The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK ®: 26 Classic Novels and Stories. E. Nesbit
never had been a prouder moment in the lives of the three children. They rushed to Mother with the letter, and she also felt proud and said so, and this made the children happier than ever.
“But if the presentation is money, you must say, ‘Thank you, but we’d rather not take it,’” said Mother. “I’ll wash your Indian muslins at once,” she added. “You must look tidy on an occasion like this.”
“Phil and I can wash them,” said Bobbie, “if you’ll iron them, Mother.”
Washing is rather fun. I wonder whether you’ve ever done it? This particular washing took place in the back kitchen, which had a stone floor and a very big stone sink under its window.
“Let’s put the bath on the sink,” said Phyllis; “then we can pretend we’re out-of-doors washerwomen like Mother saw in France.”
“But they were washing in the cold river,” said Peter, his hands in his pockets, “not in hot water.”
“This is a hot river, then,” said Phyllis; “lend a hand with the bath, there’s a dear.”
“I should like to see a deer lending a hand,” said Peter, but he lent his.
“Now to rub and scrub and scrub and rub,” said Phyllis, hopping joyously about as Bobbie carefully carried the heavy kettle from the kitchen fire.
“Oh, no!” said Bobbie, greatly shocked; “you don’t rub muslin. You put the boiled soap in the hot water and make it all frothy-lathery—and then you shake the muslin and squeeze it, ever so gently, and all the dirt comes out. It’s only clumsy things like tablecloths and sheets that have to be rubbed.”
The lilac and the Gloire de Dijon roses outside the window swayed in the soft breeze.
“It’s a nice drying day—that’s one thing,” said Bobbie, feeling very grown up. “Oh, I do wonder what wonderful feelings we shall have when we wear the Indian muslin dresses!”
“Yes, so do I,” said Phyllis, shaking and squeezing the muslin in quite a professional manner.
“Now we squeeze out the soapy water. No—we mustn’t twist them—and then rinse them. I’ll hold them while you and Peter empty the bath and get clean water.”
“A presentation! That means presents,” said Peter, as his sisters, having duly washed the pegs and wiped the line, hung up the dresses to dry. “Whatever will it be?”
“It might be anything,” said Phyllis; “what I’ve always wanted is a Baby elephant—but I suppose they wouldn’t know that.”
“Suppose it was gold models of steam-engines?” said Bobbie.
“Or a big model of the scene of the prevented accident,” suggested Peter, “with a little model train, and dolls dressed like us and the engine-driver and fireman and passengers.”
“Do you like,” said Bobbie, doubtfully, drying her hands on the rough towel that hung on a roller at the back of the scullery door, “do you like us being rewarded for saving a train?”
“Yes, I do,” said Peter, downrightly; “and don’t you try to come it over us that you don’t like it, too. Because I know you do.”
“Yes,” said Bobbie, doubtfully, “I know I do. But oughtn’t we to be satisfied with just having done it, and not ask for anything more?”
“Who did ask for anything more, silly?” said her brother; “Victoria Cross soldiers don’t ask for it; but they’re glad enough to get it all the same. Perhaps it’ll be medals. Then, when I’m very old indeed, I shall show them to my grandchildren and say, ‘We only did our duty,’ and they’ll be awfully proud of me.”
“You have to be married,” warned Phyllis, “or you don’t have any grandchildren.”
“I suppose I shall have to be married some day,” said Peter, “but it will be an awful bother having her round all the time. I’d like to marry a lady who had trances, and only woke up once or twice a year.”
“Just to say you were the light of her life and then go to sleep again. Yes. That wouldn’t be bad,” said Bobbie.
“When I get married,” said Phyllis, “I shall want him to want me to be awake all the time, so that I can hear him say how nice I am.”
“I think it would be nice,” said Bobbie, “to marry someone very poor, and then you’d do all the work and he’d love you most frightfully, and see the blue wood smoke curling up among the trees from the domestic hearth as he came home from work every night. I say—we’ve got to answer that letter and say that the time and place will be convenient to us. There’s the soap, Peter. We’re both as clean as clean. That pink box of writing paper you had on your birthday, Phil.”
It took some time to arrange what should be said. Mother had gone back to her writing, and several sheets of pink paper with scalloped gilt edges and green four-leaved shamrocks in the corner were spoiled before the three had decided what to say. Then each made a copy and signed it with its own name.
The threefold letter ran:—
“Dear Mr. Jabez Inglewood,—
Thank you very much. We did not want to be rewarded but only to save the train, but we are glad you think so and thank you very much. The time and place you say will be quite convenient to us. Thank you very much.
“Your affecate little friend,”
Then came the name, and after it:—
“P.S. Thank you very much.”
“Washing is much easier than ironing,” said Bobbie, taking the clean dry dresses off the line. “I do love to see things come clean. Oh—I don’t know how we shall wait till it’s time to know what presentation they’re going to present!”
When at last—it seemed a very long time after—it was the day, the three children went down to the station at the proper time. And everything that happened was so odd that it seemed like a dream. The Station Master came out to meet them—in his best clothes, as Peter noticed at once—and led them into the waiting room where once they had played the advertisement game. It looked quite different now. A carpet had been put down—and there were pots of roses on the mantelpiece and on the window ledges—green branches stuck up, like holly and laurel are at Christmas, over the framed advertisement of Cook’s Tours and the Beauties of Devon and the Paris Lyons Railway. There were quite a number of people there besides the Porter—two or three ladies in smart dresses, and quite a crowd of gentlemen in high hats and frock coats—besides everybody who belonged to the station. They recognized several people who had been in the train on the red-flannel-petticoat day. Best of all their own old gentleman was there, and his coat and hat and collar seemed more than ever different from anyone else’s. He shook hands with them and then everybody sat down on chairs, and a gentleman in spectacles—they found out afterwards that he was the District Superintendent—began quite a long speech—very clever indeed. I am not going to write the speech down. First, because you would think it dull; and secondly, because it made all the children blush so, and get so hot about the ears that I am quite anxious to get away from this part of the subject; and thirdly, because the gentleman took so many words to say what he had to say that I really haven’t time to write them down. He said all sorts of nice things about the children’s bravery and presence of mind, and when he had done he sat down, and everyone who was there clapped and said, “Hear, hear.”
And then the old gentleman got up and said things, too. It was very like a prize-giving. And then he called the children one by one, by their names, and gave each of them a beautiful gold watch and chain. And inside the watches were engraved after the name of the watch’s new owner:—
“From the Directors of the Northern and Southern Railway in grateful recognition of the courageous and prompt action which averted an accident on —— 1905.”
The watches were the most beautiful you can possibly