The Hidden Gallery: Chapters 3–4

“In fact,” she told the children as they stood in line to buy tickets, “these miniature paintings are so delightful that I think our very first excursion must be to the British Museum. According to Mr. Hixby”—and here she thumbed her way to the appropriate page—“we are to ‘avoid the crowds that throng before the more well-known works, and concentrate on obscure galleries for the discerning visitor.’”

“In fact,” she told the children as they stood in line to buy tickets, “these miniature paintings are so delightful that I think our very first excursion must be to the British Museum. According to Mr. Hixby”—and here she thumbed her way to the appropriate page—“we are to ‘avoid the crowds that throng before the more well-known works, and concentrate on obscure galleries for the discerning visitor.’”

It was one of the new shiny red Bloomer engines, a flashy piece of engineering and full of pep, too.

The fellow was tall and rotund, with a misshapen nose and a hat pulled low over his eyes.

The fellow was tall and rotund, with a misshapen nose and a hat pulled low over his eyes.

“I will take that back, thank you,” she said curtly, snatching the book away.

With a parting glance at the Hixby’s Guide—did Penelope imagine it, or was it a longing, greedy, covetous sort of glance?—he left.

“I quite agree, Alexander,” Penelope said, making a final, futile effort to read the map before putting it away.

Omnibuses hurtled down the street at alarming speed, and a line of hansom cabs waited at the curb.

Perhaps it was some lingering disquiet from that unpleasant incident on the train; she found herself backing away from the line of hansom cabs and clutching the children even more tightly than before.

Whereas, if the same incident takes place in a bustling restaurant full of people, by the time you draw attention to your plight you may have already turned blue and fallen to the floor.

After an hour’s aimless wandering she knew that she and the Incorrigibles were lost, but all her attempts to ask for directions went unanswered in the din and rush of the crowd.

She wore bangle earrings and rings etched with strange talismans on each of her gnarled fingers.

But apparently the crone did understand.

“Ahwoooooo,” she moaned ominously.

The children were quite taken aback.

If this amiable fellow could not help them, she did not know where else to turn.

“Me? Not a bit. I write plays. I’m a man of the theater. A bard, if you will. Sorry, I know it sounds stuck-up when you say it like that. But it’s true. I may be a bit of a genius, in fact; I do feel a gleam of it here and there. Although, to be honest, I’ve had a hard time getting words on paper lately.”

After approximately one quarter hour of saying “hmm” and “say” and “well” at least a dozen times each, after which he dashed upstairs to his garret to fetch a rather impressive antique brass sextant, and then another quarter hour waiting for the sun to peek through the smoggy London air so he could get his bearings, this perfectly nice young man named Simon knew precisely how to get to Muffinshire Lane.

After approximately one quarter hour of saying “hmm” and “say” and “well” at least a dozen times each, after which he dashed upstairs to his garret to fetch a rather impressive antique brass sextant, and then another quarter hour waiting for the sun to peek through the smoggy London air so he could get his bearings, this perfectly nice young man named Simon knew precisely how to get to Muffinshire Lane.

As they walked he told amusing stories about life in the theater, which made Penelope fervently wish that she and the children might be able to see a show during their stay in London.

“I’d call it a mansion myself, but then again we bards are used to humble quarters. Say, you’re not members of the royal family in disguise, are you? Secret cousins of the queen? Pretenders to the throne? That would be a good plot for a play.”

He jotted down this bon mot with his pencil nub.

Simon sounded bashful all at once.

“But if Simon Harley-Dickinson is at all representative of his kind,” she thought, with a pleasantly giddy kind of satisfaction, “then boys must be a thoroughly delightful species! I shall have to make it a point to meet more of them, as the opportunity permits.”