Harding’s Luck

’im, and us such pals as never was, and ’is jaw wagging all day long. But ’e’s never let it out.”
“Oh, stow it!” said the other impatiently; “I don’t want to ’ear no more about ’im. If ’e’s straight ’e’ll do for me, and if he ain’t I’ll do for ’im. See? An’ now you and me’ll have a word or two particler, and settle up about this ’ere job. I got the plan drawed out. It’s a easy job as ever I see. Seems to me Tuesday’s as good a day as any. Tip-topper⁠—Sir Edward Talbot, that’s ’im⁠—’e’s in furrin parts for ’is ’ealth, ’e is. Comes ’ome end o’ next month. Little surprise for ’im, eh? You’ll ’ave to train it. Abrams ’e’ll be there Monday. And see ’ere⁠ ⁠…” He sank his voice to a whisper.
When Dickie came back, without mushrooms, the red-whiskered man was gone.
“See that bloke just now?” said  Mr. Beale.
“Yuss,” said Dickie.
“Well, you never see ’im. If anyone arsts you if you ever see ’im, you never set eyes on ’im in all your born⁠—not to remember ’im. Might a passed ’im in a crowd⁠—see?”
“Yuss,” said Dickie again.
“ ’Tasn’t been ’arf a panto neither! Us two on the road,”  Mr. Beale went on.
“Not ’arf!”
“Well, now we’re a-goin’ in the train like dooks⁠—an’ after that we’re a-goin’ to ’ave a rare old beano. I give you my word!”
Dickie was full of questions, but  Mr. Beale had no answers for them. “You jes’ wait;” “hold on a bit;” “them as lives longest sees most”⁠—these were the sort of remarks which were all that Dickie could get out of him.
It was not the next day, which was a Saturday, that they took the train like dukes. Nor was it Sunday, on which they took a rest and washed their shirts, according to  Mr. Beale’s rule of life.
They took the train on Monday, and it landed them in a very bright town by the sea. Its pavements were of red brick and its houses of white stone, and its bow-windows and balconies were green, and Dickie thought it was the prettiest town in the world. They did not stay there, but walked out across the downs, where the skylarks were singing, and on a dip of the downs came upon great stone walls and towers very strong and gray.
“What’s that there?” said Dickie.
“It’s a carstle⁠—like wot the King’s got at Windsor.”
“Is it a king as lives ’ere, then?” Dickie asked.
“No! Nobody don’t live ’ere, mate,” said  Mr. Beale. “It’s a ruin, this is. Only howls and rats lives in ruins.”
“Did anyone ever live in it?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said  Mr. Beale indifferently. “Yes, course they must ’ave, come to think of it. But you learned all that at school. It’s what they call ’ist’ry.”
Dickie, after some reflection, said, “D’jever ’ear of Here Ward?”
“I knowed a Jake Ward wunst.”
“Here Ward the Wake. He ain’t a bloke you’d know⁠—’e’s in ’istry. Tell you if you like.”
The tale of Hereward the Wake lasted till the jolting perambulator came to anchor in a hollow place among thick furze bushes. The bare, thick stems of the furze held it up like a roof over their heads as they sat. It was like a little furze house.
Next morning  Mr. Beale shaved, a thing he had not done since they left London. Dickie held the mug and the soap. It was great fun, and, afterwards,  Mr. Beale looked quite different. That was great fun too. And he got quite a different set of clothes out of his bundles, and put them on. And that was the greatest fun of all.
“Now, then,” he said, “we’re a-goin’ to lay low ’ere all d’y, we are. And then come evening we’re a-goin’ to ’ave our beano. That red’eaded chap wot you never see ’e’ll lift you up to a window what’s got bars to it, and you’ll creep through, you being so little, and you’ll go soft’s a mouse the way I’ll show you, and undo the side-door. There’s a key and a chain and a bottom bolt. The top bolt’s cut through, and all the others is oiled. That won’t frighten you, will it?”
“No,” said Dickie. “What should it frighten me for?”
“Well, it’s like this,” said  Mr. Beale a little embarrassed. “Suppose you was to get pinched?”
“What ’ud pinch me? A dawg?”
“There won’t be no dawg. A man, or a lady, or somebody in the ’ouse. Supposen they was to nab you⁠—what ’ud you say?”
Dickie was watching his face carefully.
“Whatever you tells me to say,” he said.
The man slapped his leg gently.
“If that ain’t the nipper all over! Well, if they was to nab you, you just say what I tells you to. And then, first chance you get, you slip away from ’em and go to the station. An’ if they comes arter you, you say you’re a-goin’ to your father at Dover. And first chance you get you slip off, and you come to that ’ouse where you and me slep’ at Gravesend. I’ve got the dibs for yer ticket done up in this ’ere belt I’m a-goin’ to put on you. But don’t you let on to anyone it’s Gravesend you’re a-coming to. See?”
“An’ if I don’t get pinched?”
“Then you just opens the door and me and that redheaded bloke we comes in.”
“What for?” asked Dickie.
“To look for some tools ’e mislaid there a year ago when ’e was on a plumbing job⁠—and they won’t let ’im ’ave them back, not by fair means, they won’t. That’s what for.”
“Rats!” said Dickie briefly. “I ain’t a baby. It’s burgling, that’s what it is.”
“You’ll a jolly sight too fond of calling names,” said Beale anxiously. “Never mind what it is. You be a good boy, matey, and do what you’re told. That’s what you do. You know ’ow to stick it on if you’re pinched. If you ain’t you just lay low till we comes out with the⁠ ⁠… the plumber’s tools. See?”
“And if I’m nabbed, what is it I am to say?”
“You must let on as a strange