He snatched the telescope from Edward’s hand, and turned it round and looked through the other end at the great stones. Edward, standing by, saw them get smaller and smaller – turn to pebbles, to beach, to sand. When Gustus turned the glass to the giant grass and flowers on the sea-wall, they also drew back into themselves, got smaller and smaller, and presently were as they had been before ever Edward picked up the magic spy-glass.

‘Now we know all about it – I don’t think,’ said Gustus. ‘To-morrow we’ll have a look at that there model engine of yours that you say works.’

They did. They had a look at it through the spy-glass, and it became a quite efficient motor; of rather an odd pattern it is true, and very bumpy, but capable of quite a decent speed. They went up to the hills in it, and so odd was its design that no one who saw it ever forgot it. People talk about that rummy motor at Bonnington and Aldington to this day. They stopped often, to use the spy-glass on various objects. Trees, for instance, could be made to grow surprisingly, and there were patches of giant wheat found that year near Ashford that were never satisfactorily accounted for. Blackberries, too, could be enlarged to a most wonderful and delicious fruit. And the sudden growth of a fugitive toffee-drop found in Edward’s pocket and placed on the hand was a happy surprise. When you scraped the pocket dirt off the outside you had a pound of delicious toffee. Not so happy was the incident of the earwig, which crawled into view when Edward was enlarging a wild strawberry, and had grown the size of a rat before the slow but horrified Edward gained courage to shake it off.

It was a beautiful drive. As they came home they met a woman driving a weak-looking little cow. It went by on one side of the engine and the woman went by on the other. When they were restored to each other the cow was nearly the size of a cart-horse, and the woman did not recognise it. She ran back along the road after her cow, which must, she said, have taken fright at the beastly motor. She scolded violently as she went. So the boys had to make the cow small again, when she wasn’t looking.

‘This is all very well,’ said Gustus, ‘but we’ve got our fortune to make, I don’t think. We’ve got to get hold of a tanner – or a bob would be better.’

But this was not possible, because that broken window wasn’t paid for, and Gustus never had any money.

‘We ought to be the benefactors of the human race,’ said Edward; ‘make all the good things more and all the bad things less.’

And that was all very well – but the cow hadn’t been a great success, as Gustus reminded him.

‘I see I shall have to do some of my thinking,’ he added.

They stopped in a quiet road close by Dymchurch; the engine was made small again, and Edward went home with it under his arm.

It was the next day that they found the shilling on the road. They could hardly believe their good luck. They went out on to the shore with it, put it on Edward’s hand while Gustus looked at it with the glass, and the shilling began to grow.

‘It’s as big as a saucer,’ said Edward, ‘and it’s heavy. I’ll rest it on these stones. It’s as big as a plate; it’s as big as a tea-tray; it’s as big as a cart-wheel.’

And it was.

‘Now,’ said Gustus, ‘we’ll go and borrow a cart to take it away. Come on.’

But Edward could not come on. His hand was in the hollow between the two stones, and above lay tons of silver. He could not move, and the stones couldn’t move. There was nothing for it but to look at the great round lump of silver through the wrong end of the spy-glass till it got small enough for Edward to lift it. And then, unfortunately, Gustus looked a little too long, and the shilling, having gone back to its own size, went a little further – and it went to sixpenny size, and then went out altogether.

So nobody got anything by that.

And now came the time when, as was to be expected, Edward dropped the telescope in his aunt’s presence. She said, ‘What’s that?’ picked it up with quite unfair quickness, and looked through it, and through the open window at a fishing-boat, which instantly swelled to the size of a man-of-war.

‘My goodness! what a strong glass!’ said the aunt.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Edward, gently taking it from her. He looked at the ship through the glass’s other end till she got to her proper size again and then smaller. He just stopped in time to prevent its disappearing altogether.

‘I’ll take care of it for you,’ said the aunt. And for the first time in their lives Edward said ‘No’ to his aunt.

It was a terrible moment.

Edward, quite frenzied by his own courage, turned the glass on one object after another – the furniture grew as he looked, and when he lowered the glass the aunt was pinned fast between a monster table-leg and a great chiffonier.

‘There!’ said Edward. ‘And I shan’t let you out till you say you won’t take it to take care of either.’

‘Oh, have it your own way,’ said the aunt, faintly, and closed her eyes. When she opened them the furniture was its right size and Edward was gone. He had twinges of conscience, but the aunt never mentioned the subject again. I have reason to suppose that she supposed that she had had a fit of an unusual and alarming nature.

Next day the boys in the camp were to go back to their slums. Edward and Gustus parted on the seashore and Edward cried. He had never met a boy whom he liked as he liked Gustus. And Gustus himself was almost melted.

‘I will say for you you’re more like a man and less like a snivelling white rabbit now than what you was when I met you. Well, we ain’t done nothing to speak of with that there conjuring trick of yours, but we’ve ’ad a right good time. So long. See you ’gain some day.’

Edward hesitated, spluttered, and still weeping flung his arms round Gustus.

‘‘Ere, none o’ that,’ said Gustus, sternly. ‘If you ain’t man enough to know better, I am. Shake ’ands like a Briton; right about face – and part game.’

He suited the action to the word.

Edward went back to his aunt snivelling, defenceless but happy. He had never had a friend except Gustus, and now he had given Gustus the greatest treasure that he possessed.

For Edward was not such a white rabbit as he seemed. And in that last embrace he had managed to slip the little telescope into the pocket of the reefer coat which Gustus wore, ready for his journey.

It was the greatest treasure that Edward had, but it was also the greatest responsibility, so that while he felt the joy of self-sacrifice he also felt the rapture of relief. Life is full of such mixed moments.

And the holidays ended and Edward went back to his villa. Be sure he had given Gustus his home address, and begged him to write, but Gustus never did.

Presently Edward’s father came home from India, and they left his aunt to her villa and went to live at a jolly little house on a sloping hill at Chiselhurst, which was Edward’s father’s very own. They were not rich, and Edward could not go to a very good school, and though there was enough to eat and wear, what there was was very plain. And Edward’s father had been wounded, and somehow had not got a pension.

Now one night in the next summer Edward woke up in his bed with the feeling that there was some one in the room. And there was. A dark figure was squeezing itself through the window. Edward was far too frightened to scream. He simply lay and listened to his heart. It was like listening to a cheap American clock. The next moment a lantern flashed in his eyes and a masked face bent over him.

‘Where does your father keep his money?’ said a muffled voice.

‘In the b-b-b-b-bank,’ replied the wretched Edward, truthfully.

‘I mean what he’s got in the house.’

‘In his trousers pocket,’ said Edward, ‘only he puts it in the dressing-table drawer at night.’

‘You must go and get it,’ said the burglar, for such he plainly was.

‘Must I?’ said Edward, wondering how he could get out of betraying his father’s confidence and being branded as a criminal.

‘Yes,’ said the burglar in an awful voice, ‘get up and go.’

‘No,’ said Edward, and he was as much surprised at his courage as you are.

‘Bravo!’ said the burglar, flinging off his mask. ‘I see you aren’t such a white rabbit as what I thought you.’

‘It’s Gustus,’ said Edward. ‘Oh, Gustus, I’m so glad! Oh, Gustus, I’m so sorry! I always hoped you wouldn’t be a burglar. And now you are.’

‘I am so,’ said Gustus, with pride, ‘but,’ he added sadly, ‘this is my first burglary.’

‘Couldn’t it be the last?’ suggested Edward.

‘That,’ replied Gustus, ‘depends on you.’

‘I’ll do anything,’ said Edward, ‘anything.’

‘You see,’ said Gustus, sitting down on the edge of the bed in a confidential attitude, with the dark lantern in one hand and the mask in the other, ‘when you’re as hard up as we are, there’s not much of a living to be made honest. I’m sure I wonder we don’t all of us turn burglars, so I do. And that glass of yours – you little beggar – you did me proper – sticking of that thing in my pocket like what you did. Well, it kept us alive last winter, that’s a cert. I used to look at the victuals with it, like what I said I would. A farden’s worth o’ pease-pudden was a dinner for three when that glass was about, and a penn’orth o’ scraps turned into a big beef-steak almost. They used to wonder how I got so much for the money. But I’m always afraid o’ being found out – or of losing the blessed spy-glass – or of some one pinching it. So we got to do what I always said – make some use of it. And if I go along and nick your father’s dibs we’ll make our fortunes right away.’

‘No,’ said Edward, ‘but I’ll ask father.’

‘Rot.’ Gustus was crisp and contemptuous. ‘He’d think you was off your chump, and he’d get me lagged.’

‘It would be stealing,’ said Edward.

‘Not when you’ll pay it back.’

‘Yes, it would,’ said Edward. ‘Oh, don’t ask me – I can’t.’

‘Then I shall,’ said Gustus. ‘Where’s his room.’

‘Oh, don’t!’ said Edward. ‘I’ve got a half-sovereign of my own. I’ll give you that.’

‘Lawk!’ said Gustus. ‘Why the blue monkeys couldn’t you say so? Come on.’

He pulled Edward out of bed by the leg, hurried his clothes on anyhow, and half-dragged, half-coaxed him through the window and down by the ivy and the chicken-house roof.

They stood face to face in the sloping garden and Edward’s teeth chattered. Gustus caught him by his hand, and led him away.

At the other end of the shrubbery, where the rockery was, Gustus stooped and dragged out a big clinker – then another, and another. There was a hole like a big rabbit-hole. If Edward had really been a white rabbit it would just have fitted him.

‘I’ll go first,’ said Gustus, and went, head-foremost. ‘Come on,’ he said, hollowly, from inside. And Edward, too, went. It was dreadful crawling into that damp hole in the dark. As his head got through the hole he saw that it led to a cave, and below him stood a dark figure. The lantern was on the ground.

‘Come on,’ said Gustus, ‘I’ll catch you if you fall.’

With a rush and a scramble Edward got in.

‘It’s caves,’ said Gustus. ‘A chap I know that goes about the country bottoming cane-chairs, ’e told me about it. And I nosed about and found he lived here. So then I thought what a go. So now we’ll put your half-shiner down and look at it, and we’ll have a gold-mine, and you can pretend to find it.’

‘Halves!’ said Edward, briefly and firmly.

‘You’re a man,’ said Gustus. ‘Now, then!’ He led the way through a maze of chalk caves till they came to a convenient spot, which he had marked. And now Edward emptied his pockets on the sand – he had brought all the contents of his money-box, and there was more silver than gold, and more copper than either, and more odd rubbish than there was anything else. You know what a boy’s pockets are like. Stones and putty, and slate-pencils and marbles – I urge in excuse that Edward was a very little boy – a bit of plasticine, one or two bits of wood.

‘No time to sort ’em,’ said Gustus, and, putting the lantern in a suitable position, he got out the glass and began to look through it at the tumbled heap.

And the heap began to grow. It grew out sideways till it touched the walls of the recess, and outwards till it touched the top of the recess, and then it slowly worked out into the big cave and came nearer and nearer to the boys. Everything grew – stones, putty, money, wood, plasticine.

Edward patted the growing mass as though it were alive and he loved it, and Gustus said:

‘Here’s clothes, and beef, and bread, and tea, and coffee – and baccy – and a good school, and me a engineer. I see it all a-growing and a-growing.’

‘Hi – stop!’ said Edward suddenly.

Gustus dropped the telescope. It rolled away into the darkness.

‘Now you’ve done it,’ said Edward.

‘What?’ said Gustus.

‘My hand,’ said Edward, ‘it’s fast between the rock and the gold and things. Find the glass and make it go smaller so that I can get my hand out.’

But Gustus could not find the glass. And, what is more, no one ever has found it to this day.

‘It’s no good,’ said Gustus, at last. ‘I’ll go and find your father. They must come and dig you out of this precious Tom Tiddler’s ground.’

‘And they’ll lag you if they see you. You said they would,’ said Edward, not at all sure what lagging was, but sure that it was something dreadful. ‘Write a letter and put it in his letter-box. They’ll find it in the morning.’

‘And leave you pinned by the hand all night? Likely – I don’t think,’ said Gustus.

‘I’d rather,’ said Edward, bravely, but his voice was weak. ‘I couldn’t bear you to be lagged, Gustus. I do love you so.’

‘None of that,’ said Gustus, sternly. ‘I’ll leave you the lamp; I can find my way with matches. Keep up your pecker, and never say die.’

‘I won’t,’ said Edward, bravely. ‘Oh, Gustus!’

That was how it happened that Edward’s father was roused from slumbers by violent shakings from an unknown hand, while an unknown voice uttered these surprising words: —

‘Edward is in the gold and silver and copper mine that we’ve found under your garden. Come and get him out.’

When Edward’s father was at last persuaded that Gustus was not a silly dream – and this took some time – he got up.

He did not believe a word that Gustus said, even when Gustus added ‘S’welp me!’ which he did several times.

But Edward’s bed was empty – his clothes gone.

Edward’s father got the gardener from next door – with, at the suggestion of Gustus, a pick – the hole in the rockery was enlarged, and they all got in.

And when they got to the place where Edward was, there, sure enough, was Edward, pinned by the hand between a piece of wood and a piece of rock. Neither the father nor the gardener noticed any metal. Edward had fainted.

They got him out; a couple of strokes with the pick released his hand, but it was bruised and bleeding.

They all turned to go, but they had not gone twenty yards before there was a crash and a loud report like thunder, and a slow rumbling, rattling noise very dreadful to hear.

‘Get out of this quick, sir,’ said the gardener; ‘the roof’s fell in; this part of the caves ain’t safe.’

Edward was very feverish and ill for several days, during which he told his father the whole story – of which his father did not believe a word. But he was kind to Gustus, because Gustus was evidently fond of Edward.

When Edward was well enough to walk in the garden his father and he found that a good deal of the shrubbery had sunk, so that the trees looked as though they were growing in a pit.

It spoiled the look of the garden, and Edward’s father decided to move the trees to the other side.

When this was done the first tree uprooted showed a dark hollow below it. The man is not born who will not examine and explore a dark hollow in his own grounds. So Edward’s father explored.

This is the true story of the discovery of that extraordinary vein of silver, copper, and gold which has excited so much interest in scientific and mining circles. Learned papers have been written about it, learned professors have been rude to each other about it, but no one knows how it came there except Gustus and Edward and you and me. Edward’s father is quite as ignorant as any one else, but he is much richer than most of them; and, at any rate, he knows that it was Gustus who first told him of the gold-mine, and who risked being lagged – arrested by the police, that is – rather than let Edward wait till morning with his hand fast between wood and rock.

So Edward and Gustus have been to a good school, and now they are at Winchester, and presently they will be at Oxford. And when Gustus is twenty-one he will have half the money that came from the gold-mine. And then he and Edward mean to start a school of their own. And the boys who are to go to it are to be the sort of boys who go to the summer camp of the Grand Redoubt near the sea – the kind of boy that Gustus was.

So the spy-glass will do some good after all, though it was so unmanageable to begin with.

Perhaps it may even be found again. But I rather hope it won’t. It might, really, have done much more mischief than it did – and if any one found it, it might do more yet.

There is no moral to this story, except… But no – there is no moral.