 CHAPTER IV. PART I. WHICH WAS THE DREAM. The two crossed triangles of white seeds, in the midst, tinkler and white seal, lay on the floor of the little empty house, grew dim and faint before Dickie's eyes, and his eyes suddenly smarted and felt tired, so that he was very glad to shut them. He had an absurd fancy that he could see, through his closed eyelids, something moving in the middle of the star that the two triangles made, but he knew that this must be nonsense, because of course you cannot see through your eyelids. His eyelids felt so heavy that he could not take the trouble to lift them, even when a voice spoke quite near him. He had no doubt but that it was the policeman come to take him up, for being in a house that was not his. Let him, said Dickie to himself, he was too sleepy to be afraid. But for a policeman who was usually of quite a large pattern, the voice was unusually soft and small. It said briskly. Now then, where do you want to go? I ain't particular, said Dickie, who supposed himself to be listening to an offer of a choice of police stations. There were whispers, too small and soft voices. They made a sleepy music. He's more yours than mine, said one. You're more his than I am, said the other. You're older than I am, said the first. You're stronger than I am, said the second. Let's spin for it, said the first voice, and there was a humming sound ending in a little tinkling fall. That settles it, said the second voice. Here, and when. Three's a good number. Then everything was very quiet, and sleep wrapped Dickie like a soft cloak. When he awoke his eyelids no longer felt heavy, so he opened them. That was a rum dream, he told himself as he blinked in broad daylight. He lay in bed, a big, strange bed, and a room that he had never seen before. The windows were low and long, with small panes, and the light was broken by upright stone divisions. The floor was of dark wood, strewn strangely with flowers and green herbs, and the bed was a forepost, like the one he slept in at the Talbot house, and in the green curtains was woven a white pattern, very like the thing that was engraved on tinkler and the white seal. On the coverlet, lavender and other herbs were laid, and the wall was hung with pictures done in needlework. Tapestry, in fact, though Dickie did not know that this was its name, all the furniture was heavily built of wood, heavily carved. An enormous dark cupboard or wardrobe loomed against one wall. High-backed chairs with tapestry seats were ranged in a row against another. The third wall was almost all window, and in the fourth wall the fireplace was set with a high hooded chimney and wide open hearth. Near the bed stood a stool or table with cups and bottles on it, and on the necks of the bottles, parchment labels were tied that stuck out stiffly. A stout woman, in very full skirts, sat in a large armchair at the foot of the bed. She wore a queer white cap, the like of which Dickie had never seen, and round her neck was a ruff, which reminded him of the cut paper frills in the ham and beef shops in the New Cross Road. What a curious dream, said Dickie. The woman looked at him. So, Thoust found thy tongue, she said. Folk must look to have curious dreams who fall sick of the fever, but Thoust found thy tongue at last, thine own tongue, not the wandering tongue that has waged so fast these last days. But I thought I was in the front room at, Dickie began. Thart here, she said, the other is the dream, forget it, and do not talk of it. To talk of such dreams brings misfortune, and tis time for thy poset. She took a pipkin from the hearth, or a small fire-burned, though it was summer weather as Dickie could see by the green treetops that swayed and moved outside in the sun, poured some gruel out of it and into a silver basin. It had wrought roses on it and, drink me and drink again, in queer letters round the rim, but this Dickie only noticed later. She poured white wine into the gruel, and, having stirred it with a silver spoon, fed Dickie as one feeds a baby, blowing on each spoonful to cool it. The gruel was very sweet and pleasant. Dickie stretched in the downy bed, felt extremely comfortable, and fell asleep again. Next time he awoke, it was with many questions. How'd I come here? Have I been run over again? Is it a hospital? Who are you? Now don't you begin to wander again, said the woman in the cap. You're here at home in the best bed in your father's house at Deppford, and you've had the plague fever, and you're better. Rot to be, but if you don't know your own old nurse. I never add no nurse, said Dickie, old or new, so there. You are taking me for some other chap, that's what it is. So where did you get a hold of me? I never been here before. Don't wander, I tell you, repeated the nurse briskly, you lie still and sink, and you'll see you'll remember me very well. Forget your old nurse, why? You'll tell me next that you've forgotten your own name. No, I haven't, said Dickie. What is it then, the nurse asked, laughing a fat, comfortable laugh. Dickie's reply was naturally Dickie Harding. Why, said the nurse, opening wide eyes at him under gray brows, you have forgotten it. They do say that the fever hurts the memory, but this beats all. Dost mean to tell me the fever has mazed thy poor brains till thy don't know thy names Richard? And Dickie heard her name a name that did not sound to him at all like Harding. Is that my name? He asked. It is indeed, she answered. Dickie felt an odd sensation of fixedness. He had expected when he went to sleep that the dream would in sleep end and that he would wake to find himself alone in the empty house at New Cross. But he'd wakened to the same dream once more. And now he began to wonder whether he really belonged here and whether this were the real life and the other, the old, sordid, dirty New Cross life, merely a horrid dream, the consequence of his fever. He lay in thought and looked at the rich, pleasant room, the kind, clear face of the nurse, the green, green branches of the trees, the tapestry and the rushes. At last he spoke. Nurse, he said. Ah, I thought you'd come to yourself, she said. What is it, my dearie? If I'm really the name you said, I've forgotten it. Tell me all about myself, will you, nurse? I thought as much, she muttered, and then began to tell him wonderful things. She told him how his father was Sir Richard. The king had made him a knight only last year. And how this place, where they now were, was his father's country house. It lies, said the nurse, among the pleasant fields and orchards of Depford. And how he, Dickie, had been very sick of the pestilential fever. But was now, thanks to the blessing and to the ministrations of Good Doctor Kerry, on the high road to health. And when you're strong enough, she said, and the house purged of the contagion, your cousins from Sussex shall come and stay a while here with you, and afterwards you shall go with them to their town house, and see the sights of London. And now, she added, looking out of the window, I spy the Good Doctor are coming. Make the best of thyself, dear heart, lest he bleed thee and drench thee yet again, which I know in my heart too weak for it. But what do these doctors know of babes? Their medicines are for strong men. The idea of bleeding was not pleasant to Dickie, though he did not know at all what it meant. He sat up in bed, and was surprised to find that he was not nearly so tired as he thought. The excitement of all these happenings had brought a pink flush to his face. And when the doctor, in a full black robe and black stockings and a pointed hat, stood by his bedside and felt his pulse, the doctor had to own that Dickens was almost well. We have wrought a cure, goodie, he said. Though an eye, we have wrought a cure. Now kitchen, physical it is that he needs good broth and gruel and panada and wine, the rinish and the French, and the juice of the orange and the lemon, or, failing those, fresh apple juice squeezed from the fruit when you shall have braided in a mortar. Ha, my cure pleases thee. Well, smell to it then, tis many a day since thou hast the heart too. He reached the gold knob of his cane to Dickie's nose, and Dickie was surprised to find that it smelled sweet and strong, something like grocers shops and something like a chemists. There were little holes in the gold knob, such as you see in the tops of pepper casters, and the scent seemed to come through them. What is it? Dickie asked. He has forgotten everything, said the nurse quickly, tis the good doctor's pomador with spices and perfumes in it to avert contagion. As it warms in the hand, the perfumes give forth, said the doctor. Now the fever is past. There must be a fumigatory. Make a good brew, goodie. Make a good brew. Amber and nitri and wormwood, vinegar and quinces and myrrh with wormwood, campfire and the fresh flowers of the chamomile, and mosque, forget not mosque, a strong thing against contagion. Let the vapor of it pass to and fro through the chamber. Burn the herbs from the floor and all sweepings on this hearth. Strew fresh herbs and flowers and set all clean and in order, and give thanks that you are not setting all in order for a burying. With which agreeable words the black-gound doctor nodded and smiled at the little patient and went out. And now Dickie literally did not know where he was. It was all so difficult. Was he Dickie Harding, who lived at New Cross and sewn the artistic parrot seed, and taken the open road with Mr. Biel? Or was he that boy with the other new name, whose father was a knight and who lived in a house in Deppford with green trees outside the windows? He could not remember any house in Deppford that had had green trees in its garden, and the nurse had said something about the pleasant fields and orchards. Those at any rate were not in the Deppford he knew. Perhaps there were two Deppfords. He knew there were two Bromptons and two Richmans, one in Yorkshire. There was something about the way things happened at this place that reminded him of that nice lady Talbot, who had wanted him to stay and be her little boy. Perhaps this new boy, whose place he seemed to have taken, had a real mother of his own, as nice as that nice lady. The nurse had dropped all sorts of things into an iron pot, with three legs, and had set it to boil in the hot ashes. Now it had boiled, and two maids were carrying it to and fro in the room, as the doctor had said. Puffs of sweet, strong, spicy steam rose out of it as they jerked it this way and that. Nurse, Dickie called, and she came quickly. Nurse, have I got a mother? She hugged him. Indeed thou hast, she said. But she lies sick at your father's other house. And you have a baby brother, Richard. Then said Dickie, I think I will stay here and try to remember who I am. I mean, who you say I am. And not try to dream any more about New Cross and Mr. Beale. If this is a dream, it's a better dream than the other. I want to stay here, nurse. Let me stay here and see my mother and my little brother. And shelt, my lamb, and shelt, the nurse said. And after that there was more food and more sleep and nights and days and talks and silences. And very gradually, yet very quickly, Dickie learned about this new boy, who was and wasn't, himself. He told the nurse quite plainly that he remembered nothing about himself. And after he had told her, she would sit by his side by the hour and tell him of things that had happened in the short life of the boy whose place he filled. The boy whose name was not Dickie Harding. And as soon as she had told him a thing, he found he remembered it. Not as one remembers a tale that is told, but as one remembers a real thing that has happened. And as days went on and he became sure and sure that he was really this other Richard, and that he had only dreamed all that old life in New Cross with his aunt, and in the pleasant country roads with Mr. Beale. And he wondered how he could ever have dreamed such things. Quite soon came the day when the nurse dressed him in clothes, strange, but strangely comfortable and fine, and carried him to the window, from which, as he sat in a big oak chair, he could see the green fields that sloped down to the river, and the rigging and the masts of the ships that went up and down. The rigging looked familiar, but the shape of the ships was quite different. They were shorter and broader than the ships that Dickie Harding had been used to see. And they, most of them, rose up much higher out of the water. I should like to go and look at them closer, he told the nurse. Once dark healed, she said, they'll be forever running down to the dockyard, thy old way, I know thee, hearing the master's mariners' tales, and setting thy purpose for a galleon of thine own and the golden South Americas. What's a galleon? said Dickie, and was told. The nurse was very patient with his forgettings. He was very happy. There seemed, somehow, to be more room in this new life than in the old one, and more time. No one was in a hurry, and there was not another house within a quarter of a mile, all green fields. Also he was a person of consequence. The servants called him Master Richard, and he felt, as he heard them, that being called Master Richard meant not only that the servants respected him as their master's son, but that he was somebody from whom great things were expected, that he had duties of kindness and protection to the servants, that he was expected to grow up brave and noble and generous and unselfish, to care for those who called him Master. He felt now very fully what he felt vaguely and dimly at Talbot Court, that he was not the sort of person who ought to do anything mean and dishonorable, such as being a burglar and climbing in at pantry windows, and that when he grew up he would be expected to look after his servants and laborers and all the men and women whom he would have under him, that their happiness and well-being would be his charge, and the thought swelled his heart, and it seemed that he was born to a great destiny. He, little lame Dickie Harding of Depford, he would hold these people's lives in his hand. Well, he knew what poor people wanted. He had been poor. Or he had dreamed that he was poor. It was all the same. Dreams in real life were so very much alike. So Dickie changed, every hour of every day, and every moment of every hour, from the little boy who lived at New Cross, among the yellow houses and the ugliness, who tramped the white roads and slept at the end of the silver moon, to Richard, of the other name, who lived well and slept softly, and knew himself called to a destiny of power and helpful kindness. For his nurse had told him that his father was a rich man, and that father's riches would be his one day to deal with for the good of the men under him, for their happiness and the glory of God. It was a great and beautiful thought, and Dickie loved it. He loved indeed everything in his new life, the shapes and colors of furniture and hangings, the kind old nurses, the friendly laughing maids, the old doctor with his long speeches and short smiles, his bed, his room, the ships, the river, the trees, the gardens, the very sky seemed cleaner and brighter than the sky that had been over the Depford that Dickie Harding had known. And then came the day when the nurse, having dressed him, made him walk to the window, instead of being carried as so far he had been. Where, he asked hesitantly, where's my—where have you put the crutch? Then the old nurse laughed, crutch, she said. Come out of thy dreams, thou silly boy, thou wants no crutch with two fine straight, strong legs like thou's, Scott. Come, use them and walk. Dickie looked down at his feet. In the old New Cross days he had not liked to look at his feet. He had not looked at them in these new days. He looked now, hesitated. Come, said the nurse encouragingly. He slid from the high bed. One might as well try. Nurse seemed to think. He touched the ground with both feet. Felt the floor firm and even under them, as firm and even under the one foot as the other. He stood up straight, moved the foot that had been used to move, then the other, the one that he had never moved. He took two steps, three, four, and then he turned suddenly and flung himself against the side of the bed and hid his face and his arms. What weeping lamb, the nurse said and came to him. Oh, nurse! he cried, clinging to her with all his might. I dreamed that I was lame, and I thought it was true, and it isn't. It isn't. It isn't. End of Chapter 4 Part 1 Section 7 Part 2 of Harding's Luck This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sandra Estenson. Harding's Luck by Edith Nesbitt Chapter 4 Part 2 Which Was The Dream Quite soon, Dickie was able to walk downstairs and out into the garden along the grassy walks and long alleys where fruit trees trained over trellises made such pleasant green shade and even to try to learn to play at bowls on the long bowling green behind the house. The house was by far the finest house Dickie had ever been in, and the garden was more beautiful than the garden at Talbot Court. But it was not only the beauty of the house and garden that made Dickie's life a new and full delight. To limp along the leafy ways, to crawl up and down the carved staircase would have been a pleasure greater than any Dickie had ever known. But he could leap up and down the stairs three at a time. He could run in the arched alleys, run and jump as he had seen other children do, and as he had never thought to do himself. Imagine what you would feel if you had lived wingless all your life among people who could fly. That is how lame people feel among us who can walk and run. And now Dickie was lame no more. His feet seemed not only to be strong and active, but clever on their own account. They carried him quite without mistake to the blacksmiths at the village on the hill, to the center of the maze of clipped hedges that was the center of the garden, and best of all, they carried him to the dockyard. Girls like dolls and tea parties and picture books, but boys like to see things made and done. Else how is it that any boy worth his salt will leave the newest and brightest toys to follow a carpenter or a plumber round the house, fiddle with his tools, ask him a thousand questions, and watch him ply his trade. Dickie, at Newcross, had spent many an hour watching those interesting men who opened square-trapped doors in the pavement and drag out from them yards and yards of wire. I do not know why the men do this, but every London boy who reads this will know. And when he got to the dockyard his obliging feet carried him to a man in a great leather apron, busy with great beams of wood and tools that Dickie had never seen, and the man greeted him as an old friend, kissed him on both cheeks, which he didn't expect, and felt much too old for, and spread a sack for him that he might sit in the sun on a big bulk of timber. Thou art a sight for sore eyes, Master Richard, said he, it's many a long day since thou was here to pester me with thy question, and all strong again, no bones broken, and I'll teach thee to make a galleon like as I promised. Will you indeed, said Dickie, trembling with joy and pride, that will I, said the man, and threw up his pointed beard in a jolly laugh, and see what I've made thee while thou's been lazing in bed, a real English ship of war? He laid down the auger he held, and went into a low rough shed, and next moment came out with a little ship in his hand, a perfect model of the strange, high-built ships Dickie could see on the river. Tis the picture, said he proudly, of my old ship, the golden venture that I sailed in with Master Raleigh, and helped to sink the accursed armada, and clip the king of Spain his wings, and singe his beard. The armada, said Dickie, with a new and quite strange feeling, rather like going down unexpectedly in a lift. The Spanish armada? What other, asked the shipbuilder, thou'st heard a story a thousand times? I want to hear it again, Dickie said, and heard the story of England's great danger and her great escapes. It was just the same story as the one you read in your history book, and yet how different when it was told by a man who had been there, and who had felt the danger, known the escape. Dickie held his breath. And so the story ended, the breath of the Lord went forth, and the storm blew, and fell on the fleet of Spain, and scattered them, and they went down in our very waters, they and their arms, and their treasure, their guns and their gunners, their mariners, and their men of war. And the remnant was scattered and driven northward, and some more wrecked on the rocks, and some our ships met and dealt with, and some poor few made shift to get back across the sea, trailing home like wounded mallards, to tell the king, their master, what the Lord had done for England. How long ago was it, all this? Dickie asked. If his memory served it was hundreds of years ago, three, five. He could not remember how many, but hundreds. Could this man whose hair was only just touched with gray be hundreds of years old? How long? A matter of twenty years or thereabouts, said the shipbuilder. See, the pretty little ship, and thy very own, for I made it for thee. It was indeed a pretty little ship, being a perfect model of an Elizabethan ship, built up high at bow and stern. Four, as Sebastian explained, majesty and terror of the enemy, with the deck and oar-lop, waste and poop, hold and masts, all complete with forecastle and cabin, masts and spars, portholes and guns, sails, anchor, and carved figurehead. The woodwork was painted in white and green and red, and at bow and stern was richly carved and gilded. For me, Dickie said, really for me? And you made it yourself. Truth to tell, I began it long since in the long winter evenings, said his friend, and now, to stun and to thine. See, I shall put an apron on thee, and thou shall be my apprentice, and learn to build another quaint ship like her, to be her consort, and we will sail them together in the pond in thy father's garden. Dickie, still devouring the little golden venture with his eyes, submitted to the leather apron, and felt, in his hand, the smooth handle of the tool Sebastian put there. But, he said, I don't understand. You remember the armada twenty years ago? I thought it was hundreds and hundreds. Twenty years ago, or nearer eighteen, said Sebastian, thou'dl have to learn to reckon better than that, if thou'dst wants to be my apprentice. It was in the year of Grace, fifteen eighty-eight, and we are now in the year sixteen oh six. This makes it eighteen years to my reckoning. It was nineteen oh six in my dream, said Dickie, I mean, in my fever. In fever, Sebastian said, folk travel far. Now, hold the wood so, and the knife thus. Then, every day, Dickie went down to the dockyard when lessons were done. For there were lessons now, with a sour-faced tutor and a black gown, whom Dickie disliked extremely. The tutor did not seem to like Dickie either. The child hath forgot in his fever all that ever he learned of me. He complained to the old nurse, who nodded wisely, and said he would soon learn all afresh. And he did, very quickly, learn a great deal, and always it was more like remembering than learning. And a second tutor, very smart and red velvet and gold, with breeches like balloons and a short cloak and a ruff, who was an extremely jolly fellow, came in the mornings to teach them to fence, to dance, and to run, and to leap, and to play bowls, and promised in due time to teach him wrestling, catching, archery, palm all, rackets, riding, tennis, and all sports and games proper for a youth of gentleness. And weeks went by, and still his father and mother had not come, and he had learned a little Greek and more Latin, could carve a box with the arms of his house on the lid, and make that lid fit, could bow like a courtier, and speak like a gentleman, and play a simple air on the viol that hung in the parlor for guests, that hung in the parlor for guests to amuse themselves while they waited to see the master or mistress. And then came the day when old nurse dressed him in his best, a suit of cut velvet, purple slashed with gold color, and a belt with a little sword to it and a flat cap, and master Henry, the games master, took him in a little boat to a gilded galley full of gentlemen and ladies, all finely dressed, who kissed him and made much of him, and said how he has grown since the fever. And one gentleman, very fine indeed, appeared to be his uncle, and a most charming lady in blue and silver seemed to be his aunt, and a very jolly little boy and girl, who sat by him and talked merrily all the while, were his little cousins. Cups of wine and silver dishes of fruit and cakes were handed round. The galley was decked with fresh flowers, and from another boat quite near came the sound of music. The sun shone overhead, and the clear river sparkled, and more and more boats, all gilded and flower wreathed, appeared on the water. Then there was a sound of shouting, the river suddenly grew alive with the glitter of drawn swords, the butterfly glitter of ladies waved scarves and handkerchiefs, and a great gilded barge came slowly downstream, followed by a procession of smaller craft. Everyone in the galley stood up. The gentlemen saluted with their drawn swords. The ladies fluttered their scarves. His majesty and the queen, the little cousins whispered as the state barge went by. Then all the galleys fell into place behind the king's barge, and the long beautiful procession went slowly on down the river. Dickie was very happy. The little cousins were so friendly and jolly. The grown up people so kind. Everything so beautiful and so clean. It was a perfect day. The river was very beautiful. It ran between banks of willows and alders, where loose strife and meadow sweet, and willow herb and yarrow grew tall and thick. There were water lilies and shady backwaters and beautiful gardens sloping down to the water. At last the boats came to a pretty little town among trees. This is where we disembark, said the little girl cousin. The king lies here tonight at St. Thomas Bradbury's, and we lie at our grandfather's house, and tomorrow it is the mosque in St. Thomas' park, and we are here to see it. I am glad, thou s'well of thy fever, Richard, and I shouldn't have liked it half so well if thou hadn't been here, she said, smiling, and of course that was a very nice thing to have said to one. And then we go home to Depford with thee, said the boy cousin. We are to stay a month, and we'll see thy galleon, and get old Sebastian to make me one, too. Yes, said Dickie, as the boat came against the quay. What is this place? Gravesend. Thou knows that, said the little cousins, or heads thou forgotten that, too, in thy fever. Gravesend, Dickie repeated. In quite a changed voice. Come, children, said the aunt. Oh, what a different aunt to the one who had slapped Dickie in Depford. Sold the rabbit hutch, and shot the moon. You boys remember how I showed you to carry my train, and my girl will not forget how to fling the flowers from the gilt basket as the king and queen come down the steps. The grandfather's house and garden. The stately, white-haired grandfather, whom they called my lord, and who was, it seemed, the aunt's father. The banquet. The picture gallery. The gardens, lit up by little colored oil lamps, hung in festoons from tree to tree. The blazing torches, the music, the mosque. A sort of play without words, in which everyone wore the most wonderful and beautiful dresses, and the queen herself took apart, dressed all in gauze and jewels and white swan's feathers. All these things were like a dream to Dickie, and through it all the words kept on saying themselves to him very gently, very quietly, and without stopping, Gravesend. That's where the lodging house is where Beale is waiting for you, the man you called father. You promised to go there as soon as you could. Why haven't you gone? Gravesend. That's where the lodging house is where Beale, and so on, over and over again. And how can anyone enjoy anything when this sort of thing keeps on saying itself under, and over, and through, and between everything he sees, and hears, and feels, and thinks? And the worst of it was that now, for the first time since he had found that he was not lame, he felt more than felt he knew that the old new cross life had not been a fever dream. And that Beale, who had been kind to him, and taken him through the pleasant country, and slept with him in the bed with green curtains, was really waiting for him at Gravesend. And this is all a dream, said Dickie, and I must wake up. But he couldn't wake up. And the trees, and grass, and lights, and beautiful things, the kindly great people with their splendid dresses, the king and queen, the aunts and uncles, and all the little cousins, all these things refused to fade away and jumble themselves up as things do in dreams. They remained solid and real. He knew that this must be a dream, and that Beale and Gravesend, and new cross, and the old lame life were the real thing, and yet he could not wake up. All the same the light had gone out of everything, and it is small wonder that when he got home at last, very tired indeed, to his father's house at Depford, he burst into tears as nurse was undressing him. What ails my lamb, she asked. I can't explain. You wouldn't understand, said Dickie. Try, she said, very earnestly. He looked round the room with the tapestries and heavy furniture. I can't, he said. Try, she said again. It's, don't laugh, nurse. There's a dream that feels real, about a dreadful place, oh, so different from this. But there's a man waiting there for me that was good to me when I was, when I wasn't, that was good to me. He's waiting in the dream, and I want to get back to him, and I can't. Thart better here than in that dreadful place, said the nurse stroking his hair. Yes, but, Beale, I know he's waiting there. I wish I could bring him here. Not yet, said the nurse surprisingly. It is not easy to bring those we love from one dream to another. One dream to another? Just never hear that all life is a dream, she asked him. But thou shalt go, heaven forbid, that one of thy race should fail a friend. Look, there are fresh sheets on thy bed. Lie still and think of him that was good to thee. He lay there, very still. He had decided to wake up, to wake up to the old, hard, cruel life, to poverty, dullness, lameness. There was no other thing to be done. He must wake up and keep his promise to Beale. But it was hard, hard, hard. The beautiful house, the beautiful garden, the games, the boat building, the soft clothes, the kind people, the uplifting sense that he was somebody, yet he must go. Yes, if he could he would. The nurse had taken burning wood from the hearth and set it on a silver plate. Now she strewed something on the glowing embers. Lie straight and still, she said, and wished thyself were thou wasst when thou left that dream. He did so. A thick, sweet smoke rose from the little fire in the silver plate, and the nurse was chanting something in a very low voice. Men die, men die is not, times fly, time flies not. That was all he heard, though he heard confusedly that there was more. He seemed to sink deep into a soft sea of sleep, to be rocked on its tide, and then to be flung by its waves, roughly, suddenly, on some hard shore of awakening. He opened his eyes. He was in the little bare front room in New Cross. Tinkler and the white seal lay on the floor among white moonflower seeds confusedly scattered, and the gas lamp from the street shone through the dirty panes on the newspapers and sacking. What a dream, said Dickie, shivering and very sleepy. Oh, what a dream! He put Tinkler and the seal in one pocket, gathered up the moon seeds and put them in the other, drew the old newspapers over him, and went to sleep. The morning sun woke him. A lot, he said, to dream all that, weeks and weeks, in just a little bit of one little night, if it had only been true. He jumped up, eager to start for Gravesend. Since he had waked out of that wonderful dream on purpose to go to Gravesend, he might as well start at once, but his jump ended in a sickening sideways fall, and his head knocked against the wanes' coat. I had forgotten, he said slowly. I shouldn't have thought any dream could have made me forget about my foot. For he had indeed forgotten it, and had leaped up eagerly, confidently, as a sound child leaps, and the lame foot had betrayed him, thrown him down. He crawled across to where the crutch lay, the old broom cut down that Lady Talbot had covered with a black velvet for him. And now, he said, I must get to Gravesend. He looked out of the window at the dismal, sordid street. I wonder, he said, if Depford was ever really like it was in my dreams, the gardens and the clean river and the fields. He got out of the house when no one was looking, and went off down the street. Clickety-clack went the crutch on the dusty pavement. His back ached, his lame foot hurt, his good leg was tired and stiff, and his heart, too, was very tired. About this time in the dream he had chosen to awaken from, for the sake of Beale, a bowl of porridge would be smoking at the end of a long oak table, and a great carved chair would be set for a little boy who was not there. Dickie strode on manfully, but the pain in his back made him feel sick. I don't know as I can do it, he said. Then he saw three gold balls above the door of the friendly pawnbroker. He looked, hesitated, shrugged his shoulders and went in. Hello, said the pawnbroker. Here we are again. Want to pawn the rattle? Eh? No, said Dickie, but what'll you give me on the seal you gave me? The pawnbroker stared, frowned and burst out laughing. If you don't beat all, he said, I give you a present, and you come to pledge it with me. You should have been one of our people, so you want to pledge the seal. Well, well. I'd much rather not, said Dickie seriously, because I love it very much. But I must have my fair to Gravesend. My father's there waiting for me, and I don't want to leave Tinkler behind. He showed the rattle. What's the fair to Gravesend? Don't know. I thought you'd know. Will you give me the fair for the seal? The pawnbroker hesitated and looked hard at him. No, he said, no. The seal's not worth it. Not but what, it's a very good seal, he had, very good indeed. See here, said Dickie suddenly, I know what honor is now, and the word of a gentleman. You will not let me pledge the seal with you. Then let me pledge my word, my word of honor. Lend me the money to take me to Gravesend, and by the honor of a gentleman, I will repay you within a month. The voice was firm. The accent, though strange, was not the accent of Depford Street Boys. It was the accent of the boy who had had two tutors, and a big garden, a place in the king's water party and a knowledge of what it means to belong to a noble house. The pawnbroker looked at him with the unerring instinct of his race. He knew that this was not play-acting, that there was something behind it, something real. The sense of romance, of great things, all about them transcending the ordinary things of life, this in the Jews has survived centuries of torment, shame, cruelty, and oppression. This inherited sense of romance in the pawnbroker now, leapt to answer Dickie's appeal. And I do hope I am not confusing you. Stick to it. Read it again if you don't understand. What I mean is that the Jews always see the big, beautiful things. They don't just see that gray is made of black and white. They see how incredibly black, black can be, and that there may be a whiteness transcending all the whitest dreams in the world. You're a rum, little chap, was what the pawnbroker said. But I like your pluck. Every man's got to make a fool of himself one time or another, he added, apologizing to the spirit of business. You mean you will, said Dickie eagerly. More fool of me, said the Jew, feeling in his pocket. You won't be sorry, not in the end you won't, said Dickie, as the pawnbroker laid certain monies before him on the mahogany counter. You'll lend me this? You'll trust me? Looks like it, said the Jew. Then someday I shall do something for you. I don't know what, but something. We never forget. We... He stopped. He remembered that he was poor little lame Dick Harding, with no right to that other name which had been his in the dream. He picked up the coins, put them in his pocket, felt the moon seeds. I cannot repay your kindness, he said, though someday I will repay your silver. But these seeds, the moon seeds, he pulled out a handful. You liked the flowers? He handed a generous score across the red-brown polished wood. Thank you, my lad, said the pawnbroker. I'll raise them in gentle heat. I think they grow best in moonlight, said Dickie. So he came to Gravesend, and the common lodging-house. And the weary, sad, and very anxious man rose up from his place by the fire, when the clickety-clack of the crutch sounded on the threshold. It's the nipper, he said, and came very quickly to the door, and got his arm round Dickie's shoulders. The little nipper! So it ain't. I thought you'd gotten pinched. No, I didn't. I knew your clever ways. I knew you was bound to turn up. Yes, said Dickie, looking round the tramp's kitchen, and remembering the long, clean tapestry hung dining-hall of his dream. Yes, I was bound to turn up. You wanted me to, didn't you? He added. Wanted you to? Beal answered, holding him close and looking at him, as men look at some rare treasure gained with much cost, and after long seeking. Wanted you not? Arf! I don't think, and drew him in and shut the door. Then I'm glad I came, said Dickie. But in his heart he was not glad. In his heart he longed for that pleasant house, where he was the young master, and was not lame any more. But in his soul he was glad, because the soul is greater than the heart, and knows greater things. And now Dickie loved Beal more than ever, because for him he had sacrificed his dream. So he had gained something, because loving people is the best thing in the world. Better even than being loved. Just think this out, will you, and see if I'm not right. There were herrings for tea, and in the hard bed, with his clothes and his boots under the pillows, Dickie slept soundly. But he did not dream. Yet when he woke in the morning, remembering many things, he said to himself, Is this the dream, or was the other the dream? And it seemed a foolish question, with the feel of the coarse sheets, and the smell of the close room, and Mr. Beal's voice saying, Rows up, Nipper, there's sausangers for breakfast. End of Chapter 4, Part 2. Section 8 of Harding's Luck. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sandra Estenson. Harding's Luck by Edith Nesbitt. Chapter 5, Part 1. To Get Your Own Living. No, said Mr. Beal. We ain't gonna crack no more cribs. It's low, that's what it is. I quite grant you it's low, so I suppose we'll have to take the road again. Dickie and he were sitting in the sunshine on a sloping field. They had been sitting there all the morning, and Dickie had told Mr. Beal all his earthly adventures, from the moment the red-headed man had lifted him up to the window of Talbot Court, to the time when he had come in by the open door of the common lodging-house. What a nipper it is, though, said Mr. Beal regretfully. For the burglaring, I mean, sharp, clever, no one to touch him. But I don't caught into it myself, he added quickly, not the burglaring I don't. You're always liable to get yourself into trouble over it, one way or the other. That's the worst of it. I don't know how it is, he ended pensively. But somehow it always leads to trouble. Dickie picked up seven straws from among the stubble, and idly plated them together. The nurse had taught him this in the dream, when he was still weak from the fever. That's very flashed, that what you're doing, said Beal. Who learned you that? I learned it in a dream, said Dickie slowly. I dreamed I had a fever. And I'll tell you, if you like, it's a good yarn, good as here warred very near. Beal lay back on the dry stubble, his pipe between his teeth. Fire away, he said, and Dickie fired away. When the long tail ended, the sun was beginning to go down towards its bed in the west. There was a pause. You'd make a tidy bit on the walls, said Beal, quite awestruck. The things you think of. When did you make all that up? I dreamed it, I tell you, said Dickie. You always could stick it on, said Beal, admiringly. I ain't going to stick it on, never no more, said Dickie. They called it lying and cheating, where I was, in my dream, I mean. Once let a nipper out of your sight, said Mr. Beal sadly, and see what comes of it. No two are going to stick it on no more. Then how's us to get an honest living? Answer me that, young chap. I don't know, said Dickie, but we gotta do it somehow. It ain't to be done, not with all the unemployment there is about, said Mr. Beal. Besides, you've got a regular gift for sticking it on. A talent, I call it, and now you won't throw it away. But you can't. We got a live. In the dream, said Dickie, there didn't seem to be no unemployed. Everyone was apprenticed to a trade. I wish it was like that here. Well, it ain't, said Mr. Beal shortly. I wasn't never apprenticed to no trade, no more than what you'll be. Worst luck, said Dickie, but I started learning a lot of things, games mostly, in the dream I did, and I started making a boat. A galleon, they called it. All the names is different there, and I carved a little box, a fair treat it was, with my father's arms on it. Your father's what? Coat of arms. Gentlemen there all has to fit things, patterns like. They call them coats of arms. And they put it on their silver and their carriages and their furniture. Put what? Beal asked again. The Blazen. All gentle people have it. Don't you come Blazen to off over me, said Beal with a sudden fierceness, because I won't have it, see. It's them bloomin' Talbots put all this rot in your head. The Talbots, said Dickie. All the Talbots ain't been gentry more than a couple hundred years. Our family's as old as King Alfred. Stowe I say, said Beal, more fiercely still. I see what you're after. You want us to part company, that's what you want. Well go. Go back to your Talbots and be the nice lady's little boy with velvet kicksies and a clean ink he wants a week. That's what you do. Dickie looked for Lornley out over the river. I can't help what I dreams, can I? He said. In the dream I'd got lots of things. Oncles and aunts and a little brother. I never seen him, though. And a father and a mother and all. It's different here. I ain't got no about you here, father. Well then, said Beal, more gently. What do you go settin' yourself up again me for? I ain't, said Dickie. I thought you liked me to tell you everything. Silence. Dickie could not help noticing the dirty shirt, the dirty face, the three days beard, the filthy clothes of his friend, and he thought of his other friend, Sebastian of the Docks. He saw the pale blue reproachful eyes of Beal looking out of that dirty face. And he spoke aloud, quite without meaning to. All that don't make no difference, he said. Eh, said Beal, with miserable, angry eyes. Look here, said Dickie desperately. I'm gonna show you. This ear's more tinkler. What I told you about. What pawns for a bob. I wouldn't show it to no one but you. Swelt me, I wouldn't. He held the little rattle out. Beal took it. It's a fancy bit, I will say. He owned. Look here, said Dickie. What I mean to say. He stopped. What was the use of telling Beal that he had come back out of the dream, just for his sake? Beal, who did not believe in the dream, did not understand it, hated it. Don't you go turn in again me, he said. Whether I dream or not, you and me'll stand together. I'm not gonna do things what's wrong. Low dirty tricks, so I ain't. But I knows we can get on without that. What would you like to do for a living if you would choose? I won't never put to no trade, said Beal, set me an Andy with a horse. I was a Wagner's mate when I was a boy. He likes a horse, or dog, he added. Ain't no good with me hands. Not at working, you know, not to say working. Dickie suppressed a wild notion that he had of getting into that dream again, learning some useful trade there, and waking up and teaching it to Mr. Beal. Ain't there nothing else you'd like to do? He asked. I don't know, is there is? Said Mr. Beal, drearly. Without it was pigeons. Then Dickie wondered whether things that you learned in dreams would stay learned. Things you learned to do with your hands. The Greek and Latin stayed learned right enough and sang in his brain encouragingly. Don't you get surety if I talk about that dream? He said, you don't know what a dream it was. I wasn't kidding you, I did dream it, on or bright. I dreamed I could carve wood, make boxes and things. I wish I had a bit of fine green wood I'd like to try. I cut the knife they gave me to cut the string of the basket and the train. It's jolly sharp. What sort of wood? Beal asked. It was mahogany I dreamed I made my box with. Said Dickie. I would like to try. Off his poor chump, Beal murmured with bitter self-reproach. My do and do, putting him on to a job like Talbot Corp. The nipper is. He stretched himself and got up. I'll get you a bit of mahogany from somewheres. He said very gently. I didn't mean nothing old chap. You keep all on about your dreams. I don't mind. I likes it. Let's get a bracelet or kippers and make a night of it. So they went back to the graves and lodging house. Next day Mr. Beal produced the lonely leg of a sofa. Mahogany, a fat, round turned leg. Old and seasoned. This what you want? He asked. Dickie took it eagerly. I do wonder if I can. He said. I feel just exactly as if I could. I say, Father, let's get out in the woods somewheres. Quiet and take our grub along. Somewheres where nobody can't say, Watch you up to and make a mock of me. They found a place, such as Dickie desired, a warm, sunny nest in the heart of a green wood. And all through the long, warm hours of the autumn day, Mr. Beal lay lazily in the sunshine, while Dickie very pale and determined, sliced, chipped, and picked at the sofa leg, with the knife the gardener had given him. It was hard to make him lay the work down, even for dinner, which was of a delicious and extravagant kind, new bread, German sausage, and beer in a flat bottle. For the moment when the knife touched the wood, Dickie knew that he had not forgotten, and that what he had done in the depth for dockyard, under the eyes of Sebastian, the shipwright who had helped to sink the armada, he could do now alone in the woods beyond Gravesend. It was after dinner that Mr. Beal began to be interested. Swelt me, he said, but you've got the hang of it somehow. A box ain't it? A box, said Dickie, smoothing a rough corner, a box with a lid that fits, and I'll carve our arms on the top, see. I've left that bit sticking up a purpose. It was the hardest day's work Dickie had ever done. He stuck to it, and he 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. Beal, striking a match to look at it, if that ain't a fair treat, there's many a swell bloke who'd give off a dollar for that to put its back in. You've got to 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 Beal and Dickie went back to supper in the crowded gas-lit room. When supper was over, it was tripping onions and fried potatoes, very luxurious. Beal got up and stood before the fire. I'm going to add an auction, I am, he said to the company at large. Here's a thing in a very pretty thing, a baggy box, or a snuff box, or a box to shut your old money in, or your diamonds. What offers? And eat round, said a black brown woman with a basket covered in American cloth, no blacker than her eyes. That I will, said Beal readily, all and it round in me and, and I'll do the and in myself. He took it around from one to another, showed the neat corners, the neat carving, the neat fit of the square lid. Would you nick that? asked a man with a red handkerchief. The nipper made it. Pinched it more likely, someone said. I seen him make it, said Beal, frowning a little. Let me have a squint, said a dingy gray old man sitting apart, for some reason of his own. Beal let the man take the box into his hand, but he kept very close to him and kept his eyes on the box. A lot of one piece, said the old man. I don't know who made it, I don't care. But that was made by a workman as no was his trade. I was a cabinet maker once though, you wouldn't think it to look at me. There ain't nobody here to pay with that little object's worth. Oil it up with a drop of coldened seed and leave it all night. And then in the morning, you rub it on your trouser leg to shine it. And then rub it in the mud to dirty it. And then oil it all again and dirty it again. And you'll get off a thickened fort as genuine old antique. That's what you do. Thank you, Daddy, said Beal, and so I will. He slipped the box in his pocket. When Dickey next saw the box, it looked as old as any box need look. Now we'll look out for the shop where they sell these air-rolled antiques, said Beal. They were on the road, and their faces were set towards London. Dickey's face looked pinched and white. Beal noticed it. You don't look up too much, he said. Weren't your bed too liking? The bed was all right, said Dickey, thinking of the bed and the dream. I didn't sleep much though. Any more dreams? Beal asked kindly enough. No, said Dickey. I think perhaps it was me who wanted so to dream again, kept me awake. I deceived, said Beal, picking up a strata chew. Dickey 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 Beal caught him by the arm. And as he swung round by that arm, Beal saw the boy's eyes were thick with tears. Ain't o' yourself, have you? He said. For in all their wanderings, these were the first tears Dickey had shed. No, said Dickey, and hid his face against Beal's coat sleeve. It's only— Well, is it then, said Beal, in the accents of long, disused tenderness? Tell your old father then. It's silly, sob Dickey. You never mind whether it's silly or not, said Beal. You out with it. In that dream, said Dickey, I wasn't lame. Think of that now, said Beal admiringly. You best dream that every night, then you won't mind so much of a daytime. But I mind more, said Dickey sniffing hard, much, much more. Beal, without more words, made room for him in the crowded perambulator. And they went on. Dickey's sniff subsided, silence. Presently. I say, father, I'm sorry I acted so silly. You never see me blubber for and you won't again, he said. And Beal said awkwardly. That's all right, mate. You're pretty flush, the boy asked later on. Not so dusty, said the man. Because I want to give that there little box to a chap, I know, what let me the money for the train to come to you at Gravesend. Pay him some other day when we're flusher. I'd rather pay him now, said Dickey, or I could make another box. There's a bit of the sofa leg left, ain't there? There was. And Dickey worked away at it in the odd moments that cluster round mealtimes, the half hours before bed, and before the morning start. Mr. Beal 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 Beal appealed to him would he say, Father's very good to me, I don't know what I should do with our father. And so at last they came to Newcross again. And Mr. Beal stepped in for a pint at the railway hotel, while Dickey went clickety-clack along the pavement to his friend the pawnbroker. Here we are again, said the tradesman. Comeed upon the rattle, Dickey laughed. Paunting the rattle seemed suddenly to have become a very old good joke between them. Look here, mister, he said. Let chink what you let me to get to Gravesend with. He paused and added in his other voice. It was very good of you, sir. I'm not going to lend you any more if that's what you're after, said the Jew who had already reproached himself for his confiding generosity. It's not them I have to, said Dickey with dignity. Oh, I wish to repay you. Got the money, said the Jew, laughing, not unkindly. No, said Dickey, but I've got this. He handed the little box across the counter. Where'd you get it? I made it. The pawnbroker laughed again. Well, well, I'd ask no questions and you'll tell me no lies, eh? I shall certainly tell you no lies, said Dickey with the dignity of the dreamboy who was not a cripple and was heir to a great and gentle name. Will you take it instead of the money? The pawnbroker turned the box over in his hands, while kindness and honesty struggled fiercely within him against the habits of a business life. Dickey eyed the china vases and concertinas and teaspoons tied together in a fan shape and waited silently. It's worth more than I lent you, the man said at last with an effort, and it isn't everyone who would own to that, mind you. I know it isn't, said Dickey. Will you please take it to pay my debt to you, and if it is worth more, accept it as a grateful gift from one who is still gratefully your debtor. You'd make a fortune on the halls, said the man, as Beale had said, the way you talk beats everything all serene. I'll take the box in full discharge of your debt, but you might as well tell me where you got it. I made it, said Dickey, and put his lips together very tightly. You did, did you? Then I'll tell you what. I'll give you four bob for every one of them that you make and bring to me. You might do different coats of arms, see? I was only taught to do one, said Dickey. Just then a customer came in, a woman with her Sunday dress and a pair of sheets to pawn, because her man was out of work and the children were hungry. Run along now, said the Jew. I've nothing more for you today. Dickey flushed and went. Three days later the crutch clattered at the pawnbroker's door, and Dickey laid two more little boxes on the counter. Here you are, he said. The pawnbroker looked and exclaimed and questioned and wondered, and Dickey went away with eight silver shillings in his pocket, the first coins he had ever carried in his life. They seemed to have been coined in some fairy mint. They were so different from any other money he had ever handled. Mr. Beale, waiting for him by New Cross Station, put his empty pipe in his pocket and strolled down to meet him. Dickey drew him down a side street and held out the silver. Two days' work, he said. We ain't no call to take the road set for a pleasure trip. I got a trade. I have. How much a week? Four bob a day. Twenty-four bob I make. Lore, said Beale with his mouth opened. Now I tell you what, you get all some more old softy legs and a stone and a strap to sharpen my knife with, and there we are. Twenty-four shillings a week for a chap, and his nipper ain't so dusty, Farver, is it? I'd thought it all up and settled it all out, so long as the weather holds, we'll sleep in the bed with the green curtains, and I'll have a green wood for my workshop, and when the nights get cold, we'll rent a room of our very own and live like tofts, won't us? The child's eyes were shining with excitement. End of Chapter 5 Part 1 Section 9 of Harding's Luck This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sandra Estenson. Harding's Luck by Edith Nesbitt. Chapter 5 Part 2 To Get Your Own Living Pwn my Sam, I believe you like work, said Mr. Biel in tones of intense astonishment. I like it, Baron Cajun, said Dicky. They did as Dicky had said, and for two days Mr. Biel was content to eat and doze and wake and watch Dicky's busy fingers and eat and doze again. But on the third day he announced that he was getting the fidgets in his legs. I must do a prowl, he said. I'll be back before sundown. Don't you forget to eat your dinner when the sun comes level the top of that high tree. So long may ye. Mr. Biel slouched off in the sunshine in his filthy old clothes, and Dicky was left to work alone in the green and golden wood. It was very still. Dicky hardly moved at all, and the chips that fell from his work fell more softly than the twigs and acorns that dropped now and then from some high bow. A gold finch swung on a swaying hazel branch and looked at him with bright eyes, unafraid. A grass snake slid swiftly by. It was out on a particular business of its own, so it was not afraid of Dicky, nor he of it. A wood pigeon swept rustling wings across the glade where he sat, and once a squirrel ran right along a bow to look down at him and chatter, thickening its tail as a cat does hers when she is angry. It was a long and very beautiful day, the first that Dicky had ever spent alone. He worked harder than ever, and when by the lessening light it was impossible to work any longer, he lay back against a tree-root to rest his tired back, and to gloat over the thought that he had made two boxes in one day. Eight shillings in one single day, eight splendid shillings. The sun was quite down before Mr. Biel returned. He looked unnaturally fat, and as he sat down on the moss, something inside the front of his jacket moved and whined. Oh, what is it? Dicky asked, sitting up alert in a moment. Now a dog. Oh, Father, you don't know how I've always wanted a dog. Well, you've got your want now three times over, you have, said Biel, and unbuttoning his jacket took out a double handful of soft, fluffy, sprawling arms and legs and heads and tails. Three little fat white puppies. Oh, you jolly little beasts, said Dicky. Ain't they fine? Where'd you get them? They was give me, said Mr. Biel, renotting his handkerchief. Boy a lady in the country. He fixed his eyes on the soft blue of the darkening sky. Try another, said Dicky calmly. Ah, ain't no use trying to deceive the nipper, that sharp he is, said Biel, with a mixture of pride and confusion. Well then, not to deceive you, mate, I bottom. With what, said Dicky, lightening quick? With my money, mate, with money, of course. How'd you get it? No answer. You didn't pinch it. No, on my sacred Sam I didn't, said Biel eagerly. Pinching leads to trouble and I've had my lesson. You caged it then, said Dicky. Well, said Biel sheepishly, what if I did? You've spoiled everything, said Dicky, furious, and he flung the two newly finished boxes violently to the ground, and sat frowning with eyes downcast. Biel, on all fours, retrieved the boxes. Two, he said in awestruck tones, there never was such a nipper. It doesn't matter, said Dicky in a heartbroken voice. You've spoiled everything, and you lied to me too. It's all spoiled. I wish I'd never come back out of the dream, so I do. Now looky here, said Biel sternly. Don't you come this over us, cause I won't stand it. Dear ear, I'm the master. Or is it you? Do you think I'm going to put up with being bullied and drove by a little nipper like as I could lay out with one hand, and as easy as what I could one of them pups? He moved his foot among the soft, strong little things that were uttering baby growls and biting at his broken boot with their little white teeth. Do, said Dicky bitterly. Lay me out if you want to. I don't care. Now, now, matey. Biel's tone changed suddenly to affectionate remonstrance. I was only kidding. Don't take it like that. You know I wouldn't hurt an ear of your head. So I wouldn't. I wanted us to live honest by our work as we was doing, and you've lowered us to the Cajun again. That's why I can't stick, said Dicky. I wasn't. I didn't have to do a single bit of patter for it anyway. It was a wedding, and I stopped to have a squint. And there'd been a water cart as Ed stopped to have a squint too, and made a puddle as big as a tea tray. And all the path wet, and the lady in her white, she looks at the path, and the gent, he looks at her white boots. And I off's with me coat, like that there rally jet you yard me about, and flops it down in the middle of the puddle right in front of the gal. And she tips me a smile like an angel, and holds out her hand in her white glove at all. And you know what my hands is like, matey. Yes, said Dicky, go on. And she touched me. And she touched me and, and she walks across me coat. And the people laughed and clapped, silly apes, and the gents. He tipped me with a thicken, and I spotted the pups a month ago. And all I knew I could have them for five bob, so I got them. And I'll sell them for triple the money. You see if I don't. And I thought you'd be as pleased as pleased. Me acting so silly, like as if I was one of them yarns, oh yearning and all. And then first minute I get there, you sets on to me. But that's always the way. Please, please forgive me, father. Said Dicky, very much ashamed of himself. I'm so sorry. And it was nice of you, and I am pleased. And I do love the pups, and we won't sell all three will us. I would so love to have one. I'd call it true. One of the dogs in my dream was called that. You do forgive me, don't you, father? Oh, that's all right, said Beal. Next day again, a little boy worked alone in a wood. And yet not alone, for a small pup sprawled, and yapped, and scrapped, and grunted round him as he worked. No squirrels or birds came that day to lighten Dicky's solitude, but true was more to him than many birds or squirrels. A woman they had overtaken on the road had given him a bit of blue ribbon for the puppy's neck, in return for the lift which Mr. Beal had given her basket on the perambulator. She was selling ribbons and cottons and needles from door to door, and made a poor thing of it, she told them. And my grandfather ease-farmed his own land in Sussex, she told them, looking with bleared eyes across the fields. Dicky only made a box and a part of a box that day, and while he sat making it, far away in London, a respectable-looking man was walking up and down Regent Street, among the shoppers and the motors and carriages, with a fluffy little white dog under each arm, and he sold both the dogs. One was a lady in a carriage, he told Dicky later on. Arrest her two thickens, all I did. Never turned a hair, no more I didn't. She didn't care what its price was. Bless you, said it was a dinky darling and she wanted it. Gents said he'd get her plenty better. No, she wanted that and she got it too. Fool in his money soon potted what I say, and to the one I let him go cheap, for fourteen bob to a black clergy. Black as your aunt he was, from foreign parts. So now we're blooming toffs, and I'll get a pair of reach-me-downs, this very blooming night. And what price that there room was you talking about? It was the beginning of a new life. Dicky wrote out their accounts on a large flagstone, near the horse trough, by the checkers, with a bit of billboard chalk that a man gave him. It was like this. Got, box four, box four, box four, box four, dog forty, dog fourteen, seventy. Spent, dogs four, grub, nineteen, tram four, leg two, twenty-nine. And he made out, before he rubbed the chalk off the stones, that the difference between twenty-nine shillings and seventy was about two pounds. And that was more than Dicky had ever had, or bill either, for many a long year. Then Bill came, wiping his mouth, and they walked idly up the road. Lodgings, or rather a lodging, a room, but when you have had what is called the key of the street for years enough, you hardly know where to look for the key of a room. Where'd you like to be? Bill asked anxiously. You like country best, don't you? Yes, said Dicky. But in the winter time, Bill urged. Well, town then, said Dicky, who was trying to invent a box of a new and different shape to be carved next day. I could keep a lookout for likely pups, said Bill. There's a plenty here and there all about, and you with your boxes? We might go three bob a week for the room. I'd like a house with a garden, said Dicky. Go back to your talbots, said Bill. No, but look here, said Dicky, if I was to take a house, just a little house, and lend half of it. We ain't got no sticks to put in it. Ain't there some way of getting furniture without paying for it? There a system, but that's for tofts on three quid a week, regular wages. They won't look at us. We'll get three quid right enough before we're done, said Dicky firmly. And if we want London, I'd like our old house, because of the seeds I sowed in the garden. All I lay they'll keep on a coming up forever and ever. That's what annuals means. The chap next door told me. It means flowers as comes up fresh every year. Let's tramp up, and I'll show it to you, where we used to live. And when they had tramped up, and Dicky had shown Mr. Bill the sad-faced little house, Mr. Bill owned that it would do him a fair treat. But we must have some bit of sticks, or else nobody won't let us have no houses. They flattened their noses against the front window. The newspapers and dirty sackings still lay scattered on the floor, as they had fallen from Dicky when he had got up the morning after the night when he had had the dream. The sight pulled at Dicky's heartstrings. He felt as a man might feel, who beheld once more the seaport from which, in old and beautiful days, he had set sail for the shores of romance, the golden splendor of the fortunate islands. I could douse air again, he said wistfully. It'd save four pence. Both houses, both sides, is empty. Nobody would know. We don't need to look to our four pence's so sharps all that, said Bill. Oh, I'd like to. Wonder you ain't afeard. I'm used to it, said Dicky. It was our own house, you see. You come along to your supper, said Bill. Don't be so flash with your own houses. They had supper at a coffee shop in the Broadway. Two mugs, four billiard balls, and off a dozen doorsteps, was Mr. Bill's order. You or I, more polite if less picturesque, would perhaps have said two cups of tea, four eggs, and some thick bread and butter. It was a pleasant meal, only just at the end it turned into something quite different. The shop was one of those old-fashioned ones, divided by partitions like the stalls and the stable, and over the top of this partition there suddenly appeared a head. Dicky's mug paused in air halfway to his mouth, which remained open. What's up, Bill asked, trying to turn on the narrow seat and look up, which he couldn't do. Is him, whispered Dicky, setting down the mug, that red-headed chap, what I never see. And then the red-headed man came round the partition and sat down beside Bill and talked to him, and Dicky wished he wouldn't. He heard a little of the conversation, only, better luck next time, from the red-headed man, and I don't know as I'm taking any, from Bill. And at the parting, the red-headed man, saying, all doth same shop as what you do, said Bill, giving the name of the lodging-house where, on the way to the coffee-shop, Bill had left the perambulator and engaged their beds. Tell you all about it in the morning, for the last words of the red-headed one, as he slouched out, and Dicky and Bill were left to finish the door steps and drink the cold tea that had slopped into their saucers. When they went out, Dicky said, What did he want, father, that red-headed chap? Bill did not at once answer. I wouldn't if I was you, said Dicky, looking straight in front of him as they walked. Wouldn't what? Whatever he wants to. Why, I ain't told you yet what he does want. He ain't up to no good, I know that. He's full of notions, that's what he is, said Bill. If some of his notions come out right, I'll be a-riding in his own carton orsofore we know where we are, and us a-trampon in his dust. Riding in black Maria more like, said Dicky. Well, I ain't asking you to do anything, am I? Said Bill. No, you ain't. But whatever you're in, I'ma gonna be in. That's all. Don't you take on, said Bill comfortably. I ain't said I'll be in anything yet, have I? Let's hear what he says in the morning. If he's layin' a safe lay, oh, Bill won't be in it. You may lay to that. Don't let, said Dicky earnestly. Look here, father, let us go, both of us, too, and sleep in that there old house of ours. You don't want that red-headed chap. He'll spoil everything. Oh, I know we will. Just as we're gettin' along so straight and gay. Don't let's go to that there, Doss. Let's lay in the old house. Ain't all I never to have, never award with nobody without its you, said Bill, but not angrily. Not with him. He ain't no class, said Dicky firmly. And, oh, father, I do so want to sleep in that house. That's where I add the dream, you know. Oh, well, come on, then, said Bill, lucky we've got our thick coats on. It was quite easy for Dicky to get into the house, just as he had done before, and to go along the passage and open the front door for Mr. Bill, who walked in as bold as brass. They made themselves comfortable with the sacking and old papers. But one at least of the two missed the luxury of clean air and soft moss. And a bed canopy strewn with stars. Mr. Bill was soon asleep, and Dicky lay still, his heart beating to the tune of the hope that now, at last, in this place where it had once come, his dream would come again. But it did not come. Even sleep, plain, restful, dreamless sleep, would not come to him. At last he could lie still no longer. He slipped from under the paper, whose rustling did not disturb Mr. Bill's slumbers, and moved into the square of light, thrown through the window by the street lamp. He felt in his pockets, pulled out tinkler and the white seal, set them on the floor, and moved by memories of the great night when his dream had come to him, arranged the moon seeds round them in the same pattern they had lain in on the night of nights. And the moment that he had laid the last seed, completing the crossed triangles, the magic began again. All was as it had been before, the tired eyes that must close, the feeling that through his closed lids he could yet see something moving in the center of the star that the two triangles made. Where do you want to go? Said the same small soft voice that had spoken before. But this time Dicky did not reply that he was not particular. Instead he said, oh, there, I want to go there. Feeling quite sure that whoever owned that voice would know as well as he, or even better, where there was, and how to get to it. And as on that other night, everything grew very quiet, and sleep wrapped Dicky round like a soft garment. When he awoke, he lay in the big four-post bed with the green and white curtains. About him were the tapestry walls and the heavy furniture of the dream. Oh, he cried aloud. I found it again. I found it. I found it. And then the old nurse with the hooped petticoats and the queer cap, and the white ruff was bending over him. Her wrinkled face was a light with love and tenderness. So Thart awoke at last, she said. Did Thou find thy friend in thy dreams? Dicky hugged her. I found the way back, he said. I didn't know which is the dream and which is real, but you know. Yes, said the old nurse, I know. The one is as real as the other. He sprang out of bed and went leaping around the room, jumping on to the chairs and off them, running and dancing. What ails the child, the nurse grumbled. Get thy hose on for shame, taking a chill as like as not. What ails thee to act so? It's the knot being lame. Dicky explained, coming to a standstill by the window that looked out on the good green garden. You don't know how wonderful it seems, just at first, you know? Not to be lame. End of chapter 5, part 2