The Railway Children by E. Nesbit (most important books of all time txt) đ
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The signalman never moved. Then Peter sprang to him and shook him. And slowly, yawning and stretching, the man awoke. But the moment he WAS awake he leapt to his feet, put his hands to his head âlike a mad maniac,â as Phyllis said afterwards, and shouted:â
âOh, my heavensâwhatâs oâclock?â
âTwelve thirteen,â said Peter, and indeed it was by the white-faced, round-faced clock on the wall of the signal-box.
The man looked at the clock, sprang to the levers, and wrenched them this way and that. An electric bell tingledâthe wires and cranks creaked, and the man threw himself into a chair. He was very pale, and the sweat stood on his forehead âlike large dewdrops on a white cabbage,â as Phyllis remarked later. He was trembling, too; the children could see his big hairy hands shake from side to side, âwith quite extra-sized trembles,â to use the subsequent words of Peter. He drew long breaths. Then suddenly he cried, âThank God, thank God you come in when you didâoh, thank God!â and his shoulders began to heave and his face grew red again, and he hid it in those large hairy hands of his.
âOh, donât cryâdonât,â said Phyllis, âitâs all right now,â and she patted him on one big, broad shoulder, while Peter conscientiously thumped the other.
But the signalman seemed quite broken down, and the children had to pat him and thump him for quite a long time before he found his handkerchiefâa red one with mauve and white horseshoes on itâand mopped his face and spoke. During this patting and thumping interval a train thundered by.
âIâm downright shamed, that I am,â were the words of the big signalman when he had stopped crying; âsnivelling like a kid.â Then suddenly he seemed to get cross. âAnd what was you doing up here, anyway?â he said; âyou know it ainât allowed.â
âYes,â said Phyllis, âwe knew it was wrongâbut I wasnât afraid of doing wrong, and so it turned out right. You arenât sorry we came.â
âLorâ love youâif you hadnât âaâ comeââ he stopped and then went on. âItâs a disgrace, so it is, sleeping on duty. If it was to come to be knownâeven as it is, when no harmâs come of it.â
âIt wonât come to be known,â said Peter; âwe arenât sneaks. All the same, you oughtnât to sleep on dutyâitâs dangerous.â
âTell me something I donât know,â said the man, âbut I canât help it. I knowâd well enough just how it âud be. But I couldnât get off. They couldnât get no one to take on my duty. I tell you I ainât had ten minutesâ sleep this last five days. My little chapâs illâpewmonia, the Doctor saysâand thereâs no one but me and âis little sister to do for him. Thatâs where it is. The gell must âave her sleep. Dangerous? Yes, I believe you. Now go and split on me if you like.â
âOf course we wonât,â said Peter, indignantly, but Phyllis ignored the whole of the signalmanâs speech, except the first six words.
âYou asked us,â she said, âto tell you something you donât know. Well, I will. Thereâs a boy in the tunnel over there with a red jersey and his leg broken.â
âWhat did he want to go into the blooming tunnel for, then?â said the man.
âDonât you be so cross,â said Phyllis, kindly. âWE havenât done anything wrong except coming and waking you up, and that was right, as it happens.â
Then Peter told how the boy came to be in the tunnel.
âWell,â said the man, âI donât see as I can do anything. I canât leave the box.â
âYou might tell us where to go after someone who isnât in a box, though,â said Phyllis.
âThereâs Brigdenâs farm over yonderâwhere you see the smoke a-coming up through the trees,â said the man, more and more grumpy, as Phyllis noticed.
âWell, good-bye, then,â said Peter.
But the man said, âWait a minute.â He put his hand in his pocket and brought out some moneyâa lot of pennies and one or two shillings and sixpences and half-a-crown. He picked out two shillings and held them out.
âHere,â he said. âIâll give you this to hold your tongues about whatâs taken place to-day.â
There was a short, unpleasant pause. Then:â
âYou ARE a nasty man, though, arenât you?â said Phyllis.
Peter took a step forward and knocked the manâs hand up, so that the shillings leapt out of it and rolled on the floor.
âIf anything COULD make me sneak, THAT would!â he said. âCome, Phil,â and marched out of the signal-box with flaming cheeks.
Phyllis hesitated. Then she took the hand, still held out stupidly, that the shillings had been in.
âI forgive you,â she said, âeven if Peter doesnât. Youâre not in your proper senses, or youâd never have done that. I know want of sleep sends people mad. Mother told me. I hope your little boy will soon be better, andââ
âCome on, Phil,â cried Peter, eagerly.
âI give you my sacred honour-word weâll never tell anyone. Kiss and be friends,â said Phyllis, feeling how noble it was of her to try to make up a quarrel in which she was not to blame.
The signalman stooped and kissed her.
âI do believe Iâm a bit off my head, Sissy,â he said. âNow run along home to Mother. I didnât mean to put you aboutâthere.â
So Phil left the hot signal-box and followed Peter across the fields to the farm.
When the farm men, led by Peter and Phyllis and carrying a hurdle covered with horse-cloths, reached the manhole in the tunnel, Bobbie was fast asleep and so was Jim. Worn out with the pain, the Doctor said afterwards.
âWhere does he live?â the bailiff from the farm asked, when Jim had been lifted on to the hurdle.
âIn Northumberland,â answered Bobbie.
âIâm at school at Maidbridge,â said Jim. âI suppose Iâve got to get back there, somehow.â
âSeems to me the Doctor ought to have a look in first,â said the bailiff.
âOh, bring him up to our house,â said Bobbie. âItâs only a little way by the road. Iâm sure Mother would say we ought to.â
âWill your Ma like you bringing home strangers with broken legs?â
âShe took the poor Russian home herself,â said Bobbie. âI know sheâd say we ought.â
âAll right,â said the bailiff, âyou ought to know what your Ma âud like. I wouldnât take it upon me to fetch him up to our place without I asked the Missus first, and they call me the Master, too.â
âAre you sure your Mother wonât mind?â whispered Jim.
âCertain,â said Bobbie.
âThen weâre to take him up to Three Chimneys?â said the bailiff.
âOf course,â said Peter.
âThen my lad shall nip up to Doctorâs on his bike, and tell him to come down there. Now, lads, lift him quiet and steady. One, two, three!â
Thus it happened that Mother, writing away for dear life at a story about a Duchess, a designing villain, a secret passage, and a missing will, dropped her pen as her work-room door burst open, and turned to see Bobbie hatless and red with running.
âOh, Mother,â she cried, âdo come down. We found a hound in a red jersey in the tunnel, and heâs broken his leg and theyâre bringing him home.â
âThey ought to take him to the vet,â said Mother, with a worried frown; âI really CANâT have a lame dog here.â
âHeâs not a dog, reallyâheâs a boy,â said Bobbie, between laughing and choking.
âThen he ought to be taken home to his mother.â
âHis motherâs dead,â said Bobbie, âand his fatherâs in Northumberland. Oh, Mother, you will be nice to him? I told him I was sure youâd want us to bring him home. You always want to help everybody.â
Mother smiled, but she sighed, too. It is nice that your children should believe you willing to open house and heart to any and every one who needs help. But it is rather embarrassing sometimes, too, when they act on their belief.
âOh, well,â said Mother, âwe must make the best of it.â
When Jim was carried in, dreadfully white and with set lips whose red had faded to a horrid bluey violet colour, Mother said:â
âI am glad you brought him here. Now, Jim, letâs get you comfortable in bed before the Doctor comes!â
And Jim, looking at her kind eyes, felt a little, warm, comforting flush of new courage.
âItâll hurt rather, wonât it?â he said. âI donât mean to be a coward. You wonât think Iâm a coward if I faint again, will you? I really and truly donât do it on purpose. And I do hate to give you all this trouble.â
âDonât you worry,â said Mother; âitâs you that have the trouble, you poor dearânot us.â
And she kissed him just as if he had been Peter. âWe love to have you hereâdonât we, Bobbie?â
âYes,â said Bobbieâand she saw by her Motherâs face how right she had been to bring home the wounded hound in the red jersey.
Chapter XIII. The houndâs grandfather.
Mother did not get back to her writing all that day, for the red-jerseyed hound whom the children had brought to Three Chimneys had to be put to bed. And then the Doctor came, and hurt him most horribly. Mother was with him all through it, and that made it a little better than it would have been, but âbad was the best,â as Mrs. Viney said.
The children sat in the parlour downstairs and heard the sound of the Doctorâs boots going backwards and forwards over the bedroom floor. And once or twice there was a groan.
âItâs horrible,â said Bobbie. âOh, I wish Dr. Forrest would make haste. Oh, poor Jim!â
âIt IS horrible,â said Peter, âbut itâs very exciting. I wish Doctors werenât so stuck-up about who theyâll have in the room when theyâre doing things. I should most awfully like to see a leg set. I believe the bones crunch like anything.â
âDonât!â said the two girls at once.
âRubbish!â said Peter. âHow are you going to be Red Cross Nurses, like you were talking of coming home, if you canât even stand hearing me say about bones crunching? Youâd have to HEAR them crunch on the field of battleâand be steeped in gore up to the elbows as likely as not, andââ
âStop it!â cried Bobbie, with a white face; âyou donât know how funny youâre making me feel.â
âMe, too,â said Phyllis, whose face was pink.
âCowards!â said Peter.
âIâm not,â said Bobbie. âI helped Mother with your rake-wounded foot, and so did Philâyou know we did.â
âWell, then!â said Peter. âNow look here. It would be a jolly good thing for you if I were to talk to you every day for half an hour about broken bones and peopleâs insides, so as to get you used to it.â
A chair was moved above.
âListen,â said Peter, âthatâs the bone crunching.â
âI do wish you wouldnât,â said Phyllis. âBobbie doesnât like it.â
âIâll tell you what they do,â said Peter. I canât think what made him so horrid. Perhaps it was because he had been so very nice and kind all the earlier part of the day, and now he had to have a change. This is called reaction. One notices it now and then in oneself. Sometimes when one has been extra good for a longer time than usual, one is suddenly attacked by a violent fit of not being good at all. âIâll tell you what they do,â said Peter; âthey strap the broken man down
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