Edith Nesbit: Children's Books Collection (Illustrated Edition) - Эдит Несбит

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to stand on (the workman did, of course) so he fetched down half a dozen planks and the workman, and if a dust-cart hadn't happened to be passing just under so that they fell into it their lives would not have been spared. As it was Mr. Sandal broke his arm and his head. The workman escaped unscathed but furious. The workman was a teetotaler.

      Mrs. Beale came, and the first thing she did was to buy a leg of mutton and cook it. It was the first meat we had had since arriving at Lymchurch.

      image HE FETCHED DOWN HALF A DOZEN PLANKS AND THE WORKMAN.

      "I 'spect she can't afford good butcher's meat," said Mrs. Beale; "but your pa, I expect he pays for you, and I lay he'd like you to have your fill of something as'll lay acrost your chesties." So she made a Yorkshire pudding as well. It was good.

      After dinner we sat on the sea-wall, feeling more like after dinner than we had felt for days, and Dora said—

      "Poor Miss Sandal! I never thought about her being hard-up, somehow. I wish we could do something to help her."

      "We might go out street-singing," Noël said. But that was no good, because there is only one street in the village, and the people there are much too poor for one to be able to ask them for anything. And all round it is fields with only sheep, who have nothing to give except their wool, and when it comes to taking that, they are never asked.

      Dora thought we might get Father to give her money, but Oswald knew this would never do.

      Then suddenly a thought struck some one—I will not say who—and that some one said—

      "She ought to let lodgings, like all the other people do in Lymchurch."

      That was the beginning of it. The end—for that day—was our getting the top of a cardboard box and printing on it the following lines in as many different coloured chalks as we happened to have with us.

      LODGINGS TO LET.

       ENQUIRE INSIDE.

      We ruled spaces for the letters to go in, and did it very neatly. When we went to bed we stuck it in our bedroom window with stamp-paper.

      In the morning when Oswald drew up his blind there was quite a crowd of kids looking at the card. Mrs. Beale came out and shoo-ed them away as if they were hens. And we did not have to explain the card to her at all. She never said anything about it. I never knew such a woman as Mrs. Beale for minding her own business. She said afterwards she supposed Miss Sandal had told us to put up the card.

      Well, two or three days went by, and nothing happened, only we had a letter from Miss Sandal, telling us how the poor sufferer was groaning, and one from Father telling us to be good children, and not get into scrapes. And people who drove by used to look at the card and laugh.

      And then one day a carriage came driving up with a gentleman in it, and he saw the rainbow beauty of our chalked card, and he got out and came up the path. He had a pale face, and white hair and very bright eyes that moved about quickly like a bird's, and he was dressed in a quite new tweed suit that did not fit him very well.

      Dora and Alice answered the door before any one had time to knock, and the author has reason to believe their hearts were beating wildly.

      "How much?" said the gentleman shortly.

      Alice and Dora were so surprised by his suddenness that they could only reply—

      "Er—er——"

      "Just so," said the gentleman briskly as Oswald stepped modestly forward and said—

      "Won't you come inside?"

      "The very thing," said he, and came in.

      We showed him into the dining-room and asked him to excuse us a minute, and then held a breathless council outside the door.

      "It depends how many rooms he wants," said Dora.

      "Let's say so much a room," said Dicky, "and extra if he wants Mrs. Beale to wait on him."

      So we decided to do this. We thought a pound a room seemed fair.

      And we went back.

      "How many rooms do you want?" Oswald asked.

      "All the room there is," said the gentleman.

      "They are a pound each," said Oswald, "and extra for Mrs. Beale."

      "How much altogether?"

      Oswald thought a minute and then said "Nine rooms is nine pounds, and two pounds a week for Mrs. Beale, because she is a widow."

      image "HOW MUCH?" SAID THE GENTLEMAN SHORTLY.

      "Done!" said the gentleman. "I'll go and fetch my portmanteaus."

      He bounced up and out and got into his carriage and drove away. It was not till he was finally gone quite beyond recall that Alice suddenly said—

      "But if he has all the rooms where are we to sleep?"

      "He must be awfully rich," said H.O., "wanting all those rooms."

      "Well, he can't sleep in more than one at once," said Dicky, "however rich he is. We might wait till he was bedded down and then sleep in the rooms he didn't want."

      But Oswald was firm. He knew that if the man paid for the rooms he must have them to himself.

      "He won't sleep in the kitchen," said Dora; "couldn't we sleep there?"

      But we all said we couldn't and wouldn't.

      Then Alice suddenly said—

      "I know! The Mill. There are heaps and heaps of fishing-nets there, and we could each take a blanket like Indians and creep over under cover of the night after the Beale has gone, and get back before she comes in the morning."

      It seemed a sporting thing to do, and we agreed. Only Dora said she thought it would be draughty.

      Of course we went over to the Mill at once to lay our plans and prepare for the silent watches of the night.

      There are three stories to a windmill, besides the ground-floor. The first floor is pretty empty; the next is nearly full of millstones and machinery, and the one above is where the corn runs down from on to the millstones.

      We settled to let the girls have the first floor, which was covered with heaps of nets, and we would pig in with the millstones on the floor above.

      We had just secretly got out the last of the six blankets from the house and got it into the Mill disguised in a clothes-basket, when we heard wheels, and there was the gentleman back again. He had only got one portmanteau after all, and that was a very little one.

      Mrs. Beale was bobbing at him in the doorway when we got up. Of course we had told her he had rented rooms, but we had not said how many, for fear she should ask where we were going to sleep, and we had a feeling that but few grown-ups would like our sleeping in a mill, however much we were living the higher life by sacrificing ourselves to get money for Miss Sandal.

      The gentleman ordered sheep's-head and trotters for dinner, and when he found he could not have that he said—

      "Gammon and spinach!"

      But there was not any spinach in the village, so he had to fall back on eggs and bacon. Mrs. Beale cooked it, and when he had fallen back on it she washed up and went home. And we were left. We could hear the gentleman singing to himself, something about woulding he was a bird that he might fly to thee.

      Then we got the lanterns that you take when you go "up street" on a dark night, and we crept over to the Mill. It was much darker than we expected.

      We decided to keep our clothes on, partly for warmness and partly in case of any sudden alarm or the fishermen wanting their nets in the middle of the night, which sometimes happens if the tide is favourable.

      We

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