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

my legs? An’ I says, ‘Why not take to the road a bit, now and again?’ an’ you says, ‘We’ll see about that, come summer.’ And ’ere is come summer. What if we was to take the road a bit, mate⁠—where there’s room to stretch a chap’s legs without kickin’ a dog or knockin’ the crockery over? There’s the ole pram upstairs in the back room as lively as ever she was⁠—only wants a little of paint to be fit for a dook, she does. An’ ’ere’s me, an’ ’ere’s you, an’ ’ere’s the pick of the dogs. Think of it, matey⁠—the bed with the green curtains, and the good smell of the herrings you toasts yerself and the fire you makes outer sticks, and the little starses a-comin’ out and a-winkin’ at you, and all so quiet, a-smokin’ yer pipe till it falls outer yer mouth with sleepiness, and no fear o’ settin’ the counterpin afire. What you say, matey, eh?”

Dickie looked lovingly at the smart back of the little house⁠—its crisp white muslin blinds, its glimpses of neat curtains, its flowers; and then another picture came to him⁠—he saw the misty last light fainting beyond the great shoulders of the downs, and the “little starses” shining so bright and new through the branches of fir trees that interlaced above, a sweet-scented bed of soft fallen brown pine-needles.

“What say, mate?” Mr. Beale repeated; and Dickie answered⁠—

“Soon as ever you like’s what I say. And what I say is, the sooner the better.”

Having made up his mind to go, Mr. Beale at once found a dozen reasons why he could not leave home, and all the reasons were four-footed, and wagged loving tails at him. He was anxious, in fact, about the dogs. Could he really trust Amelia?

“Dunno oo you can trust then,” said Amelia, tossing a still handsome head. “Anybody ’ud think the dogs was babbies, to hear you.”

“So they are⁠—to me⁠—as precious as, anyway. Look here, you just come and live ’ere, ’Melia⁠—see? An’ we’ll give yer five bob a week. An’ the nipper ’e shall write it all down in lead-pencil on a bit o’ paper for you, what they’re to ’ave to eat an’ about their physic and which of ’em’s to have what.”

This took some time to settle, and some more time to write down. And then, when the lick of paint was nearly dry on the perambulator and all their shirts and socks were washed and mended, and lying on the kitchen window-ledge ready for packing, what did Mr. Beale do but go out one morning and come back with a perfectly strange dachshund.

“An’ I can’t go and leave the little beast till he knows ’imself a bit in ’is noo place,” said Mr. Beale, “an’ ’ave ’im boltin’ off gracious knows where, and being pinched or carted off to the Dogs’ Home, or that. Can I, now?”

The new dog was very long, very brown, very friendly and charming. When it had had its supper it wagged its tail, turned a clear and gentle eye on Dickie, and without any warning stood on its head.

“Well,” said Mr. Beale, “if there ain’t money in that beast! A trick dog ’e is. ’E’s wuth wot I give for ’im, so ’e is. Knows more tricks than that ’ere, I’ll be bound.”

He did. He was a singularly well-educated dog. Next morning Mr. Beale, coming downstairs, was just in time to bang the front door in the face of Amelia coming in, pail-laden, from “doing” the steps, and this to prevent the flight of the new dog. The door of one of the dog-rooms was open, and a fringe of inquisitive dogs ornamented the passage.

“What you open that door at all for?” Mr. Beale asked Amelia.

“I didn’t,” she said, and stuck to it.

That afternoon Beale, smoking in the garden, got up, as he often did, to look through the window at the dogs. He gazed a moment, muttered something, and made one jump to the back door. It was closed. Amelia was giving the scullery floor a “thorough scrub over,” and had fastened the door to avoid having it opened with suddenness against her steaming pail or her crouching form.

But Mr. Beale got in at the backdoor and out at the front just in time to see the dachshund disappearing at full speed, “like a bit of brown toffee-stick,” as he said, round the end of the street. They never saw that dog again.

“Trained to it,” Mr. Beale used to say sadly whenever he told the story; “trained to it from a pup, you may lay your life. I see ’im as plain as I see you. ’E listens an’ ’e looks, and ’e doesn’t ’ear nor see nobody. An’ ’e ups on his ’ind legs and turns the ’andle with ’is little twisty front pawses, clever as a monkey, and hout ’e goes like a harrow in a bow. Trained to it, ye see. I bet his master wot taught ’im that’s sold him time and again, makin’ a good figure every time, for ’e was a ’andsome dawg as ever I see. Trained the dawg to open the door and bunk ’ome. See? Clever, I call it.”

“It’s a mean trick,” said Dickie when Beale told him of the loss of the dog; “that’s what I call it. I’m sorry you’ve lost the dog.”

“I ain’t exactly pleased myself,” said Beale, “but no use crying over broken glass. It’s the cleverness I think of most,” he said admiringly. “Now I’d never a thought of a thing like that myself⁠—not if I’d lived to a hundred, so I wouldn’t. You might ’ave,” he told Dickie flatteringly, “but I wouldn’t myself.”

“We don’t need to,” said Dickie hastily. “We earns our livings. We don’t need to cheat to get our livings.”

“No, no, dear boy,” said Mr. Beale, more hastily still; “course we don’t. That’s just what I’m a-saying, ain’t it? We shouldn’t never ’ave thought o’ that. No need to, as you say. The cleverness of it!”

This admiration of the cleverness