Harding’s Luck E. Nesbit (epub read online books .txt) 📖

a boat⁠—a galleon they called it. All the names is different there. And I carved a little box⁠—a fair treat it was⁠—with my father’s arms on it.”

“Yer father’s what?”

“Coat of arms. Gentlemen there all has different things⁠—patterns like; they calls ’em coats of arms, and they put it on their silver and on their carriages and their furniture.”

“Put what?” Beale asked again.

“The blazon. All gentlepeople have it.”

“Don’t you come the blazing toff over me,” said Beale with sudden fierceness, “ ’cause I won’t ’ave it. See? It’s them bloomin’ Talbots put all this rot into your head.”

“The Talbots?” said Dickie. “Oh! the Talbots ain’t been gentry more than a couple of hundred years. Our family’s as old as King Alfred.”

“Stow it, I say!” said Beale, more fiercely still. “I see what you’re after; you want us to part company, that’s what you want. Well, go. Go back to yer old Talbots and be the nice lady’s little boy with velvet kicksies and a clean anky once a week. That’s what you do.”

Dickie looked forlornly out over the river.

“I can’t ’elp what I dreams, can I?” he said. “In the dream I’d got lots of things. Uncles and aunts an’ a little brother. I never seen him though. An’ a farver and muvver an’ all. It’s different ’ere. I ain’t got nobody but you ’ere⁠—farver.”

“Well, then,” said Beale more gently, “what do you go settin’ of yourself up agin me for?”

“I ain’t,” said Dickie. “I thought you liked me to tell you everythink.”

Silence. Dickie could not help noticing the dirty shirt, the dirty face, the three days’ beard, the filthy clothes of his friend, and he thought of his other friend, Sebastian of the Docks. He saw the pale blue reproachful eyes of Beale looking out of that dirty face, and he spoke aloud, quite without meaning to.

“All that don’t make no difference,” he said.

“Eh?” said Beale with miserable, angry eyes.

“Look ’ere,” said Dickie desperately. “I’m a-goin’ to show you. This ’ere’s my Tinkler, what I told you about, what pawns for a bob. I wouldn’t show it to no one but you, swelp me, I wouldn’t.”

He held the rattle out.

Beale took it. “It’s a fancy bit, I will say,” he owned.

“Look ’ere,” said Dickie, “what I mean to say⁠—”

He stopped. What was the use of telling Beale that he had come back out of the dream just for his sake? Beale who did not believe in the dream⁠—did not understand it⁠—hated it?

“Don’t you go turning agin me,” he said; “whether I dream or not, you and me’ll stand together. I’m not goin’ to do things wot’s wrong⁠—low, dirty tricks⁠—so I ain’t. But I knows we can get on without that. What would you like to do for your living if you could choose?”

“I warn’t never put to no trade,” said Beale, “ ’cept being ’andy with a ’orse. I was a wagoner’s mate when I was a boy. I likes a ’orse. Or a dawg,” he added. “I ain’t no good wiv me ’ands⁠—not at working, you know⁠—not to say working.”

Dickie suppressed a wild notion he had had of getting into that dream again, learning some useful trade there, waking up and teaching it to Mr. Beale.

“Ain’t there nothing else you’d like to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know as there is,” said Mr. Beale drearily; “without it was pigeons.”

Then Dickie wondered whether things that you learned in dreams would “stay learned.” Things you learned to do with your hands. The Greek and the Latin “stayed learned” right enough and sang in his brain encouragingly.

“Don’t you get shirty if I talks about that dream,” he said. “You dunno what a dream it was. I wasn’t kidding you. I did dream it, honor bright. I dreamed I could carve wood⁠—make boxes and things. I wish I ’ad a bit of fine-grained wood. I’d like to try. I’ve got the knife they give me to cut the string of the basket in the train. It’s jolly sharp.”

“What sort o’ wood?” Beale asked.

“It was mahogany I dreamed I made my box with,” said Dickie. “I would like to try.”

“Off ’is poor chump,” Beale murmured with bitter self-reproach; “my doin’ too⁠—puttin’ ’im on to a job like Talbot Court, the nipper is.”

He stretched himself and got up.

“I’ll get yer a bit of mahogany from somewheres,” he said very gently. “I didn’t mean nothing, old chap. You keep all on about yer dreams. I don’t mind. I likes it. Let’s get a brace o’ kippers and make a night of it.”

So they went back to the Gravesend lodging-house.

Next day Mr. Beale produced the lonely leg of a sofa⁠—mahogany, a fat round turned leg, old and seasoned.

“This what you want?” he asked.

Dickie took it eagerly. “I do wonder if I can,” he said. “I feel just exactly like as if I could. I say, farver, let’s get out in the woods somewheres quiet and take our grub along. Somewheres where nobody can’t say, ‘What you up to?’ and make a mock of me.”

They found a place such as Dickie desired, a warm, sunny nest in the heart of a green wood, and all through the long, warm hours of the autumn day Mr. Beale lay lazy in the sunshine while Dickie, very pale and determined, sliced, chipped, and picked at the sofa leg with the knife the gardener had given him.

It was hard to make him lay the work down even for dinner, which was of a delicious and extravagant kind⁠—new bread, German sausage, and beer in a flat bottle. For from the moment when the knife touched the wood Dickie knew that he had not forgotten, and that what he had done in the Deptford dockyard under the eyes of Sebastian, the shipwright who had helped to sink the Armada, he could do now alone in the woods beyond Gravesend.

It was after dinner that Mr. Beale began to be interested.

“Swelp me!” he said; “but you’ve got the hang of it somehow. A box, ain’t it?”

“A box,” said Dickie, smoothing a rough corner; “a