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

plans, Floss—we’ll have to find some place where we can all sleep comfortably to-night.’

‘Well, we’ve got sixpence,’ said Flossy, ‘that’s lots and lots of money; but the night is a long way off, Peter, and I’m so hungry.  I’ve eaten up all the crusts that you and Snip-snap left for me, but I’m still as hungry as possible.  Mightn’t I spend a halfpenny or so of our sixpence in getting a good dinner for you and me and Snip-snap?’

Peter put his hand to his brow, and began to reflect.

p. 33‘I don’t think so, Floss,’ he said, ‘for I’m afraid you don’t understand marketing—it’s best for me to go, for I’m quite old, and I know the way mother talks to the baker’s man and the milkman when they come to the door.  I must be sharp with them, Floss; that’s what I must be, and I don’t think you could be; so you had better hold the baby while I fetch our dinner.  Oh dear, what a good thing it is I have got sixpence!’

The baby, being very sound asleep, was transferred to Flossy’s arms without waking, Snip-snap was left in charge of the two, and Peter, who knew very little more of London and London life than his little sister, started off manfully to the eating-house round the corner.  He had gone away with a bright face, but he returned in a very short time with one singularly depressed.

‘Here’s a bit of stale bread for each of p. 34us,’ he said, ‘and I had to give two halfpennies for that.  I did see such a nice piece of beef and of pudding, and I ordered some for you and me and Snip-snap, but the woman said all that much would cost three sixpences, so then I had to say I wouldn’t have it; and I took the stale bread, and she was very cross.  O Floss, I hope I’m right about sixpence; I hope it will buy a bed for baby, and milk and food for us all, for I’m thinking we had much better none of us go back to-night.’

‘Of course, we won’t go back,’ said Flossie.  ‘The stale bread’s ’licious, and I’m so hungry.  O Peter, do look!  Dickory is stretching herself, and rubbing her little fat hands into her eyes; and I know she’s going to wake, and I’m afraid she’ll cry.’

‘Give her to me,’ said Peter, with the air of a practised nurse.  ‘I’ll hold her, p. 35and you can feed me while I’m doing so, Flossy.’

But notwithstanding all Peter’s efforts, notwithstanding his singing, and even shouting, for the baby’s benefit, notwithstanding the admiring cheers of a little street mob that collected round him, the baby cried, not a loud cry, but a weak, broken-hearted wail.  The fact was, the indifferent milk Flossy had fed her with had made her ill, and her little frame was already sadly chilled by the damp shawl which she wore about her.  Poor Dickory scarcely ever got any air or exercise, and in consequence was very susceptible to cold.

‘She is sneezing,’ said Flossy.  ‘Oh the poor, poor darling!  Peter, I think we’d better see about our night’s lodging soon; it doesn’t agree with Dickory to keep her out so long.’

‘We’ll go at once,’ said Peter, rising p. 36to his feet.  ‘There’s another black cloud coming up, and there’ll be a shower again before long.  We’ll get a nice room for us four, and then we’ll be as happy as possible.’

Accordingly the little party again moved forward, and whenever Peter or Flossy saw a card up in a window they stopped and rang the house-bell, and inquired for lodgings for themselves and their baby.  Of course, they were repulsed in all kinds of ways—some people merely laughing, and shutting the door in their faces; some scolding them, and calling them tiresome, impertinent little brats; and some even threatening to tell the police about them; but no one ever hinted at the possibility of taking them in.  Presently they left the more respectable streets, and wandered into very poor quarters.  Here, doubtless, they could have found accommodation were they p. 37able to pay for it, but everybody laughed at Peter’s pennies, and no one dreamt of offering them a shelter.  Then the rain which had threatened came down, and baby was again wet through, and now she looked ill, as well as fretful, and refused some fresh milk which Flossy bought for her.  She was not the least like the bright little Dickory who used to laugh and show her dimples in the old attic-nursery at home.

‘Look here,’ said Peter, ‘what are we to do?  ’T will be night soon, and we haven’t found no hiding-place for Dickory, and no one will take us in.’

‘Baby is not at all well, either,’ said Flossy; ‘her head is quite hot, like fire, when I touch it.’

‘What are we to do?’ asked Peter.  ‘We can’t get home, but it seems to me, Floss, that this is worse for poor Dickory than the workhouse.’

p. 38‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Flossy suddenly, raising her bright half-humorous face to Peter’s, ‘let’s take baby to the lady what cried.’

‘The lady who cried?’ repeated Peter.  ‘I don’t know nothing about her, Floss.’

‘O Peter, you do know; it was that day our Uncle David took us a long walk, and we went to the cemetery with him, you know, the place with the flowers and the trees, and where they put the pretty little children when they die—there was a little baby being put there, and there was a lady crying very, very bitter.  I never saw no one cry so dreadful bitter as that lady, and they said she was putting her baby in the ground.  I’m sure she must want another baby, and I think perhaps it would be right for us to give her Dickory.’

Peter’s face became very sad.  ‘I don’t know,’ he said; ‘I don’t want to give p. 39Dickory away.  I’m quite dreadfully fond of her; it seems to me she makes a lot of difference in the house, and you know, Floss, it used to be very dull before she came.’

‘Yes,’ said Flossy, ‘I love her more than anything; she’s a dear baby, and I never find the days long when I’m playing with her and talking to her: but you see, Peter, she’s not to be kept at home; she’s to go to the workhouse to-morrow morning, unless we can find a nice hiding-place for her.  We can’t find a hiding-place, Peter, for though you are a rich boy and have got a lot of pennies, yet you haven’t enough for us to get a room for ourselves and Dickory, and the night air don’t agree with her—oh, there, she’s sneezing again—bless her, the pet!  Peter, I hope you always say “bless her!” when Dickory sneezes.  Martha says it isn’t lucky if you don’t.  O Peter, I do p. 40think if we must part with the baby it would be better to give her to the lady who cried than to send her to the workhouse.’

‘But we don’t know where the lady lives,’ said Peter.  ‘We might do it if we knew where the lady lived; but we can’t, however much we wish to, if we don’t.’

‘But I do know,’ answered Flossy, ‘I know quite well, ‘cause last week I saw the lady.  I was out with mother, and mother went to the greengrocer’s, and while she was there the lady comed in.  She was all in black, and I am sure she had been crying a lot, for she looked so sad; and I knew it was her.  Afterwards mother and I walked behind her as she went home, and she turned into a great big house in the square near us.  You know the square, Peter, the square that begins with a big B; Bev--- something, I can’t say it all.’

p. 41‘Bevington Square,’ said Peter, in a gloomy voice.

‘Yes, yes, that was it, and 10 was the number of the house.  I don’t forget the number ’cause I asked mother, and she said it was 10.  O Peter, that’s where our lady lives, and I do think it would be better to give her Dickory.  There, Peter, bless her! she’s sneezing again.  I’m sure we had better take her to the lady.’

‘All right,’ answered Peter, ‘I’ll be a termagant again when she’s gone; see if I won’t.  I’ll get up an awful racking cough at night, and I’ll worry that nasty Mr Martin much more than Dickory has worried him, see if I don’t; and I’ll sing on the stairs, and I’ll whistle awful loud, and I’ll buy a Jew’s-harp with one of my pennies.  I’ll turn into a horrid boy! but I suppose you are right about Dickory, Flossy.  Here, let’s go back as fast as p. 42we can to that house you were so ’cute as to take the number of.  I’m mis’rible, and I mean to be mis’rible, so don’t you expect nothing cheerful from me, Flossy.’

‘Very well, Peter,’ said Flossy meekly.

And then the little party, slowly and painfully, for Flossy was very, very tired, and poor Peter’s arms ached fearfully, retraced their steps.  The baby had ceased crying and was asleep, and after about two hours’ patient walking and asking their way, the children found themselves in Bevington Square.

‘I’d better go up first to the door,’ said Flossy, ‘and ask her if she’d like a baby.  You might stand round there, Peter, and you might keep Snip-snap with you.’

‘You needn’t press her about it,’ said Peter; ‘if she don’t seem quite delighted we won’t give up Dickory on no account; and kiss her before you go, Flossy, for p. 43of course the lady will take her; and in a few minutes she won’t be our Dickory no more.’

Peter unfastened a corner of the old tartan shawl, and Flossy imprinted a grave kiss on the baby’s forehead.  Then, with great solemnity, and with the air of one engaged on an important mission, she went up the steps of the great house and rang the bell.  Flossy was an attractive little child, her hair was really beautiful, and she had a very wistful and taking manner.

‘Please,’ she said now to the tall, powdered footman, ‘I know the lady what cried is here; please can I see her?  I’ve brought her a little baby, and I want to see her about it.’

Flossy did not look quite like a common child, and her face wore a very sweet expression when she spoke of the baby; nevertheless the footman only stared p. 44at her, and would have certainly shut the door in her face, had not the lady of the house at that moment come into the hall.  Flossy saw her, and quick as thought she darted past the servant and up to the lady.

‘Please, lady,’ she said, ‘I’ve often thought of you, and I’m so very sorry for you.  Please, I’ve brought you another little baby instead of the one you put into the ground in the pretty place where the flowers and trees are.  She’s a dear little baby, and when you have her you won’t cry no more.’

Flossy’s voice was very earnest, and her eyes looking up full into the lady’s face were full of the most intense sympathy.  Those pretty eyes of hers were too much for the poor bereaved mother: she put her handkerchief to her own eyes, and there and then burst into fits of fresh weeping.

p. 45‘Come away, little girl, at once,’ said the indignant footman; but the lady put out one of her hands and took Flossy’s.

‘Leave the child with me,’ she said to the man.  ‘I’ll be better in a moment, little girl,’ she continued, ‘and then you shall tell me what you mean; but you have