The Story of the Amulet - E. Nesbit (smart books to read TXT) 📗

never had a customer yet as wanted to buy mice, and lizards, and toads, and guineas all at once. So hout you goes.”

“Oh! wait a minute,” said the wretched Cyril, feeling how foolishly yet well-meaningly he had carried out the Psammead’s instructions. “Just tell me one thing. What do you want for the mangy old monkey in the third hutch from the end?”

The shopman only saw in this a new insult.

“Mangy young monkey yourself,” said he; “get along with your blooming cheek. Hout you goes!”

“Oh! don’t be so cross,” said Jane, losing her head altogether, “don’t you see he really does want to know that!”

“Ho! does ’e indeed,” sneered the merchant. Then he scratched his ear suspiciously, for he was a sharp business man, and he knew the ring of truth when he heard it. His hand was bandaged, and three minutes before he would have been glad to sell the “mangy old monkey” for ten shillings. Now⁠—

“Ho! ’e does, does ’e,” he said, “then two pun ten’s my price. He’s not got his fellow that monkey ain’t, nor yet his match, not this side of the equator, which he comes from. And the only one ever seen in London. Ought to be in the Zoo. Two pun ten, down on the nail, or hout you goes!”

The children looked at each other⁠—twenty-three shillings and fivepence was all they had in the world, and it would have been merely three and fivepence, but for the sovereign which Father had given to them “between them” at parting.

“We’ve only twenty-three shillings and fivepence,” said Cyril, rattling the money in his pocket.

“Twenty-three farthings and somebody’s own cheek,” said the dealer, for he did not believe that Cyril had so much money.

There was a miserable pause. Then Anthea remembered, and said⁠—

“Oh! I wish I had two pounds ten.”

“So do I, Miss, I’m sure,” said the man with bitter politeness; “I wish you ’ad, I’m sure!”

Anthea’s hand was on the counter, something seemed to slide under it. She lifted it. There lay five bright half sovereigns.

“Why, I have got it after all,” she said; “here’s the money, now let’s have the Sammy,⁠ ⁠… the monkey I mean.”

The dealer looked hard at the money, but he made haste to put it in his pocket.

“I only hope you come by it honest,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He scratched his ear again.

“Well!” he said, “I suppose I must let you have it, but it’s worth thribble the money, so it is⁠—”

He slowly led the way out to the hutch⁠—opened the door gingerly, and made a sudden fierce grab at the Psammead, which the Psammead acknowledged in one last long lingering bite.

“Here, take the brute,” said the shopman, squeezing the Psammead so tight that he nearly choked it. “It’s bit me to the marrow, it have.”

The man’s eyes opened as Anthea held out her arms. “Don’t blame me if it tears your face off its bones,” he said, and the Psammead made a leap from his dirty horny hands, and Anthea caught it in hers, which were not very clean, certainly, but at any rate were soft and pink, and held it kindly and closely.

“But you can’t take it home like that,” Cyril said, “we shall have a crowd after us,” and indeed two errand boys and a policeman had already collected.

“I can’t give you nothink only a paper-bag, like what we put the tortoises in,” said the man grudgingly.

So the whole party went into the shop, and the shopman’s eyes nearly came out of his head when, having given Anthea the largest paper-bag he could find, he saw her hold it open, and the Psammead carefully creep into it.

“Well!” he said, “if that there don’t beat cockfighting! But p’raps you’ve met the brute afore.”

“Yes,” said Cyril affably, “he’s an old friend of ours.”

“If I’d a known that,” the man rejoined, “you shouldn’t a had him under twice the money. ’Owever,” he added, as the children disappeared, “I ain’t done so bad, seeing as I only give five bob for the beast. But then there’s the bites to take into account!”

The children trembling in agitation and excitement, carried home the Psammead, trembling in its paper-bag.

When they got it home, Anthea nursed it, and stroked it, and would have cried over it, if she hadn’t remembered how it hated to be wet.

When it recovered enough to speak, it said⁠—

“Get me sand; silver sand from the oil and colour shop. And get me plenty.”

They got the sand, and they put it and the Psammead in the round bath together, and it rubbed itself, and rolled itself, and shook itself and scraped itself, and scratched itself, and preened itself, till it felt clean and comfy, and then it scrabbled a hasty hole in the sand, and went to sleep in it.

The children hid the bath under the girls’ bed, and had supper. Old Nurse had got them a lovely supper of bread and butter and fried onions. She was full of kind and delicate thoughts.

When Anthea woke the next morning, the Psammead was snuggling down between her shoulder and Jane’s.

“You have saved my life,” it said. “I know that man would have thrown cold water on me sooner or later, and then I should have died. I saw him wash out a guinea-pig’s hutch yesterday morning. I’m still frightfully sleepy, I think I’ll go back to sand for another nap. Wake the boys and this dormouse of a Jane, and when you’ve had your breakfasts we’ll have a talk.”

“Don’t you want any breakfast?” asked Anthea.

“I daresay I shall pick a bit presently,” it said; “but sand is all I care about⁠—it’s meat and drink to me, and coals and fire and wife and children.” With these words it clambered down by the bedclothes and scrambled back into the bath, where they heard it scratching itself out of sight.

“Well!” said Anthea, “anyhow our holidays won’t be dull now. We’ve found the Psammead again.”

“No,” said Jane, beginning to put on her stockings. “We shan’t be