Harding's Luck Part 29

But Mr. Beale got in at the back-door and out at the front just in time to see the dachshund disappearing at full speed, "like a bit of brown toffee-stick," as he said, round the end of the street. They never saw that dog again.

"Trained to it," Mr. Beale used to say sadly whenever he told the story; "trained to it from a pup, you may lay your life. I see 'im as plain as I see you. 'E listens an' 'e looks, and 'e doesn't 'ear nor see n.o.body.

An' 'e ups on his 'ind legs and turns the 'andle with 'is little twisty front pawses, clever as a monkey, and hout 'e goes like a harrow in a bow. Trained to it, ye see. I bet his master wot taught 'im that's sold him time and again, makin' a good figure every time, for 'e was a 'andsome dawg as ever I see. Trained the dawg to open the door and bunk 'ome. See? Clever, I call it."

"It's a mean trick," said d.i.c.kie when Beale told him of the loss of the dog; "that's what I call it. I'm sorry you've lost the dog."

"I ain't exactly pleased myself," said Beale, "but no use crying over broken gla.s.s. It's the cleverness I think of most," he said admiringly.

"Now I'd never a thought of a thing like that myself--not if I'd lived to a hundred, so I wouldn't. _You_ might 'ave," he told d.i.c.kie flatteringly, "but I wouldn't myself."

"We don't need to," said d.i.c.kie hastily. "We earns our livings. We don't need to cheat to get our livings."

"No, no, dear boy," said Mr. Beale, more hastily still; "course we don't. That's just what I'm a-saying, ain't it? We shouldn't never 'ave thought o' that. No need to, as you say. The cleverness of it!"

This admiration of the cleverness by which he himself had been cheated set d.i.c.kie thinking. He said, very gently and quietly, after a little pause--

"This 'ere walking tower of ours. We pays our own way? No cadging?"

"I should 'ope you know me better than that," said Beale virtuously; "not a patter have I done since I done the Rally and started in the dog line."

"Nor yet no dealings with that redheaded chap what I never see?"

"Now, is it likely?" Beale asked reproachfully. "I should 'ope we're a cut above a low chap like wot 'e is. The pram's dry as a bone and s.h.i.+ny as yer 'at, and we'll start the first thing in the morning."

And in the early morning, which is fresh and sweet even in Deptford, they bade farewell to Amelia and the dogs and set out.

Amelia watched them down the street and waved a farewell as they turned the corner. "It'll be a bit lonesome," she said. "One thing, I shan't be burgled, with all them dogs in the house."

The voices of the dogs, as she went in and shut the door, seemed to a.s.sure her that she would not even be so very lonely.

And now they were really on the road. And they were going to Arden--to that place by the sea where d.i.c.kie's uncle, in the other life, had a castle, and where d.i.c.kie was to meet his cousins, after his seven months of waiting.

You may think that d.i.c.kie would be very excited by the thought of meeting, in this workaday, nowadays world, the children with whom he had had such wonderful adventures in the other world, the dream world--too excited, perhaps, to feel really interested in the little every-day happenings of "the road." But this was not so. The present was after all the real thing. The dreams could wait. The knowledge that they were there, waiting, made all the ordinary things more beautiful and more interesting. The feel of the soft dust underfoot, the bright, dewy gra.s.s and clover by the wayside, the lessening of houses and the growing wideness of field and pasture, all contented and delighted d.i.c.kie. He felt to the full all the joy that Mr. Beale felt in "'oofing it," and when as the sun was sinking they overtook a bent, slow-going figure, it was with a thrill of real pleasure that d.i.c.kie recognized the woman who had given him the blue ribbon for True.

True himself, now grown large and thick of coat, seemed to recognize a friend, gambolled round her dreadful boots, sniffed at her withered hand.

"Give her a lift with her basket, shall us?" d.i.c.kie whispered to Mr.

Beale and climbed out of the perambulator. "I can make s.h.i.+ft to do this last piece."

So the three went on together, in friendly silence. As they neared Orpington the woman said, "Our road parts here; and thank you kindly. A kindness is never wasted, so they say."

"That ain't nothing," said Beale; "besides, there's the blue ribbon."

"That the dog?" the woman asked.

"Same ole dawg," said Beale, with pride.

"A pretty beast," she said. "Well--so long."

She looked back to smile and nod to them when she had taken her basket and the turning to the right, and d.i.c.kie suddenly stiffened all over, as a pointer does when it sees a partridge.

"I say," he cried, "you're the nurse----"

"I've nursed a many in my time," she called back.

"But in the dream ... you know."

"Dreams is queer things," said the woman. "And," she added, "least said is soonest mended."

"But ..." said d.i.c.kie.

"Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut's a good motto," said she, nodded again, and turned resolutely away.

"Not very civil, I don't think," said Beale, "considerin'----"

"Oh, she's all right," said d.i.c.kie, wondering very much, and very anxious that Beale should not wonder. "May I ride in the pram, farver?

My foot's a bit blistered, I think. We ain't done so much walkin'

lately, 'ave us?"

"Ain't tired in yourself, are you?" Mr. Beale asked, "'cause there's a place called Chevering Park, pretty as a picture--I thought we might lay out there. I'm a bit 'ot in the 'oof meself; but I can stick it if you can."

d.i.c.kie could; and when they made their evening camp in a deep gully soft with beech-leaves, and he looked out over the ridge--cautiously, because of keepers--at the smoothness of a mighty slope, green-gray in the dusk, where rabbits frisked and played, he was glad that he had not yielded to his tiredness and stopped to rest the night anywhere else. Chevering Park is a very beautiful place, I would have you to know. And the travellers were lucky. The dogs were good and quiet, and no keeper disturbed their rest or their masters. d.i.c.kie slept with True in his arms, and it was like a draught of soft magic elixir to lie once more in the still, cool night and look up at the stars through the trees.

"Can't think why they ever invented houses," he said, and then he fell asleep.

By short stages, enjoying every step of every day's journey, they went slowly and at their ease through the garden-land of Kent. d.i.c.kie loved every minute of it, every leaf in the hedge, every blade of gra.s.s by the roadside. And most of all he loved the quiet nights when he fell asleep under the stars with True in his arms.

It was all good, all.... And it was worth waiting and working for seven long months, to feel the thrill that d.i.c.kie felt when Beale, as they topped a ridge of the great South Downs, said suddenly, "There's the sea," and, a dozen yards further on, "There's Arden Castle."

There it lay, gray and green, with its old stones and ivy--the same Castle which d.i.c.kie had seen on the day when they lay among the furze bushes and waited to burgle Talbot Court. There were red roofs at one side of the Castle where a house had been built among the ruins. As they drew nearer, and looked down at Arden Castle, d.i.c.kie saw two little figures in its green courtyard, and wondered whether they could possibly be Edred and Elfrida, the little cousins whom he had met in King James the First's time, and who, the nurse said, really belonged to the times of King Edward the Seventh, or Nowadays, just as he did himself. It seemed as though it could hardly be true; but, if it were true, how splendid! What games he and they could have! And what a play-place it was that spread out before him--green and glorious, with the sea on one side and the downs on the other, and in the middle the ruins of Arden Castle.

But as they went on through the furze bushes d.i.c.kie perceived that Mr.

Beale was growing more and more silent and uneasy.

"What's up?" d.i.c.kie asked at last. "Out with it, farver."

"It ain't nothing," said Mr. Beale.

"You ain't afraid those Talbots will know you again?"

"Not much I ain't. They never see my face; and I 'adn't a beard that time like what I've got now."

"Well, then?" said d.i.c.kie.

"Well, if you must 'ave it," said Beale, "we're a-gettin' very near my ole dad's place, and I can't make me mind up."

"I thought we was settled we'd go to see 'im."

"I dunno. If 'e's under the daisies I shan't like it--I tell you straight I shan't like it. But we're a long-lived stock--p'raps 'e's all right. I dunno."