That Little Beggar Part 13

"Gee-up, Charlie!" he cried, excitedly. "That's your name, you know.

Gee-up! why are you going so slowly?"

"I've no breath left to go fast," I explained.

"What shall we do?" he said, perplexed. "I don't like a horse what won't go fast.

"Oh," he said, his face clearing. "Why, it's time for you to go lame.

Poor Charlie! poor thing! what's the matter?

"You've got a stone in your foot," he explained in an aside, "and you must jog up and down as if you're lame."

"Must I?" I said, and obediently followed the directions with a patience truly praiseworthy, jogging laboriously up and down, whilst the little beggar followed in my wake, highly delighted, and giving vent as he did so to many loud and excited e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns.

Before long, however, he pined for further excitement.

"The road is very, very slippery," he said; "'cause it's been snowing.

You must slip right down and break your leg."

"I'll slip into an arm-chair," I said, glancing at the comfortable one I had just quitted.

"No, horses don't slip into arm-chairs; there aren't no arm-chairs for them in the road," he objected.

"I can't help that," I answered, taking a stand. "My bones are too old to risk breaking them. I don't mind my leg being broken in fancy, but I do mind its being broken in reality."

"How shall everyone know, then, that it is broken?" he asked, discontentedly. "It won't look a bit as if it is broken if you fall into an arm-chair."

"I will groan very loud to show that I have," I said in a propitiating voice.

"Do horses groan when they break their legs?" he asked, doubtfully.

"This horse does, very loud indeed," I said. "Come, we'll go once more round the room, and then I'll break my leg and show you how beautifully I can groan."

"All right!" said the little beggar, conceding the point, and away we started once more.

"Gee-up, Charlie!" he cried; "gee-up, good horse! Now then!" as we approached the arm-chair; "now then, now then, it's time for you to break your leg. Quick, quick!"

"All right!" I said, and with the most heartrending groan I could produce, I sank--carefully--into the chair. At the same moment the door opened, and a stranger to me entered the room--a tall and soldier-like-looking young man. Even in the dimness of the twilight I could see a strong enough resemblance to the little beggar to tell me who he was without his delighted scream of "Uncle G.o.dfrey! Uncle G.o.dfrey!" as he ran and clasped him round the knees.

"Hold on!" answered Uncle G.o.dfrey, putting him aside.

Then turning to me:

"I fear you are ill. Shall I send for my mother's maid?" he asked with polite sympathy.

"Why, no; she isn't; she isn't a bit ill!" cried the little beggar delightedly, with peals of derisive laughter, as he jumped about and clapped his hands. "She's only a poor, old, lame horse, what has just fallen down and broken his leg...."

CHAPTER VII.

CHRIS AND HIS UNCLE.

If ever there was a case of hero-wors.h.i.+p it was the wors.h.i.+p by Chris of his uncle. To the little beggar, Uncle G.o.dfrey was the ideal of all that was most manly, most n.o.ble, most heroic. To emulate him in every way was his most ardent desire, and with this end in view he imitated him whenever possible, to the smallest details.

When Uncle G.o.dfrey was at home in the autumn, Chris's diminutive toy-gun was, without fail, brought down to the gun-case in the hall, where it lay in company with the more imposing weapons of his uncle. And when these were cleaned, it was an understood thing that the toy-gun must be cleaned likewise. To have omitted to do this would have drawn down upon the offender the little beggar's deepest indignation.

I believe, too, that it was a real grief of heart to him that he was not allowed to go out with his uncle in the autumn, and try the effect of that same toy-gun upon the pheasants. He had often pleaded hard to be permitted do so, having, I imagine, glorious visions of the bags they would make between them; and the refusal of his request had been the cause of many tears in the nursery. Not before his uncle! No, if there was one thing more than another that troubled him, it was the fear of looking like a baby in his uncle's presence. Uncle G.o.dfrey might tease him as much as he pleased,--and he was undeniably talented in this respect,--but, close as were the tears to his eyes at other times, before his hero Chris would never let them fall if he could help it.

Sometimes, when in the swing of a game, his uncle G.o.dfrey was unintentionally a little rough in word or deed, the little beggar, it is true, would flush--crimsoning up to the roots of his fair hair. His voice would falter, too, as if the tears were not far off, but he would struggle manfully with them, and, as soon as he had recovered, return again to the attack with fresh vigour. Indeed, so great was his devotion to him, that he was never so happy as when by his side, and with Chris in his vicinity, Uncle G.o.dfrey found it a matter of no little difficulty to give his attention elsewhere. This was observable one morning when he was endeavouring to write his letters and enjoy a smoke in peace--a state of affairs by no means to the little beggar's mind.

Drawing near, Chris took up his position straight in front of him, and stared steadily at him without speaking. Presently Uncle G.o.dfrey looked up, and, meeting Chris's stedfast gaze, stared back in silence.

"I'm a policeman," at last remarked Chris, with a strenuous effort to a.s.sume the manly tones of his uncle; his usual habit when talking to him.

"Are you?" replied Uncle G.o.dfrey, leaning back in his chair and giving him a little kick. "Then be off, it's time you were on your beat."

"But you're a bad, wicked robber, and I've come to take you to prison,"

persisted Chris.

"Get along," said the writer laconically, blowing the smoke of his cigarette into the face of the policeman, and returning to his letters.

Chris looked at him admiringly.

"I'm going to be a soldier like you, and smoke pipes and cigarettes, and everything like you, Uncle G.o.dfrey," he remarked. "When may I be a soldier?"

"Not yet," was the reply. "We take them young, but they have to be out of the nursery, my boy."

"When shall I be out of the nursery?" asked Chris, discontentedly.

"When you're in the army," his uncle said to tease him.

"But a man, a real soldier, said if I came to him, he would make me a soldier," announced the little beggar.

"What man?" asked Uncle G.o.dfrey.

"A man what is staying in Marston, with his father and his mother and his brothers and his sisters," explained Chris. "A very tall, big man--as tall as you; and he finds soldiers for the Queen, he told me."

"Oh, a recruiting-sergeant!" Uncle G.o.dfrey said. "How did you come to speak to him?"

"I saw him when I was standing outside the shop when Briggs was buying some buns for tea, and when I asked him if he knowed you," said Chris, all in a breath. "He had on such loverly clothes! Do you think if I go to him he will make me a soldier for the Queen?" he asked.

"Of course," his uncle replied. "But I'll tell you what, you had better learn to hold your gun properly, and not as you did the other day. If you don't, you'll end by shooting the sergeant, and being put in 'chokee'."

"What is 'chokee'?" asked Chris, with wide-open eyes.

"Oh, prison! You'll be put into a cell, and have nothing to eat but bread and cold water."