TOYS' TALK.
(Being an unflattering Tale of Hope.)
"There's ingratitude for you," said the Rag Doll marked "three-and-six."
"Where?" I asked, rousing myself from my meditation on my tambourine and drumsticks.
She pointed to a figure which had just been placed in the second row. He was dressed very smartly in a red coat trimmed with tinsel. But he had an unmistakeable air of second-hand.
"I made that man," said the Rag Doll, "and now he cuts me dead before them all! It's atrocious! Why, but for me he would have been bought for five shillings, and would have been the property of the plainest child in London."
"Not that," I pleaded; "think of——"
"Well, very plain, anyhow. I was ready to bow to him. I almost did."
"In fact, you did."
"I didn't. I declare I didn't."
"Oh, well, you didn't, then. It only looked like it."
"He first came here," said the Rag Doll, "three weeks ago. At that time he was—quite presentable. He was everything he should be. He stood firmly on his legs without toppling over, and had his cocked hat firmly fixed on his head. And his sword——"
"Where did he wear that?"
"He carried that, Mr. Whyte Rabbit. Don't be silly. Wore it by his side, you know, and had epaulettes, too."
"He has changed outwardly at least."
"Yes, I know; well, I did that. I took him in hand, and I just taught him, and now——!"
"Yes, I know. But how did you teach him?"
"I fell upon him. I knocked him from his perch, and in the fall broke his wretched sword with my own weight!"
"What very arbitrary distinctions you draw!"
"I don't know what you mean. I do like a plaything to be smart, anyhow. Don't you, Mr. Whyte Rabbit? You don't play your tambourine properly. Now I shall take you in hand." And she slipped toward me.
"I prefer to use my own drumsticks. I can make enough noise in the world without extraneous assistance."
"How silly you are. I don't want to see you spick and span, as if you were ready to be given away with a pound of tea."
"Still, I don't see why I should alter my drumming——"
"Oh, you are stupid! Of course you admire me!"
"As he did. I see."
"You seem to think that very funny."
"Not a bit."
"Then we are agreed. There is not much fun in our talk."
"You're always so observant. There is not. Short sentences."
"And a soupçon of the unexpressed."
"Which means so very much. When understood?"
She swayed from one side to the other. There was an easterly wind blowing full from the open north door of the Arcade. I looked unhappy. There is an understanding that I shall look unhappy except when I am beating my tambourine with my drumsticks.
"What was I saying before—before you—you know—oh, about our talk, of course, being rather flat and not very profitable?"
"I have no more to say," said I.
"But he was very angry, for in my fall I broke his nose."
"I have a bad nose, too."
"What's the matter with your nose?" asked the Rag Doll smiling.
"The joint is injured and some of the fur has come off my head—in fact, I am as bald as the ball of an eighteen-penny bagatelle-board," and I contrived (with the assistance of the draught) to roll away a little.
"You find carriage exercise good for your poor nose?" bubbled the Rag Doll.
Now when the Rag Doll bubbles—an operation which includes a sudden slipping down the shelf, the lighting up of glass eyes, a dart of a kid-covered arm with vague fingers, and a gurgling gust of slipping drapery—I am in the habit of ceasing to argue the question.
"Well, your fall will not damage the machinery. You have nothing to do but look—you understand. While I have to beat my tambourine with my drumsticks."
"But I won't fall upon you. I reserved my weight for the warrior that was once valued at five shillings and is now reduced to half-a-crown."
"Because you—educated him?"
"Yes. And now he cuts me dead! Why he will be bought by some one with poorer means, and will be all the more appreciated."
"Of course you did not care for the impoverished soldier?"
"Not a little bit."
"Nor any one else?"
"Oh, well——"
Then I repeated the question several times in such a way that if written a line of space would be given to every query. It was a notion of Alexandre Dumas père to do the same in his novels. And his sentences were worth a franc a line. At least, so it has been related.
The Rag Doll looked straight in front of her.
"Hullo, old chappie," I said to myself; "where did you spring from?"
"Why, it's my proprietor!" said the Rag Doll, ceasing to bubble, and becoming all propriety.
The toy merchant took no notice of what we had said. How could he when our voices were inaudible? But he dusted us with his feather-brush, and left us ready for another dialogue. For all that the Rag Doll didn't think he was coming just then. No more did I.
