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

Beale, scratching his head; “but if the nipper says so, it is so. Let’s go and get a mug and a doorstep, and then we’ll see.”

“You get it⁠—if you’re hungry,” said Dickie. “I’d rather wait here in case anybody else was to take the house. You go and see ’im now. ’E’ll think you’re a man in reg’lar work by your being up so early.”

“P’raps,” said Beale thoughtfully, running his hand over the rustling stubble of his two days’ beard⁠—“p’raps I’d best get a wash and brush-up first, eh? It might be worth it in the end. I’ll ’ave to go to the doss to get our pram and things, any’ow.”

The landlord of the desired house really thought Mr. Beale a quite respectable working man, and Mr. Beale accounted for their lack of furniture by saying, quite truthfully, that he and his nipper had come up from Gravesend, doing a bit of work on the way.

“I could,” he added, quite untruthfully, “give you the gentleman I worked with for me reference⁠—Talbott, ’is name is⁠—a bald man with a squint and red ears⁠—but p’raps this’ll do as well.” He pulled out of one pocket all their money⁠—two pounds eighteen shillings⁠—except six pennies which he had put in the other pocket to rattle. He rattled them now. “I’m anxious,” he said, confidentially, “to get settled on account of the nipper. I don’t deceive you; we ’oofed it up, not to waste our little bit, and he’s a hoppy chap.”

“That’s odd,” said the landlord; “there was a lame boy lived there along of the last party that had it. It’s a cripple’s home by rights, I should think.”

Beale had not foreseen this difficulty, and had no story ready. So he tried the truth.

“It’s the same lad, mister,” he said; “that’s why I’m rather set on the ’ouse. You see, it’s ’ome to ’im like,” he added sentimentally.

“You ’is father?” said the landlord sharply. And again Beale was inspired to truthfulness⁠—quite a lot of it.

“No,” he said cautiously, “wish I was. The fact is, the little chap’s aunt wasn’t much class. An’ I found ’im wandering. An’ not ’avin’ none of my own, I sort of adopted ’im.”

“Like Wandering Hares at the theatre,” said the landlord, who had been told by Dickie’s aunt that the “ungrateful little warmint” had run away. “I see.”

“And ’e’s a jolly little chap,” said Beale, warming to his subject and forgetting his caution, “as knowing as a dog-ferret; and his patter⁠—enough to make a cat laugh, ’e is sometimes. And I’ll pay a week down if you like, mister⁠—and we’ll get our bits of sticks in today.”

“Well,” said the landlord, taking a key from a nail on the wall, “let’s go down and have a look at the ’ouse. Where’s the kid?”

“ ’E’s there awaitin’ for me,” said Beale; “couldn’t get ’im away.”

Dickie was very polite to the landlord, at whom in unhappier days he had sometimes made faces, and when the landlord went he had six of their shillings and they had the key.

“So now we’ve got a ’ome of our own,” said Beale, rubbing his hands when they had gone through the house together; “an Englishman’s ’ome is ’is castle⁠—and what with the boxes you’ll cut out and the dogs what I’ll pick up, Buckingham Palace’ll look small alongside of us⁠—eh, matey?”

They locked up the house and went to breakfast, Beale gay as a lark and Dickie rather silent. He was thinking over a new difficulty. It was all very well to bury twenty sovereigns and to know exactly where they were. And they were his own beyond a doubt. But if anyone saw those sovereigns dug up, those sovereigns would be taken away from him. No one would believe that they were his own. And the earthenware pot was so big. And so many windows looked out on the garden. No one could hope to dig up a big thing like that from his back garden without attracting some attention. Besides, he doubted whether he were strong enough to dig it up, even if he could do so unobserved. He had not thought of this when he had put the gold there in that other life. He was so much stronger then. He sighed.

“Got the ’ump, mate?” asked Beale, with his mouth full.

“No, I was just a-thinkin’.”

“We’d best buy the sticks first thing,” said Beale; “it’s a cruel world. ‘No sticks, no trust’ is the landlord’s motto.”

Do you want to know what sticks they bought? I will tell you. They bought a rusty old bedstead, very big, with laths that hung loose like a hammock, and all its knobs gone and only bare screws sticking up spikily. Also a flock mattress and pillows of a dull dust color to go on the bed, and some blankets and sheets, all matching the mattress to a shade. They bought a table and two chairs, and a kitchen fender with a round steel moon⁠—only it was very rusty⁠—and a hand-bowl for the sink, and a small zinc bath, “to wash your shirt in,” said Mr. Beale. Four plates, two cups and saucers, two each of knives, forks, and spoons, a tin teapot, a quart jug, a pail, a bit of Kidderminster carpet, half a pound of yellow soap, a scrubbing-brush and broom, two towels, a kettle, a saucepan and a baking-dish, and a pint of paraffin. Also there was a tin lamp to hang on the wall with a dazzling crinkled tin reflector. This was the only thing that was new, and it cost tenpence halfpenny. All the rest of the things together cost twenty-six shillings and sevenpence halfpenny, and I think they were cheap.

But they seemed very poor and very little of them when they were dumped down in the front room. The bed especially looked far from its best⁠—a mere heap of loose iron.

“And we ain’t got our droring-room suit, neither,” said Mr. Beale. “Lady’s and gent’s easy-chairs, four hoccasionals, pianner, and foomed oak booreau.”

“Curtains,” said Dickie⁠—“white curtains for the parlor and