Anne's Terrible Good Nature (Collection)/The Thousand Threepenny Bits

upon a time there was a little girl named Alison Muirhead, and she had a doll named Rosamund and a dog named Thomson. The dog was an Aberdeen terrier, and he came from Aberdeen by train in the care of the guard, and he rarely did what he was told, which is the way of Aberdeens, as you have perhaps discovered.

Alison used to take her doll and Thomson every day into Kensington Gardens, and when they were well inside the Gardens, opposite the tulips and the new statue of William III., she used to unclasp the catch of Thomson's lead and let him run, doing her best to keep an eye on him. This was not easy, for Thomson was a sociable dog, and he rushed after every other dog he saw, and either told them the latest dog joke or heard it, and Alison was often in despair to get him back.

If, however, Thomson had been an angel of a dog this story would never have been written, because it was wholly owing to his naughtiness that Alison and the Old Gentleman met.

The Old Gentleman used also to go into the Gardens on every fine day and sit on one of the seats by the may-trees between the long bulb walk and the Round Pond, with his back to the Albert Memorial. Not that he was one of those persons who always click their tongues when the Albert Memorial is mentioned, for, as a matter of fact, he did not mind the gold on it at all, and he really liked the groups of Asia and Europe and India at the corners, with the nice friendly elephant and camel in them; but he turned his back on the Memorial because the seat was set that way, and he liked also, when he raised his eyes from his book, to see so much green grass, and in the distance the yachtsmen running round the Round Pond to prevent their vessels wrecking themselves on the cement.

Alison had noticed the Old Gentleman for a long time before they had become acquainted, and he had noticed her, and was much attracted by her quiet little ways with Rosamund, and her calm, if despairing, pursuit of Thomson; and he liked her, too, for never playing diabolo.

But it was not until one day that Thomson broke loose at the very gate of the Gardens with his lead still on him, and in course of time ran right under the Old Gentleman's legs and caught the chain in one of the eyelet flaps of his laced boots, that Alison and he came to speak.

"Ha, ha!" said the Old Gentleman to Thomson, "I've got you now. And I shall hold you tight till your mistress comes."

Alison was still a long way off Thomson said nothing, but tugged at the chain.

"I've been watching you for a long time, Mr. Thomson," said the Old Gentleman, "and I have come to the conclusion that you are a bad dog. You don't care for anyone. You do what you want to do and nothing else." Thomson lay down and put out a yard and a half of pink tongue. Alison came nearer.

"If you were my dog," the Old Gentle- man continued, "do you know what I should do? I should thrash you." Thomson began to snore.

Alison at this point came up, and Thomson sprang to his feet and affected to be pleased to see her.

"Thank you ever so much," Alison said to the Old Gentleman. "But however did you catch him?"

"I didn't catch him," said the Old Gentleman, "he caught me. Come and sit down and rest yourself."

So Alison sat down, and Thomson laid his wicked cheek against her boot, and that was the beginning of the acquaintance.

The next day when she went into the Gardens Alison looked for the Old Gentleman, and sure enough there he was, and seeing there was no one beside him, she sat down there again. And for a little while on every fine day she sat with him and they talked of various things. He was very interesting: he knew a great deal about birds and flowers and foreign countries. He had not only lived in China, but had explored the Amazon. On his watch chain was a blue stone which an Indian snake-charmer had given him. But he lived now in the big hotel at the corner of the Gardens and all his wanderings were over.

The funniest thing about him was his name. Alison did not learn what it was for a long time, but one day as she was calling "Thomson! Thomson!" very loudly as they sat there, the Old Gentleman said, "When you do that it makes me nervous."

"Why?" Alison asked.

"Because," the Old Gentleman said. "my name's Thomson too."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Alison said, "I must call Thomson—I mean my dog—something else. I can't ever call him Thomson again."

"Why not?" said the Old Gentleman. "It doesn't matter at all. I can't expect to be the only Thomson in the world."

"Oh yes," said Alison, "I shall."

The next day the first thing she did when she saw the Old Gentleman was to tell him she had changed Thom—the dog's name. "In future," she said, "he is to be called Jimmie."

The Old Gentleman laughed. "That's my name too," he said.

One day the Old Gentleman was not in his accustomed place; and it was a very fine day too. Alison was disappointed, and even Thomson, I mean Jimmie, I mean the Aberdeen terrier, seemed to miss something.

And the next day he was not there.

And the next.

And then came Sunday, when Alison went to church, and afterwards for a rather dull walk with her father, strictly on the paths, past "Physical Energy" to the Serpentine, to look at the peacocks, and then back again by the Albert Memorial, and so home. Monday and Tuesday were both wet, and on Wednesday it was a whole week since Alison had seen the Old Gentleman; but to her grief he was again absent.

And so, having her mother's permission, the next day she called at the hotel. She had the greatest difficulty in getting in because it was the first time that either she or her dog had ever been through a revolving door; but at last they came safely into the hall into the presence of a tall porter in a uniform of splendour.

"Can you tell me if Mr. James Thomson is still staying here?" Alison asked.

"I am sorry to say, Missie," replied the porter, "that Mr. Thomson died last week."

Poor Alison....

One morning, some few weeks afterwards, Alison found on her plate a letter addressed to herself in a strange handwriting. After wondering about it for some moments, she opened it. The letter ran thus:


 * "Re Mr. James Thomson, deceased,


 * "To Miss Alison Muirhead.

",

"We beg to inform you that, in accordance with the last will and testament of our client, the late Mr. James Thomson, there lies at our office a packet containing a thousand threepenny bits, being a legacy which he devised to yourself, free of duty, in a codicil added a few days before his death. We should state that, by the terms of the bequest, it was our client's wish that five hundred of the threepenny bits should be spent by you for others within a year of its receipt, and not put away against a maturer age; the remaining five hundred he wished to be spent by yourself, for yourself, and for yourself alone, also within the year. The parcel is at your service whenever it is convenient to you to call for it. "We are, dear madam, "Yours faithfully, "."

Alison was too bewildered to take it all in on the first reading, and her father therefore read it again and explained some of the words, which perhaps your father will do for you.

But if Alison was bewildered, it was nothing to her mother's state, which was one of amazement and pride too.

"To think of it!" she cried.

"Well, I never heard of such a thing in my life!" she said.

"It's like something in a book or a play!" she exclaimed.

"A thousand threepenny bits! Why, that's—let me see—yes, it's—why, it's twelve pounds ten," she remarked.

As for Mr. Muirhead, he was pleased too; but him it seemed to amuse more than surprise.

"After your lessons this morning," he said, "instead of going for a walk you can come into the city to me, and we'll go to the lawyers' together, and then have lunch at Birch's."

When they reached the lawyers' office Alison and her father were shown into a large room with three grave gentlemen in it, whom Alison supposed were Lee, Lee and Lee; and all the time that her father was talking to them she wondered which was the Lee, and which was the second Lee, and which was "and Lee." Then she had to sign a paper, and then one of the Lees gave her a canvas bag containing a thousand threepenny bits.

"Of course you would like to count them," he said; and Alison replied, "Yes," at which every one laughed, because Mr. Lee had meant it for a joke and Alison had taken it seriously. But how could she expect that Mr. Thomson's lawyer, or, indeed, any lawyer of a dead friend, would make a joke?

"I'm afraid," said Mr. Lee, when they had done laughing "that you would be very tired of the job before you were half-way through it. Count them when you get home, and if there is any mistake we will put it right; but one of our most careful clerks has already gone through them very thoroughly."

Then they ail shook hands, and each of the three Lees said something playful.

The one that Alison guessed was Lee said, "Don't be extravagant and buy the moon."

The one that Alison guessed was the second Lee said, "If at any time you get tired of so much money, we shall be pleased to have it again."

While "and Lee" looked very solemn and said, "Now you can go to church a thousand times."

Then they all laughed again, and Alison and her father were shown out into the street by a little sharp boy, whose eyes were fixed so keenly on the canvas bag that Alison was quite certain that he was the most careful clerk who had done the counting.

After they had been to lunch at Birch's, where they had mock turtle soup and oyster patties, they went home, and Alison poured all the threepenny bits into a depression in a cushion from the sofa, and counted them into a hundred piles of ten each. Then she got a wooden writing-desk, which had been given her by her grandmother, and emptied out all the treasures it contained, and put fifty of the little heaps into the large part of the writing-case, and the remaining fifty little heaps into the compartment for pens and sealing-wax, and locked it up again.

For the next few days Alison collected advice about the spending of her money from every one she knew. All her friends were asked to give their opinions, and thus gradually she decided upon the best way to spend the five hundred threepenny bits which were for others.

Her first thought was naturally for her mother, who was an invalid. Mrs. Muirhead was very fond of flowers, and so Alison went at once to see the old flower-woman who sits outside Kensington High Street Station, and who was so cross with the Suffragettes in self-denial week for interfering with her "pitch," as she called it; and Alison arranged with her for a threepenny bunch of whatever was in season to be taken to her mother twice every week, on Saturdays and Wednesdays, for a year, and, to the old woman's intense astonishment, she gave her one hundred and four of her threepenny bits.

Her uncle Mordaunt advised her to take in a weekly illustrated paper—say the Sphere—and, after she had looked at it herself, to send it to one of the lighthouses, where the men are very lonely and unentertained. Alison thought this was a very good idea. The Sphere cost two threepences a week, and postage a halfpenny, or one hundred and twelve threepences—altogether one pound eight shillings.

Alison had now spent two hundred and sixteen threepenny bits, and, having arranged these two things, she decided to wait till Christmas came nearer (it was now July) before she spent any more large sums, always, however, keeping a few threepenny bits handy in her purse in case of meeting any particularly hard case, such as a very blind man, or a begging mother with a dreadfully cold little baby, or a Punch and Judy man with a really nice face, or a little boy who had fallen down and hurt himself badly, or an old woman who ought to be riding in a 'bus. In this way she got rid of fifty of her little coins before Christmas came near enough for her once more to think of little else but threepenny plans.

It was then that she found Tommy Cathcart so useful. Tommy Cathcart was one of her father's articled pupils, and it was he who reminded Alison of the claims of sandwichmen. Sandwichmen have an awfully bad time, Tommy explained to her. It is almost the last thing men do. No one carries sandwich-boards until he has failed in every other way.



After talking it over very seriously, they went together to a tobacconist near the Strand, who undertook to make up thirty little packets for threepence each, containing a clay pipe and tobacco, and these Tommy Cathcart and she slipped into the hands of the sandwichmen as they drifted by in Regent Street, in the Strand, and in Oxford Street, while the rest were given to a little group of the men who were resting, with their sandwich-boards leaned against the wall, in a court near Shaftesbury Avenue.

"Don't you think," Alison said, "that those who carry a notice over the head as well ought to have more?"

But Tommy Cathcart thought not.

That exhausted seven and sixpence.

Another thing that Alison and Tommy Cathcart did was to knock at the door of the cabmen's shelter opposite De Vere Gardens, and ask if she might present a few puddings for Christmas Day. The man said she might, and that used up seven-and-sixpence—three puddings at half a crown, thirty threepences.

The other people to whom Alison sent Christmas presents with Mr. Thomson's money were the children of the boatmen who had taken out her and her father and her cousins, Harry and Francis Frend, in the Isle of Wight last year. These boatmen were two brothers named Fagg—Jack and Willy Fagg—and their boat was the Seamew, Jack had four children and Willy six, and Alison used to go and see them now and then. After much consideration she sent four threepenny bits to each of these children, a shilling pipe, with real silver on it, to Jack and Willy, and a pound of two-shilling tea to Mrs. Jack and Mrs. Willy. That made sixteen shillings, or sixty-four threepenny bits.

Just then Alison had an unexpected piece of luck, for as she was passing a shop in Westbourne Grove she saw a window full of mittens at threepence a pair, sale price. Now, mittens are just the thing for cabmen in winter—cabmen and crossing-sweepers and errand-boys. So Alison bought thirty pairs, or seven-and-sixpence worth, and she gave a pair to each of the boys that called regularly—the butcher's boy, and the baker's boy, and the grocer's boy, and a pair to the milkman, and a pair to the crossing-sweeper, and the rest were put in the hall for cabmen who brought her father home or took him out.

And then, just as they were getting rather in despair, one afternoon Tommy Cathcart came home with a brilliant idea.

"Smith," he said, "is the commonest name in England. In every in England," he said, "there must be one Smith at least. Why not," he said, "get, say, sixty picture postcards and send them addressed to Mrs. Smith or Mr. Smith, or plain Smith, to sixty workhouses? We can get," he said, "the names from 'Bradshaw.' A person in a workhouse will be awfully excited to get a Christmas card, and if," he said, "there happens to be no Smith, some one else will have it."

Alison liked the idea very much, and so they went off to a shop in the Strand absolutely full of picture postcards and bought sixty at a penny each. They had some little difficulty in choosing, because Tommy Cathcart wanted a certain number to be photographs of Pauline Chase and other pretty people, but Alison said that views of London would be better, since most persons knew London, and the card would remind them of old times. As it was, so to speak, her money, Alison got her own way. Then they bought sixty halfpenny stamps, and returned home to find the towns in "Bradshaw" and send them off. That all came to seven-and-six, or thirty threepenny bits.

Then Alison had a very brilliant inspiration—to give Jimmie a beautiful silver collar all for himself, with the words "In memory of James Thomson" on it, as a Christmas present. Dogs have so few presents, and Jimmie really was very good, except when he lost his head in the Gardens, which indeed, to be truthful, he always did. So he had his collar on Christmas morning, and it cost exactly twelve-and-six altogether, or fifty threepenny bits.

So much for the first five hundred.

Alison had then to lay out the second five hundred, or £6 5s., on herself and herself alone. This was easier. She and her father spent three afternoons among the old furniture shops of Kensington and the Brompton Road, and at last came upon the very thing they were looking for in the back room of a shop close to the Oratory, kept by an elderly Jewish lady with a perfectly gigantic nose and rings on every finger.

This was an old bureau writing-desk, with drawers, and a flap to pull down to write on, and lots of pigeon-holes, and a very strong lock. Also a secret drawer. After some bargaining Mr. Muirhead got it for six pounds, which left five shillings for writing paper and sealing-wax and blotting-paper and nibs.

And that was an end of the thousand threepenny bits, as the balance-sheet on the opposite page shows.

At least, not quite the end, as I will tell you. The face of the old Jewess, when the time came to pay for the bureau and Alison took forty-eight little packets of ten threepenny bits each out of her bag and laid them on the table, was a picture of perplexity and amusement.

"Well, ma tear, what's that?" she asked.

"Four hundred and eighty threepenny-bits—six pounds," said Alison.

"But, ma tear, what will I do with all the little money?"

"It's all I've got," said Alison.

"You see," said Mr. Muirhead—and then he told the old lady with the big nose the story.

{{bc|width=19em|style=font-size:80%|Audited and found correct,

{{right|{Signed) Thomas W. Cathcart.}}}}

And what do you think she did? "Well, ma tear," she said, "I can't let you go away without something left, in case you met a poor beggar in the street. You must take back one of those little packets to go on with, as a present from me;" and she picked up one and placed it in Alison's hand, and Alison took it gladly.

And that was the beginning of a new Threepenny Trust, for Mr. Cathcart also contributed a little heap, and Mr. Muirhead henceforward made a point of saving every threepenny bit that he received in change (and I believe that sometimes he asked specially for them when he went to his bank) and bringing them home for Alison's fund; and Uncle Mordaunt must have done the same, for the last time he came to dinner he said to Alison, "I wish you'd get rid of this rubbish for me," and handed her seventeen of the little coins.

So you see that there is every chance of Mr. James Thomson's kind scheme going on for a long time yet; but, in so far as his own thousand threepenny bits are concerned, the story is done.