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

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Edred said. “What can we do to pay out old Parrot-nose?”

Then Richard found a voice and words.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s never been like this before. It makes it seem not real. It’s only a dream, really, I suppose. And I’d got to believe that it was really real.”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” said Edred; and, darting to a corner, produced a photographic camera, of the kind called “Brownie.”

“Look here,” he said, “you’ve never seen anything like this before. This comes from the times we belong to.”

Richard knew it well. A boy at school had had one. And he had borrowed it once. And the assistant master had had a larger one of the same kind. It was horrible to him, this intrusion of the scientific attainments of the ugly times in which he was born into the beautiful times that he had grown to love.

“Oh, stow it!” he said. “I know now it’s all a silly dream. But it’s not worth while to pretend I don’t know a Kodak when I see it. That’s a Brownie.”

“If you’ve dreamed about our time,” said Elfrida⁠ ⁠… “Did you ever dream of fire carriages and fireboats, and⁠—”

Richard explained that he was not a baby, that he knew all about railways and steamboats and the triumphs of civilization. And added that Kent made 615 against Derbyshire last Thursday. Edred and Elfrida began to ask questions. Dickie was much too full of his own questionings to answer theirs.

“I shan’t tell you anything more,” he said. “But I’ll help you to get even with old Parrot-nose.” And suggested shovelling the snow off the roof into the room of that dismal tyrant through the skylight conveniently lighting it.

But Edred wanted that written down⁠—about Kent and Derbyshire⁠—so that they might see, when they got back to their own times, whether it was true. And Dickie found he had a bit of paper in his doublet on which to write it. It was a bill⁠—he had had it in his hand when he made the magic moonseed pattern, and it had unaccountably come with him. It was a bill for three ship’s guns and compasses and six flags, which Mr. Beale had bought for him in London for the fitting out of a little ship he had made to order for the small son of the amiable pawnbroker. He scribbled on the back of this bill, gave it to Edred, and then they all went out on the roof and shovelled snow in on to Mr. Parados, and when he came out on the roof very soon and angry, they slipped round the chimney-stacks and through the trap-door, and left him up on the roof in the snow, and shut the trap-door and hasped it.

And then the nurse caught them and Richard was sent to bed. But he did not go. There was no sleep in that house that night. Sleepiness filled it like a thick fog. Dickie put out his rushlight and stayed quiet for a little while, but presently it was impossible to stay quiet another moment, so very softly and carefully he crept out and hid behind a tall press at the end of the passage. He felt that strange things were happening in the house and that he must know what they were. Presently there were voices below, voices coming up the stairs⁠—the nurse’s voice, his cousins’, and another voice. Where had he heard that other voice? The stopped-clock feeling was thick about him as he realized that this was one of the voices he had heard on that night of the first magic⁠—the voice that had said, “He is more yours than mine.”

The light the nurse carried gleamed and disappeared up the second flight of stairs. Dickie followed. He had to follow. He could not be left out of this, the most mysterious of all the happenings that had so wonderfully come to him.

He saw, when he reached the upper landing, that the others were by the window, and that the window was open. A keen wind rushed through it, and by the blown candle’s light he could see snowflakes whirled into the house through the window’s dark, star-studded square. There was whispering going on. He heard her words, “Here. So! Jump.”

And then a little figure⁠—Edred it must be; no, Elfrida⁠—climbed up on to the window-ledge. And jumped out. Out of the third-floor window undoubtedly jumped. Another followed it⁠—that was Edred.

“It is a dream,” said Dickie to himself, “but if they’ve been made to jump out, to punish them for getting even with old Parrot-nose or anything, I’ll jump too.”

He rushed past the nurse, past her voice and the other voice that was talking with hers, made one bound to the window, set his knee on it, stood up and jumped; and he heard, as his knee touched the icy windowsill, the strange voice say, “Another,” and then he was in the air falling, falling.

“I shall wake when I reach the ground,” Dickie told himself, “and then I shall know it’s all only a dream, a silly dream.”

But he never reached the ground. He had not fallen a couple of yards before he was caught by something soft as heaped feathers or drifted snow; it moved and shifted under him, took shape; it was a chair⁠—no, a carriage. And there were reins in his hand⁠—white reins. And a horse? No⁠—a swan with wide, white wings. He grasped the reins and guided the strange steed to a low swoop that should bring him near the flare of torches in the street, outside the great front door. And as the swan laid its long neck low in downward flight he saw his cousins in a carriage like his own rise into the sky and sail away towards the south. Quite without meaning to do it he pulled on the reins; the swan rose. He pulled again and the carriage stopped at the landing window.

Hands dragged him in.