Harding’s Luck, E. Nesbit [summer reads .TXT] 📗

box with a lid that fits. And I’ll carve our arms on the top⁠—see, I’ve left that bit stickin’ up a purpose.”

It was the hardest day’s work Dickie had ever done. He stuck to it and stuck to it and stuck to it till there was hardly light left to see it by. But before the light was wholly gone the box had wholly come⁠—with the carved coat of arms and the lid that fitted.

“Well,” said Mr. Beale, striking a match to look at it; “if that ain’t a fair treat! There’s many a swell bloke ’ud give ’arf a dollar for that to put ’is baccy in. You’ve got a trade, my son, that’s sure. Why didn’t you let on before as you could? Blow the beastly match! It’s burned me finger.”

The match went out and Beale and Dickie went back to supper in the crowded, gas-lit room. When supper was over⁠—it was tripe and onions and fried potatoes, very luxurious⁠—Beale got up and stood before the fire.

“I’m a-goin’ to ’ave a hauction, I am,” he said to the company at large. “Here’s a thing and a very pretty thing, a baccy-box, or a snuffbox, or a box to shut yer gold money in, or yer diamonds. What offers?”

“ ’And it round,” said a black-browed woman, with a basket covered in American cloth no blacker than her eyes.

“That I will,” said Beale readily. “I’ll ’and it round in me ’and. And I’ll do the ’andin’ meself.”

He took it round from one to another, showed the neat corners, the neat carving, the neat fit of the square lid.

“Where’d yer nick that?” asked a man with a red handkerchief.

“The nipper made it.”

“Pinched it more likely,” someone said.

“I see ’im make it,” said Beale, frowning a little.

“Let me ’ave a squint,” said a dingy gray old man sitting apart. For some reason of his own Beale let the old man take the box into his hand. But he kept very close to him and he kept his eyes on the box.

“All outer one piece,” said the old man. “I dunno oo made it an’ I don’t care, but that was made by a workman as know’d his trade. I was a cabinetmaker once, though you wouldn’t think it to look at me. There ain’t nobody here to pay what that little hobjec’s worth. Hoil it up with a drop of cold linseed and leave it all night, and then in the morning you rub it on yer trouser leg to shine it, and then rub it in the mud to dirty it, and then hoil it again and dirty it again, and you’ll get ’arf a thick ’un for it as a genuwine hold antique. That’s wot you do.”

“Thankee, daddy,” said Beale, “an’ so I will.”

He slipped the box in his pocket. When Dickie next saw the box it looked as old as any box need look.

“Now we’ll look out for a shop where they sells these ’ere hold antics,” said Beale. They were on the road and their faces were set towards London. Dickie’s face looked pinched and white. Beale noticed it.

“You don’t look up to much,” he said; “warn’t your bed to your liking?”

“The bed was all right,” said Dickie, thinking of the bed in the dream. “I diden sleep much, though.”

“Any more dreams?” Beale asked kindly enough.

“No,” said Dickie. “I think p’raps it was me wanting so to dream it again kep’ me awake.”

“I dessey,” said Beale, picking up a straw to chew.

Dickie limped along in the dust, the world seemed very big and hard. It was a long way to London and he had not been able to dream that dream again. Perhaps he would never be able to dream it. He stumbled on a big stone and would have fallen but that Beale caught him by the arm, and as he swung round by that arm Beale saw that the boy’s eyes were thick with tears.

“Ain’t ’urt yerself, ’ave yer?” he said⁠—for in all their wanderings these were the first tears Dickie had shed.

“No,” said Dickie, and hid his face against Beale’s coat sleeve. “It’s only⁠—”

“What is it, then?” said Beale, in the accents of long-disused tenderness; “tell your old farver, then⁠—”

“It’s silly,” sobbed Dickie.

“Never you mind whether it’s silly or not,” said Beale. “You out with it.”

“In that dream,” said Dickie, “I wasn’t lame.”

“Think of that now,” said Beale admiringly. “You best dream that every night. Then you won’t mind so much of a daytime.”

“But I mind more,” said Dickie, sniffing hard; “much, much more.”

Beale, without more words, made room for him in the crowded perambulator, and they went on. Dickie’s sniffs subsided. Silence. Presently⁠—

“I say, farver, I’m sorry I acted so silly. You never see me blub afore and you won’t again,” he said; and Beale said awkwardly, “That’s all right, mate.”

“You pretty flush?” the boy asked later on.

“Not so dusty,” said the man.

“ ’Cause I wanter give that there little box to a chap I know wot lent me the money for the train to come to you at Gravesend.”

“Pay ’im some other day when we’re flusher.”

“I’d rather pay ’im now,” said Dickie. “I could make another box. There’s a bit of the sofer leg left, ain’t there?”

There was, and Dickie worked away at it in the odd moments that cluster round meal times, the half-hours before bed and before the morning start. Mr. Beale begged of all likely foot-passengers, but he noted that the “nipper” no longer “stuck it on.” For the most part he was quite silent. Only when Beale appealed to him he would say, “Farver’s very good to me. I don’t know what I should do without farver.”

And so at last they came to New Cross again, and Mr. Beale stepped in for half a pint at the Railway Hotel, while Dickie went clickety-clack along the pavement to his friend the pawnbroker.

“Here we are again,” said that tradesman; “come to pawn the rattle?”

Dickie laughed. Pawning the rattle seemed suddenly to have become a very old