The Railway Children
Bill the Bargee rose slowly and heavily. But his wife was a hundred
yards up the road before he had quite understood what was the matter.
Phyllis, shivering by the canal side, had hardly heard the quick
approaching feet before the woman had flung herself on the railing,
rolled down the bank, and snatched the baby from her.
“Don't,” said Phyllis, reproachfully; “I'd just got him to sleep.”
* * * * * *
Bill came up later talking in a language with which the children were
wholly unfamiliar. He leaped on to the barge and dipped up pails
of water. Peter helped him and they put out the fire. Phyllis, the
bargewoman, and the baby--and presently Bobbie, too--cuddled together in
a heap on the bank.
“Lord help me, if it was me left anything as could catch alight,” said
the woman again and again.
But it wasn't she. It was Bill the Bargeman, who had knocked his pipe
out and the red ash had fallen on the hearth-rug and smouldered there
and at last broken into flame. Though a stern man he was just. He did
not blame his wife for what was his own fault, as many bargemen, and
other men, too, would have done.
* * * * * *
Mother was half wild with anxiety when at last the three children turned
up at Three Chimneys, all very wet by now, for Peter seemed to have come
off on the others. But when she had disentangled the truth of what had
happened from their mixed and incoherent narrative, she owned that they
had done quite right, and could not possibly have done otherwise. Nor
did she put any obstacles in the way of their accepting the cordial
invitation with which the bargeman had parted from them.
“Ye be here at seven to-morrow,” he had said, “and I'll take you the
entire trip to Farley and back, so I will, and not a penny to pay.
Nineteen locks!”
They did not know what locks were; but they were at the bridge at seven,
with bread and cheese and half a soda cake, and quite a quarter of a leg
of mutton in a basket.
It was a glorious day. The old white horse strained at the ropes, the
barge glided smoothly and steadily through the still water. The sky was
blue overhead. Mr. Bill was as nice as anyone could possibly be. No one
would have thought that he could be the same man who had held Peter by
the ear. As for Mrs. Bill, she had always been nice, as Bobbie said, and
so had the baby, and even Spot, who might have bitten them quite badly
if he had liked.
“It was simply ripping, Mother,” said Peter, when they reached home very
happy, very tired, and very dirty, “right over that glorious aqueduct.
And locks--you don't know what they're like. You sink into the ground
and then, when you feel you're never going to stop going down, two great
black gates open slowly, slowly--you go out, and there you are on the
canal just like you were before.”
“I know,” said Mother, “there are locks on the Thames. Father and I used
to go on the river at Marlow before we were married.”
“And the dear, darling, ducky baby,” said Bobbie; “it let me nurse it
for ages and ages--and it WAS so good. Mother, I wish we had a baby to
play with.”
“And everybody was so nice to us,” said Phyllis, “everybody we met. And
they say we may fish whenever we like. And Bill is going to show us the
way next time he's in these parts. He says we don't know really.”
“He said YOU didn't know,” said Peter; “but, Mother, he said he'd tell
all the bargees up and down the canal that we were the real, right sort,
and they were to treat us like good pals, as we were.”
“So then I said,” Phyllis interrupted, “we'd always each wear a red
ribbon when we went fishing by the canal, so they'd know it was US, and
we were the real, right sort, and be nice to us!”
“So you've made another lot of friends,” said Mother; “first the railway
and then the canal!”
“Oh, yes,” said Bobbie; “I think everyone in the world is friends if you
can only get them to see you don't want to be UN-friends.”
“Perhaps you're right,” said Mother; and she sighed. “Come, Chicks. It's
bedtime.”
“Yes,” said Phyllis. “Oh dear--and we went up there to talk about what
we'd do for Perks's birthday. And we haven't talked a single thing about
it!”
“No more we have,” said Bobbie; “but Peter's saved Reginald Horace's
life. I think that's about good enough for one evening.”
“Bobbie would have saved him if I hadn't knocked her down; twice I did,”
said Peter, loyally.
“So would I,” said Phyllis, “if I'd known what to do.”
“Yes,” said Mother, “you've saved a little child's life. I do think
that's enough for one evening. Oh, my darlings, thank God YOU'RE all
safe!”
Chapter IX. The pride of Perks.
It was breakfast-time. Mother's face was very bright as she poured the
milk and ladled out the porridge.
“I've sold another story, Chickies,” she said; “the one about the King
of the Mussels, so there'll be buns for tea. You can go and get them as
soon as they're baked. About eleven, isn't it?”
Peter, Phyllis, and Bobbie exchanged glances with each other, six
glances in all. Then Bobbie said:--
“Mother, would you mind if we didn't have the buns for tea to-night, but
on the fifteenth? That's next Thursday.”
“_I_ don't mind when you have them, dear,” said Mother, “but why?”
“Because it's Perks's birthday,” said Bobbie; “he's thirty-two, and
he says he doesn't keep his birthday any more, because he's got other
things to keep--not rabbits or secrets--but the kids and the missus.”
“You mean his wife and children,” said Mother.
“Yes,” said Phyllis; “it's the same thing, isn't it?”
“And we thought we'd make a nice birthday for him. He's been so awfully
jolly decent to us, you know, Mother,” said Peter, “and we agreed that
next bun-day we'd ask you if we could.”
“But suppose there hadn't been a bun-day before the fifteenth?” said
Mother.
“Oh, then, we meant to ask you to let us anti--antipate it, and go
without when the bun-day came.”
“Anticipate,” said Mother. “I see. Certainly. It would be nice to put
his name on the buns with pink sugar, wouldn't it?”
“Perks,” said Peter, “it's not a pretty name.”
“His other name's Albert,” said Phyllis; “I asked him once.”
“We might put A. P.,” said Mother; “I'll show you how when the day
comes.”
This was all very well as far as it went. But even fourteen halfpenny
buns with A. P. on them in pink sugar do not of themselves make a very
grand celebration.
“There are always flowers, of course,” said Bobbie, later, when a really
earnest council was being held on the subject in the hay-loft where
the broken chaff-cutting machine was, and the row of holes to drop hay
through into the hay-racks over the mangers of the stables below.
“He's got lots of flowers of his own,” said Peter.
“But it's always nice to have them given you,” said Bobbie, “however
many you've got of your own. We can use flowers for trimmings to the
birthday. But there must be something to trim besides buns.”
“Let's all be quiet and think,” said Phyllis; “no one's to speak until
it's thought of something.”
So they were all quiet and so very still that a brown rat thought that
there was no one in the loft and came out very boldly. When Bobbie
sneezed, the rat was quite shocked and hurried away, for he saw that a
hay-loft where such things could happen was no place for a respectable
middle-aged rat that liked a quiet life.
“Hooray!” cried Peter, suddenly, “I've got it.” He jumped up and kicked
at the loose hay.
“What?” said the others, eagerly.
“Why, Perks is so nice to everybody. There must be lots of people in the
village who'd like to help to make him a birthday. Let's go round and
ask everybody.”
“Mother said we weren't to ask people for things,” said Bobbie,
doubtfully.
“For ourselves, she meant, silly, not for other people. I'll ask the old
gentleman too. You see if I don't,” said Peter.
“Let's ask Mother first,” said Bobbie.
“Oh, what's the use of bothering Mother about every little thing?”
said Peter, “especially when she's busy. Come on. Let's go down to the
village now and begin.”
So they went. The old lady at the Post-office said she didn't see why
Perks should have a birthday any more than anyone else.
“No,” said Bobbie, “I should like everyone to have one. Only we know
when his is.”
“Mine's to-morrow,” said the old lady, “and much notice anyone will take
of it. Go along with you.”
So they went.
And some people were kind, and some were crusty. And some would give and
some would not. It is rather difficult work asking for things, even for
other people, as you have no doubt found if you have ever tried it.
When the children got home and counted up what had been given and what
had been promised, they felt that for the first day it was not so bad.
Peter wrote down the lists of the things in the little pocket-book where
he kept the numbers of his engines. These were the lists:--
GIVEN.
A tobacco pipe from the sweet shop.
Half a pound of tea from the grocer's.
A woollen scarf slightly faded from the draper's, which was the
other side of the grocer's.
A stuffed squirrel from the Doctor.
PROMISED.
A piece of meat from the butcher.
Six fresh eggs from the woman who lived in the old turnpike cottage.
A piece of honeycomb and six bootlaces from the cobbler, and an
iron shovel from the blacksmith's.
Very early next morning Bobbie got up and woke Phyllis. This had been
agreed on between them. They had not told Peter because they thought he
would think it silly. But they told him afterwards, when it had turned
out all right.
They cut a big bunch of roses, and put it in a basket with the
needle-book that Phyllis had made for Bobbie on her birthday, and a very
pretty blue necktie of Phyllis's. Then they wrote on a paper: 'For Mrs.
Ransome, with our best love, because it is her birthday,' and they put
the paper in the basket, and they took it to the Post-office, and went
in and put it on the counter and ran away before the old woman at the
Post-office had time to get into her shop.
When they got home Peter had grown confidential over helping Mother to
get the breakfast and had told her their plans.
“There's no harm in it,” said Mother, “but it depends HOW you do it. I
only hope he won't be offended and think it's CHARITY. Poor people are
very proud, you know.”
“It isn't because he's poor,” said Phyllis; “it's because we're fond of
him.”
“I'll find some things that Phyllis has outgrown,” said Mother, “if
you're quite sure you can give them to him without his being offended. I
should like to do some little thing for him because he's been so kind to
you. I can't do much because we're poor ourselves. What are you writing,
Bobbie?”
“Nothing particular,” said Bobbie, who had suddenly begun to scribble.
“I'm sure he'd like the things, Mother.”
The morning of the fifteenth was spent very happily in getting the buns
and watching Mother make A. P. on them with pink sugar. You know how
it's done, of course? You beat up whites of eggs and mix powdered sugar
with them, and put in a few drops of cochineal. And then you make a cone
of clean, white paper with a little hole at the pointed end, and put the
pink egg-sugar in at the big end. It runs slowly out at the pointed end,
and you write the letters with it just as though it were a great fat pen
full of pink sugar-ink.
The buns looked beautiful with A. P. on every one, and, when they were
put in a cool oven to set the sugar, the children went up to the village
to collect the honey and the shovel and the other promised things.
The old lady at the Post-office was standing on her doorstep. The
children said “Good morning,” politely, as they passed.