The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbit (that summer book .txt) 📖

‘You better!’ said he who was named Urb. ‘Say, Ike, you twist the bloomin’ pigeon’s neck; he ain’t worth tuppence.’

‘Oh, no,’ cried Jane, ‘don’t hurt it. Oh, don’t; it is such a pet.’

‘I won’t hurt it,’ said Ike; ‘I’m ‘shamed of you, Urb, for to think of such a thing. Arf a shiner, miss, and the bird is yours for life.’

‘Half a WHAT?’ asked Anthea.

‘Arf a shiner, quid, thick ‘un—half a sov, then.’

‘I haven’t got it—and, besides, it’s OUR bird,’ said Anthea.

‘Oh, don’t talk to him,’ said Cyril and then Jane said suddenly—

‘Phoenix—dear Phoenix, we can’t do anything. YOU must manage it.’

‘With pleasure,’ said the Phoenix—and Ike nearly dropped it in his amazement.

‘I say, it do talk, suthin’ like,’ said he.

‘Youths,’ said the Phoenix, ‘sons of misfortune, hear my words.’

‘My eyes!’ said Ike.

‘Look out, Ike,’ said Urb, ‘you’ll throttle the joker—and I see at wunst ‘e was wuth ‘is weight in flimsies.‘00

‘Hearken, O Eikonoclastes, despiser of sacred images—and thou, Urbanus, dweller in the sordid city. Forbear this adventure lest a worse thing befall.’

‘Luv’ us!’ said Ike, ‘ain’t it been taught its schoolin’ just!’

‘Restore me to my young acolytes and escape unscathed. Retain me—and—’

‘They must ha’ got all this up, case the Polly got pinched,’ said Ike. ‘Lor’ lumme, the artfulness of them young uns!’

‘I say, slosh ‘em in the geseech and get clear off with the swag’s wot I say,’ urged Herbert.

‘Right O,’ said Isaac.

‘Forbear,’ repeated the Phoenix, sternly. ‘Who pinched the click off of the old bloke in Aldermanbury?’ it added, in a changed tone.

‘Who sneaked the nose-rag out of the young gell’s ‘and in Bell Court? Who—’

‘Stow it,’ said Ike. ‘You! ugh! yah!—leave go of me. Bash him off, Urb; ‘e’ll have my bloomin’ eyes outer my ed.’

There were howls, a scuffle, a flutter; Ike and Urb fled up the stairs, and the Phoenix swept out through the doorway. The children followed and the Phoenix settled on Robert, ‘like a butterfly on a rose,’ as Anthea said afterwards, and wriggled into the breast of his Norfolk jacket, ‘like an eel into mud,’ as Cyril later said.

‘Why ever didn’t you burn him? You could have, couldn’t you?’ asked Robert, when the hurried flight through the narrow courts had ended in the safe wideness of Farringdon Street.

‘I could have, of course,’ said the bird, ‘but I didn’t think it would be dignified to allow myself to get warm about a little thing like that. The Fates, after all, have not been illiberal to me. I have a good many friends among the London sparrows, and I have a beak and claws.’

These happenings had somewhat shaken the adventurous temper of the children, and the Phoenix had to exert its golden self to hearten them up.

Presently the children came to a great house in Lombard Street, and there, on each side of the door, was the image of the Phoenix carved in stone, and set forth on shining brass were the words—

‘One moment,’ said the bird. ‘Fire? For altars, I suppose?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Robert; he was beginning to feel shy, and that always made him rather cross.

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ Cyril contradicted. ‘When people’s houses are burnt down the Phoenix gives them new houses. Father told me; I asked him.’

‘The house, then, like the Phoenix, rises from its ashes? Well have my priests dealt with the sons of men!’

‘The sons of men pay, you know,’ said Anthea; ‘but it’s only a little every year.’

‘That is to maintain my priests,’ said the bird, ‘who, in the hour of affliction, heal sorrows and rebuild houses. Lead on; inquire for the High Priest. I will not break upon them too suddenly in all my glory. Noble and honour-deserving are they who make as nought the evil deeds of the lame-footed and unpleasing Hephaestus.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I wish you wouldn’t muddle us with new names. Fire just happens. Nobody does it—not as a deed, you know,’ Cyril explained. ‘If they did the Phoenix wouldn’t help them, because its a crime to set fire to things. Arsenic, or something they call it, because it’s as bad as poisoning people. The Phoenix wouldn’t help THEM—father told me it wouldn’t.’

‘My priests do well,’ said the Phoenix. ‘Lead on.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Cyril; and the Others said the same.

‘Ask for the High Priest,’ said the Phoenix. ‘Say that you have a secret to unfold that concerns my worship, and he will lead you to the innermost sanctuary.’

So the children went in, all four of them, though they didn’t like it, and stood in a large and beautiful hall adorned with Doulton tiles, like a large and beautiful bath with no water in it, and stately pillars supporting the roof. An unpleasing representation of the Phoenix in brown pottery disfigured one wall. There were counters and desks of mahogany and brass, and clerks bent over the desks and walked behind the counters. There was a great clock over an inner doorway.

‘Inquire for the High Priest,’ whispered the Phoenix.

An attentive clerk in decent black, who controlled his mouth but not his eyebrows, now came towards them. He leaned forward on the counter, and the children thought he was going to say, ‘What can I have the pleasure of showing you?’ like in a draper’s; instead of which the young man said—

‘And what do YOU want?’

‘We want to see the High Priest.’

‘Get along with you,’ said the young man.

An elder man, also decent in black coat, advanced.

‘Perhaps it’s Mr Blank’ (not for worlds would I give the name). ‘He’s a Masonic High Priest, you know.’

A porter was sent away to look for Mr Asterisk (I cannot give his name), and the children were left there to look on and be looked on by all the gentlemen at the mahogany desks. Anthea and Jane thought that they looked kind. The boys thought they stared, and that it was like their cheek.

The porter returned with the news that Mr Dot Dash Dot (I dare not reveal his name) was out, but that Mr—

Here a really delightful gentleman appeared. He had a beard and a kind and merry eye, and each one of the four knew at once that this was a