Harding’s Luck by E. Nesbit (best thriller books to read .TXT) 📕

“Not with ’im; ’e ain’t no class,” said Dickie firmly; “and oh! farver, I do so wanter sleep in that ’ouse, that was where I ’ad The Dream, you know.”

“Oh, well⁠—come on, then,” said Beale; “lucky we’ve got our thick coats on.”

It was quite easy for Dickie to get into the house, just as he had done before, and to go along the passage and open the front door for Mr. Beale, who walked in as bold as brass. They made themselves comfortable with the sacking and old papers⁠—but one at least of the two missed the luxury of clean air and soft moss and a bed canopy strewn with stars. Mr. Beale was soon asleep and Dickie lay still, his heart beating to the tune of the hope that now at last, in this place where it had once come, his dream would come again. But it did not come⁠—even sleep, plain, restful, dreamless sleep, would not come to him. At last he could lie still no longer. He slipped from under the paper, whose rustling did not disturb Mr. Beale’s slumbers, and moved into the square of light thrown through the window by the street lamp. He felt in his pockets, pulled out Tinkler and the white seal, set them on the floor, and, moved by memories of the great night when his dream had come to him, arranged the moonseeds round them in the same pattern that they had lain in on that night of nights. And the moment that he had lain the last seed, completing the crossed triangles, the magic began again. All was as it had been before. The tired eyes that must close, the feeling that through his closed eyelids he could yet see something moving in the centre of the star that the two triangles made.

“Where do you want to go to?” said the same soft small voice that had spoken before. But this time Dickie did not reply that he was “not particular.” Instead, he said, “Oh, there! I want to go there!” feeling quite sure that whoever owned that voice would know as well as he, or even better, where “there” was, and how to get to it.

And as on that other night everything grew very quiet, and sleep wrapped Dickie round like a soft garment. When he awoke he lay in the big four-post bed with the green and white curtains; about him were the tapestry walls and the heavy furniture of The Dream.

“Oh!” he cried aloud, “I’ve found it again!⁠—I’ve found it!⁠—I’ve found it!”

And then the old nurse with the hooped petticoats and the queer cap and the white ruff was bending over him; her wrinkled face was alight with love and tenderness.

“So thou’rt awake at last,” she said. “Did’st thou find thy friend in thy dreams?”

Dickie hugged her.

“I’ve found the way back,” he said; “I don’t know which is the dream and which is real⁠—but you know.”

“Yes,” said the old nurse, “I know. The one is as real as the other.”

He sprang out of bed and went leaping round the room, jumping on to chairs and off them, running and dancing.

“What ails the child?” the nurse grumbled; “get thy hose on, for shame, taking a chill as like as not. What ails thee to act so?”

“It’s the not being lame,” Dickie explained, coming to a standstill by the window that looked out on the good green garden. “You don’t know how wonderful it seems, just at first, you know, not to be lame.”

And then, as he stood there in the sunshine, he suddenly knew.

Having succeeded in dreaming once again the dream which he had so longed to dream, Dickie Harding looked out of the window of the dream-house in Deptford into the dream-garden with its cut yew-trees and box avenues and bowling-greens, and perceived without doubt that this was no dream, but real⁠—as real as the other Deptford where he had sown Artistic Bird Seed and gathered moonflowers and reaped the silver seeds of magic, for it was magic. Dickie was sure of it now. He had not lived in the time of the First James, be sure, without hearing magic talked of. And it seemed quite plain to him that if this that had happened to him was not magic, then there never was and never would be any magic to happen to anyone. He turned from the window and looked at the tapestry-hung room⁠—the big bed, the pleasant, wrinkled face of the nurse⁠—and he knew that all this was as real as anything that had happened to him in that other life where he was a little lame boy who took the road with a dirty tramp for father, and lay in the bed with green curtains.

“Was thy friend well, in thy dream?” the nurse asked.

“Yes, oh, yes,” said Dickie, “and I carved boxes in my dream, and sold them, and I want to learn a lot more things, so that when I go back again⁠—I mean when I dream that dream again⁠—I shall be able to earn more money.”

“ ’Tis shame that one of thy name should have to work for money,” said the nurse.

“It isn’t my name there,” said Dickie; “and old Sebastian told me everyone ought to do some duty to his country, or he wasn’t worth his meat and ale. And you don’t know how good it is having money that you’ve earned yourself.”

“I ought to,” she said; “I’ve earned mine long enough. Now haste and dress⁠—and then breakfast and thy fencing lesson.”

When the fencing lesson was over, Dickie hesitated. He wanted, of course, to hurry off to Sebastian and to go on learning how to make a galleon. But also he wanted to learn some trade that he could teach Beale at Deptford, and he knew, quite as surely as any master craftsman could have known it, that nothing which required delicate handling, such as woodcarving or the making of toy boats, could ever be