And we all agreed that that was so.
“I wish his dinner had not been so nasty,” Dora said, while Oswald put lumps of coal on the fire with his fingers, so as not to make a noise. He is a very thoughtful boy, and he did not wipe his fingers on his trouser leg as perhaps Noël or H. O. would have done, but he just rubbed them on Dora’s handkerchief while she was talking. “I am afraid the dinner was horrid.” Dora went on. “The table looked very nice with the flowers we got. I set it myself, and Eliza made me borrow the silver spoons and forks from Albert-next-door’s Mother.”
“I hope the poor Indian is honest,” said Dicky gloomily, “when you are a poor, broken-down man silver spoons must be a great temptation.”
Oswald told him not to talk such tommyrot because the Indian was a relation, so of course he couldn’t do anything dishonourable. And Dora said it was all right anyway, because she had washed up the spoons and forks herself and counted them, and they were all there, and she had put them into their wash-leather bag, and taken them back to Albert-next-door’s Mother.
“And the Brussels sprouts were all wet and swimmy,” she went on, “and the potatoes looked grey—and there were bits of black in the gravy—and the mutton was bluey-red and soft in the middle. I saw it when it came out. The apple-pie looked very nice—but it wasn’t quite done in the apply part. The other thing that was burnt—you must have smelt it, was the soup.”
“It is a pity,” said Oswald; “I don’t suppose he gets a good dinner every day.”
“No more do we,” said H. O., “but we shall tomorrow.”
I thought of all the things we had bought with our half-sovereign—the rabbit and the sweets and the almonds and raisins and figs and the coconut: and I thought of the nasty mutton and things, and while I was thinking about it all Alice said—
“Let’s ask the poor Indian to come to dinner with us tomorrow.” I should have said it myself if she had given me time.
We got the little ones to go to bed by promising to put a note on their dressing-table saying what had happened, so that they might know the first thing in the morning, or in the middle of the night if they happened to wake up, and then we elders arranged everything.
I waited by the back door, and when the Uncle was beginning to go Dicky was to drop a marble down between the banisters for a signal, so that I could run round and meet the Uncle as he came out.
This seems like deceit, but if you are a thoughtful and considerate boy you will understand that we could not go down and say to the Uncle in the hall under Father’s eye, “Father has given you a beastly, nasty dinner, but if you will come to dinner with us tomorrow, we will show you our idea of good things to eat.” You will see, if you think it over, that this would not have been at all polite to Father.
So when the Uncle left, Father saw him to the door and let him out, and then went back to the study, looking very sad, Dora says.
As the poor Indian came down our steps he saw me there at the gate. I did not mind his being poor, and I said, “Good evening, Uncle,” just as politely as though he had been about to ascend into one of the gilded chariots of the rich and affluent, instead of having to walk to the station a quarter of a mile in the mud, unless he had the money for a tram fare.
“Good evening, Uncle.” I said it again, for he stood staring at me. I don’t suppose he was used to politeness from boys—some boys are anything but—especially to the Aged Poor.
So I said, “Good evening, Uncle,” yet once again. Then he said—
“Time you were in bed, young man. Eh!—what?”
Then I saw I must speak plainly with him, man to man. So I did. I said—
“You’ve been dining with my Father, and we couldn’t help hearing you say the dinner was shocking. So we thought as you’re an Indian, perhaps you’re very poor”—I didn’t like to tell him we had heard the dreadful truth from his own lips, so I went on, “because of ‘Lo, the poor Indian’—you know—and you can’t get a good dinner every day. And we are very sorry if you’re poor; and won’t you come and have dinner with us tomorrow—with us children, I mean? It’s a very, very good dinner—rabbit, and hardbake, and coconut—and you needn’t mind us knowing you’re poor, because we know honourable poverty is no disgrace, and—” I could have gone on much longer, but he interrupted me to say—
“Upon my word! And what’s your name, eh?”
“Oswald Bastable,” I said; and I do hope you people who are reading this story have not guessed before that I was Oswald all the time.
“Oswald Bastable, eh? Bless my soul!” said the poor Indian. “Yes, I’ll dine with you, Mr. Oswald Bastable, with all the pleasure in life. Very kind and cordial invitation, I’m sure. Good night, sir. At one o’clock, I presume?”
“Yes, at one,” I said. “Good night, sir.”
Then I went in and told the others, and we wrote a paper and put it on the boy’s dressing-table, and it said—
“The poor Indian is coming at one. He seemed very grateful to me for my kindness.”
We did not tell Father that the Uncle was coming to dinner with us, for the polite reason that I have explained before. But we had to tell Eliza; so we said a friend was coming to dinner and we wanted everything very nice. I think she thought it was Albert-next-door, but she was in a good temper that day, and she agreed to cook the rabbit
