Part 6

“But how are we to do it?” Mary asked. “That’s why I want you to help. Of course, we can post most of the money, but we can’t post a truck. If Thomas Barnes knew, he’d send it back directly.”

“Well,” said Mr. Verney, after thinking for some time, “there’s only one way: we shall have to be anti-burglars.”

“Anti-burglars!” cried Mary. “What’s that?”

“Well, a burglar is some one who breaks into a house and takes things away; an anti-burglar is some one who breaks into a house and leaves things there. Just the opposite, you see.”

“But suppose we are caught?”

“That would be funny. I don’t know what the punishment for anti-burgling is. I think perhaps the owner of the house ought to be punished for being so foolish as to interrupt. But tell me more about Thomas Barnes.”

“Thomas Barnes,” said Mary, “lives in a cottage by the cross-roads all alone.”

“What does he do?”

“He fetches things from the station for people; he carries the washing home from Mrs. Carter’s; he runs errands--at least, he doesn’t run them: people wish he would; he sometimes does a day’s work in a garden. But he really must have a new barrow, and his illness took all his money away, because he wouldn’t belong to a club. He’s quite the most obstinate man in this part of the country. But he’s so lonely, you know.”

“Then,” said Mr. Verney, “we must wait till he goes away on an errand.”

“But he locks his shed.”

“Then we must break in.”

“But if people saw us taking the barrow there?”

“Then we must go in the night. I’ll send him to Westerfield suddenly for something quite late--some medicine, and then he’ll think I’m ill--on a Thursday, when there’s the midnight train, and we’ll pop down to his place at about eleven with a screw-driver and things.”

After arranging to go to Westerfield as soon as possible to spend their money, Mary ran home.

Being an almoner was becoming much more interesting.

IV

Mr. Verney and Mary went to Westerfield the next day, leaving a very sulky Harry behind.

“I can’t think why Uncle Herbert didn’t send that money to me,” he grumbled. “Why should a girl like Mary have all this almoning fun? I could almon as well as she can.”

As a matter of fact, Uncle Herbert had made a very wise choice. Harry had none of Mary’s interest in the village, nor had he any of her patience. But in his own way he was a very clever boy. He bowled straight, and knew a linnet’s egg from a greenfinch’s.

Mr. Verney and Mary’s first visit was to the bank, where Mary handed her five-pound note through the bars, and the clerk scooped up four sovereigns and two half-sovereigns in his little copper shovel and poured them into her hand.

Then they bought a penny account-book and went on to Mr. Flower, the ironmonger, to see about Thomas Barnes’ truck. Mr. Flower had a secondhand one for twenty-five shillings, and he promised to touch it up for two shillings more; and he promised, also, that neither he nor his man should ever say anything about it. It was arranged that the barrow should be wrapped up in sacking and taken to Mr. Verney’s, inside the waggon, and be delivered after dark.

“Why do _you_ want it?” Mary asked him.

“That’s a secret,” he said; “you’ll know later.”

Mr. Flower also undertook to send three shillings’ worth of netting to Mrs. Callow, asking her to do him the favour of trying it to see if it were a good strong kind.

Mary and Mr. Verney then walked on to Mr. Costall, the dentist, who was in Westerfield only on Thursdays between ten and four. It was the first time that Mary had ever stood on his doorstep without feeling her heart sink. Mr. Costall, although a dentist, was a smiling, happy man, and he entered into the scheme directly. He said he would write to Mrs. Meadows and ask her to call, saying that some one whom he would not mention had arranged the matter with him. And when Mary asked him how much she should pay him, he said that ten shillings would do. This meant a saving of half a crown.

“How nice it would be always to visit Mr. Costall,” Mary said, with a sigh, “if he did not pull out teeth.”

Mary and Mr. Verney then chose Mrs. Wigram’s new bonnet, which they posted to her at once. Mr. Verney liked one with red roses, but Mary told him that nothing would ever induce Mrs. Wigram to wear anything but black. The girl in the shop recommended another kind, trimmed with a very blue bird; but Mary had her own way.

Afterwards they bought a ball for the Barretts; and then they bought a postal order for eight shillings for Mrs. Carter, and half a crown for Mr. Eyles, and ten shillings for Mrs. Ryan, and fourteen shillings for Mrs. Pringle. It was most melancholy to see the beautiful sovereigns dropping into other people’s tills. Mary put all these amounts down in her penny account-book. She also put down the cost of her return ticket.

When they got back to the village they saw Mr. Ward, the station-master. After telling him how important it was to keep the secret, Mary bought a return ticket to the sea for Tommy Pringle, without any date on it, and two excursion tickets for old Mr. and Mrs. Snelling for the 1st of next month. Mr. Ward did not have many secrets in his life, and he was delighted to keep these.

While they were talking to him a curious and exciting thing happened. A message began to tick off on the telegraph machine. Mr. Verney was just turning to go away when Mr. Ward called out, “Stop a minute, please! This message is for Miss Stavely.”

Mary ran over to the machine and stood by Mr. Ward while he wrote down the message which the little needle ticked out. She had never had a telegram before, and to have one like this--“warm from the cow,” as Mr. Ward said--was splendid. Mr. Ward handed it to her at last.

“MARY STAVELY, MERCOMBE.

“How is the almoning? I want to pay all extra expenses.--UNCLE HERBERT.”

The reply was paid; but Mary had to write it out several times before it satisfied her and came within the sixpence. This was what she said:

“STAVELY, REFORM CLUB, LONDON.

“All right. Will send accounts. Expenses small.--MARY.”

On the way home they spoke to Fraser, who let out carriages and carts. Fraser liked the plan as much as every one else did. He promised to call in on the Snellings in a casual way, on the morning on which they would receive the tickets, and suggest to them that they should let him drive them to the station and bring them home again. When Mary offered to pay him, Mr. Fraser said no, certainly not; he would like to help her. He hadn’t done anything for anybody for so long that he should be interested in seeing what it felt like. This meant a saving of four shillings.

Mary went to tea at Mr. Verney’s. After tea he printed addresses on a number of envelopes, and put the postal orders inside, with a little card in each, on which he printed the words, “From a friend, for Tommy to go to the sea-side home for a fortnight”; “From a friend, for Mr. and Mrs. Snelling to go to London”; “From a friend, for Mr. Eyles’ spectacles,” and so forth, and then he stamped them and stuck them down, and put them all into a big envelope, which he posted to his sister in Ireland, so that when they came back they all had the Dublin postmark, and no one ever saw such puzzled and happy people as the recipients were.

“Has your mother any friends in Dublin, Miss Mary?” Mrs. Snelling asked a day or so later, in the midst of a conversation about sweet peas.

“No,” said Mary. It was not until afterwards that she saw what Mrs. Snelling meant.

V

Next Thursday came at last, the day on which Thomas Barnes’ shed was to be anti-burgled. At ten o’clock, having had leave to stay up late on this great occasion, Mary put on her things, and Mr. Verney, who had come to dinner, took her to his rooms. There, in the outhouse which he used for a studio, he showed her the truck.

“And here,” he said, “is my secret,” pointing out the words--

THOMAS BARNES, PORTER, MERCOMBE.

which he had painted in white letters on the side.

“He’s bound to keep it now, whatever happens,” Mr. Verney said. “In order to make as little noise as possible to-night,” he added, “I have wrapped felt round the tyres.”

He then took a bag from the shelf, placed it on the barrow, and they stole out. Mr. Verney’s landlady had gone to bed, and there was no sound of anyone in the village. The truck made no noise.

After half a mile they came to the cross-roads where Thomas Barnes’ cottage stood, and Mr. Verney walked to the house and knocked loudly.

There was no answer. Indeed, he had not expected one, but he wished to make sure that Thomas had not returned from Westerfield sooner than he should.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Now for the anti-burgling.”

He wheeled the truck to the side of the gate leading to the shed, and, taking the bag, they passed through. Mr. Verney opened the bag and took out a lantern, a hammer, and a screw-driver.

“We must get this padlock off,” he said, and while Mary held the lantern he worked away at the fastenings. It was more difficult than he expected, especially as he did not want to break anything, but to put it back exactly as it had been. Several minutes passed.

“There,” he cried; “that’s it.”

At the same moment a sound of heavy footsteps was heard, and Mary gave a little scream and dropped the lantern.

A strong hand gripped her arm.

“Hullo! Hullo!” said a gruff voice. “What’s this? Housebreaking, indeed!”

Mr. Verney had stooped for the lantern, and as he rose the policeman--for he it was--seized him also.

“You’d better come along with me,” the policeman said, “and make no trouble about it. The less trouble you make, the easier it’ll be for you before the magistrates.”

[Illustration: WHILE MARY HELD THE LANTERN, HE WORKED AWAY AT THE FASTENINGS.]

“But look here,” Mr. Verney said, “you’re making a mistake. We’re not housebreaking.”

The policeman laughed. “Now, that’s a good’un,” he said. “Dark lantern, screw-driver, hammer, eleven o’clock at night, Thomas Barnes’ shed--and you’re not housebreaking! Perhaps you’ll tell me what you are doing, you and your audacious female accomplice here. Playing hide-and-seek, I suppose?”

“Well,” said Mr. Verney, suddenly striking a match with his free hand, and holding it up so that the light fell full on his own and on Mary’s face, “we’ll tell you the whole story.”

“Miss Stavely!” cried the policeman, “and Mr. Verney. Well, this is a start. But what does it all mean?”

Then Mr. Verney told the story, first making Dobbs promise not to tell it again.

The policeman grew more and more interested as it went on. Finally he exclaimed: “You get the door open, sir, and I’ll fetch the truck through. Time’s getting along.”

He hurried out of the yard and returned carrying the truck on his shoulders. Then he stripped off the felt with his knife and ran it into the shed, beside the old broken-down barrow that had done service for so many years.

Mr. Verney soon had the padlock back in its place as if nothing had happened, and after carefully gathering up the felt they hurried off, in order to get home before Thomas Barnes should call with the medicine that he had been sent to buy.

“Let me carry the bag, sir,” the policeman said.

“What, full of burgling tools!” said Mr. Verney.

“Mum’s the word,” the policeman replied, “mum’s the word.”

At the forge cottage he wished them good-night.

“Then you don’t want us in court to-morrow?” Mr. Verney asked.

“Mum’s the word,” was all that Dobbs replied, with a chuckle.

Thomas Barnes’ train being late, Mary did not get to bed until after twelve that night. She laid her head on the pillow with particular satisfaction, for the last and most difficult part of the distribution of Uncle Herbert’s money was over.

VI

The next day Mary sent Uncle Herbert a long description of her duties as his almoner, and enclosed the account. What with postages and her railway fare, she had spent altogether £4. 18s. 11d.

Two days later this letter came back from Uncle Herbert:

“DEAR MARY,

“You are as good an almoner as I could wish, and I hope that another chance of setting you to work will come. Put the thirteen pence that are over in a box labelled ‘The Almoner’s Fund.’ Then take the enclosed postal order for a pound and get it cashed, and the next time you are in Westerfield buy Mr. Verney a box of cigarettes, but be sure to find out first what kind he likes. Also give Harry six shillings. I dare say he has broken his bicycle or wants some more films: at any rate, he will not say no. The rest is for yourself to buy something purely for yourself with. Please tell your mother that I am coming on Saturday by the train reaching you at 5.8. I shall walk from the station, but I want Thomas Barnes to fetch my bag.

“Your affectionate “UNCLE HERBERT.”

Whether or no Thomas Barnes knew where the truck came from we never found out; but at Christmas-time he was discovered among the waits who sang carols on the Stavelys’ lawn.

SIR FRANKLIN AND THE LITTLE MOTHERS

SIR FRANKLIN AND THE LITTLE MOTHERS

I

Once upon a time there was a very rich gentleman named Sir Franklin Ingleside, who lived all alone in a beautiful house in Berkeley Square. He was so rich that he could not possibly spend more than a little of his money, although he gave great sums away, and had horses and carriages, and bought old pictures and new books.

He lived very quietly, rode a little, drove a little, called on old friends (chiefly old ladies), usually dined alone, and afterwards read by the fire.

Although the house was large and full of servants, all Sir Franklin’s wants were supplied by his own particular man, Pembroke. Pembroke was clean-shaven, very neat, spoke quietly, and never grew any older or seemed ever to have been any younger. It was impossible to think of Pembroke as a baby, or a boy, or a person with a Christian name. One could think of him only as a grave man named Pembroke. No one ever saw him smile in Berkeley Square, but a page boy once came home with the news that he had passed Mr. Pembroke talking to a man in the street at Islington, and heard him laugh out loud. But page boys like inventing impossible stories, and making your flesh creep.

Pembroke lived in a little room communicating by bells with all the rooms which Sir Franklin used; so that whenever the bell rang Pembroke knew exactly where his master was. Pembroke did not seem to have any life but his master’s; and the one thing about which he was always thinking was how to know beforehand exactly what his master wanted. Pembroke became so clever at this that he would often, after being rung for, enter the room carrying the very thing that Sir Franklin was going to request him to get.

Sir Franklin once asked him how he did it, and Pembroke said that he did not know; but part of the secret was explained that very year quite by chance. It was like this. In the autumn Sir Franklin and Pembroke always went to Scotland, and that year when they were in Scotland the Berkeley Square house was done up and all the old pull-bells were taken away and new electric ones were put in instead. When Sir Franklin came back again he noticed that Pembroke was not nearly so clever in anticipating needs as he had been before; and when he asked him about it, Pembroke said: “My opinion, sir, is that it’s all along of the bells. The new bells, which you press, ring the same, however you press them, and startle a body too, whereas the old bells, which you used to pull, sir, told me what you wanted by the way you pulled them, and never startled one at all.”

So Sir Franklin and Pembroke went to Paris for a week while the new press bells were taken away and the old pull-bells put back again, and then Pembroke became again just as clever as before. (But that was, of course, only part of the secret.)

II

It was at a quarter to nine on the evening of December 18, 1907, that Sir Franklin, who was sitting by the fire reading and thinking, suddenly got up and rang the bell.

Pembroke came in at once and said, “I’m sorry you’re troubled in your mind, sir. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Sir Franklin. “But do you know what day this is?”

“We are nearing the end of December 18,” said Pembroke.

“Yes,” said Sir Franklin, “and what is a week to-day?”

“A week to-day, sir,” said Pembroke, “is Christmas Day.”

“And what about children who won’t get any presents this Christmas?” Sir Franklin asked.

“Ah, indeed, sir,” said Pembroke.

“And what about people in trouble, Pembroke?” Sir Franklin asked.

“Ah, indeed, sir,” said Pembroke.

“And that reminds me,” Pembroke added after a pause, “that I was going to speak to you about the cook’s brother-in-law, sir: a worthy man, sir, but in difficulties.”

Sir Franklin asked for particulars.

“He keeps a toy-shop, sir, in London, and he can’t make it pay. He’s tried and tried, but there’s no money in toys in his neighbourhood--except penny toys, on which the margin of profit is, I am told, sir, very small.”

Sir Franklin poked the fire and looked into it for a little while. Then, “It seems to me, Pembroke,” he said, “that the cook’s brother-in-law’s difficulties and the little matter of the children can be solved in the same action. Why shouldn’t we take over the toy-shop and let the children into it on Christmas Eve to choose what they will?”

Pembroke stroked his chin for a moment and then said, “The very thing, sir.”

“Where does the cook’s brother-in-law live?” Sir Franklin asked.

Pembroke gave the address.

“Then if you’ll call a hansom, Pembroke, we’ll drive there at once.”

III

It does not matter at all about the visit which Sir Franklin Ingleside and Pembroke paid to the cook’s brother-in-law. All that need be said is that the cook’s brother-in-law was quite willing to sell Sir Franklin his stock-in-trade and to make the shop over to him, and Sir Franklin Ingleside rode back to Berkeley Square not only a gentleman who had horses and carriages and who bought old pictures and new books, but perhaps the first gentleman in Berkeley Square to have a toy-shop too.

On the way back he talked to Pembroke about his plans.

“There’s a kind of child, Pembroke,” said Sir Franklin, “that I particularly want to encourage and reward. It is clear that we can’t give presents to all; and I don’t want the greedy ones and the strongest ones to be as fortunate as the modest ones and the weak ones. So my plan is, first of all to make sure that the kind of child that I have in mind is properly looked after, and then to give the others what remains. And the particular children I mean are the little girls who take care of their younger brothers and sisters while their parents are busy, and who go to the shops and stalls and do the marketing. Whenever I see one I always say to myself, ‘There goes a Little Mother!’ and it is the Little Mothers whom this Christmas we must particularly help.

“Now what you must do, Pembroke, during the next few days, is to make a list of the streets in every direction within a quarter of a mile of the toy-shop, and then find out, from the schoolmistresses, and the butchers, and the publicans’ wives, and the grocers, and the oil-shops, and the greengrocers, and the more talkative women on the doorsteps, which are the best Little Mothers in the district and what is the size of their families, and get their names and addresses. And then we shall know what to do.”

By this time the cab had reached Berkeley Square again, and Sir Franklin returned to his books.

IV

The next few days were the busiest and most perplexing that Pembroke ever spent. He was in Clerkenwell, where the toy-shop was situated, from morning till night. He bought all kinds of things that he did not want--cheese and celery, mutton-chops and beer, butter and paraffin--just to get on terms with the people who know about the Little Mothers.

Although naturally rather silent and reserved, he talked to butchers and bakers and women on doorsteps, and schoolmistresses, and even hot-potato men, as if they were the best company in the world, and bit by bit he made a list of twenty-two Little Mothers of first-class merit, and fifty-one of second-class merit, and all their children.

Having got these down in his book, Pembroke was going home on the evening of the 21st very well pleased with himself on the whole, but still feeling that Sir Franklin would be disappointed not to have the name of the best Little Mother of all, when an odd thing happened. He had stopped in a doorway not very far from the toy-shop, to light his pipe, when he heard a shrill voice saying very decidedly, “Very well, then, William Kitchener Beacon, if that’s your determination you shall stay here all night, and by and by the rats will come out and bite you.”

Pembroke stood still and listened.

[Illustration: A LITTLE PROCESSION PASSED THE DOORWAY.]

“I don’t want to go home,” a childish voice whimpered. “I want to look in the shops.”

“Come home you must and shall,” said the other. “Here’s Lucy tired out, and Amy crying, and John cold to his very marrer, and Tommy with a sawreel, and father’ll want his dinner, and mother’ll think we’re all run over by a motor-car; and come home you must and shall.”

Sounds of a scuffle followed, and then a little procession passed the doorway. First came a sturdy little girl of about ten, carrying a huge string-basket filled with heavy things, and pulling behind her by the other hand a small and sulky boy, whom Pembroke took to be William Kitchener Beacon. Then came the others, and lastly Tommy, limping with the sore heel.

Pembroke stopped the girl with the bag, and asked her if she lived far away, and finding that it was close to the toy-shop, he said he should like to carry the bag, and help the family home. He was not allowed to carry the bag, but no objection was raised to his lifting Tommy on his back, and they all went home together.

On the way he discovered that the Little Mother was named Matilda Beacon, and that she lived at 28, Pulvercake Buildings, Clerkenwell.