THE RAILWAY CHILDREN

By E. Nesbit

To my dear son Paul Bland, whose knowledge of railways gives my own ignorance 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.

They weren't railway children at the start. In fact, I doubt they'd ever given trains much thought, except as a way of getting to the theater, the zoo, or the wax museum. They were just ordinary children who lived in the suburbs with their mother and father, in an ordinary red-brick house with stained glass in the front door, a tiled entryway grandly called a "hall," a bathroom with 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 of them. Roberta was the oldest. Of course, mothers never admit to having favorites, but if theirs had one, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who dreamed of becoming an engineer someday. The youngest was Phyllis, who always meant well, even if things didn't always turn out that way.

Their mother didn't waste her days on dull social visits, paying calls to dull women and then sitting around waiting for dull women to call on her in return. She was almost always at home, ready to play games, read aloud, or help with homework. She even wrote stories for the children to enjoy after school, and she loved composing funny little poems for special occasions—birthdays, the christening of new kittens, the redecorating of the dollhouse, or recovering from the mumps.

These three lucky children had everything they needed: nice clothes, warm fires, a wonderful nursery full of toys, and cheerful wallpaper covered in nursery-rhyme pictures. They had a kind, playful nursemaid and a dog of their very own named James. Best of all, they had a father who was practically perfect—never angry, always fair, and always up for a game. And on the rare occasion he wasn't in the mood to play, he always explained his reasons so cleverly and with such good humor that the children understood completely.

You'd think, with all this, that they must have been very happy children. And they were—but they didn't realize just how happy until their comfortable life in the red brick house came to an end, and a very different kind of life began.

The terrible change happened quite suddenly.

Peter had just turned ten, and among his birthday gifts was a model train engine more wonderful than anyone could imagine. All his other presents were nice, but none compared to the engine.

Its glory lasted exactly three days. Then—whether from Peter's inexperience, or from Phyllis's overly enthusiastic help, or some other cause entirely—the engine suddenly exploded with a loud bang. James was so startled that he ran off and didn't return all day. The little toy passengers riding in the train's tender were smashed to pieces, but nothing else was damaged except the poor engine—and Peter's feelings. The others swore he cried over it, though of course ten-year-old boys never cry, no matter how tragic the situation. Peter insisted his eyes were red because he had a cold. As it turned out, this was actually true, though he didn't know it when he said it—the very next day he had to stay in bed. His mother worried he might be coming down with measles, until suddenly he sat up and announced:

"I hate watery porridge—I hate barley water—I hate bread soaked in 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 one."

So his mother asked the cook to bake a large pigeon pie. It was made, and once cooked, Peter ate his fill of it—after which his cold improved dramatically. While the pie baked, his mother made up a poem to cheer him up. It began by describing what an unlucky (but deserving) boy Peter was, and 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.

Their father had been away on business for three or four days. All Peter's hopes for fixing his broken engine now rested on him, because Father was remarkably skilled with his hands and could repair almost anything. He'd once acted as the family "doctor" for the wooden rocking-horse, saving its life when everyone else—even the carpenter—had given up hope. He'd fixed the doll's cradle too, when no one else could manage it, and had used glue, wood scraps, and a pocketknife to make the wooden animals from the toy Noah's Ark stand steady on their pegs again, stronger than before.

With impressive self-control, Peter waited to mention the broken engine until after his father had finished dinner and his after-dinner cigar. This patience had actually been his mother's idea, but Peter was the one who had to carry it out—and it took real willpower.

Finally, his mother said, "Now, dear, if you're rested and comfortable, we want to tell you about the great railway disaster and ask 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 unsteady.

"Hope? Plenty of it!" Father said cheerfully. "But it'll need more than hope—some soldering, maybe brazing (that's a way of joining metal with heat), and a new valve. I think we'd better save it for a rainy day. In other words, I'll set aside Saturday afternoon to fix it, and all of you can help."

"Can girls help fix engines?" Peter asked doubtfully.

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

"Wouldn't my face always be dirty?" Phyllis asked, unimpressed. "And I bet I'd break something."

"I'd absolutely love it," said Roberta. "Do you think I could, when I'm grown up, Daddy? Or even work as a fireman, shoveling coal?"

"I remember when I was a boy—" Father began, twisting at the broken engine.

Just then, someone knocked at the front door.

"Who could that be?" Father said. "An Englishman's home is supposed to be his castle, but I really do wish houses came with moats and drawbridges."

Ruth—the red-haired parlor maid—came in and announced that two gentlemen wished to see the master of the house.

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

"It's probably the collection for the vicar's retirement gift," said Mother, "or the church choir's holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly, dear—it's nearly the children's bedtime, and it does break up a nice evening."

But getting rid of the gentlemen turned out to take much longer than expected.

"I wish we really did have a moat and drawbridge," said Roberta. "Then whenever we didn't want visitors, we could just pull up the drawbridge and keep everyone out. At this rate, Father will forget all about what he was going to say about being a boy."

Their mother tried to pass the time with a new fairy tale about a princess with green eyes, but it was hard to focus, because they could still hear Father's voice through the wall, talking with the two men—and it sounded different. Louder. Not like his usual voice when people came asking for donations.

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

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

But instead of showing the visitors out, Ruth came in alone, looking strange.

"Please, ma'am," she said, "the master wants you to step into the study right away. He looks dreadful, ma'am—like he's seen a ghost. You'd best brace yourself for bad news—maybe someone's died, or the bank's failed, or—"

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

Then Mother went into the library. More talking followed. 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 came back in. Her face was as pale as her lace collar, her eyes wide and shining strangely, her lips pressed into a thin, colorless line.

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

"But you promised we could stay up late tonight, since Father's home!" Phyllis protested.

"Father's been called away—on business," Mother said. "Go now, darlings, please."

They kissed her goodnight and left the room. Roberta lingered behind to give her mother one more hug and whispered, "It isn't bad news, is it, Mother? Has someone died, or—"

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

So Roberta went.

Ruth brushed the girls' hair and helped them undress—a task their mother almost always handled herself. After turning down the gas lamp and leaving them, she found Peter still fully dressed, sitting on the stairs.

"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."

Late that night, Mother came upstairs and kissed each sleeping child. Only Roberta woke at the touch, but she lay perfectly still and silent.

If Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying, she thought, listening in the darkness to her mother's uneven breathing, then we won't know it. That's final.

The next morning at breakfast, Mother was already gone.

"Gone to London," Ruth told them, and left them alone with their food.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, that's right, Miss