The Story of the Amulet, E. Nesbit [free ebook reader for iphone txt] 📗

How was it done? Is it conjuring, or what?”

“I think it is chust a ver’ bad tream,” said old Levinstein to his clerk; “all along Bishopsgate I haf seen the gommon people have their hants full of food⁠—goot food. Oh yes, without doubt a very bad tream!”

“Then I’m dreaming too, sir,” said the clerk, looking down at his legs with an expression of loathing. “I see my feet in beastly sandals as plain as plain.”

“All that goot food wasted,” said old Mr. Levinstein. “A bad tream⁠—a bad tream.”

The Members of the Stock Exchange are said to be at all times a noisy lot. But the noise they made now to express their disgust at the costumes of ancient Babylon was far louder than their ordinary row. One had to shout before one could hear oneself speak.

“I only wish,” said the clerk who thought it was conjuring⁠—he was quite close to the children and they trembled, because they knew that whatever he wished would come true. “I only wish we knew who’d done it.”

And, of course, instantly they did know, and they pressed round the Queen.

“Scandalous! Shameful! Ought to be put down by law. Give her in charge. Fetch the police,” two or three voices shouted at once.

The Queen recoiled.

“What is it?” she asked. “They sound like caged lions⁠—lions by the thousand. What is it that they say?”

“They say ‘Police!’ ” said Cyril briefly. “I knew they would sooner or later. And I don’t blame them, mind you.”

“I wish my guards were here!” cried the Queen. The exhausted Psammead was panting and trembling, but the Queen’s guards in red and green garments, and brass and iron gear, choked Throgmorton Street, and bared weapons flashed round the Queen.

“I’m mad,” said a Mr. Rosenbaum; “dat’s what it is⁠—mad!”

“It’s a judgement on you, Rosy,” said his partner. “I always said you were too hard in that matter of Flowerdew. It’s a judgement, and I’m in it too.”

The members of the Stock Exchange had edged carefully away from the gleaming blades, the mailed figures, the hard, cruel Eastern faces. But Throgmorton Street is narrow, and the crowd was too thick for them to get away as quickly as they wished.

“Kill them,” cried the Queen. “Kill the dogs!”

The guards obeyed.

“It is all a dream,” cried Mr. Levinstein, cowering in a doorway behind his clerk.

“It isn’t,” said the clerk. “It isn’t. Oh, my good gracious! those foreign brutes are killing everybody. Henry Hirsh is down now, and Prentice is cut in two⁠—oh, Lord! and Huth, and there goes Lionel Cohen with his head off, and Guy Nickalls has lost his head now. A dream? I wish to goodness it was all a dream.”

And, of course, instantly it was! The entire Stock Exchange rubbed its eyes and went back to close, to over, and either side of seven-eights, and Trunks, and Kaffirs, and Steel Common, and Contangoes, and Backwardations, Double Options, and all the interesting subjects concerning which they talk in the Street without ceasing.

No one said a word about it to anyone else. I think I have explained before that business men do not like it to be known that they have been dreaming in business hours. Especially mad dreams including such dreadful things as hungry people getting dinners, and the destruction of the Stock Exchange.

The children were in the dining room at 300, Fitzroy Street, pale and trembling. The Psammead crawled out of the embroidered bag, and lay flat on the table, its leg stretched out, looking more like a dead hare than anything else.

“Thank Goodness that’s over,” said Anthea, drawing a deep breath.

“She won’t come back, will she?” asked Jane tremulously.

“No,” said Cyril. “She’s thousands of years ago. But we spent a whole precious pound on her. It’ll take all our pocket-money for ages to pay that back.”

“Not if it was all a dream,” said Robert. “The wish said all a dream, you know, Panther; you cut up and ask if he lent you anything.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Anthea politely, following the sound of her knock into the presence of the learned gentleman, “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but did you lend me a pound today?”

“No,” said he, looking kindly at her through his spectacles. “But it’s extraordinary that you should ask me, for I dozed for a few moments this afternoon, a thing I very rarely do, and I dreamed quite distinctly that you brought me a ring that you said belonged to the Queen of Babylon, and that I lent you a sovereign and that you left one of the Queen’s rings here. The ring was a magnificent specimen.” He sighed. “I wish it hadn’t been a dream,” he said smiling. He was really learning to smile quite nicely.

Anthea could not be too thankful that the Psammead was not there to grant his wish.

IX Atlantis

You will understand that the adventure of the Babylonian queen in London was the only one that had occupied any time at all. But the children’s time was very fully taken up by talking over all the wonderful things seen and done in the Past, where, by the power of the Amulet, they seemed to spend hours and hours, only to find when they got back to London that the whole thing had been briefer than a lightning flash.

They talked of the Past at their meals, in their walks, in the dining room, in the first-floor drawing-room, but most of all on the stairs. It was an old house; it had once been a fashionable one, and was a fine one still. The banister rails of the stairs were excellent for sliding down, and in the corners of the landings were big alcoves that had once held graceful statues, and now quite often held the graceful forms of Cyril, Robert, Anthea, and Jane.

One day Cyril and Robert in tight white underclothing had spent a pleasant hour in reproducing the attitudes of statues seen either in the British Museum, or in Father’s big photograph book. But