Harding's Luck Part 2

"Fond of books?"

"I believe you," said d.i.c.kie, and there were no more awkward pauses.

When the pale young man came back with something wrapped in a bit of clean rag, he said a whispered word or two to the p.a.w.nbroker, who unrolled the rag and looked closely at the rattle.

"So it is," he said, "and it's a beauty too, let alone anything else."

"Isn't he?" said d.i.c.kie, touched by this praise of his treasured Tinkler.

"I've got something else here that's got the same crest as your rattle."

"Crest?" said d.i.c.kie; "isn't that what you wear on your helmet in the heat and press of the Tower Nament?"

The p.a.w.nbroker explained that crests no longer live exclusively on helmets, but on all sorts of odd things. And the queer little animal, drawn in fine scratches on the side of the rattle, was, it seemed, a crest.

"Here, Humphreys," he added, "give it a rub up and bring that seal here."

The pale young man did something to Tinkler with some pinky powder and a brush and a wash-leather, while his master fitted together the two halves of a broken white cornelian.

"It came out of a seal," he said, "and I don't mind making you a present of it."

"Oh!" said d.i.c.kie, "you are a real rightern." And he rested his crutch against the counter expressly to clasp his hands in ecstasy as boys in books did.

"My young man shall stick it together with cement," the p.a.w.nbroker went on, "and put it in a little box. Don't you take it out till to-morrow and it'll be stuck fast. Only don't go trying to seal with it, or the sealing-wax will melt the cement. It'll bring you luck, I shouldn't wonder."

(It did; and such luck as the kind p.a.w.nbroker never dreamed of. But that comes further on in the story.)

d.i.c.kie left the shop without his moonflowers, indeed, but with his Tinkler now whitely s.h.i.+ning, and declared to be "real silver, and mind you take care of it, my lad," his white cornelian seal carefully packed in a strong little cardboard box with metal corners. Also a broken-backed copy of "Ingoldsby Legends" and one of "Mrs. Markham's English History," which had no back at all. "You must go on trying to improve your mind," said the p.a.w.nbroker fussily. He was very pleased with himself for having been so kind. "And come back and see me--say next month."

"I will," said d.i.c.kie. "A thousand blessings from a grateful heart. I will come back. I say, you are good! Thank you, thank you--I will come back next month, and tell you everything I have learned from the Perru Sal of your books."

"Perusal," said the p.a.w.nbroker--"that's the way to pernounce it.

Good-bye, my man, and next month."

But next month found d.i.c.kie in a very different place from the p.a.w.nbroker's shop, and with a very different person from the p.a.w.nbroker who in his rural retirement at Brockley gardened in such a gentlemanly way.

d.i.c.kie went home--his aunt was still out. His books told him that treasure is best hidden under loose boards, unless of course your house has a secret panel, which his had not. There was a loose board in his room, where the man "saw to" the gas. He got it up, and pushed his treasures as far in as he could--along the rough, crumbly surface of the lath and plaster.

Not a moment too soon. For before the board was coaxed quite back into its place the voice of the aunt screamed up.

"Come along down, can't you? I can hear you pounding about up there.

Come along down and fetch me a ha'porth o' wood--I can't get the kettle to boil without a fire, can I?"

When d.i.c.kie came down his aunt slightly slapped him, and he took the halfpenny and limped off obediently.

It was a very long time indeed before he came back. Because before he got to the shop with no window to it, but only shutters that were put up at night, where the wood and coal were sold, he saw a Punch and Judy show. He had never seen one before, and it interested him extremely. He longed to see it unpack itself and display its wonders, and he followed it through more streets than he knew; and when he found that it was not going to unpack at all, but was just going home to its bed in an old coach-house, he remembered the fire-wood; and the halfpenny clutched tight and close in his hand seemed to reproach him warmly.

He looked about him, and knew that he did not at all know where he was.

There was a tall, thin, ragged man lounging against a stable door in the yard where the Punch and Judy show lived. He took his clay pipe out of his mouth to say--

"What's up, matey? Lost your way?"

d.i.c.kie explained.

"It's Lavender Terrace where I live," he ended--"Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Street, Deptford."

"I'm going that way myself," said the man, getting away from the wall.

"We'll go back by the boat if you like. Ever been on the boat?"

"No," said d.i.c.kie.

"Like to?"

"Don't mind if I do," said d.i.c.kie.

It was very pleasant with the steamboat going along in such a hurry, pus.h.i.+ng the water out of the way, and puffing and blowing, and something beating inside it like a giant's heart. The wind blew freshly, and the ragged man found a sheltered corner behind the funnel. It was so sheltered, and the wind had been so strong that d.i.c.kie felt sleepy. When he said, "'Ave I bin asleep?" the steamer was stopping at a pier at a strange place with trees.

"Here we are!" said the man. "'Ave you been asleep? Not 'alf! Stir yourself, my man; we get off here."

"Is this Deptford?" d.i.c.kie asked. And the people shoving and crus.h.i.+ng to get off the steamer laughed when he said it.

"Not exackly," said the man, "but it's all right. This 'ere's where we get off. You ain't had yer tea yet, my boy."

It was the most glorious tea d.i.c.kie had ever imagined. Fried eggs and bacon--he had one egg and the man had three--bread and b.u.t.ter--and if the bread was thick, so was the b.u.t.ter--and as many cups of tea as you liked to say thank you for. When it was over the man asked d.i.c.kie if he could walk a little way, and when d.i.c.kie said he could they set out in the most friendly way side by side.

"I like it very much, and thank you kindly," said d.i.c.kie presently. "And the tea and all. An' the egg. And this is the prettiest place ever I see. But I ought to be getting 'ome. I shall catch it a fair treat as it is. She was waitin' for the wood to boil the kettle when I come out."

"Mother?"

"Aunt. Not me real aunt. Only I calls her that."

"She any good?"

"Ain't bad when she's in a good temper."

"That ain't what she'll be in when you gets back. Seems to me you've gone and done it, mate. Why, it's hours and hours since you and me got acquainted. Look! the sun's just going."

It was, over trees more beautiful than anything d.i.c.kie had ever seen, for they were now in a country road, with green hedges and green gra.s.s growing beside it, in which little round-faced flowers grew--daisies they were--even d.i.c.kie knew that.

"I got to stick it," said d.i.c.kie sadly. "I'd best be getting home."

"I wouldn't go 'ome, not if I was you," said the man. "I'd go out and see the world a bit, I would."

"What--me?" said d.i.c.kie.

"Why not? Come, I'll make you a fair offer. Ye come alonger me an' see life! I'm a-goin' to tramp as far as Brighton and back, all alongside the sea. Ever seed the sea?"

"No," said d.i.c.kie. "Oh, no--no, I never."