Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure, - [sight word readers .txt] 📗
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“I won’t tell you till after dinner—just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite.”
“But suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn’t it?” said Tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer’s eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping.
“Well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for I won’t tell you,” said Mr Merryboy firmly. “It will do you good—eh! mother, won’t a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times—eh?”
The old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room.
“I knew you’d agree with me—ha! ha! you always do, mother,” cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention.
After dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when Mr Merryboy called them back.
“What would you say, boys, to hear that Sir Richard Brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in Canada?”
“I would think he’d gone mad, sir, or changed his nature,” responded Bob.
“Well, as to whether he’s gone mad or not I can’t tell—he may have changed his nature, who knows? That’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. Anyway, he is coming. I’ve got a letter from a friend of mine in London who says he read it in the papers. But perhaps you may learn more about it in that.”
He tossed a letter to Bob, who eagerly seized it.
“From sister Hetty,” he cried, and tore it open.
The complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that Bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology.
“Dearest Bob,” it ran, “you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival. I had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it. Sir Richard has changed his mind! You know, in my last, I told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter—as well as mother and me, and Matty. He is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn’t merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each. It’s all owing to that sweet Miss Di, who comes so much about here that she’s almost as well-known as Giles Scott the policeman, or our missionary. By the way, Giles has been made an Inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and—he’s a wonderful man is Giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he’s old enough. He’s big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age. After all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is?
“But I’m wandering, I always do wander, Bob, when I write to you! Well, as I was saying, Sir Richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with Miss Di and a whole lot of friends and work-people. He wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the Lord Jesus—and not ashamed to say so. As I had already taken our passages in the Amazon steamer—”
“The Amazon!” interrupted Mr Merryboy, with a shout, “why, that steamer has arrived already!”
“So it has,” said Bob, becoming excited; “their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they’ll be here immediately!”
“Perhaps to-night!” exclaimed Mrs Merryboy.
“Oh! how nice!” murmured Martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that Hetty about whom she had heard so much.
“Impossible!” said Tim Lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense. “They would never come on without dropping us a line from Quebec, or Montreal, to announce their arrival.”
“That’s true, Tim,” said Mr Merryboy, “but you’ve not finished the letter, Bob—go on. Mother, mother, what a variety of faces you are making!”
This also was true, for old Mrs Merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses.
“As I had already,” continued Bob, reading, “taken our passages in the Amazon steamer, Sir Richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear Mr and Mrs Merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to Brandon—which, I believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where Sir Richard means us all to go to. I don’t know exactly where it is—and I don’t know anybody who does, but that’s no matter. Enough for mother, and Matty, and me to know that it’s within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean!
“You’ll also be glad to hear that Mr Twitter with all his family is to join this band. It quite puts me in mind of the story of the Pilgrim Fathers, that I once heard in dear Mr Holland’s meeting hall, long ago. I wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the Beehive. Wouldn’t that be charming! But, then,—who would be left to look after London? No, it is better that they should remain at home.
“Poor Mr Twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come. His boys and girls will be a great help to him in Canada, instead of a burden as they have been in London—the younger ones I mean, of course, for Molly, and Sammy, and Willie have been helping their parents for a long time past. I don’t think Mrs Twitter quite likes it, and I’m sure she’s almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving George Yard. It is said that their friends Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, Stickler, and Crackaby, want to join, but I rather think Sir Richard isn’t very keen to have them. Mr Stephen Welland is also coming. One of Sir Richard’s friends, Mr Brisbane I think, got him a good situation in the Mint—that’s where all the money is coined, you know—but, on hearing of this expedition to Canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the Mint—very unwillingly, however, I believe, for he wanted very much to go into the Mint. Now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for I’m in the middle of packing), Hetty.”
Now, while Bob Frog was in the act of putting Hetty’s letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door.
He brought a telegram addressed to “Mr Robert Frog.” It was from Montreal, and ran thus: “We have arrived, and leave this on Tuesday forenoon.”
“Why, they’re almost here now,” cried Bob.
“Harness up, my boy, and off you go—not a moment to lose!” cried Mr Merryboy, as Bob dashed out of the room. “Take the bays, Bob,” he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, “and the biggest wagon. Don’t forget the rugs!”
Ten minutes later, and Bob Frog, with Tim Lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station.
It was to the same railway station as that at which they had parted from their guardian and been handed over to Mr Merryboy years before that Bobby Frog now drove. The train was not due for half an hour.
“Tim,” said Bob after they had walked up and down the platform for about five minutes, “how slowly time seems to fly when one’s in a hurry!”
“Doesn’t it?” assented Tim, “crawls like a snail.”
“Tim,” said Bob, after ten minutes had elapsed, “what a difficult thing it is to wait patiently when one’s anxious!”
“Isn’t it!” assented Tim, “so hard to keep from fretting and stamping.”
“Tim,” said Bob, after twenty minutes had passed, “I wonder if the two or three dozen people on this platform are all as uncomfortably impatient as I am.”
“Perhaps they are,” said Tim, “but certainly possessed of more power to restrain themselves.”
“Tim,” said Bob, after the lapse of five-and-twenty minutes, “did you ever hear of such a long half-hour since you were born?”
“Never,” replied the sympathetic Tim, “except once long ago when I was starving, and stood for about that length of time in front of a confectioner’s window till I nearly collapsed and had to run away at last for fear I should smash in the glass and feed.”
“Tim, I’ll take a look round and see that the bays are all right.”
“You’ve done that four times already, Bob.”
“Well, I’ll do it five times, Tim. There’s luck, you know, in odd numbers.”
There was a sharpish curve on the line close to the station. While Bob Frog was away the train, being five minutes before its time, came thundering round the curve and rushed alongside the platform.
Bob ran back of course and stood vainly trying to see the people in each carriage as it went past.
“Oh! what a sweet eager face!” exclaimed Tim, gazing after a young girl who had thrust her head out of a first-class carriage.
“Let alone sweet faces, Tim—this way. The third classes are all behind.”
By this time the train had stopped, and great was the commotion as friends and relatives met or said good-bye hurriedly, and bustled into and out of the carriages—commotion which was increased by the cheering of a fresh band of rescued waifs going to new homes in the west, and the hissing of the safety valve which took it into its head at that inconvenient moment to let off superfluous steam. Some of the people rushing about on that platform and jostling each other would have been the better for safety valves! poor Bobby Frog was one of these.
“Not there!” he exclaimed despairingly, as he looked into the last carriage of the train.
“Impossible,” said Tim, “we’ve only missed them; walk back.”
They went back, looking eagerly into carriage after carriage—Bob even glancing under the seats in a sort of wild hope that his mother might be hiding there, but no one resembling Mrs Frog was to be seen.
A commotion at the front part of the train, more pronounced than the general hubbub, attracted their attention.
“Oh! where is he—where is he?” cried a female voice, which was followed up by the female herself, a respectable elderly woman, who went about the platform scattering people right and left in a fit of temporary insanity, “where is my Bobby, where is he, I say? Oh! why won’t people git out o’ my way? Git out o’ the way,” (shoving a sluggish man forcibly), “where are you, Bobby? Bo–o–o–o–o–by!”
It was Mrs Frog! Bob saw her, but did not move. His heart was in his throat! He could not move. As he afterwards said, he was struck all of a heap, and could only stand and gaze with his hands clasped.
“Out o’ the way, young man!” cried Mrs Frog, brushing indignantly past
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