Part 17 (1/2)
”It's not so dusty,” said d.i.c.ky; ”let's go on to the others before we decide.”
”You're next yourself,” said Alice.
”Oh, so I am,” remarked d.i.c.ky, trying to look surprised. ”Well, my idea is let's be a sort of Industrious Society of Beavers, and make a solemn vow and covenant to make something every day. We might call it the Would-be-Clevers.”
”It would be the Too-clever-by-half's before we'd done with it,” said Oswald.
And Alice said, ”We couldn't always make things that would be any good, and then we should have to do something that wasn't any good, and that would be rot. Yes, I know it's my turn--H.O., you'll kick the table to pieces if you go on like that. Do, for goodness' sake, keep your feet still. The only thing I can think of is a society called the Would-be-Boys.”
”With you and Dora for members.”
”And Noel--poets aren't boys exactly,” said H.O.
”If you don't shut up you shan't be in it at all,” said Alice, putting her arm round Noel. ”No; I meant us all to be in it--only you boys are not to keep saying we're only girls, and let us do everything the same as you boys do.”
”I don't want to be a boy, thank you,” said Dora, ”not when I see how they behave. H.O., _do_ stop sniffing and use your handkerchief. Well, take mine, then.”
It was now Noel's turn to disclose his idea, which proved most awful.
”Let's be Would-be-Poets,” he said, ”and solemnly vow and convenient to write one piece of poetry a day as long as we live.”
Most of us were dumb at the dreadful thought. But Alice said--
”That would never do, Noel dear, because you're the only one of us who's clever enough to do it.”
So Noel's detestable and degrading idea was shelved without Oswald having to say anything that would have made the youthful poet weep.
”I suppose you don't mean me to say what I thought of,” said H.O., ”but I shall. I think you ought all to be in a Would-be-Kind Society, and vow solemn convents and things not to be down on your younger brother.”
We explained to him at once that _he_ couldn't be in that, because he hadn't got a younger brother.
”And you may think yourself lucky you haven't,” d.i.c.ky added.
The ingenious and felicitous Oswald was just going to begin about the council all over again, when the portable form of our Indian uncle came stoutly stumping down the garden path under the cedars.
”Hi, brigands!” he cried in his cheerful unclish manner. ”Who's on for the Hippodrome this bright day?”
And instantly we all were. Even Oswald--because after all you can have a council any day, but Hippodromes are not like that.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”HI, BRIGANDS!” HE CRIED.]
We got ready like the whirlwind of the desert for quickness, and started off with our kind uncle, who has lived so long in India that he is much more warm-hearted than you would think to look at him.
Half-way to the station d.i.c.ky remembered his patent screw for working s.h.i.+ps with. He had been messing with it in the bath while he was waiting for Oswald to have done plunging cleanly in the basin. And in the desert-whirlwinding he had forgotten to take it out. So now he ran back, because he knew how its cardboardiness would turn to pulp if it was left.
”I'll catch you up,” he cried.
The uncle took the tickets and the train came in and still d.i.c.ky had not caught us up.