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

think you’d better be the one,” it said to Anthea. “We’ll wait out here.”

So the others flattened their noses against the shop window, and presently a large, dirty, short-fingered hand with a very big diamond ring came stretching through the green half-curtains at the back of the shop window and took away the tray.

They could not see what was happening in the interview between Anthea and the Diamond Ring, and it seemed to them that she had had time⁠—if she had had money⁠—to buy everything in the shop before the moment came when she stood before them, her face wreathed in grins, as Cyril said later, and in her hand the charm.

It was something like this:

and it was made of a red, smooth, softly shiny stone.

“I’ve got it,” Anthea whispered, just opening her hand to give the others a glimpse of it. “Do let’s get home. We can’t stand here like stuck-pigs looking at it in the street.”

So home they went. The parlour in Fitzroy Street was a very flat background to magic happenings. Down in the country among the flowers and green fields anything had seemed⁠—and indeed had been⁠—possible. But it was hard to believe that anything really wonderful could happen so near the Tottenham Court Road. But the Psammead was there⁠—and it in itself was wonderful. And it could talk⁠—and it had shown them where a charm could be bought that would make the owner of it perfectly happy. So the four children hurried home, taking very long steps, with their chins stuck out, and their mouths shut very tight indeed. They went so fast that the Psammead was quite shaken about in its fish-bag, but it did not say anything⁠—perhaps for fear of attracting public notice.

They got home at last, very hot indeed, and set the Psammead on the green tablecloth.

“Now then!” said Cyril.

But the Psammead had to have a plate of sand fetched for it, for it was quite faint. When it had refreshed itself a little it said⁠—

“Now then! Let me see the charm,” and Anthea laid it on the green table-cover. The Psammead shot out his long eyes to look at it, then it turned them reproachfully on Anthea and said⁠—

“But there’s only half of it here!”

This was indeed a blow.

“It was all there was,” said Anthea, with timid firmness. She knew it was not her fault.

“There should be another piece,” said the Psammead, “and a sort of pin to fasten the two together.”

“Isn’t half any good?”⁠—“Won’t it work without the other bit?”⁠—“It cost seven-and-six.”⁠—“Oh, bother, bother, bother!”⁠—“Don’t be silly little idiots!” said everyone and the Psammead altogether.

Then there was a wretched silence. Cyril broke it⁠—

“What shall we do?”

“Go back to the shop and see if they haven’t got the other half,” said the Psammead. “I’ll go to sand till you come back. Cheer up! Even the bit you’ve got is some good, but it’ll be no end of a bother if you can’t find the other.”

So Cyril went to the shop. And the Psammead to sand. And the other three went to dinner, which was now ready. And old Nurse was very cross that Cyril was not ready too.

The three were watching at the windows when Cyril returned, and even before he was near enough for them to see his face there was something about the slouch of his shoulders and set of his knickerbockers and the way he dragged his boots along that showed but too plainly that his errand had been in vain.

“Well?” they all said, hoping against hope on the front-door step.

“No go,” Cyril answered; “the man said the thing was perfect. He said it was a Roman lady’s locket, and people shouldn’t buy curios if they didn’t know anything about arky⁠—something or other, and that he never went back on a bargain, because it wasn’t business, and he expected his customers to act the same. He was simply nasty⁠—that’s what he was, and I want my dinner.”

It was plain that Cyril was not pleased.

The unlikeliness of anything really interesting happening in that parlour lay like a weight of lead on everyone’s spirits. Cyril had his dinner, and just as he was swallowing the last mouthful of apple-pudding there was a scratch at the door. Anthea opened it and in walked the Psammead.

“Well,” it said, when it had heard the news, “things might be worse. Only you won’t be surprised if you have a few adventures before you get the other half. You want to get it, of course.”

“Rather,” was the general reply. “And we don’t mind adventures.”

“No,” said the Psammead, “I seem to remember that about you. Well, sit down and listen with all your ears. Eight, are there? Right⁠—I am glad you know arithmetic. Now pay attention, because I don’t intend to tell you everything twice over.”

As the children settled themselves on the floor⁠—it was far more comfortable than the chairs, as well as more polite to the Psammead, who was stroking its whiskers on the hearthrug⁠—a sudden cold pain caught at Anthea’s heart. Father⁠—Mother⁠—the darling Lamb⁠—all far away. Then a warm, comfortable feeling flowed through her. The Psammead was here, and at least half a charm, and there were to be adventures. (If you don’t know what a cold pain is, I am glad for your sakes, and I hope you never may.)

“Now,” said the Psammead cheerily, “you are not particularly nice, nor particularly clever, and you’re not at all good-looking. Still, you’ve saved my life⁠—oh, when I think of that man and his pail of water!⁠—so I’ll tell you all I know. At least, of course I can’t do that, because I know far too much. But I’ll tell you all I know about this red thing.”

“Do! Do! Do! Do!” said everyone.

“Well, then,” said the Psammead. “This thing is half of an Amulet that can do all sorts of things; it can make the corn grow, and the