bit who it's going to be as'll get the benefit of
your payings out."
Dicky made him shake hands, and Oswald did the same.
Then we had to go back to the others and tell them. It was hard. But it
was ginger-ale and seed-cake compared to having to tell Father, which
was what it came to in the end. For we all saw, though Noel happened to
be the one to say it first, that the only way we could really make it up
to James Johnson and his poor girl and his poor girl's father, and the
baby that was only three weeks old, was to send them a hamper with all
the things in it--_real_ things, that we had put on the list in the
revengeful hamper. And as we had only six-and-sevenpence among us we had
to tell Father. Besides, you feel better inside when you have. He talked
to us about it a bit, but he is a good Father and does not jaw unduly.
He advanced our pocket-money to buy a real large Turk-and-chains. And he
gave us six bottles of port wine, because he thought that would be
better for the poor girl who had the baby than rum or sherry or even
sparkling champagne.
We were afraid to send the hamper by Carter Pat. for fear they should
think it was another Avenging Take-in. And that was one reason why we
took it ourselves in a cab. The other reason was that we wanted to see
them open the hamper, and another was that we wanted--at least Dicky
wanted--to have it out man to man with the porter and his wife, and tell
them himself how sorry he was.
So we got our gardener to find out secretly when that porter was off
duty, and when we knew the times we went to his house at one of them.
Then Dicky got out of the cab and went in and said what he had to say.
And then we took in the hamper.
And the old man and his daughter and the porter were most awfully decent
to us, and the porter's wife said, "Lor! let bygones be bygones is what
_I_ say! Why, we wouldn't never have had this handsome present but for
the other. Say no more about it, sir, and thank you kindly, I'm sure."
And we have been friends with them ever since.
We were short of pocket-money for some time, but Oswald does not
complain, though the Turk was Dicky's idea entirely. Yet Oswald is just,
and he owns that he helped as much as he could in packing the Hamper of
the Avenger. Dora paid her share, too, though she wasn't in it. The
author does not shrink from owning that this was very decent of Dora.
This is all the story of--
THE TURK IN CHAINS; or,
RICHARD'S REVENGE.
(His name is really Richard, the same as Father's. We only call him
Dicky for short.)
_THE GOLDEN GONDOLA_
ALBERT'S uncle is tremendously clever, and he writes books. I have told
how he fled to Southern shores with a lady who is rather nice. His
having to marry her was partly our fault, but we did not mean to do it,
and we were very sorry for what we had done. But afterwards we thought
perhaps it was all for the best, because if left alone he might have
married widows, or old German governesses, or Murdstone aunts, like
Daisy and Denny have, instead of the fortunate lady that we were the
cause of his being married by.
The wedding was just before Christmas, and we were all there. And then
they went to Rome for a period of time that is spoken of in books as the
honeymoon. You know that H.O., my youngest brother, tried to go too,
disguised as the contents of a dress-basket--but was betrayed and
brought back.
Conversation often takes place about the things you like, and we often
spoke of Albert's uncle.
One day we had a ripping game of
hide-and-seek-all-over-the-house-and-all-the-lights-out, sometimes
called devil-in-the-dark, and never to be played except when your father
and uncle are out, because of the screams which the strongest cannot
suppress when caught by "he" in unexpectedness and total darkness. The
girls do not like this game so much as we do. But it is only fair for
them to play it. We have more than once played doll's tea-parties to
please them.
Well, when the game was over we were panting like dogs on the hearthrug
in front of the common-room fire, and H.O. said--
"I wish Albert's uncle had been here; he does enjoy it so."
Oswald has sometimes thought Albert's uncle only played to please us.
But H.O. may be right.
"I wonder if they often play it in Rome," H.O. went on. "That post-card
he sent us with the Colly-whats-its-name-on--you know, the round place
with the arches. They could have ripping games there----"
"It's not much fun with only two," said Dicky.
"Besides," Dora said, "when people are first married they always sit in
balconies and look at the moon, or else at each other's eyes."
"They ought to know what their eyes look like by this time," said Dicky.
"I believe they sit and write poetry about their eyes all day, and only
look at each other when they can't think of the rhymes," said Noel.
"I don't believe she knows how, but I'm certain they read aloud to each
other out of the poetry books we gave them for wedding presents," Alice
said.
"It would be beastly ungrateful if they didn't, especially with their
backs all covered with gold like they are," said H.O.
"About those books," said Oswald slowly, now for the first time joining
in what was being said; "of course it was jolly decent of Father to get
such ripping presents for us to give them. But I've sometimes wished
we'd given Albert's uncle a really truly present that we'd chosen
ourselves and bought with our own chink."
"I wish we could have _done_ something for him," Noel said; "I'd have
killed a dragon for him as soon as look at it, and Mrs. Albert's uncle