Nine Unlikely Tales. E. Nesbit

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      HE WAVED AWAY THE EIGHTPENCE.

      “I fear,” he said kindly, “that you must have taken, by some unfortunate misunderstanding, the wrong omnibus.”

      “When does the next go back?”

      “The omnibus does not go back. It runs from Brixton here once a month, but it doesn’t go back.”

      “But how does it get to Brixton again, to start again, I mean,” asked Matilda.

      “We start a new one every time,” said the driver, raising his three-cornered hat once more.

      “And what becomes of the old ones?” Matilda asked.

      “Ah,” said the driver, smiling, “that depends. One never knows beforehand, things change so nowadays. Good morning. Thank you so much for your patronage. No, on no account, Madam.”

      He waved away the eightpence which Pridmore was trying to offer him for the fare from Brixton, and drove quickly off.

      When they looked round them, no, this was certainly not Streatham Common. The wrong omnibus had brought them to a strange village—the neatest, sweetest, reddest, greenest, cleanest, prettiest village in the world. The houses were grouped round a village green, on which children in pretty loose frocks or smocks were playing happily.

      Not a tight armhole was to be seen, or even imagined in that happy spot. Matilda swelled herself out and burst three hooks and a bit more of the shoulder seam.

      The shops seemed a little queer, Matilda thought. The names somehow did not match the things that were to be sold. For instance, where it said “Elias Groves, Tinsmith,” there were loaves and buns in the window, and the shop that had “Baker” over the door, was full of perambulators—the grocer and the wheelwright seemed to have changed names, or shops, or something—and Miss Skimpling, Dressmaker or Milliner, had her shop window full of pork and sausage meat.

      “What a funny, nice place,” said Matilda. “I am glad we took the wrong omnibus.”

      A little boy in a yellow smock had come up close to them.

      “I beg your pardon,” he said very politely, “but all strangers are brought before the king at once. Please follow me.”

      “Well, of all the impudence,” said Pridmore. “Strangers, indeed! And who may you be, I should like to know?”

      “I,” said the little boy, bowing very low, “am the Prime Minister. I know I do not look it, but appearances are deceitful. It’s only for a short time. I shall probably be myself again by to-morrow.”

      Pridmore muttered something which the little boy did not hear. Matilda caught a few words. “Smacked,” “bed,” “bread and water”—familiar words all of them.

      “If it’s a game,” said Matilda to the boy, “I should like to play.”

      He frowned.

      “I advise you to come at once,” he said, so sternly that even Pridmore was a little frightened. “His Majesty’s Palace is in this direction.” He walked away, and Matilda made a sudden jump, dragged her hand out of Pridmore’s, and ran after him. So Pridmore had to follow, still grumbling.

      The Palace stood in a great green park dotted with white-flowered may-bushes. It was not at all like an English palace, St. James’s or Buckingham Palace, for instance, because it was very beautiful and very clean. When they got in they saw that the Palace was hung with green silk. The footmen had green and gold liveries, and all the courtiers’ clothes were the same colours.

      Matilda and Pridmore had to wait a few moments while the King changed his sceptre and put on a clean crown, and then they were shown into the Audience Chamber. The King came to meet them.

      “It is kind of you to have come so far,” he said. “Of course you’ll stay at the Palace?” He looked anxiously at Matilda.

      “Are you quite comfortable, my dear?” he asked doubtfully.

      Matilda was very truthful—for a girl.

      “No,” she said, “my frock cuts me round the arms——”

      “Ah,” said he, “and you brought no luggage—some of the Princess’s frocks—her old ones perhaps—yes—yes—this person—your maid, no doubt?”

      A loud laugh rang suddenly through the hall. The King looked uneasily round, as though he expected something to happen. But nothing seemed likely to occur.

      “Yes,” said Matilda, “Pridmore is—Oh, dear!”

      For before her eyes she saw an awful change taking place in Pridmore. In an instant all that was left of the original Pridmore were the boots and the hem of her skirt—the top part of her had changed into painted iron and glass, and even as Matilda looked the bit of skirt[17]

       [18]

       [19] that was left got flat and hard and square. The two feet turned into four feet, and they were iron feet, and there was no more Pridmore.