nice to him, and Mr. Warner talked about Australia, and Mr. Bosanquet
showed him how he held the ball to make it break from the leg when the
batsman thought it was going to break from the off, and at Nottingham
Mr. Douglas bought him a bun and a banana. They got to Sheffield just
before eight, and Roderick went to bed very soon after, in a little bed
in his father’s room in the hotel.
The first thing Roderick did the next morning was to buy a scoring-book
and a pencil, and then he and his father explored Sheffield a little
before it was time to go to the ground at Bramall Lane and get some
practice.
The people clustered all round and in front of the nets and watched the
batsmen, and now and then they were nearly killed, as always happens
before a match. They pointed out the cricketers to each other.
“There’s Warner,” they said. “That’s Bosanquet--the tall one.” “Where’s
Trott? Why, there, bowling at Warner. Good old Alberto!” and so on.
“Who’s the man in the end net?” Roderick heard some one ask.
“I don’t know. One of Middlesex’s many new men, I suppose,” said the
other.
“But he can hit a bit, can’t he?” the first man said, as Roderick’s
father stepped out to a ball and banged it half-way across the ground.
Roderick was very proud, and he felt that the time had come to make his
father known. “That’s Bulstrode,” he said.
“Oh, that’s Bulstrode, is it?” said the second man. “I’ve heard of him.
He makes lots of runs on the M.C.C. tours. But I guess Georgy’ll get
him.”
“Who is Georgy?” asked Roderick.
“Georgy--why, where do you come from? Fancy being in Sheffield and
asking who Georgy is. Georgy is Georgy Hirst, of course.”
Roderick walked back to the pavilion with his father very proudly.
“You’ll have to be very careful how you play Hirst,” he said.
“I shall,” said his father; “but why?”
“Because the men were saying he’s going to get you.” Mr. Bulstrode
laughed; but he thought it very likely too.
I’m not going to tell you all about the match, for it lasted three
days, and was very much like other matches. Roderick had a corner seat
in the pavilion, where he could see everything, and for the first day
he scored every run and kept the analysis right through. This included
his father’s innings, which lasted, alas! far too short a time, for,
after making four good hits to the boundary, he was caught close in at
what was called silly mid-on off--what bowler do you think?--George
Hirst.
But the next day Roderick gave up work, because he wanted to see more
of Tom, and Tom made room for him in the professionals’ box while
Yorkshire were in, and he saw all the wonderful men--quite close
too--Tunnicliffe and Denton and Hirst--and even talked with them. Hirst
sat right in front of the box, with his brown sunburned arms on the
ledge, and his square, jolly, sunburned face on his arms, and said
funny things about the play in broad Yorkshire; and now and then he
would say something to Roderick. And then suddenly down went a wicket,
and Hirst got up to go in.
“Give me a wish for luck,” he said to Roddy.
“I wish my father may catch you out,” said Roddy; “but not until,” he
added, “you have made a lot of runs.”
“If he does,” said Hirst, “I’ll give thee some practice to-morrow
morning.”
Poor Roddy, this was almost too much. It is bad enough to watch your
favourites batting at any time, for every ball may be the last; but
it is terrible when you equally want two people to bring something
off--for Roddy wanted Hirst (whom he now adored) to make a good
innings, and, at the same time, he wanted his father to catch Hirst out.
Hirst was not out when it was time for lunch, and so Roderick was able
to tell his father all about it.
“What’s this, Hirst?” said Mr. Bulstrode, when the teams were being
photographed. “Give me a chance, and let me see if I can hold it.”
Hirst laughed, and when he laughs it is like a sunset in fine weather.
“I have a spy round to see where thee’re standing every over,” he said,
“and that’s where I’ll never knock it.”
“But what about my boy’s practice?” Mr. Bulstrode replied.
“Ah, we’ll see about that,” said the Yorkshireman.
But, as a matter of fact, Roderick got his practice according to the
bargain, for, as it happened, it was Mr. Bulstrode who caught Hirst, at
third man.
I need hardly tell you that Roderick dreamed that night. His sleep was
full of Hirsts, all jolly and all hitting catches which his father
buttered. But in the morning, when he knew how true his luck was, he
was almost too happy. Hirst was as good as his word, and they practised
in the nets together for nearly half an hour, and Roderick nearly
bowled him twice.
In Middlesex’s next innings Roderick’s father made thirty-five, all
of which Roderick scored with the greatest care; but the match could
not be finished owing to a very heavy shower, and so this innings did
not matter very much one way or the other, except that it made Mr.
Bulstrode’s place safe for another match.
Of that match I am not going to tell; but I have perhaps said enough
to show you how exceedingly delightful it must be to have a father who
plays for his county.
THE MONKEY’S REVENGE
THE MONKEY’S REVENGE
Once upon a time there was a little girl named Clara Amabel Platts.
She lived in Kensington, near the Gardens, and every day when it was
fine she walked with Miss Hobbs round the Round Pond. Miss Hobbs was
her governess. When it was wet she read a book, or as much of a book
as she could, being still rather weak in the matter of long words.
When she did not read she made wool-work articles for her aunts, and
now and then something for her mother’s birthday present or Christmas
present, which was supposed to be a secret, but which her mother,
however hard she tried not to look, always knew all about. But this
did not prevent her mother, who was a very nice lady, from being
extraordinarily surprised when the present was given to her. (That word
“extraordinarily,” by the way, is one of the words which Clara would
have had to pass over if she were reading this story to herself; but
you, of course, are cleverer.)
It was generally admitted by Mrs. Platts, and also by Miss Hobbs and
Kate Woodley the nurse, that Clara was a very good girl; but she had
one fault which troubled them all, and that was too much readiness
in saying what came into her mind. Mrs. Platts tried to check her
by making her count five before she made any comment on what was
happening, so that she could be sure that she really ought to say it;
and Kate Woodley used often to click her tongue when Clara was rattling
on; but Miss Hobbs had another and more serious remedy. She used to
tell Clara to ask herself three questions before she made any of her
quick little remarks. These were the questions: (1) “Is it kind?” (2)
“Is it true?” (3) “Is it necessary?” If the answer to all three was
“Yes,” then Clara might say what she wanted to; otherwise not. The
result was that when Clara and Miss Hobbs walked round the Round Pond
Clara had very little to say; because, you know, if it comes to that,
hardly anything is necessary.
Well, on December 20, 1907, the postman brought Mrs. Platts a letter
from Clara’s aunt, Miss Amabel Patterson of Chislehurst, after whom she
had been named, and it was that letter which makes this story. It began
by saying that Miss Patterson would very much like Clara to have a nice
Christmas present, and it went on to say that if she had been very good
lately, and continued good up to the time of buying the present, it was
to cost seven-and-six, but if she had not been very good it was only
to cost a shilling. This shows you the kind of aunt Miss Patterson
was. For myself, I don’t think that at Christmas-time a matter of
good or bad behaviour ought to be remembered at all. And I think that
everything then ought to cost seven-and-six. But Miss Patterson had
her own way of doing things; and it did not really matter about the
shilling at all, because, as it was agreed that Clara had been very
good for a long time, Mrs. Platts (who did not admire Miss Patterson’s
methods any more than we do) naturally decided that unless anything
still were to happen (which is very unlikely with six-and-sixpence at
stake) the present should cost seven-and-six, just as if nothing about
a shilling had ever been said.
_Unless anything were to happen._ Ah! Everything in this story depends
on that.
Clara was as good as gold all the morning, and she and Miss Hobbs
marched round the Round Pond like soldiers, Miss Hobbs talking all
the time and Clara as dumb as a fish. At dinner also she behaved
beautifully, although the pudding was not at all what she liked; and
then it was time for her mother to take her out to buy the present. So,
still good, Clara ran upstairs to be dressed.
As I dare say you know, there are in Kensington High Street a great
many large shops, and the largest of these, which is called Biter’s,
has a very nice way every December of filling one of its windows (which
for the rest of the year is full of dull things, such as tables, and
rolls of carpets, and coal scuttles) with such seasonable and desirable
articles as boats for the Round Pond, and dolls of all sorts and sizes,
and steam engines with quite a lot of rails and signals, and clockwork
animals, and guns. And when you go inside you can’t help hearing the
gramaphone.
It was into this shop that Mrs. Platts and Clara went, wondering
whether they would buy just one thing that cost seven-and-six all at
once, or a lot of smaller things that came to seven-and-six altogether;
which is one of the pleasantest problems to ponder over that this life
holds. Well, everything was going splendidly, and Clara, after many
changings of her mind, had just decided on a beautiful wax doll with
cheeks like tulips and real black hair, when she chanced to look up
and saw a funny little old gentleman come in at the door; and all in a
flash she forgot her good resolutions and everything that was depending
on them, and seizing her mother’s arm, and giving no thought at all to
Miss Hobbs’s three questions, or to Kate Woodley’s clicking tongue, or
to counting five, she cried in a loud quick whisper, “Oh, mother, do
look at that queer little man! Isn’t he just like a monkey?”
[Illustration: “DO LOOK AT THAT QUEER LITTLE MAN!”]
Now there were two dreadful things about this speech. One was that it
was made before Aunt Amabel’s present had been bought, and therefore
Mrs. Platts was only entitled to spend a shilling, and the other was
that the little old gentleman quite clearly heard it, for his face
flushed and he looked exceedingly uncomfortable. Indeed, it was an
uncomfortable time for every one, for Mrs. Platts was very unhappy to
think that her little girl not only should have lost the nice doll,
but also have been so rude; the little old gentleman was confused and
nervous; the girl who was waiting on them was distressed when she knew
what Clara’s unlucky speech had cost her; and Clara herself was in a
passion of tears. After some time, in which Mrs. Platts and the girl
did their best to soothe her, Clara consented to receive a shilling box
of chalks as her present, and was led back still sobbing. Never was
there such a sad ending to an exciting expedition.
Miss Hobbs luckily had gone home; but Kate Woodley made things worse
by being very sorry and clicking away like a Bee clock, and Clara
hardly knew how to get through the rest of the day.
Clara’s bedtime came always at a quarter to eight, and between her
supper, which was at half-past six, and that hour she used to come
downstairs and play with her father and mother. On this evening she
was very quiet and miserable, although Mrs. Platts and Mr. Platts did
all they could to cheer her; and she even committed one of the most
extraordinary actions of her life, for she said, when it was still only
half-past seven, that she should like to go to bed.
And she would have gone had not at that very moment a tremendous
knock sounded at the front door--so tremendous that, in spite of her
unhappiness, Clara had, of course, to wait and see what it was.
And what do you think it was? It was a box addressed to Mrs. Platts,
and it came from Biter’s, the very shop where the tragedy had occurred.
“But I haven’t ordered anything,” said Mrs. Platts.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Platts, who had a practical mind. “Open it.”
So the box was opened, and inside was a note, and this is what it said:
“DEAR MADAM,
“I am so distressed to think that I am the cause of your little girl
losing her present, that I feel there is nothing I can do but give
her one myself. For if I had not been so foolish--at my age too!--as
to go to Biter’s this afternoon, without any real purpose but to
look round, she would never have got into trouble. Biter’s is for
children, not for old men with queer faces. And so I beg leave to
send her this doll, which I hope is the right one, and with it a few
clothes and necessaries, and I am sure that she will not forget how
it was that she very nearly lost it altogether.
“Believe me, yours penitently,
“THE LITTLE-OLD-GENTLEMAN-WHO-REALLY-
IS-(AS-HIS-LOOKING-GLASS-HAS-TOO-
OFTEN-TOLD-HIM)-LIKE-A-MONKEY.”
To Clara this letter, when Mrs. Platts read it to her, seemed like
something in a dream, but when the box was unpacked it was found to
contain, truly enough, not only the identical doll which she had
wanted, with cheeks like tulips and real black hair, but also frocks
for it, and night-dresses and petticoats, and a card of tortoiseshell
toilet requisites, and three hats, and a diabolo set, and a tiny doll’s
parasol for Kensington Gardens on sunny days.
Poor Clara didn’t know what to do, and so she simply sat down with the
doll in her arms and cried again; but this was a totally different
kind of crying from that which had gone before. And when Kate Woodley
came to take her to bed she cried too.
And the funny thing is that, though the little old gentleman’s present
looks much more like a reward for being naughty than a punishment,
Clara has hardly ever since said a quick unkind thing that she could be
sorry for, and Miss Hobbs’s three questions are never wanted at all,
and Kate Woodley has entirely given up clicking.
THE NOTICE-BOARD
THE NOTICE-BOARD
Once upon a time there was a family called Morgan--Mr. Morgan the
father, Mrs. Morgan the mother, Christopher Morgan, aged twelve, Claire
Morgan, aged nine, Betty Morgan, aged seven, a fox-terrier, a cat, a
bullfinch, a nurse, a cook, a parlourmaid, a housemaid, and a boy named
William. William hardly counts, because he came only for a few hours
every day, and then lived almost wholly in the basement, and when he
did appear above-stairs it was always in the company of a coal-scuttle.
That was the family; and at the time this story begins it had just
removed from Bloomsbury to Bayswater.
While the actual moving was going on Christopher Morgan, Claire
Morgan, and Betty Morgan, with the dog and the bullfinch, had gone
to Sandgate to stay with their grandmother, who, with extraordinary
good sense, lived in a house with a garden that ran actually to the
beach, so that, although in stormy weather the lawn was covered with
pebbles, in fine summer weather you could run from your bedroom into
the sea in nothing but a bath-towel or a dressing-gown, or one of those
bath-towels which are dressing-gowns. Christopher used to do this, and
Claire would have joined him but that the doctor forbade it on account
of what he called her defective circulation--two long words which mean
cold feet.
When, however, the moving was all done and the new house quite ready,
the three children and the dog and the bullfinch returned to London,
and getting by great good luck a taxicab at Charing Cross, were
whirled to No. 23, Westerham Gardens almost in a minute, at a cost
of two-and-eightpence, with fourpence supplement for the luggage.
Christopher sat on the front seat, watching the meter all the time,
and calling out whenever it had swallowed another twopence. The first
eightpence, as you have probably also noticed, goes slowly, but after
that the twopences disappear just like sweets.
It is, as you know, a very exciting thing to move to a new house.
Everything seems so much better than in the last, especially the
cupboards and the wall-papers. In place of the old bell-pulls you find
electric bells, and there is a speaking-tube between the dining-room
and the kitchen, and the coal-cellar is much larger, and the bath-room
has a better arrangement of taps, and you can get hot water on the
stairs. But, of course, the electric light is the most exciting thing
of all, and it was so at Westerham Gardens, because in Bloomsbury there
had been gas. But Mr. Morgan was exceedingly serious about it, and
delivered a lecture on the importance--the vital importance--of always
turning off the switch as you leave the room, unless, of course, there
is some one in it.
Christopher and Claire and Betty were riotously happy in their new home
for some few days, especially as they were so near Kensington Gardens,
only a very little way, in fact, from the gate where the Dogs’ Cemetery
is.
And then suddenly they began to miss something. What it was they had no
idea; but they knew that in some mysterious way, nice as the new house
was, in one respect it was not so nice as the old one. Something was
lacking.
It was quite by chance that they discovered what it was; for, being
sent one morning to Whiteley’s, on their return they entered Westerham
Gardens by a new way, and there on a board fixed to the railings of
the corner house they read the terrible words:
+-------------------------+
| ORGANS AND STREET CRIES |
| |
| PROHIBITED. |
+-------------------------+
Then they all knew in an instant what it was that had vaguely been
troubling them in their new house. It was a house without music--a
house that stood in a neighbourhood where there were no bands, no
organs, and no costermongers.
“What a horrid shame!” said Claire. And then they began to talk about
the organs and bands that used to come to their old home in Bloomsbury.
“Do you remember the Italian woman in the yellow handkerchief on
Thursday mornings during French?” said Christopher.
“Yes,” said Betty, “and the monkey boy with the accordion on Mondays.”
“And the Punch and Judy on Wednesday afternoons,” said Claire.
“And ‘Fresh wallflowers,’ ‘Nice wallflowers!’ at eleven o’clock every
day in spring,” said Christopher.
“And the band that always played ‘Poppies’ on Tuesday evenings at
bedtime,” said Claire.
“And the organ with the panorama on Friday mornings,” said Betty.
“And the best organ of all, that had one new tune every week, on
Saturdays,” said Christopher.
“It must be a great day for the organists when they have a new tune,”
said Claire.
“Yes,” said Betty; “but you have forgotten the funniest of all--the old
man with a wooden leg on Tuesday and Friday.”
“But he had only one tune,” said Christopher
“It was a very nice tune,” said Betty. “But why I liked him was
because he always nodded and smiled at me.”
“That was only his trick,” said Christopher. “They all do that if they
think you have a penny.”
“I don’t care,” said Betty stoutly; “he did it as if he meant it.”
That night, just after Claire had undressed, Christopher came in
and sat on her bed. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Let’s have a new
notice-board painted with
+-------------------------+
| ORGANS AND STREET CRIES |
| |
| INVITED |
+-------------------------+
on it, and have it fixed on our railings. Then we shall get some music
again. I reckon that Mr. Randall’s son would make it just like the
other for about four shillings, and that’s what we’ve got.”
Mr. Randall’s son was the family carpenter, and he was called that
because his father had been the family carpenter before him for many
years. When his father, Mr. Randall, was alive, the son had no name,
but was always referred to as Mr. Randall’s son, and now that the old
man was dead he was still spoken of in that way, although he was a man
of fifty and had sons of his own. (But what they would be called it
makes my head ache to think.)
Mr. Randall’s son smiled when he was asked if he could and would
make a notice-board. “I will, Master Christopher,” he said; “but I’m
thinking you had better spend your money on something else. A nice
boat, now, for the Round Pond. Or a pair of stilts--I could make you a
pair of stilts in about an hour.” Poor Christopher looked wistful, and
then bravely said that he would rather have the notice-board. After
giving careful instructions as to the style of painting the words, he
impressed upon Mr. Randall’s son the importance of wrapping the board
very carefully in paper when he brought it back, because it was a
surprise.
“A surprise!” said Mr. Randall’s son with a great hearty laugh; “I
should think it will be a surprise to some of ’em. I’d like to be there
to see the copper’s face when he reads it.”
Mr. Randall’s son was not there to see the copper’s face; but the
copper--by which Mr. Randall’s son meant the policeman--did read it
in the company of about forty other persons, chiefly errand-boys and
cabmen, in front of the Morgans’ house on the morning after Christopher
had skilfully fixed it to the area railings; and having read it he
walked off quickly to the nearest police-station to take advice.
The result was that just as Mr. Morgan was leaving for the city the
policeman knocked at the door and asked to see him.
Mr. Morgan soon afterwards came from the study and showed the
policeman out, and then he sent for Christopher. After Christopher
had confessed, “My dear boy,” he said, “this won’t do at all. That
notice-board at the end of this street means either that the owners
of Westerham Gardens or a large number of the tenants wish the
neighbourhood to be free from street music. If we, who are new-comers,
set up notice-boards to a contrary effect, we are doing a very rude
and improper thing. I quite understand that you miss the organs that
we used to have, but the only way to get them back would be to obtain
the permission of every one in the Gardens; and that, of course, is
absurd.” With these words, which he afterwards wished he had never
used, Mr. Morgan hurried off to the nearest Tube to make money in the
city, which was how he spent his days.
Christopher carried the news to Claire, who at once said, “Then we must
go to every house to get leave.”
“Of course,” said Christopher. “How ripping!”
And they started immediately.
It would take too long to tell you how they got on at each house. From
some they were sent away; at others they met with sympathy.
Their words to the servant who opened the door were: “Please give your
mistress the compliments of No. 23, and ask if she really wants street
music to be prohibited.”
“Of course we don’t, my dears,” said an old lady at No. 14. “We should
love to have a nice pianoforte organ every now and then, or even a
band; but it would never do to say so. Every one is so select about
here. Why, in that house opposite lives the widow of a Lord Mayor.”
Claire made a note of the number to tell Betty, who loved rank and
grandeur, and then they ascended the next steps, where they found
the most useful person of all, a gentleman who came down to see
them, smoking a pipe and wearing carpet slippers. “In reply to your
question,” he said, “I should welcome street music; but the matter has
nothing to do either with me or with you. It is all settled by the old
lady at the corner, the house to which the notice-board is fixed. It is
she who owns the property, and it is she who stops the organs. If you
want to do any good you must see her. Her name is Miss Seaton, and as
you will want a little cake and lemonade to give you strength for the
interview, you had better come in here for a moment.” So saying he led
them into the dining-room, which was hung with coloured pictures of
hunting and racing, and made them very comfortable, and then sent them
on with best wishes for good luck.
Telling Claire to wait a moment, Christopher ran off to their own house
for the board, and returned quickly with it wrapped up under his arm.
He rang the bell of the corner house boldly, and then, seeing a notice
which ran, “Do not knock unless an answer is required,” knocked boldly,
too. It was opened by an elderly butler. “Please tell Miss Seaton
that Mr. and Miss Morgan from No. 23 would like to see her,” said
Christopher.
“On what business?” asked the butler.
“On important business to Westerham Gardens,” said Christopher.