Harding's Luck Part 1

Harding's luck.

by E. [Edith] Nesbit.

CHAPTER I

TINKLER AND THE MOONFLOWER

d.i.c.kIE lived at New Cross. At least the address was New Cross, but really the house where he lived was one of a row of horrid little houses built on the slope where once green fields ran down the hill to the river, and the old houses of the Deptford merchants stood stately in their pleasant gardens and fruitful orchards. All those good fields and happy gardens are built over now. It is as though some wicked giant had taken a big brush full of yellow ochre paint, and another full of mud color, and had painted out the green in streaks of dull yellow and filthy brown; and the brown is the roads and the yellow is the houses.

Miles and miles and miles of them, and not a green thing to be seen except the cabbages in the greengrocers' shops, and here and there some poor trails of creeping-jenny drooping from a dirty window-sill. There is a little yard at the back of each house; this is called "the garden,"

and some of these show green--but they only show it to the houses' back windows. You cannot see it from the street. These gardens are green, because green is the color that most pleases and soothes men's eyes; and however you may shut people up between bars of yellow and mud color, and however hard you may make them work, and however little wage you may pay them for working, there will always be found among those people some men who are willing to work a little longer, and for no wages at all, so that they may have green things growing near them.

But there were no green things growing in the garden at the back of the house where d.i.c.kie lived with his aunt. There were stones and bones, and bits of brick, and dirty old dish-cloths matted together with grease and mud, worn-out broom-heads and broken shovels, a bottomless pail, and the mouldy remains of a hutch where once rabbits had lived. But that was a very long time ago, and d.i.c.kie had never seen the rabbits. A boy had brought a brown rabbit to school once, b.u.t.toned up inside his jacket, and he had let d.i.c.kie hold it in his hands for several minutes before the teacher detected its presence and shut it up in a locker till school should be over. So d.i.c.kie knew what rabbits were like. And he was fond of the hutch for the sake of what had once lived there.

And when his aunt sold the poor remains of the hutch to a man with a barrow who was ready to buy anything, and who took also the pails and the shovels, giving threepence for the lot, d.i.c.kie was almost as unhappy as though the hutch had really held a furry friend. And he hated the man who took the hutch away, all the more because there were empty rabbit-skins hanging sadly from the back of the barrow.

It is really with the going of that rabbit-hutch that this story begins.

Because it was then that d.i.c.kie, having called his aunt a Beast, and hit at her with his little dirty fist, was well slapped and put out into the bereaved yard to "come to himself," as his aunt said. He threw himself down on the ground and cried and wriggled with misery and pain, and wished--ah, many things.

"Wot's the bloomin' row now?" the Man Next Door suddenly asked; "been hittin' of you?"

"They've took away the 'utch," said d.i.c.kie.

"Well, there warn't nothin' in it."

"I diden want it took away," wailed d.i.c.kie.

"Leaves more room," said the Man Next Door, leaning on his spade. It was Sat.u.r.day afternoon and the next-door garden was one of the green ones.

There were small grubby daffodils in it, and dirty-faced little primroses, and an arbor beside the water-b.u.t.t, bare at this time of the year, but still a real arbor. And an elder-tree that in the hot weather had flat, white flowers on it big as tea-plates. And a lilac-tree with brown buds on it. Beautiful. "Say, matey, just you chuck it! Chuck it, I say! How in thunder can I get on with my digging with you 'owlin' yer 'ead off?" inquired the Man Next Door. "You get up and peg along in an'

arst your aunt if she'd be agreeable for me to do up her garden a bit. I could do it odd times. You'd like that."

"Not 'arf!" said d.i.c.kie, getting up.

"Come to yourself, eh?" sneered the aunt. "You mind, and let it be the last time you come your games with me, my beauty. You and your tantrums!"

d.i.c.kie said what it was necessary to say, and got back to the "garden."

"She says she ain't got no time to waste, an' if you 'ave she don't care what you does with it."

"There's a dirty mug you've got on you," said the Man Next Door, leaning over to give d.i.c.kie's face a rub with a handkerchief hardly cleaner.

"Now I'll come over and make a start." He threw his leg over the fence.

"You just peg about an' be busy pickin' up all them fancy articles, and nex' time your aunt goes to Buckingham Palace for the day we'll have a bonfire."

"Fifth o' November?" said d.i.c.kie, sitting down and beginning to draw to himself the rubbish that covered the ground.

"Fifth of anything you like, so long as _she_ ain't about," said he, driving in the spade. "'Ard as any old door-step it is. Never mind, we'll turn it over, and we'll get some little seedses and some little plantses and we shan't know ourselves."

"I got a 'apenny," said d.i.c.kie.

"Well, I'll put one to it, and you leg 'long and buy seedses. That's wot you do."

d.i.c.kie went. He went slowly, because he was lame. And he was lame because his "aunt" had dropped him when he was a baby. She was not a nice woman, and I am glad to say that she goes out of this story almost at once. But she did keep d.i.c.kie when his father died, and she might have sent him to the work-house. For she was not really his aunt, but just the woman of the house where his father had lodged. It was good of her to keep d.i.c.kie, even if she wasn't very kind to him. And as that is all the good I can find to say about her, I will say no more. With his little crutch, made out of a worn-out broom cut down to his little height, he could manage quite well in spite of his lameness.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'GIMME,' SAID d.i.c.kIE--'GIMME A PENN'ORTH O' THAT THERE.'"]

He found the corn-chandler's--a really charming shop that smelled like stables and had deep dusty bins where he would have liked to play. Above the bins were delightful little square-fronted drawers, labelled Rape, Hemp, Canary, Millet, Mustard, and so on; and above the drawers pictures of the kind of animals that were fed on the kind of things that the shop sold. Fat, oblong cows that had eaten Burley's Cattle Food, stout pillows of wool that Ovis's Sheep Spice had fed, and, brightest and best of all, an incredibly smooth-plumaged parrot, rainbow-colored, c.o.c.king a black eye bright with the intoxicating qualities of Perrokett's Artistic Bird Seed.

"Gimme," said d.i.c.kie, leaning against the counter and pointing a grimy thumb at the wonder--"gimme a penn'orth o' that there!"

"Got the penny?" the shopman asked carefully.

d.i.c.kie displayed it, parted with it, and came home nursing a paper bag full of rustling promises.

"Why," said the Man Next Door, "that ain't seeds. It's parrot food, that is."

"It said the Ar-something Bird Seed," said d.i.c.kie, downcast; "I thought it 'ud come into flowers like birds--same colors as wot the poll parrot was, dontcherknow?"

"And so it will like as not," said the Man Next Door comfortably. "I'll set it along this end soon's I've got it turned over. I lay it'll come up something pretty."

So the seed was sown. And the Man Next Door promised two more pennies later for _real_ seed. Also he transplanted two of the primroses whose faces wanted washing.

It was a grand day for d.i.c.kie. He told the whole story of it that night when he went to bed to his only confidant, from whom he hid nothing. The confidant made no reply, but d.i.c.kie was sure this was not because the confidant didn't care about the story. The confidant was a blackened stick about five inches long, with little blackened bells to it like the bells on dogs' collars. Also a rather crooked bit of something whitish and very hard, good to suck, or to stroke with your fingers, or to dig holes in the soap with. d.i.c.kie had no idea what it was. His father had given it to him in the hospital where d.i.c.kie was taken to say good-bye to him. Good-bye had to be said because of father having fallen off the scaffolding where he was at work and not getting better. "You stick to that," father had said, looking dreadfully clean in the strange bed among all those other clean beds; "it's yourn, your very own. My dad give it to me, and it belonged to his dad. Don't you let any one take it away. Some old lady told the old man it 'ud bring us luck. So long, old chap."

d.i.c.kie remembered every word of that speech, and he kept the treasure.

There had been another thing with it, tied on with string. But Aunt Maud had found that, and taken it away "to take care of," and he had never seen it again. It was bra.s.sy, with a white stone and some sort of pattern on it. He had the treasure, and he had not the least idea what it was, with its bells that jangled such pretty music, and its white spike so hard and smooth. He did not know--but I know. It was a rattle--a baby's old-fashioned rattle--or, if you would rather call it that, a "coral and bells."

"And we shall 'ave the fairest flowers of hill and dale," said d.i.c.kie, whispering comfortably in his dirty sheets, "and greensward. Oh! Tinkler dear, 'twill indeed be a fair scene. The gayest colors of the rainbow amid the Ague Able green of fresh leaves. I do love the Man Next Door.

He has indeed a 'art of gold."

That was how d.i.c.kie talked to his friend Tinkler. You know how he talked to his aunt and the Man Next Door. I wonder whether you know that most children can speak at least two languages, even if they have never had a foreign nurse or been to foreign climes--or whether you think that you are the only child who can do this.

Believe me, you are not. Parents and guardians would be surprised to learn that dear little Charlie has a language quite different from the one he uses to them--a language in which he talks to the cook and the housemaid. And yet another language--spoken with the real accent too--in which he converses with the boot-boy and the grooms.

d.i.c.kie, however, had learned his second language from books. The teacher at his school had given him six--"Children of the New Forest," "Quentin Durward," "Hereward the Wake," and three others--all paper-backed. They made a new world for d.i.c.kie. And since the people in books talked in this nice, if odd, way, he saw no reason why he should not--to a friend whom he could trust.

I hope you're not getting bored with all this.

You see, I must tell you a little about the kind of boy d.i.c.kie was and the kind of way he lived, or you won't understand his adventures. And he had adventures--no end of adventures--as you will see presently.

d.i.c.kie woke, gay as the spring sun that was trying to look in at him through his grimy windows.

"Perhaps he'll do some more to the garden to-day!" he said, and got up very quickly.

He got up in the dirty, comfortless room and dressed himself. But in the evening he was undressed by kind, clean hands, and washed in a big bath half-full of hot, silvery water, with soap that smelled like the timber-yard at the end of the street. Because, going along to school, with his silly little head full of Artistic Bird Seeds and flowers rainbow-colored, he had let his crutch slip on a banana-skin and had tumbled down, and a butcher's cart had gone over his poor lame foot. So they took the hurt foot to the hospital, and of course he had to go with it, and the hospital was much more like the heaven he read of in his books than anything he had ever come across before.

He noticed that the nurses and the doctors spoke in the kind of words that he had found in his books, and in a voice that he had not found anywhere; so when on the second day a round-faced, smiling lady in a white cap said, "Well, Tommy, and how are we to-day?" he replied--

"My name is far from being Tommy, and I am in Lux Ury and Af Fluence, I thank you, gracious lady."