Part 2

But he did not come. Dicky waited with beating heart, but he did not come. He waited till he almost forgot he was waiting, and yet his father did not come. And when at last he heard soft shuffling steps coming along the passage, his heart almost stopped. To his astonishment he saw in the darkness beyond the door two small round orange lamps shining about a foot from the ground. It was only Jasper, who padded quietly into the room and lay down on the hearthrug with a quiet sigh of satisfaction. Having settled himself in the shape of a large foot-stool, Jasper did not lift his nose again, but he turned up his eyes at Dicky—they were brown eyes now, exquisitely humble and kind—and wagged his stumpy tail. Dicky had flung himself on the floor beside the dog and embraced him. Were these the terrible sobs which would never leave off? No, presently they did stop; and gradually Dicky even forgot that he was waiting for something awful. The occasional dab of the dog’s cold nose on his hot cheeks was comforting, and so it was to curl all round him. Dicky felt almost as though he were a dog himself when he was curled up like that.

“Do you know, Jasper, if I were a dog, I should be a very clever dog? Much, much cleverer than you,” he whispered with his face buried in the black fur. His head felt swollen and confused. “A re-markable dog,” he repeated, “I should be a very re-markable dog.”

Downstairs Dr. Brook was sitting close up to the fire and staring gloomily into it. He had forgotten that he held a short switch in his hand, and that it still hung down between his knees. He was thinking in pictures and the pictures were not of Dicky. He had forgotten Dicky; he had even forgotten himself. They say the whole of life passes before a drowning man’s eyes. The doctor ever since he sat down had felt like a man drowning in a sea of troubles. If not the whole of his own life, still, much of it, had passed before his eyes. Only when at last he was eating his cold solitary dinner in the dining-room, did he remember again that Dicky had been naughty that morning, and that Dicky was probably incurably stupid. But even if he were it did not seem now to matter much, or to matter in a different way. Ella, too, he thought, must go to her College of Music; things could somehow be managed. The doctor sat a very long time over his dinner.

But upstairs still stranger things were happening to Dick. First he felt hot and large, then cold and small. He kept on shivering. Was this silky hair his own or Jasper’s? And where was he? He was apparently in a wet, grey place. What he touched with his hands and feet felt rough and gritty. Suddenly he saw a brown stoat with an arched back ambling rapidly in front of him—it was as big as a fox. Yes, he was on a road—the very road he had walked along that very afternoon, only now the wet hedges were ever so much higher. And before Dicky knew what he was doing he was dashing after the stoat, right into the quickset hedge after it. What was he doing? He smelt a queer strong smell which excited him; and he pushed and struggled through the roots and thorns, following the smell. He seemed, too, to be wearing a very odd cap with long flaps, which kept catching in the brambles and dragging him back. This did not hurt, but it was a nuisance, and he had constantly to shake his head. He traced the smell of stoat to a rabbit hole and thrust his head down it. Hullo! Dicky had no idea rabbits smelt so deliciously, as nice as pineapples or peaches! Dicky had wanted to kill the stoat, but he would have liked to eat the rabbit. He tried to make the hole larger, by tearing away the earth with his hands, but, although he got on much faster than he expected, he soon saw that was no use; and dragging himself violently backwards out of the hedge, he found himself in the road again with nothing to do.

Yes, there was nothing, absolutely nothing to do. The sensation was a strange one, for he couldn’t even think of anything. He just stood there snuffing the wet wind. Then suddenly he found himself trotting towards home. He had not gone very far when he was aware of another smell which he somehow recognised instantly as “The Sacred Smell.” He knew what it was, though he had never smelt it properly before. It reminded him of a feeling he had sometimes had in church—how long ago that seemed!—and partly of a feeling he had had when once an old general in scarlet and covered with medals had patted him on the head. Only this time The Sacred Smell was mixed with other smells; with smells of horse, leather, onions and smoke. This, Dicky knew, was not as it should be, and he was distinctly alarmed. However, he thought he had better stand still. It was always better, something whispered to him, not to run away from The Sacred Smell—unless the danger was terrific.

Of course, having smelt The Sacred Smell, he was not at all surprised to see next a huge pair of muddy boots coming towards him, and a pair of huge knees in dirty trousers moving up and down. When they were a short distance off, they stopped; and Dicky, looking up, saw what he had expected; an unshaven, dark-skinned Man in a cap, with a spotted handkerchief knotted round his neck. The Man made a squeaking noise with his pursed-up lips, such as rats make, and slapped his thigh once or twice. Dicky knew what this meant, but even when the Man called in a croaking voice, “E-e-e-’ere good boy,” Dicky still thought it was best not to move. He stood and turned his face instead to the hedge, looking, no doubt, as absent-minded and miserable as he felt. (It was odd, but _now_ when Dicky felt wretched and miserable that feeling was strongest, not just under the middle of his ribs, but at the end of his spine where his legs began; there now was the seat of anguish.) The Man took a step or two nearer, then another step. Still Dicky did not stir. Suddenly the Man dashed forward and made a grab at him. Dicky ducked, started aside and bumped right into the road-bank. He saw the Man’s hand outstretched above him, and he knew there was now only one thing to do: to roll right over on to his back, in order to show he wouldn’t resist and hoped for mercy. The Man stroked Dicky’s head and made soothing noises; and then, suddenly, put an arm under him, lifting him up and holding him tight to his side.

[Illustration: “THE MAN DASHED FORWARD AND MADE A GRAB AT HIM”]

Dicky felt perfectly miserable, but what could he do? He knew it would be folly to try to escape, and that it would be wiser to wait for an opportunity. The Man tucked him with a jerk still more firmly under his arm, and started to walk slowly on. He walked on for more than an hour, till they came to a gorse common, where a caravan was standing with empty shafts and a pair of steps behind. Gripping Dicky tighter than ever the Man gave a whistle, and a Woman came out of the caravan.

“Where did you find him, Joe?” said the Woman, looking at Dicky.

“’Long road,” said the Man, jerking his head backwards.

“You ain’t been and thrown away his collar, ’ave you, Joe?”

“’Adn’t any,” said the Man. Dicky was very dazed, but he did think they were talking about him in an odd way.

“Better take ’im where he belongs,” said the Woman. “The cops won’t believe as such as ’e is ours. He looks well cared for. Might get five bob.”

Dicky did not try to tell them where he lived; he felt somehow it would be no use to try.

Instead of answering the Man just threw him into the caravan and shut the door. Although it was nearly dark, Dicky found he could see surprisingly well. Presently a tin bowl full of scraps of meat and bones was thrust in. Dicky would have been revolted by such a mess a short time ago, but now, though he was too scared to feel hungry, he could not resist putting his face close to it and giving a sniff. It really smelt uncommonly good. He put out the tip of his tongue and touched a brown-looking, ragged bit of gristle. Yes, it was good. Then all of a sudden he understood what must have happened. He had changed into a dog! Into a black spaniel!

He dashed at the door, shouting at the top of his voice, “Let me out! Let me out!” Alas, the only word which sounded at all like what he wanted to say was, “Out.” “Out, out, out, out,” he kept barking, hoping that the Man and Woman would understand. They took no notice; but he could not stop. “Out, out, out,” he barked. He shook the door by jumping at it; he tore at the wood with his nails. There was a latch just within his reach when he sprang up, but his paws—yes, it was only too true, his hands were round, black and feathery—could not lift it. “Out, out, out.” No answer. At last he gave it up, and lay down on the floor, feeling very tired. It occurred to him presently that he might think better while gnawing a bone. So he went to the bowl and pulled out the largest. It was a slight comfort to him. With his head on one side and his teeth sliding along the bone, he found he could think a little more calmly. How was he to let them know that he was not a real dog, but a boy called Dicky Brook? He tried again to talk. After a lot of practice he succeeded in making a sound rather like “Brrr-ook,” but it was also too sadly like the noise Jasper made when he was too lazy to bark or had been told to stop barking. Dicky was afraid they would never understand. But surely a very clever dog could make people understand somehow?

At last the door opened and the Man appeared, black against the starry sky. He stumbled over Dicky, swore and lit a stinking lamp-flame the size of the blade of a pocket knife. He was followed by the Woman. Outside Dicky could see the red glow of the fire which had cooked their dinner. Now was his chance. What should he do to astonish them? That was the first thing to do, to astonish them till they began to understand. But all Dicky could think of was a doggy thing after all: he sat up and begged. The Woman grinned at him, but the Man, who was pulling off his great boots, flung one at him, which Dicky dodged. He at once sat up on his hind-legs again, this time joining his paws and holding them up high in front of him.

“Bli’my Joe, look at the dawg!” exclaimed the Woman. “It’s saying its prayers!”

The Man, too, stared in astonishment.

“I don’t like it,” said the Woman.

Dicky felt greatly encouraged. At home he was fond of turning somersaults. Now, down went his head and over went his hind-legs. It was not a good somersault (he was too short in the legs for somersaults now) but it was one. The Man gave a shout of laughter, and his face lit up with joy and cunning.

“S’truth, it’s a performing dawg! I ain’t taking ’im back, no fear. He’ll make our fortunes.”

At these words Dicky saw he had made a terrible mistake. If he was a dog, he had better not be a re-markable dog.

[Illustration: “HE COULD NOT FALL ANY FURTHER”]

The door was still open, and through it he dashed, taking the steps at a leap. Now he was falling, falling, falling. What a height! Oh, would he never reach the bottom? Stars were flying above him like bees. The awful thing was that he was beginning to fall slowly, while a huge arm with a hand at the end of it was stretching out, longer and longer, after him. He was not even falling slowly now; he was floating. He tried to force himself down through the air, but though there was nothing to keep him up he could not fall any further. Suddenly the arm gripped him. In an agony of terror he yelled: “I’m not a dog.” He heard his own voice, and, to his amazement, he saw his father’s face close to his; it was his father’s arm lifting him from the hearthrug. He felt a hand cool on his forehead. “Dick, you’re feverish. My little Dick.” His father’s voice had never sounded like that before, and he felt himself being carried—deliciously safe—to bed.

“After all,” he said to himself, as he snuggled down, “I’m glad I’m not a dog.”

[Illustration]

When We Were Very, Very Young

A. A. MILNE

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

I think I am a Muffin Man. I haven’t got a bell, I haven’t got the muffin things that muffin-people sell. Perhaps I am a Postman. No, I think I am a Tram. I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know _what_ I am—

BUT

_Round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about I go— All round the table, The table in the nursery— _Round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about I go:

I think I am a Traveller Escaping from a Bear; I think I am an Elephant Behind another Elephant Behind _another_ Elephant who isn’t really there....

SO

_Round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about and _round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about I go.

I think I am a Ticket Man, who’s selling tickets-please, I think I am a Doctor who is visiting a Sneeze; Perhaps I’m just a Nanny who is walking with a pram. I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know _what_ I am—

BUT

_Round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about I go— All round the table The table in the nursery—

_Round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about I go: I think I am a Puppy, so I’m hanging out my tongue: I think I am a Camel Who Is looking for a Camel Who Is looking for a Camel who is Looking for its Young....

SO

_Round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about and _round_ about And _round_ about And _round_ about I go.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE SHADOW LAND

DAVID CECIL

Night falls upon a day of storm, Of mist and gust and rain, And still wind howls along the sands, And sleet with myriad tiny hands, Slaps at the window pane.

Awake in bed lay Jack and Jane, They watched the shadows play; Their eyes roved round from wall to floor And then they stopped and roved no more. A lady standing by the door Looked at them as they lay.

Her skin was smooth as ivory, Her hair was like pale silk All spells and secrets seemed to lie Beneath each slanting emerald eye, And eyelid white as milk.

Her stiff skirts gleamed in the firelight And the ceaseless hurrying shadows. Her voice was high and far away Like distant voice at close of day, Calling across the meadows.

“Come!” she said, “Come!”; the children came, They had nor voice nor will. Round her the hurrying shadows skim, She struck one with her knuckles slim, It fluttered and stood still.

[Illustration: WILDER YET THE SHADOWS WHIRL]

Wilder yet the shadows whirl. As nailed to wall and floor, Stood firm this one; she whispered “Follow.” Then swiftly swooping like a swallow, Slipt through as through a door.

And she led them to far shadowland, Where the shadows stand upright; And walk and talk, while on the ground, The live men trail without a sound, Solid and pink and white.

Where the echo is heard before the song, And in the pools you see Reflected houses steady stand, While real ones built upon the land Tremble continually.

All night long stayed Jack and Jane, But when the dawn grew red, They crept back through the shadow door, Across the firelight-chequered floor, And scrambled back to bed.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE BARGAIN SHOP

BY CYNTHIA ASQUITH.

I

Once upon a time there lived a man called Anselm, who used several times an hour to stamp his foot and cry out: “I _must_ be rich! I _must_ be rich!” He was married to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and, since he had enough to eat and a weatherproof house, and had neither aches nor pains, he should have been happy for 365 days in each year. But his unceasing longing for great wealth spoilt everything, and even on fine days he went about looking as discontented as though he were hungry.

As for his wife, Jasmine, she had long red-gold hair and great green eyes set wide apart in her flower-like face, and she possessed a mirror in which she could see her shimmering loveliness. So she ought to have been very happy and very grateful. She was so beautiful that when she walked abroad, men would lean far out of their windows to watch her pass and then wonder why their own wives and daughters should look so much like suet puddings.

But, though you will scarcely believe it, Jasmine was quite as discontented as her husband, and pouted and sighed through the days.

For she, too, was consumed by this perpetual craving for riches. Whether she had caught this uncomfortable sort of illness from her husband, or whether she had given it to him, I do not know, but there they were both wasting their youth, their beauty, and their love for one another, in foolish, petulant longing.

Whenever Jasmine saw other women clad in rich raiment and adorned with jewels, envy would blight her loveliness as frost blights a flower.

“Of what use is my beauty if I cannot adorn it?” she cried. “I _must_ have pearls—ropes of pearls, crowns of glittering diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires!”

“Yes,” said Anselm, “and I must have a hundred horses, a thousand slaves, and fountains that spout forth wines!”

One day, as Jasmine walked sadly through a deep, dark forest she suddenly saw a very strange looking house moving slowly towards her. The roof of the house was most beautifully thatched with brightly-coloured feathers, and across its face in rainbow letters ran the queer inscription:

THE BARGAIN HOUSE

MONEY FOR SALE. ENQUIRE WITHIN.

“Money for sale?” read the wondering Jasmine. “What can this mean? Some foolish jest, no doubt.”

Three times the house sped round her; then it quivered and stood still. She stared at the glass door that held a myriad reflections of herself. As though her gaze had power to push, it slowly opened. She now saw into a vast hall, and heard a gentle but compelling voice say: “Come in.” Trembling, Jasmine walked through the door. The light was dim and flickering as though from a fire, but no fireplace could be seen. Across the whole length of the hall ran a counter, such as you see in large shops, and behind this counter there rose up a wall made of rows of boxes piled high the one upon the other, and on these boxes were rainbow letters and figures. Between the boxes and the counter there stood a tall, sweetly-smiling woman, whose face, though unrecognisable, seemed somehow familiar to Jasmine.

“I was expecting you, beautiful Jasmine,” spoke the stranger in a voice that was soft but decided, like the fall of snow. “You would buy money, would you not?”

“Can one buy money?” faltered Jasmine. “Save _with_ money, and, alas! I have none.”

“Though you were penniless, yet from me you could purchase boundless wealth,” replied the stranger. “Behold, a purse,” she continued, holding up a red-tasselled bag, “which, spend as you may, will always contain one thousand golden guineas. This purse is yours if in exchange you will give me one part of yourself.”

“A part of myself?” gasped the astonished Jasmine. “What would you have? My hair?”

“No,” smiled the woman. “Lovely as are your tresses, in time they would grow again, and no one may own unlimited wealth and pay no price therefor. Your beauty shall remain untouched. It is your Sense of Humour that I require.”

“My Sense of Humour?” laughed Jasmine. “Is that all? Just that part of me which makes me laugh? Humour? What was it my mother used to call Humour? I remember—she said it was Man’s consolation sent to him by God in sign of peace. God’s rainbow in our minds. But with boundless wealth what need of consolation shall I have? Besides, I have often been told I had but little Sense of Humour. The more gladly will I give it to you. The purse, I pray,” and Jasmine held out both her trembling hands.

“Stay a while,” said the solemn, smiling woman. “I must warn you of two conditions. First, I would have you know, the money this purse yields can be spent only upon yourself. Would you still have it?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” clamoured Jasmine.

“I must also tell you that should you ever repent of your bargain and wish to buy back the precious sense you sell, it will, alas, not be in my power to help you. I can never buy back from the person to whom I have sold. The only chance of recovering your Sense of Humour is, that another customer, unasked by you, should buy it back with a similar purse, and I warn you that it may be hard to find anyone willing to give up boundless wealth for the sake of your laughter.”

“What matter?” exclaimed Jasmine. “Never, never shall I wish to return my purse.”

“You are determined?” asked the strange saleswoman.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Hold out your arms, then.”

Eagerly Jasmine stretched out her arms.

The smiling woman touched her on both her funny-bones, drew forth her Sense of Humour, laid it away in a box, on which she wrote Jasmine’s name, and the date, and then placed it on a shelf between two other boxes.

“Now it is mine, until redeemed by the return of a purse, fellow to this that I give thee,” said the woman, handing the tasselled red bag to Jasmine. “And while it is in my careful keeping, this despised sense of yours will grow and grow. Farewell, Jasmine. Leave me now and go forth into a bleak world.”

Clasping the marvellous purse to her heart, Jasmine fled from the house and hastened through the deep, dark forest till she reached the city. At once she went to the great jewel-merchants, against whose windows she had often pressed her face in wistful longing.

“I want the biggest pearl necklace you have got,” she cried, breathlessly bursting into the gorgeous showroom.

“I’m afraid goods of such value can only be supplied in exchange for ready money,” said the merchant with an uncivil smile.

“How much?” asked Jasmine.

[Illustration]

“Seven thousand guineas.”

Jasmine opened the purse and holding it upside down, shook it. Glittering guineas poured out in a golden stream, but the purse remained just as full as before.