Harding’s Luck - E. Nesbit (the two towers ebook .TXT) 📗

his one friend, Tinkler. And with the shilling he could. (This is part of the dismal magic of pawn-tickets which some grownup will kindly explain to you.)

“I can’t get money by the sweat of my brow,” said Dickie to himself; “nobody would let me run their errands when they could get a boy with both legs to do them. Not likely. I wish I’d got something I could sell.”

He looked round the yard⁠—dirtier and nastier than ever now in the parts that the Man Next Door had not had time to dig. There was certainly nothing there that anyone would want to buy, especially now the rabbit-hutch was gone. Except⁠ ⁠… why, of course⁠—the moonflowers!

He got the old worn-down knife out of the bowl on the back kitchen sink, where it nestled among potato peelings like a flower among foliage, and carefully cut half a dozen of the smaller flowers. Then he limped up to New Cross Station, and stood outside, leaning on his crutch, and holding out the flowers to the people who came crowding out of the station after the arrival of each train-thick, black crowds of tired people, in too great a hurry to get home to their teas to care much about him or his flowers. Everybody glanced at them, for they were wonderful flowers, as white as water-lilies, only flat⁠—the real sunflower shape⁠—and their centres were of the purest yellow gold color.

“Pretty, ain’t they?” one black-coated person would say to another. And the other would reply-

“No. Yes. I dunno! Hurry up, can’t you?”

It was no good. Dickie was tired, and the flowers were beginning to droop. He turned to go home, when a sudden thought brought the blood to his face. He turned again quickly and went straight to the pawnbroker’s. You may be quite sure he had learned the address on the card by heart.

He went boldly into the shop, which had three handsome gold balls hanging out above its door, and in its window all sorts of pretty things-rings, and chains, and brooches, and watches, and china, and silk handkerchiefs, and concertinas.

“Well, young man,” said the stout gentleman behind the counter, “what can we do for you?”

“I want to pawn my moonflowers,” said Dickie.

The stout gentleman roared with laughter, and slapped a stout leg with a stout hand.

“Well, that’s a good ’un!” he said, “as good a one as ever I heard. Why, you little duffer, they’d be dead long before you came back to redeem them, that’s certain.”

“You’d have them while they were alive, you know,” said Dickie gently.

“What are they? Don’t seem up to much. Though I don’t know that I ever saw a flower just like them, come to think of it,” said the pawnbroker, who lived in a neat villa at Brockley and went in for gardening in a gentlemanly, you-needn’t-suppose-I-can’t-afford-a-real-gardener-if-I-like sort of way.

“They’re moonflowers,” said Dickie, “and I want to pawn them and then get something else out with the money.”

“Got the ticket?” said the gentleman, cleverly seeing that he meant “get out of pawn.”

“Yes,” said Dickie; “and it’s my own Tinkler that my daddy gave me before he died, and my aunt Missa propagated it when I was in hospital.”

The man looked carefully at the card.

“All right,” he said at last; “hand over the flowers. They are not so bad,” he added, more willing to prize them now that they were his (things do look different when they are your own, don’t they?). “Here, Humphreys, put these in a jug of water till I go home. And get this out.”

A pale young man in spectacles appeared from a sort of dark cave at the back of the shop, took flowers and ticket, and was swallowed up again in the darkness of the cave.

“Oh, thank you!” said Dickie fervently. “I shall live but to repay your bounteous gen’rosity.”

“None of your cheek,” said the pawnbroker, reddening, and there was an awkward pause.

“It’s not cheek; I meant it,” said Dickie at last, speaking very earnestly. “You’ll see, some of these days. I read an interesting Nar Rataive about a Lion the King of Beasts and a Mouse, that small and Ty Morous animal, which if you have not heard it I will now Pur seed to relite.”

“You’re a rum little kid, I don’t think,” said the man. “Where do you learn such talk?”

“It’s the wye they talk in books,” said Dickie, suddenly returning to the language of his aunt. “You bein’ a toff I thought you’d unnerstand. My mistike. No ’fense.”

“Mean to say you can talk like a book when you like, and cut it off short like that?”

“I can Con-vers like Lords and Lydies,” said Dickie, in the accents of the gutter, “and your noble benefacteriness made me seek to express my feelinks with the best words at me Command.”

“Fond of books?”

“I believe you,” said Dickie, and there were no more awkward pauses.

When the pale young man came back with something wrapped in a bit of clean rag, he said a whispered word or two to the pawnbroker, who unrolled the rag and looked closely at the rattle.

“So it is,” he said, “and it’s a beauty too, let alone anything else.”

“Isn’t he?” said Dickie, touched by this praise of his treasured Tinkler.

“I’ve got something else here that’s got the same crest as your rattle.”

“Crest?” said Dickie; “isn’t that what you wear on your helmet in the heat and press of the Tower Nament?”

The pawnbroker explained that crests no longer live exclusively on helmets, but on all sorts of odd things. And the queer little animal, drawn in fine scratches on the side of the rattle, was, it seemed, a crest.

“Here, Humphreys,” he added, “give it a rub up and bring that seal here.”

The pale young man did something to Tinkler with some pinky powder and a brush and a wash-leather, while his master fitted together the two halves of a broken white cornelian.

“It came out of a seal,” he said, “and I don’t mind making you a present of it.”

“Oh!”