We were pleased, too, to meet some one who knew the Jungle Book.
So Oswald said —
‘We are going to restore the fallen fortunes of the House of Bastable — and we have all thought of different ways — and we’re going to try them all. Noel’s way is poetry. I suppose great poets get paid?’
The lady laughed — she was awfully jolly — and said she was a sort of poet, too, and the long strips of paper were the proofs of her new book of stories. Because before a book is made into a real book with pages and a cover, they sometimes print it all on strips of paper, and the writer make marks on it with a pencil to show the printers what idiots they are not to understand what a writer means to have printed.
We told her all about digging for treasure, and what we meant to do. Then she asked to see Noel’s poetry — and he said he didn’t like — so she said, ‘Look here — if you’ll show me yours I’ll show you some of mine.’ So he agreed.
The jolly lady read Noel’s poetry, and she said she liked it very much. And she thought a great deal of the picture of the Malabar. And then she said, ‘I write serious poetry like yours myself; too, but I have a piece here that I think you will like because it’s about a boy.’ She gave it to us — and so I can copy it down, and I will, for it shows that some grown-up ladies are not so silly as others. I like it better than Noel’s poetry, though I told him I did not, because he looked as if he was going to cry. This was very wrong, for you should always speak the truth, however unhappy it makes people. And I generally do. But I did not want him crying in the railway carriage. The lady’s piece of poetry:
Oh when I wake up in my bed
And see the sun all fat and red,
I’m glad to have another day
For all my different kinds of play.
There are so many things to do —
The things that make a man of you,
If grown-ups did not get so vexed
And wonder what you will do next.
I often wonder whether they
Ever made up our kinds of play —
If they were always good as gold
And only did what they were told.
They like you best to play with tops
And toys in boxes, bought in shops;
They do not even know the names
Of really interesting games.
They will not let you play with fire
Or trip your sister up with wire,
They grudge the tea-tray for a drum,
Or booby-traps when callers come.
They don’t like fishing, and it’s true
You sometimes soak a suit or two:
They look on fireworks, though they’re dry,
With quite a disapproving eye.
They do not understand the way
To get the most out of your day:
They do not know how hunger feels
Nor what you need between your meals.
And when you’re sent to bed at night,
They’re happy, but they’re not polite.
For through the door you hear them say:
‘He’s done his mischief for the day!’
She told us a lot of other pieces but I cannot remember them, and she talked to us all the way up, and when we got nearly to Cannon Street she said —
‘I’ve got two new shillings here! Do you think they would help to smooth the path to Fame?’
Noel said, ‘Thank you,’ and was going to take the shilling. But Oswald, who always remembers what he is told, said —
‘Thank you very much, but Father told us we ought never to take anything from strangers.’
‘That’s a nasty one,’ said the lady — she didn’t talk a bit like a real lady, but more like a jolly sort of grown-up boy in a dress and hat —‘a very nasty one! But don’t you think as Noel and I are both poets I might be considered a sort of relation? You’ve heard of brother poets, haven’t you? Don’t you think Noel and I are aunt and nephew poets, or some relationship of that kind?’
I didn’t know what to say, and she went on —
‘It’s awfully straight of you to stick to what your Father tells you, but look here, you take the shillings, and here’s my card. When you get home tell your Father all about it, and if he says No, you can just bring the shillings back to me.’
So we took the shillings, and she shook hands with us and said, ‘Good-bye, and good hunting!’
We did tell Father about it, and he said it was all right, and when he looked at the card he told us we were highly honoured, for the lady wrote better poetry than any other lady alive now. We had never heard of her, and she seemed much too jolly for a poet. Good old Kipling! We owe him those two shillings, as well as the Jungle books!
Chapter V.
The Poet and the Editor
It was not bad sport — being in London entirely on our own hook. We asked the way to Fleet Street, where Father says all the newspaper offices are. They said straight on down Ludgate Hill — but it turned out to be quite another way. At least we didn’t go straight on.
We got to St Paul’s. Noel would go in, and we saw where Gordon was buried — at least the monument. It is very flat, considering what a man he was.
When we came out we walked a long way, and when we asked a policeman he said we’d better go back through Smithfield. So we did. They don’t burn people any more there now, so it was rather dull, besides being a long way, and Noel got very tired. He’s a peaky little chap; it comes of being a poet, I think. We had a bun or two at different shops — out of the shillings — and it was quite late in the afternoon when we got to Fleet Street. The gas was lighted and the electric lights. There is a jolly Bovril sign that comes off and on in different coloured lamps. We went to the Daily Recorder office, and asked to see the Editor. It is a big office, very bright, with brass and mahogany and electric lights.
They told us the Editor wasn’t there, but at another office. So we went down a dirty street, to a very dull-looking place. There was a man there inside, in a glass case, as if he was a museum, and he told us to write down our names and our business. So Oswald wrote —
OSWALD BASTABLE
NOEL BASTABLE
BUSINESS VERY PRIVATE INDEED
Then we waited on the stone stairs; it was very draughty. And the man in the glass case looked at us as if we were the museum instead of him. We waited a long time, and then a boy came down and said —
‘The Editor can’t see you. Will you please write your business?’ And he laughed. I wanted to punch his head.
But Noel said, ‘Yes, I’ll write it if you’ll give me a pen and ink, and a sheet of paper and an envelope.’
The boy said he’d better write by post. But Noel is a bit pig-headed; it’s his worst fault. So he said —‘No, I’ll write it now.’ So I backed him up by saying —
‘Look at the price penny stamps are since the coal strike!’
So the boy grinned, and the man in the glass case gave us pen and paper, and Noel wrote.