un!" said Mr. Beale to himself.
"We lay under a 'aystack last night," he said aloud, "and where we'll lie to-night gracious only knows, without some kind soul lends us a 'elping 'and."
The lady fumbled in her pocket, and the little girl said to Dickie—
"Where are all your toys?"
"I ain't got but two," said Dickie, "and they're at 'ome; one of them's silver—real silver—my grandfarver 'ad it when 'e was a little boy."
"But if you've got silver you oughtn't to be begging," said the lady, shutting up her purse. Beale frowned.
"It only pawns for a shilling," said Dickie, "and farver knows what store I sets by it."
"A shillin's a lot, I grant you that," said Beale eagerly; "but I wouldn't go to take away the nipper's little bit o' pleasure, not for no shilling I wouldn't," he ended nobly, with a fond look at Dickie.
"You're a kind father," said the lady.
"Yes, isn't he, mother?" said the little girl. "May I give the little boy my penny?"
The two travellers were left facing each other, the richer by a penny, and oh—wonderful good fortune—a whole half-crown. They exchanged such glances as might pass between two actors as the curtain goes down on a successful dramatic performance.
"You did that bit fine," said Beale—"fine, you did. You been there before, ain't ye?"
"No," I never," said Dickie; "'ere's the steever."
"You stick to that," said Beale, radiant with delight; "you're a fair masterpiece, you are; you earned it honest if ever a kid done. Pats
"'IT ONLY PAWNS FOR A SHILLIN',' SAID DICKIE."
[Page 34
you on the napper, she does, and out with 'arf a dollar! A bit of all right, I call it!"
They went on up the hill as happy as any one need wish to be.
They had told lies, you observe, and had by these lies managed to get half a crown and a penny out of the charitable; and far from being ashamed of their acts, they were bubbling over with merriment and delight at their own cleverness. Please do not be too shocked. Remember that neither of them knew any better. To the elder tramp lies and begging were natural means of livelihood. To the little tramp the whole thing was a new and entrancing game of make-believe.
By evening they had seven-and-sixpence.
"Us'll 'ave a fourpenny doss outer this," said Beale. "Swelp me Bob, we'll be ridin' in our own moty afore we know where we are at this rate."
"But you said the bed with the green curtains," urged Dickie.
"Well, p'rhaps you're right. Lay up for a rainy day, eh? Which this ain't, not by no means. There's a 'aystack a bit out of the town, if I remember right. Come on, mate."
And Dickie for the first time slept out of doors. Have you ever slept out of doors? The night is full of interesting little sounds that will not, at first, let you sleep—the rustle of little wild things in the hedges, the barking of dogs in distant farms, the chirp of crickets and the croaking of frogs. And in the morning the birds wake you, and you curl down warm among the hay and look up at the sky that is growing lighter and lighter, and breathe the chill, sweet air, and go to sleep again wondering how you have ever been able to lie of nights in one of those shut-up boxes with holes in them which we call houses.
The new game of begging and inventing stories to interest the people from whom it was worth while to beg went on gaily, day by day and week by week; and Dickie, by constant practice, grew so clever at taking his part in the acting that Mr. Beale was quite dazed with admiration.
"Blessed if I ever see such a nipper," he said, over and over again.
And when they got nearly to Hythe, and met with the red-whiskered man who got up suddenly out of the hedge and said he'd been hanging off and on expecting them for nigh on a week, Mr. Beale sent Dickie into a field to look for mushrooms—which didn't grow there—expressly that he might have a private conversation with the red-whiskered man—a conversation which began thus—
"Couldn't get 'ere afore. Couldn't get a nipper."
"'E's 'oppy, 'e is; 'e ain't no good."
"No good?" said Beale. That's all you know! 'E's a wunner, and no bloomin' error. Turns the ladies round 'is finger as easy as kiss yer 'and. Clever as a traindawg 'e is—an' all outer 'is own 'ead. And to 'ear the way 'e does the patter to me on the road. It's as good as a gaff any day to 'ear 'im. My word! I ain't sure as I 'adn't better stick to the road, and keep away from old 'ands like you, Jim."
"Doin' well, eh?" said Jim.
"Not so dusty," said Mr. Beale cautiously; "we mugger along some'ow. An' 'e's got so red in the face, and plumped out so, they'll soon say 'e doesn't want their dibs."
"Starve 'im a bit," said the red-whiskered man cheerfully.
Mr. Beale laughed. Then he spat thoughtfully. Then he said—
"It's rum—I likes to see the little beggar stokin' up, for all it spoils the market. If 'e gets a bit fat 'e makes it up in cleverness. You should 'ear 'im!" and so forth and so on, till the red-whiskered man said quite crossly—
"Seems to me you're a bit dotty about this 'ere extry double nipper. I never knew you took like it afore."
"Fact is," said Beale, with an air of great candour, "it's 'is cleverness does me. It ain't as I'm silly about 'im—but 'e's that clever."
"I 'ope 'e's clever enough to do wot 'e's told. Keep 'is mug shut—that's all."
"He's clever enough for hanythink," said Beale, "and close as wax. 'E's got a silver toy 'idden away somewhere—it only pops for a bob—and d'you think 'e'll tell me where it's stowed? Not 'im, and us such pals as never was, and 'is jaw wagging all day long. But 'e's never let it out."
"Oh stow it!" said the other impatiently; "I don't want to 'ear no more about 'im. If 'e's straight 'e'll do for me, and if he ain't I'll do for 'im. See? An' now you and me'll have a word or two particler, and settle up about this 'ere job. I got the plan drawed out. It's a easy job as ever I see. Seems to me Tuesday's as good a day as any. Tip-topper—Sir Edward Talbot, that's 'im—'e's in furrin parts for 'is 'ealth, 'e is. Comes 'ome end o' next month. Little surprise for 'im, eh? You'll 'ave to train it. Abrams 'e'll be there Monday. And see 'ere … " He sank his voice to a whisper.
When Dickie came back, without mushrooms, the red-whiskered man was gone.
"See that bloke just now?" said Mr. Beale.
"Yuss," said Dickie.
"Well, you never see 'im. If any one arsts you if you ever see 'im, you never set eyes on 'im in all your born—not to remember 'im. Might a passed 'im in a crowd—see?"
"Yuss," said Dickie again.
"'Tasn't been 'arf a panto neither! Us two on the road," Mr. Beale went on.
"Not 'arf!"
"Well, now we're agoin' in the train like dooks—an' after that we're agoin' to 'ave a rare old beano. I give you my word!"
Dickie was full of questions, but Mr. Beale had no answers for them. "You jes' wait;" "hold on a bit;" "them as lives longest sees most"—these were the sort of remarks which were all that Dickie could get out of him.
It was not the next day, which was a Saturday, that they took the train like dukes. Nor was it Sunday, on which they took a rest and washed their shirts, according to Mr. Beale's rule of life.
They took the train on Monday, and it landed them in a very