The Story of the Amulet E. Nesbit (the best books to read .TXT) 📖

far as to own that your idea of taking things with you isn’t a bad one. And I shouldn’t show them all at once. Take small things and conceal them craftily about your persons.”

This advice seemed good. Soon the table was littered over with things which the children thought likely to interest the Ancient Egyptians. Anthea brought dolls, puzzle blocks, a wooden tea-service, a green leather case with Nécessaire written on it in gold letters. Aunt Emma had once given it to Anthea, and it had then contained scissors, penknife, bodkin, stiletto, thimble, corkscrew, and glove-buttoner. The scissors, knife, and thimble, and penknife were, of course, lost, but the other things were there and as good as new. Cyril contributed lead soldiers, a cannon, a catapult, a tin-opener, a tie-clip, and a tennis ball, and a padlock⁠—no key. Robert collected a candle (“I don’t suppose they ever saw a self-fitting paraffin one,” he said), a penny Japanese pin-tray, a rubber stamp with his father’s name and address on it, and a piece of putty.

Jane added a key-ring, the brass handle of a poker, a pot that had held cold-cream, a smoked pearl button off her winter coat, and a key⁠—no lock.

“We can’t take all this rubbish,” said Robert, with some scorn. “We must just each choose one thing.”

The afternoon passed very agreeably in the attempt to choose from the table the four most suitable objects. But the four children could not agree what was suitable, and at last Cyril said⁠—

“Look here, let’s each be blindfolded and reach out, and the first thing you touch you stick to.”

This was done.

Cyril touched the padlock.

Anthea got the Nécessaire.

Robert clutched the candle.

Jane picked up the tie-clip.

“It’s not much,” she said. “I don’t believe Ancient Egyptians wore ties.”

“Never mind,” said Anthea. “I believe it’s luckier not to really choose. In the stories it’s always the thing the woodcutter’s son picks up in the forest, and almost throws away because he thinks it’s no good, that turns out to be the magic thing in the end; or else someone’s lost it, and he is rewarded with the hand of the King’s daughter in marriage.”

“I don’t want any hands in marriage, thank you.” said Cyril firmly.

“Nor yet me,” said Robert. “It’s always the end of the adventures when it comes to the marriage hands.”

“Are we ready?” said Anthea.

“It is Egypt we’re going to, isn’t it?⁠—nice Egypt?” said Jane. “I won’t go anywhere I don’t know about⁠—like that dreadful big-wavy burning-mountain city,” she insisted.

Then the Psammead was coaxed into its bag.

“I say,” said Cyril suddenly, “I’m rather sick of kings. And people notice you so in palaces. Besides the Amulet’s sure to be in a Temple. Let’s just go among the common people, and try to work ourselves up by degrees. We might get taken on as Temple assistants.”

“Like beadles,” said Anthea, “or vergers. They must have splendid chances of stealing the Temple treasures.”

“Righto!” was the general rejoinder. The charm was held up. It grew big once again, and once again the warm golden Eastern light glowed softly beyond it.

As the children stepped through it loud and furious voices rang in their ears. They went suddenly from the quiet of Fitzroy Street dining room into a very angry Eastern crowd, a crowd much too angry to notice them. They edged through it to the wall of a house and stood there. The crowd was of men, women, and children. They were of all sorts of complexions, and pictures of them might have been coloured by any child with a shilling paintbox. The colours that child would have used for complexions would have been yellow ochre, red ochre, light red, sepia, and indian ink. But their faces were painted already⁠—black eyebrows and lashes, and some red lips. The women wore a sort of pinafore with shoulder straps, and loose things wound round their heads and shoulders. The men wore very little clothing⁠—for they were the working people⁠—and the Egyptian boys and girls wore nothing at all, unless you count the little ornaments hung on chains round their necks and waists. The children saw all this before they could hear anything distinctly. Everyone was shouting so.

But a voice sounded above the other voices, and presently it was speaking in a silence.

“Comrades and fellow workers,” it said, and it was the voice of a tall, coppery-coloured man who had climbed into a chariot that had been stopped by the crowd. Its owner had bolted, muttering something about calling the Guards, and now the man spoke from it. “Comrades and fellow workers, how long are we to endure the tyranny of our masters, who live in idleness and luxury on the fruit of our toil? They only give us a bare subsistence wage, and they live on the fat of the land. We labour all our lives to keep them in wanton luxury. Let us make an end of it!”

A roar of applause answered him.

“How are you going to do it?” cried a voice.

“You look out,” cried another, “or you’ll get yourself into trouble.”

“I’ve heard almost every single word of that,” whispered Robert, “in Hyde Park last Sunday!”

“Let us strike for more bread and onions and beer, and a longer midday rest,” the speaker went on. “You are tired, you are hungry, you are thirsty. You are poor, your wives and children are pining for food. The barns of the rich are full to bursting with the corn we want, the corn our labour has grown. To the granaries!”

“To the granaries!” cried half the crowd; but another voice shouted clear above the tumult, “To Pharaoh! To the King! Let’s present a petition to the King! He will listen to the voice of the oppressed!”

For a moment the crowd swayed one way and another⁠—first towards the granaries and then towards the palace. Then, with a rush like that of an imprisoned torrent suddenly set free, it surged along the street towards the palace, and the children were carried with