This happened a very little time after we left our humble home in
Lewisham, and went to live at the Blackheath house of our Indian uncle,
which was replete with every modern convenience, and had a big garden
and a great many greenhouses. We had had a lot of jolly Christmas
presents, and one of them was Dicky's from father, and it was a
printing-press. Not one of the eighteenpenny kind that never come off,
but a real tip-topper, that you could have printed a whole newspaper out
of if you could have been clever enough to make up all the stuff there
is in newspapers. I don't know how people can do it. It's all about
different things, but it is all just the same too. But the author is
sorry to find he is not telling things from the beginning, as he has
been taught. The printing-press really doesn't come into the story till
quite a long way on. So it is no use your wondering what it was that we
did print with the printing-press. It was not a newspaper, anyway, and
it wasn't my young brother's poetry, though he and the girls did do an
awful lot of that. It was something much more far-reaching, as you will
see if you wait.
There wasn't any skating those holidays, because it was what they call
nice open weather. That means it was simply muggy, and you could play
out of doors without grown-ups fussing about your overcoat, or bringing
you to open shame in the streets with knitted comforters, except, of
course, the poet Noel, who is young, and equal to having bronchitis if
he only looks at a pair of wet boots. But the girls were indoors a good
deal, trying to make things for a bazaar which the people our
housekeeper's elder sister lives with were having in the country for the
benefit of a poor iron church that was in difficulties. And Noel and H.
O. were with them, putting sweets in bags for the bazaar's lucky-tub. So
Dicky and I were out alone together. But we were not angry with the
others for their stuffy way of spending a day. Two is not a good number,
though, for any game except fives; and the man who ordered the vineries
and pineries, and butlers' pantries and things, never had the sense to
tell the builders to make a fives court. Some people never think of the
simplest things. So we had been playing catch with a fives ball. It was
Dicky's ball, and Oswald said:
'I bet you can't hit it over the house.'
'What do you bet?' said Dicky.
And Oswald replied:
'Anything you like. You couldn't do it, anyhow.'
Dicky said:
'Miss Blake says betting is wicked; but I don't believe it is, if you
don't bet money.'
Oswald reminded him how in 'Miss Edgeworth' even that wretched little
Rosamond, who is never allowed to do anything she wants to, even lose
her own needles, makes a bet with her brother, and none of the grown-ups
turn a hair.
'But _I_ don't want to bet,' he said. 'I know you can't do it.'
'I'll bet you my fives ball I do,' Dicky rejoindered.
'Done! I'll bet you that threepenny ball of string and the cobbler's wax
you were bothering about yesterday.'
So Dicky said 'Done!' and then he went and got a tennis racket--when I
meant with his hands--and the ball soared up to the top of the house and
faded away. But when we went round to look for it we couldn't find it
anywhere. So he said it had gone over and he had won. And Oswald thought
it had not gone over, but stayed on the roof, and he hadn't. And they
could not agree about it, though they talked of nothing else till tea
time.
It was a few days after that that the big greenhouse began to leak, and
something was said at brekker about had any of us been throwing stones.
But it happened that we had not. Only after brek Oswald said to Dicky:
'What price fives balls for knocking holes in greenhouses?'
'Then you own it went over the house, and I won my bet. Hand over!'
Dicky remarked.
But Oswald did not see this, because it wasn't proved it was the fives
ball. It was only his idea.
Then it rained for two or three days, and the greenhouse leaked much
more than just a fives ball, and the grown-ups said the man who put it
up had scamped the job, and they sent for him to put it right. And when
he was ready he came, and men came with ladders and putty and glass,
and a thing to cut it with a real diamond in it that he let us have to
look at. It was fine that day, and Dicky and H. O. and I were out most
of the time talking to the men. I think the men who come to do things to
houses are so interesting to talk to; they seem to know much more about
the things that really matter than gentlemen do. I shall try to be like
them when I grow up, and not always talk about politics and the way the
army is going to the dogs.
The men were very jolly, and let us go up the ladder and look at the top
of the greenhouse. Not H. O., of course, because he is very young
indeed, and wears socks. When they had gone to dinner, H. O. went in to
see if some pies were done that he had made out of a bit of putty the
man gave him. He had put the pies in the oven when the cook wasn't
looking. I think something must have been done to him, for he did not
return.
So Dicky and I were left. Dicky said:
'If I could get the ladder round to the roof of the stovehouse I believe
I should find my fives ball in the gutter. I _know_ it went over the
house that day.'
So Oswald, ever ready and obliging, helped his brother to move the
ladder round to the tiled roof of the stovehouse, and Dicky looked in
the gutter. But even he could not pretend the ball was there, because I
am certain it never went over at all.
When he came down, Oswald said:
'Sold again!'
And Dicky said:
'Sold yourself! You jolly well thought it was there, and you'd have to
pay for it.'
This unjustness was Oswald's reward for his kind helpingness about
moving the ladder. So he turned away, just saying carelessly over his
retiring shoulder:
'I should think you'd have the decency to put the ladder back where you
found it.' And he walked off.
But he has a generous heart--a crossing-sweeper told him so once when he
gave him a halfpenny--and when Dicky said, 'Come on, Oswald; don't be a
sneak,' he proved that he was not one, and went back and helped with the
ladder. But he was a little distant to Dicky, till all disagreeableness
was suddenly buried in a rat Pincher found in the cucumber frame.
Then the washing-hands-and-faces-for-dinner bell rang, and, of course,
we should have gone in directly, only just then the workmen came back
from their dinner, and we waited, because one of them had promised
Oswald some hinges for a ferrets' hutch he thought of making, and while
he was talking to this man the other one went up the ladder. And then
the most exciting and awful thing I ever saw happened, all in a minute,
before anyone could have said 'Jack Robinson,' even if they had thought
of him. The bottom part of the ladder slipped out along the smooth tiles
by the greenhouse, and there was a long, dream-like, dreadful time, when
Oswald knew what was going to happen; but it could only have been a
second really, because before anyone could do anything the top end of
the ladder slid softly, like cutting butter, off the top of the
greenhouse, and the man on the ladder fell too. I never saw anything
that made me feel so wrong way up in my inside. He lay there all in a
heap, without moving, and the men crowded round him. Dicky and I could
not see properly because of the other men. But the foreman, the one who
had given Oswald the hinges, said:
'Better get a doctor.'
It always takes a long time for a workman to understand what you want
him to do, and long before these had, Oswald had shouted 'I'll go!' and
was off like an arrow from a bow, and Dicky with him.
They found the doctor at home, and he came that minute. Oswald and Dicky
were told to go away, but they could not bear to, though they knew their
dinner-bell must have been already rung for them many times in vain, and
it was now ringing with fury. They just lurked round the corner of the
greenhouse till the doctor said it was a broken arm, and nothing else
hurt; and when the poor man was sent home in a cab, Oswald and Dicky got
the cabman, who is a friend of theirs, to let them come on the box with
him. And thus they saw where the man lived, and saw his poor wife greet
the sufferer. She only said:
'Gracious, Gus, whatever have you been up to now? You always was an
unlucky chap.'
But we could see her loving heart was full to overflowing.
When she had taken him in and shut the door we went away. The wretched
sufferer, whose name transpired to be Augustus Victor Plunkett, was
lucky enough to live in a mews. Noel made a poem about it afterwards:
'O Muse of Poetry, do not refuse
To tell about a man who loves the Mews.
It is his humble home so poor,
And the cabman who drove him home lives next door
But two: and when his arm was broke
His loving wife with tears spoke.'
And so on. It went on for two hundred and twenty-four lines, and he
could not print it, because it took far too much type for the
printing-press. It was as we went out of the mews that we first saw the
Goat. I gave him a piece of cocoanut ice, and he liked it awfully. He
was tied to a ring in the wall, and he was black and white, with horns
and a beard; and when the man he belonged to saw us looking at him, he
said we could have that Goat a bargain. And when we asked, out of
politeness and not because we had any money, except twopence halfpenny
of Dicky's, how much he wanted for the Goat, he said:
'Seven and sixpence is the lowest, so I won't deceive you, young gents.
And so help me if he ain't worth thribble the money.'
Oswald did the sum in his head, which told him the Goat was worth one
pound two shillings and sixpence, and he went away sadly, for he did
want that Goat.
We were later for dinner than I ever remember our being, and Miss Blake
had not kept us any pudding; but Oswald bore up when he thought of the
Goat. But Dicky seemed to have no beautiful inside thoughts to sustain
him, and he was so dull Dora said she only hoped he wasn't going to have
measles.
It was when we had gone up to bed that he fiddled about with the studs
and old buttons and things in a velvety box he had till Oswald was in
bed, and then he said:
'Look here, Oswald, I feel as if I was a murderer, or next-door to. It
was our moving that ladder: I'm certain it was. And now he's laid up,
and his wife and children.'
Oswald sat up in bed, and said kindly:
'You're right, old chap. It _was_ your moving that ladder. Of course,
you didn't put it back firm. But the man's not killed.'
'We oughtn't to have touched it,' he said. 'Or we ought to have told
them we had, or something. Suppose his arm gets blood-poisoning, or
inflammation, or something awful? I couldn't go on living if I was a
doer of a deed like that.'
Oswald had never seen Dicky so upset. He takes things jolly easy as a
rule. Oswald said:
'Well, it is no use fuming over it. You'd better get out of your clothes
and go to bed. We'll cut down in the morning and leave our cards and
kind inquiries.'
Oswald only meant to be kind, and by making this amusing remark he
wished to draw his erring brother's thoughts from the remorse that was
poisoning his young life, and would very likely keep him awake for an
hour or more thinking of it, and fidgetting about so that Oswald
couldn't sleep.
But Dicky did not take it at all the way Oswald meant. He said:
'Shut up, Oswald, you beast!' and lay down on his bed and began to blub.
Oswald said, 'Beast yourself!' because it is the proper thing to say;
but he was not angry, only sorry that Dicky was so duffing as not to see
what he meant. And he got out of bed and went softly to the girls' room,
which is next ours, and said:
'I say, come in to our room a sec., will you? Dicky is howling fit to
bring the house down. I think a council of us elder ones would do him
more good than anything.'
'Whatever is up?' Dora asked, getting into her dressing-gown.
'Oh, nothing, except that he's a murderer! Come on, and don't make a
row. Mind the mats and our boots by the door.'
They came in, and Oswald said:
'Look here, Dicky, old boy, here are the girls, and we're going to have
a council about it.'
They wanted to kiss him, but he wouldn't, and shrugged his shoulders
about, and wouldn't speak; but when Alice had got hold of his hand he
said in a muffled voice:
'You tell them, Oswald.'
When Oswald and Dicky were alone, you will have noticed the just elder
brother blamed the proper person, which was Dicky, because he would go
up on the stovehouse roof after his beastly ball, which Oswald did not
care a rap about. And, besides, he knew it wasn't there. But now that
other people were there Oswald, of course, said:
'You see, _we_ moved the men's ladder when they were at their dinner.
And you know the man that fell off the ladder, and we went with him in
the cab to the place where that Goat was? Well, Dicky has only just
thought of it; but, of course, it was really our fault his tumbling,
because we couldn't have put the ladder back safely. And Dicky thinks if
his arm blood-poisoned itself we should be as good as murderers.'
Dicky is perfectly straight; he sat up and sniffed, and blew his nose,
and said:
'It was my idea moving the ladder: Oswald only helped.'
'Can't we ask uncle to see that the dear sufferer wants for nothing
while he's ill, and all that?' said Dora.
'Well,' said Oswald, 'we could, of course. But, then, it would all come
out. And about the fives ball too. And we can't be at all sure it _was_
the ball made the greenhouse leak, because I know it never went over the
house.'
'Yes, it did,' said Dicky, giving his nose a last stern blow.
Oswald was generous to a sorrowing foe, and took no notice, only went
on:
'And about the ladder: we can't be quite sure it wouldn't have slipped
on those tiles, even if we'd never moved it. But I think Dicky would
feel jollier if we could do something for the man, and I know it would
me.'
That looks mixed, but Oswald was rather agitated himself, and that was
what he said.
'We must think of something to do to get money,' Alice said, 'like we
used to do when we were treasure-seekers.'
Presently the girls went away, and we heard them jawing in their room.
Just as Oswald was falling asleep the door opened, and a figure in white
came in and bent above his almost sleeping form. It said:
'We've thought of something! We'll have a bazaar, like the people Miss
Blake's elder sister lives with did for the poor iron church.'
The form glided away. Miss Blake is our housekeeper. Oswald could hear
that Dicky was already sleeping, so he turned over and went to sleep
himself. He dreamed of Goats, only they were as big as railway engines,
and would keep ringing the church bells, till Oswald awoke, and it was
the getting-up bell, and not a great Goat ringing it, but only Sarah as
usual.
The idea of the bazaar seemed to please all of us.
'We can ask all the people we know to it,' said Alice.
'And wear our best frocks, and sell the things at the stalls,' said
Dora.
Dicky said we could have it in the big greenhouse now the plants were
out of it.
'I will write a poem for the man, and say it at the bazaar,' Noel said.
'I know people say poetry at bazaars. The one Aunt Carrie took me to a
man said a piece about a cowboy.'
H. O. said there ought to be lots of sweets, and then everyone would buy
them.
Oswald said someone would have to ask my father, and he said he would do
it if the others liked. He did this because of an inside feeling in his
mind that he knew might come on at any moment. So he did. And 'Yes' was
the answer. And then the uncle gave Oswald a whole quid to buy things to
sell at the bazaar, and my father gave him ten bob for the same useful
and generous purpose, and said he was glad to see we were trying to do
good to others.
When he said that the inside feeling in Oswald's mind began that he had
felt afraid would, some time, and he told my father about him and Dicky
moving the ladder, and about the hateful fives ball, and everything. And
my father was awfully decent about it, so that Oswald was glad he had
told.
The girls wrote the invitations to all our friends that very day. We
boys went down to look in the shops and see what we could buy for the
bazaar. And we went to ask how Mr. Augustus Victor Plunkett's arm was
getting on, and to see the Goat.
The others liked the Goat almost as much as Oswald, and even Dicky
agreed that it was our clear duty to buy the Goat for the sake of poor
Mr. Plunkett.
Because, as Oswald said, if it was worth one pound two and six, we could
easily sell it again for that, and we should have gained fifteen
shillings for the sufferer.
So we bought the Goat, and changed the ten shillings to do it. The man
untied the other end of the Goat's rope, and Oswald took hold of it, and
said he hoped we were not robbing the man by taking his Goat from him
for such a low price. And he said:
'Not at all, young gents. Don't you mention it. Pleased to oblige a
friend any day of the week.'
So we started to take the Goat home. But after about half a street he
would not come any more. He stopped still, and a lot of boys and people
came round, just as if they had never seen a Goat before. We were
beginning to feel quite uncomfortable, when Oswald remembered the Goat
liked cocoanut ice, so Noel went into a shop and got threepenn'orth, and
then the cheap animal consented to follow us home. So did the street
boys. The cocoanut ice was more for the money than usual, but not so
nice.
My father was not pleased when he saw the Goat. But when Alice told him
it was for the bazaar, he laughed, and let us keep it in the stableyard.
It got out early in the morning, and came right into the house, and
butted the cook in her own back-kitchen, a thing even Oswald himself
would have hesitated before doing. So that showed it was a brave Goat.
The groom did not like the Goat, because it bit a hole in a sack of
corn, and then walked up it like up a mountain, and all the oats ran out
and got between the stones of the stableyard, and there was a row. But
we explained it was not for long, as the bazaar was in three days. And
we hurried to get things ready.
We were each to have a stall. Dora took the refreshment stall. The uncle
made Miss Blake get all that ready.
Alice had a stall for pincushions and brush-and-comb bags, and other
useless things that girls make with stuff and ribbons.
Noel had a poetry stall, where you could pay twopence and get a piece of
poetry and a sweet wrapped up in it. We chose sugar almonds, because
they are not so sticky.
H. O.'s stall was to be sweets, if he promised on his word of honour as
a Bastable only to eat one of each kind.
Dicky wished to have a stall for mechanical toys and parts of clocks. He
has a great many parts of clocks, but the only mechanical toy was his
clockwork engine, that was broken ages ago, so he had to give it up, and
he couldn't think of anything else. So he settled to help Oswald, and
keep an eye on H. O.
Oswald's stall was meant to be a stall for really useful things, but in
the end it was just a lumber stall for the things other people did not
want. But he did not mind, because the others agreed he should have the
entire selling of the Goat, and he racked his young brains to think how
to sell it in the most interesting and unusual way. And at last he saw
how, and he said:
'He shall be a lottery, and we'll make people take tickets, and then
draw a secret number out of a hat, and whoever gets the right number
gets the Goat. I wish it was me.'
'We ought to advertise it, though,' Dicky said. 'Have handbills printed,
and send out sandwich-men.'
Oswald inquired at the printers in Greenwich, and handbills were an
awful price, and sandwich-men a luxury far beyond our means. So he went
home sadly; and then Alice thought of the printing-press. We got it out,
and cleaned it where the ink had been upset into it, and mended the
broken parts as well as we could, and got some more printers' ink, and
wrote the circular and printed it. It was:
SECRET LOTTERY.
EXCEPTIONABLE AND RARE CHANCE.
_An Object of Value--_
'It ought to be object of _virtue_,' said Dicky. 'I saw it in the old
iron and china and picture shop. It was a carved ivory ship, and there
was a ticket on it: "Rare Object of Virtue."'
'The Goat's an object, certainly,' Alice said, 'and it's valuable. As
for virtue, I'm not so sure.'
But Oswald thought the two V's looked well, and being virtuous is
different to being valuable; but, all the same, the Goat might be both
when you got to know him really well. So we put it in.
SECRET LOTTERY.
EXCEPTIONABLE AND RARE CHANCE.
_An Object of Value and Virtue_
will be lotteried for on Saturday next, at four o'clock. Tickets
one or two shillings each, according to how many people want them.
The object is not disclosed till after the Lottery, but it cost a
lot of money, and is honestly worth three times as much. If you win
it, it is the same as winning money. Apply at Morden House,
Blackheath, at 3 o'clock next Saturday. Take tickets early to
prevent disappointment.
We printed these, and though they looked a bit rum, we had not time to
do them again, so we went out about dusk and dropped them in people's
letter-boxes. Then next day Oswald, who is always very keen on doing the
thing well, got two baking-boards out of the kitchen and bored holes in
them with an auger I had, and pasted paper on them, and did on them
with a paint-brush and ink the following lines: