Harding’s Luck · Chapter 1 (2/3)

He got the old worn-down knife out of the bowl on the back kitchen sink, where it nestled among potato peelings like a flower among foliage, and carefully cut half a dozen of the smaller flowers. Then he limped up to New Cross Station, and stood outside, leaning on his crutch, and holding out the flowers to the people who came crowding out of the station after the arrival of each train-thick, black crowds of tired people, in too great a hurry to get home to their teas to care much about him or his flowers. Everybody glanced at them, for they were wonderful flowers, as white as water-lilies, only flat⁠—the real sunflower shape⁠—and their centres were of the purest yellow gold color.

“Pretty, ain’t they?” one black-coated person would say to another. And the other would reply⁠—

“No. Yes. I dunno! Hurry up, can’t you?”

It was no good. Dickie was tired, and the flowers were beginning to droop. He turned to go home, when a sudden thought brought the blood to his face. He turned again quickly and went straight to the pawnbroker’s. You may be quite sure he had learned the address on the card by heart.

He went boldly into the shop, which had three handsome gold balls hanging out above its door, and in its window all sorts of pretty things-rings, and chains, and brooches, and watches, and china, and silk handkerchiefs, and concertinas.

“Well, young man,” said the stout gentleman behind the counter, “what can we do for you?”

“I want to pawn my moonflowers,” said Dickie.

The stout gentleman roared with laughter, and slapped a stout leg with a stout hand.

“Well, that’s a good ’un!” he said, “as good a one as ever I heard. Why, you little duffer, they’d be dead long before you came back to redeem them, that’s certain.”

“You’d have them while they were alive, you know,” said Dickie gently.

“What are they? Don’t seem up to much. Though I don’t know that I ever saw a flower just like them, come to think of it,” said the pawnbroker, who lived in a neat villa at Brockley and went in for gardening in a gentlemanly, you-needn’t-suppose-I-can’t-afford-a-real-gardener-if-I-like sort of way.

“They’re moonflowers,” said Dickie, “and I want to pawn them and then get something else out with the money.”

“Got the ticket?” said the gentleman, cleverly seeing that he meant “get out of pawn.”

“Yes,” said Dickie; “and it’s my own Tinkler that my daddy gave me before he died, and my aunt Missa propagated it when I was in hospital.”

The man looked carefully at the card.

“All right,” he said at last; “hand over the flowers. They are not so bad,” he added, more willing to prize them now that they were his (things do look different when they are your own, don’t they?). “Here, Humphreys, put these in a jug of water till I go home. And get this out.”

A pale young man in spectacles appeared from a sort of dark cave at the back of the shop, took flowers and ticket, and was swallowed up again in the darkness of the cave.

“Oh, thank you!” said Dickie fervently. “I shall live but to repay your bounteous gen’rosity.”

“None of your cheek,” said the pawnbroker, reddening, and there was an awkward pause.

“It’s not cheek; I meant it,” said Dickie at last, speaking very earnestly. “You’ll see, some of these days. I read an interesting Nar Rataive about a Lion the King of Beasts and a Mouse, that small and Ty Morous animal, which if you have not heard it I will now Pur seed to relite.”

“You’re a rum little kid, I don’t think,” said the man. “Where do you learn such talk?”

“It’s the wye they talk in books,” said Dickie, suddenly returning to the language of his aunt. “You bein’ a toff I thought you’d unnerstand. My mistike. No ’fense.”

“Mean to say you can talk like a book when you like, and cut it off short like that?”

“I can Con-vers like Lords and Lydies,” said Dickie, in the accents of the gutter, “and your noble benefacteriness made me seek to express my feelinks with the best words at me Command.”

“Fond of books?”

“I believe you,” said Dickie, 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 pawnbroker, 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 Dickie, 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 Dickie; “isn’t that what you wear on your helmet in the heat and press of the Tower Nament?”

The pawnbroker 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 Dickie, “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 pawnbroker went on, “and put it in a little box. Don’t you take it out till tomorrow 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 pawnbroker never dreamed of. But that comes further on in the story.)

Dickie left the shop without his moonflowers, indeed, but with his Tinkler now whitely shining, 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 pawnbroker fussily. He was very pleased with himself for having been so kind. “And come back and see me⁠—say next month.”

“I will,” said Dickie. “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 pawnbroker⁠—“that’s the way to pernounce it. Goodbye, my man, and next month.”

But next month found Dickie in a very different place from the pawnbroker’s shop, and with a very different person from the pawnbroker who in his rural retirement at Brockley gardened in such a gentlemanly way.

Dickie 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 Dickie 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 firewood; 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?”

Dickie 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 Dickie.

“Like to?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Dickie.

It was very pleasant with the steamboat going along in such a hurry, pushing 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 Dickie 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?” Dickie asked. And the people shoving and crushing 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 Dickie had ever imagined. Fried eggs and bacon⁠—he had one egg and the man had three-bread and butter⁠—and if the bread was thick, so was the butter⁠—and as many cups of tea as you liked to say thank you for. When it was over the man asked Dickie if he could walk a little way, and when Dickie said he could they set out in the most friendly way side by side.

“I like it very much, and thank you kindly,” said Dickie 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 Dickie had ever seen, for they were now in a country road, with green hedges and green grass growing beside it, in which little round-faced flowers grew⁠—daisies they were⁠—even Dickie knew that.

“I got to stick it,” said Dickie 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 Dickie.

“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 Dickie. “Oh, no⁠—no, I never.”

“Well, you come alonger me. I ain’t ’it yer, have I, like what yer aunt do? I give yer a ride in a pleasure boat, only you went to sleep, and I give you a tea fit for a hemperor. Ain’t I?”

“You ’ave that,” said Dickie.

“Well, that’ll show you the sort of man I am. So now I make you a fair offer. You come longer me, and be my little ’un, and I’ll be your daddy, and a better dad, I lay, nor if I’d been born so. What do you say, matey?”

The man’s manner was so kind and hearty, the whole adventure was so wonderful and new⁠ ⁠…

“Is it country where you going?” said Dickie, looking at the green hedge.

“All the way, pretty near,” said the man. “We’ll tramp it, taking it easy, all round the coast, where gents go for their outings. They’ve always got a bit to spare then. I lay you’ll get some color in them cheeks o’ yours. They’re like putty now. Come, now. What you say? Is it a bargain?”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Dickie, “but what call you got to do it? It’ll cost a lot⁠—my victuals, I mean. What call you got to do it?”

The man scratched his head and hesitated. Then he looked up at the sky and then down at the road⁠—they were resting on a heap of stones.

At last he said, “You’re a sharp lad, you are⁠—bloomin’ sharp. Well, I won’t deceive you, matey. I want company. Tramping alone ain’t no beano to me. An’ as I gets my living by the sweat of charitable ladies an’ gents it don’t do no harm to ’ave a little nipper alongside. They comes down ’andsomer if there’s a nipper. An’ I like nippers. Some blokes don’t, but I do.”

Dickie felt that this was true. But⁠—“We’ll be beggars, you mean?” he said doubtfully.

“Oh, don’t call names,” said the man; “we’ll take the road, and if kind people gives us a helping hand, well, so much the better for all parties, if wot they learned me at Sunday-school’s any good. Well, there it is. Take it or leave it.”

The sun shot long golden beams through the gaps in the hedge. A bird paused in its flight on a branch quite close and clung there swaying. A real live bird. Dickie thought of the kitchen at home, the lamp that smoked, the dirty table, the fender full of ashes and dirty paper, the dry bread that tasted of mice, and the water out of the broken earthenware cup. That would be his breakfast, when he had gone to bed crying after his aunt had slapped him.

“I’ll come,” said he, “and thank you kindly.”

“Mind you,” said the man carefully, “this ain’t no kidnapping. I ain’t ’ticed you away. You come on your own free wish, eh?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Can you write?”

“Yes,” said Dickie, “if I got a pen.”

“I got a pencil⁠—hold on a bit.” He took out of his pocket a new envelope, a new sheet of paper, and a new pencil ready sharpened by machinery. It almost looked, Dickie thought, as though he had brought them out for some special purpose. Perhaps he had.

“Now,” said the man, “you take an’ write⁠—make it flat agin the sole of me boot.” He lay face downward on the road and turned up his boot, as though boots were the most natural writing-desks in the world.

“Now write what I say: ‘Mr. Beale. Dear Sir. Will you please take me on tramp with you? I ’ave no father nor yet mother to be uneasy’ (Can you spell ‘uneasy’? That’s right⁠—you are a scholar!), ‘an’ I asks you let me come alonger you.’ (Got that? All right, I’ll stop a bit till you catch up. Then you say) ‘If you take me along I promise to give you all what I earns or gets anyhow, and be a good boy, and do what you say. And I shall be very glad if you will. Your obedient servant⁠—’ What’s your name, eh?”

“Dickie Harding.”

“Get it wrote down, then. Done? I’m glad I wasn’t born a table to be wrote on. Don’t it make yer legs stiff, neither!”

He rolled over, took the paper and read it slowly and with difficulty. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket.

“Now we’re square,” he said. “That’ll stand true and legal in any police-court in England, that will. And don’t you forget it.”

To the people who live in Rosemary Terrace the words “police-court” are very alarming indeed. Dickie turned a little paler and said, “Why police? I ain’t done nothing wrong writin’ what you telled me?”

“No, my boy,” said the man, “you ain’t done no wrong; you done right. But there’s bad people in the world⁠—police and such⁠—as might lay it up to me as I took you away against your will. They could put a man away for less than that.”

“But it ain’t agin my will,” said Dickie; “I want to!”

“That’s what I say,” said the man cheerfully. “So now we’re agreed upon it, if you’ll step it we’ll see about a doss for tonight; and tomorrow we’ll sleep in the bed with the green curtains.”

“I see that there in a book,” said Dickie, charmed. “He Reward the Wake, the last of the English, and I wunnered what it stood for.”