THE RAILWAY CHILDREN

By E. Nesbit

To my dear son Paul Bland, whose knowledge of railways gives my own lack of knowledge a safe place to hide.

Contents

I. The beginning of things.
II. Peter's coal-mine.
III. The old gentleman.
IV. The engine-burglar.
V. Prisoners and captives.
VI. Saviours of the train.
VII. For valour.
VIII. The amateur fireman.
IX. The pride of Perks.
X. The terrible secret.
XI. The hound in the red jersey.
XII. What Bobbie brought home.
XIII. The hound's grandfather.
XIV. The End.

Chapter I. The beginning of things.

At first, these children were not "railway children" at all. In fact, I don't think they thought much about railways except as the way to get to the theater, the zoo, or the wax museum. They were simply ordinary children who lived in the suburbs with their Mother and Father, in an ordinary house with a red-brick front. The house had colored glass in the front door, a tiled entryway that everyone called "the hall," a bathroom with both hot and cold running water, electric doorbells, French windows, plenty of white paint, and — as real estate agents like to say — "every modern convenience."

There were three children. Roberta was the oldest. Of course, mothers are never supposed to have favorites — but if their Mother had picked one, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who dreamed of becoming an engineer when he grew up. The youngest was Phyllis, who always meant well, even if things didn't always turn out the way she planned.

Their Mother didn't waste her days on boring visits to boring ladies, or sit around boring, waiting for those ladies to visit her instead. She was almost always at home, ready to play games, read stories, and help with homework. She also wrote stories for the children to enjoy after school, reading them aloud once tea was over. And she loved writing silly poems for special days — not just birthdays, but also smaller celebrations, like the day the new kittens were named, the day the dollhouse got new furniture, or the day everyone finally recovered from the mumps.

These three lucky children had everything they could want: nice clothes, warm fires, a nursery full of toys, and cheerful wallpaper covered in nursery-rhyme pictures. They had a kind nursemaid, and a dog of their very own named James. Best of all, they had a father who seemed almost perfect — never grumpy, always fair, and always willing to play. Even on the rare occasions when he couldn't join in, he explained his reasons so cleverly and with such good humor that the children never really minded.

You might think a family with all this would be perfectly happy — and they were. But they didn't realize just how happy they were until their comfortable life in the cozy red house came to an end, and a very different kind of life began.

The terrible change happened suddenly.

Peter turned ten. Among his birthday gifts was a model train engine — more wonderful than anything he could have imagined. His other presents were nice, but nothing compared to the Engine.

Its glory lasted exactly three days. Then — whether because Peter didn't quite know how to use it properly, or because Phyllis had been a little too eager to "help," or for some other reason — the Engine suddenly exploded with a loud bang. James the dog was so startled that he ran outside and didn't come back for the rest of the day. All the tiny wooden animals riding in the toy train's coal car were smashed to pieces. Luckily, nothing else was damaged — except the poor little Engine, and Peter's feelings. His sisters later said he cried about it, though of course, ten-year-old boys never cry, no matter how terrible their troubles may be. Peter insisted his eyes were red because he had a cold.

As it turned out, that excuse became true, even though he hadn't meant it seriously when he said it. The very next day, Peter had to stay in bed, and his Mother worried he might be coming down with measles. But then he suddenly sat up and announced:

"I hate porridge — I hate barley water — I hate bread and milk. I want to get up and eat something real."

"What would you like?" his Mother asked.

"A pigeon pie," Peter said eagerly. "A big one. A very big pigeon pie."

So Mother asked the cook to bake a large pigeon pie. It was made, it was baked, and Peter ate some of it — and after that, his cold got better. While the pie was baking, Mother wrote a funny poem to cheer him up. It described what a hard time poor Peter had suffered, then continued:

He had an engine that he loved
With all his heart and soul,
And if he had a wish on earth
It was to keep it whole.

One day — my friends, prepare your minds;
I'm coming to the worst —
Quite suddenly a screw went mad,
And then the boiler burst!

With gloomy face he picked it up
And took it to his Mother,
Though even he could not suppose
That she could make another;

For those who perished on the line
He did not seem to care,
His engine being more to him
Than all the people there.

And now you see the reason why
Our Peter has been ill:
He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie
His gnawing grief to kill.

He wraps himself in blankets warm
And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome
His miserable fate.

And if his eyes are rather red,
His cold must just excuse it:
Offer him pie; you may be sure
He never will refuse it.

Father had been away in the countryside for several days. Peter was pinning all his hopes for fixing the broken Engine on his return, because Father was amazingly skilled with his hands. He could repair almost anything. He had once acted as a "doctor" for the wooden rocking-horse, saving it when everyone — even the carpenter — thought it was beyond repair. He was also the one who fixed the doll's cradle when no one else could, and used a little glue, some wood scraps, and a pocketknife to make all the wooden Noah's Ark animals stand steady on their little pegs again — sturdier than ever.

Being unusually thoughtful, Peter waited to mention his Engine until after Father had eaten dinner and enjoyed his after-dinner cigar. This patience was actually Mother's idea, but it was Peter who had to carry it out — and it took a great deal of self-control.

Finally, Mother said to Father, "Now, dear, if you're nicely rested, we want to tell you about the terrible train accident, and get your advice."

"All right," said Father. "Let's hear it!"

So Peter told the sad story and brought out what remained of the Engine.

"Hmm," said Father, examining it carefully.

The children held their breath.

"Is there no hope?" Peter asked, his voice low and shaky.

"Hope? Of course there's hope — tons of it!" Father said cheerfully. "But it'll need more than hope — some soldering, a bit of brazing, and a new valve. I think we should save this for a rainy day. In other words, I'll spend Saturday afternoon fixing it, and all of you can help."

"Can girls help fix engines?" Peter asked, sounding unsure.

"Of course they can! Girls are just as clever as boys — don't you forget it. How would you like to be an engine driver, Phyllis?"

"Wouldn't my face always be dirty?" Phyllis said, without much enthusiasm. "And I'd probably break something."

"I would absolutely love it," said Roberta. "Do you think I could, when I'm grown up, Daddy? Maybe even work as a fireman on the train?"

"You mean a 'fireman,' yes," said Father, twisting at the engine parts. "Well, if you still want to when you're older, we'll see about making you one. I remember when I was a boy—"

Just then, someone knocked at the front door.

"Who could that be!" said Father. "A man's home is supposed to be his castle, but I really wish houses came with moats and drawbridges."

Ruth, the red-haired parlour-maid, entered and announced that two gentlemen had come to see the master of the house.

"I've put them in the library, sir," she said.

"It's probably about the donation for the Vicar's farewell gift," Mother guessed, "or the choir's holiday fund. Please get rid of them quickly, dear — it always disrupts the evening, and it's almost the children's bedtime."

But Father didn't seem to get rid of the visitors quickly at all.

"I really wish we had a moat and drawbridge," Roberta said. "Then, whenever we didn't want visitors, we could just raise the bridge and keep everyone out. At this rate, Father will forget all about being a boy."

To pass the time, Mother began telling them a new fairy tale about a princess with green eyes. But it was hard to focus, because they could hear Father's voice through the wall, talking with the visitors — and it sounded different than his usual friendly tone with people collecting for church funds.

Then the library bell rang, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

"They're leaving now," said Phyllis. "He's ringing for someone to show them out."

But instead of showing the visitors out, Ruth came into the room looking strange.

"Please, ma'am," she said, "the master wants you to come to the study right away. He looks dreadful, ma'am — like something terrible has happened. You'd best get ready for bad news. Maybe someone's died, or the bank's gone under, or—"

"That will do, Ruth," Mother said gently. "You may go."

Mother went into the library. More talking followed. Then the bell rang again, and Ruth was sent to fetch a cab. The children heard footsteps go down the front steps, the cab drive away, and the front door close. Then Mother returned. Her lovely face was as pale as her lace collar, her eyes wide and shining strangely, and her lips looked thin and oddly shaped — not their usual color at all.

"It's bedtime," she said. "Ruth will take you up."

"But you promised we could stay up late tonight, since Father came home!" said Phyllis.

"Father has been called away — on business," Mother said. "Go now, my darlings. Please, go at once."

The children kissed her goodnight and went upstairs. Roberta lingered behind to hug her mother tightly and whisper:

"It's not bad news, is it, Mother? Has someone died, or—"

"No one has died — no," Mother said, and gently pushed Roberta toward the door. "I can't explain anything tonight, sweetheart. Please, go now."

So Roberta went.

Ruth brushed the girls' hair and helped them undress — a job Mother almost always did herself. After she turned down the gas lamp and left the room, she found Peter waiting on the stairs, still fully dressed.

"Ruth, what's going on?" he asked.

"Don't ask questions, and I won't have to tell lies," Ruth replied. "You'll find out soon enough."

Later that night, Mother crept in and kissed each of the sleeping children. Only Roberta stirred, though she stayed silent and still, pretending to sleep.

"If Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying," Roberta thought to herself, hearing her Mother's uneven breathing in the dark, "then we won't know. That's final."

The next morning at breakfast, Mother was already gone.

"Off to London," Ruth told them, before leaving them to eat.

"Something awful is going on," Peter said, cracking open his egg. "Last night Ruth told me we'd find out soon enough."

"Did you actually ask her?" Roberta said, sounding disapproving.

"Yes, I did!" Peter snapped. "Maybe you can go to bed without worrying about Mother, but I can't. So there."

"I just don't think we should be asking the servants things that Mother hasn't told us herself," said Roberta.

"Oh, that's right, Miss Goody-Goody," said Peter, "go ahead and lecture—"