Dickory Dock by L. T. Meade (summer beach reads txt) 📗

to be parted from her, and in consequence at night they were full of fears.  Martha meant to be kind, but she was tired, and she often slept soundly, and did not hear the baby when she awoke and demanded attention.

Flossy became quite a light sleeper herself, and would sometimes steal into the nursery and try to quiet the baby; so that, on the whole, for some time, even at night, the lodgers heard no sound of the new little inmate.  But all happy and worthy things come to an end, and so, alas! did the baby’s good behaviour.  There came a night, about three months after her arrival, and when she was about six months old, when baby was very restless, cross, and fidgety, with the cutting of her first tooth.  The children had quite worn themselves out in p. 19her cause in the daytime, and Snip-snap had allowed himself to be arrayed in all his costumes for her benefit; but Martha had come to bed as tired and weary as the baby herself, and in consequence she fell fast asleep, and never heard the little creature’s cries.

Peter and Flossy heard them at the other side of the wall, and knowing that they were much louder and more piercing than usual, they both got up and, hand-in-hand, went to the nursery door.  Snip-snap also followed them, but unwillingly, and with his tail between his legs.  The door on this unfortunate night was locked, and the children could not get in.  Martha slept on, and the baby screamed on, and presently poor Peter and Flossy heard Mr Martin get up and ring his bell violently.  Mrs Potts was also heard to open her room door and come out on the landing, and p. 20sniff in a very disagreeable way, and go back again.  Flossy’s heart quite beat with terror, and Peter said:

‘It’s all up, Flossy; they’ll all know about our baby in the morning.’

‘What’ll they do?’ asked Flossy in an awe-struck voice.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Peter.  ‘I daren’t think.  Something bad I ’spect.’

Then the two children crept back to their beds, and Flossy cried herself to sleep.

p. 21CHAPTER II.

‘You must answer me this question very decidedly, ma’am: am I to go, or the baby?  Is my night’s sleep to be again disturbed by the peevish wails of a troublesome infant?  I must know at once, madam, what you intend to do?  Miss Jenkins, over the way, has offered me her front parlour with the bedroom behind, and her terms are lower than yours.  You have but to say the word, ma’am, and my bed will be well aired, and the room at Miss Jenkins’s all comfortable for me to-night.  I don’t want you to turn that infant away, oh dear me! no, but I must decide my own plans; stay in the house with p. 22a baby, and have my sleep broken, I will not!’

The speaker was Mr Martin.  He had come into Mrs Franklin’s little back parlour and expressed his mind very freely.  The poor woman was standing up and regarding her best lodger with a puzzled and almost despairing air.  She did not know that Flossy had crept into the room and was hiding herself behind her chair, and that Flossy’s little face had grown even more white and despairing than her own.

‘Give me until to-night, sir,’ she said.  ‘Mrs Potts has also been in and complaining about the poor child.  She’s an orphan child, and my husband’s niece, but we are in no way bound to support her.  I would not treat her badly, sir, but there are limits; and, of course, as you say, your night’s sleep must not be broken.  Rather than that should p. 23happen, Mr Martin, I would send the child to the workhouse, for, of course, she has no legal claim on us.  If you will be so kind, sir, as to give me until to-morrow morning, I will then let you know what I have decided to do with the baby, and I faithfully promise that you are not to be disturbed to-night, sir.’

‘That is all right,’ said Mr Martin, with a mollified air.  ‘Of course it is not to be expected that an old bachelor such as I am should be worried by an infant’s screams.  The screams of a baby have to me an appalling sound.  Do what you think well with the child, ma’am, and let me know in the morning; only I may as well state that I think the workhouse an extreme measure.’

Then Mr Martin left the house.  Mrs Franklin followed him out of the room, and Flossy crept slowly back to the nursery.

p. 24Mrs Franklin did not notice her little daughter, and Flossy did not venture to address her mother.  She came into the room where Peter and Snip-snap were doing their utmost for the baby.  Peter had her in his arms, and was walking up and down with her, and Snip-snap was bounding after a ball and tossing it into the air for her benefit.

‘She’s to go, Peter,’ said Flossy.  ‘I guessed it—I guessed it quite well last night.  She’s to go away to the workhouse—that’s what mother said; I heard her telling Mr Martin so.’

‘She’s not!’ said Peter.  He turned very pale, and, still holding the child in his arms, sat down on the nearest chair.

It is to be doubted whether this poor neglected baby had ever been christened.  The children had given her a name of their own; they had called her Dickory p. 25Dock.  The reason they had given her this distinctive title was because the first amusement which had brought a smile to her little face had been the old play of Dickory Dock and the mouse that ran up the clock.

‘She said it,’ repeated Flossy, coming up close to her brother, and fixing her anxious eyes on the baby.  ‘She said that our Dickory was to go to the workhouse.’

‘Well then, she shan’t!’ said Peter.  ‘I know nothing about workhouses, but I expect they are very nasty places, and Dickory shan’t go there!’

Then he sat silent, his arm round the little child, who looked up at him and then back at Flossy, and then smiled in that wonderfully pathetic way she had.

‘Look here, Flossy,’ said Peter, ‘if you are quite certain sure that mother p. 26said the workhouse, that she didn’t say nothing about Dickory Dock being put to sleep in another room, or maybe down in the kitchen—if you are quite positive about the workhouse, Flossy, why, I know what I’ll do.’

‘She did say the workhouse,’ answered Flossy; ‘I heard her with my own ears, and Mr Martin said it was a stream measure.  I don’t know what he meant by that, but I do know that mother said the workhouse, and that she has got till to-morrow morning to take baby away.’

‘No, she hasn’t,’ said Peter; ‘we’ll take her away first, you and me, Flossy—you and me and Snip-snap—we’ll take our little baby away, and we’ll hide her.  Dickory shall never go to no workhouse!’

Here Dickory looked up again at Peter, who looked down at her and p. 27kissed her, and two tears splashed from his eyes on her little face.

‘Oh, what a dear baby she is!’ said Flossy.  ‘Yes, Peter, we’ll run away, and we’ll take Dickory.  Where shall we take her to, Peter?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Peter.  ‘We’ll get her out of this, that’s the first thing.  How much money have you got, Flossy?’

‘A crooked halfpenny,’ said Flossy, in a decided voice.

Peter sighed.  He was older than Flossy, and he knew that a crooked halfpenny did not represent a large capital.

‘I have got sixpence,’ he said; ‘that’ll buy milk for her.  We’ll manage quite well, Floss.  When mother goes out with her market-basket, we’ll slip downstairs with Dickory, and well take her away, and we’ll hide her somewhere.  p. 28She shan’t go to no workhouse, the darling pet!’

‘No, that she shan’t, the dear!’ said Flossy.  ‘It’s a lovely plan, Peter, and I’ll just go and watch on the top of the stairs for mother to go out with the old market-basket.’

‘We’d better take a bag with us,’ said Peter.  ‘The bag will come in very handy; it will hold baby’s milk when we buy it, and some bread for you and me; for we may have to walk a long way before we find a nice hiding-place for Dickory.’

Children seldom take long in carrying out their resolutions, and Mrs Franklin, puzzled and anxious, and with no real intention of sending the poor baby to the workhouse, had not long turned the corner of the street before the hall door of the rambling old house was eagerly and nervously opened, and a funny little p. 29quartette issued forth.  Dickory did not often get the air, and she enjoyed herself very much, sitting well up in Peter’s arms, and wrapped up, head and all, in an old tartan shawl.  Flossy, holding the bag, walked by her brother’s side, and Snip-snap behaved in his usual erratic fashion, now running before, now lingering behind, now stopping to exchange a greeting with a fellow-dog, or to sniff with watering jaws and wistful eyes at a butcher’s shop, but always returning faithfully to his charge, and always raising an inquiring face to see if Dickory was quite comfortable.  She was thoroughly so, and when she crowed, and laughed, and chuckled, Flossy wondered they had never thought of taking her out before.  The sun was shining and the day was bright and warm, with the promise of spring in it, and the two children were highly delighted with their p. 30scheme, and not a bit afraid of the result.  The only thing which had at all alarmed them was the fear that Mrs Franklin or Martha might find out their little plan before they had time to carry it into effect.

Having succeeded in getting quite away with the baby, they considered their difficulties at an end.  Peter was old enough to know that a crooked halfpenny did not mean much, considered as a provision for three human beings and a dog; but he was still sufficiently young to have perfect confidence in the capabilities of sixpence for meeting the demands of the hour.  As they walked along, Flossy, Dickory, and Snip-snap were all very happy, and Peter too was happy, although his arms ached sadly.  But, alas! the paths of the poor little adventurers were not to be without thorns.

p. 31The time was April, and an April shower first damped the ardour of the travellers—the poor baby’s shawl was wet through, and she began to cry pitifully with hunger and want of sleep.

‘She must want her milk,’ said Peter; ‘there, Dickory, there’s a darling, now go to sleep like the dear baby you are.’

‘You know, Peter, she won’t go to sleep without her milk,’ said Flossy.  ‘I’ll run across to that milk-shop and buy some.  How much milk shall I get, Peter?’

‘A ha’p’orth,’ said Peter; ‘you get a ha’p’orth, Flossy, and we’ll sit down on the step of this empty house and feed the baby, and eat up our crusts ourselves.’

A bottle to hold the milk was to be found in Flossy’s bag, and accordingly in a short time Dickory had a meal; not quite what she was accustomed to, but sufficient to soothe her off into a slumber in which she forgot the discomfort p. 32of her damp clothes and all her other baby tribulations.

‘Flossy,’ said Peter, ‘we have gone a long way from home now, and baby is asleep and resting nicely on my knee; my arm won’t ache a bit when she wakes, and I’ll be able to carry her a splendid long way.  We’ll have to think of making up our