The Story of the Amulet, E. Nesbit [me reader .TXT] 📗

that has tubes and pipes and taps and gas-fittings in the window, they bought a pane of glass the same size as the cardboard. The man cut it with a very interesting tool that had a bit of diamond at the end, and he gave them, out of his own free generousness, a large piece of putty and a small piece of glue.

While they were out the girls had floated four photographs of the four children off their cards in hot water. These were now stuck in a row along the top of the cardboard. Cyril put the glue to melt in a jampot, and put the jampot in a saucepan and saucepan on the fire, while Robert painted a wreath of poppies round the photographs. He painted rather well and very quickly, and poppies are easy to do if you’ve once been shown how. Then Anthea drew some printed letters and Jane coloured them. The words were:

“With all our loves to shew
We like the thigs to eat.”

And when the painting was dry they all signed their names at the bottom and put the glass on, and glued brown paper round the edge and over the back, and put two loops of tape to hang it up by.

Of course everyone saw when too late that there were not enough letters in “things”, so the missing “n”was put in. It was impossible, of course, to do the whole thing over again for just one letter.

“There!” said Anthea, placing it carefully, face up, under the sofa. “It’ll be hours before the glue’s dry. Now, Squirrel, fire ahead!”

“Well, then,” said Cyril in a great hurry, rubbing at his gluey hands with his pocket handkerchief. “What I mean to say is this.”

There was a long pause.

“Well,” said Robert at last, “what is it that you mean to say?”

“It’s like this,” said Cyril, and again stopped short.

“Like what?” asked Jane.

“How can I tell you if you will all keep on interrupting?” said Cyril sharply.

So no one said any more, and with wrinkled frowns he arranged his ideas.

“Look here,” he said, “what I really mean is—we can remember now what we did when we went to look for the Amulet. And if we’d found it we should remember that too.”

“Rather!” said Robert. “Only, you see we haven’t.”

“But in the future we shall have.”

“Shall we, though?” said Jane.

“Yes—unless we’ve been made fools of by the Psammead. So then, where we want to go to is where we shall remember about where we did find it.”

“I see,” said Robert, but he didn’t.

“I don’t,” said Anthea, who did, very nearly. “Say it again, Squirrel, and very slowly.”

“If,” said Cyril, very slowly indeed, “we go into the future—after we’ve found the Amulet—”

“But we’ve got to find it first,” said Jane.

“Hush!” said Anthea.

“There will be a future,” said Cyril, driven to greater clearness by the blank faces of the other three, “there will be a time after we’ve found it. Let’s go into that time—and then we shall remember how we found it. And then we can go back and do the finding really.”

“I see,” said Robert, and this time he did, and I hope you do.

“Yes,” said Anthea. “Oh, Squirrel, how clever of you!”

“But will the Amulet work both ways?” inquired Robert.

“It ought to,” said Cyril, “if time’s only a thingummy of whatsitsname. Anyway we might try.”

“Let’s put on our best things, then,” urged Jane. “You know what people say about progress and the world growing better and brighter. I expect people will be awfully smart in the future.”

“All right,” said Anthea, “we should have to wash anyway, I’m all thick with glue.”

When everyone was clean and dressed, the charm was held up.

“We want to go into the future and see the Amulet after we’ve found it,” said Cyril, and Jane said the word of Power. They walked through the big arch of the charm straight into the British Museum. They knew it at once, and there, right in front of them, under a glass case, was the Amulet—their own half of it, as well as the other half they had never been able to find—and the two were joined by a pin of red stone that formed a hinge.

“Oh, glorious!” cried Robert. “Here it is!”

“Yes,” said Cyril, very gloomily, “here it is. But we can’t get it out.”

“No,” said Robert, remembering how impossible the Queen of Babylon had found it to get anything out of the glass cases in the Museum—except by Psammead magic, and then she hadn’t been able to take anything away with her; “no—but we remember where we got it, and we can—”

“Oh, do we?” interrupted Cyril bitterly, “do you remember where we got it?”

“No,” said Robert, “I don’t exactly, now I come to think of it.”

Nor did any of the others!

“But why can’t we?” said Jane.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cyril’s tone was impatient, “some silly old enchanted rule I suppose. I wish people would teach you magic at school like they do sums—or instead of. It would be some use having an Amulet then.”

“I wonder how far we are in the future,” said Anthea; the Museum looks just the same, only lighter and brighter, somehow.”

“Let’s go back and try the Past again,” said Robert.

“Perhaps the Museum people could tell us how we got it,” said Anthea with sudden hope. There was no one in the room, but in the next gallery, where the Assyrian things are and still were, they found a kind, stout man in a loose, blue gown, and stockinged legs.

“Oh, they’ve got a new uniform, how pretty!” said Jane.

When they asked him their question he showed them a label on the case. It said, “From the collection of—.” A name followed, and it was the name of the learned gentleman who, among themselves, and to his face when he had been with them at the other side of the Amulet, they had called Jimmy.

“That’s not much good,” said Cyril, “thank you.”

“How is it you’re not at school?” asked the kind man in blue. “Not expelled for long I hope?”

“We’re not expelled at all,” said Cyril rather warmly.

“Well, I shouldn’t do it again, if I were you,” said the man, and they could see he did not believe them. There is no company so little pleasing as that of people who do not believe you.

“Thank you for showing us the label,” said Cyril. And they came away.

As they came through the doors of the Museum they blinked at the sudden glory of sunlight and blue sky. The houses opposite the Museum were gone. Instead there was a big garden, with trees and flowers and smooth green lawns, and not a single notice to tell you not to walk on the grass and not to destroy the trees and shrubs and not to pick the flowers. There were comfortable seats all about, and arbours covered with roses, and long, trellised walks, also rose-covered. Whispering, splashing fountains fell into full white marble basins, white statues gleamed among the leaves, and the pigeons that swept about among the branches or pecked on the smooth, soft gravel were not black and tumbled like the Museum pigeons are now, but bright and clean and sleek as birds of new silver. A good many people were sitting on the seats, and on the grass babies were rolling and kicking and playing—with very little on indeed. Men, as well as women, seemed to be in charge of the babies and were playing with them.

“It’s like a lovely picture,” said Anthea, and it was. For the people’s clothes were of bright, soft colours and all beautifully and very simply made. No one seemed to have any hats or bonnets, but there were a great many Japanese-looking sunshades. And among the trees were hung lamps of coloured glass.

“I expect they light those in the evening,” said Jane. “I do wish we lived in the future!”

They walked down the path, and as they went the people on the benches looked at the four children very curiously, but not rudely or unkindly. The children, in their turn, looked—I hope they did not stare—at the faces of these people in the beautiful soft clothes. Those faces were worth looking at. Not that they were all handsome, though even in the matter of handsomeness they had the advantage of any set of people the children had ever seen. But it was the expression of their faces that made them worth looking at. The children could not tell at first what it was.

“I know,” said Anthea suddenly. “They’re not worried; that’s what it is.”

And it was. Everybody looked calm, no one seemed to be in a hurry, no one seemed to be anxious, or fretted, and though some did seem to be sad, not a single one looked worried.

But though the people looked kind everyone looked so interested in the children that they began to feel a little shy and turned out of the big main path into a narrow little one that wound among trees and shrubs and mossy, dripping springs.

It was here, in a deep, shadowed cleft between tall cypresses, that they found the expelled little boy. He was lying face downward on the mossy turf, and the peculiar shaking of his shoulders was a thing they had seen, more than once, in each other. So Anthea kneeled down by him and said—

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m expelled from school,” said the boy between his sobs.

This was serious. People are not expelled for light offences.

“Do you mind telling us what you’d done?”

“I—I tore up a sheet of paper and threw it about in the playground,” said the child, in the tone of one confessing an unutterable baseness. “You won’t talk to me any more now you know that,” he added without looking up.

“Was that all?” asked Anthea.

“It’s about enough,” said the child; “and I’m expelled for the whole day!”

“I don’t quite understand,” said Anthea, gently. The boy lifted his face, rolled over, and sat up.

“Why, whoever on earth are you?” he said.

“We’re strangers from a far country,” said Anthea. “In our country it’s not a crime to leave a bit of paper about.”

“It is here,” said the child. “If grown-ups do it they’re fined. When we do it we’re expelled for the whole day.”

“Well, but,” said Robert, “that just means a day’s holiday.”

“You must come from a long way off,” said the little boy. “A holiday’s when you all have play and treats and jolliness, all of you together. On your expelled days no one’ll speak to you. Everyone sees you’re an Expelleder or you’d be in school.”

“Suppose you were ill?”

“Nobody is—hardly. If they are, of course they wear the badge, and everyone is kind to you. I know a boy that stole his sister’s illness badge and wore it when he was expelled for a day. He got expelled for a week for that. It must be awful not to go to school for a week.”

“Do you like school, then?” asked Robert incredulously.

“Of course I do. It’s the loveliest place there is. I chose railways for my special subject this year, there are such splendid models and things, and now I shall be all behind because of that torn-up paper.”

“You choose your own subject?” asked Cyril.

“Yes, of course. Where did you come from? Don’t you know anything?”

“No,” said Jane definitely; “so you’d better tell us.”

“Well, on Midsummer Day school breaks up and everything’s decorated with flowers, and you choose your special subject for next year. Of course you have to stick to it for a year at least. Then there are all your other subjects, of course, reading, and painting, and the rules of Citizenship.”

“Good gracious!” said Anthea.

“Look here,” said the child, jumping up, “it’s nearly four. The expelledness only lasts till then. Come home with me. Mother will tell you all about everything.”

“Will your mother like you taking home strange children?” asked Anthea.

“I don’t understand,” said the child, settling his leather belt over his honey-coloured smock and stepping out with hard little bare feet. “Come on.”

So they went.

The streets were wide and hard and very clean. There were no horses, but a sort of motor carriage that made no noise. The Thames flowed between green banks, and there were trees at the edge, and people sat under them, fishing, for the stream was clear as crystal. Everywhere there were green trees and there was no smoke. The houses were set in what seemed like one green garden.

The little boy brought them to a house, and at the window was a good, bright mother-face. The little boy rushed in, and through the window they could see him hugging his mother, then his eager lips moving and his quick hands pointing.

A lady in soft green clothes came out, spoke kindly to them, and took them into the