GOLDEN GUINEAS
Anthea woke in the morning from a very real sort of dream, in which she
was walking in the Zoological Gardens on a pouring wet day without an
umbrella. The animals seemed desperately unhappy because of the rain,
and were all growling gloomily. When she awoke, both the growling and
the rain went on just the same. The growling was the heavy regular
breathing of her sister Jane, who had a slight cold and was still
asleep. The rain fell in slow drops on to Anthea's face from the wet
corner of a bath-towel out of which her brother Robert was gently
squeezing the water, to wake her up, as he now explained.
"Oh, drop it!" she said rather crossly; so he did, for he was not a
brutal brother, though very ingenious in apple-pie beds, booby-traps,
original methods of awakening sleeping relatives, and the other
little accomplishments which make home happy.
[Illustration: The rain fell in slow drops on to Anthea's face]
"I had such a funny dream," Anthea began.
"So did I," said Jane, wakening suddenly and without warning. "I dreamed
we found a Sand-fairy in the gravel-pits, and it said it was a Sammyadd,
and we might have a new wish every day, and"----
"But that's what _I_ dreamed," said Robert; "I was just going to tell
you,--and we had the first wish directly it said so. And I dreamed you
girls were donkeys enough to ask for us all to be beautiful as day, and
we jolly well were, and it was perfectly beastly."
"But _can_ different people all dream the same thing?" said Anthea,
sitting up in bed, "because I dreamed all that as well as about the Zoo
and the rain; and Baby didn't know us in my dream, and the servants shut
us out of the house because the radiantness of our beauty was such a
complete disguise, and"----
The voice of the eldest brother sounded from across the landing.
"Come on, Robert," it said, "you'll be late for breakfast again--unless
you mean to shirk your bath as you did on Tuesday."
"I say, come here a second," Robert replied; "I didn't shirk it; I had
it after brekker in father's dressing-room because ours was emptied
away."
Cyril appeared in the doorway, partially clothed.
"Look here," said Anthea, "we've all had such an odd dream. We've all
dreamed we found a Sand-fairy."
Her voice died away before Cyril's contemptuous glance.
"Dream?" he said; "you little sillies, it's _true_. I tell you it all
happened. That's why I'm so keen on being down early. We'll go up there
directly after brekker, and have another wish. Only we'll make up our
minds, solid, before we go, what it is we do want, and no one must ask
for anything unless the others agree first. No more peerless beauties
for this child, thank you. Not if I know it!"
The other three dressed, with their mouths open. If all that dream about
the Sand-fairy was real, this real dressing seemed very like a dream,
the girls thought. Jane felt that Cyril was right, but Anthea was not
sure, till after they had seen Martha and heard her full and plain
reminders about their naughty conduct the day before. Then Anthea was
sure.
"Because," said she, "servants never dream anything but the things in
the Dream-book, like snakes and oysters and going to a wedding--that
means a funeral, and snakes are a false female friend, and oysters are
babies."
"Talking of babies," said Cyril, "where's the Lamb?"
"Martha's going to take him to Rochester to see her cousins. Mother said
she might. She's dressing him now," said Jane, "in his very best coat
and hat. Bread-and-butter, please."
"She seems to like taking him too," said Robert in a tone of wonder.
"Servants _do_ like taking babies to see their relations," Cyril said;
"I've noticed it before--especially in their best clothes."
"I expect they pretend they're their own babies, and that they're not
servants at all, but married to noble dukes of high degree, and they say
the babies are the little dukes and duchesses," Jane suggested dreamily,
taking more marmalade. "I expect that's what Martha'll say to her
cousin. She'll enjoy herself most frightfully."
"She won't enjoy herself most frightfully carrying our infant duke to
Rochester," said Robert; "not if she's anything like me--she won't."
"Fancy walking to Rochester with the Lamb on your back!" said Cyril in
full agreement.
"She's gone by the carrier's cart," said Jane. "Let's see them off, then
we shall have done a polite and kindly act, and we shall be quite sure
we've got rid of them for the day."
So they did.
Martha wore her Sunday dress of two shades of purple, so tight in the
chest that it made her stoop, and her blue hat with the pink
cornflowers and white ribbon. She had a yellow-lace collar with a green
bow. And the Lamb had indeed his very best cream-colored silk coat and
hat. It was a smart party that the carrier's cart picked up at the Cross
Roads. When its white tilt and red wheels had slowly vanished in a swirl
of chalk-dust--
"And now for the Sammyadd!" said Cyril, and off they went.
As they went they decided on the wish they would ask for. Although they
were all in a great hurry they did not try to climb down the sides of
the gravel-pit, but went round by the safe lower road, as if they had
been carts.
They had made a ring of stones round the place where the Sand-fairy had
disappeared, so they easily found the spot. The sun was burning and
bright, and the sky was deep blue--without a cloud. The sand was very
hot to touch.
"Oh--suppose it was only a dream, after all," Robert said as the boys
uncovered their spades from the sand-heap where they had buried them
and began to dig.
"Suppose you were a sensible chap," said Cyril; "one's quite as likely
as the other!"
"Suppose you kept a civil tongue in your head," Robert snapped.
"Suppose we girls take a turn," said Jane, laughing. "You boys seem to
be getting very warm."
"Suppose you don't come putting your silly oar in," said Robert, who was
now warm indeed.
"We won't," said Anthea quickly. "Robert dear, don't be so grumpy--we
won't say a word, you shall be the one to speak to the Fairy and tell
him what we've decided to wish for. You'll say it much better than we
shall."
"Suppose you drop being a little humbug," said Robert, but not crossly.
"Look out--dig with your hands, now!"
So they did, and presently uncovered the spider-shaped brown hairy body,
long arms and legs, bat's ears and snail's eyes of the Sand-fairy
himself. Everyone drew a deep breath of satisfaction, for now of course
it couldn't have been a dream.
The Psammead sat up and shook the sand out of its fur.
"How's your left whisker this morning?" said Anthea politely.
"Nothing to boast of," said it; "it had rather a restless night. But
thank you for asking."
"I say," said Robert, "do you feel up to giving wishes to-day, because
we very much want an extra besides the regular one? The extra's a very
little one," he added reassuringly.
"Humph!" said the Sand-fairy. (If you read this story aloud, please
pronounce "humph" exactly as it is spelt, for that is how he said it.)
"Humph! Do you know, until I heard you being disagreeable to each other
just over my head, and so loud too, I really quite thought I had dreamed
you all. I do have very odd dreams sometimes."
"Do you?" Jane hurried to say, so as to get away from the subject of
disagreeableness. "I wish," she added politely, "you'd tell us about
your dreams--they must be awfully interesting"--
"Is that the day's wish?" said the Sand-fairy, yawning.
Cyril muttered something about "just like a girl," and the rest stood
silent. If they said "Yes," then good-bye to the other wishes they had
decided to ask for. If they said "No," it would be very rude, and they
had all been taught manners, and had learned a little too, which is not
at all the same thing. A sigh of relief broke from all lips when the
Sand-fairy said--
"If I do, I shan't have strength to give you a second wish; not even
good tempers, or common-sense, or manners, or little things like that."
"We don't want you to put yourself out at all about _these_ things, we
can manage them quite well ourselves," said Cyril eagerly; while the
others looked guiltily at each other, and wished the Fairy would not
keep all on about good tempers, but give them one good scolding if it
wanted to, and then have done with it.
"Well," said the Psammead, putting out his long snail's eyes so suddenly
that one of them nearly went into the round boy's eye of Robert, "let's
have the little wish first."
"We don't want the servants to notice the gifts you give us."
"Are kind enough to give us," said Anthea in a whisper.
"Are kind enough to give us, I mean," said Robert.
The Fairy swelled himself out a bit, let his breath go, and said--
"I've done _that_ for you--it was quite easy. People don't notice things
much, anyway. What's the next wish?"
"We want," said Robert slowly, "to be rich beyond the dreams of
something or other."
"Avarice," said Jane.
"So it is," said the Fairy unexpectedly. "But it won't do you much good,
that's one comfort," it muttered to itself. "Come--I can't go beyond
dreams, you know! How much do you want, and will you have it in gold or
notes?"
"Gold, please--and millions of it"--
"This gravel-pit full be enough?" said the Fairy in an off-hand manner.
"Oh _yes_"--
"Then go out before I begin, or you'll be buried alive in it."
It made its skinny arms so long, and waved them so frighteningly, that
the children ran as hard as they could towards the road by which carts
used to come to the gravel-pits. Only Anthea had presence of mind enough
to shout a timid "Good-morning, I hope your whisker will be better
to-morrow," as she ran.
On the road they turned and looked back, and they had to shut their
eyes, and open them very slowly, a little bit at a time, because the
sight was too dazzling for their eyes to be able to bear. It was
something like trying to look at the sun at high noon on Midsummer Day.
For the whole of the sand-pit was full, right up to the very top, with
new shining gold pieces, and all the little bank-martins' little front
doors were covered out of sight. Where the road for carts wound into the
gravel-pit the gold lay in heaps like stones lie by the roadside, and a
great bank of shining gold shelved down from where it lay flat and
smooth between the tall sides of the gravel-pit. And all the gleaming
heaps was minted gold. And on the sides and edges of these countless
coins the mid-day sun shone and sparkled, and glowed and gleamed till
the quarry looked like the mouth of a smelting furnace, or one of the
fairy halls that you see sometimes in the sky at sunset.
The children stood with their mouths open, and no one said a word.
At last Robert stooped and picked up one of the loose coins from the
edge of the heap by the cart-road, and looked at it. He looked on both
sides. Then he said in a low voice, quite different to his own, "It's
not sovereigns."
"It's gold, anyway," said Cyril. And now they all began to talk at once.
They all picked up the golden treasure by handfuls and let it run
through their fingers like water, and the chink it made as it fell was
wonderful music. At first they quite forgot to think of spending the
money, it was so nice to play with. Jane sat down between two heaps of
the gold, and Robert began to bury her, as you bury your father in sand
when you are at the seaside and he has gone to sleep on the beach with
his newspaper over his face. But Jane was not half buried before she
cried out, "Oh stop, it's too heavy! It hurts!"
Robert said "Bosh!" and went on.
"Let me out, I tell you," cried Jane, and was taken out, very white, and
trembling a little.
"You've no idea what it's like," said she; "it's like stones on you--or
like chains."
"Look here," Cyril said, "if this is to do us any good, it's no good our
staying gasping at it like this. Let's fill our pockets and go and buy
things. Don't you forget, it won't last after sunset. I wish we'd asked
the Sammyadd why things don't turn to stone. Perhaps this will. I'll
tell you what, there's a pony and cart in the village."
"Do you want to buy that?" asked Jane.
"No, silly,--we'll _hire_ it. And then we'll go to Rochester and buy
heaps and heaps of things. Look here, let's each take as much as we can
carry. But it's not sovereigns. They've got a man's head on one side and
a thing like the ace of spades on the other. Fill your pockets with it,
I tell you, and come along. You can talk as we go--if you _must_ talk."
Cyril sat down and began to fill his pockets.
"You made fun of me for getting father to have nine pockets in my suit,"
said he, "but now you see!"
They did. For when Cyril had filled his nine pockets and his
handkerchief and the space between himself and his shirt front with the
gold coins, he had to stand up. But he staggered, and had to sit down
again in a hurry.
"Throw out some of the cargo," said Robert. "You'll sink the ship, old
chap. That comes of nine pockets."
And Cyril had to do so.
Then they set off to walk to the village. It was more than a mile, and
the road was very dusty indeed, and the sun seemed to get hotter and
hotter, and the gold in their pockets got heavier and heavier.
It was Jane who said, "I don't see how we're to spend it all. There must
be thousands of pounds among the lot of us. I'm going to leave some of
mine behind this stump in the hedge. And directly we get to the village
we'll buy some biscuits; I know it's long past dinner-time." She took
out a handful or two of gold and hid it in the hollows of an old
hornbeam. "How round and yellow they are," she said. "Don't you wish
they were made of gingerbread and we were going to eat them?"
"Well, they're not, and we're not," said Cyril. "Come on!"
But they came on heavily and wearily. Before they reached the village,
more than one stump in the hedge concealed its little hoard of hidden
treasure. Yet they reached the village with about twelve hundred guineas
in their pockets. But in spite of this inside wealth they looked
quite ordinary outside, and no one would have thought they could have
more than a half-crown each at the outside. The haze of heat, the blue
of the wood smoke, made a sort of dim misty cloud over the red roofs of
the village. The four sat down heavily on the first bench to which they
came. It happened to be outside the Blue Boar Inn.
[Illustration: He staggered, and had to sit down again in a hurry]
It was decided that Cyril should go into the Blue Boar and ask for
ginger-beer, because, as Anthea said, "It was not wrong for men to go
into beer-saloons, only for children. And Cyril is nearer being a man
than us, because he is the eldest." So he went. The others sat in the
sun and waited.
"Oh, how hot it is!" said Robert. "Dogs put their tongues out when
they're hot; I wonder if it would cool us at all to put out ours?"
"We might try," Jane said; and they all put their tongues out as far as
ever they could go, so that it quite stretched their throats, but it
only seemed to make them thirstier than ever, besides annoying everyone
who went by. So they took their tongues in again, just as Cyril came
back with ginger-beer.
"I had to pay for it out of my own money, though, that I was going to
buy rabbits with," he said. "They wouldn't change the gold. And when I
pulled out a handful the man just laughed and said it was card-counters.
And I got some sponge-cakes too, out of a glass jar on the bar-counter.
And some biscuits with caraways in."
The sponge-cakes were both soft and dry and the biscuits were dry too,
and yet soft, which biscuits ought not to be. But the ginger-beer made
up for everything.
"It's my turn now to try to buy something with the money," Anthea said;
"I'm next eldest. Where is the pony-cart kept?"
It was at The Chequers, and Anthea went in the back way to the yard,
because they all knew that little girls ought not to go into the bars of
beer-saloons. She came out, as she herself said, "pleased but not
proud."
"He'll be ready in a brace of shakes, he says," she remarked, "and he's
to have one sovereign--or whatever it is--to drive us into Rochester and
back, besides waiting there till we've got everything we want. I think I
managed very well."
"You think yourself jolly clever, I daresay," said Cyril moodily. "How
did you do it?"
"I wasn't jolly clever enough to go taking handfuls of money out of my
pocket, to make it seem cheap, anyway," she retorted. "I just found a
young man doing something to a horse's legs with a sponge and a pail.
And I held out one sovereign, and I said--'Do you know what this is?' He
said 'No,' and he'd call his father. And the old man came, and he said
it was a spade guinea; and he said was it my own to do as I liked with,
and I said 'Yes'; and I asked about the pony-cart, and I said he could
have the guinea if he'd drive us into Rochester. And his name is S.
Crispin. And he said, 'Right oh.'"
It was a new sensation to be driven in a smart pony-trap along pretty
country roads; it was very pleasant too (which is not always the case
with new sensations), quite apart from the beautiful plans of spending
the money which each child made as they went along, silently of course
and quite to itself, for they felt it would never have done to let the
old innkeeper hear them talk in the affluent sort of way in which they
were thinking. The old man put them down by the bridge at their request.
"If you were going to buy a carriage and horses, where would you go?"
asked Cyril, as if he were only asking for the sake of something to say.
"Billy Peasemarsh, at the Saracen's Head," said the old man promptly.
"Though all forbid I should recommend any man where it's a question of
horses, no more than I'd take anybody else's recommending if I was
a-buying one. But if your pa's thinking of a rig of any sort, there
ain't a straighter man in Rochester, nor civiller spoken, than Billy,
though I says it."
"Thank you," said Cyril. "The Saracen's Head."
And now the children began to see one of the laws of nature turn upside
down and stand on its head like an acrobat. Any grown-up person would
tell you that money is hard to get and easy to spend. But the fairy
money had been easy to get, and spending it was not only hard, it was
almost impossible. The trades-people of Rochester seemed to shrink, to a
trades-person, from the glittering fairy gold ("furrin money" they
called it, for the most part).
To begin with, Anthea, who had had the misfortune to sit on her hat
earlier in the day, wished to buy another. She chose a very beautiful
one, trimmed with pink roses and the blue breasts of peacocks. It was
marked in the window, "Paris Model, three guineas."
"I'm glad," she said, "because it says guineas, and not sovereigns,
which we haven't got."
But when she took three of the spade guineas in her hand, which was by
this time rather dirty owing to her not having put on gloves before
going to the gravel-pit, the black-silk young lady in the shop looked
very hard at her, and went and whispered something to an older and
uglier lady, also in black silk, and then they gave her back the money
and said it was not current coin.
"It's good money," said Anthea, "and it's my own."
"I daresay," said the lady, "but it's not the kind of money that's
fashionable now, and we don't care about taking it."
"I believe they think we've stolen it," said Anthea, rejoining the
others in the street; "if we had gloves they wouldn't think we were so
dishonest. It's my hands being so dirty fills their minds with doubts."
So they chose a humble shop, and the girls bought cotton gloves, the
kind at a shilling, but when they offered a guinea the woman looked at
it through her spectacles and said she had no change; so the gloves had
to be paid for out of Cyril's money with which he meant to buy rabbits
and so had the green imitation crocodile-skin purse at nine-pence which
had been bought at the same time. They tried several more shops, the
kinds where you buy toys and perfume and silk handkerchiefs and books,
and fancy boxes of stationery, and photographs of objects of interest in
the vicinity. But nobody cared to change a guinea that day in Rochester,
and as they went from shop to shop they got dirtier and dirtier, and
their hair got more and more untidy, and Jane slipped and fell down on a
part of the road where a water cart had just gone by. Also they got very
hungry, but they found no one would give them anything to eat for their
guineas.
After trying two baker shops in vain, they became so hungry, perhaps
from the smell of the cake in the shops, as Cyril suggested, that they
formed a plan of campaign in whispers and carried it out in desperation.
They marched into a third baker shop,--Beale was his name,--and before
the people behind the counter could interfere each child had seized
three new penny buns, clapped the three together between its dirty
hands, and taken a big bite out of the triple sandwich. Then they stood
at bay, with the twelve buns in their hands and their mouths very full
indeed. The shocked baker's man bounded round the corner.
"Here," said Cyril, speaking as distinctly as he could, and holding out
the guinea he got ready before entering the shops, "pay yourself out of
that."
Mr. Beale snatched the coin, bit it, and put it in his pocket.
[Illustration: Mr. Beale snatched the coin, bit it, and put it in his
pocket]
"Off you go," he said, brief and stern like the man in the song.
"But the change?" said Anthea, who had a saving mind.
"Change!" said the man, "I'll change you! Hout you goes; and you may
think yourselves lucky I don't send for the police to find out where you
got it!"
In the Gardens of the Castle the millionaires finished the buns, and
though the curranty softness of these were delicious, and acted like a
charm in raising the spirits of the party, yet even the stoutest heart
quailed at the thought of venturing to sound Mr. Billy Peasemarsh at the
Saracen's Head on the subject of a horse and carriage. The boys would
have given up the idea, but Jane was always a hopeful child, and Anthea
generally an obstinate one, and their earnestness prevailed.
The whole party, by this time indescribably dirty, therefore betook
itself to the Saracen's Head. The yard-method of attack having been
successful at The Chequers, was tried again here. Mr. Peasemarsh was in
the yard, and Robert opened the business in these terms--
"They tell me you have a lot of horses and carriages to sell." It had
been agreed that Robert should be spokesman, because in books it is
always gentlemen who buy horses, and not ladies, and Cyril had had his
go at the Blue Boar.
"They tell you true, young man," said Mr. Peasemarsh. He was a long lean
man, with very blue eyes and a tight mouth and narrow lips.
"We should like to buy some, please," said Robert politely.
"I daresay you would."
"Will you show us a few, please? To choose from."
"Who are you a-kiddin of?" inquired Mr. Billy Peasemarsh. "Was you sent
here of a message?"
"I tell you," said Robert, "we want to buy some horses and carriages,
and a man told us you were straight and civil spoken, but I shouldn't
wonder if he was mistaken"--
"Upon my sacred!" said Mr. Peasemarsh. "Shall I trot the whole stable
out for your Honor's worship to see? Or shall I send round to the
Bishop's to see if he's a nag or two to dispose of?"
"Please do," said Robert, "if it's not too much trouble. It would be
very kind of you."
Mr. Peasemarsh put his hands in his pockets and laughed, and they did
not like the way he did it. Then he shouted "Willum!"
A stooping ostler appeared in a stable door.
"Here, Willum, come and look at this 'ere young dook! Wants to buy the
whole stud, lock, stock, and bar'l. And ain't got tuppence in his
pocket to bless hisself with, I'll go bail!"
Willum's eyes followed his master's pointing thumb with contemptuous
interest.
"Do 'e, for sure?" he said.
But Robert spoke, though both the girls were now pulling at his jacket
and begging him to "come along." He spoke, and he was very angry; he
said--
"I'm not a young duke, and I never pretended to be. And as for
tuppence--what do you call this?" And before the others could stop him
he had pulled out two fat handfuls of shining guineas, and held them out
for Mr. Peasemarsh to look at. He did look. He snatched one up in his
finger and thumb. He bit it, and Jane expected him to say, "The best
horse in my stables is at your service." But the others knew better.
Still it was a blow, even to the most desponding, when he said shortly--
"Willum, shut the yard doors;" and Willum grinned and went to shut them.
"Good-afternoon," said Robert hastily; "we shan't buy any horses now,
whatever you say, and I hope it'll be a lesson to you." He had seen a
little side gate open, and was moving towards it as he spoke. But Billy
Peasemarsh put himself in the way.
"Not so fast, you young off-scouring!" he said. "Willum, fetch the
pleece."
Willum went. The children stood huddled together like frightened sheep,
and Mr. Peasemarsh spoke to them till the pleece arrived. He said many
things. Among other things he said--
"Nice lot you are, aren't you, coming tempting honest men with your
guineas!"
"They _are_ our guineas," said Cyril boldly.
"Oh, of course we don't know all about that, no more we don't--oh
no--course not! And dragging little gells into it, too. 'Ere--I'll let
the gells go if you'll come along to the pleece quiet."
"We won't be let go," said Jane heroically; "not without the boys. It's
our money just as much as theirs, you wicked old man."
"Where'd you get it, then?" said the man, softening slightly, which was
not at all what the boys expected when Jane began to call names.
Jane cast a silent glance of agony at the others.
"Lost your tongue, eh? Got it fast enough when it's for calling names
with. Come, speak up! Where'd you get it?"
"Out of the gravel-pit," said truthful Jane.
"Next article," said the man.
"I tell you we did," Jane said. "There's a fairy there--all over brown
fur--with ears like a bat's and eyes like a snail's, and he gives you a
wish a day, and they all come true."
"Touched in the head, eh?" said the man in a low voice; "all the more
shame to you boys dragging the poor afflicted child into your sinful
burglaries."
"She's not mad; it's true," said Anthea; "there _is_ a fairy. If I ever
see him again I'll wish for something for you; at least I would if
vengeance wasn't wicked--so there!"
"Lor' lumme," said Billy Peasemarsh, "if there ain't another on 'em!"
And now Willum came back, with a spiteful grin on his face, and at his
back a policeman, with whom Mr. Peasemarsh spoke long in a hoarse
earnest whisper.
"I daresay you're right," said the policeman at last. "Anyway, I'll take
'em up on a charge of unlawful possession, pending inquiries. And the
magistrate will deal with the case. Send the afflicted ones to a home,
as likely as not, and the boys to a reformatory. Now then, come along,
youngsters! No use making a fuss. You bring the gells along, Mr.
Peasemarsh, sir, and I'll shepherd the boys."
Speechless with rage and horror, the four children were driven along the
streets of Rochester. Tears of anger and shame blinded them, so that
when Robert ran right into a passer-by he did not recognise her till a
well-known voice said, "Well, if ever I did! Oh, Master Robert, whatever
have you been a-doing of now?" And another voice, quite as well known,
said, "Panty; want go own Panty!"
They had run into Martha and the Baby!
[Illustration: They had run into Martha and the baby]
Martha behaved admirably. She refused to believe a word of the
policeman's story, or of Mr. Peasemarsh's either, even when they made
Robert turn out his pockets in an archway and show the guineas.
"I don't see nothing," she said. "You've gone out of your senses, you
two! There ain't any gold there--only the poor child's hands, all over
dirt, and like the very chimbley. Oh that I should ever see the day!"
And the children thought this very noble of Martha, even if rather
wicked, till they remembered how the Fairy had promised that the
servants should never notice any of the fairy gifts. So of course Martha
couldn't see the gold, and so was only speaking the truth, and that was
quite right, of course, but not extra noble.
It was getting dusk when they reached the police-station. The policeman
told his tale to an inspector, who sat in a large bare room with a thing
like a clumsy nursery-fender at one end to put prisoners in. Robert
wondered whether it was a cell or a dock.
"Produce the coins, officer," said the inspector.
"Turn out your pockets," said the constable.
Cyril desperately plunged his hands in his pockets, stood still a
moment, and then began to laugh--an odd sort of laugh that hurt, and
that felt much more like crying. His pockets were empty. So were the
pockets of the others. For of course at sunset all the fairy gold had
vanished away.
"Turn out your pockets, and stop that noise," said the inspector.
Cyril turned out his pockets, every one of the nine which enriched his
suit. And every pocket was empty.
"Well!" said the inspector.
"I don't know how they done it--artful little beggars! They walked in
front of me the 'ole way, so as for me to keep my eye on them and not to
attract a crowd and obstruct the traffic."
"It's very remarkable," said the inspector, frowning.
"If you've done a-browbeating of the innocent children," said Martha,
"I'll hire a private carriage and we'll drive home to their papa's
mansion. You'll hear about this again, young man!--I told you they
hadn't got any gold, when you were pretending to see it in their poor
helpless hands. It's early in the day for a constable on duty not to be
able to trust his own eyes. As to the other one, the less said the
better; he keeps the Saracen's Head, and he knows best what his liquor's
like."
[Illustration: He said, "Now then!" to the policeman and Mr. Peasemarsh]
"Take them away, for goodness' sake," said the inspector crossly. But as
they left the police-station he said, "Now then!" to the policeman and
Mr. Peasemarsh, and he said it twenty times as crossly as he had spoken
to Martha.
* * * * *
Martha was as good as her word. She took them home in a very grand
carriage, because the carrier's cart was gone, and, though she had stood
by them so nobly with the police, she was so angry with them as soon as
they were alone for "trapesing into Rochester by themselves," that none
of them dared to mention the old man with the pony-cart from the
village who was waiting for them in Rochester. And so, after one day of
boundless wealth, the children found themselves sent to bed in deep
disgrace, and only enriched by two pairs of cotton gloves, dirty inside
because of the state of the hands they had been put on to cover, an
imitation crocodile-skin purse, and twelve penny buns, long since
digested.
The thing that troubled them most was the fear that the old gentleman's
guinea might have disappeared at sunset with all the rest, so they went
down to the village next day to apologise for not meeting him in
Rochester, and to _see_. They found him very friendly. The guinea had
not disappeared, and he had bored a hole in it and hung it on his
watch-chain. As for the guinea the baker took, the children felt they
_could_ not care whether it had vanished or not, which was not perhaps
very honest, but on the other hand was not wholly unnatural. But
afterwards this preyed on Anthea's mind, and at last she secretly sent
twelve postage stamps by post to "Mr. Beale, Baker, Rochester." Inside
she wrote, "To pay for the buns." I hope the guinea did disappear, for
that baker was really not at all a nice man, and, besides, penny buns
are seven for sixpence in all really respectable shops.