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Title: William—the good

Author: Richmal Crompton

Illustrator: Thomas Henry

Release date: April 3, 2025 [eBook #75780]

Language: English

Original publication: London: George Newnes Limited, 1928

Credits: deaurider, David E. Brown, Sue Clark, Joyce Wilson, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLIAM—THE GOOD ***





WILLIAM--THE GOOD




_By the Same Author_

   (1) JUST WILLIAM
   (2) MORE WILLIAM
   (3) WILLIAM AGAIN
   (4) WILLIAM--THE FOURTH
   (5) STILL--WILLIAM
   (6) WILLIAM--THE CONQUEROR
   (7) WILLIAM--THE OUTLAW
   (8) WILLIAM--IN TROUBLE
   (9) WILLIAM--THE GOOD
  (10) WILLIAM
  (11) WILLIAM--THE BAD
  (12) WILLIAM’S HAPPY DAYS
  (13) WILLIAM’S CROWDED HOURS
  (14) WILLIAM--THE PIRATE
  (15) WILLIAM--THE REBEL
  (16) WILLIAM--THE GANGSTER
  (17) WILLIAM--THE DETECTIVE
  (18) SWEET WILLIAM
  (19) WILLIAM--THE SHOWMAN
  (20) WILLIAM--THE DICTATOR
  (21) WILLIAM AND A.R.P.
  (22) WILLIAM AND THE EVACUEES
  (23) WILLIAM DOES HIS BIT
  (24) WILLIAM CARRIES ON
  (25) WILLIAM AND THE BRAINS TRUST




[Illustration: “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” THE STRANGER SAID MAJESTICALLY.

“NO,” SAID WILLIAM SIMPLY. “AN’ I BET YOU DON’T KNOW WHO I AM, EITHER.”

                                                       (_See page 51._)]




  WILLIAM--THE
  GOOD

  BY
  RICHMAL CROMPTON

  ILLUSTRATED BY
  THOMAS HENRY

  LONDON
  GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED
  TOWER HOUSE, SOUTHAMPTON STREET
  STRAND, W.C. 2




  _Copyright
  All Rights Reserved_

  _First Published 1928
  Nineteenth Impression 1948_

  _Printed in Great Britain by
  Wyman & Sons, Limited, London, Fakenham and Reading._




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                           PAGE

     I. WILLIAM--THE GOOD             13

    II. WILLIAM--THE GREAT ACTOR      31

   III. WILLIAM AND THE ARCHERS       63

    IV. WILLIAM--THE MONEY MAKER      97

     V. WILLIAM--THE AVENGER         120

    VI. PARROTS FOR ETHEL            145

   VII. ONE GOOD TURN                179

  VIII. WILLIAM’S LUCKY DAY          200

    IX. A LITTLE ADVENTURE           228




CHAPTER I

WILLIAM--THE GOOD


The Christmas holidays had arrived at last and were being celebrated by
the Brown family in various ways.

Ethel and her friends were celebrating it by getting up a play which
was to be acted before the village on Christmas Eve. Mrs. Brown was
celebrating it by having a whist drive, and William was celebrating it
by having influenza.

Though William is my hero, I will not pretend that he made a good
invalid. On the contrary he made a very bad one. He possessed none
of those virtues of patience, forbearance, and resignation necessary
to a good invalid. William, suffering from influenza, was in a state
of violent rebellion against fate. And he was even worse when the
virulence of the attack had waned and he could sit up in bed and
partake of nourishment.

There was, he bitterly complained, nothing to do.

Kind friends brought him in jig-saw puzzles, but, as he informed those
about him incessantly, he didn’t see what people _saw_ in jig-saw
puzzles. He didn’t like doing them and he didn’t see any good in them
when they were done. As an occupation, they were, he gave his family
to understand, beneath his contempt. His family offered him other
occupations. One of his aunts kindly sent him a scrap album, and
another kindly sent him a book of general knowledge questions. He grew
more morose and bitter every day. No, he didn’t want to do any of those
things. He wanted to get up. Well, why not? Well, to-morrow then?
Well, WHY NOT?

Well, he’d always said that the doctor wasn’t any use.

He’d said so ever since he wouldn’t let him stay in bed when he felt
really ill--that day last term when he hadn’t done any of his homework.
And now, now that it was holidays, he made him stay in bed. He simply
couldn’t think why they went on having a man like that for a doctor,
a man who simply did everything he could to annoy people. That was
all the doctoring he knew, doing everything he could to annoy people.
It was a wonder they weren’t all dead with a doctor like that. No, he
didn’t want to do cross-word puzzles.

What did he want to do then?

He wanted to get up and go out. He wanted to go and play Red Indians
with Ginger and Douglas and Henry. He wanted to go to the old barn and
play Lions and Tamers. He wanted to go and be an Outlaw in the woods.
That was what he wanted to do. Well, then, if he couldn’t do anything
he wanted to do what did they keep asking him what he wanted to do for?

In disgust he turned over on his side, took up a book which a
great-aunt had sent him the day before and began to read it.

Now it was a book which in ordinary circumstances would not have
appealed to William at all. It was a book in the “Ministering Children”
tradition with a hero as unlike William as could possibly be imagined.
William merely took it up to prove to the whole world how miserably,
unutterably bored he was. But he read it. And because he was so bored,
the story began to grip him. He read it chapter by chapter, even
receiving his mid-morning cup of beef tea without his usual execrations.

It was perhaps because of his weakened condition that the story gripped
him. The hero was a boy about William’s age, whose angelic character
made him the sunshine of his home. He had a beautiful sister who, he
discovered, was a secret drinker. He pleaded with her to give up the
fatal habit. That was a very beautiful scene. It had, however, little
effect upon the sister. She became a thief. The youthful hero saw her
steal a valuable piece of old silver in a friend’s house. At great risk
of being himself suspected of the crime he took it back and replaced it
in the friend’s house. The sister was so deeply touched by this that
she gave up her habits of drink and theft and the story ended with the
youthful hero, his halo gleaming more brightly than ever, setting out
to rescue other criminals from their lives of crime.

“Gosh!” said William as he closed the book, “an’ only eleven, same as
me.”

At once, William ceased to long to play Red Indians with Ginger and
Henry and Douglas. Instead he began to long to rescue those around him
from lives of crime.

       *       *       *       *       *

Downstairs, Ethel and her mother were talking. “Have you settled the
parts for your play yet, dear?” said Mrs. Brown.

“N-no,” said Ethel, “it’s all rather annoying. Mrs. Hawkins has taken
up the whole thing, and is managing everything. Of course, we can’t
stop her, because, after all, she’s going to finance the whole show,
and have footlights put up and make it awfully posh, but still--she’s
insisting on our doing scenes from ‘As You Like It.’ She _would_ want
Shakespeare. She’s so deadly dull herself.”

“And you’ll be Rosalind, I suppose?” said Mrs. Brown quite placidly.

Ethel was always the heroine of any play she acted in.

But Ethel’s face grew slightly overcast.

“Well,” she said, “that’s the question. Mrs. Hawkins is having a sort
of trial at her house. It lies between me and Dolly Morton and Blanche
Jones. She wants to hear us all read the part. She’s going to have all
the committee at her house on Tuesday to hear us all read the part. It
_does_ seem rather silly, doesn’t it? I mean, making such a fuss about
it. However----”

“Well, darling,” said Mrs. Brown, “when you are at the Hawkins’ I wish
you’d ask them if they can let us have one bon-bon dish. I haven’t
quite enough for all the tables at the whist drive, and Mrs. Hawkins
kindly said she’d lend me as many as I liked.”

“Very well,” said Ethel absently. “I shall feel _mad_ if she gives the
part to Dolly Morton or Blanche Jones. I’ve had much more experience
and after all----”

After all, Ethel’s silence said, she was far and away the prettiest
girl in the village. She heaved a sigh.

Mrs. Brown, as if infected with the general melancholy, also heaved a
sigh.

“The doctor says that William can get up to-morrow,” she said.

Ethel groaned.

“Well,” said her mother wearily, “he _can’t_ be worse up than he’s been
in bed the last few days.”

“Oh, _can’t_ he?” said Ethel meaningly.

“But he’s been quite good this afternoon,” admitted Mrs. Brown in a
voice almost of awe, “reading a book quietly all the time.”

“Then he’ll be awful to-morrow,” prophesied Ethel, gloomily, and with
the suspicion of a nasal intonation.

Mrs. Brown looked at her suspiciously. “You haven’t got a cold, have
you, Ethel?” she said.

“No,” said Ethel hastily.

“Because if you have,” said Mrs. Brown, “it’s probably influenza, and
you must go to bed the minute you feel it coming on.”

       *       *       *       *       *

William was downstairs. He did not, strangely enough, want to go out
and play Red Indians with Henry, Douglas and Ginger. That lassitude
which is always the after effect of influenza was heavy upon him.
William, however, did not know that this was the cause.

He mistook it for a change of heart. He believed his character to be
completely altered. He did not want to be a rough boy ranging over
the countryside any longer. He wanted to be a boy wearing a halo
and rescuing those around him from lives of crime. He watched Ethel
meditatively where she sat on the other side of the room reading a
newspaper. She looked irritatingly virtuous.

William found it difficult to imagine her drinking in secret or
stealing pieces of silver from a neighbour’s drawing-room. It was,
he reflected, just his luck to have a sister who was as irritating a
sister as could be, and yet who would afford him no opportunity of
rescuing her from a life of crime. His expression grew more and more
morose as he watched her. There she sat with no thought in her mind but
her silly magazine, resolutely refusing either to drink or steal.

As a matter of fact, Ethel had other thoughts in her mind than the
magazine upon which she was apparently so intent. Ethel was afraid.
There was no doubt at all that a cold was developing in Ethel’s head,
and Ethel knew that, should her mother guess it, she would be summarily
despatched to bed and would not be able to attend Mrs. Hawkins’
meeting, and that the result would be that either Dolly Morton or
Blanche Jones would be Rosalind in the play.

Now, Ethel had set her heart upon being Rosalind. She felt that she
would die of shame if Dolly Morton or Blanche Jones were chosen
as Rosalind in her stead. And, therefore, the peculiar feeling of
muzziness, the difficulty of enunciating certain consonants that she
was at present experiencing, filled her with apprehension. A cold was
coming on. There was no doubt of it at all. If only it could escape her
mother’s notice till after to-day!

[Illustration: WILLIAM MOVED HIS SEAT SO THAT HE COULD SEE HIS SISTER
THROUGH THE CRACK OF THE DOOR.]

[Illustration: ETHEL WENT ACROSS THE HALL TO THE DINING-ROOM. SHE
LOOKED ABOUT HER FURTIVELY.]

After to-day, when she was chosen as Rosalind, Ethel was willing to
retire to bed and stay there as long as her mother wanted, but not
till then. Hence she was silent and avoided her mother as much as
possible. She might, of course, take something to stave it off (though
she knew that that was generally impossible), but her mother had the
keys of the medicine cupboard, and to ask for anything would arouse
suspicion.

The muzziness was growing muzzier every minute, and she had a horrible
suspicion that her nose was red.

Suddenly she remembered that when William’s cold began, her mother had
bought a bottle of “Cold Cure,” and given it to him after meals for
the first day before the cold changed to influenza and he had to go to
bed. She believed that it was still in the sideboard cupboard in the
dining-room. She’d sneak it upstairs and take some. It might just stave
it off till to-night.

She looked up and met William’s earnest gaze. What was he looking at
her like that for? He’d probably noticed that she’d got a cold and he’d
go and tell her mother. It would be just like him. He’d blurt out,
“Mother, Ethel’s got a cold,” and she’d be packed off to bed and not be
able to go to Mrs. Hawkins’, and Dolly Morton or Blanche Jones would be
Rosalind and she’d die of shame. She stared at him very haughtily, and
then went off to the dining-room for the bottle of “Cold Cure.”

But her manner had attracted William’s attention. He moved his seat so
that he could see her through the crack of the door. She went across
the hall to the dining-room. She looked about her furtively. She
tiptoed to the hall again and looked up and down to make sure that no
one saw her. Then very furtively she went back into the dining-room.
She opened the sideboard cupboard and with a quick guilty movement took
out a bottle and hid it under her jumper. _A bottle!_ William gaped.
His eyes bulged. _A bottle!_ Still looking furtively around her she
went upstairs. William followed just as furtively. He heard her bolt
her bedroom door. He put his eye to the keyhole and there he saw her
raise the bottle to her lips. He was amazed, but he had to believe the
evidence of his eyes. She was a secret drinker. Ethel was a secret
drinker!

His spirits rose. He must set about the work of reforming her at once.
The first thing to do was to plead with her. That in the book had been
a very moving and beautiful scene.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was waiting for her in the morning-room when she came down. Yes, she
did look like a secret drinker now that he came to look at her more
particularly. She’d got a red nose. They always had red noses. She
threw him a haughty glance, took up her magazine and began to read it.
Then suddenly she was shaken by an enormous sneeze. It came upon her
unawares, before she could stop it. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t the
sort of sneeze you could stop. It was the sort that proclaimed to all
the world that you have a cold, perhaps influenza, and that you ought
to be in bed.

Thank heaven, thought Ethel, her mother was in the village shopping.
William, however, was gazing at her reproachfully. He was, she
supposed, wondering bitterly why she was allowed to go about with a
cold when he’d been sent to bed at once. She gazed at him defiantly.
William, as a matter of fact, had not noticed the sneeze at all. His
mind was so taken up by the problem of how to plead with her to give up
her habit of secret drinking.

He began rather sternly.

“Ethel, I know all about it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” said Ethel feebly, “all about it! Why, I’m
perfectly all right. _Perfectly_ all right. Anyone can do it once. Once
is nothing. It--it’s _good_ for you to do it once.”

Of course, she’d say that, thought William. In his book the sister had
said that it was the first time----

“Have you only done it once, Ethel?” he said earnestly.

“_Of course_,” she snapped, “that was the first time.”

She must have known that he’d seen her through the keyhole. He couldn’t
think what to say next. He’d quite forgotten what the boy in the book
had said, but he remembered suddenly Ethel’s pride in her personal
appearance.

“It’s making you look awful,” he said.

“It _isn’t_,” snapped Ethel; “my nose _is_ a tiny bit red, but it’s not
due to that at all.”

“I bet it _is_,” said William.

“It _isn’t_,” said Ethel. “Anyway”--and she became almost humble in her
pleading--“anyway--you won’t say anything to mother about it, will you?
Promise.”

“Very well,” said William.

He promised quite willingly, because he didn’t want his mother
interfering in it any more than Ethel did. He wanted to have the sole
glory of saving Ethel from her life of crime, and if their mother knew,
of course, she’d take the whole thing out of his hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Ethel,” said Mrs. Brown tentatively, “I wonder--I’d be so much obliged
if you’d take William with you to Mrs. Hawkins’. He’s getting so
restless indoors, and I daren’t let him go out and play, because you
know what he is. He’d be walking in the ditch and getting his feet
wet and getting pneumonia or something. But if he goes with you it
will be a nice little change for him, and you can keep an eye on him,
and--well”--vaguely--“it’ll be about Shakespeare, and that’s improving.
His last school report was awful. And, as I say, it will be a nice
little change for him.”

Ethel knew that her mother was thinking about a nice little change for
herself, rather than for William, but, chiefly lest her pronunciation
of certain consonants should betray her, she acquiesced.

“Then I can get on with the preparations for the whist drive,” said
Mrs. Brown, “and you won’t forget to ask for the bon-bon dish, will
you, dear?”

Ethel said “No” (or rather “Do”), and felt grateful to the whist drive
because she knew that it was preoccupation with it that prevented her
mother from recognising the symptoms of a cold in the head which were
becoming more and more pronounced every minute.

William showed unexpected docility when ordered to accompany Ethel to
Mrs. Hawkins’. He felt that he had not so far acquitted himself with
any conspicuous success in his rôle of reformer of Ethel. He could not
flatter himself that anything he had said would have saved her from
drink. He might get another chance during the afternoon.

There was quite a large gathering at Mrs. Hawkins’. There was Mrs.
Hawkins and her daughter Betty. There was the Committee of the Dramatic
Society. There were Dolly Morton, brought by Mrs. Morton, and Blanche
Jones, brought by Mrs. Jones. They were first of all given tea by Mrs.
Hawkins in the morning-room. “And then we’ll have our little reading,”
she added.

She accepted William’s presence with resignation and without enthusiasm.

“Of course, dear,” she said to Ethel, “I _quite_ understand. I know
they’re trying, especially when they’ve been ill. Yes, it’s a _joy_ to
have him. You’ll be very quiet, won’t you, my little man, because this
is a very serious occasion. Very serious indeed.”

Ethel sat down next to Betty Hawkins, and a great depression stole over
her. She knew perfectly well that she could not be chosen as Rosalind
in competition with Dolly Morton or Blanche Jones, or indeed with
anyone at all.

She was feeling muzzier and muzzier every minute. Her eyes were watery.
Her nose was red. She knew that with the best will in the world she was
incapable of giving full value to the beauty of Rosalind’s lines.

“_I show bore birth than I am bistress of_,” she quoted softly to
herself, “_and would you yet I were berrier?_”

No, it was quite hopeless. Moreover, Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Jones were
both very wealthy, and fairly recent additions to the neighbourhood,
and she had a suspicion that Mrs. Hawkins was trying to ingratiate
herself with them. Yet she felt that she simply couldn’t go on living
if she didn’t get the part of Rosalind. Mrs. Hawkins handed her a cup
of tea. William had wandered away. He had gone over to the bay window
where Mrs. Morton sat alone. Mrs. Morton was inclined to be superior
and wasn’t quite sure whether or no she were compromising herself in
any way by allowing herself to be drawn into Mrs. Hawkins’ circle. So
she sat as far aloof from it as she could. Of course, she wanted Dolly
to be chosen as Rosalind. On the other hand, it was never wise to be
too friendly with people till you knew exactly where they stood.

William sat down on the window seat next to her, watching Ethel
morosely. Everyone must know that she’d been drinking. Her nose was as
red as anything now.

Suddenly, Mrs. Morton said to him:

“Your sister doesn’t look very well.”

“Oh, she’s all right,” said William absently. “I mean, she’s all right
in one way. She’s not ill or anything.” Then he added casually: “It’s
only that she drinks.”

“_W-what?_” said Mrs. Morton, putting her cup down hastily upon an
occasional table, because she felt too unnerved to hold it any longer.

“She drinks,” said William more clearly and with a certain irritation
at having to repeat himself. “Din’t you hear what I said? I said she
drinks. She keeps a bottle of it in her room and locks the door an’
drinks it. It’s that what makes her look like that.”

“B-but,” gasped Mrs. Morton, “how terrible.”

“Yes,” asserted William carelessly, “it’s terrible all right. She
takes it up to her bedroom in a bottle an’ locks the door and drinks it
there, an’ then comes out lookin’ like that.”

[Illustration: “OH, ETHEL’S NOT ILL OR ANYTHING!” SAID WILLIAM. “IT’S
ONLY THAT SHE DRINKS.”

“W-WHAT?” SAID MRS. MORTON.]

Mrs. Morton’s worst fears were justified. Whatever sort of people had
she let herself be drawn among? She rose, summoned her daughter with
a regal gesture, and turning to Mrs. Hawkins said with magnificent
hauteur:

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hawkins, but I’ve just remembered a most important
engagement, and I’m afraid I must go at once.”

And she swept out, followed by the meek Dolly.

Gradually Mrs. Hawkins recovered from her paralysis.

“Well,” she gasped, “what simply extraordinary behaviour! I never
_heard_---- Well, I wouldn’t have her daughter now for Rosalind not for
a thousand pounds.”

William, left high and dry on his window seat, continued thoughtfully
to consume cakes. Perhaps he oughtn’t to have told her that. It had
seemed to upset her. Well, he wouldn’t tell anyone else, though he
did rather want people to know about the noble work he was doing in
reforming Ethel. What was the use of reforming anyone if people didn’t
know you were doing it?

“William, dear,” said Mrs. Hawkins sweetly, “would you like to go into
the dining-room and see if you can find anything you’d like to read on
the shelves there?”

William went, and conversation became general.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Ethel to Betty Hawkins. “Mother asked me to
ask you to lend us a bon-bon dish for the whist drive. We find we won’t
have _quite_ enough after all.”

“Oh, rather. I’ll get one for you.”

“Don’t bother. Tell me where to get it.”

“Well, there’s one on the silver table in the drawing-room. I’ll get it
and wrap it up for you.”

“No, don’t bother. I can slip it into my bag. I can get out much more
easily than you can.”

Thus it was that William, returning from the dining-room to inform
the company that he hadn’t been able to find anything interesting
to read, was met by the sight of his sister creeping out of the
morning-room where everyone was assembled and going alone into the
empty drawing-room.

William glued his eye to the crack in the door and watched her.

She took a piece of silver from a table and slipped it into her
hand-bag and then returned to the drawing-room, without noticing him.
He stood for a minute motionless, amazed. Crumbs! _Crumbs!_ She was
_just_ like the girl in the book. She stole as well as being a secret
drinker. He must do something at once. He must get the thing she’d
stolen and put it back in its place again. That was what the boy in the
book had done.

He returned to the morning-room. They hadn’t begun the trial reading
yet: they were all talking at once. They were discussing recent social
happenings in the village. Mrs. Jones, as a newcomer, was feeling
slightly out of it, and Mrs. Jones had a lively sense of her own
importance and did not like feeling out of it. She had previously, of
course, been kept in countenance by Mrs. Morton, and she was still
wondering what had made Mrs. Morton go off like that. But there was no
doubt at all that people weren’t making enough fuss of her, so she rose
and said with an air of great dignity:

“Mrs. Hawkins, I am suffering from a headache. May I go into your
drawing-room and lie down?”

She had often found that that focused the attention of everyone
upon her. It did in this instance. They all leapt to their feet
solicitously, fussed about her, escorted her to the drawing-room, drew
down the blinds and left her well pleased with the stir she had made.

This, she thought, ought to assure the part of Rosalind for Blanche.
They wouldn’t surely risk making her headache worse by giving the part
to anyone else. Meanwhile, William was seated upon the floor between
Betty Hawkins and Ethel. His whole attention was focused upon Ethel’s
bag which she had carelessly deposited upon the floor. Very slowly,
very furtively, inch by inch, William was drawing it towards him. At
last he was able to draw it behind him. No one had seen. Betty and
Ethel were talking about the play.

“Do, I don’t really bind what I ab,” Ethel was saying, untruthfully.

Very skilfully, William took the silver dish out of the bag, slipped it
into his pocket and put back the bag where it had been before. Then,
murmuring something about going to look at the books again, he slipped
from the room and went back to the drawing-room to replace it. He had
quite forgotten Mrs. Jones, but just as he was furtively replacing
the dish upon the table, her stern, accusing voice came from the dark
corner of the room where the couch stood.

“What are you doing, boy?”

William jumped violently.

“I--I--I’m putting this back,” he explained.

“What did you take it away for?” said Mrs. Jones still more sternly.
William hastened to excuse himself.

“I din’ take it,” he said. “Ethel took it,” then, hastening to excuse
Ethel. “She--she sort of can’t help taking things. I always,” he added
virtuously, “try’n put back the things she’s took.”

Mrs. Jones raised herself, tall and dignified, from her couch.

“Do you mean to say,” she said, “that your sister _stole_ it.”

“Yes,” said William. “She does steal things. We always try’n put them
back when we find things she’s stole. I found this just now in her bag.”

“A kleptomaniac,” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, “and I am expected to allow my
daughter to associate with such people!”

Quivering with indignation, she returned to the morning-room. William
followed her.

“Feeling better?” said Mrs. Hawkins brightly, “because if you are, I
think we might begin the reading.”

“I find,” said Mrs. Jones icily, “that I cannot, after all, stay for
the reading. I must be getting home at once. Come, Blanche!”

When she’d gone, Mrs. Hawkins looked about her in helpless amazement.

“Isn’t it _extraordinary_?” she said. “I simply can’t understand it.
It’s an absolute mystery to me what’s come over them. Now, have I said
a single thing that could have annoyed them?”

They assured her that she hadn’t.

“Well,” she said, “it’s just as well to have no dealings with people as
unaccountable as that, so, Ethel dear, you’d better take Rosalind after
all.”

“Thag you so buch,” said Ethel gratefully.

“You’ve got a little cold, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I hab,” admitted Ethel, “perhaps I’d better go hobe dow. Bother
asked me to ask you kidly to led her a bod-bod dish ad Betty kidly let
me hab this frob the drawing-roob.”

She opened her bag.

“It’s god,” she gasped.

William was looking very inscrutable, but his mind was working hard.
There was more in this, he decided, than had met his eye.

Betty had gone into the drawing-room and now returned with the bon-bon
dish.

“You never took it,” she said.

“But I did,” persisted Ethel. “I dow I did. It’s bost bysterious.”

“You’d better get home to bed, my dear,” said Mrs. Hawkins.

“Yes. I’m _awfully_ glad I’b goig to be Rosalid. Cub od, Williab.”

William did not speak till they’d reached the road. Then he said
slowly:

“She’d _lent_ you that silver thing, Ethel?”

“Of course,” said Ethel shortly.

“An’--an’ you’ve--you’ve just got a bad cold?” he continued.

Ethel did not consider this worth an answer, so they walked on in
silence.

“Well, dear?” said Mrs. Brown when they reached home.

“I’b goig to be Rosalid,” said Ethel, “but I’ve got a bit of co’d, so I
think I’ll go to bed.” In her relief at having been chosen as Rosalind,
she became expansive and confidential. “I knew I’d god a co’d this
borning, an’ I sneaked up that boddle of co’d cure ad drank sobe id my
bed roob, but it didn’t do any good.”

William blinked.

“Was it--was it the cold cure stuff you were drinkin’ in your room,
Ethel?”

“You’d better go to bed, too, William,” said his mother. “The doctor
said that you were to go to bed early this week.”

“All right,” said William with unexpected meekness. “I don’t mind going
to bed.”

Still looking very thoughtful, William went to bed.

“Was he all right at Mrs. Hawkins’?” said his mother anxiously to Ethel.

“Oh, yes,” said Ethel, “he was quite good.”

“I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Brown, relieved, “because you know he
sometimes does such extraordinary things when he goes out.”

“Oh, no,” said Ethel, preparing to follow William up to bed, “he was
quite all right.” She was silent for a minute, as she remembered the
abrupt departures of Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Jones, and the mysterious
disappearance of the bon-bon dish from her bag.

“Sobe rather fuddy things did happed,” she said, “but Williab couldn’t
possibly have beed respodsible for any of theb.”




CHAPTER II

WILLIAM--THE GREAT ACTOR


It was announced in the village that the Literary Society was going to
give a play on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition that a play should be
given in the village every Christmas Eve. It did not much matter who
gave it or what it was about or what it was in aid of, but the village
had begun to expect a play of some sort on Christmas Eve. William’s
sister Ethel and her friends had at first decided to do scenes from
“As You Like It,” but this had fallen through partly because Ethel had
succumbed to influenza as soon as the cast was arranged, and partly
because of other complications too involved to enter into.

So the Literary Society had stepped into the breach, and had announced
that it was going to act a play in aid of its Cinematograph Fund.
The Literary Society was trying to collect enough money to buy a
cinematograph. Cinematographs, the President said, were so educational.
But that was not the only reason. Membership of the Literary Society
had lately begun to fall alarmingly, chiefly because, as everyone
freely admitted, the meetings were so dull. They had heard Miss
Greene-Joanes read her paper on “The Influence of Browning” five
times, and they had had the Debate on “That the Romantic School has
contributed more to Literature than the Classical School” three times,
and they’d had a Sale of Work and a Treasure Hunt and a picnic and
there didn’t seem to be anything else to do in the literary line. Mrs.
Bruce Monkton-Bruce, the Secretary, said that it wasn’t her fault.
She’d written to ask Bernard Shaw, Arnold Bennett, E. Einstein, M. Coué
and H. G. Wells to come down to address them and it wasn’t her fault
that they hadn’t answered. She’d enclosed a stamped addressed envelope
in each case. More than once they’d tried reading Shakespeare aloud,
but it only seemed to send the members to sleep and then they woke up
cross.

But the suggestion of the cinematograph had put fresh life into the
Society. There had been nearly six new members (the sixth hadn’t quite
made up her mind) since the idea was first mooted. The more earnest
ones had dreams of watching improving films, such as those depicting
Sunrise on the Alps or the Life of a Kidney Bean from the cradle to the
grave, while the less earnest ones considered that such films as the
“Three Musketeers” and “Monsieur Beaucaire” were quite sufficiently
improving. So far they had had a little “Bring and Buy Sale” in aid of
it, and had raised five and elevenpence three farthings, but as Mrs.
Bruce Monkton-Bruce had said that was not nearly enough because they
wanted a really good one.

The play was the suggestion of one of the new members, a Miss Gwladwyn.
“That ought,” she said optimistically, “to bring us in another pound or
two.”

The tradition of the Christmas Eve plays in the village included a
silver collection at the door, but did not include tickets. It was
rightly felt that if the village had to pay for its tickets, it would
not come at all. The silver collection at the door, too, was not as
lucrative as one would think because the village had no compunction
at all about walking past the plate as if it did not see it even if
it was held out right under its nose. It was felt generally that “a
pound or two” was a rather too hopeful estimate. But still a pound,
as Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce so unanswerably pointed out, was a pound,
and anyway it would be good for the Literary Society to get up a
play. It would, she said, with her incurable optimism, “draw them
together.” As a matter of fact, experience had frequently proved the
acting of a play to have precisely the opposite effect.... They held
a meeting to discuss the nature of the play. There was an uneasy
feeling that they ought to do one of Shakespeare’s or Sheridan’s, or,
as Miss Formester put it, vaguely, “something of Shelley’s or Keats’,”
but the more modest ones thought that though literary, they were not
quite as literary as that, and the less modest ones, as represented
by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, said quite boldly and openly that though
those authors had doubtless suited their own generations, things had
progressed since then. She added that she’d once tried to read “She
Stoops to Conquer,” and hadn’t been able to see what people saw in it.

“Of course,” admitted Miss Georgine Hemmersley, “the men characters
will be the difficulty.” (The membership of the Literary Society was
entirely feminine). “I have often thought that perhaps it would be
a good thing to try to interest the men of the neighbourhood in our
little society.”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Featherstone doubtfully, thinking of those
pleasant little meetings of the Literary Society, which were devoted
to strong tea, iced cakes, and interchanges of local scandal. “I don’t
know. Look at it how you will as soon as you begin to have men in
a thing, it complicates it at once. I’ve often noticed it. There’s
something _restless_ about men. And they aren’t literary. It’s no good
pretending they are.”

The Society sighed and agreed.

“Of course it has its disadvantages at a time like this,” went on Miss
Featherstone, “not having any men, I mean, because, of course, it means
that we can’t act any modern plays. It means we have to fall back on
plays of historical times. I mean wigs and things.”

“I know,” said Miss Gwladwyn demurely, “a perfectly sweet little
historical play.”

“What period is it, dear?” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

“It’s the costume period,” said Miss Gwladwyn simply. “You know. Wigs
and ruffles and swords. Tudor. Or is it Elizabethan? It’s about the
Civil War, anyway, and it’s really awfully sweet.”

“What’s the plot of it?” said the Literary Society with interest.

“Well,” said Miss Gwladwyn, “the heroine” (a certain modest bashfulness
in Miss Gwladwyn’s mien at this moment showed clearly that she expected
to be the heroine), “the heroine is engaged to a Roundhead, but she
isn’t really in love with him. At least she thinks she is, but she
isn’t. And a wounded Cavalier comes to her house to take refuge in a
terrible storm, and she takes him in meaning to hand him over to her
_fiancé_, you know. Her father’s a Roundhead, of course, you see. And
then she falls in love with him, with the Cavalier, I mean, and hides
him, and then the _fiancé_ finds him and she tells him that she doesn’t
love him, but she loves the other. That’s an awfully sweet scene.
There’s a snow-storm. I’ve forgotten exactly how the snow-storm comes
in, but I know that there is one, and it’s awfully effective. You do it
with tiny bits of paper dropped from above. It makes an awfully sweet
scene. There are heaps of characters too,” she went on eagerly, “we
could _all_ have quite good parts. There’s a comic aunt and a comic
uncle and awfully sweet parts for my--I mean her parents and quite a
lot of servants with really _good_ parts. There’d be parts and to spare
for _everyone_. Some of us could even take two. It’s an awfully sweet
thing altogether.”

Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce looked doubtful.

“Is it _literary_ enough, do you think,” she said uncertainly.

“Oh _yes_,” said Miss Gwladwyn, earnestly. “It _must_ be. If it’s
historical it _must_ be literary, mustn’t it? I mean, it _follows_,
doesn’t it?”

Apparently the majority of the Literary Society thought it did.

“Anyway,” said Miss Gwladwyn brightly, “I’ll get the book and we’ll
have a reading and then vote on it. All I can say is that I’ve _seen_
it and I’ve seen a good many of Shakespeare’s plays too, and I consider
this a much sweeter thing than any of Shakespeare’s, and if that
doesn’t prove that it’s Literary I don’t know what does.”

Again the Society seemed to find the logic unassailable and the meeting
broke up (after tea and iced cake, a verbatim account of what Mrs.
Jones said to Mrs. Robinson when they’d quarrelled last week, and a
detailed description of the doctor’s wife’s new hat), arranging to meet
the next week and read Miss Gwladwyn’s play.

“I _know_ that you’ll like it,” was Miss Gwladwyn’s final assurance as
she took her leave. “It’s such an awfully sweet little thing.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The meeting took place early the next week. Miss Gwladwyn opened it by
artlessly suggesting that as she’d seen the play before she should read
the heroine’s part. It was generally felt that as she had introduced
the play to them, this was only her due.

The first scene was read fairly briskly. It abounded, however, in such
stage directions as “When door opens howling of wind is heard outside.”
“Crash of thunder without,” and such remarks as: “Hark how the storm
does rage to-night,” and: “Hear the beating of the rain upon the
window-panes.” “Listen! Do you not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs?”

At the end of the scene Miss Georgine Hemmersley (who was a notorious
pessimist) remarked:

“It will be very difficult to get those noises made.”

“Those who aren’t on the stage must make them,” said Miss Gwladwyn.

“But we’re all on the stage in this scene,” objected Miss Georgine
Hemmersley.

“Then we must have a special person to make them,” said Miss Gwladwyn.

Miss Georgine Hemmersley threw her eye over the stage directions.

“They’ll be very difficult to make,” she said, “especially the wind.
How does one make the sound of wind?”

“A sort of whistle, I suppose,” said Miss Gwladwyn doubtfully.

“Y-yes,” said Miss Georgine Hemmersley, “but _how_? I mean, _I_
couldn’t do it, for instance.”

At that moment William passed down the street outside.

William was whistling--not his usual piercing blast of a whistle,
but a slow, mournful, meditative whistle. As a matter of fact he was
not aware that he was whistling at all. His mind was occupied with a
deep and apparently insoluble problem--the problem of how to obtain
a new football with no money or credit at his disposal. Only such an
optimist as William would have tackled the problem at all. But William
walking down the street, hands in pockets, scowling gaze fixed on the
ground mechanically and unconsciously emitting a tuneless monotonous
undertone of a whistle, was convinced that there must be a solution of
the problem if only he could think of it.... If only he could think
of it.... He passed by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s open window and his
whistle fell upon a sudden silence within.

“What’s that?” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

Miss Georgine Hemmersley went to the window.

“It’s just a boy,” she said.

Miss Gwladwyn followed her.

“It’s that rough-looking boy one sees about so much,” she said.

Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce joined them at the window.

“It’s William Brown,” she said.

They stood at the open window while William, wholly unconscious of
their regard, still grappling mentally with his insoluble problem,
passed on his way. His faint tuneless strain floated back to them.

“It--it _does_ sound like the wind,” said Miss Gwladwyn.

On an impulse Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce put her head out of the window.

“William Brown!” she called sharply. “Come here.”

William turned and scowled at her aggressively.

“I’ve not done nothin’,” he said. “It wasn’t _me_ you saw chasin’ your
cat yesterday.”

“Come in here, William,” she said. “We want to ask you something.”

William stood hesitating, not sure whether to obey or whether to show
his contempt of her by continuing his thoughtful progress down the
street.

They probably only wanted him in to make a fuss about something he’d
not done. Well, not _meant_ to do anyway; well, not worth making a fuss
about anyway. On the other hand it might be something else and if he
went on he’d never know what they’d wanted him for. His curiosity won
the day.

Taking a piece of chewing-gum, which he had absently been carrying in
his mouth, from his mouth to his pocket, he proceeded to hoist himself
up to the window sill whence he had been summoned.

“_Not_ that way, William!” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce sternly. “Come
in by the front door, please, in the usual way.”

[Illustration: “WILLIAM BROWN,” MRS. MONKTON-BRUCE CALLED SHARPLY.
“COME HERE!”]

[Illustration: WILLIAM SCOWLED AGGRESSIVELY. “I’VE NOT DONE NOTHIN’,”
HE SAID.]

William lowered himself to the street again, put the chewing-gum back
into his mouth, stood for a minute obviously wondering whether it was
worth while to go in by the front door in the usual way, decided
apparently that though it probably wasn’t, still there was just a
chance that it might be, then, very, very slowly (as if to prove his
complete independence, despite his show of obedience), went round to
the front door.

“You may open the door and come in,” called Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce
from the window, “and don’t forget to wipe your feet.”

William opened the door and came in. He wiped his feet with a
commendable and very lengthy thoroughness (whose object was to keep
them waiting for him as long as possible), transferred his chewing-gum
from his mouth to his pocket again, carefully arranged his cap between
the horns of the stuffed head of an antelope which was hanging on the
wall, thought better of it and transferred it to the stuffed head of
a fox, which was hanging on the opposite wall, gazed critically for a
long time at a stuffed owl in a cage, absently broke off a piece of
a fern that grew in a plant pot next to the hat-stand, and finally
entered the drawing-room. He stood in the doorway facing them, still
scowling aggressively and scattering bits of fern upon the carpet. His
mind went quickly over the more recent events of his career in order to
account for the summons. He was already regretting having obeyed it. He
decided to take the offensive. Fixing a stern and scowling gaze upon
Miss Greene-Joanes, he said:

“When you saw me in your garden yesterday I was jus’ gettin’ a ball of
mine that’d gone over the wall into your garden. I was simply tryin’ to
save you trouble by goin’ an’ gettin’ it myself, ’stead of troublin’
you goin’ to the front door. An’ that apple was one what I found lyin’
under your tree an’ I thought I’d pick it up for you jus’ to help you
tidy up the place ’cause it looks so untidy with apples lyin’ about
under the trees all over the place.”

“William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, “we did not ask you to come
in in order to discuss your visit to Miss Greene-Joanes’ garden----”

William turned his steely eye upon her and pursued his policy of taking
the offensive.

“Those stones you saw me throwin’ at your tree,” he said, “was jus’ to
kill grubs ’n’ things what might be doin’ it harm. I thought I’d help
you keep your garden nice by throwin’ stones at your tree to kill the
grubs ’n’ things on it for you ’cause they were eatin’ away the bark or
somethin’.”

“We didn’t bring you in to talk about that either, William,” said Mrs.
Bruce Monkton-Bruce. Then, clearing her throat, she said: “You were
whistling as you went down the road, were you not?”

William’s stern and freckled countenance expressed horror and amazement.

“_Well!_” he said. “_Well!_ I bet I was hardly makin’ any noise at all.
’Sides”--aggressively--“there’s nothin’ to stop folks jus’ _whistlin’_,
is there? In the _street_. If they _want_ to. I wasn’t doin’ you any
_harm_, was I? Jus’ _whistlin’_ in the _street_. If you’ve gotta
headache or anythin’ an’ don’ want me to I won’t not till I get into
the nex’ street where you won’t hear me. Not now I know. You needn’t’ve
brought me _in_ jus’ to say that. If you’d jus’ shouted it out of the
window I’d’ve heard all right. But I don’t see you can blame me jus’
for----”

Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce held out a hand feebly to stem the tide of his
eloquence.

“It’s not that, William,” she said faintly. “Do stop talking for two
minutes, and let me speak. We--we were _interested_ in your whistle.
Would you--would you kindly repeat it in here--just to let us hear
again what it sounds like?”

William was proud of his whistle and flattered to be thus asked to
perform in public. He paused a minute to gather his forces together,
drew in his breath, then emitted a sound that would have done credit
to a factory syren.

Miss Georgine Hemmersley screamed. Miss Gwladwyn, who was poised
girlishly on the arm of her chair, lost her balance and fell on to the
floor. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce clapped her hands to her ears with a
moan of agony and Miss Greene-Joanes lay back in her chair in a dead
faint, from which, however, as no one took any notice of her, she
quickly recovered. William, immensely flattered by this reception of
his performance, murmured modestly:

“I can do a better one still this way,” and proceeded to put a finger
into each corner of his mouth and to draw in his breath for another
blast.

With great presence of mind, Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce managed to put
her hand across his face just in time.

“No, William,” she said brokenly, “not like that--not like that----”

“I warn you,” said Miss Greene-Joanes, in a shrill, trembling voice,
“I shall have hysterics if he does it again. I’ve already fainted,”
she went on, in a reproachful voice, “but nobody noticed me. I won’t
be answerable for what happens to me if that boy stays in the room a
minute longer.”

“Send him away,” moaned Miss Featherstone, “and let’s _imagine_ the
wind.”

“Let’s leave it to chance,” pleaded Miss Greene-Joanes. “I can’t bear
it again. There--there may be a _natural_ wind that night. It’s quite
possible.”

“William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce weakly, “it was a gentle
whistle we wanted to hear. A whistle like--like--like the wind in the
distance. A _long_ way in the distance, William.”

William emitted a gentle, drawn-out, mournful whistle. It represented
perfectly the distant moaning of the wind. His stricken audience
recovered and gave a gasp of amazement and delight.

“That was _very_ nice,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

William, cheered and flattered by her praise, said: “I’ll do it a bit
nearer than that now,” and again gathered his forces for the effort.

“No, William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce again stopping him just in
time. “That’s as near as we want. That’s _just_ what we want.... Now,
William, we are going to get up a little play, and during the play the
wind is supposed to be heard right in the distance--a long, _long_ way
in the distance, William. The wind is supposed to be a _very_ distant
one indeed, William. Perhaps for a very great treat we’ll let you make
that wind, William.”

William’s mind worked quickly. The apparently insoluble problem was
still with him. He saw a means, not to solve it indeed, but to make it
a little less insoluble. Assuming his most sphinx-like expression he
said unblushingly, unblinkingly:

“Well, of course--that’ll take up a good deal of my time. I dunno
_quite_ as I can spare all that time.”

They were amazed at his effrontery and at the same time his astounding
and unexpected reluctance to accept the post of wind-maker increased
the desirability of his whistle in their eyes.

“Of course, William,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce in cold reproach,
“if you don’t want to help in a good cause like this----” Wisely she
kept the exact nature of the good cause vague.

“Oh, I don’ mind _helpin’_,” said William; “all I meant was that it’d
probably be takin’ up a good deal of my time when I might be doin’
useful things for other people. F’rinstance, I often pump up my uncle’s
motor tyres for him.” William’s face became so expressionless as to
border on the imbecile as he added: “He always gives me sixpence for
doing that.”

There was a short silence and then Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said with
great dignity:

“We will, of course, be pleased to give you sixpence for being the wind
and any other little noises that may come into the play, William.”

“Thank you,” said William, concealing his delight beneath a tone of
calm indifference. Sixpence ... it was something to start from. William
was such an optimist that with the first sixpence the whole fund seemed
suddenly to be assured to him.... He could do something else for
someone else and get another sixpence and that would be a shilling,
and, well, if he kept on doing things for people for sixpence he’d soon
have enough money to buy the football. Optimistically he ignored the
fact that most people expected him to do things for them for nothing....

It was arranged that William should attend the next reading of the play
in order to be the wind and whatever other noises might be necessary,
and then William, transferring his chewing-gum from his pocket to his
mouth and scattering bits of fern absently to mark his path as he went,
disappeared into the hall, took his cap from the fox’s head, pulled
a face at the stuffed owl, then, seeming annoyed by its equanimity,
pulled another, absently plucked off another spray of Mrs. Bruce
Monkton-Bruce’s cherished fern, and made his devastating way into the
street. His piercing and unharmonious whistle shattered the quiet of
countless peaceful homes as he strode onwards, cheered and invigorated
by his visit, looking forward with equal joy to his rôle as wind-maker
and his possession of the sixpence that was to be the nucleus of his
football fund.

The members of the Literary Society heaved sighs of relief as the
sounds of his departure faded into the distance.

“Don’t you think,” said Miss Greene-Joanes pathetically, “that we could
find a _quieter_ type of boy.”

“But it _was_,” said Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, “it _was_ a _very_ good
imitation of the wind. I mean, of course, when he did it softly.”

“But wouldn’t a quieter type of boy do?” persisted Miss Greene-Joanes.
“For instance, there’s that dear little Cuthbert Montgomery.”

“But he can’t whistle,” objected Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce. “I’m afraid
that you’d always find that the quiet type of boy couldn’t do such a
good whistle.”

So reluctantly the Literary Society decided to appoint William as the
wind.

       *       *       *       *       *

William put in an early appearance at the next rehearsal. It was in
fact a little too early for Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce, at whose house it
was held. He arrived half an hour before the time at which it was to
begin and spent the half-hour sitting in her drawing-room cracking nuts
and practising his whistle. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said that it gave
her a headache that lasted for a week.

“William,” she said sternly when she entered the drawing-room, “if you
don’t learn to do a _quiet_ whistle we won’t have you at all.”

“_Wasn’t_ that quiet?” said William, surprised. “It seemed to me to be
such a quiet sort of whistle that I’m surprised you heard it at all.”

“Well, I _did_,” she snapped, “and it’s given me a headache, and don’t
do it any more.”

“Sorry,” said William succinctly, transferring his whole attention to
his nuts.

Her tone had conveyed to him that his position as wind-maker was
rather precarious, so when the other members of the cast arrived he
made his wind whistle so low that they had to request him to do it
a _leetle_--just a _very leetle_--louder. Even then it sounded very
faint and far away. William had decided not to risk either his sixpence
or his place in the cast by whistling too loudly at rehearsals. The
actual performance of course would be quite a different matter. His
gentle whistle endeared him to them. They unbent to him. He was turning
out, Miss Featherstone confided to Miss Gwladwyn in a whisper, a nicer
type of boy than she had feared he would at first. He had helpful
suggestions too about the other noises. He knew how to make the sound
of horses’ hooves. You did it with a coco-nut. And he knew how to make
thunder. You did it with a tin tray. And he could make revolver shots
by letting off caps or squibs or something. Anyway, he could do it
somehow.... They thought that perhaps he’d better not try those things
till nearer the time. He’d better confine himself to the wind--so he
confined himself to the wind, a gentle, anæmic sort of wind which he
despised in his heart, but which he felt was winning him the confidence
of his new friends. They unbent to him more and more. He was rather
annoyed that he was not to have the snow-storm. Miss Gwladwyn said that
her nephew would manage the snow-storm. She said that her nephew was a
dear little boy with beautiful manners, who she admitted regretfully
could not whistle, and might not be able to manage the other noises,
but would, she was sure, manage the snow-storm perfectly.

William went home fortified by their praise of his distant whistle
and two buns given him by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce. On the way he met
Douglas and Henry and Ginger.

“Hello,” they said, “where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been to a rehearsal,” said William with his own inimitable
swagger. “I’m actin’ in a play.”

They were as impressed as even William could wish them to be.

“What play?” demanded Ginger.

“One the Lit’ry Society’s gettin’ up,” said William airily.

“What’s it called?” said Douglas.

William did not know what it was called, so he said with an air of
careless importance:

“That’s a secret. I’ve not got to tell anyone that.”

“Well, what are you actin’ in it?” said Henry.

William’s swagger increased.

“I’m the most important person in it,” he said. “They jolly well
couldn’t do it at all without me.”

“You the _hero_?” said Ginger incredulously.

“Um,” admitted William. “That’s what I am.”

After all, he thought, surely in a play where you were continually
hearing and talking about the wind, the wind might be referred to as
the hero. Anyway, he soothed his conscience by telling it that as he
was the only man in the piece, he _must_ be the hero.

“They’re all women,” he continued carelessly, “so of course they had to
get a man in from somewhere to be the hero.”

The Outlaws were not quite convinced, and yet there was _something_
about William’s swagger....

“Well,” said Ginger, “I s’pose if you’re the hero you’ll be havin’
rehearsals with ’em?”

“Yes,” said William. “Course _I_ will!”

“All right,” challenged Ginger. “Tell us where you’re havin’ the nex’
one an’ we’ll _see_.”

“At Mrs. Bruce’s nex’ Tuesday afternoon at three,” said William
promptly.

“All _right_,” said the Outlaws, “an’ we’ll jolly well _see_.”

So next Tuesday at three o’clock they jolly well _saw_. Hidden in the
bushes in Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s (let us call her by her full name.
She hated to hear it as she said “murdered”) garden they saw the cast
of “A Trial of Love” arrive one by one at the front door. And with them
arrived William--the only male character--swaggering self-consciously
but quite obviously as an invited guest up Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s
front drive. He was fully aware of the presence of his friends in the
bushes, though he appeared not to notice them. His swagger as he walked
in at the front door is indescribable.

The Outlaws crept away silent and deeply impressed. It was true.
William must be the hero of the play. They were torn between envy of
their leader and pride in him. Though all of them would have liked to
be the hero of a play, still they could shine in William’s reflected
glory. Their walk as they went away from Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s
front gate reflected something of William’s swagger. William was a hero
in a play. Well, people’d have to treat them _all_ a bit diff’rent
after that.

The rehearsal was on the whole a great success. William, afraid that
his friends might be listening at the window and not wishing them to
guess the comparative insignificance of his rôle, reduced his whistle
to a mere breath. Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce said encouragingly: “Just a
_leetle_ louder, William,” but Miss Greene-Joanes said hastily: “Well,
perhaps it would be as well to keep it like that for rehearsals, dear,
and to bring it out just a _leetle_ bit louder on the night.”

So William, still afraid that the Outlaws were crouched intently
outside the window, kept it like that.

It was decided at the end that William need not attend all the
rehearsals. The cast found his stare demoralising, and his habit of
transferring his piece of chewing-gum (he’d had it for three weeks
now) from his mouth to his pocket and from his pocket to his mouth
disconcerting. Also he would at intervals take a nut from another
pocket and crack it with much noise and facial contortion. He always
made a very ostentatious show of collecting all the shells and putting
them into yet another pocket, but Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s horrified
gaze watched a little heap of broken nutshells steadily growing upon
her precious carpet by William’s feet. William himself fondly imagined
that he was behaving in an exemplary way. He had even offered each
of them one of his nuts and had been secretly much relieved at their
refusal. They could not, he thought, expect him to offer them a chew of
his chewing-gum.... But he was supremely bored and was not sorry when
informed that it would be best for them to rehearse the play without
wind and thunder till they were a little more accustomed to it.

He was not summoned to another rehearsal for a fortnight. The play was,
as Miss Georgine Hemmersley said, “taking shape beautifully.” Miss
Georgine Hemmersley as a Cavalier looked quite dashing, despite her
forty-odd years, and Miss Featherstone as the Roundhead looked also
very fine, though she too had passed her first youth. It was, however,
as she said, only fair that those who had been in the society longest
should have the best parts.... Miss Gwladwyn, they all agreed, made a
sweetly pretty heroine.

William arrived with all his paraphernalia of coco-nuts and squibs and
tin tray, and, he considered, put up the best show of all of them.
True, the rest of the cast seemed a little irritable. They kept saying:
“_Quietly_, William.” “William, not so _loud_.” “William, we can’t
hear ourselves speak.” “William, stop making that _deafening_ noise.
Well, there isn’t any wind now.” At the end Miss Greene-Joanes, who had
seemed strangely excited all the time, burst out:

“Now, I’ve got some news for you all.... William, you needn’t stay.”
William began to make elaborate and protracted preparations for his
departure, but, intensely curious, lingered within earshot. “I didn’t
tell you before we began, because I knew it would make you too excited
to act. It did me. You’ll never _guess_ who’s staying in the village.”

“_Who?_” chorused the cast breathlessly.

“Sir Giles Hampton.”

The cast uttered screams of excitement. The Cavalier said, “What for?”
and the Roundhead said, “Who told you?” and the comic aunt and uncle
said simultaneously, “Good _heavens_!”

“He’s had a nervous breakdown,” said Miss Greene-Joanes, “and he’s
staying at the inn here because of the air, and he’s supposed to be
incognito, but of _course_ people recognise him. As a matter of fact,
he’s telling people who he is because he’s not _really_ keen on being
incognito. Actors never are really. They feel frightfully mad if people
don’t recognise them.”

“What’s he like to look at?” said the comic aunt breathlessly.

“Tall and important-looking and rather handsome with very bushy
eyebrows.”

“Do you think he’ll _come_?” said all the cast simultaneously.

“I don’t know but---- William, _will_ you go home and stop dropping
nutshells on the carpet.”

There was a silence while all the cast waited impatiently for William
to take his leave. With great dignity William took it. He was annoyed
at his unceremonious ejection. Thinking such a lot of themselves and
their old play, and where would they be, he’d like to know, without the
wind and the thunder and the horses’ hooves and all the rest of it?...
Treating the most important person in the play the way they treated
him....

He walked down the road scowling morosely, absent-mindedly cracking
nuts and scattering nutshells about him as he went.... At the end of
the road he collided with a tall man with bushy eyebrows.

“You should look where you’re going, my little man,” said the stranger.

“Come to that, so should you,” remarked William, who was still feeling
embittered.

The tall man blinked.

“Do you know who I am?” he said majestically.

“No,” said William simply, “an’ I bet you don’t know who I am either.”

“I’m a very great actor,” said the man.

“So’m I,” said William promptly.

“So great,” went on the man, “that when they want me to play a part
they give me any money I choose to ask for it.”

“I’m that sort, too,” said William, thrusting his hands deep into his
trouser pockets. “I asked for sixpence an’ they gave it me straight
off. It’s goin’ to a new football.”

“And do you know why I’m here, my little man?” said the stranger.

“No,” said William without much interest and added: “I’m here because I
live here.”

“I’m here,” said the man, “because of my nerves. Acting has exhausted
my vitality and impaired my nervous system. I’m an artist, and like
most other artists am highly strung. Do you know that sometimes before
I go on to the stage I tremble from head to foot.”

“I don’t,” said William coolly. “I never feel like that when I’m
actin’.”

“Ah!” smiled the man, “but I’m always the most important person in the
plays I act in.”

“So’m I,” retorted William. “I’m like that. I’m the most important
person in the play I’m in now.”

“Would you like to see the programme of the play I’ve just been acting
in in London?” continued the actor, taking a piece of paper out of his
pocket.

William looked at it with interest. It contained a list of names in
ordinary-sized print; then an “and” and then “Giles Hampton” in large
letters.

“Yes,” said William calmly, “that’s the way my name’s goin’ to be
printed in our play.”

“What play is it?” said the man yielding at last to William’s
irresistible egotism.

“It’s called ‘The Trial of Love,’” said William. “It’s for my football
an’ their cinematograph.”

“Ha-ha!” said the man. “And may--may--ah--distinguished strangers come
to it?”

“Yes,” said William casually, “_anyone_ can come to it. You’ve gotter
pay at least. Everyone’s gotter pay.”

“Well, I must certainly come,” said the distinguished stranger. “I must
certainly come and see you play the hero.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The dress rehearsal was not an unqualified success, but as Miss
Featherstone said that was always a sign that the real performance
would go off well. In all the most successful plays, she said,
the dress rehearsal went off badly. William quite dispassionately
considered them the worst-tempered set of people he’d ever come across
in his life. They snapped at him if he so much as spoke. They said that
his wind was far too loud, though it was in his opinion so faint and
distant a breeze that it was hardly worth doing at all. They objected
also to his thunder and his horses’ hooves. They said quite untruly
that they were deafening. A deep disgust with the whole proceedings
was growing stronger and stronger in William’s breast. He felt that
it would serve them right if he washed his hands of the whole thing
and refused to make any of their noises for them. The only reason why
he did not do this was that he was afraid that if he did they’d find
someone else to do it in his place. Moreover he was feeling worried
about another matter. He was aware that he did not take in the play
such an important part as he had given his friends to understand. He
had given them to understand that he took the principal part and was on
the stage all the time, whereas, though he quite honestly considered
that he took the principal part, he wasn’t on the stage at all. Then
there was that man with bushy eyebrows he’d met in the village. He’d
probably come, and William had quite given him to understand that he
had his name on the programme in big letters and took a principal
part....

“_Thunder_, William,” said Miss Gwladwyn irritably, interrupting his
meditations. “Why don’t you keep awake and follow where we are!”

William emitted a piercing whistle.

“Not _wind_,” she snapped. “_Thunder._”

William beat on his tin tray.

Miss Greene-Joanes groaned.

“That noise,” she said, “goes through and _through_ my head. I can’t
bear it!”

“Well, thunder is loud,” said William coldly. “It’s nachrally loud. I
can’t help thunder bein’ nachrally loud.”

“Thunder more gently, William,” commanded Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

Just to annoy them William made an almost inaudible rumble of thunder,
but to his own great annoyance it didn’t annoy them at all. “That’s
better, William,” they said; and gloomily William returned to his
meditation. He’d seen the programme and had hardly been able to believe
his eyes when he saw that his name wasn’t on it at all. They hadn’t
even got his name down as the wind or the thunder or the horses’ hooves
or anything.... If it hadn’t been for that sixpence he’d certainly have
chucked up the whole thing....

They’d got to the snow-storm scene now. The curtains were half drawn
across and in the narrow aperture appeared Miss Gwladwyn, the heroine.
It was a very complicated plot, but at this stage of it she’d been
turned out of her home by her cruel Roundhead father and was wandering
in search of her lost Cavalier lover.

She said: “How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me any pity?” and
turned her face up to the sky, and tiny snow-flakes began to fall
upon her face. The tiny snow-flakes were tiny bits of paper dropped
down through a tiny opening in the ceiling by her well-mannered little
nephew. He did it very nicely. William did not pay much attention to
it. He was beginning to consider the whole thing beneath his contempt.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the evening of the performance. The performers were making
frenzied preparations behind the scenes. Mr. Fleuster was to draw the
curtain, Miss Featherstone’s sister was to prompt, and William was to
hand out programmes. Mr. Fleuster has not come into this story before,
but he had been trying to propose to Miss Gwladwyn for the last five
years and had not yet been able to manage it. Both Miss Gwladwyn
and Miss Gwladwyn’s friends had given him ample opportunities, but
opportunities only seemed to make him yet more bashful. When he had
not an opportunity he longed to propose, and when an opportunity of
proposing came he lost his head and didn’t do it. Miss Gwladwyn had
done everything a really nice woman can do; that is to say, she had
done everything short of actually proposing herself. Her friends had
arranged for him to draw the curtain in the hopes that it would bring
matters to a head. Not that they really expected that it would. It
would, of course, be a good opportunity, and as such would fill him
with terror and dismay.

Mr. Fleuster, large and perspiring, stood by the curtain, pretending
not to see that Miss Gwladwyn was standing quite near him and that no
one else was within earshot, and that it was an excellent opportunity.

William stood sphinx-like at the door distributing programmes. His
cogitations had not been entirely profitless. He had devised means by
which he hoped to vindicate his position as hero. For one thing he had
laboriously printed out four special programmes which he held concealed
beneath the ordinary programmes, and which were to be distributed to
Ginger, Douglas, Henry, and the actor, if the actor should come. He had
copied down the dramatis personæ from the ordinary programme, but at
the end he had put an “and” and then in gigantic letters:

  Wind              Shots        }
  Rain              And All      }
  Thunder           Other Noises }  William Brown.
  Horses’ Hooves                 }

Seeing Ginger coming he hastily got one of his home-made programmes out
and assuming his blankest expression handed it to him.

“Good ole William,” murmured Ginger as he took it.

Then Henry came, and Henry also was given one.

“Why aren’t you changin’ into your things?” said Henry.

“I don’t _ackshully_ come on to the stage,” admitted William. “I’m the
most important person in the play as you’ll soon jolly well see, but I
don’t _ackshully_ come on to the stage.”

He was glad to have got that confession off his chest.

Then Douglas came. He handed the third of his privately printed
programmes to Douglas with an air of impersonal officialism, as if he
were too deeply occupied in his duties to be able to recognise his
friends.

There was only one left. That was for the actor. If the actor came.
William peered anxiously down the road. The room was full. It was time
to begin.

“William Brown!” an exasperated voice hissed down the room. William
swelled with importance. Everyone would know now that they couldn’t
begin without him. He continued to gaze anxiously down the road. There
he was at last.

“William _Brown_!”

The actor was almost at the door. He carried a parcel under his arm.

“William Brown,” said someone in the back row obligingly, “they want
you.”

“_William--Brown!_” hissed Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s face, appearing
frenzied and bodiless like the Cheshire cat between the curtains.

The actor entered the hall. William thrust his one remaining programme
into his hand.

“Thought you were the hero,” said the actor, gazing at him sardonically.

William met his sardonic gaze unblinkingly.

“So I am,” he said promptly, “but the hero doesn’t _always_ come on
to the stage. Not in the _newest_ sort of plays, anyway.” He pointed
to the large-lettered part of the programme. “That’s me,” he said
modestly. “All of it’s me.”

With this he hastened back behind the curtain, leaving the actor
reading his programme at the end of the room.

He was received with acrimony by a nerve-racked cast.

“Keeping us all waiting all this time.”

“Didn’t you _hear_ us calling?”

“It’s nearly twenty-five to.”

“It’s all right,” said William in a superior manner that maddened them
still further. “You can begin now.”

Miss Featherstone’s sister took her prompt-book, Mr. Fleuster seized
the curtain-strings, the cast entered the stage, William took his seat
behind, and the play began.

Now William’s plans for making himself the central figure of the play
did not stop with the programmes. He considered that the noises he had
been allowed to make at the rehearsals had been pitifully inadequate,
and he intended to-night to produce a storm more worthy of his powers.
Who ever heard of the wind howling in a storm the way they’d made him
howl all these weeks? He knew what the wind howling in a storm sounded
like and he’d jolly well make it sound like that. There was his cue.
Someone was saying:

“Hark how the storm rages. Canst hear the wind?”

At the ensuing sound the prompter dropped her book and the heroine
lost her balance and brought down the property mantelpiece on to the
top of her. William had put a finger into each corner of his mouth in
order to aid nature in the rendering of the storm. The sound was even
more piercing than he had expected it to be. _That_, thought William,
complacently noticing the havoc it played with both audience and cast,
was something like a wind. That would show ’em whether he was the hero
of the play or not. With admirable presence of mind the cast pulled
itself together and continued. William’s next cue was the thunder.

“List,” said the heroine, “how the thunder rages in the valley.”

The thunder raged and continued to rage. For some minutes the cast
remained silent and motionless--except for facial contortions
expressive of horror and despair--waiting for the thunder to abate,
but as it showed no signs of stopping they tried to proceed. It was,
however, raging so violently that no one could hear a word, so they had
to stop again.

At last even its maker tired of it and it died away. The play
proceeded. Behind the scenes William smiled again to himself. _That_
had been a jolly good bit of thunder. He’d really enjoyed that. And
it would jolly well let them all know he was there even if he wasn’t
dressed up and on the stage like the others. His next cue was the
horses’ hooves, and William was feeling a little nervous about that.
The sound of horses’ hooves is made with a coco-nut, and though William
had managed to take his coco-nut (purchased for him by Mrs. Bruce
Monkton-Bruce) about with him all the time the play was in rehearsal,
he had as recently as last night succumbed to temptation and eaten it.
He didn’t quite know what to do about the horses’ hooves. He hadn’t
dared to tell anyone about it. But still he thought he’d be able to
manage it. Here it was coming now.

“Listen,” Miss Gwladwyn was saying. “I hear the sound of horses’
hooves.”

Then in the silence came the sound of a tin tray being hit slowly,
loudly, regularly. The audience gave a yell of laughter. William felt
annoyed. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. It wasn’t anything to
laugh at, anyway. He showed his annoyance by another deafening and
protracted thunderstorm.

When this had died away the play proceeded. William’s part in that
scene was officially over. But William did not wish to withdraw from
the public eye. It occurred to him that in all probability the wind and
the thunder still continued. Yes, somebody mentioned again that it was
a wild night to be out in. Come to that, the war must be going on all
the time. There were probably battles going on all over the place. He’d
better throw a few squibs about and make a bit more wind and thunder.
He set to work with commendable thoroughness.

At last the end of the scene came. Mr. Fleuster drew the curtains and
chaos reigned. Most of the cast attacked William, but some of them
were attacking each other, and quite a lot of them were attacking the
prompter. They had on several occasions forgotten their words and
not once had the prompter come to their rescue. On one occasion they
had wandered on to Act II. and stayed there a considerable time. The
prompter’s plea that she’d lost her place right at the very beginning
and hadn’t been able to find it again was not accepted as an excuse.
Then Miss Hemmersley was annoyed with Miss Featherstone for giving her
the wrong cues all the way through, and Miss Gwladwyn was annoyed
with Miss Greene-Joanes for cutting into her monologue, and Miss
Greene-Joanes was annoyed with Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce for standing
just where she prevented the audience having a good view of her
(Miss Greene-Joanes), and when they couldn’t find anyone else to be
annoyed with they turned on William. Fortunately for William, however,
there was little time for recrimination, as already the audience was
clamouring for the second scene. This was the snow-storm scene. Miss
Gwladwyn had installed her beautifully-mannered nephew in the loft
early in the evening with a box of chocolate creams to keep him quiet.
Miss Gwladwyn went on to the stage. The other actors retired to the
improvised green-room, there to continue their acrimonious disputes and
mutual reproaches. The curtain was slightly drawn. Miss Gwladwyn went
into the aperture and leapt into her pathetic monologue, and William
behind the scenes relapsed into boredom. He was roused from it by Miss
Gwladwyn’s nephew who came down the steps of the loft carrying an empty
chocolate box and looking green.

“William,” he said, “will you do my thing for me? I’m going to be sick.”

“All right,” said William distantly. “What do you do?”

William, not having been chosen as the snow-storm, had never taken the
slightest interest in the snow-storm scene.

“You just get the bucket in the corridor and take it up to the loft and
empty it over her slowly when she turns up her face.”

“A’ right,” said William with an air of graciousness, secretly not
sorry to add the snow-storm to his repertoire. “A’ right. I’ll carry
on. Don’ you worry. You go home an’ be sick.”

It was not William’s fault that someone had put the stage fireplace in
the passage in such a position that it completely hid the bucket of
torn-up paper and that the only bucket visible in the passage was the
bucket of water thoughtfully placed there by Mrs. Bruce Monkton-Bruce
in case of fire. William looked about him, saw what was apparently the
only bucket in the passage, took it up and went to the stairs leading
into the loft. It was jolly heavy. Water! Crumbs! He hadn’t realised
it was water. He’d had an idea that it was torn-up paper for snow, but
probably they’d changed their minds at the last minute and thought
they’d have rain instead. Or perhaps they’d only had paper for the
rehearsals, and had meant to have water for the real performance all
along. Well, certainly it _was_ a bit more exciting than paper. He took
it very carefully up the stairs, then knelt over the little opening
where he could see Miss Gwladwyn down below. He was only just in time.
She was already saying:

“How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me no pity?”

Then slowly and with a beautiful gesture of despair she raised her face
towards the ceiling to receive full and square the entire contents of
a bucket of water. William tried conscientiously to do it slowly, but
it was a heavy bucket and he had to empty it all at once. He considered
that he was rather clever in hitting her face so exactly. For a moment
the audience enjoyed the spectacle of Miss Gwladwyn sitting on the
floor, dripping wet and gasping and spluttering. Then Mr. Fleuster had
the presence of mind to draw the curtain. After which he deliberately
walked across to the dripping, spluttering, gasping Miss Gwladwyn and
asked her to marry him. For five years he’d been trying to propose to
a dignified and very correctly dressed and mannered Miss Gwladwyn,
and he’d never had the courage, but as soon as he saw her gasping,
spluttering, dripping on the floor like that he knew that now was the
moment or never. And Miss Gwladwyn, still gasping, spluttering,
dripping, said, “Yes.”

[Illustration: SLOWLY, WITH A BEAUTIFUL GESTURE OF DESPAIR, MISS
GWLADWYN LOOKED UPWARD AT THE CEILING--TO RECEIVE, FULL AND SQUARE IN
HER FACE, THE CONTENTS OF WILLIAM’S BUCKET OF WATER.]

Then the entire cast began to look for William. Somehow it never
occurred to them to blame Miss Gwladwyn’s guileless nephew. They knew
by instinct who was responsible for the calamity. William, realising
also by instinct that he had made a mistake, slipped out into the
darkness.

He was stopped by a tall form that blocked his way.

“Ha!” said the tall man. “Going already? I realised, of course, the
last scene must be the _grande finale_. I had meant to present this to
you at the end, but pray accept it now.”

He went away chuckling, and William found himself clasping the most
magnificent football he had ever seen in his life.

And that was not all.

For the next day there arrived a magnificent cinematograph for the
Literary Society, sent by Sir Giles Hampton with a little note telling
them that their little play had completely cured his nervous breakdown,
that it would be a precious memory to him all the rest of his life, and
that he was going back to London cheered and invigorated.

And that was not all.

There arrived for William some weeks later a ticket for a box at a
London theatre.

William went, accompanied by his mother.

He came back and told his friends about it.

He said he’d seen a play called _Macbeth_, but he didn’t think much of
it, and he could have made a better storm himself.




CHAPTER III

WILLIAM AND THE ARCHERS


William and Ginger and Douglas (Henry was staying with an aunt) were
engaged on their usual Monday morning pastime. A stream ran through the
centre of the village, and flowed under the road at a point where the
village worthies used to collect on fine Sunday afternoons and evenings
to discuss local affairs, or to stand leaning against the railings
gazing silently in front of them, deep, presumably, in thought, till
bed-time. This little space by the railings was on Monday morning
thickly covered with the matches with which the village worthies had
lit their pipes or cigarettes. Ginger and William and Douglas carefully
collected the matches. Then Ginger stood at one side of the road and
put the matches into the stream, where it entered the large pipe which
guided it beneath the road, and William stood at the other side with a
little heap of stones and tried to hit the matches as they came out.
Douglas stood by and acted as umpire. “Got it!” “Missed it!” he sang
out blithely at intervals. Occasionally the game was held up by a
dispute between William and Douglas as to whether some particular throw
had been a hit or a miss. After a short time William changed rôles with
Ginger, and Ginger tried to hit the matches as they came out. Spirited
recrimination, insult and counter-insult, were hurled over the road.

“Fancy not hittin’ _that_ one!” said William. “Well, I c’n hardly
_believe_ you din’t hit _that_ one. It’s the biggest match I’ve ever
seen in all my life. I don’t see how you could _help_ hittin’ that
one. Almost as big as a rollin’ pin.”

“_Well!_” said Ginger. “Well, I like that. I’ve hit _hundreds_ more’n
you hit. _Thousands._ An’ that--why, it was the _teeniest, teeniest_
match I’ve ever seen. Not much bigger’n a pin.”

“Well, jus’ fancy not hittin’ that great big, enormous match.
Butter-fingers!”

They met joyfully in the middle of the road and were only separated by
a motor car, which took the corner at a terrific speed and narrowly
missed putting an end to all further exploits of the Outlaws. They
picked themselves up from the road, their original quarrel forgotten in
a joint fury against the driver of the car.

“Serve him right if he’d killed us,” said Ginger, “an’ got hung for it.”

“No,” said William. “I bet it’d be more fun for him not to get
hung--but for us to haunt him. I bet if he’d killed us an’ we’d
turned into ghosts, we could have had awful fun haunting him----
I say”--warming to his theme--“I bet it would be as much fun as
_anythin’_ we’ve ever done, hauntin’ someone, groanin’ an’ rattlin’
chains an’ scarin’ ’em an’ jumpin’ out at ’em an’ such like.”

“Wouldn’t he be _mad_?” chuckled Ginger, “an’ he cun’t _do_ anything
to us ’cause you can’t to a ghost. When you hit ’em, the hit sort of
goes through ’em, an’ if they run after you, an’ catch you, the catch
sort of goes through you, an’ anyway they’re all scared stiff of jus’
_lookin’_ at you. Won’t it be _fun_ to have everyone scared stiff of
jus’ _lookin’_ at you. I can think,” he went on meditatively, “of quite
a lot of people I’d like to haunt when I’m dead--Ole Markie an’ Farmer
Jenks an’ people like that. I bet it’d be more _fun_ bein’ a ghost than
_anythin’_--even a pirate.”

“I dunno,” said Douglas, “they can’t _eat_. Jus’ _think_ of not bein’
able to eat. Jus’ _think_ of seein’ sweet shop windows full of sweets
an’ being able to get through doors an’ things so’s you could go into
sweet shops at night when there was no one there lookin’ after ’em and
yet not be able to _eat_.”

“Are you sure you can’t eat,” said Ginger anxiously.

“Yes,” said Douglas with great solemnity, “I _know_ you can’t. You put
out your hand to take up a sweet an’ your hand sort of keeps goin’
through ’em and can’t pick ’em up.”

The Outlaws shuddered at this horrible prospect.

“If you’re a pirate or a robber chief or even a Red Injun,” went on
Douglas, “it’s jus’ as excitin’ an’ you _can_ eat.”

The Outlaws agreed that on the whole it would be better to be pirates
or robber chiefs or Red Indians than ghosts and returned to the pastime
in which the passage of the motor car had disturbed them.

“Now go on,” William admonished Ginger, “see if you c’n hit a match
what’s almost as big as--a--as a--as a--telegraph pole,” he said with a
burst of inspiration; “see if----”

Douglas interrupted.

“I’m gettin’ a bit sick of umpirin’,” he said.

“All right,” said William generously. “All right. You can change places
with Ginger an’ Ginger umpire for a bit an’ you hit--I bet you c’n hit
better’n _him_.”

Ginger showed proper spirit in resenting this insult till the passage
of another motor--at a more leisurely pace--again separated them. The
driver leant over his seat, cursed them soundly and shook his fist at
them. The Outlaws sitting in the dust by the roadside whither they had
rolled on the approach of the car sat and gazed after it in horror and
indignation. William found his voice first.

“_Well!_” he said. “Well! _fancy_ nearly _killin’_ folks an’ then
talkin’ like that to ’em. Coo--I’d like to haunt _him_.”

“Oh, come on,” said Douglas. “Gimme the stones and start puttin’ the
matches in an’ I bet I hit every one.”

But it was suddenly discovered that there were only two matches left
and that Ginger and William were tired of the game. Despite Douglas’
passionate protests they walked away from the stream, Douglas remarking
bitterly:

“That’s always the way. Always. _Always_ with _everythin’_! The minute
my turn for anythin’ comes it stops.”

“What shall we do?” said Ginger when they had walked aimlessly to the
end of the road.

“Let’s get out the bows and arrers an’ practise,” said William. “We’ve
not done that for quite a long time.”

So they got out their bows and arrows, fixed up a target on a tree in
William’s back garden and for some time practised happily enough. Only
Douglas was still gloomy.

“Always the way,” he muttered bitterly as he listlessly strung his bow.
“Umpire for hours an’ hours an’ _hours_ an’ when my time comes only two
matches left.”

“You can have first go hittin’ next Monday,” said William generously.

“Yes,” said Douglas, still bitter, “an’ it’ll be wet Sunday night an’
they’ll all stay indoors an’ there won’t be any matches. Oh, I _know_!”

He was further annoyed by the fact that he failed to score a bull.

“Always the same!” he said, “somethin’ wrong with my arrers now.
’S’enough for me to get hold of a thing for everything to go wrong--an’
anyway it’s a silly sort of thing to do--shootin’ with bows and arrers.
Bow and arrer shootin’ isn’t any use to anyone but Normans an’ Red
Indians an’ such like.”

William who had scored several bulls spiritedly opposed this view.

“I bet it is,” he said. “I bet it’s more use than any other sort of
shootin’!”

Douglas gave vent to his general sense of bitterness and disappointment
by a derisive laugh. “Huh!” he said, “_Huh!_ D’you mean to say that bow
an’ arrer shootin’s more use than _gun_ shootin’ an’ _pistol_ shootin’?
What about the war? Was there any bow an’ arrer shootin’ in the war?
No. They only did gun shootin’ an’ pistol shootin’ ’cause those is the
only kinds of shootin’ what’s any good. D’you think that they’d have
had only gun shootin’ if bow an’ arrer shootin’ was any good?”

William, having taken up any position, was seldom at a loss in
defending it.

“Huh!” he said repeating Douglas’ derisive laugh, “_Huh!_ Well, jus’
at first gun shootin’s better, of course. _Anyone_ knows that. Jus’
at _first_. Because they shoot with gunpowder and nat’rally gunpowder
shoots _further_ than string. Yes, but you listen ... what about when
all the gunpowder’s used up? What about a war what goes on so long that
all the gunpowder’s used up? What’ll they do _then_? They’ll _have_ to
start shootin’ with bows an’ arrers _then_. Yes, an’ they’ll be in a
nice mess too ’cause none of ’em’ll know how to shoot ’em an’ it’s not
as easy as it looks. Yes, they’ll be jolly glad of _us_ to teach ’em
_then_. It’s jolly lucky for them _we_ know how to do it. I bet we’ll
all be made generals an’ commander-in-chiefs then. I bet if there’s
another war they’ll soon use up all the gunpowder ’cause with all the
lot they used up in the last war there can’t be much left an’ _then
we’ll_ come in with our bows an’ arrers.”

“Well, there’s not many of us to fight against a whole foreign army,”
said Douglas gloomily. “Jus’ you an’ me an’ Ginger an’ Henry against a
whole foreign army.”

“Y-yes,” admitted William reluctantly. Then he brightened. “But we
could _train_ some more. We could start trainin’ ’em now so as to be
ready.”

It was not in William’s nature, however, to spend much time preparing
for remote contingencies. He added hastily, “’S not as if we’d have
to wait till we were grown up. I think that we ought to have a bow
an’ arrer army all ready an’ it doesn’t matter not bein’ grown up for
bows an’ arrers. You can shoot ’em jus’ as hard not grown up. Look at
me,” he swaggered, “two bulls’ eyes straight after each other. Well,
wot I think is this, that we oughter start right away makin’ a bow an’
arrer army. Wot I think is”--William was unconsciously lapsing into
his platform manner--“that people aren’t as careful as what they ought
to be about foreign armies landin’. There’s nothin’ to stop ’em. They
can jus’ get into a ship an’ sail over to England an’ land same as
anyone else an’ here’ll they be right in the middle of us before we
know anythin’ about it. Wot I say is that we oughter _do_ somethin’ now
’stead of waitin’ an’ waitin’ an’ _waitin’_ till it’s too late. Wot I
say is that we might wake up to-morrow an’ find the fields here full
of foreign enemies what have sailed over in the night an’ think what a
long time it’d take to get our soldiers together an’ to get gunpowder
for their guns. Before they’d have time to do that the foreign enemy’d
have conquered ’em. Well, wot I say is that if _we’re_ here with an
army of bow and arrer shooters it’ll be all right. Bows an’ arrers
don’t need a lot of gettin’ ready like guns---- If they break you can
easy make another, an’ we can go on usin’ ’em long after they’ve used
up all their gunpowder an’ got nothin’ left to shoot with. Well, wot
I say is”--William, worked up for an oratorical climax, sought about
in his mind for some striking and original remark and finding none
repeated--“Wot I say is we’ve gotta get a bow an’ arrer army.”

Ginger and Douglas, carried away by this flow of eloquence, cheered
loudly.

William collected his “bow an’ arrer army” with surprising speed.
The holidays were drawing to a close and most of his school friends
and acquaintances were growing tired of their own resources and were
willing to follow William wherever he led them. Some of them already
possessed bows and arrows. Others bought them. Others made them.
William assembled them on the first day on which they were fully
equipped and harangued them.

“Soldiers,” he said, “we’ve all gotter learn bow and arrer shootin’ so
as to be ready for when all the gunpowder in the world gets finished up
which, of course, it must do sometime, same as coal, we’ve gotter be
ready for when a foreign enemy comes suddenly over in ships by night
an’ is here right in the middle of England before anyone finds out.
They’d be disguised, of course, till they started fightin’. Well, we’ve
gotter be ready with our bows and arrers to fight ’em an’ hold ’em at
bay till the real army’s got together, an’ got its guns an’ gunpowder
an’ things, an’ then we’ve gotter be ready to fight ’em again when all
the gunpowder’s used up. That’s what we’ve gotter do, we’ve gotter be
_ready_,” William as ever was at this point fired by his own eloquence,
“we’ve gotter be ready to save our country from the enemy, same as
people like Moses an’ Napoleon did....”

“Napoleon din’t,” said a small child in the rear.

“Moses din’t neither,” said another.

“Oh, they din’t, din’t they?” said William threateningly, annoyed at
the interruption.

They looked at William. William after all was more real than Moses and
Napoleon. It didn’t matter what Moses and Napoleon had done. It did
matter what William might do.

“All right then,” they agreed pacifically, “they did then.”

“Course they did,” said William, “an’ that’s what we’ve gotter do. Save
the country from the foreign enemies.”

His faithful band waved their bows and arrows and cheered
enthusiastically.

At first all went well. The Bow and Arrow Army practised diligently
under William’s leadership. They set up a target on a tree, stood in
a long line one behind another, and as each came to the front on the
word of command from William shot at the target, while the result was
noted on a slate by Ginger. So far so good. But the archers with the
perversity of human nature soon began to grow tired of it. They weren’t
content to stand in a row, step forward at William’s word of command,
shoot, and have the result noted on a slate by Ginger. It was all
right just at first, but after an hour or so it became boring. True,
the small boy who had challenged the historical truth of William’s
reference to Napoleon introduced a diversion by shooting William calmly
and deliberately by a well aimed arrow in the middle of his stomach
and running off, leaving William writhing in agony on the ground.
William, however, quickly recovered and was on the point of furiously
pursuing his assailant when he was held back by Ginger who pointed out,
truly enough, that if William were to leave them the bored archers
would probably straggle off to other diversions. So William, ever an
opportunist, turned the incident to account. He made another speech.

“Soldiers,” he said. “You can jus’ see from me being nearly killed
then, what a deadly weapon a bow’n arrer is. That’s what you’ve gotter
do to the foreign enemies of the country, hit them in the stomach
nearly killin’ ’em like what John Francis did me. And,” he ended
simply, “when I catch John Francis I’ll jolly well _show_ him.”

The archers, because cheering is a change from shooting at a target,
cheered.

But the fact remained that the archers were growing bored. They
preferred William as leader of lawless expeditions to William as
Commander-in-Chief of a disciplined band of archers. Shooting at a
target is thrilling enough for the first day, becomes less thrilling
on the second and is boring in the extreme on the third. None of them
dared to vary the monotony as had John Francis by shooting William.
John Francis, it transpired, had acted thus quite safely in the
knowledge that he was going away the next day on a fortnight’s visit to
an aunt, and it was a known fact that no insult ever lived in William’s
memory for longer than a week. William’s life was too full to admit of
his cherishing vengeance against anyone for longer than a week.

       *       *       *       *       *

The scarecrows were William’s idea. It was indeed such an idea as could
have been no one’s but William’s. William realised that his band of
warriors was growing daily more listless and discontented, that it was
held together solely by the hope--daily diminishing--that something
exciting really was going to happen soon, and they only did not desert
in a body because they were afraid of finding afterward that they had
missed an adventure.

So William thought of the scarecrows.

He realised that a target lacked human interest and he realised that in
almost every neighbouring field stood a fairly lifelike scarecrow which
might well serve to represent the foreign enemy to whose destruction
he had so often urged his gallant band. Moreover all the fields were
“trespass fields,” and between William and the neighbouring farmers
there waged a deadly feud which would lend to the expedition that
element of lawlessness and adventure without which William as well as
the archer band was feeling the whole thing to be rather flat.

Upon hearing this the archer band brightened perceptibly and set
off behind their leader lovingly fingering their bows and chanting
joyous songs of battle. The adventure did not disappoint them. They
had a glorious day, a day that glowed brightly in their memories
for many months. They surrounded every scarecrow in every field and
shot at it with bow and arrow till it collapsed realistically and
blood-curdlingly into a heap on the ground. When the result did not
take place quickly enough, they hastened it by a few discreetly placed
stones. A scarecrow, as an enemy, possesses the supreme advantage (to
its assailant) of not being able to do anything back. From two or three
of the fields they were chased by irate farmers which gave the game the
piquant edge of excitement they had all hoped for.

William would have liked his men to shoot at the farmer enemy as they
retreated but even he had to admit that this was more difficult than
it sounds. He tried it, hit Ginger by mistake and fell over a ploughed
furrow at the same time. William had never heard of the Parthians but
if he had, would have had a deep, deep respect for them. They retired,
however, fleetly and in good order, leaving none of their number in the
hands of the enemy who finally gave up the chase, and purple-faced with
breathlessness and fury, contented themselves with standing and shaking
their fists at them till they were out of sight. It was altogether
a glorious and thrilling day. But William realised with something
of apprehension that it could not be repeated indefinitely. It was
doubtful even whether it could be repeated once. The scarecrows were
completely demolished and if new ones were set up it was pretty certain
that they would be closely guarded. No, the band must not expect a day
like this every day. They must be content with routine work for some
time after this--with drilling and shooting at targets. Before they
disbanded William delivered one of his stirring speeches.

“Now we’ve seen to-day,” he said, “what we can do to a foreign enemy if
one lands an’ comes right into the middle of England. We can knock ’em
to pieces same as we did the scarecrows,” he ignored the convenient
passivity of the scarecrow enemy which had assured the victory, and
continued, “an’ then if they start runnin’ after us we can get out
of their way same as we did out of Farmer Jenks’ an’ Farmer Hodges’,
and then when they’re too tired to run any more, we can shoot at ’em
again same as we could have done at Farmer Jenks an’ Farmer Hodges if
it hadn’t been tea-time. An’--an’ now we’ve gotter go on practising
quietly for a bit so’s to be ready, ’cause--’cause we never know when
we’ll wake up one mornin’ an’ find all the fields full of foreign
enemies what have come over in the night.”

The band of archers, inspirited by the events of the day, cheered
enthusiastically.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning William woke early and looked out of the window. His
eyes opened wider and wider and wider. He rubbed them and looked again.
It was true. The fields near the house were full of soldiers and tents.
He dressed himself in a state of stupefied amazement. It had really
happened. A foreign enemy had really crossed over in the night and had
entrenched itself in the fields about his home. William descended to
breakfast still feeling dazed.

“I say,” he said, “there’s soldiers. All over the field.”

“It’ll be the manœuvres,” said his sister Ethel casually.

“How do you _know_ it’s the mou--what you said?” said William sternly.
Ethel looked at him.

“There’d be a fortune,” she said, “for anyone who would invent a
hairbrush that would make a boy’s hair look tidy.”

“But they’d never use it even if anyone did,” said William’s mother
gloomily.

William snorted and sat down before his porridge plate. That was just
like his family. A foreign enemy only a few yards away and all they
could talk about was his hair. Probably when the foreign enemy started
shooting at them and killing them they’d still be going on at him about
his hair or his face or something. Nothing--nothing--could ever stop
them. Bitterly William wondered whether such people were worth saving.

After a hasty breakfast he hurried out to his archer band. He found
them mildly excited.

“But they’re English soldiers,” said one with a certain disappointment
in his voice. “I’ve heard ’em talkin’ English.”

“_Course_ they talk English, silly,” said William crushingly, “but
that doesn’t _prove_ they’re English. _Course_ they taught ’em English
before they brought ’em over. Do you think they’d bring ’em over
talking foreign langwidges an’ arousin’ everyone’s suspicions? _Course
not._ _Course_ they c’n talk English. I bet they saw you listening
an’ started talkin’ English jus’ so’s not to arouse your suspicions.”
William had come across this phrase in a Secret Service story the night
before and was proud of having an opportunity of using it, “But you
go’n listen to them when they don’t think anyone’s listenin’ an’ I
_bet_ you’ll find ’em talkin’ foreign langwidges.”

Obviously the majority of the Archer band was impressed by this. But
one small doubting warrior piped up:

“Well, when I told my father this mornin’ that I’d seen ’em, he said,
‘Oh, yes. It’ll be the manooverers’--or something like that--‘an’ I
don’t suppose they’ll be here more than a day or two.’”

“Yes,” said William excitedly, “that’s _jus’_ it. That’s jus’ what they
_knew_ people’d say. They come here dressed like English soldiers an’
talkin’ English so as not to arouse suspicion and they know that the
English people’ll jus’ take for granted that they’re English till they
start fightin’ ’em and then it’ll be too late. English people are
like that. They look out of their windows an’ see a lot of soldiers
in English clothes talkin’ the English langwidge an’ they say, ‘Oh,
yes, it’ll be the--the--mooverers’--same as what George’s father said,
an’ Ethel said, and they start talkin’ about my hair jus’ as if they
weren’t goin’ to be killed the next minute.”

“What does it mean?” piped up a small archer in the background.

“What does what mean?” said William to gain time.

“That word you said--Mooverers.”

William cleared his throat.

“It’s--it’s a French word meanin’ English Soldier,” he said. His stern
eye wandered among his Archers daring any of them to deny it. No one
did deny it because everyone believed it implicitly.

“Well, that’s wot I say,” went on William relieved, “they knew that
when English people saw they were dressed like English soldiers an’
talkin’ the English langwidge they’d say, ‘Oh, they’re jus’ mooverers,’
an’ not do anythin’ to stop ’em. They’ll stay here till they’ve learnt
all about the country, then they’ll conquer the village an’ then
they’ll go on an’ conquer all the rest of England. But--we’ve--gotter
_stop_ ’em.”

The Archers waved their bows and arrows and cheered enthusiastically.
This was better than practising at a target. This was better even than
shooting scarecrows.

“Let’s go now,” said William and added cautiously, “jus’ to have a look
at ’em first. We mus’ make plans careful before we start fightin’ ’em.”

The band of Archers marched joyously down the road still cheering and
waving bows and arrows.

At the gate of the large field they stopped and gazed at the scene.
There were small tents and big tents, and everywhere soldiers were
hurrying to and fro or standing talking in groups.

“There’s some officers in that tent,” said William, “an’ I bet if you
went up to it you’d find ’em talkin’ foreign langwidges.”

“Well, go up to it an’ see,” challenged Ginger.

“All right, I will,” said William promptly accepting the challenge.

Watched in a thrilled silence by his Archers he went further down the
road till he was just behind the tent, then he wriggled through the
hedge. William had through long experience brought wriggling through
hedges to a fine art. Then he crawled up to the tent and daringly
lifted it an inch or so, placing his ear to the aperture. Inside were
two young officers. The first had just said:

“I saw the old man coming out of the ‘Blue Boar’ this morning.” And
just as William lifted the flap and applied his ear to it, the other
was replying:

“_Honi soit qui mal y pense._”

William replaced the flap, crawled back to the hedge, and wriggled
through to the road.

“They were talkin’ foreign langwidges,” he said excitedly, “foreign
langwidges wot I couldn’t understand a word of----”

The Archers cheered loudly. So stimulated were they by the prospect of
adventure, that they would have been bitterly disappointed had William
brought back any other report.

“Well, we’ve gotta make _plans_,” said William, assuming a stern and
thoughtful demeanour.

“’Sno good _rushin’_ at ’em, straight away. There’s more of them than
what there is of us. We’ve found out--_I’ve_ found out, I mean--that
they’re a foreign enemy. Well, we’ve gotter save the country from ’em.
That’s what we’ve gotter do. But it’s no good _rushin’_ at ’em before
we’ve made plans. We’ve gotta make _plans_ first. An’ we’ve gotter be
_cunnin’_ as well as brave ’cause there’s so many more of them than
what there is of us. We’ve gotter find out first who’s the head of ’em
an’ we’ve gotter do it without--without arousin’ their suspicions.”

The Archers cheered again lustily.

They would have cheered William now whatever he had said. The
longed-for adventure had come. They were willing to trust themselves
blindly and joyously to William’s sole leadership. Ginger felt that
William was having rather more than his fair share of the limelight.

“I’ll find out who’s the head of ’em,” he offered. “I bet it’s a
dang’rous thing to do but I bet I do it all right.”

The Archers cheered Ginger.

“I bet it’s no more dang’rous than seein’ if they were talkin’ in
foreign langwidges,” challenged William.

Ginger’s proud spirit had been assuaged by the Archers’ cheers. He felt
that he could afford to be generous.

“No, it’s just about the same,” he conceded.

He wriggled through the hole which had been left in the hedge by the
passage of William’s solid body and began to creep very cautiously
along the tents, peeping under each to see their interior. At one he
evidently made a discovery of a sensational nature. He turned round,
made excited but incomprehensible signs to the Outlaws who were
watching over the hedge, then began to crawl back. He plunged through
the hole and began at once.

“I’ve found the head of ’em. He’s a big fat man with a red face an’ a
white moustache an’ he’s sittin’ at a table lookin’ at a map.”

“Well, that _proves_ it,” said William equally excited, “that _proves_
it. If he wasn’t foreign he wun’t need to be lookin’ at a map, would
he? If he was really English like what they pretend to be he wun’t need
to be lookin’ at a map of England. He’d’ve done England at school in
Geography.”

The Archers agreed that the logic of this was unassailable.

[Illustration: GENERAL BASTOW RECEIVED THE FULL FORCE OF WILLIAM’S
BULLET-HEAD IN HIS STOMACH.]

William continued:

“Well, now that’s the first thing we’ve gotter do. We’ve gotter take
his map off him. I said it was no use _rushin’_ at ’em an’ we’d gotter
be cunnin’. Well, that’s the first cunnin’ thing we’ve gotter do. We’ve
gotter take his map off him an’ then you see he won’t know what to do
or where he is or anythin’.”

“Well,” said Ginger hastily, “I’ve done enough findin’ out about who
he is. I’m not goin’ to take his map off him.”

“No,” said William; “it’s time Douglas did something.”

[Illustration: THE ARCHERS, CROUCHING IN THE DITCH, LOOKED ON,
HORROR-STRICKEN.]

The Archers cheered this.

It was well known that Douglas did not care to expose himself
unnecessarily to danger. But Douglas received the suggestion with stoic
courage. Despite his preference for a quiet life, Douglas was no coward.

“All right,” he said resignedly, “jus’ tell me how to do it, an’ I’ll
do it.”

But the discussion was interrupted by the sight of the big fat man with
the red face and white moustache emerging from his tent, map in hand.

“There he is!” hissed Ginger. “Din’ I _tell_ you? Map’n all!”

With eyes starting out of their heads the Archers watched the progress
of the red-faced warrior as he came slowly down the field, his eyes
still fixed on the map outspread in his hands.

“Wonder what he’s thinkin’ about,” said Ginger.

“Whatever he’s thinkin’ about,” said William knowingly, “I bet he’s
thinkin’ about it in a foreign langwidge.”

The fat, red-faced man was coming to the gate of the field. His eyes
still fixed on the map, he came out into the road.

The Archers, looking round for a hiding-place, saw none but the
ditch into which they hastily precipitated themselves. The man came
slowly down the road, still looking at the map. He passed the Archers
crouching in the ditch. The sight of the enemy thus within his grasp
was too much for William. Without waiting to consider or reason William
acted.

General Bastow, walking peaceably down the road studying his map as he
went, was amazed to see a boy suddenly scramble up out of the ditch by
the roadside. A moment later he was still more amazed to receive the
full force of the boy’s bullet-head in his stomach, and to be forced by
its sheer iron weight into a sitting posture in the dust. For a moment
physical agony blinded him to everything but the outrage committed by
that dastardly boy upon his digestive organs. Then his vision cleared.
He found his map gone and a boy disappearing on the horizon. It was not
General Bastow’s habit to receive any outrage sitting down (except as
in this case inadvertently). With a roar of fury he set off in pursuit,
less in order to recover his map (of which he had other copies) than in
order to inflict condign punishment upon the person of his assailant.
But it was not for nothing that William was pursued regularly and
unavailingly by all the local farmers. William’s life had perforce
been largely spent in throwing off pursuers. When General Bastow,
plum-coloured and panting, had reached the cross-roads, there was no
sign of William anywhere. It seemed futile to continue the pursuit, so
the elderly warrior, panting and rumbling like a threatening volcano,
returned slowly back along the road to the gate, which led into the
field, and back into his tent. When he had finally disappeared, still
rumbling furiously, into his tent, the Archers scrambled out of the
ditch in an awestruck silence and went towards the cross-roads where
William had vanished.

There they saw William emerging, jaunty and unshaken, from behind a
hayrick in a neighbouring field, carrying the map. He joined them on
the road.

“Well,” he chuckled, “_now_ they’ll be in a nice fix. They jolly well
won’t know what to do without the map. They won’t know where they are
or anythin’. I say”--with a reminiscent chuckle--“din’t he go down with
a flop?” Then with his own inimitable swagger: “My head’s jolly strong.
I bet there’s jolly well no one I can’t knock over with my head.”

“What’ll we do next?” said Ginger joyfully.

“Oh, jus’ watch ’em for a bit,” said William, “they won’t know what to
do without their map.”

Next day every movement of the innocent company of territorials was
interpreted by William as one of utter bewilderment and despair.

“Look at ’em, marchin’ down there, cause that’s where they saw me go
off with the map an’ they’re tryin’ to find it. They dunno what to do
without it. Look at that one goin’ into the village. He’s goin’ to
try’n buy another map an’ he won’t be able to ’cause they don’t keep
’em. Look at that one postin’ a letter. He’s writin’ off to the foreign
country they come from to tell ’em that they’ve had the map took and to
ask ’em what to do.”

The great discovery was when he found a company of them digging a
trench, at the end of the field.

“Look at ’em. They’re givin’ up tryin’ to conquer England now they’ve
had their map took off them an’ they daren’t go home by ship, same as
they came, because they know now that someone knows about ’em with
getting their map stole--so look at ’em. I bet they live at the other
side of the world an’ they’re tryin’ to dig themselves through back to
their homes, you know, ’cause of the world bein’ round like what they
say it is in geography.”

The Archers were so pleased with his idea that they cheered again
lustily. Its only drawback was that few of them had really in their
hearts ever subscribed to the theory that the earth is round. As
Douglas said--when they began now to discuss the idea afresh:

“Stands to reason, dun’t it, that folks can’t walk about upside down
like flies. They’d drop off the earth altogether. Even if they tried
holdin’ on by trees an’ things they’d be sure to drop off in the end.
Ships couldn’t stay in the sea either. They’d drop out.”

“And the sea cun’t stay there neither,” said Ginger, elaborating the
theme. “You can’t have water stayin’ in a place upside down without
anythin’ to keep it in. It’d spill out.”

“Well, what’re we goin’ to do about this foreign army?” said an Archer
who was not interested in the problematical shape of the earth.

“Jus’ wait an’ watch ’em for a bit still,” said William. “We’ve got
their map. They can’t do anythin’ without their map.”

But by the end of the next day both William and his Archers had tired
of waiting and watching.

They felt that the time was ripe for some decisive coup, and so they
met in William’s back garden to decide what form exactly the coup
should take. William led the discussion.

“I votes,” he said, “that we get the general man away from them
somehow. Then when we attack them they’ll have no one to tell’m what to
do. They’ll be without a leader an’ we’ll easy be able to put ’em to
flight.”

“Yes, but _how_’ll we get the ole general away from them?” demanded the
Archers.

“Well, we’ll talk about that now,” said William.

So they talked about that.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next evening was the last evening of the manœuvres and there was a
relaxed atmosphere about the camp. General Bastow set off to dine with
an acquaintance who lived at the further end of the village, though
the General wasn’t quite sure where, as he’d never visited him before
at home. Dusk was falling as he walked along the road. He had been
terribly bored by the manœuvres and he still hadn’t forgotten that
brutal attack perpetrated upon him in broad daylight by that dastardly
young ruffian. He was certain that his liver had never been the same
since. He still had hopes of meeting that young ruffian face to face.
He’d never come across a place with so many boys in it. Crowds of boys
seemed to have been watching the camp ever since they settled there,
peeping over the hedge, following men and officers about. He was rather
short-sighted, and he hadn’t had time to look for that young ruffian
again, but he’d know him if he saw him. He turned a corner of the
road and suddenly came across a small boy crying bitterly. It was the
youngest Archer, but the General, of course, could not know this, nor
could the General know that the whole body of Archers was concealed in
the muddy ditch, watching the encounter. The General did not like small
boys, but he felt that he could not pass by a small boy in such deep
distress without some offer of assistance.

“Well, well, well,” he bellowed irritably, “what’s the matter with you,
my little man?”

“I’m lo--o--o--o--ost!” sobbed his little man.

“Oh, nonsense! nonsense!” boomed the General. “Nonsense! We’ll soon
find your home for you!”

“T--thank you,” sobbed his little man, slipping his hand confidingly in
his. “T--thank you.”

The General had not quite bargained for this. He had not meant to spend
his evening finding a home for a lost boy, but fate seemed to have
thrust the situation upon him.

“Where do you think you live, my little man?” he said testily.

“D--down this road, I think,” sobbed his little man.

In the gathering dusk he led his rescuer down the road.

“Will you recognise the house when you see it?” said the General.

“Y--yes, I think so,” sobbed the youngest Archer.

“Well, stop crying, my good child, stop crying. Try to be a man. Crying
won’t do any good.”

The youngest Archer stopped crying. He was glad to be told to stop
crying. It is quite easy to sob convincingly for a minute or two
but difficult to continue it indefinitely. He was afraid that his
performance was beginning to lack realism. At each house along the road
the General said, “Do you think you live here, my little man?” and his
little man said with a break in his voice of which he was secretly
proud, “No--no. N--not here.” Till they got to the large house at the
end of the road, then, when the General said, “Do you live here, my
little man?” the youngest Archer said, brightly, “Why, yes, I think--I
_think_ it’s here.”

They entered the wrought iron gates together, and walked half-way
up the drive. Then the youngest Archer gently withdrew his hand and
disappeared in the dusk. The General stood gazing around, his eyes
and mouth wide open. The child had vanished as completely as if the
earth had opened to swallow him up. Behind him he heard a clang of
metal as the iron gates swung to. As he was standing there, amazed and
indecisive, the front door opened and a voice said:

“That you, General?”

With relief the General recognised the voice of the friend with whom he
was going to dine.

“Found your way to the house all right?” went on the friend.

“Well, a curious chance led me here,” said the General, “as a matter of
fact, I’d no idea it was your house till you spoke. A little boy who
said he was lost--but he was probably playing a trick on me, the young
ruffian. All boys are the same. Why, only the other day on the main
road in broad daylight----”

Talking volubly he entered the hall with his host who shut the front
door behind him.

When the General and the realistically sobbing youngest Archer had
turned the bend of the road, the main body of Archers with their bows
and arrows climbed out of the ditch and clustered round William.

“Well,” said William, “I mus’ say he did that jolly well--_jolly_
well---- Now let’s sep’rate. Ginger an’ Douglas and half of you go
after them an’ me ’n’ the others’ll go back an’ charge the soldiers an’
with him not bein’ there they won’t know what to do, an’ they’ll have
no one to lead ’em. Come on!”

With a flourish he led his half army away and Ginger and his little
band set off cautiously down the road in the wake of the General and
the youngest Archer.

Soon they saw the youngest Archer come out of the gates, shut them
behind him, and run excitedly down the road to meet them.

“I’ve shut him in,” he said in a shrill whisper, “he’s in all right.”

They approached the iron gate and clustered around it, watching and
listening. All was as still and silent as it had been when the youngest
Archer left it. He could not know, of course, that he had led the
General to his host nor that in that brief interval during which he
ran to greet and report to his friends, the General had been received
and admitted by the master of the house. They gazed and listened. All
was still--all was silent--and it was growing dark.

“He’s creepin’ about the garden, I bet,” said the youngest Archer,
“tryin’ to find a way out---- Look, I believe I c’n see him. Over
there.”

The more imaginative of the Archers said that they thought they could
see him too.

“Well, half of us’ll stay here guardin’ this gate,” said Ginger, “an’
shoot him if he tries to come out, an’ half go round to the back gate,
an’ guard that an’ shoot him if he tries to come out. He won’t _dare_
to try’n take refuge in the house, ’cause it’s Mr. Hunter’s, an he’s a
magistrate an’ he’d know at once that he was a foreign enemy an’ put
him in prison. He’ll either stay hidin’ in the garden or else try’n’
get out of this gate when we’ll shoot him or else try’n’ get out of the
other gate when the others’ll shoot him.”

The others had already gone round to the side gate. Ginger and his
little band pressed their noses against the wrought iron and gazed
intently into the garden.

It was a windy night and black shadows moved with the swaying trees.

“Look, there he is,” Ginger would say, “crouchin’ down there! Look! He
moved! D’you see!”

The Archers saw. With every minute that passed their imaginations grew
keener and there was not one of them who did not distinctly see the
dark shadow of General Bastow, creeping round the corners of the house
and beneath the trees.

“He’s gettin’ desperater an’ desperater,” said Ginger, “he daren’t go
in ’cause he knows it’s a magistrate livin’ there, an’ he daren’t come
out ’cause he knows we’re waitin’ to shoot him, an’ he’s jus’ creepin’
about gettin’ desperater an’ desperater.”

It happened that in Mr. Hunter’s garden was a pond much frequented
by frogs. Suddenly through the night air came the sound of a frog’s
croak--then another--then another.

“Listen to him moanin’ an’ groanin’,” interpreted Ginger, “gettin’
desperater an’ desperater.”

There came the sound of a splash as a frog jumped into the pond and
then silence.

“He’s drowned himself,” said Ginger in an awestruck voice. “He’s got
desperater an’ desperater till he’s drowned himself.”

There was another silence.

“He must have,” said Ginger. “I don’t see him creepin’ about anywhere
now, do you?”

The Archers didn’t.

“Let’s go’n’ look,” said a specially bold one.

They opened the gate cautiously and crept up the drive past the house
to the pond. It was perhaps as well that they could not see through
the dining-room blind the figure of their supposed victim sitting at a
table, stout and red-faced as ever, eating and drinking heartily.

They clustered round the pond. Dark shadows lay at the bottom of it.

“I can see his dead body,” said Ginger, “can’t you? Over there. Under
that tree. Right at the bottom.”

The more imaginative Archers said that they could see his dead body
quite plainly. The less imaginative ones said that they thought they
could.

“Well, we’d better go,” said Ginger. “Now he’s drowned hisself there’s
no use stayin’ here keepin’ guard. Let’s get over the side gate an’
go’n’ help William.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile William and his band had walked back to the field where
the “foreign enemy” was still entrenched. Just behind the trench was
the high wall which bounded a garden belonging to Miss Milton, an
inveterate enemy of William’s. But--fortunately for William--Miss
Milton was away on her holiday and a caretaker occupied the house.
William had little fear or respect for caretakers. He knew by long
experience that they spent most of their time sleeping, were generally
deaf and short-sighted and always short-winded. Heartened by this
thought he collected and addressed his followers.

“_Now’s_ the time for us to attack ’em,” he said flourishing his bow
and arrows in a warlike manner. “_Now’s_ the time, while they haven’t
got their leader to tell ’em what to do. We’ll go into Miss Milton’s
garden--careful, ’cause the old woman mightn’t be asleep, but anyway
she’s sure to be deaf so it’ll be all right. We’ll climb up behind
the wall an’ lean over an’ attack ’em with the bow an’ arrers an’ I
bet you--I jolly well bet you _anythin’_ you like that we put ’em to
flight.”

The Archers cheered in shrill excitement and marched off gaily in
their leader’s wake. William knew the best hole through the hedge into
Miss Milton’s garden. William knew the best holes through the hedges
into most of his neighbours’ gardens. This was not unnatural as most
of them had been made by the frequent furtive passage of William’s
body. The other Archers followed less nimbly being less accustomed
than their leader to such means of entrance. In the garden William
stood and looked about him. All was silent and empty. There was not
even a serpent in the garden in the shape of a gardener. And the
windows at the back of the house were reassuringly blank. No suspicious
caretaker’s face was visible at any of them. William heaved a sigh of
relief.

“_That’s_ all right,” he said to his army. “Now come along--_creep_--to
the bottom where the wall is.”

They crept to the bottom of the garden, William creeping at their head.
They imitated faithfully William’s manner of creeping, but none of
them approached William’s creeping form. William was justly proud of
his creeping. Not for nothing had he practised being a Red Indian and
a robber chief and a cinema villain painstakingly and for many years.
He had brought creeping to a fine art. The finest villain on the cinema
stage might have learnt something from William’s creeping. It was not
perhaps a very unobtrusive mode of procedure but it was dramatic.
He suited his expression to his walk and assumed an air of furtive
cunning. So wrapt up was he in fulfilling his rôle of creeper to his
own satisfaction that it was not till he reached the bottom of the
garden that he realised that the wall was too high for them and that
they could not possibly see over it, much less launch an attack from
the top of it. The other Archers were taken aback, but William assumed
his stern frown of leadership.

“We’ll jus’ have to get somethin’ to stand on,” he hissed in a dramatic
whisper.

A small Archer attempted a cheer but was muffled and cuffed by an older
one.

So they set about finding something to stand on. Under William’s
direction, and still creeping with melodramatic furtiveness to and fro,
they fetched a table from a summer-house and put upon it a row of large
plant pots upside down. As this did not hold them all, others moved
forward a cucumber frame, stood it up sideways and balanced plant plots
upon it. Then laboriously and, miraculously, without accident, they
mounted the precarious erection and peeped cautiously over the top of
the wall. Yes, the soldiers were still in the trench below them.

“Get your bows an’ arrers ready,” hissed William.

They got them ready as best they could, holding on to the wall with
one hand while the erection of table and cucumber frame and plant pots
rocked beneath them.

“One, two, three--_fire!_” said William.

They fired.

[Illustration: “ONE, TWO, THREE--_FIRE!_” SAID WILLIAM. THEY FIRED.]

It is one thing to stand on firm ground and take careful aim at a
target affixed to a tree near you and quite another to shoot over
the top of a wall on to which you have to hold with your chin while
an unsteady erection of plant pots and cucumber frame rocks beneath
you. Most of the arrows went rather wild. But it happened that as the
_grande finale_ of the manœuvres the soldiers were practising an “over
the top” charge out of the trench and across the field, and just as
William’s band shot their arrows the officer gave the signal to charge.
The soldiers swarmed up out of the trench and began to rush across the
field.

“We’ve put ’em to flight,” roared William triumphantly, “we’ve p----”

[Illustration: THE SOLDIERS SWARMED UP OUT OF THE TRENCH AND BEGAN TO
RUSH ACROSS THE FIELD.]

But at this point the whole erection of plant pots, table and cucumber
frame collapsed with a terrific clatter of breaking glass and pots.
Shaken and apprehensive the Archers picked themselves up from the
débris. Their apprehensions were not unfounded for immediately the
kitchen door burst open and caretaker and gardener rushed out in
avenging fury. The Archers, leaving their weapons ignominiously behind
in the enemies’ territory, scrambled precipitately through the hedge
and were not a moment too soon. In fact the gardener seized the foot of
the last Archer, who, with great presence of mind, wriggled his foot
out of his shoe and, leaving his shoe in the gardener’s hand, fled
after the others down the road pursued by the shoe which the gardener
flung after them, and which hit William neatly on the head. William
was just about to throw it back and see if he could hit the gardener
equally neatly on the head when its owner, who had been trying to
invent a plausible explanation of its absence for his mother, snatched
it from William’s hand and put it on as he ran. The Archers did not
dare to go down the road again towards the field where the irate
gardener and caretaker presumably awaited them. So they marched down
the road where they had left Ginger and his band, chanting pæans of
victory. It was almost dark when they met Ginger and his band. They
also were coming down the road chanting pæans of victory.

“We put ’em to flight,” yelled William as soon as he caught sight of
his friend.

“He’s drowned hisself,” yelled Ginger joyously. They met and began
excitedly to exchange reports.

“We just fired once,” said William, “an’----”

“We shut the gate on him,” said Ginger, “an’----”

“They went dashin’ out of their hole terrified an’----”

“He went moanin’ an’ groanin’ about the garden----”

“Simply _terrified_----”

“Gettin’ desperater an’ desperater.”

“An’ went tearin’ away over the field.”

“An’ at last went an’ drowned himself in a pond....”

“We saw ’em _tearin’_ away over the field.”

“We heard a big splash and then saw his dead body in the pond an’----”

The Archers would have liked to have gone back to the field to see
whether there were any traces of the routed enemy, but the thought of
the caretaker and gardener, who probably still lay in wait for them
with hostile intent, deterred them.

“We’d better not go back,” said William, “they may’ve left bombs or--or
snipers or somethin’, but,” he ended impressively, “I can jolly well
tell you that there won’t be _one_ of ’em left to-morrow mornin’.
They’ll all go back home in their ships to-night.”

And William was right in the first part of his prophecy. There was not
one of them left in the morning. They had, as originally arranged,
departed with praiseworthy dispatch and smartness in the early hours of
the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the next week and they were in William’s back garden. William
was still discussing the affair. The other Outlaws were beginning
to get rather bored with the airs William put on about it. William
seemed not to have stopped talking about it since it happened, and his
boasting grew more unbearable every day.

“I oughter have a statchoo put up to me,” he said. “I did it. It was
all my idea. I’ve saved the country an’ conquered a foreign enemy an’ I
oughter have a statchoo put up to me.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Ginger, “so ought I too, anyway, an’ anyway I’m
jolly well tired of it an’ let’s go fishin’ again.”

“All right,” said William, taking up the stick which bore a bent pin
attached to it by a length of damp string. “All right. I don’t mind.
But wot I say is that I ought to have a statchoo put up to me for
savin’ the country. Yes, you ought to, too,” he concluded hastily as
Ginger began to speak, “you ought to, too, but I oughter have the
biggest one because it was my idea anyway. I oughter be put up on a
tall piller like Nelson. I ought----”

He stopped abruptly and stood as if petrified, his eyes staring in
horror and amazement at a figure which was just coming in at the front
gate.

General Bastow had returned after the manœuvres to spend a few days
with his friend, Mr. Hunter, had met Mr. Brown there and had to-day
been invited to the Browns’ to lunch. William did not know this. Ginger
and Douglas were equally petrified. The three of them stood transfixed
with horror--eyes and mouths open wide. The visitor strode jauntily up
to the front door. He did not see the three boys who were crouching
behind the bushes.

William recovered from his stupor first. He turned to Ginger and hissed:

“Thought you said he’d drowned himself ... thought you said you’d seen
his dead body.”

Ginger’s face was pale with horror.

“I did,” he gasped, “I did honest. This must be his ghost.”

“It can’t be,” said Douglas. “You can’t see through it.”

“You c-can’t always see through them,” said Ginger faintly.

“Dun’t _look_ like a ghost,” said William grimly.

“It _mus’_ be,” said Ginger recovering gradually his normal manner. “It
mus’ be. I tell you I _sor_ his dead body in the pond. He’s haunting us
’cause we made him kill himself same as you said you’d haunt the man
what nearly killed you with a motor car. I bet you _anythin’_ that if
you went up an’ gave him a good hit the hit’d go right through him.”

General Bastow had reached the front door and rung the bell. He stood
there twirling his white moustaches still unaware of the three boys
behind him.

“All right,” said William, “go’n do it. Go’n give him a good hit and
see if it goes through him.”

“All right, I will,” said Ginger unexpectedly.

Ginger had been so convinced that the black shadow at the bottom of the
pond was General Bastow’s dead body that he had no doubt at all that
this apparition was General Bastow’s ghost come back to haunt him. He
had decided to show it once for all that he was not afraid of it. _He_
would jolly well teach it to come haunting _him_.

Before either William or Douglas could stop him he had crept up behind
the gallant warrior and dealt him a sound punch in the small of his
back. The General started round, purple-faced and snorting with
anger. The impact of his fist with the solid flesh of the General had
convinced Ginger at once that this was no ghostly visitant from another
world, and panic-stricken he had darted off into the bushes like a
flash of lightning. Douglas, with admirable presence of mind, had
followed him, and when the General turned, purple-faced and snorting,
only William was there standing behind him, rooted to the spot in
sheer horror. And at that moment William’s father opened the door. The
General pointed a fierce finger at William.

“Th-a-t boy’s just hit me,” he spluttered, going a still more terrific
purple.

At this monstrous accusation the power of speech returned to William.

“I d-didn’t,” he gasped, “Ginger did. Ginger hit you b-because he
thought you were a ghost.”

The enormous figure of the General seemed to grow more enormous still
and his purple face more purple still. His eyes were bulging.

“Thought I was a g---- Thought I was a _what_?”

“A ghost,” said William.

“A GHOST?” roared the General.

“Yes, a ghost,” said William; “he thought he’d drowned you and you’d
come back to haunt him.”

“He thought--WHAT?” bellowed the General.

“He thought he’d drowned you and you’d come back to haunt him. He was
hitting you to see if the hit would go through you.”

The General stared at him and stared and stared. And a memory came back
to him--a memory of a dusty road, a bullet-head in his stomach and an
unavailing pursuit. He looked as if he were going to have an apoplectic
fit. He pointed a trembling finger at William.

“Why--_you’re_ the boy,” he sputtered, “who----”

William’s father intervened quietly.

“Yes,” he said. “Come and tell me what he did indoors.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was evening. William and Ginger and Douglas sat gloomily in
William’s back garden.

“That’s all one gets,” said William bitterly, “for savin’ one’s
country. That’s all one gets for puttin’ a foreign enemy to flight.
Bein’ treated like that. Oh, no, no one believes me, do they? Oh, no.
They’ll believe any lies any foreign enemy tells them, won’t they? but
not me, not me what’s saved the country. They won’t believe anythin’ I
say. Oh, no. I can save the country from a foreign enemy, but _that_
doesn’t make any difference. Oh, no. They won’t listen to a word I
say. Oh, no. But they’ll listen to a foreign enemy all right. Oh, yes.
Well, I’ve jolly well finished with ’em and _now--now_”--impressively
he brought out his terrible threat--“if they came to me on their knees
_beggin’_ to put up a statchoo to me, I wouldn’t let ’em.”




CHAPTER IV

WILLIAM--THE MONEY MAKER


The Outlaws stood around and gazed expectantly at William.

“Well, where’re we goin’ to get ’em?” said Ginger.

“Buy ’em,” said William after a moment’s deep thought.

There was another silence. The solution was felt to be unworthy of
William.

“_Buy_ ’em!” echoed Douglas in a tone that expressed the general
feeling, “_buy_ ’em! Who’s got any money?”

This question being unanswerable remained unanswered. It was a strange
fact that the Outlaws never had any money. They all received pocket
money regularly and they all received the usual tips from visiting
relatives, but the fact remained that they never had any money. Most
of it, of course, went in repairing the wreckage that followed in the
train of their normal activities--broken windows, shattered greenhouse
frames, ruined paintwork and ornaments which seemed to the Outlaws
deliberately to commit self-destruction on their approach. As William
frequently remarked with deep bitterness:

“Meanness, that’s what it is. Meanness. Anythin’ to keep the money
themselves ’stead of givin’ it to us. Seems to me they go about makin’
things easy to break so’s they c’n have an excuse for keeping it
themselves instead of givin’ it us. _Meanness._ That’s what it is.”

The parents of the Outlaws who formed a sort of unofficial Parents’
Union and generally worked in concert had evolved the system of
fines--one penny for being late to a meal, a halfpenny for dirty hands
at meals and a farthing for not scraping their boots before coming into
the house (merely wiping them was insufficient. The Outlaws always
brought in with them the larger part of the surrounding countryside).
What was salvaged from the general wreckage of their finances caused by
this ruthless tyranny seldom passed the test of the close proximity of
Mr. Moss’ sweet shop with its bottles of alluring sweets and its boxes
of less lasting but more intriguing chocolate “fancies.”

“_Buy_ ’em,” echoed Henry with deep feeling. “What’re we to buy ’em
with? There’s _laws_ to stop people takin’ money off other people,
but my father”--with heavy sarcasm--“don’t seem to have heard of ’em.
He’ll be gettin’ into trouble one of these days takin’ other people’s
money off them. He’s startin’ with me, what he thinks can’t do anythin’
back, but he’ll be goin’ on to other people soon like what the Vicar
said people always do what begin pickin’ an’ stealin’ in little things
an’ then he’ll be gettin’ into trouble. Takin’ sixpence off me jus’
for bein’ late for a few meals! An’ then they keep sayin’ why don’t
we _save_. Well, what _I_ say is why don’ they give us somethin’ to
_save_, ’fore they start goin’ on an’ on at us for not savin’. Not
that I b’lieve in savin’,” he added hastily, “I don’ b’lieve in savin’
an’ I never have b’lieved in savin’. Money isn’t doin’ any good to
anyone--not while you’re savin’ it. I think it’s _wrong_ to save money.
Money doesn’t do any good to you or to anyone else. Not while you’re
savin’ it. It’s kinder to help the poor shop people by spendin’ money
at their shops. How’re the poor people in shops goin’ to live if all
the people save their money an’ don’t spend any of it?... Well, anyway
that’s what _I_ think.”

This was for Henry an unusually long and an unusually eloquent speech.
It showed that he had been stirred to the depth of his feelings. There
was a moment’s impressed silence. Then the others murmured in sympathy
and Douglas said: “Let’s go’n look at ’em again.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They were in the window of the little general shop at the other end of
the village.... Three of them, beautiful in shape and strength and size
and symmetry, with brass tops--cricket stumps. They were priced eight
and sixpence.

“Golly!” said Ginger wistfully. “Just think of _playin’_ with ’em!”

“You _can_ get ’em cheaper than that,” suggested Douglas tentatively,
“you can get ’em for three and six. Smaller, of course, and not so
nice.”

The Outlaws, who were flattening their noses against the glass and
gazing at the stumps like so many Moseses gazing at the Promised Land,
treated Douglas’ suggestion with contempt.

“Who’d want to play with cheap ones after seeing these ones?” said
William sternly. “There’s no _sense_ in talkin’ about _cheap_ ones now
we’ve seen these ones. I--I’d sooner go on playin’ with the tree than
play with _other_ ones now we’ve seen these ones.”

The Outlaws had these holidays developed a passion for cricket.
They had, of course, partaken in the pastime in previous years,
but listlessly and with boredom as in a pastime organised by the
school authorities and therefore devoid of either sense or interest.
Fielding had, of course, provided ample opportunity for studying the
smaller fauna which infested the cricket pitch (last term Ginger had
several times been hit squarely in the back while engaged in catching
grasshoppers at mid-on), and batting was usually of short duration, but
not until these holidays had the Outlaws regarded cricket as a game to
be played for its own sake when not under the eye of Authority. The
discovery was a thrilling one. The Outlaws in this as in everything
threw moderation to the winds. They played cricket in season and
out of season. They began the game before breakfast and continued it
throughout the day with intervals for meals. They considered cricket
far more enlivening when played with four players than when played with
twenty-two. Ginger’s elder brother gave them an old ball and Douglas
had had a bat for a birthday present. Stumps they did not worry about.
They chalked stumps on a tree trunk and played quite happily with them
for a long time. But they found that stumps chalked on a tree trunk
have their drawbacks, of which the chief one is that the bowler and
batter are seldom agreed as to when one is hit. The Outlaws generally
settled the question by single combat between batter and bowler, which
at first was all right because the Outlaws always enjoyed single
combats, but as the game itself became more and more exciting the
perpetual abandoning of it to settle the score by single combat became
monotonous and rather boring.

It was then that the Outlaws decided to procure stumps. Had they not
happened to see the eight and six set all would have been well. They
would have stuck sticks into the ground or scraped together enough
money to buy an inferior set at one and eleven. But--not now. Now that
they had seen the eight and six set of stumps, the set of stumps _de
luxe_, the set of stumps with brass tops from the Land of the Ideal,
they knew that all the savour would be gone from the game till they
possessed them.

“Eight and six,” said Douglas gloomily. “Well, we shall never get eight
and six, so we may as well stop thinking of them, and just do the best
we can with sticks.”

This spiritless attitude irritated William.

“_Why_ can’t we get eight an’ six?” he said. “Of course we c’n get
eight an’ six if we want it.”

“All right,” challenged Douglas, as irritated by William’s attitude as
William had been by his. “If you c’n get eight an’ six, go an’ _get_
eight an’ six.”

“All right, I will,” said William.

He hadn’t exactly meant to say this, but the words were out so he
accompanied them with a careless swagger.

They eyed him morosely and yet with a gleam of hope.

“Course you can’t get eight an’ six,” they said. “How c’n you get
eight an’ six?”

William having taken up a position, however rashly, was not going to
abandon it.

“P’raps _you_ can’t,” he said kindly. “I daresay _you_ can’t, but if
_I_ want to get eight an’ six I bet I c’n get eight an’ six.”

“Before to-night?” said Ginger. “You’ll bring ’em here to-night?”

William was for a second taken aback by thus having the soaring flights
of his fancy tied down to time and space.

He blinked for a moment, then recovering his swagger said:

“Course. You wait and see.”

       *       *       *       *       *

He walked home rather thoughtfully. Eight and six. The magnitude of the
sum staggered his imagination. How could he get one and six or even
sixpence, let alone eight and six? Not for the first time he regretted
those rash impulses that always seemed to visit him at critical moments
and make him undertake quite impossible tasks. The actual undertaking
was, of course, a glorious moment--the careless swagger, the impression
he gave himself as well as his audience of hidden resources, secret
powers--almost of omnipotence.

But afterwards--and _eight and six_! William felt as helpless as if
he had undertaken to provide a million pounds. He did not remember
ever possessing as much money as eight and six. He did not remember
ever knowing anyone who possessed as much money as eight and six. And
yet--he knew that his prestige was at stake. With simple, touching
faith the Outlaws were now looking to him to provide eight and six
before to-night.

Up till now William had, owing to strokes of pure luck, always managed
to make good his spectacular promises of the impossible, but this time
he thought that he had met his Sedan. He did not think it in those
exact words, of course, because he had not yet got to Napoleon. He
was still laboriously and uninspiredly doing the Wars of the Roses.
But he did think that he was in a beastly hole and he’d look a nice
fool when he met them to-night with only the twopence-halfpenny which
he might be able to extort from the boy next door, in exchange for
a set of cigarette-cards. (The boy next door never had more than
twopence-halfpenny, and as he did not collect cigarette-cards the
exchange would have to be forcibly effected.) Looking round all his
available resources, William did not see any prospect of anything
except that possible twopence-halfpenny. His family, of course, was out
of the question. His brother and sister always pretended that they had
no money which, as William knew, was absurd, considering that they were
grown up and had magnificent allowances and nothing to spend them on.
It seemed to William one of the many ironies of fate that when you were
young--say eleven--and had a lot of interesting things to buy, such as
cricket bats and sweets and pistols and airguns and mouth-organs, you
had only a measly twopence a week, and when you were old--say eighteen
like this brother--and had lost your taste for interesting things, they
gave you shillings and shillings which you simply went and wasted on
things like clothes and notepaper and suitcases and books (to quote a
few recent instances of waste of money which William had noticed in
the adult members of his family). It always made him feel bitter to
see perfectly good money which might have been spent on cricket bats
and sweets and pistols and airguns and mouth-organs squandered on such
things as clothes and notepaper and suitcases and books. His sister had
particularly disgusted him only the other week by buying an expensive
book of music. How much better and kinder it would have been, thought
William, to buy the cricket stumps for him....

His mother? His mother was softer hearted than any other member of
his family (which in William’s opinion was not saying much), but
only yesterday he had inadvertently spilt boiling sealing-wax on the
top of her polished writing-table while carrying on--without her
knowledge--some private and highly interesting experiments with a
sealing-wax set which she had won as a prize at a bridge drive. The
set consisted of little balls of sealing-wax and a tiny saucepan in
which to heat them over a little candle, and as soon as William saw it
he knew that his spirit would have no rest till he had tried it. As he
explained to her when she discovered the damage, he did not know that
it was going to boil over on to her table like that.... He had made
things worse by trying to get the mark out with ammonia because he had
seen his mother the night before getting a stain out of his suit with
ammonia.

His mother had covered up the mark by the simple expedient of putting
the ink pot upon it and had agreed to say nothing about it to William’s
father, but William felt it was hardly a propitious moment for
approaching her with a request for eight and sixpence....

His father? ... he hadn’t yet paid for the landing window and his
father was presumably still feeling annoyed about the cricket ball
which had accidentally hit him yesterday evening when William was
practising bowling in the garden. No: it would be little short of
suicidal to approach his father for eight and six to-day and quite
hopeless at any time. Extraordinary to think of the hundreds of pounds
which must be wasted on quite useless things every year and no one
would give him eight and six for a really necessary thing like cricket
stumps....

He wandered gloomily homeward. A youth with projecting teeth met him
and gave him an expansive smile of greeting. William replied with his
darkest scowl. He recognised the youth as Ethel’s latest admirer and
one of the most unsatisfactory admirers Ethel had ever had. He had
given the youth every chance to buy his good graces, and the youth
had not presented him with so much as a cigarette card. William, who
did not believe in wasting efforts, had long since ceased to greet
the youth with any attempt at pleasantness. Pleasantness to Ethel’s
admirers was in William’s eyes a marketable quality and this youth had
not seen fit to purchase it.

After turning to watch the youth out of sight and wasting upon the
youth’s unconscious back an exceptionally expressive grimace of scorn
and ridicule, William continued gloomily to plod his homeward way.

On arriving home he first went up to his bedroom and carried out a
systematic search of all his drawers and pockets. William was an
incurable optimist and always hoped to find some day a forgotten
coin in a pocket or a corner of a drawer. Ginger had once found a
halfpenny in the pocket of a flannel suit he had not worn since the
summer before, and ever after that all the other Outlaws had lived in
hopes of doing the same thing. The search, however, proved in this
case fruitless. It revealed only a rusty button and an old whistle
which must have lost some vital part, for though William, temporarily
forgetting the eight and six, expended a vast amount of wind and energy
on it no sound of any sort resulted. Thereupon, purple in the face and
breathless, he threw it indignantly out of the window. It seemed to
him a typical example of fate’s way of dealing with him. Even when he
found an old whistle it hadn’t any blow in it....

Scowling bitterly and still trying to devise some method by which one
might conjure eight and sixpence out of the void he descended to the
garden.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the garden he found his sister Ethel wearing a neat land girl’s
costume and weeding a bed. The Browns were temporarily without a
gardener, and Ethel had undertaken the care of the garden till a new
one should be engaged. She had done this chiefly because she had
discovered how extremely fascinating she looked in a land girl’s
outfit. The land girl’s outfit was partly responsible for the fatuous
smile on the projecting teeth of the youth who had just left her....

William watched her for a minute in silence. His thoughts were still
bitter. Spending money on that old gardening suit that might have been
used to buy the stumps.... His eye roved round the garden.... Spending
money on spades and rakes and watering cans and seeds and flowers and
things that didn’t do any good to anyone ... things that must have cost
ever so many eight and sixes, and they wouldn’t give him one little
eight and six to buy a useful thing like cricket stumps.

Suddenly an inspiration visited him.

“Can I help you, Ethel?” he said with an ingratiating smile.

She looked up at him suspiciously, began a curt refusal, then stopped.
She was growing tired of gardening. She was growing tired of her land
girl’s outfit. Its novelty had worn off and it was rather hot and
stuffy. The youth with projecting teeth admired her in it intensely,
but then she was growing tired of the youth with projecting teeth. She
stood up and stretched.

[Illustration: “CAN I HELP YOU, ETHEL?” WILLIAM SAID, WITH AN
INGRATIATING SMILE. ETHEL LOOKED UP AT HIM SUSPICIOUSLY.]

“How much do you want for it?” she demanded brusquely.

She laboured under no delusions as to the disinterestedness of
William’s offers of help. She had known William too long for that.

“Sixpence an hour,” said William daringly.

He never thought she’d give it him. But Ethel was sick of kneeling on
the ground in the hot sun in a suit of clothes she was beginning to
dislike, slaving for a lot of silly plants which didn’t seem to look
any better when she’d done with them.

“All right,” she said.

William did a hasty sum. Eight and six. Two sixpences in a shilling.
Twice eight are sixteen and the other sixpence seventeen. Seventeen
hours. _Crumbs!_

“I meant a shilling,” he said quickly.

“Well, you said sixpence and sixpence is all you’ll get,” said Ethel,
unfeelingly.

William was not surprised. He hadn’t really hoped for anything else
from Ethel. Well, it would be a beginning ... and perhaps when he’d got
this bit of money something else would turn up.

“What d’you want me to do?” he said.

“Water the rose beds with the hose pipe and weed the bed on the
lawn and pick a basket of strawberries for mother. _Pick_, not eat,
remember.”

William haughtily ignored the insult contained in the last sentence and
mentally contemplated his directions with a professional air.

“Well,” he said at last, “that’ll take me a good many hours. I daresay
that’ll take me all the rest of to-day, late into the night an’ most
of to-morrow.” He was struggling in his head with vast and complicated
mental sums ... hours into sixpences--sixpences into shillings.... She
interrupted them.

“It oughtn’t to take you more than two,” she said. “Anyway I’m not
paying you for more than two. It oughtn’t really to take you one.”

“_Well!_” said William in a tone of surprise and indignation, as if he
was unable to believe his ears. “_Well!_”

But Ethel was already out of earshot. She was going to change the land
girl’s outfit (which she had finally decided was not really her style
at all) for a dress of printed chiffon.

William stood and stared around the garden despondently. What was one
shilling in eight and six? Then his ever ready optimism came to his
aid. One shilling was better than nothing.... He might as well start on
it. What had she said first? The hose pipe.... Well, it wouldn’t be so
bad. Quite apart from the shilling the hose pipe always had its bright
side.... Normally William was forbidden the use of the hose pipe. Even
Ethel wouldn’t have told him to use the hose pipe if she hadn’t been in
a state of weary disgust with gardening in general and her land girl’s
suit in particular. William fitted on the hose pipe nozzle and turned
on the tap. He had no thought in his mind except the watering of the
rose beds as directed, and the earning of his shilling.

It was sheer bad luck that just at the critical moment when he was
about to deluge the rose bed he suddenly caught sight of his inveterate
enemy, the next-door cat, silhouetted against the sky on the top of
the wall. William did not stop to reason. He acted on the overpowering
impulse of the moment. He turned the full flow of the hose pipe on to
the person of his enemy. His enemy nimbly evaded it and it flowed in a
pellucid unbroken fountain over the wall into the next garden. There
came a shrill scream.

“The brute! He’s soaked me!” a voice shrilled.

“Me too!” screamed another. “Oh, the brute! Who was it? I’m soaked.”

“It must be that awful boy next door.”

“Look over the wall and see if you can see him. Stand on the chair!”

After a few minutes’ interval an irate and dripping head appeared
over the wall and looked around for William. It did not see William,
however. William, crouching behind the rain tub, was quite hidden
from view. It saw, however, the hose pipe flung upon the ground and
discharging its full force down the garden path.

“It’s him,” said the voice. “I don’t see him but I know it’s him. He’s
left the thing there. Look! Pouring out. It must be him.”

“Let’s go straight in to change and then go and tell his father. I’m
still soaked.”

The head disappeared; the sound of indignant voices grew fainter; a
distant door closed.

William emerged from behind the rain butt and hastened to turn off the
tap and put away the hose pipe.... All that beastly cat’s fault. Now he
came to think of it hose pipes always had been unlucky for him. There’d
been that little affair at the doctor’s only a few months ago....

Well, he’d better get on with the rest of it and try and get the
shilling safely before they were dry enough to come and see his father.
What had she told him to do next? Weed the bed on the lawn. William
promptly knelt down and weeded the bed on the lawn with commendable
thoroughness. There was no doubt at all in William’s mind as to what
constituted a weed. In William’s mind a weed was any plant he did not
know the name of. William knew the names of very few plants. When he
had finished weeding the bed contained a few straggling stocks and
asters and one marguerite. By his side lay a pile of uprooted lobelias,
petunias, calceolarias, veronicas and other plants. He carried these
carefully to the rubbish heap, then gazed with pride at the bed on
which he had been working.

“Looks a bit tidier now,” he said.

Only one more thing to do. What was that? Oh, a basket of strawberries.
He got a basket from the greenhouse and proceeded to the strawberry
bed. He sat down there and a languorous content stole over him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ethel appeared dressed in the printed chiffon. She looked very dainty
and bewitching. She’d decided to send the land girl’s suit to the next
parish jumble sale--it really wasn’t her style.... William ought to
have finished now. She’d give him his shilling and then she’d tell her
father that she’d done what she’d said she’d do in the garden and she
jolly well wouldn’t offer to do any more. Anyway, a new gardener would
be coming next week.... She suddenly stopped motionless, her eyes wide
open in horrified amazement. The rose bed was still unwatered, but the
garden path was completely swamped. Her eyes wandered slowly to the bed
on the lawn which she had told William to weed. It was as William had
left it--completely denuded except for half a dozen straggling plants
whose presence only emphasised its desolation. There was no sign of
William. Ethel went round to the kitchen garden. William was sitting on
the path by the strawberry bed still in a state of languorous content.
Ethel stared from the empty basket to the empty strawberry bed and from
the empty strawberry bed to William’s gently moving mouth.

“You _naughty_ boy!” said Ethel. “You’ve _eaten_ them, every one!”

William awoke with a start from his state of languorous content and
looked at the basket and the strawberry bed. He was almost as amazed
and horrified as Ethel.

“I say,” he said. “I din’t meant to eat ’em _all_. I din’t honest.
I only meant to try jus’ one or two jus’ to make sure they was all
right before I started pickin’ ’em. I--I expect really it’s the birds
that did it when they saw I wasn’t lookin’. _Honest_, I don’t think I
could’ve eaten ’em all--I’m sure I only ate just a few--jus’ to see
they was all right.”

Ethel’s fury burst forth.

“I shan’t give you any money and I shall tell father the _minute_ he
comes in.”

This reminded William of something else.

“I say, Ethel,” he said anxiously. “No one’s--no one’s been in to see
father jus’ lately, have they?”

“Oh,” snapped Ethel. “Why?”

“No, nothin’,” said William. “I mean I jus’ thought p’raps someone
might be jus’ sort of comin’ to see him, that’s all.”

Ethel turned on her heel and walked away. Slightly to relieve his
feelings William put out his tongue at her back. He might have known
Ethel would let him slave for her for all this time and then not give
him a penny. It was just like Ethel. He’d known her all his life and he
might have known she’d play him a mean trick like that. Getting him to
work like a nigger and promising him a shilling and then not giving him
a penny jus’ because--well jus’ because of hardly anything.

A great despondency possessed William. He seemed to be farther off the
eight and six than ever.... Ethel being Ethel would not be likely to
forget to tell his father and presumably the recipients of the contents
of the hose pipe were already drying themselves in preparation for
their visit.... He was in for a rotten time. He wouldn’t have minded
if he’d got the eight and six. He wouldn’t mind anything if he’d got
the eight and six. He decided that it would be as well to leave the
strawberry bed, so after carefully wiping his mouth to remove any
chance stains, he wandered disconsolately round to the front of the
house. His mother was coming out of the front door, dressed in her best
clothes.

It struck Mrs. Brown that her younger son was looking rather pathetic.
She was short-sighted and she often mistook William’s expression of
fury and disgust for one of pathos. It was a mistake which had often
served William well.

“Would you like to come with me, dear?” she said pleasantly.

“Where to?” said William guardedly.

“To a nice little Sale of Work in Miss Milton’s garden,” said his
mother. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

William was sure he wouldn’t, but it occurred to him that he might as
well be at Miss Milton’s nice little Sale of Work as anywhere. Better
than staying at home where his father and the next-door neighbours
might arrive any minute.

“A’ right,” said William graciously. “I don’t mind.”

“Very well, dear. I’ll wait for you. Go and wash and brush yourself.”

“I have washed and brushed myself,” said William. “I did it specially
well this morning to last the day.”

“Well, it hasn’t done, dear,” said Mrs. Brown simply. “So go and do it
again.”

With a deep, deep sigh expressive of bitterness and disillusion and
unexampled patience under unexampled wrongs, William went to do it
again.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first person he saw at the Sale of Work was Ethel in the printed
chiffon accompanied by the young man with projecting teeth. William,
who had detached himself from his mother, passed them without
acknowledging them and hoped that they felt small. As a matter of fact
they had not noticed him. He wandered about the garden. It might have
been a more or less enjoyable affair for there were bran tubs and
coco-nut shies and Aunt Sallies on a small scale--had William not been
weighed down by his heavy financial anxieties. He was obsessed by the
thought of the eight and six.

There simply didn’t seem any way in the world of getting eight and
six....

He found his mother and assuming that expression that he found so
useful in his dealings with her said:

“Mother, please may I have a little money to spend here?”

His mother was obviously touched by his tone and expression, but after
a brief inward struggle seemed to conquer her weaker feelings.

“I’m afraid not, William dear, because you know what your father said
about the landing window last week. But I’ll give you just one penny,
because it’s all in a good cause and I’m sure your father didn’t mean
when it was a case of charity. But not more than one penny.”

So Mrs. Brown gave him a penny which he pocketed carefully as the
nucleus of the eight and six.

Then he began to wander disconsolately round the grounds again. A small
tent bearing the legend “Crystal Gazer” attracted his attention. He
looked at it with interest for some time, then turned to a bystander.

“What’s a Crystal Gazer?” he asked.

“A sort of fortune teller,” answered the bystander absently.

A sort of fortune teller ... perhaps a fortune teller might tell him
how to get eight and six.... William went off to find his mother. She
was serving at a stall. He assumed his pathetic expression and wistful
voice again.

“Mother, please,” he said. “May I have my crystal gazed?”

But Mrs. Brown was busy and the effect of William’s pathetic expression
and wistful voice was beginning to wear off.

“No, dear,” she said very firmly. “I don’t believe in it. I think it
very wrong to meddle with the future.”

William walked back to the tent deeply interested. The fact that his
mother considered it wrong invested it with a sort of glamour in his
eyes, and “meddling with the future” sounded vaguely exciting. The
tent was not opened yet, but was due to open in ten minutes. Already a
queue of prospective clients was lined up before the doorway. William
wandered round to the back of the tent. He had forgotten even the
eight and six in a consuming curiosity about the crystal gazing. The
back of the tent was quite deserted. Cautiously William descended to
his hands and knees, held up the canvas and peeped underneath. Inside
the tent was the young man with projecting teeth and a girl whom
William recognised as the young man’s sister. The young man was just
giving her a paper.

[Illustration: WILLIAM LAY ON THE GROUND AND LISTENED.]

“She doesn’t know you’re going to do it, does she?” the young man was
saying.

“No. And I shall be wearing this veil. It quite hides my face.”

“Well, just say to her what’s on this paper, will you?”

“All right.” The girl put the paper on the table and said, “Now do get
out. I’ve got to start.”

[Illustration: “I SEE SOMEONE,” THE CRYSTAL GAZER SAID IMPRESSIVELY
“WHOSE LIFE IS CLOSELY BOUND UP WITH YOURS.”

“WHO IS HE?” SAID ETHEL, WITH INTEREST.]

The young man got out and after a few minutes the queue began to enter
one by one. William lay on the ground and listened beneath the canvas
flap. He found it rather dull. When it was a girl the crystal gazer
saw either a dark man or a fair man in the crystal and when it was a
man the crystal gazer saw either a dark girl or a fair girl in the
crystal....

It was so dull that William was just going to abandon his post of
eavesdropping when Ethel entered. He saw the crystal gazer move the
paper on her table, concealed from Ethel by a book, so that she could
read it.

“I see someone,” she read impressively from the paper, “whose life is
closely bound up with yours. At present you do not appreciate him. You
are harsh and cold to him. But he has great qualities which you have
not yet discovered. He is a far nobler character than you think.”

“Who is he?” said Ethel with interest.

“I will show you how to tell who he is,” said the crystal gazer. “I can
see him here. He is giving you a present. I can even see the time. It
is just five minutes after you leave this tent. I see him again. He is
sitting next to you at tea. I see him again. He is meeting you on your
way home. He asks you a question. Let me tell you that the happiness of
your whole life depends upon your saying ‘yes.’ That is all I have to
tell.”

Looking deeply impressed Ethel left the tent by the front.

Looking equally impressed William left the tent by the back.

It was exactly five minutes after Ethel left the tent when William,
carrying a penny bag of monkey nuts, met the young man carrying a
five-shilling bunch of roses and wearing a fatuous smile.

“You lookin’ for Ethel?” said William.

“Yes.”

“She’s right over the other end by the gate,” said William.

The young man hastened off towards the gate.

William went to his mother’s stall where Ethel was helping and handed
her the bag of monkey nuts.

“Here’s a little present for you, Ethel,” he said.

Suspiciously Ethel opened it. Ordinarily she would have accepted it
either as a deliberate insult or as a feeble attempt to buy her
silence about the hose pipe and the strawberries. But she looked at the
clock. It was just five minutes after her departure from the crystal
gazer’s tent....

She threw a bewildered glance at William’s expressionless face and
received the bag with a confused murmur. It was certainly curious, a
present just five minutes after leaving the tent ... someone she didn’t
appreciate. The young man did not find her till ten minutes afterwards
and she was still puzzling so deeply over her mysterious present from
William at the exact minute foretold by the crystal gazer that she
hardly noticed the roses at all--merely murmured “thanks” and put them
on the side table and went on thinking about William presenting her
with a bag of monkey nuts at the exact minute foretold by the crystal
gazer.

The young man was on the look-out when Ethel and Mrs. Brown went to
the tea tent. He accompanied them, walking on the other side of Ethel,
talking, and smiling amicably. William walked behind. They entered the
tea tent. They approached the row of chairs. They began to sit down on
three chairs, Mrs. Brown at one end, Ethel in the middle and--it wasn’t
till the young man was in the act of sitting down that he saw that
William was on the seat. William was sitting between Ethel and him.
Ethel was staring at William in amazement. William was gazing in front
of him unperturbed and sphinx-like, as though in a trance. The young
man asked William to change places with him. William refused. He said
that he’d better sit there so that he could pass things to his sister
and his mother and Mrs. Brown said that that was very nice of him,
and thought how William’s manners were improving, and that she must
remember to tell his father.

Ethel was very silent. She continued to gaze at William with mingled
amazement and bewilderment and anxiety. The fortune teller had said
“he”--William had given her a present and here he was sitting next
to her at tea--most curious. She was so silent that the young man
finally gave up all attempts to entertain her and contented himself
with glaring balefully at William. William continued to gaze blankly in
front of him as if unaware of their presence and to make a very good
tea.

       *       *       *       *       *

People were going home now. Mrs. Brown was staying to help dismantle
the stalls but Ethel had set off home by herself. She was going the
short cut home across the fields. She climbed over a stile. She saw the
young man at the other end of the field standing by the further stile
obviously waiting for her. She walked demurely and daintily towards
him. Then suddenly as if he had sprung up from a ditch (which as a
matter of fact he had) William appeared.

“Please, Ethel,” he said meekly, “will you give me eight and six?”

She stared at him open-mouthed with amazement at the request--the cheek
of it! And then her thoughts travelled suddenly back to the crystal
gazer ... “meet on your way home” ... “request” ... “happiness of your
whole life depends upon your saying yes.”

Ethel was superstitious. Dreadful things might happen to her if she
refused and yet--_eight and six_. Still--no, she daren’t refuse.
_Anything_ might happen to her if she refused.... Furiously she opened
her purse ... _eight and six_--it would only leave her a pound till the
end of the month.

Angrily she flung the coins at William and walked on. She felt so angry
that when she reached the young man at the further stile she walked
straight past him without looking at him or answering him when he spoke
to her....

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Brown sat in his chair in the drawing-room holding his head. On
one side of him was Ethel and on the other side the ladies from next
door. Ethel was feeling especially bitter at the thought of the eight
and six. She had long ago repented of giving it to William. She’d never
go to a crystal gazer again. She’d been an absolute idiot. It was all
rubbish ... making her give William eight and six.... She felt she
could almost kill William. But as she couldn’t do that she contented
herself with expatiating on his horticultural failures.

“He hadn’t _touched_ the bed with it,” she was saying.

“It _deluged_ us,” said the ladies from next door.

“He’d pulled up _everything_,” said Ethel.

“Came over in a perfect fountain and _deluged_ us,” said the ladies
next door.

“And he simply ate every one--every single one in the bed,” said Ethel,
“there wasn’t _one_ left.”

“Must have been done deliberately,” said the ladies next door, “it
absolutely _deluged_ us.”

Mr. Brown removed his head from his hands.

“Where _is_ he?” he groaned.

But no one knew where he was.

He was as a matter of fact at the other end of the village. He was
swaggering up to the Outlaws with the brand new eight and six stumps
under his arm. The Outlaws were gaping at him stupefied with amazement
and admiration.

“Said I’d get the money,” said William airily, “so I--I jus’ got it.
Thought I might as well get the things an’ bring ’em along with me.
Here they are.”

It was a moment worth living for.

William felt that he really didn’t care _what_ happened to him after
that.




CHAPTER V

WILLIAM--THE AVENGER


The Outlaws had noticed and disliked him long before the unforgivable
outrage took place.

He had a tooth-brush moustache, a receding chin, an objectionable
high-pitched laugh and a still more objectionable swagger. He admired
himself immensely.

Somehow the Outlaws sensed trouble from him as soon as they saw him,
even before they had found out anything about him. The Outlaws, of
course, always made it their business to find out all about any
strangers who appeared in the village. His name, they discovered,
was Clarence Bergson, and he was staying with the Holdings, who were
renting the Hall.

Now this was unfortunate because William liked the Holdings, or rather
William liked Miss Holding, and for Miss Holding’s sake accepted Mr.
and Mrs. Holding--large and pompous and dignified, and disapproving of
all small boys.

William admired Miss Holding because she was very young and very, very
pretty and had a twinkle in her eye and a nice smile. He admired her
in fact so much that when first he heard that Clarence Bergson was
a friend of hers and staying at the Hall, he had been quite willing
to overlook the receding chin and the high-pitched laughter and the
objectionable swagger.

Clarence, however, rushed on to his doom. He began by kicking William’s
dog, Jumble, in the village street. Technically, of course, he had some
justification, because Jumble made what appeared to be an entirely
unprovoked attack on him, barking furiously and pretending to bite his
plus-fours. In reality, it was not unprovoked. They were very loud
plus-fours, and Jumble, although generally of the meekest and mildest
disposition possible, could not endure loud plus-fours. He always
barked at them and pretended to bite them. They roused him to fury.
Jumble perhaps looked upon himself as the sartorial censor of the
village. Anyway, on the day on which Clarence appeared in a pair of
green and mauve plus-fours (very green and very mauve) with red tabs,
Jumble, after one glance at them, made his usual feint of attacking
them, barking in shrill disapprobation till Clarence’s foot sent him
flying into the ditch.

The Outlaws met to consider what reprisals should be taken to avenge
this insult to William’s dog. It was William, curiously enough, who
minimised the whole affair.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t _like_ him, but--but I guess we’d better let
him alone. You see, Jumble did bark at his trousers, an’--well, anyway,
I guess we’d better let him alone.”

The Outlaws were disappointed. William’s attitude was felt to be
unworthy of a leader with a reputation for avenging to the full any
insult offered to him or his dog or to a member of his band. Ginger
had a dark suspicion of the shameful truth. He had long been troubled
by a secret suspicion that William admired Miss Holding--William, the
leader, the scornful despiser of all women. The suspicion had depressed
him very much.

The meeting broke up gloomily. William was aware that his prestige was
dimmed, but he clung to his decision. Clarence, as guest and friend
of Miss Holding, must not be harmed. Little did Clarence think, as he
swaggered about the village with his receding chin and high-pitched
laugh and general objectionableness, how narrowly he had been saved.
Meeting William in the village he did not even recognise him as the
master of the dog whom he had kicked into the ditch. And, not knowing
how narrowly he had escaped retribution, he proceeded to rush on madly
to his doom.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Outlaws--William and Ginger and Douglas and Henry--were playing at
Red Indians. They were playing at Red Indians in one of Farmer Jenks’
fields. They were doing this because to play the game in Farmer Jenks’
field lent it a certain excitement which it would otherwise have lacked.

Farmer Jenks hated the Outlaws with that bitter hatred which the
landowner always bears to the habitual trespasser, and pursued them
determinedly but unavailingly, whenever he caught sight of them.
Therefore, Farmer Jenks, all unknown to himself, took an important part
in the game. He represented a hostile tribe of especially ferocious
redskins. However much the normal activities of the Red Indians as
enacted by the Outlaws should pall, there was always the stimulating
knowledge that at any minute the hostile tribe, as enacted by Farmer
Jenks, might appear upon the scene, and this knowledge gave to the
whole affair the spice of danger and excitement without which the
Outlaws found life so barren. The game this afternoon was proceeding
rather flatly.

A chestnut tree represented a tent. The Indians Eagle Eye, Red Hand,
Lion Heart and Swiftfoot (otherwise William, Ginger, Douglas and Henry)
were engaged in various pursuits. Eagle Eye was out killing wild
animals for supper, Red Hand was climbing a tree so as to be on the
look-out for enemies, Lion Heart was examining the “spoor” near the
tent, and had just announced the recent passage of a herd of elephants
and of hundreds of lions and tigers. Swiftfoot had gone out to collect
twigs for a fire, but had soon tired of the pastime and was practising
cart wheels by himself in a corner of the field.

Suddenly from Ginger’s vantage ground came the shrill cry, “The Black
Hearts,” and the stout purple-faced form of Farmer Jenks was seen
bearing down upon them in the distance, while Ginger himself was seen
to shin down the tree trunk with almost incredible rapidity.

At once Eagle Eye leapt from his slaughter of wild animals, Lion Heart
from his examinations of “spoor,” and Swiftfoot from his cart wheels,
and they set off across the field in headlong flight, two in either
direction. They always split up into parties when fleeing from Farmer
Jenks.

Farmer Jenks, of course, could not bear the thought that any of his
quarry should elude him, and those fatal few moments during which he
stood in the middle wondering which to follow, generally just enabled
the Outlaws to escape. They would have escaped this time, too, if it
hadn’t been for Clarence.

Farmer Jenks stood hesitating as usual for those few fatal seconds in
the middle of the field, then decided to pursue Douglas and Henry, who
(despite Henry’s tribal name) were slightly less fleet of foot than
William and Ginger. And as I have said he would not have caught them if
it hadn’t been for Clarence.

Clarence happened to be passing down the road at the moment and
witnessed the rout of the braves by the Black Hearts. Clarence was
highly amused by the spectacle and decided to play a little joke on
them on his own account.

So he stood at the stile, which was their only means of exit, and
caught them. He then handed over Douglas to the perspiring and
purple-faced Farmer Jenks and held the wriggling Henry till Farmer
Jenks had quite finished with Douglas. Then he handed him Henry. And
all the while he stood by, laughing his high-pitched laugh.

Farmer Jenks was, as a matter of fact, too breathless to do himself
full justice in the chastisement of his captures, but he did the best
he could and then went panting and grunting back to his desecrated
territory. Clarence, still laughing his high-pitched laugh, walked down
the road. Douglas and Henry slowly and painfully rejoined William and
Ginger in the old barn which was their usual meeting-place.

“_Well!_” began Douglas, in a tone of great bitterness and anguish.

“Yes,” said William grimly, “we saw. We jolly well _saw_.”

“Comes of lettin’ him off when he kicked Jumble,” went on Henry
gloomily.

The silence that followed showed that the Outlaws considered this last
outrage to be due solely to William’s unwarrantable clemency on the
former occasion. It was clear that even William himself felt guilty.

“Well,” he said sternly, “we jolly well won’t let him off _this_ time.”

“What’ll we do to him?” said Henry as he sat down uneasily. (Douglas
more wisely did not attempt sitting down.) “I’d like to push him off a
high precipice into the sea.”

“Well, you can’t,” said Douglas the literal, “because there aren’t any
precipices here an’ there isn’t any sea. I’d like to kill him, shootin’
arrows into him, same as they did Saint Someone or other in a picture.”

“Well, that’s silly,” said William impatiently, “you’d only get hung
for murd’rin’ him. Besides, _you_ can’t do _anything_! He saw you an’
he’d know you by now. You leave this to me an’ Ginger. We’ll avenge you
all right. Don’t you worry. We’ll jolly well avenge you. But you leave
it all to us, ’cause he knows you, an’ he don’t know us. We were too
far off for him to see us prop’ly.”

“What’ll you do?” said Douglas in the tone of one who thirsts for
blood.

But William was a good tactician, forming no plans till he had surveyed
the enemy’s territory.

“We’ve gotter look round a bit first,” he said. “You jus’ leave it all
to Ginger an’ me.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Little did the smiling Clarence think, as he sat with his beloved
by the river bank, that two boys were concealed in the bushes just
behind him listening to his conversation. He had, of course, no eyes
or ears for any but the beloved and he was finding it quite up-hill
work because, although he’d been paying her attention now for nearly a
fortnight, she didn’t seem impressed or responsive.

She seemed, on the contrary, frankly bored, yawned frequently, and
quite often forgot even to pretend that she was listening to him.

Clarence, who had a very good opinion of himself, thought that she was
merely shy and diffident, and she was, of course, frightfully pretty.

So, unmoved by her silence and inadequate responses, he continued to
address his attentions to her.

“May I take you for a drive to-morrow?” he pleaded.

“No,” said Miss Holding very firmly. “I shan’t be at home to-morrow.
I’m going to some friends at Beechtop. I’m going to have lunch with
them. Then we’re going to take out our tea to the river bank and picnic
there.”

“May I come and help?” said Clarence.

“How could you help?” said Miss Holding brusquely.

“I could--er--wash up and carry things, and--er--bring you home.”

She relented.

“All right. You can come over for tea if you like.”

“Where shall I come--and when?” said Clarence.

“Come about four then,” said Miss Holding, “to the bank near the
church. It’s rather pretty there. It’s by the roadside, but there’s a
good stretch of bank with nice trees.”

“I’ll come,” said Clarence fervently.

Then they got up and began to walk along the road to the village.
Clarence’s high-pitched laugh rang out as they went.

William and Ginger emerged from their leafy shelter and looked after
the departing figures.

“I bet he’s telling her about it,” said Ginger gloomily. “Well, what
we’ve gotter do,” said William, “is to go to this ole picnic an’ see if
we can’t do somethin’ to him there. I don’t care if we _do_ spoil her
picnic.”

He spoke rather wistfully. The sight and sound of Miss Holding had
increased his admiration. But loyalty to her, of course, was as nothing
to his loyalty to his Outlaws. Clarence had insulted Douglas and Henry
and so Clarence must be punished. He hardened his heart against her.

“All right,” said Ginger, and then mournfully, “but Beechtop’s a
_jolly_ long way off. It’s miles an’ miles an’ miles. How’re we goin’
to get there?”

“Walk,” said William sternly.

Ginger groaned.

“We’ve _gotter_ take a little trouble avengin’ Douglas an’ Henry,” said
William irritably. “We’ll start early--d’rectly after lunch, an’ we’ll
get there jus’ about tea-time, I bet.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They started directly after lunch and had they gone straight there
they might easily have arrived before tea-time. But the Outlaws, even
when on vengeance bent, were still the Outlaws. They could not pass
anything on a road which seemed to call for investigation. And the road
positively teemed with such things. There was a pond which delayed
them for quite a quarter of an hour. Then there was a tree which
Ginger said William couldn’t climb and which William therefore had to
climb, though it took him ten minutes, and tore his coat and nearly
broke his neck. Then there was a boy who jeered at William’s personal
appearance--both pond and tree had left their marks upon him--and was
challenged by William to single combat. The fight lasted between five
and ten minutes, then, battered but victorious, William rejoined Ginger
and they resumed their journey.

“Wonder if we’re nearly there,” said Ginger.

“Course we aren’t,” said William, “it’s ever so many miles yet.”

“S’pose we don’t get there before they’ve started home,” said Ginger
pessimistically.

“If you hadn’t wasted all that time over that pond an’ things----” said
William, sublimely ignoring his own part in the delays.

“Well!” said Ginger indignantly, “well! I like that!--an’ you climbin’
trees an’ fightin’ boys an’--an’ anyway, we don’ even know what we’re
goin’ to do when we do get there.”

“Somethin’ sure to turn up to do when we get there,” said William
optimistically. “Trouble is,” and his depression returned to him,
“_gettin’_ there--miles an’ miles an’ miles.”

Just then they heard the sound of a motor cycle behind them and turned
round.

“It’s him,” whispered William.

Clarence, be-goggled and wearing a radiant leather coat, flashed by. In
flashing by he swerved slightly. Ginger sprang to one side, slipped and
fell.

“Lie right down and keep your eyes shut,” hissed William quickly.

Ginger obediently lay inert in the road.

“Hi!” called William after Clarence.

Clarence slowed down and turned round. He saw Ginger lying inert in the
road and a look of horror came into his face. Slowly he wheeled his
motor cycle back.

“I didn’t knock him down,” he said aggressively.

“Didn’t you _just_!” said William severely. “You came right over this
side of the road.”

To his relief it was quite evident that Clarence did not recognise
them. He had only seen them in the distance in Farmer Jenks’ field. To
him they were just two strange boys. Ginger still lay in the dust, his
eyes closed.

Clarence took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“I--er--I remember swerving a little. But I felt nothing. I’m sure I
didn’t go over him.”

“No,” said William rather regretfully, for it would be impossible even
to pretend that any motor cycle had passed over the solid and obviously
intact form of Ginger. “You didn’t go _over_ him, but you--you swerved
right on to him an’ gave him a t’riffic blow on his head. He’s
got--he’s got,” the word came with a flash of inspiration, “’cussion.
That’s what he’s got. He’s got ’cussion.”

“I don’t believe he has,” said Clarence, but he sounded uncertain and
he watched the motionless figure of Ginger anxiously.

“Well, he’s unconscious, isn’t he?” said William, in the tone of one
who states an indubitable fact.

“I expect it just gave him a fright,” said Clarence, then brightening,
“anyway he looks healthy enough, doesn’t he?”

“They always look healthy with ’cussion,” said William darkly, and
with such an air of knowledge that Clarence’s face fell again. “I--I
once knew a boy what had ’cussion jus’ like that. A motor cycle
swerved into him and he lay for a few minutes lookin’ healthy--lookin’
_very_ healthy--that’s one of the signs of ’cussion--unconscious jus’
like that--an’ soon he came round an’ sat up an’ said, ‘Where am
I?’--same as they always say--an’ then he said that he’d got a most
awful pain jus’ above his ears--that’s where you always feel the pain
in ’cussion--an’ they took him home moanin’ an’ groanin’ somethin’
t’riffic, an’ lookin’ quite healthy all the time same as they always
do in ’cussion, an’ he died jus’ when he’d been at home for about an’
hour, moanin’ and groanin’ somethin’ t’riffic, he died. The man what
swerved into him was put in prison.”

“Nonsense!” said Clarence heartily, but he didn’t look hearty and he
didn’t feel hearty.

William wore his most guileless expression. No one could look more like
a boy who is telling the truth than William when he wasn’t telling the
truth. Experts had often been deceived by it. Just as Clarence stood
trying to feel as hearty as he sounded and to rid himself of the effect
of William’s earnest words and guileless look, Ginger, in obedience to
a surreptitious prod from William’s foot, sat up in the dust and said,
“Where am I?”

William bent over him in tender solicitude.

“You’re here, Ginger dear, on the road.” Then quite politely he
effected the introduction. “This is the gentleman who knocked you down
with his motor cycle.”

Clarence blinked again, and again tried to be hearty.

“I’m quite sure you feel all right, my boy, now,” he said.

But Ginger began to moan in a particularly resonant manner, rather like
the mooing of a cow.

“Where do you feel the pain, Ginger dear?” inquired William tenderly.

Ginger stopped moaning to say:

“Jus’ above my ears.”

“_There!_” said William, as if greatly impressed. “It _is_ ’cussion; I
_said_ it was ’cussion. Do you feel as if you could walk, Ginger dear?”

Ginger, who had started mooing again, stopped to say “No.”

Clarence, who was beginning to look like a man in the grip of a
nightmare, said:

“Where does he live?”

“At Beechtop,” said William shamelessly, “jus’ near the river.”

“I--I’ll take him home then,” said the bewildered and apprehensive
Clarence.

“Yes,” said William. “I think we’d better get him home. Sometimes they
go off so quick with ’cussion.”

Between them they lifted the loudly moaning Ginger on to the pillion.

“I’ll get on with him, shall I?” said William, “then if he goes off
sudd’nly on the way, I can catch him.”

William and Ginger enjoyed the drive to Beechtop tremendously. It
was far nicer than walking. Ginger enjoyed it so much that he kept
forgetting to moan and had to be recalled to his duty by kicks and
prods from William. At Beechtop Clarence stopped.

“Where does he live exactly?” he inquired.

“Oh, it’s jus’ near here,” said William. “Do you feel a little better,
Ginger dear? Do you feel you could walk?”

“Yes,” said Ginger, who had now stopped moaning, “I feel I could walk a
bit now.”

Clarence looked relieved and recovered something of his aplomb.

“Your own fault entirely,” he said, “for not keeping right at the side
of the road.”

Then he went on to the river bank where Miss Holding and her friends
awaited him.

He had completely forgotten the episode a few minutes later when he sat
among the other guests on the bank, making little jokes and laughing
his high-pitched laugh and handing round bags of cakes.

It was some time before he noticed William’s face peering at him
through the bushes making contortions which were obviously meant to
be signs of some sort. The memory came back to him like the memory of
a nightmare. His smile died away and his high-pitched laugh stopped
abruptly on its highest note.

“I’ll--er--I’ll fetch some more cakes,” he said, and went over to the
provision basket near which William’s face had loomed through the
bushes.

Pretending to busy himself with the provisions, he snapped:

“Well?”

From behind the bushes where William’s face had now discreetly
withdrawn itself came a hoarse whisper:

“It is ’cussion. He’s vi’lently ill.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” hissed Clarence irritably. “He must have been
standing right in the way. I can’t do anything.”

“No,” said William. “No, I know you can’t. But they say he’s gotter
have a lot of nourishment an’ his mother’s not got any food in the
house ’cause of them bein’ very poor--_ever_ so poor. So if you could
let me have a few cakes an’ things for him I’d take them to his house
for him. The doctor says he can have rich things--he’d like some of
those cakes with cream on----”

“All right,” hissed Clarence. “I’ll--I’ll get some for you. Only--go
away.”

“If you sit down here an’ put them behind you--I’ll take ’em from you.”

“All right,” hissed Clarence, in a fever lest anyone should notice
his visitor or hear his visitor’s penetrating whisper. He sat down by
the basket, very much irritated because it was right away from Miss
Holding, and began to talk to a girl with red hair. As he talked he
pushed cakes into the bushes. He talked excitedly and increasingly to
divert attention from his activities and frequently stopped to mop his
brow with his mauve silk handkerchief. He’d had a lot of nightmares in
his life, but none as bad as this.

Meanwhile behind him in the bushes William and Ginger sat down happily
to their splendid feast.

“It’s most peculiar,” Miss Holding was heard to say, “I can’t think
what’s happened to all the iced cakes. We bought heaps, but they all
seem to have gone.”

“Most mysterious,” said the girl with the red hair. “Never mind, we’ll
make the most of the biscuits.”

Clarence began to talk to the red-haired girl again. He was just
forgetting his fears and beginning to talk more or less sensibly when
he felt a prod in the back.

“He’s finished all those things what you sent,” hissed William’s voice,
“an’ the doctor says he’s gotter have some more nourishment. His
’cussion’s getting worse an’ worse.”

[Illustration: CLARENCE TALKED EXCITEDLY TO DIVERT ATTENTION, AND AS HE
TALKED HE PUSHED CAKES INTO THE BUSHES.]

“I don’t wonder if he’s eaten all that stuff I gave you,” said Clarence
bitterly.

“You’ve gotter eat with ’cussion. It’s the only thing to do to save
your life--to go on eatin’ an’ eatin’. Can I have that bag of biscuits
for him?”

“No.”

“Well--I’ll ask Miss Holding. P’r’aps if I tell her about you knockin’
him down, she’ll give me some for him.” Hastily Clarence seized the bag
of biscuits and pushed them into the bushes.

[Illustration: “IT’S MOST PECULIAR,” SAID MISS HOLDING. “I CAN’T THINK
WHAT’S HAPPENED TO ALL THE ICED CAKES.”]

“Good heavens,” said Miss Holding, looking around her a few minutes
later, “all the biscuits seem to have gone now.”

“It’s always from Mr. Bergson’s corner that things go,” said the
youngest guest, aged thirteen. “I’ve seen all the things just near him
and then when you look again a minute later they aren’t there.”

Everyone turned and stared at Clarence who grew red to the tips of his
ears.

“Well,” he said at last desperately, “I--I’ve had quite a long drive.
It--it makes one hungry.”

“He must have eaten all that pound of biscuits as well as the two dozen
iced cakes,” said the youngest guest dispassionately.

“Hush, dear,” said her mother, reproachfully, and conversation became
general, but Clarence could not help noticing that there seemed to be a
tendency to avoid him. And things had hardly become normal again when
he felt once more that painful prod in the back that heralded William’s
penetrating whisper:

“I’ve just been to see him again and----”

“I’m not giving you anything else,” hissed Clarence.

“No. He doesn’t want anything now. He’s too ill to eat now. His
’cussion’s something t’riffic now. They’re awful mad about it. His
father’s just sent for a policeman----”

“_What?_”

“To take down all about you knockin’ ’im down, case he dies and you
have to go to prison.”

The red-haired girl turned to Clarence.

“Were you speaking to me, Mr. Bergson?” she said politely.

Clarence took out his mauve silk handkerchief and mopped his brow again.

“Y-yes,” he said, “I was just remarking what--er--what a beautiful
view.”

“Do you think so?” said the red-haired girl coldly (she simply couldn’t
get over this man’s having eaten two dozen iced cakes and a pound of
biscuits). “I think it’s very ordinary.”

William and Ginger had left the bushes. Gorged with cakes and in a
state of hazy content they were walking down the road towards a point
at the road where a policeman stood directing the very scanty traffic
which came from a side road. They had not finished with Clarence yet.
The Outlaws never went in for half measures. On the way they passed a
public house called “The Staff of Life,” and on a bench just outside
lounged an enormous man with cross-eyes and abnormally long arms and
wearing a smile which in the distance looked ferocious, but on nearer
approach became merely fatuous. William and Ginger watched him with
interest as they passed him and then, forgetting him, approached the
policeman.

William assumed his expression of innocence.

“Please sir,” he said, “there’s a gentleman down there what’s just had
his pocket picked. He told me to go’n see if I could find a policeman.”

The policeman took out a pocket-book.

“Who is he?” he said eagerly. Evidently he welcomed the interruption.
There had only been one cart along the side road in the last
three-quarters of an hour.

“He’s with a picnic party down by the bank,” said William guilelessly,
“he’s dressed in a leather coat.”

Then William and Ginger melted silently away. The policeman, still
holding his note-book, went down to the bank.

Clarence was just beginning to feel that he was returning to favour. He
was talking about his motor cycle.

“Sixty miles an hour is nothing to me,” he said, “there’s no danger at
all to a good driver in sixty miles an hour.”

“That’s what makes you so hungry, I suppose,” said the youngest guest,
as if a problem which had long been troubling her were solved at last.

Her mother said, “Hush, dear,” and again the atmosphere was slightly
strained.

“How fast did you come here to-day, Mr. Bergson?” said the youngest
guest’s mother, feeling that it was up to her to restore the
atmosphere.

Clarence’s complacency dropped from him as he thought of how fast he’d
come there.

“Oh--er--it varied,” he said absently.

[Illustration: ALL ALONG BY THE RIVER BANK WENT CLARENCE, AND BEHIND
HIM IN HOT PURSUIT CAME THE POLICEMAN.]

What had that little wretch said? A policeman taking down details! It
was a horrible thought. He took out the mauve silk handkerchief and
wiped his brow again. His mauve silk handkerchief was becoming quite
damp. And then--his eyes almost started out of his head. Here was the
policeman coming down the river bank and right up to him--the policeman
who must have come straight from the bedside of the boy he’d knocked
down--with his note-book in his hand.

Clarence didn’t stop to think. He leapt to his feet and took to his
heels. The policeman didn’t stop to think either. He saw someone
running away from him so, from sheer force of habit, he ran after him.
Along the road by the river bank went Clarence, and behind him, in hot
pursuit, the stalwart figure of the policeman.

“Well!” said the picnic party, giving inadequate expression to its
feelings.

“He seemed to me all the afternoon,” said the girl with red hair,
darkly, “like a man with something on his mind.”

“Fancy him being able to run like that,” said the youngest guest
admiringly, “when he’s just eaten two dozen iced cakes and a pound of
biscuits. I couldn’t.”

“Hush, dear,” said her mother absently.

“There was something about a murder in this morning’s paper,” said the
girl with red hair. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he did it.”

“Surely not,” objected someone.

“Well, why should a policeman come for him and he run off like this?
Most of these murders in the papers are done by quite ordinary people
living quite ordinary lives, you know. He must be one of them. I expect
he’ll have caught him by now. He’ll be hung, of course.”

“Well, he’ll have had a jolly good tuck-in first,” said the youngest
guest.

“Hush, dear,” said her mother. “Of course it may not be an actual
murder. It may be merely robbing a bank or forging a will or something.”

“I’ve always wanted to know a criminal,” said the girl with red hair,
heaving a sigh of content, “and I’ve thought he seemed queer all the
afternoon. He’s been muttering to himself into the bushes and behaving
most peculiarly all the time.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” said the youngest guest’s mother, “I’ll
take girlie home. One doesn’t want to be mixed up in this sort of
thing--as a witness or jury or anything--and one never knows who a
murderer will murder next. They say that it sort of grows on them. If
he’s overpowered the policeman--and criminals have the strength of
ten men--or is that lunatics?--he may be coming back here in search
of fresh victims. He’s probably got homicidal mania--breaking out in
spasms, you know.”

She collected the youngest guest and drifted away.

“I think I’ll go too,” said the girl with red hair. “I don’t believe
in running unnecessary risks and one does hear of such things in the
papers. I could tell the minute I set eyes on him that he wasn’t
normal.”

Gradually the other guests followed her example, and when Clarence
finally returned panting and breathless, only Miss Holding was left
by the river bank among the ruins of the feast. Or rather only Miss
Holding was apparently left, for William and Ginger had returned to
their leafy shelter and were watching with interest to see what turn
events would take.

“Well!” said Miss Holding, as Clarence, holding on to his sides with
both hands, came panting up to her and sank on to the river bank by her
side. “What in the world----?”

“A mistake,” gasped Clarence, “he’d heard--that a man--had had
his--pocket picked--thought it--was me--mistake.”

“But why on earth did you run away?” said Miss Holding.

“I--I don’t know,” panted Clarence.

“I remember once reading about a man who did that,” said Miss Holding.
“He’d had an awful dream about a policeman coming for him and the next
day he took to his heels as soon as he set eyes on one.”

“Yes,” said Clarence, eagerly accepting the explanation, “that was what
happened to me. I had a most terrible dream about a policeman last
night and as soon as I saw this one coming up to me my--my dream sort
of--came over me again and I--I just ran away. Force of association!”

Miss Holding laughed.

“Well. I think I can squeeze you out another cup of tea to refresh
you and there’s a lot of plain cake left in spite of the mysterious
disappearance of the iced ones.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Clarence lay back on the river bank and smoked cigarettes and drank tea
and ate plain cake. Then, refreshed and invigorated, he began to talk
again. He began to talk about himself.

He began to tell her all about his past life--what noble and heroic
things he had done and what a noble and heroic character he was.
Miss Holding was kind to him. She led him on. The listeners’ spirits
fell. This was not how they had meant their vengeance to end--in this
pleasant conversation on the river bank. All they seemed to have done
was to have cleared the stage for Clarence’s courtship.

And it was quite evident that Clarence had completely forgotten his
victim who now lay (presumably) in the throes of concussion. They were
full of virtuous horror at the thought. Then they turned and looked
at each other--Ginger with the serene, trusting face of one who knows
that his leader will evolve some plan, and William with that ferocious
scowl which in William betokened deep thought. Then suddenly the scowl
cleared and there flashed across his freckled face the light that
betokened inspiration.

“I’ll just go down to the river and wash this cup,” Miss Holding was
saying. “No, don’t move. As a matter of fact I’d much rather wash it
myself. I never let anyone else wash my picnic cups. They don’t do
them properly.”

Clarence, nothing loth, remained on the bank in the sunshine while
Miss Holding went down to the water. Then--just as Clarence’s thoughts
were happily flitting round the attractive figure that he imagined
himself to be cutting--suddenly that awful boy’s face appeared through
the bushes again making horrible grimaces. The smile dropped from
Clarence’s face.

“Go away!” he hissed, putting out a hand to push William’s face back
into the bushes.

“I’ve just come from him,” said William. “He’s ever so much worse.”

“It’s not my fault,” hissed Clarence.

“I know it isn’t,” said William sympathetically. “I keep tellin’ ’em it
wasn’t really your fault an’ that you didn’t run over him on purpose,
but they won’t listen to me. His father’s out lookin’ for you now. He’s
an awful man with cross-eyes an’ very long arms. He say he’s going to
wring your neck.”

Clarence went pale, but at that moment Miss Holding returned from
washing up the cup, and Clarence, relieved at the sudden disappearance
of William’s face, made an effort to entertain her again. He told her
about the time he had made a century at cricket at his prep. school,
but somehow, despite the fact that she was obviously impressed, he
couldn’t put any real zest into the narrative. Cross-eyed and with very
long arms.

Meanwhile William and Ginger were creeping silently away from the
bushes. It was not for nothing that the Outlaws played Red Indians
nearly every day. Not even the cracking of a twig betrayed their
passage.

Outside on the main road they looked cautiously up and down to see
if the policeman (who was presumably thirsting for their blood) was
anywhere in sight. To their relief he wasn’t, and to their still
greater relief the cross-eyed man was. He was still sitting on the
seat outside “The Staff of Life,” contemplating the road crossways with
his ferocious smile. William assumed his guileless expression again and
they approached him.

“Please, sir,” began William politely, “would you like a few cakes?”

The man glared at him and at Ginger simultaneously, and smiled his
ferocious smile.

“Wouldn’t mind,” he admitted, condescendingly.

“Well,” went on William, “there’s a gentleman an’ a lady havin’ a
picnic down on the river bank jus’ behind those bushes, an’ the
gentleman told me to find someone what’d like the cakes what’s left
over an’ send ’em to him to fetch ’em.”

The man rose slowly.

“Well--I don’t mind,” he said, and set off towards the river bank.

Clarence had passed on from the story of the century he had made at
his prep. school and was telling her about the time when he’d put a
drawing-pin on a master’s chair at his public school.

Miss Holding seemed very much interested. Everything seemed to be going
very nicely. His spirits were gradually rising. He didn’t believe that
he’d really hurt the boy or that his father was out looking for him.
“Cross-eyed and long arms”--it was ridiculous. He wouldn’t be surprised
if that wretched boy had made up the whole thing.

Then suddenly he stopped short. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped
open. A man with cross-eyes and long arms and a ferocious smile was
coming down the river bank, towards him. It was true. It was the boy’s
father coming to wring his neck.

With a yell of terror as loud and shrill as a factory siren Clarence
leapt to his feet, leapt over the bushes and rushed down the road. He
did not stop running till he reached home.

[Illustration: “IT’S A PITY WE GAVE HIM ALL THE BUNS,” SAID MISS
HOLDING, “BECAUSE I’M SURE YOU WOULD HAVE LIKED SOME.”]

The cross-eyed man and Miss Holding stood gazing after his retreating
figure. Then the cross-eyed man turned, and looking simultaneously at
Miss Holding and the bushes said with dispassionate interest:

“’As somethin’ stung him?”

“I don’t know _what’s_ happened to him,” said Miss Holding.

“Well,” said the cross-eyed man, abandoning all attempts to solve the
mystery of Clarence’s flight, “they told me that if I came along ’ere
they’d give me some cake.”

“You can have all that’s left,” said Miss Holding, “but who told you?”

One of the cross-eyed man’s eyes had espied a movement in the
neighbouring bushes. He dived into it and emerged holding William by
his collar.

“This ’ere nipper,” he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

The cross-eyed man had departed with his booty.

William and Ginger sat on the river bank on either side of Miss Holding.

“It’s a pity we gave him all the buns and plain cake,” said Miss
Holding, “because I’m sure you’d have liked some.”

“No, thanks,” said William politely, and added with perfect truth,
“we--we’ve sort of had enough.”

A gleam of intelligence shone in Miss Holding’s eyes.

“How long have you been in that bush?” she said.

“Quite a long time,” said William, “on and off.”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Holding, “you accounted for the two dozen iced
cakes and the pound of biscuits.”

William assumed his guileless expression.

“Well,” he admitted, “Mr. Bergson did kin’ly give us something to eat.”

“Suppose,” said Miss Holding, “that you tell me all about it.” So they
told her.

At the end she dried her eyes and said: “It’s perfectly priceless and
the best part of it all is that I’m sure it will make him go home.”

And it did.

They had a lovely journey home packed into Miss Holding’s two-seater,
and the first person they saw in the village was Mrs. Holding.

“Whatever’s happened to Clarence?” said Mrs. Holding.

“What has?” said Miss Holding.

“He came home in a most peculiar condition,” went on Mrs. Holding. “He
said he’d been running all the way. And he took the first train back to
town and wants his things sent on after him. He told me not to give his
address to anyone.”

“I’m _so_ glad,” said Miss Holding serenely, “because I was getting
bored even with pulling his leg.”

“But what happened?” said her mother.

“He just got up and ran home, didn’t he, children?” said Miss Holding
dreamily. “I should think that he suffers from spasmodic insanity.
These two little boys have been such a help to me this afternoon,
mother. Come and let’s find somewhere to have an ice cream, children.”

William hesitated.

“We oughter go’n’ tell Douglas and Henry that we’ve avenged them
first,” he said.

“Good,” said Miss Holding. “Go and find them and bring them along too,
and we’ll all go and have ices somewhere.”

And as William remarked blissfully that evening, it was one of the
jolliest vengeances they’d ever had.




CHAPTER VI

PARROTS FOR ETHEL


The Outlaws were depressed. Ordinary pursuits had lost their charms.
They neither ran nor leapt nor played Red Indians nor ranged the
countryside nor carried on guerrilla warfare with the neighbouring
farmers. Instead they held meetings in each other’s back gardens, in
each other’s shrubberies and summer-houses and tool-sheds, eloquently
discoursing on the gravity of the situation, but finding no remedy for
it.

The cause of the whole trouble was the fatal attractiveness of
William’s sister Ethel. Not that William or any of his friends actually
admitted the fatal attractiveness. Ethel was to them an ordinary
disagreeable “grown up” with a haughty manner and impossible standards
of cleanliness, who happened also to possess a combination of red
hair and blue eyes that had a strange and unaccountable effect upon
adult members of the opposite sex. They cherished always a stern and
bitter contempt for Ethel’s admirers. And now Douglas’s brother George
and Ginger’s brother Hector had joined the number. It is impossible
to describe the shame and horror the Outlaws felt at this. That any
member of any family of theirs should stoop to the supreme indignity
of admiring Ethel.... William felt as deeply outraged as any of them.
He felt that the infatuation of Douglas’s brother and Ginger’s brother
for his sister exposed the whole body of Outlaws to the scorn of their
friends and the laughter of their foes.

The possibility of it had hitherto never even occurred to them.
Douglas’s brother George and Ginger’s brother Hector, though
objectionable in every other way as only elder brothers can be, had
at least been satisfactory in that, almost as much as the Outlaws
themselves, they held the female sex in scorn. It was Ethel’s
influenza that seemed to have made the difference. Ethel had withdrawn
from public life for a term of fourteen days or so with the high
temperature, the streaming eyes and the settled pessimism which, taken
together, constitute Influenza. Evidently the sudden absence of Ethel’s
familiar figure from the lanes and roads of her native village awoke
strange feelings in the breast of George and Hector, and the emergence
of Ethel from her sick room at the end of the fortnight with, as it
seemed by contrast with her absence, redoubled beauty, completed their
enslavement. They abandoned their old manner of cold indifference to
her. They smiled at her ingratiatingly, they bought new ties and new
socks, they waited at spots that it was probable that Ethel would
pass. Their old friendship with each other cooled. When waiting at
the same spot for a word or a glance from Ethel they affected not to
see each other. They passed each other in the village street with no
other recognition than a scornful curl of the lip. They no longer
discussed the football results with each other. They no longer borrowed
each other’s bicycle pumps. In the privacy of their home circle they
naturally vented all the bitterness of the pangs of love upon their
younger brothers.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Outlaws had met in the summer-house of William’s garden. Henry
was away staying with an aunt and only the three deeply involved
parties--William, Douglas and Ginger--were present.

“People _laughin’_ at ’em,” said Douglas bitterly. “I know they are
from somethin’ someone said to me yesterday. S’nice for _me_,” he
added with an air of impersonal bitterness, “s’nice for _me_ havin’ a
brother what everyone’s laughin’ at.”

“’S jus’ as bad for me,” retorted Ginger. “An’ ’s not only that. It’s
makin’ Hector crabbier an’ crabbier at home.”

This reminded Douglas of his latest grievance.

“Took it off me,” he said fiercely, “took it off me and threw it away.
An’ it was new too. ’S no good at all now. Threw it into the ditch an’
it’s full of mud now an’ won’t play anyway whatever I do. It’s ru’ned.
An’ it was the best mouth-organ I’ve ever had. It made a noise you
could hear for miles and miles. And he took it off me ’n’ threw it
away. An’ I wasn’t makin’ much noise. I was only practisin’--practisin’
jus’ outside his room. Well, _I_ din’ know he was makin’ up po’try
about Ethel. He needn’t’ve come out roarin’ mad at me like that. I bet
I’ve got ’s much right to practise my mouth-organ as he’s got writin’
po’try to Ethel.”

“Jus’ _’xactly_ what Hector did to me ’n my trumpet last night,” said
Ginger, torn between impersonal interest in the coincidence and a
personal sense of grievance at the memory of his wrongs. “Came out
ravin’ mad at me jus’ ’cause I was sittin’ on the top of the stairs
practisin’ a trumpet. Came ravin’ mad out of his room an’ took it off
me an’ broke it. _D’lib’rately_ broke it. I bet _he_ was writin’ po’try
’bout Ethel too.” He threw William a cold glance. “Seems to me,” he
said, “a pity some people can’t stop their sisters goin’ about the
world makin’ all this mis’ry. Breakin’ people’s trumpets an’ throwin’
people’s mouth-organs away.”

“_Ethel_ din’t break your trumpets an’ throw your mouth-organs away,”
said William with spirit. “Pity some people can’t stop their brothers
actin’ so stupid whenever they see a girl.”

“They don’t,” retorted Ginger, “they’ve never done it before. They’ve
always acted to girls same as we do--till this set-out with Ethel,” he
ended gloomily.

“Well,” said William with odious complacency, “that only proves that
Ethel’s nicer ’n all the other girls.”

Their attitude seemed to be inexplicably deteriorating from a common,
lofty scorn of the work of the blind god to a partisanship each of his
particular family.

“Oh, it does, does it?” said Ginger aggressively. But William was
not to be drawn into personal combat on behalf of Ethel. He was,
as a matter of fact, a little bored with the whole proceedings. He
disapproved of the situation no less than he had always disapproved
of it, but meeting in summer-houses and tool-sheds and discoursing on
it did not seem to make it any better and meanwhile the days of the
holidays were slipping by wasted. Moreover, the day before an uncle of
William’s had taken him up to London, and so William was taking for the
time being a broader perspective of life than his friends.

“Never mind,” he said pacifically. “There’s other things to do than
keep talkin’ about it an’ there’s other people in the world ’sides
Ethel an’ your ole George an’ Hector.”

“Yes,” said Douglas bitterly, “you’d say that if it was _your_
mouth-organ, wun’t you?”

“An’ you’d say that if it was _your_ trumpet,” said Ginger. “Huh! I bet
I’ve not got other things to do than forget about that trumpet.”

“Come to that,” said William, “Ethel took my bow an’ arrer off me
yesterday ’cause it accident’ly came through her window and broke an
ole vase, but I don’ keep talkin’ about it.”

But Ginger refused to be drawn from his grievance.

“He oughter be made to give me a new one,” he said, and added with a
melancholy sigh, “An’ jus’ to think that wherever there’s grown-up
brothers there’s things like this hap’nin’ all over the country
what never get into the newspaper an’ England supposed to be a free
country--people’s trumpets bein’ took off them an’ _broke_ for no
reason at all. What’s that if it’s not tyranny what the history books
talk about? All I c’n say is,” he added darkly, “that all those Magna
Charter an’ things what the history books say brought Lib’ty to England
don’ seem to’ve done _me_ much good.”

But Douglas had at last, like William, tired of the subject.

“What did your uncle take you to see yesterday, William?” he said.

“He took me to a place with a lot of dead animals--stuffed mostly--but
some skeletons--an’ a man givin’ lectures on ’em--tellin’ us about them
an’ what they were like an’ what they did.”

“Was he int’restin’?” said Ginger temporarily relinquishing his
grievance, as no one would listen to it any longer.

“Yes,” said William simply, “he’d got a loose tooth what you could
see movin’ when he talked, an’ there was a boy there what thought he
could make faces better’n me, but he found out in the end he jolly well
couldn’t.”

The atmosphere was certainly lightened by this breath from the outside
world. The Outlaws began to think that perhaps they had discussed the
Ethel-George-Hector affair to satiety and the description of William’s
excursion of yesterday might afford a little more interest.

“Did he give you a nice dinner, William?” said Douglas.

“Crumbs, yes!” said William, “he let me choose what I’d have for dinner
an’ I had six ices an’ then there were some things like cakes with
heaps ’n’ heaps of cream on an’ I had twelve of them an’ then I had a
bottle of orange squash an’ then I had two plates of trifle.”

“No meat nor potatoes?” said Ginger.

“No,” said William, and added in simple explanation, “I c’n get meat
an’ potatoes at home.”

There was a silence during which the Outlaws wistfully contemplated the
mental vision of William’s dinner. Then Ginger said bitterly: “That’s
the best of uncles. You’d never catch an aunt letting you have a dinner
like that,” and he added plaintively, “all mine seem to be aunts.”

“What sort of animals were they, William?” asked Douglas.

“All sorts,” said William, “an’”--slowly--“I’ve been thinkin’. It’d
be quite easy to get up a show like that but with live animals ’stead
of stuffed ones. I know,” he said quickly, forestalling possible
objection, “that we’ve often tried shows _somethin’_ like that but not
_quite_ like. We’ve never tried _lecturin’_ on ’em. We’ve tried havin’
’em for a circus and we’ve tried sellin’ ’em but we’ve never tried
lecturin’ on ’em.”

“Well, who can lecture on ’em?” said Douglas.

“I can,” said William promptly. “I heard that man doin’ it an’ so I bet
I know how to do it now.”

“Can you woggle your teeth?” said Douglas.

“It’s not _ne’ssary_ to woggle your teeth lecturin’ on animals,” said
William coldly. “’Sides, I bet I could if I wanted to.”

“I could bring my dormouse,” said Ginger.

“An’ there’s my insecks,” said William, “an’ Jumble an’--all our cats.”

“That’s not _much_,” said Douglas. “How do they get animals for the big
places like the Zoo?”

“People lend ’em,” said Ginger, “or give ’em. I’ve often heard of
people givin’ ’em. When the Roy’l Fam’ly goes abroad for its holiday
people give ’em animals an’ they bring ’em home and give ’em to the
Zoo.”

“Seems a funny sort of thing to do,” said Douglas incredulously.

“Well, I’ve read about it in newspapers so it mus’ be true.”

“’F what my father says about newspapers is true,” objected Ginger,
“nothin’ in any of ’em’s true.”

“_Somethin’_ in _some_ of ’em _must_ be,” objected Douglas, “’cause----”

William determinedly dragged the conversation back from the possible
truth or untruth of newspapers to the matter in hand.

“Well, ’bout these animals,” he said. “We’ll have it in our
summer-house an’ I’ll lecture on ’em an’ we’ll have all our cats an’
Jumble an’ we’ll c’leck some more insecks an’ we’ll have Ginger’s
dormouse an’ we’ll get people to lend us other animals or p’raps give
us ’em.”

“Who?” said Douglas gloomily.

“Who what?”

“Who you think’ll give us _anythin’_, much less an animal.”

“Oh, do shut up,” said William irritably, “carryin’ on jus’ as if
nothin’ ever turned out right.”

“Well, nothin’ ever does,” said Douglas, hotly defending his pessimism.
“Look at the time you----”

“Oh, both of you shut up,” said Ginger, “an’ let’s go an’ fetch the
dormouse.”

They passed the drawing-room where Ethel sat with George on one side of
her and Hector on the other. To be quite frank Ethel was a minx who,
while remaining always provokingly heart-whole, liked to have as many
admirers as possible around her.

Silence and a certain depression fell on the group as the younger
brothers of it passed the window.

“He drove me half mad with a beastly mouth-organ yesterday,” groaned
George, “till I took it from him and chucked it into the pond.”

“Same here with a trumpet,” said Hector, and added severely, “seems to
me extraordinary what boys are like nowadays. I’m quite sure _we_ were
never like that.”

“Well, I’m sure no boy ever anywhere was half as bad as William,”
said Ethel with a sigh. “He broke a vase that was one of my greatest
treasures yesterday with his bow and arrow. He really _is_ the worst of
the lot.”

Both Hector and George made an inarticulate murmur that might either
have been half-hearted protest or deep sympathy, but neither of them
seriously disputed the statement.

“Ginger’s pretty bad, though,” said Hector with a judicial air; “last
week he had one of those awful things that are supposed to sound like a
dog barking.”

“William had a thing,” said Ethel dreamily, “that was supposed to sound
like a bird chirping only it didn’t. It sounded like--well, I don’t
know what it sounded like, but it went through and _through_ my head.”

“What a _shame_,” said Hector and George simultaneously in passionate
indignation. Their tone implied that they were lusting for William’s
blood.

“After all,” continued Ethel happily, burbling on in the serene
consciousness that it didn’t really matter what she said because
every single word of it would be heavenly wisdom in the ears of the
infatuated youths, “after all a bird’s chirp is quite a nice soft
sound. I’m very fond of birds.”

“What sort do you like best?” said George and Hector simultaneously.
They glared at each other suspiciously as they spoke. Each had decided
to give Ethel a present of her favourite bird in as ornamental a cage
as his means would allow on her next birthday, and each had a horrible
suspicion that the other had the same project in mind.

“I think that parrots are rather sweet,” said Ethel. “Don’t you?”

Neither spoke, because neither did consider parrots rather sweet and
both were having sudden misgivings about the price of parrots....
Didn’t parrots cost an awful lot of money--a matter of pounds, unless,
of course, one could meet a sailor just returned from foreign parts
with one, and probably even he would demand its market price. A canary
now ... both had hoped she’d say a canary. Both had had pleasing
visions of themselves presenting Ethel with a very yellow canary in a
very ornate cage adorned with a very blue bow ... the vision included
Ethel’s delight, her cries of rapture, her sudden realisation that
nowhere else would she meet with such tenderness, such understanding,
such undying devotion as in this hero who remembered even what sort of
bird she liked best, who--anyway, it was all very romantic and there
was a beautiful wedding and they lived happily ever after. When the
canary was dead, of course, she had it stuffed and it was always one
of her dearest treasures. But a parrot ... no, one could never wax
sentimental over a parrot. A parrot would never surely inaugurate a
romance.

“You can teach it such jolly things to say,” went on Ethel. “I
remember once a friend of mine had to go into quarantine for measles
or something like that and a friend of hers gave her a parrot to be
company for her. He gave it her in rather a nice way, too. He put it
on the garden seat on the lawn and sent in a letter to say that if she
would look out of her window she would see a little friend who had come
to keep her company. Or something like that. She was always devoted to
that parrot.”

Both George and Hector checked an impulse to ask whether she married
him. Each would have asked it had the other not been present, but there
are certain questions which are more effective when asked without an
audience. George and Hector walked home together but in silence. The
only thing they wanted to talk about was Ethel, but they didn’t want
to talk about Ethel to each other. Hector decided that if George won
her he would go out to Africa to shoot big game. George, being of a
less subtle nature, had decided that if Hector won her he would drown
himself in the village pond. But neither was really uneasy because
neither thought that the other would win her. After all, thought
George, she hadn’t looked at Hector in that meaning way she’d looked at
him when she said good-bye, and, after all, thought Hector, she hadn’t
pressed George’s hand as she’d pressed his on parting....

They met the Outlaws on their way to William’s house reverently
carrying among them what was to be the star turn of the lecture,
Ginger’s dormouse.

The Outlaws and Ethel’s suitors looked at each other coldly and without
recognition as they passed, but really the Outlaws had the best of the
encounter because they could turn round and make grimaces expressive
of scorn and derision at the back of their foes, and because they knew
that their foes had an uneasy suspicion that they were doing this but
considered it inconsistent with their dignity to look back to make sure.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the next morning. Ethel was staring wildly at a letter she held
in her hand.

“Daphne’s got measles and I was with her last night. What shall I do?”

“You’ll have to go into quarantine, I’m afraid, dear,” said her mother
placidly.

“My goodness!” said Ethel in a tone of horror and despair, and feeling
the exclamation inadequate, changed it to “Great Heavens!”

After a pause indicative of deep feeling she continued: “Why, only
yesterday I was telling George and Hector about the time Lucy Foxe
had it and what’s-his-name sent her a parrot. It seems as if just
mentioning the thing had brought it on me. Well, I shall die of
boredom, that’s all. Do you mean to say that I’ve got to stay in the
room _all_ the time.”

“Yes, dear,” said her mother and added placidly, “there’s quite a nice
view.”

Ethel went to the window. From it she could see Ginger, Douglas and
William clustered round the dormouse’s cage by the side of the lawn.

“_That’s_ a lovely view, isn’t it?” she said bitterly.

William had received the news that Ethel would have to be in quarantine
for measles without emotion or indeed without interest of any sort. He
had no time or thought or sympathy to spare for Ethel. A more terrible
tragedy had happened than Ethel’s quarantine. The dormouse had died in
the night. There was no sign to show how it had died. It was certainly
not starvation. It had died in the midst of plenty. There were no marks
of violence on the body. Douglas had a theory that some of the berries
picked promiscuously in the garden for its nourishment yesterday by
Ginger from any tree or bush that provided berries of any sort had not
agreed with it. Ginger hotly contested this theory.

“That’s what berries are _for_,” he said indignantly. “That’s what
Nachur provides berries on trees for--to feed animals with.”

William interrupted the discussion to suggest that as long as hygiene
should allow, the dead body of the dormouse should be exhibited as
a stuffed one. “No one’ll know it isn’t,” he added hopefully, “not
without cuttin’ it open and we won’t let ’em do that. We’ll jus’ say
it’s a stuffed dormouse an’ I’ll talk about it a bit, tellin’ about its
habits--sleepin’ an’ such like, an’ p’r’aps it won’t be so bad.”

His optimism was unconvinced and unconvincing. He knew that no stuffed
dormouse could compensate for the sight of Ginger’s dormouse going
round and round on its little wheel. They took the dead body to the
summer-house, leaving William alone on the lawn gloomily considering
the prospects of his lecture thus deprived of its star turn.

He did not at first see Ginger’s brother Hector who had come round to
the side of the house looking pale and distraught.

“This is terrible news,” began Hector.

William was touched. Somehow he hadn’t expected this kindness, this
understanding, from Hector.

“Yes, isn’t it,” he acquiesced despondently, “terrible.”

“She seemed all right yesterday,” continued Hector.

“She was,” affirmed William, “she was quite all right yesterday. I
think it was eatin’ those berries.”

“What berries?” said the young man.

“Those berries Ginger gave her.”

“D--did Ginger give her some berries?” stammered Hector aghast.

“Yes--all sorts of different coloured kinds of berries what he found
about the garden. And she ate them all.”

The horror of the young man is indescribable. That _his_ young
brother--_his_ young brother should be the cause of it....

“B-but,” he stammered, “I--I heard in the village it was measles.”

“No,” said William, “it’s worse than measles. She’s dead. She died in
the night.”

“_What?_” screamed the young man.

“She’s dead,” said William, somewhat flattered if a little surprised
by the deep emotion shown by the visitor. “When Ginger ’n’ me came to
clean out her cage this mornin’ we found her dead.”

“Clean out her c----! What the dickens are you talking about?”

“Our mouse,” said William simply; “weren’t you?”

The visitor obviously controlled himself with an effort.

“No,” he said with venomous coldness, “I was talking about your sister
Ethel.”

“Oh, Ethel----” said William carelessly. “Oh no, it’s not measles. It’s
somethin’ else. I’ve forgotten its name.”

Again anxiety clouded the young man’s brow.

“N-nothing serious, I hope?” he said.

“Dunno,” said William, “might be, I suppose. I simply can’t understand
it dyin’ like that. I mean I’ve always thought that if berries were
pois’nous, an’mals din’ eat them. I always thought that an’mals had
some special way of tellin’ pois’nous stuff.”

Again the young man restrained himself with difficulty from inflicting
actual physical injury upon William.

“Is your sister allowed visitors?” he asked.

“Ethel?” said William as if bringing his mind with an effort from an
affair of vital and universal importance to one of no significance at
all. “No. She’s got the sort of illness that she’s not ill with, but
she’s not got to see people. It’s got a name but I’ve forgot it. It
looked all right last night. It ate Ginger’s berries about six o’clock
an’ it looked all right when we left it. If you want to know what _I_
think, I think that someone’s poisoned it. I think----”

“You mean she’s in quarantine?” interrupted Ginger’s brother Hector.

“No,” said William irritably, “I keep tellin’ you--she’s dead.”

“Shut up about your beastly mouse,” commanded Ginger’s brother Hector
fiercely. “I don’t care two pins for your beastly mouse----”

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you?” muttered William darkly.

“No, I don’t. It’s your sister I’m talking about. You mean that she’s
in quarantine.”

“Yes,” said William, “that’s the name of what she’s got. Dun’t seem to
have made much difference to her ’cept makin’ her temper a bit worse
than usual and that’s sayin’ _somethin’_.”

Hector turned on his heel contemptuously and strode away, his brow
drawn into a thoughtful frown. He’d remembered suddenly what Ethel had
said about the parrot. He’d get a parrot. He’d write a note such as
she said her friend’s friend had written about a little friend to keep
her company, and leave the parrot in the garden as her friend’s friend
had done. She had seemed to think it was a beautiful thought. He’d do
it ... it would, he was sure, touch her deeply. If only that wretched
fellow George didn’t think of it too. He’d hurry home and do it quickly
before George thought of it. He met George on the road, acknowledged
him with distant hauteur and passed on his way.

William remained upon the garden bench plunged in gloom. The death of
the dormouse had imperilled all his plans. He felt that he could have
lectured indefinitely upon the dormouse as it went round and round on
its little wheel or even as it blinked at them or ate its food, but a
stiff, dead dormouse even camouflaged as a “stuffed” exhibit was quite
a different affair. It would, he was afraid, fall very flat indeed.
But William was never the boy to own himself beaten. He was searching
about in his mind for some other exhibit to take the place of the live
dormouse when the shadow of George fell upon him and the voice of
George broke upon his meditations.

“Well, I’m very sorry to hear this,” began George.

William’s heart warmed to him. Here, at any rate, was sympathy....

“Yes,” he said, “it was an awful shock to us all to find her dead this
mornin’.”

“_What?_” screamed George.

Explanation followed. It appeared that George also did not care two
pins about the beastly mouse, and they parted coldly. George walked
quickly down the road. He’d suddenly remembered what Ethel had said
about the parrot yesterday. He’d get her one.... He’d give it her in
the same way as she said that her friend’s friend had given one to her.
She’d seemed to think that there was something very graceful about it.
It would please her. He’d hurry home now so as to do it before Hector
thought of it....

William rejoined the others in the summer-house.

“Takin’ your mouth-organs an’ trumpets off you,” he said bitterly, “an’
carin’ more about someone bein’ ill than someone _dyin’_. An’ she’s not
even reely ill, either. If I get a chance,” he added darkly, “I’ll make
’em buy you _new_ mouth-organs an’ trumpets, an’ make her give me back
my bow an’ arrer.”

“Well, you aren’t likely to get a chance,” said the victims without
much gratitude, “an’ the thing to do now is to try’n find a few more
animals for lecturin’ on. A dead dormouse an’ a few insecks isn’t much.”

William considered this a minute in silence, then he said:

“Tell you what. We’ll put up a notice askin’ people to lend us an’mals
or give us an’mals like what they do to the Zoo.”

This suggestion seemed to infuse new life into them. Their gloom
departed.

“Who’ll write it an’ where’ll we put it?” said Ginger.

“I’ll write it,” said William, “an’ we’ll put it on the side gate-post.
Quite a lot of people go along the lane by the side gate. We’ll put it
up an’ then we’ll go out’n look for some more int’restin’ insecks.”

“If we all go out,” objected Ginger, “there’ll be no one to take the
an’mals when they bring them.”

The Outlaws tried to visualise a queue of people waiting by the side
gate each in charge of a rare and interesting animal, but even to their
optimism the vision lacked reality.

“Of course,” admitted William, “it’s jus’ _possible_ that no one’ll
see it--at least no one what’s got an an’mal or at least no one what’s
got an an’mal what they want to lend us. It doesn’t hardly seem worth
while any of us stayin’ behind jus’ on the chance when we might be out
catchin’ int’restin’ insecks.”

“Let’s put somethin’ on the notice,” suggested Ginger, “tellin’ ’em to
take ’em to the summer-house an’ leave ’em there.”

“Yes,” said William sarcastically, “an’ havin’ ’em eatin’ up or
fightin’ our insecks. You don’ know what sort of wild creatures they
may bring--all fightin’ each other an’ eatin’ each other up in the
summer-house. ’Sides, you can see the summer-house from the road an’
we’ll be gettin’ ’em all stolen by thieves what see them as they
pass. No, I vote we shut up the summer-house while we’re away an’ put
somethin’ on the notice tellin’ ’em where to leave them. They can leave
’em somewhere where they can’t be seen from the road.” He pondered the
problem in silence for a few seconds, frowning thoughtfully, then his
face cleared. “I know ... we’ll tell ’em to put ’em on the seat in
the back garden, ’cause no one can see that from the road an’ if it’s
somethin’ wild they can tie it up.”

This seemed to the Outlaws an excellent solution of the problem, and
William went indoors to write out the notice. Soon he emerged carrying
it and wearing the complacent smile of successful authorship.

“Here it is,” he said with modest pride. “All right, isn’t it?”

They gathered round to look. It read as follows:

  “mister william brown is going to lekcher on anmals and will be
  gratful to anyone who will give or lend him anmals to be lekchered
  on mister william brown will take grate care of them mister william
  brown is out now lookin for valubul insex but will be back before
  dinner mister william brown will be glad if people givin him anmals
  to be lekchered on will put them on the seat in the back garden an
  tie them up if they are savvidge anmals cause of doin damidge an
  eatin things reely wild anmals should have cages as mister william
  browns father will be mad with him if dammidge is done to the
  garden by wild anmals lent or given him for his lekcher if anmals
  are lent him will they kinly have a label with the address of their
  home so as mister william brown the lekcherer on anmals may bring
  them home after they have been lekchered on things like hedgehogs
  or porkquipines must be fetched mister william brown is a very
  interestin lekcherer an anyone may kinly come an listen to him who
  likes if the summer-house is full peple may come an look at him thru
  the window.”

The other Outlaws were less impressed by this than was its author.
Ginger voiced their feelings.

“Good deal about you in it,” he commented, “an’ not much about us.”

“Well, who’s the lecturer?” demanded William with spirit, “me or you?”

“Yes,” said Ginger, “an’ who works jus’ as hard as you _or_ harder
gettin’ things ready?”

William soothed their feelings by adding a footnote to his notice:

  “mister william browns vallubal assistunts are ginger and douglas.”

Conciliated by this they helped William to pin the notice on the side
gate and sallied forth with him in search of insects.

[Illustration: “WHO’S THE LECTURER?” DEMANDED WILLIAM WITH SPIRIT. “ME
OR YOU?”]

A short time before their return, Hector appeared looking very hot and
breathless. He held a parrot in a cage. He had cycled frenziedly into
the nearest town for it and he had spent practically his last penny
on it. He came round to the back of the house. Ethel’s window was,
he believed, at the back of the house. There he found a garden seat
conveniently situated. He put the parrot upon that and tiptoed to the
side door. He had decided to do the whole graceful action as Ethel’s
friend’s friend had done it. If Ethel was touched at second hand, as it
were, by the action as performed by her friend’s friend, how much more
would she be touched when it was actually done to her.

He slipped a letter quietly through the letter-box. In the letter he
said that if she would look out of the window she would see upon the
garden seat a little friend who had come to keep her company. Then,
still hot and breathless, but smiling fatuously to himself, he tiptoed
away.

Hardly had he disappeared when the Outlaws returned. The expedition
had not been, upon the whole, a great success. They had only found
one species of caterpillar that William did not already possess. They
carried it carefully in a little tin which contained also a large
amount of greenery for its nourishment.

“Well, we’ve not found _much_,” said Douglas despondently.

“No,” said William, “but--but someone might’ve brought an animal for us
while we’ve been away.”

“Yes, an’ they mightn’t,” said Douglas. “I bet you anythin’ that we
find that ole garden seat as empty as we left it.”

“An’ I bet we find somethin’ put on it,” said William with gallant but
unconvinced optimism.

They turned the corner of the house and stood there transfixed for a
moment with rapture and amazement.

There upon the garden seat was a parrot in a cage.

Recovering from their paralysis they rushed to it and bore it off in
triumph to the summer-house.

“_Well_,” said William deeply touched and with his faith in human
nature entirely restored. “I do call that decent of _somebody_.”

“An’ no label on,” said Ginger, “that means we can keep it. They’ve
_given_ it.”

They crowded round their acquisition, still half incredulous of their
amazing good fortune.

“Someone must’ve come down the lane an’ seen the notice,” said William,
“an’ then gone home to fetch their parrot to give us. P’raps it’d
belonged to some relation what’d died an’ they din’t know what to do
with it or p’raps”--hopefully--“it uses such bad language that they
din’t like to have it in the house.”

As if intensely amused by the idea the parrot uttered a shrill scream
of laughter and when its paroxysm of mirth was over said with deep
feeling: “Go away. I hate you.”

This so delighted the Outlaws that they crowded round it again hoping
it would repeat it, but though it would whistle and make the sound of
a cork coming out of a bottle and utter a most offensive snigger, it
refused to oblige the Outlaws by telling them again that it hated them.

“Wonder what they eat,” said Ginger still gazing enraptured at their
new pet.

“Well, don’t you start givin’ it any of your berries,” said William
sternly. Then looking round: “I say, where’s that tin with my
caterpillar in? Who’s took it?”

“You left it on the garden seat when we fetched the parrot in,” said
Douglas, “I saw you.”

They hurried out to the garden seat.

It was empty.

“Well, of all the _cheek_,” said William indignantly, “someone’s
pinched it.”

“Never mind it,” said Ginger, “we’ve got a parrot. What’s a caterpillar
when we’ve got a parrot?”

“I _want_ that caterpillar,” said William doggedly, “I’d thought of a
lot of things to say about it an’ I’m goin’ to get another. Come on.
Let’s shut up the parrot in the summer-house where no one can steal it
an’ all go out to look for another caterpillar.”

Without much enthusiasm they agreed.

“An’ what I’d like to know,” said William darkly, “is where that
caterpillar _is_.”

That caterpillar was as a matter of fact in Ethel’s bedroom, being
flung, tin box and all, into the fireplace in a fit of temper. A
housemaid had found Hector’s note on the mat and taken it up to Ethel’s
room. Ethel’s room did not happen to overlook the garden. She read the
note with a smile almost as fatuous as Hector’s. She remembered what
she had told them about the parrot. Suppose he’d remembered the story
and brought her a parrot. “A little friend to keep you company.” ... It
might, of course, be a kitten or a puppy.... Anyway, it was very, very
sweet of him. She opened her door and, still smiling, called to the
housemaid who was sweeping the stairs.

“Emma, will you go out and bring me something that you’ll find upon the
garden seat.”

Emma went out and returned with a small tin. Ethel’s smile faded.

“Was this all that there was upon the garden seat?” she asked.

“Yes, miss. There was nothing else.”

Ethel returned to her room and opened the tin. Inside were several
leaves and a big furry caterpillar. There was nothing else.

“Oh, _that’s_ his idea of being funny, is it?” said Ethel viciously.
“Well, it’s not _mine_.”

And it was then that she flung the tin furiously into the fireplace.

At that very moment had she but known it, the faithful George was
tiptoeing softly round the house bearing a parrot in a cage. He too was
hot and breathless. He too had cycled into the neighbouring market
town for the parrot. He too had spent practically his last penny on
it. He too had decided to leave it on the garden seat and drop into
the letter-box a note about a “little friend to keep her company.”
He entered the back garden. There was a convenient garden seat. He
put down the cage upon it, slipped his note into the letter-box and
went home smiling to himself. How pleased she’d be about it.... It
would give him a pull over that ass Hector. Near the gate he met the
Outlaws carrying a tin. They passed each other as usual without any
sign of recognition. Both Ginger and Hector and Douglas and George,
whatever stage of cordiality or the reverse their relations might have
attained at home, made it a point of honour to pass each other on the
public highway as if they had never seen each other before. At present
relations at home were not cordial.

“Smilin’,” muttered Douglas bitterly when he had passed. “Yes, ’s all
right for _him_ to go about smilin’--takin’ people’s mouth-organs off
them an’ ru’nin’ them.”

“Funny we only caught one of those caterpillars again,” said William
meditatively.

“Well, one’s enough to lecture on, I suppose,” said Douglas rather
irritably. The sight of the fatuously smiling George had reminded him
of his grievances. “I’d like to see someone take somethin’ of _his_
away,” he went on, little knowing how literally his wish was to be
fulfilled.

“An’ I’d saved up for that trumpet,” said Ginger. “I don’t s’pose I’ll
ever--what’s the matter?”

William, who was walking in front, had stopped suddenly on turning the
corner of the house and was staring in blank amazement, eyes and mouth
wide open.

“There--there’s another parrot on the seat,” he said faintly.
“Seems--seems sort of impossible but--look!”

They looked. Like William’s, their eyes and mouths opened wide in blank
amazement.

“It is, isn’t it?” said William still faintly as if he couldn’t quite
believe his eyes. “It _is_ another parrot, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Ginger also rather faintly, “it cert’nly is. Someone else
must’ve passed the notice. Seems sort of funny they should _all_ be
givin’ us parrots, dun’t it?”

With a certain dazed bewilderment beneath their ecstasy the Outlaws
approached this new “gift.”

“Let’s take it in the summer-house an’ see if it talks to the other,”
said William.

They took it into the summer-house and the other parrot greeted it with
a sardonic laugh. The latest comer gazed round the summer-house with a
supercilious air and finally ejaculated “Great Scott!”

Ginger drew a breath of delight but William, in whom familiarity with
parrots was breeding contempt and who was becoming over critical,
merely said, “If that’s the worst bad language it knows it’s not goin’
to be very int’restin’.” Then he looked about him. “Where’s that tin
with the caterpillar in?”

“You left it on the bench again, William;” said Douglas.

They went out and stood around the empty bench.

“_Well_,” said William “it’s--it’s mos’ _mysterious_. Someone’s pinched
_this_ one too.”

Upstairs Ethel was hurling the second caterpillar and tin furiously
into the fireplace.

“Very funny, aren’t they?” she was saying. “‘A little friend to keep
you company.’ And two caterpillars. Oh, yes, it’s a _great_ joke, isn’t
it. All _right_, my young friends, all _right_.”

“Well, all I can say _is_,” William was saying, “that it’s one of the
mos’ _mysterious_ things what’ve ever happened to me in all my life.
Two parrots give me an’ two tins of caterpillars stole off me in the
same mornin’ ... but ’s no good goin’ out to find another now. There’s
not time. We’ll jus’ have to have the lecture without it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was late afternoon. Hector, still wearing his fatuous smile, came
round the corner of the house. He’d expected a note of thanks before
now. He felt that he couldn’t wait a minute longer without hearing an
account of Ethel’s rapturous glee on the receipt of his present. He
could imagine it, of course, but he wanted to hear someone telling
him about it. “She was delighted” ... “So kind of you” ... “She was
_deeply_ touched” ... “She’s writing to you now” ... “She’s longing for
the time when her quarantine will be over and she can see you and thank
you properly,” ... were a few of the phrases that occurred to him....

A housemaid opened the door.

“I just--er--called to see if the parrot was settling down all right,”
said Hector in an ingratiating manner.

“The parrot?” said the housemaid in surprise.

“Yes, the parrot that arrived this morning.”

“No parrot arrived this morning, sir,” said the housemaid.

It was Hector’s turn to be surprised.

“W-what?” he said, “are--are you sure.”

“Quite sure, sir,” said the housemaid. “There’s no parrot in the house
at all.”

“Not--er--not in Miss Brown’s room,” said Hector desperately.

“No, sir, I’ve just been there.”

Dazedly Hector walked away. Of course the thing was as plain as
daylight. What a fool he’d been to leave the thing out there on the
seat. Some tramp had come back to the back door and run off with
it. And he’d spent all the money he’d got on it.... Wasn’t it the
_rottenest_---- He stopped and stared. He’d wandered disconsolately
round to the other side of the house and there, just outside the closed
door of the summer-house, stood William with a parrot in a cage.

       *       *       *       *       *

The lecture was over. The Outlaws had collected a small and unruly
audience of children who’d nothing else to do but no one had enjoyed
it except William, who had lectured to his own entire satisfaction and
was now feeling tired and hoarse. He was, moreover, beginning to find
his parrots more of a liability than an asset. All attempts at closer
acquaintance with them had been resisted so promptly that both Ginger
and Douglas had had to improvise bandages for bleeding fingers from
very grimy handkerchiefs, and William’s nose had been bitten almost in
two while he was gazing fondly at his new possessions through the bars.
Also there was the economic side of the question to consider. William
had been down to the village to ascertain the price of parrot food and
had come back aghast at the result.

“We simply can’t afford to keep ’em,” he said.

“Well, I know I can’t. I’d have nothin’ left for myself at all out of
the bit of pocket money they give me.”

“Can’t they live on scraps an’ things?” said Ginger.

“Oh, yes,” said William, “I guess you’d like to try feedin’ ’em on
pois’nous berries same as what you did the dormouse.”

“Well, it was mine, wasn’t it?” said Ginger with spirit.

“Yes, but _this_ isn’t,” said William, “this was given me to lecture on
an’ I’m not goin’ to have it killed with pois’nous berries by you.”

“What are you goin’ to do with it, then?” said Ginger, “if you say you
can’t buy it proper food?”

“I don’t know yet,” said William irritably.

Like most other lecturers he was suffering the reaction from his
expenditure of eloquence.

At this point the two parrots began to hold a screaming contest till
William was forced to take George’s outside and close the door,
whereupon the clamour died down. It was at this moment that Hector came
round the corner of the house. His first impulse was to hurl himself
upon William and accuse him of stealing his parrot. But on approaching
nearer he saw that it was not his parrot. It was not his parrot and it
was not his cage. His expression changed. He approached William in a
manner that can only be described as ingratiating.

“Whose is that parrot, William?” he asked pleasantly.

“Mine,” said William shortly.

“W-where did you get it?” said Hector still more pleasantly.

“Someone gave it to me,” said William.

There was a short silence, then Hector said slowly:

“I was just wanting a parrot like that.”

“Were you?” said William.

Hector cleared his throat and then said in a manner that was more
ingratiating than ever:

“They’re rather dangerous, you know, and very expensive to feed.”

William secretly agreed with both these statements, but he gave no sign
of having even heard them. A shade of nervousness crept into Hector’s
ingratiating manner.

“I--I’m willing to buy that parrot from you, William,” he offered.

William turned a steady eye upon him.

“How much for?” he said sternly.

Hector hesitated. He hadn’t any money to speak of. With a different
type of child, of course, one might---- He’d always disliked William
far more than the other Outlaws.

“They’re not expensive things, of course,” he said carelessly, hoping
that William did not know their value, “and they’re a lot of trouble.
One must take into account that they’re delicate birds and one has
to----”

William interrupted. A sudden gleam had come into William’s eye.

“I tell you what I’ll do,” he said, “I’ll swop it with you.”

“What for?” said Hector hopefully.

The gleam in William’s eye became brighter, more steely.

“I want to give Ginger a present,” he said carelessly. “I want to give
him one of those nice trumpets. The _very_ nice ones. You can get ’em
at Foley’s in the village. They cost six shillings. I’ll swop it with
you for one of those trumpets to give to Ginger.”

William’s freckled face was absolutely expressionless as he made this
offer. For a minute there was murder in Hector’s eye. He went purple,
controlled himself with an effort, then after a minute’s silence full
of unspoken words, gulped and said:

“Very well. You wait here.”

Soon he was back with the trumpet. He hurled it at William with a
gesture of anger and contempt, seized the parrot cage and disappeared.
He was going to take it home, write a beautiful little note, fasten
it to the ring, and deliver it in person at the front door. He wasn’t
going to repeat his mistake of leaving it anywhere where it could be
stolen before it reached the beloved’s hands.

Inside the summer-house the Outlaws were dancing a dance of exultation
and triumph around Ginger who was producing loud but discordant strains
from his magnificent new trumpet.

This festive gathering was, however, broken by the sudden advent of
George who, like Hector, had not been able to resist the temptation of
coming round to receive a detailed description of Ethel’s delight. Like
Hector he had been informed that no parrot had entered the house that
day. He had then caught a glimpse of the Outlaws in the summer-house
leaping wildly about a parrot in a cage to the mingled strains of some
devilish musical instrument and the shrill sardonic chuckles of a
parrot. He hurled himself in upon them in fury.

“You little _thieves_,” he panted, seizing William by both ears. “What
do you _mean_ by taking my parrot?”

William firmly but with great dignity freed his ears, then as firmly
and with as much dignity replied:

“’S not your parrot. ’S ours.”

George looked at the parrot and his jaw dropped. William was right. It
wasn’t his parrot. It wasn’t his cage.

He gulped. His anger departed. A certain propitiatory note came into
his voice as he began to make tentative enquiries as to the exact value
William set upon his parrot. It appeared that though William valued
his parrot very highly indeed, still in order to oblige George he was
willing to exchange it for a mouth-organ, one of the six-shilling ones
from Foley’s, because he happened to want to give one to Douglas as
a present. George, after displaying all the symptoms of an imminent
apoplectic fit, went off to buy the mouth-organ, returned with it,
flung it furiously at the Outlaws and stalked off with his parrot.

William turned to the other Outlaws.

“I mus’ say,” he admitted, “that a lot of extraordinary things seem to
be hap’nin’ to us to-day. People givin’ away parrots an’ other people
wantin’ ’em an’--let’s go’n’ see what he’s goin’ to do with it.”

At a discreet distance they followed George round and out of the side
gate. George was going to take the parrot in at the front door, ring
the bell, and deliver it in person. He wasn’t going to run the risk of
having it stolen a second time.... And then, to his amazement, he saw
Hector blithely approaching from the opposite direction also carrying
a parrot in a cage. Hector had been home, had written a graceful little
note, attached it to the ring of the cage, and was now coming to
present it to Ethel. They met at the gate. Their mouths slowly opened.
Their eyes bulged in fury and amazement as each recognised his own
parrot and cage in the hand of the other. Simultaneously they shouted
“So _you_ stole my parrot.”

The Outlaws watched in mystified delight. A shabby-looking man who
happened to be passing also stopped to form an interested audience.

“It’s not your parrot ... I say _you_ stole mine.”

“I did _not_ ... _that’s_ my parrot you’re holding.”

“You heard her say she’d like a parrot and you----”

“You couldn’t afford one yourself so you pinched mine and----”

“A jolly good thing I’ve caught you----”

“I did _not_----”

“You _did_----”

“You’re a liar and a thief.”

“I’m not. You are.”

“I’m what?”

“A liar and a thief.”

“Say that again.”

“A liar and a thief.”

“Are you referring to me or to you?”

“To you.”

“Well, say it again.”

“You’re a liar and a thief.”

Feeling words inadequate, but finding the cage he was carrying an
impediment to threatening gestures, George turned round, thrust it
into William’s arms with a curt “take that,” and began to roll up his
sleeves. Hector turned to the shabby-looking man, who stood just behind
him, thrust his cage into his arms, and began to roll up his sleeves.
The next minute George and Hector, who attended the same boxing class
and knew each other’s style by heart, were giving a splendid display
upon the high road, with bare fists. From the _mélange_ came at regular
intervals the words “thief” and “liar,” “you did,” “I didn’t.”

It was clear that in the shabby-looking man’s breast there raged a
struggle between duty and pleasure--the pleasure of watching the fight
and the duty of providing for himself the necessities of life. Duty
won, and he crept softly away with his parrot and cage, and was never
seen or heard of in that locality again.

William stood for a minute deep in thought, then went quietly indoors
with his parrot and cage, leaving Hector and George still deaf and
blind to everything but the joy of fighting.

William, still very thoughtful, carried his cage up to Ethel’s room.

“I won’t come in, Ethel,” he said softly, “’cause of catching your
quarantine illness, but I’ve brought you a little present. I heard
you’d said you’d like a parrot an’ I’ve brought you one.”

Ethel and his mother came to the door and stared at him in amazement.
Freckled, stern, inscrutable, he handed the cage to Ethel.

“B-but wherever did you get it, William?” said Mrs. Brown.

“A man gave it me,” said William.

“A _man_ gave it you?” gasped Mrs. Brown.

“Yes,” said William, his face and voice entirely devoid of any
expression. “A man in the road gave it me. He just put it in my arms
an’ said: ‘Take that.’ He gave it me.”

“_Well!_” gasped Mrs. Brown, “isn’t that _extraordinary_! But there
_are_ a lot of eccentric people about and”--vaguely--“one’s always
reading of queer things in the newspapers.”

Ethel was deeply touched. That William should bring his present
straight to her. That it should be William who remembered her lightly
expressed wish for a parrot which those two--well, there weren’t any
words strong enough for them--had only ridiculed.... She felt drawn to
William as never before.

“How--how _very_ kind of you, William,” she said. “I--you can have your
bow and arrow back. I’m sorry I took it from you. It’s--it’s _very_
kind of you to bring me the parrot.”

William received his bow and arrow with perfunctory thanks. Just at
that moment the housemaid came up with a note. Ethel tore it open.

“Why, it’s all right,” she said. “Daphne hasn’t got measles after all.
The rash has all gone, and the doctor says she’s not got it at all,
and they want me to go to tea, and they’ve got that artist coming--you
know, the one that said that I was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in
his life, and---- Oh, how jolly. I’ll start at once.”

“May Douglas and Ginger and me walk with you just as far as there,
Ethel?” said William.

“Certainly, William,” said Ethel in her melted mood.

A few minutes later Ethel, accompanied by William, Ginger and Douglas,
set out from the front door. William carried his bow and arrow,
Ginger his magnificent new trumpet, and Douglas his magnificent new
mouth-organ. They walked very jauntily.

At the gate Hector and George came forward to greet them. The fight was
just over. It had been indecisive. They were equally matched and knew
each other’s style of boxing too well ever to be taken by surprise,
so the fight had finally been abandoned by mutual consent. At the
unexpected sight of Ethel emerging from the front door escorted by the
Outlaws, they pulled themselves together and hastened forward with
smiles of greeting. Ethel passed them head in air without any sign of
recognition. They stood gaping after her in helpless bewilderment. The
Outlaws turned back to look at them, Ginger and Douglas raised trumpet
and mouth-organ to their lips and uttered defiant strains, William
waved his bow and arrow in careless greeting, then they turned back and
went on their way accompanying Ethel, an indescribable swagger in their
walk.

[Illustration: ETHEL PASSED THE TWO YOUNG MEN, HEAD IN AIR, WITHOUT
ANY SIGN OF RECOGNITION. WILLIAM WAVED HIS BOW AND ARROW IN IRONIC
FAREWELL.]

George and Hector picked up their hats from the dust and walked slowly
away in the opposite direction.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ethel wasn’t in quarantine after all. And she was going out to tea to
meet the artist who said she was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in
his life. She was tired to death of those two boys but--but it was all
right now.

[Illustration: GEORGE AND HECTOR STOOD GAZING IN HELPLESS BEWILDERMENT.]

She was perfectly happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Outlaws had got back their confiscated property, and then some,
as they say across the Atlantic. They had scored most gloriously off
their enemies. They had had a most successful day. There had been,
it is true, certain mysterious elements in it that they could not
understand, but that did not matter. It had been a most successful day.
They were perfectly happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

George and Hector walked down the road arm in arm. Their conflict had
stimulated them and roused again all their old friendship. They were
confiding in each other that women were unreliable and incalculable and
that it was best to give them a wide berth. They were congratulating
each other on the narrow escape from the lifelong unhappiness that
marriage with Ethel would have meant to them.

Then they went on to discuss the latest football results.

They were perfectly happy....




CHAPTER VII

ONE GOOD TURN


The atmosphere in William’s home was electric, or, as William put it,
everyone seemed to be in a bait but him. Uncle Frederick was staying
with them, and not only Uncle Frederick but also a distant cousin,
many times removed, called Flavia. Flavia is a romantic name, but not
as romantic as its owner. Flavia was tall and slim and dark with deep
violet eyes. Not that William thought her romantic. He did not even
realise that she was tall and slim and dark with deep violet eyes. To
William she was merely an ordinary and quite unattractive grown-up.
He had tested her intelligence and found it entirely lacking (she did
not, for instance, know the difference between a Poplar Hawk and a
Vaporer, nor did she take the slightest interest in the records of
his prize “conker”). He felt in her, however, the aloof impersonal
interest he felt for all the girls whom Robert admired. For Robert
admired Flavia. At sight of her he had forgotten all his other ladye
loves (and they had been numerous), had forgotten even that he had
always intended to marry a small girl with golden hair and blue eyes,
and had gazed on her even while the introduction was taking place with
a lovelorn gaze that riveted William’s attention at once. William
liked to keep up with Robert’s love affairs, and on account of their
fleeting nature, this was less easy than it sounds. As he watched the
introduction he mentally transferred the focus of Robert’s affection
from the golden-haired girl he’d been taking on the river last week
to this new arrival. He was on the whole relieved to find her devoid
of intelligence. It always vaguely shocked him to find intelligence--a
knowledge of insects or interest in conker battles--in inamoratas of
Robert’s. It seemed such a waste of it.

It might be supposed that the course of true love would run very smooth
indeed with the inamorata beneath the same roof, but it didn’t. It
didn’t because of Uncle Frederick. Uncle Frederick needed a perpetual
audience. Uncle Frederick accompanied Flavia and Robert wherever they
went. He insisted on walking in the middle and he talked all the
time. He talked about his stamp collection. He had a collection of
ten thousand stamps, and he was never perfectly happy except when he
was talking about them. He knew his collection by heart and he could
describe each one of them in detail. He could--in fact he did--talk
about his collection for hours and hours and hours and hours without
stopping. He took for granted that Robert and Flavia liked to have him
with them wherever they went and so he always went with them. He went
for walks with them. He went for picnics with them. He went on the
river with them. He went out to tea with them. He played tennis with
them. He sat in the garden with them. And always he talked to them
about his stamp collection. Sometimes in the evening he read aloud to
them from a book called “The Joy of Stamp Collecting.”

They were sitting on a seat in the garden--Uncle Frederick in the
middle, Robert and Flavia on either side.

“I wish you could see it,” Uncle Frederick was saying; “it’s quite an
unique collection. Did I ever tell you how I got that Japanese stamp?”

“Yes,” said Robert gloomily.

Robert had an uneasy suspicion that he could see William’s face
through the laurel bushes, framed in its feathered Indian head-dress,
wearing its unholy grin.

“I’d like to have brought the collection with me,” went on Uncle
Frederick, “but of course it’s very large and cumbersome. And I’m
afraid of thieves. It’s extraordinary how thieves do get to hear of
these things, and of course they’re very cunning. Did I tell you about
the man I met who’d had a very rare complete set of Italian stamps
taken out of his pocket-book during a journey without feeling anything?”

“Yes,” said Robert.

Uncle Frederick threw him a suspicious glance. He was almost sure
he’d never told Robert that story. Slightly disconcerted, he paused
a minute, then pulling himself together continued: “I keep them at
home in a specially constructed safe. It would, I think, baffle any
burglar, but of course they are very cunning. I never come away like
this without feeling anxious about my stamps. The first thing I do
when I get home is to go to my safe and ascertain that they are all
there. Did I ever tell you----” He stopped, glanced at Robert and began
the sentence again. “I remember hearing of a man once who had a most
valuable collection stolen and faked stamps put in its stead. It was
some months before he discovered the trick.”

Robert leant over to Flavia who sat serene in the consciousness of her
beauty, and, assuming an expression which caused much delight to the
hidden William--an expression which soulless people sometimes compare
to that of “a dying duck in a thunderstorm”--said:

“Would you like to come to the summer-house, Flavia? There’s a very
pretty view of the rose garden from there.”

“Certainly,” said Flavia demurely as she rose.

“You stay here, Uncle Frederick,” said Robert hastily, seeing that
Uncle Frederick, too, was rising, and added solicitously, “I’m sure
you’re tired with our walk this morning. You rest here while I show
Flavia the view from the summer-house.”

“Oh, no,” said Uncle Frederick briskly, “I’m not at all tired; I’m a
very good walker. I could outwalk you both, I dare say. I’ll come and
look at this view from the summer-house with you. I remember there
was a summer-house at home when I was a boy. I used to take my stamp
collection down there to arrange them. I remember that it was in the
old summer-house that I added the last of the complete set of Austrian
stamps to my collection. A friend of my father gave it to me, and I
took it down to the summer-house to put it into my album.”

The three of them wended their way to the summer-house. William,
wearing his Red Indian costume, followed through the bushes. He found
the expression on Robert’s face highly diverting.

They stood in the summer-house, Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert
and Flavia on either side, William discreetly peeping through a crack
in the side.

“Well, where’s this view from the summer-house?” said Uncle Frederick.

“There,” said Robert savagely. Uncle Frederick looked through the
little window.

“It doesn’t seem to me,” he said, “much different from the view you get
from the house.”

Robert ground his teeth.

“I don’t see anything at all specially attractive about the view of
the rose garden from this particular spot,” went on Uncle Frederick.
“However--we each have our own standard of beauty, and what appeals
to one does not appeal to all. I know quite a lot of people, for
instance, who judge stamps entirely by their artistic appearance, quite
irrespective of their value. Did I ever tell you of the lady who----?”

“Yes,” interrupted Robert viciously. Uncle Frederick looked at him
coldly.

“I don’t think I did,” he said. “You must be thinking of some other
story I told you. This lady was forming a stamp collection and I told
her that she could choose any stamp she liked on a certain page of my
album (not one containing my most valuable stamps, of course) to form
the nucleus of her collection, and she chose one of no value at all
just because she liked the picture on it.”

Robert leaned over to Flavia again.

“Would you care to come and see the greenhouse,” he said, “and look at
the--er--carnations?”

“Certainly,” said Flavia pleasantly, rising.

“We’ll be back with you in a minute, Uncle,” said Robert hastily,
seeing that Uncle Frederick was rising, too.

“Oh, I’ll come and look at the carnations,” said Uncle Frederick. “I’m
very much interested in carnations. And very unusual, too, for them to
be out this time of the year.”

The three of them went on to the greenhouse and stood there, Uncle
Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side. Uncle
Frederick looked about him.

“Well,” he said, “where are the carnations? I don’t see any carnations.”

“I didn’t mean carnations,” said Robert desperately, “I meant,” he
swept his arm wildly round the greenhouse, “I meant these.”

“These,” Uncle Frederick adjusted his spectacles and began to look
around. “I see ... Begonias. Very nice, very nice. I’m glad you thought
of showing us these, Robert. I’m very fond of begonias, aren’t you,
Flavia?”

Robert, standing behind his uncle, bared his lips in a silent and
impotent snarl of fury. It was at that moment that he espied William’s
feather-encircled head gazing through one of the glass panes with a
smile of quiet enjoyment. He turned the snarl of fury on to William.
William promptly disappeared. Uncle Frederick turned abruptly and
caught the tail-end of the snarl of fury. He looked startled and
concerned.

“Are you in pain, my poor boy?” he said.

“No,” said Robert, “I mean yes. I mean, not much.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been over-doing it,” he said. “Flavia, we’ve tired
out our young friend, I’m afraid. The walk was too much for him. I
suspect that he indulges in too much physical exercise and too little
mental recreation. You should collect stamps, my boy. There’s nothing
like it. Have I ever told you how I came to collect stamps?”

“No,” said Robert. “I mean yes. Yes, you have.”

At that minute the first lunch gong sounded.

“I’ll tell you about the origin of my stamp collection afterwards. Let
us now follow yon welcome sound.”

Groaning inwardly, Robert followed it. He stalked angrily into
the dining-room and flung himself into the nearest chair. It was
unfortunate that William had been into the room a minute before and
had carelessly flung down his Red Indian head-dress upon that very
chair, and that at the end of the head-dress was the unguarded pin
that had secured it around William’s head. Robert leapt into the air
with a high-pitched cry of agony, which swiftly changed to a growl of
fury when he saw the cause of his involuntary ascent. The sight of the
head-dress reminded him, too, of the unholy grin on William’s face as
it peered in at the greenhouse, rejoicing in his discomfiture. With
a gesture of rage he flung the whole thing into the fire. That to a
small extent--a very small extent--relieved his feelings, so that when
William entered a few minutes later, still wearing his frilled khaki
trousers and looked around with a stern “Where’s my feather thing?”
Robert could answer with great dignity and nonchalance: “In the fire.”

“Who put it there?” said William.

“I did,” said Robert.

William’s face grew stern and lowering, but he said nothing.

“You shouldn’t leave it about all over the place,” said Robert.

“Did you sit on the pin?” said William with sudden hope.

But Robert refused to allow him even that gleam of comfort.

“Course I didn’t,” he said.

“I bet you did,” said William, “an’ let me tell _you_. There’s not many
people’d dare to throw away a Red Indian head thing. At least,” he
ended darkly, “not without knowin’ somethin’d happen to them.”

With this sinister threat he withdrew, to put his head round the door a
few minutes later, having thought of something else to say.

“You needn’t be so mad at _me_,” he said. “_I’ve_ not been goin’ round
with you all mornin’ talkin’ about my stamp collection. Why don’ you
throw one of _his_ hats in the fire?”

And withdrew before Robert could get hold of anything to throw at him.

       *       *       *       *       *

They met in the barn. William, Ginger, Douglas and Joan. They all
wore their Red Indian dresses. Joan--the only female Outlaw--had
a squaw-dress which she had made herself and which made up in
ornamentation what it lacked in cut and unobtrusiveness of stitching.
Its ornamentation was little short of reckless. She had sewn the entire
contents of twelve penny boxes of beads on to it. All of them--Joan
openly, the Outlaws secretly--were intensely proud of it. All except
William wore feathered head-dresses. Briefly William told the story of
its disappearance.

“He oughter know it’s a _serious_ thing,” he said, “throwin’ Red
Indian chief’s feathers into the fire. It’s a _ninsult_. He’s lucky I’m
not a _real_ Red Indian or he’d be scalped. That’s what he deserves. He
deserves to be scalped--throwin’ Red Indian chief’s head things into
the fire.”

They set out for the wood where they had agreed to “scout” each other,
but William’s gloomy sense of outraged honour threw a shadow over
all of them. In vain for Ginger, Douglas, Henry and Joan to comment
brightly on the fine day or the prospect of a good scouting expedition.
In vain for each of them to offer to lend him his own head-dress. In
reply William muttered, “He’s jolly lucky not to be scalped, that’s
what he is. I bet if any _real_ Red Indian knew he’d done it, he’d come
over an’ scalp him.”

They began to walk over the field that led to the wood where their
scouting expedition was to take place. Suddenly Joan stopped. “Look!”
she said. “A fairy ring!” William snorted scornfully and strode on.
“Oh, but it is,” said Joan, “do come and look at it.”

They stopped to look at a little circle of toadstools in the green
grass.

“Well, what of it?” said William, determined not to be impressed.

“What is it?” said Ginger.

“It’s a fairy ring,” said Joan, “if you stand in the middle and wish,
your wish comes true.”

William emitted again his famous snort of contempt and derision.

“It does,” persisted Joan. “Honestly. The last time I came across one I
stood in the middle and wished there’d be trifle for dinner and there
was.”

The Outlaws were despite themselves impressed by this. William,
however, merely said:

“Oh, yes, we’ve had enough of your fairy stuff. Do you remember the ole
donkey what----”

“But, William,” said Joan. “It couldn’t do any harm just to wish
something.”

“All right,” said William.

He stepped into the fairy ring.

“I wish a real Indian Chief’d come along an’ scalp Robert for burnin’
my head thing,” he said.

Then they all proceeded except Ginger, who stepped hastily into the
ring and silently wished that there might be roast turkey, strawberries
and cream and trifle and ice cream for supper. He was aware that this
was very unlikely, but he was optimistic and thought it worth trying.

       *       *       *       *       *

William had almost forgotten his grievance when he returned home for
tea. His mother was out, but Uncle Frederick was having tea with Robert
and Flavia.

“Apart from its historical and geographical interest it’s such a
wonderful investment,” Uncle Frederick was saying. “I know of a stamp
which sold for four pounds in 1898 and which sells for over fifteen
pounds to-day.”

Robert cleared his throat. He had long ago relinquished subtle methods
in trying to oust Uncle Frederick’s stamps from the conversation and
introduce his own topics.

“I made a wireless set last month,” he said.

“Great Britain 1840,” said Uncle Frederick.

“Seven valves,” said Robert.

“Black V. R.,” said Uncle Frederick.

“I can get Germany,” said Robert.

Flavia merely sat by as usual serenely conscious of her beauty.

Uncle Frederick despite himself yielded to Robert’s determined egotism.

“A what?” he said, “a wireless set?”

“Yes,” said Robert, glancing at Flavia to make sure that she was
listening. “I made it myself. Seven valves. I can get anywhere with
it.”

“Strange as it may seem,” said Uncle Frederick, “I have never listened
to one of those instruments--‘listened in’ is, I believe, the correct
expression. As it happens I do not possess one myself, nor do any of my
friends. Nor have I ever wished to purchase one. As an entertainment I
do not consider that it even approaches stamp collecting. But still--I
see that it might be interesting. The news, for instance--the weather
forecast--that is given every night, I believe.”

William, considering that he had been left out of the conversation long
enough and seeing an opportunity of entering into it, swallowed half a
bun unmasticated and burst out:

“Yes, it’s giv’n every night, but it’s nothin’ to go by. The weather
forecast, I mean. If it says it’s goin’ to rain it gen’rally doesn’t,
and if it says it isn’t, it gen’rally does.” He caught Robert’s eye
fixed on him sternly, with an expression that could only mean that
he was going to eject him mercilessly from the conversation at the
first opportunity, and returning the gaze defiantly continued in a
loud voice: “The weather forecast comes first an’ then the S.O.S’s and
then----”

“S.O.S.?” said Uncle Frederick, “and what is that?”

“Oh, it’s telling people away from home when they’re wanted at home,”
said William vaguely. “Tellin’ ’em you know when somethin’s gone wrong
an’ they’ve gotter go home at once.”

Uncle Frederick seemed much impressed.

“I see,” he said, “an excellent idea. A means of getting into touch at
once with anyone who is absent. An excellent idea. I see. Then----”

“Seven valves,” said Robert at last, forcing his way back into the
conversation, talking to Uncle Frederick and gazing at the serene and
beautiful Flavia, “seven valves--a much larger number than most sets
are made with. It took me a very long time to make it. I----”

William, realising that all further attempts on his part at getting
back into the conversation would be firmly thwarted by Robert, put
one bun into his mouth, slipped another into his pocket and quietly
departed.

The indignity of having had his Indian head-dress destroyed still
rankled in William’s breast, but it was growing dimmer with the
passage of time. He made his way to a neighbouring farm and there made
a collection of hens’ feathers to form a new and yet more splendid
head-band. He then took them to a wood near by to count and he was
engaged thus when to his amazement and dismay he beheld a Red Indian
Chief in full panoply approaching him through the wood. He rubbed his
eyes to make sure that it was true and not a vision. It was true.
A tall man with a red, hawk-nosed face, an enormous head-dress of
feathers, wearing magnificent Red Indian panoply, was stalking past him
through the wood in the direction of the road that led to William’s
house. It was amazing. But there it was. It was true. And suddenly he
remembered his wish in the fairy ring--that a real Red Indian Chief
should come and scalp Robert. His heart sank down to his shoes. Crumbs!
This was more than he’d bargained for! _Crumbs!_ He’d no idea---- He
gazed at the vision with awe and astonishment and growing horror. He
could not, of course, know that the vision was an acquaintance of
Robert’s who had arranged to call for Robert on his way to a small
fancy dress party to which they were both going. Robert had as a matter
of fact carefully hidden from William his intention of going to the
fancy dress party, on the general principle that the less William knew
of his movements the better. William roused himself from his paralysis
and rose trembling to intercept the stranger.

[Illustration: A RED INDIAN CHIEF IN FULL PANOPLY WAS APPROACHING
WILLIAM THROUGH THE WOOD.]

“Where you goin’?” he demanded tremulously.

“To The Hollies,” said the stranger.

William’s heart sank yet deeper. The Hollies was the name of William’s
house.

[Illustration: WILLIAM GAZED AT THE VISION WITH ASTONISHMENT AND
HORROR. CRUMBS! THIS WAS MORE THAN HE’D BARGAINED FOR!]

“Who--who you goin’ there for?” he faltered.

“For Robert Brown,” said the stranger.

It was true. William moistened his lips.

“What you goin’ to do to Robert?” he said faintly.

The stranger looked down. He liked making fun of small boys.

“Scalp him,” he answered with a dramatic snarl, and began again to
stride through the wood. William hurried along trying to keep pace with
him.

“Look here,” he said breathlessly. “I didn’t mean it. Honest, I didn’t.
I didn’t know there was anythin’ in it. Honest, I didn’t. I don’ want
you to do it, really. I mean, I c’n make a new one an’ I don’ really
mind now. P’raps he sat on the pin an’ then threw it into the fire
without thinkin’ what he was doin’. Look here, if you go back where you
came from----”

“What on earth do you mean?” demanded the stranger, striding onwards.

“You--you can’t go to Robert,” said William desperately. “’S’no use
goin’ for him. You won’t find him. He’s not at home.”

“Where is he?” demanded the stranger.

William was silent for a moment, searching in his mind for some place
whither a Red Indian, lusting for vengeance, could not follow.

At last:

“He’s gone up in an aeroplane,” he said, “an’ none of us know when he’s
comin’ down, so it’s no use you waitin’ for him.”

At this moment Robert, dressed in a Harlequin costume, issued from a
side gate and hailed his friend.

“Hallo,” he said, “you’re in jolly good time, and, by Jove, you do look
fine!”

William, with a snort of disgust, turned on his heel.

Robert’s friend watched his retreating figure.

“Who’s that?” he said.

“My brother,” said Robert.

“Is he potty?” said the friend. “He just said you’d gone up in an
aeroplane.”

“Oh, yes, he’s as potty as they make ’em,” said Robert carelessly.

Robert had been uncertain whether to go to the fancy dress party or
not. Had there been any chance of spending the evening alone with
Flavia, he would, of course, not have gone, but Uncle Frederick had
announced his intention of reading aloud to Flavia and him a little
pamphlet he had just bought called “The Romance of Stamp Collecting.”
So in disgust Robert went with his friend to the fancy dress party. And
the next morning he carelessly threw to William the most magnificent
feathered head-dress William had ever seen.

“That chap who went with me last night gave me that,” he said; “he’d
got two and didn’t want this one, so he gave it to me. You can have it.”

It is probable that very mixed motives had prompted Robert’s gift. It
is possible that he felt some compunction of heart at his impulsive
destruction of William’s treasured head-dress. It is more than possible
that he felt apprehensive as to the results. He knew that people did
not as a rule insult William with impunity. He had been as a matter of
fact nervously awaiting some counter-move on William’s part ever since
he committed the outrage.

It was such a very magnificent head-dress that William felt an
overpowering sensation of gratitude. It tied his hands. It poisoned his
peace of mind. It made him feel obliged to be polite and subservient to
Robert, and William hated feeling obliged to be polite and subservient
to anyone. He liked to feel free, and untrammelled to carry on that
perpetual guerilla warfare with Robert that lent life some of its
necessary zest. The only way of escaping this nauseating sense of
obligation was, of course, to bestow upon Robert some magnificent
benefit in return--some benefit, in short, commensurate with the
feathered head-dress.

William sat in his bedroom gazing at the stupendous gift, torn
between ecstasy at its possession, and a hopeless realisation of
the impossibility of conferring upon Robert any comparable benefit.
He rose, put on his Red Indian suit, tied on the wonderful feather
head-band, and, drunk with pride and rapture, swaggered to and fro
before his looking-glass. Then he sat down on the floor, and chin in
hand, brows drawn into a fierce frown, he thought and thought and
thought and thought. What could he give to Robert, what could he do for
Robert, to win back his independence of spirit? No light broke in upon
the problem. He rose and went to the window. There below him in the
garden walked Uncle Frederick with Robert and Flavia upon either side.
Uncle Frederick looked very happy. He was gesticulating forcibly as he
talked. He was talking about his set of 1923 Esthonia Triangular, over
printed and surcharged. Scarce.

Robert walked dejectedly, casting alternate glances of fury at Uncle
Frederick and languishment at Flavia. Flavia walked with eyes demurely
downcast, occasionally returning Robert’s gaze. Emboldened by this,
Robert suggested that Uncle Frederick should sit down and rest upon the
garden seat and that he and Flavia should have a little game of tennis
on the hard court. Uncle Frederick said that he’d love a little game of
tennis and that he’d take them both on and beat them both hollow. He
went in to change his shoes and dejectedly they followed.

William returned to his seat on the floor and again contorted his
freckled countenance into an expression indicative of deep thought.
Then suddenly a light shone through it. He rose to his feet and, still
wearing his head-dress, performed a dance of victory, snatching up a
tooth-brush to wave in lieu of a spear.

He knew now what he was going to do for Robert.

It was the next evening. Flavia had gone out to tea with Mrs. Brown.
Robert had very, very moodily gone off for a walk by himself. Uncle
Frederick was sitting alone in the dining-room reading the paper.

He was interrupted by the entry of William--William wearing that
guileless expression of imbecility that to those who knew him well
betokened danger. Uncle Frederick, however, was not among those who
knew William well. William sat and looked into the fire in silence,
a far-away, wistful expression upon his face. This attracted Uncle
Frederick’s attention.

“A penny for your thoughts, my little man.”

William with an effort concealed his indignation at being thus
addressed, and still guilelessly, wistfully replied:

“I was thinking about the wireless Robert’s made. It’s such a beautiful
one.”

“Ah!” said Uncle Frederick pleasantly, “I must certainly hear that
wireless.”

“Would you like to go and hear it now,” said William. “I think that
Robert would be so pleased when he came in to know that you’d been
listening to his wireless.” Again Uncle Frederick was vaguely touched
by this.

“Then certainly we must go and listen to it, my little man,” he said.

“Will you come now?” said his little man, rising and holding out a
grubby hand confidingly.

Uncle Frederick was very, very comfortable, but he could not resist the
invitation of that outstretched grubby hand. He rose reluctantly, took
it somewhat gingerly and saying heartily:

“Oh, yes, we must certainly hear this wireless. Just for a few minutes,
of course. A few minutes, I think, will be enough.”

He threw a longing glance at the fire and his newspaper, then yielded
to the firm pressure of William’s hand and allowed himself to be drawn
from the room.

“Here it is,” said William. “You just turn this,” and William, secure
in the knowledge that no programme was going on at the moment, made the
reaction handle turn a complete circuit till it was where it had been
to start with.

“It will begin in a few minutes now,” he said. “Only I’ve just got to
go an’ do some lessons. Jus’ wait a minute an’ it will come. I’m sorry
I can’t wait.”

Uncle Frederick, sitting in front of Robert’s wireless which was
just in front of the drawn window curtains, waited just a minute or
two--waited in fact just long enough for William to run out of the side
door round the house, and to put in his head at the open window of the
morning-room behind the curtain. Then Uncle Frederick’s patience was
rewarded. A deep bass voice (which those who knew William better might
have recognised as one of his “disguised” voices) began to speak. It
said:

“London callin’ the British Isles. There is a ridge of high pressure
movin’ Eastwards over England, together with a secondary anticyclone
deepenin’ over Scandinavia.

“There is one S.O.S. Will Mr. Frederick Brown kindly go home at once as
his Stamp Collection has been stolen. It----”

But Uncle Frederick could not wait for more. He leapt from his seat,
flew up to his bedroom, hastily packed a bag and, hurling an incoherent
message at William, rushed forth into the night.

William, looking quite expressionless, explained matters as best he
could to his bewildered family on their return.

[Illustration: “HERE’S ROBERT’S WIRELESS SET, UNCLE FREDERICK,” SAID
WILLIAM. “YOU JUST TURN THIS. THERE!”]

“Well, he just said he’d had bad news and had to go home. Had he had
a telegram? I dunno. P’raps he had. No, I didn’t see one. No, he
didn’t say what sort of bad news. Something about something stolen.
Had he been rung up? I dunno. P’raps he had. I wasn’t at home in the
afternoon. Well, he’d just gone into the morning-room to listen to
Robert’s wireless. I wasn’t there with him. I just turned it on for him
to listen and then I went out. I _keep tellin’_ you I wasn’t there with
him. He came rushin’ out an’ said he’d gotter go home. No, why should I
know anythin’ about it? I _keep tellin’_ you. He went into the mornin’
room to listen to Robert’s wireless and he came rushin’ out and went
home. Well, how should I know anythin’ about it, more’n anyone else?”

Robert’s expression throughout the recital had been gradually
brightening till it was now a veritable glow. He looked at Flavia.

“Would you care to come out for a little stroll in the garden, Flavia?”
he said. “It’s quite a nice evening.”

And Flavia dimpling demurely murmured: “Yes, I’d love it.”

The next morning there arrived a long letter from Uncle Frederick. He
told them about the message he’d received by wireless and how he’d
been assured by all his friends that no such message had been sent by
wireless, and that no such message could have been sent by wireless.
They all said that he must have dropped asleep and dreamed it, and that
was the explanation that he had finally adopted. He must have dropped
into a doze while he sat waiting for the wireless to begin and dreamed
it. Anyway, he thought that he’d stay at home now and not return for
the remainder of his visit as the incident had made him nervous. Dreams
were, he was sure, often sent for a warning and he thought he’d like to
be on the spot for the next few months in case there were any thieves
about who had their eye on his stamp collection. He was afraid that his
two young friends would miss him very much, but he was sure they would
forgive him and understand.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was evening. All was well. An atmosphere of peace hung over the
house. Robert and Flavia had packed a picnic basket and gone off for
the day.

William, wearing his new and magnificent headgear, was demonstrating
his freshly regained independence of spirit by erecting a cunning
arrangement above Robert’s bedroom door, whereby when Robert opened it
a pillow would drop down and, he hoped, completely envelop Robert’s
head.




CHAPTER VIII

WILLIAM’S LUCKY DAY


William and the other Outlaws sat in the old barn discussing the latest
tragedy that had befallen them. Tragedies, of course, fell thick
and fast upon the Outlaws’ path through life. They waged ceaseless
warfare upon the grown-up world around them and, as was natural, they
frequently came off second best. But this was a special tragedy. Not
only was it a grown-up victory, but it was a victory that bade fair to
make the Outlaws’ daily lives a perpetual martyrdom at the hands of
their contemporaries.

Usually, the compensating element of a grown-up victory was the fact
that it concentrated upon them the sympathy of their associates--a
sympathy that not infrequently found tangible form in the shape of
bullseyes or conkers. But this grown-up victory was a victory that
promised to make the lives of the early Christian martyrs beds of roses
in comparison with those of the Outlaws.

The way it happened was this.

The headmaster of William’s school had a cousin who was a Great
Man, and once a year the cousin who was a Great Man came down to
the school to address the boys of William’s school. He possessed,
presumably, gifts of a high and noble order, otherwise he would
not have been a Great Man, but whatever those gifts may have been
they did not include that of holding the interest of small boys.
Only the front two rows could ever hear anything he said and not
even the front two rows (carefully chosen by the headmaster for
their--misleadingly--intelligent expressions) could understand it.

It might be gathered from this that the annual visit of the Great Man
was looked forward to without enthusiasm, but this was not the case,
for always at the end of the lecture he turned to the headmaster and
asked that the boys might be given a half-holiday the next day, and
the headmaster, after simulating first of all intense surprise and
then doubt and hesitation, while the rows of small boys watched him in
breathless suspense, their eyes nearly dropping out of their heads,
finally said that they might. Then someone called for three cheers
for the Great Man, and the roof quivered. The Great Man was always
much gratified by his reception. He always said afterwards that it was
delightful to see young boys taking a deep and intelligent interest
in such subjects as Astronomy and Egyptology and Geology, and that
the cheers with which they greeted the close of the lecture left
him with no doubt at all of their appreciation of it. The school in
general went very carefully the day before the lecture because it was
known that the headmaster disliked granting the half-holiday and with
the meanness of his kind would welcome with hidden joy and triumph
any excuse for cancelling it. The Great Man’s visit was a nervous
strain on the headmaster, and his temper was never at its best just
then. To begin with, it was an exhausting and nerve-racking task to
discover sufficient boys with intelligent expressions to fill the front
rows. Then the other boys had to be graded in diminishing degrees of
cleanliness and presentability to the back of the hall which the Great
Man, being very short-sighted, could not see, and where the least
presentable specimens were massed. The Outlaws were always relegated
to the very back row. They found no insult in this, but were, on the
contrary, grateful for it. By a slight adjustment of their positions
they could hide themselves comfortably from the view of Authority,
and give their whole attention to such pursuits as conker battles,
the swopping of cigarette-cards, or the “racing” of insects conveyed
thither in match-boxes for the purpose. But this year a terrible thing
had happened.

The Great Man arrived at the village as usual. As usual he stayed with
the headmaster. As usual the Outlaws hid behind the hedge to watch him
with interest and curiosity as he passed to and from the headmaster’s
house, going to the village or returning from it. It was unfortunate
that the Great Man happened to be wearing a bowler hat that was
undoubtedly too small for him. He may have bought it in a hurry and not
realised till he had worn it once or twice how much too small it was,
and then with dogged British courage and determination decided to wear
it out. He may have been honestly labouring under the delusion that it
suited and fitted him. The fact remains that when he emerged from the
headmaster’s gate into the lane the waiting and watching Outlaws drew
deep breaths and ejaculated simultaneously:

“Crumbs! Look at his hat!”

“Don’t look like a hat at all,” commented Douglas.

“Looks like as if he was carryin’ an apple on his head,” said Ginger.

“William Tell,” said Henry with the modest air of one who, without
undue ostentation, has no wish to hide his culture and general
information under a bushel. “You know, William Tell. What his father
shot an apple off his head without touchin’ him.”

“An’ I bet I could shoot his hat off his head without touchin’ him
if I’d got my catapult here,” said William, in order to divert the
limelight from Henry’s intellect to his own physical prowess.

“Bet you couldn’t,” challenged Ginger.

“Bet I could,” said William.

“Bet you couldn’t.”

“Bet I could.”

It was the sort of discussion that can go on for ever. However, when it
had gone only about ten minutes, William said with an air of finality:

“Well, I haven’t got my catapult, anyway, or else I’d jolly well _show_
you.”

Ginger unexpectedly produced a catapult.

“Here’s mine,” he said.

“Well, I haven’t got anything to shoot.”

Douglas searched in his pocket and produced from beneath the inevitable
string, hairy boiled sweets, pen-knife and piece of putty, two or three
shrivelled peas.

William was taken aback till he realised that the Great Man had passed
out of sight. Then he said, with something of relief: “Well, I can’t,
can I? Considerin’ he’s gone!” and added with withering sarcasm, “if
you’ll kin’ly tell me how to shoot the hat off a person’s head what
isn’t here I’ll be very glad to----”

But at that moment the figure of the Great Man was seen returning down
the lane. He had only been to the post. The spirit of adventure--that
Will-o’-the-wisp that had so often led the Outlaws astray but that they
never could resist--entered into them.

“Go on, William,” urged Ginger. “Have a shot at his hat an’ see if you
c’n knock it off. It won’t matter. It’ll only go ‘ping’ against his hat
and we’ll be across the next field before he knows what’s happened.
He’ll never know it was us. Go on, William. Have a shot at his hat.”

The figure was abreast of them now on the other side of the hedge.

William, his eyes gleaming with excitement, his face set and stern
with determination, raised the catapult and had a shot at the Great
Man’s hat.

He had been unduly optimistic. He did not shoot the little hat off the
Great Man’s head as he had boasted he could. Instead he caught the
Great Man himself just above his ear. It was, on the whole, not a very
bad shot, but William did not stop to point that out to his friends.
A dried pea emitted from a catapult can hurt more than those who have
never received it have any conception of.

For a minute the Great Man was literally paralysed by the shock. Then
he uttered a roar of pain, fury and outraged dignity and started
forward, lusting for the blood of his assailant. The dastardly attack
had seemed to come from the direction of the hedge. He flung himself
in that direction. He could see three boys fleeing over the field and
then--clutching desperately at the hedge above him--a fourth boy rolled
back into the ditch. The Great Man pounced upon him. It was William,
who had caught his foot while scrambling through the hedge, and lost
his balance. He bore in his hand the evidence of his guilt in the
shape of Ginger’s catapult. It was useless for him to deny that he was
the perpetrator of the outrage--useless even to plead the analogy of
William Tell and the apple.

The Great Man had mastered the first violence of his fury. With a great
effort he choked back several expressions which, though forcible, were
unsuited for the ears of the young, and fixing William with a stern eye
said severely: “I see by your cap that you attend the school at which
I am to lecture to-morrow. After this outrage I shall not, of course,
ask for the usual half-holiday, and I shall request your headmaster to
inform your schoolfellows of the reason why no half-holiday is accorded
this year.”

Then--stern, dignified, an impressive figure were it not for the
smallness of his hat, which the shock of William’s attack had further
knocked slightly crooked--the Great Man passed on down the lane.

       *       *       *       *       *

William, with pale, set face, returned to his waiting friends.

“_Well!_” he said succinctly, “that’s done it. That’s jolly well _done_
it.” Then, savagely, to Ginger: “It’s all your fault, taking your silly
ole catapult about with you wherever you go an’ gettin’ people to shoot
at other people all over the place. _Now_ look what you’ve done.”

“Huh! I like that!” said Ginger with spirit. “I like that. What about
_you_ falling about in ditches? If _you’d_ not gone fallin’ about in
ditches he’d never’ve known about it. Huh! A nice Red Indian _you’d_
make fallin’ about in ditches. An’, anyway, you were wrong an’ I was
right. You _couldn’t_ shoot his hat off without touchin’ his face. I
_said_ you couldn’t.”

He ended on a high-pitched note of jeering triumph which the proud
spirit of William found intolerable. They hurled themselves upon each
other in deadly combat, which was, however, terminated by Henry who
enquired with innocent curiosity:

“What did he say, anyway?”

This suddenly reminded William of what the Great Man had said, and his
fighting spirit died abruptly.

He sat down on the ground with Ginger on top of him and told them
forlornly what the Great Man had said.

On hearing it Ginger’s fighting spirit, too, died, and he got off
William and sat in the road beside him.

“_Crumbs!_” he said in an awestruck voice of horror.

It was characteristic of the Outlaws that all their mutual
recrimination promptly ceased at this news.

This was no mere misfortune. This was tragedy, and a tragedy in which
they must all stand together. In the persecution from all ranks of
their schoolfellows that would inevitably follow, they must identify
themselves with William, their leader; they must share with him the
ostracism, and worse than ostracism, that the Great Man’s sentence
would bring upon them.

“_Crumbs!_” breathed Henry, voicing their feelings, “won’t they just be
_mad_!”

“I’ll tell ’em I did it,” said William in a faint voice.

“You didn’t do it,” said Ginger aggressively. “Whose catapult was it,
anyway? An’ who dared you to?”

“An’ whose pea was it?” put in Douglas with equal indignation.

“I did it, anyway,” said William. “It was my fault. I’ll tell ’em so.”

“It was me just as much as you,” said Ginger with spirit.

“It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

This argument, like the previous one, might have developed into a
healthy physical contest had not Henry said slowly:

“He can’t’ve told _him_ yet ’cause _he’s_ gone up to London to choose
prizes an’ I heard someone say he wun’t be back till the last train
to-night.”

There was a silence. Through four grimy, freckled, disconsolate faces
shone four sudden gleams of hope.

“P’raps if you told him you were sorry an’ ask him not to----”
suggested Douglas.

William leapt to his feet with alacrity.

“Come on,” he said tersely and followed by his faithful band made his
way across the field through the hedge and down the lane that led to
the headmaster’s house.

He performed an imperious and very lengthy tattoo on the knocker--a
tattoo meant to be indicative of the strength and durability of his
repentance.

A pretty housemaid appeared.

She saw one small and very dirty boy on the doorstep and three other
small and very dirty boys hanging over the gate. She eyed them with
disfavour. She disliked small and dirty boys.

“We’re not deaf,” she said haughtily.

“Aren’t you?” said William with polite interest. “I’m not either. But
I’ve gotter naunt what’s so deaf that----”

“What do you want?” she snapped.

William, pulled up in this pleasant chat with the pretty housemaid,
remembered what he wanted and said gloomily: “I want to speak to the
man what’s staying with the headmaster.”

“What’s your name?”

“William Brown.”

“Well, stay there, and I’ll ask him.”

“All right,” said William preparing to enter.

She pushed him back.

“I’m not having them boots in my hall,” she said with passionate
indignation, and went in, closing the door upon him.

William looked down at his boots with a puzzled frown and then called
out anxiously to his friends over the gate:

“There’s nothing wrong with my boots, is there?”

They looked at William’s boots, large, familiar, mud-encrusted.

“No,” they said, “they’re quite all right.”

“What’s she talkin’ about, then?” said William.

“P’raps she means they’re _muddy_,” suggested Douglas tentatively.

“Well, that’s what boots are _for_, i’n’t it?” said William sternly.

[Illustration: WILLIAM PLANTED HIS FOOT IN THE TRACK OF THE CLOSING
DOOR. “LOOK HERE!” HE SAID DESPERATELY. “TELL HIM HE CAN SHOOT A
CATAPULT AT ME. I DON’T MIND”]

Just then the housemaid returned and opened the door.

“He says if you’re the boy who’s just shot a catapult at him, certainly
not.”

It was quite obvious from William’s expression that he _was_ the boy.

“Well, what I wanted to say was that----”

Slowly but very firmly she was closing the door upon him. William
planted one of his boots in the track of the closing door.

“Look here!” he said desperately, “tell him he can shoot a catapult at
me. I don’t mind. Look here. Tell him I’ll put an apple on my head an’
he can----”

Again the housemaid indignantly pushed him back.

“Look at my _step_!” she said fiercely as she closed the door. “_You_
and your _boots_!”

The door was quite closed now.

William opened the flap of the letter-box with his hand and said
hoarsely:

“Tell him that it was all because of his hat. Say that----”

But she’d disappeared and it was obvious that she didn’t intend to
return.

He rejoined his friends at the gate.

“’S no good,” he said dejectedly. “She won’t even listen to me. Jus’
keeps on talkin’ about my boots. They’re jus’ the same as anyone else’s
boots, as far as I can see. Anyway, what’re we goin’ to do now?”

“Let’s find out what he’s doin’ to-night,” said Ginger. “If he’s goin’
anywhere you might meet him on the way an’ see if he’ll listen to you.”

“Yes,” said William, “that’s a jolly good idea, but--how’re we goin’ to
find out what he’s doin’ to-night?”

“It’s after tea-time,” announced Henry rather pathetically. (Henry
hated missing his meals.) “I votes we go home to tea now and then come
back an’ talk it over some more.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s goin’ to be rather hard,” said
William still dejectedly, “findin’ out what he’s goin’ to do to-night.”

But it turned out to be quite simple.

While Douglas was having tea he heard his father say to his mother that
he’d heard that the headmaster’s cousin was going to dine with the
Carroways, as the headmaster had gone to London on business and wasn’t
coming back till the last train.

Douglas joyfully took this news back to the meeting of the Outlaws.

They gave him a hearty cheer and William began to look as if the whole
thing was now settled.

“_That’s_ all right,” he said. “Now I’ll go ’n’ stay by the front gate
of the Carroway house till he comes along and then I’ll plead with him.”

They looked at him rather doubtfully. Somehow they couldn’t visualise
William pleading. William defying, William commanding, were familiar
figures, but they had never yet seen William pleading.

“We’ll come along with you,” said Ginger, “an’ help you.”

“All right,” said William cheerfully. “We’ll all plead. It oughter melt
him all right, _four_ people pleadin’. What time ought we to be there?”

“I ’spect they have dinner at half-past seven,” said Ginger.

“Let’s be there at a quarter past six so’s to be quite sure not to miss
him.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They reached the Carroways’ at a quarter past six and took up their
posts by the gate. So far, so good. All would, in fact, have gone
splendidly had not a circus happened to be in the act of unloading
itself in the field next the Carroways’ house. The Outlaws caught a
glimpse of tents, vans, cages. They heard the sound of a muffled roar,
they distinctly saw an elephant. It was more than flesh and blood could
stand.

“Well,” said William carelessly, “we’ve got here too early an’ it’s no
good wastin’ time hangin’ about. Let’s jus’ go’n wait in the field jus’
for five minutes or so. That can’t do any harm.”

Douglas, who was of a cautious disposition, demurred, but his protests
were half-hearted and already the others were through the hedge and
making their way to the little crowd that surrounded the caravans and
cages. It was beyond their wildest dreams. There was a lion. There was
a tiger. There was an elephant. There was a bear. There were several
monkeys. They saw a monkey bite a piece out of someone’s trousers.
William laughed at this so much that they thought he was going to be
sick. The bear sat on its hind legs and flapped its arms. The lion
roared. The elephant took someone’s hat off. The whole thing was beyond
description.

The Outlaws wandered about, getting in everyone’s way, putting their
noses through the bars of every cage, miraculously escaping sudden
death at every turn. It was when William thought that they must have
been there nearly five minutes that they asked the time and found that
it was twenty past seven. They had been there over an hour.

“_Crumbs!_” they ejaculated in dismay, and William said slowly:

“Seems impossible to me. P’raps,” with sudden hope, “their clocks are
wrong.”

But their clocks weren’t wrong. They asked four or five other men and
were impatiently given the same reply.

Aghast, they wandered back to the gate where they had meant to accost
the Great Man, but they realised that it was no use waiting there now.
He would certainly have arrived by now.

“Let’s go up the drive,” said Ginger, “an’ see if we c’n see him.”

They crept up the drive. Dusk was falling quickly and the downstairs
rooms were lit up. The drawing-room curtains were not drawn and the
Outlaws were rewarded by the sight of the Great Man standing on the
hearthrug talking to Mr. and Mrs. Carroway.

They stared at him forlornly from the bushes.

“_Well!_” moaned William, “of all the _rotten_ luck!”

Then they discussed the crisis in hoarse whispers. It would be
impossible, of course, to wait till he came home and by to-morrow he
would have seen and reported matters to the headmaster. Anyone less
determined than the Outlaws would have abandoned the project and gone
home. But not the Outlaws.

“Let’s go round to the other side of the house,” said William, “an’
have a look at the dining-room. We might get a chance to whisper to him
through the window or somethin’.”

This was felt to be unduly optimistic, but the suggestion appealed to
the Outlaws’ spirit of adventure and they followed William round to the
side of the house.

The dining-room window was open but the curtains were drawn. The
curtains, however, did not quite meet at the top and William said that
by climbing on to the roof of the summer-house he thought he could see
into the room.

Using Ginger and Douglas as a step ladder, he hoisted himself up on to
the roof of the summer-house. It was now so dark that he could not see
the Outlaws down among the bushes.

“I can’t see into the room yet,” he whispered, “but,” he added
optimistically, “I bet if I stand on tiptoe----”

At this point the Outlaws became conscious of some sort of a commotion,
of the sound of many excited voices. Then a man with a lighted lantern
began to make what was obviously a tour of inspection of the garden.

William crouched down upon his summer-house and the others crouched
down among the bushes.

The man with the lighted lantern passed, muttering to himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Great Man stood in the drawing-room talking to Mr. and Mrs.
Carroway and to Mrs. Carroway’s companion, Miss Seed.

It was, of course, unfortunate that Mrs. Carroway’s companion was
called Miss Seed, and had there been any other suitable applicant for
the post, Mrs. Carroway would certainly not have chosen Miss Seed.
However, there hadn’t been, so both of them made the best of the
situation and had brought to a fine art the capacity of looking quite
unconscious when their names were pronounced together.

The Great Man was talking. The Great Man was, as a matter of fact,
never completely happy unless he was talking, and he had been pleased
to find that he was the only guest because he so often found that
other guests liked to talk as well, and that completely spoilt the
evening for him. He was, however, rather annoyed when Mrs. Carroway
was called out to someone at the front door in the middle of his very
brilliant summary of the political situation. He cleared his throat in
an annoyed fashion, frowned, and stood in silence watching the door for
her return. He didn’t consider Mr. Carroway alone worth addressing,
and Miss Seed had gone out to see to the dinner, because Mrs. Carroway
was, as usual, without maids and one of the reasons why Mrs. Carroway
had chosen Miss Seed as a companion, despite her name, was that she
did not mind seeing to dinners in the intervals of companioning Mrs.
Carroway. After a few minutes Mrs. Carroway returned.

[Illustration: MR. CARROWAY CRAWLED OUT FROM UNDER THE SOFA. “A NICE
THING!” HE SAID, “A NICE THING, THIS!”]

“When I say that this Government has missed some of its finest
opportunities,” he began at once, “I refer of course----”

But Mrs. Carroway didn’t wait to hear to what he referred. She didn’t
care at all what opportunities the Government had missed.

[Illustration: THE GREAT MAN BEGAN TO UNBARRICADE THE DOOR. “WE MAY ALL
JUSTLY PRIDE OURSELVES,” HE SAID, “UPON OUR DAUNTLESS COURAGE!”]

“What _shall_ we do?” she burst out hysterically. “Here’s a man to say
that a lion has escaped from the circus and they think it may be in our
back garden, because there’s only a fence between our back garden and
the field where the circus is. Oh, what _shall_ we do? We shall all be
eaten alive.”

The Great Man cleared his throat and took command of the situation.

“Send the man round the garden to search,” he said, “and we will
meantime remain perfectly calm and lock up all the doors and windows.
Be brave, Mrs. Carroway, and trust yourself to my protection. I will
see that all the doors and windows are securely fastened. Courage!
Remember we are English men and, ahem, English women, and must show
no fear. Lock and bolt the front door at once and shout through the
letter-box to the man to make a thorough search of the garden.”

This was done. The man seemed slightly peeved and went off alone
muttering.

The Great Man then made a tour of the house, closing every door and
window firmly. Finally, he collected Mr. and Mrs. Carroway and Miss
Seed into the drawing-room where he locked the shutters and moved the
grand piano across the door.

“Let courage and fortitude be our motto,” he said. “Let us now meet
danger calmly.”

No one listened to him. Miss Seed was tending Mrs. Carroway who was in
hysterics and was hoping that she’d soon be sufficiently recovered to
allow her to have them in her turn, and Mr. Carroway was trying to get
under the sofa.

The Great Man, therefore, had no one to address but his own reflection
in the full-length mirror. So he addressed it spiritedly.

“England expects----” he began. At this moment there came a loud
rat-tat-tat at the knocker. Mrs. Carroway, who was just coming out of
hysterics, went into them again, and Mr. Carroway put his head out of
the sofa to say reassuringly: “Don’t be alarmed, dearest. It can’t be
the lion. The lion couldn’t reach up to the knocker.”

Then someone pushed open the letter-box and the voice of the man with
the lantern called: “He ain’t in your garden, mister. I’ve been all
over your garden,” and added sarcastically: “You can come out from
hunder the sofa. ’E won’t ’urt you.”

With great dignity, Mr. Carroway came out from under the sofa.

“What a very impertinent man,” said Mr. Carroway. “I shall report him
to the manager of his firm.”

The Great Man began to unbarricade the door.

“We may all justly pride ourselves,” he said, “upon the dauntless
courage we have displayed in face of this crisis.”

“I’m so hungry,” said Miss Seed pathetically.

“Hungry?” said Mrs. Carroway. “I’m _past_ hunger. I shall never, never,
_never_ be able to describe to you what I’ve suffered during these last
few minutes.”

Mr. Carroway looked rather relieved at the information.

They went into the dining-room and took their seats. Miss Seed brought
in the dinner, and the Great Man returned to the opportunities the
Government had missed.

“I still feel faint,” said Mrs. Carroway, unwilling to share the
limelight with the Government or anyone else. “I still feel most faint.
I always do after any nervous shock.”

Her husband went to the window and drew back the curtains and opened
the window.

“I--I don’t know that I’d do that,” said Mrs. Carroway, gazing
fearfully out into the dark garden. “One can’t be _quite_ sure--I
mean----”

At that moment came the sound of a heavy body crashing through the
undergrowth. With a wild scream Mrs. Carroway rose and fled from the
room.

“Quick,” she panted, “out of the front door and across to the Vicarage
for refuge. The creature is gathering for a spring. This house is
unsafe----”

She was half-way down the front drive by this time, followed closely by
the others. The Great Man, being far from nimble on his feet, panted
along at the end, gasping “Courage, friends ... let courage be our
motto.”

The house was left empty and silent.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sound of the heavy crashing through the undergrowth had of course
been William leaping down from the roof of the shed to join his
companions below, losing his balance just as he leapt, and falling
among the laurel bushes.

He sat up, rubbing his head and ejecting laurel leaves from his mouth.
Then: “I say, what’s all the fuss about?” he whispered. “I thought I
heard someone scream.”

“So’d I,” said the Outlaws mystified.

“What was that man goin’ round with a lantern for?” whispered William.

“I d’no,” said the Outlaws, still more mystified.

“Well,” said William, abandoning the mystery for the moment, “let’s
go an’ see if we can see what they’re doin’ now. Someone’s drawn the
curtains.”

They crept up through the bushes to the open dining-room window.
To their amazement they saw a brightly lit room, a table laid for
four, steaming dishes upon it, and chairs drawn up in position--all
completely empty.

“Crumbs!” said William in amazement, “that’s queer.”

The Outlaws gazed in silence at the astounding sight till Ginger said
weakly:

“Where’ve they all _gone_ to?”

“P’raps they’re in the other room,” suggested Douglas.

They crept round to the drawing-room window. The drawing-room was empty.

“P’raps--p’raps,” said Henry without conviction, “they’re all in the
kitchen.”

They crept round to the kitchen. The kitchen was empty. They looked at
the upstairs windows. They were all in darkness.

William scratched his head and frowned.

“’S very mysterious,” he commented.

Then they returned to the dining-room. It was still empty. The steaming
dishes were still upon the table. An odour was wafted out to the
waiting Outlaws--an odour so succulent that it was impossible to resist
it. It was William who first swung himself over the low window sill
of the open window into the room. The others followed. They stood in
silence and gazed at the steaming dishes on the table, the four places,
the four chairs.

“Seems,” said Ginger dreamily, “seems sort of like a fairy-tale--like a
sort of Arabian Nights story.”

“Well,” said William slowly, “it cert’nly seems sort of _meant_.”

“I read a tale once like this,” said Douglas, “and they sat down at the
table and invisible hands waited on them.”

“Let’s try,” said William suddenly, taking his seat at the head of the
table, “let’s try if invisible hands’ll wait on us.”

They needed no encouragement. They all took their seats with alacrity.
In fairness to whatever invisible hands might have waited upon the
Outlaws, it must be admitted that they did not get much chance. The
Outlaws began immediately to wait upon themselves with visible and very
grimy hands. Each had a suspicion that at any minute the feast might
be interrupted. None of them really had much faith in the Arabian
Nights idea. Under the cover in front of William was a roast chicken.
The dishes contained bread sauce, gravy, potatoes and cauliflower.
William dismembered the chicken ruthlessly and with a fine disregard
for anatomy, and they helped themselves from the various dishes. It
was a glorious meal. There was in the room complete silence, broken
only by the sounds of the Outlaws endeavouring to put away as much of
this gorgeous repast as they could before the dream should fade into
reality, and some grown-up confront them, demanding explanation. They
did not draw breath till every dish was bare and then, flushed and
panting, they sat back and William said meditatively: “Wonder what they
were goin’ to have after this?”

Douglas suggested giving the invisible hands a chance, but the
suggestion was not popular and Henry, catching sight of a hatch in the
wall, went to investigate. The hatch slid up and on the ledge just
inside was waiting a magnificent cream edifice and a little pile of
four plates. Four gasps of ecstasy went up. Again there was silence,
broken only by the sounds of the Outlaws working hard against time. At
last that dish, too, was empty. There was a barrel of biscuits and a
pile of fruit on the sideboard, but the capacity even of the Outlaws
was exhausted.

“I feel I wouldn’t want to eat another thing for hundreds and hundreds
of years,” said Henry blissfully.

“Seems about time we woke up now,” said Douglas.

But to William, who lived ever in the present, the feast, though the
most gorgeous of its kind he had ever known, was already a thing of the
past, and he was concentrating his whole attention on the problem of
the present.

“I wonder what’s _happened_ to ’em?” he said. “I wonder where they
_are_.”

“Looks like the thing old Markie was tellin’ us about in school
yesterday,” said Henry, “a place where a volcano went off suddenly,
an’ killed all the people and left their houses an’ furniture an’
things an’ you can see it to-day. It’s called Pomples or somethin’ like
that.”

This information as emanating from Authority and savouring of swank was
rightly ignored.

“P’raps they’ve all died suddenly of the plague or something,”
suggested Douglas cheerfully.

But the best suggestion came from Ginger.

“I guess someone’s murdered them an’ hid all their dead bodies
upstairs. I bet if we go upstairs we’ll find all their dead bodies hid
there.”

Much inspirited at this prospect the Outlaws swarmed upstairs
and concluded a thorough search of the premises. The search was
disappointing.

“Not many dead bodies,” said William rather bitterly.

Ginger, feeling that his prestige had suffered from his failure to
prove his theory, looked about him and with a yell of glee, said:

“No, but look! There’s a trap-door up there and I bet we could get out
on to the roof from it.”

The Outlaws completely forgot both feast and dead bodies in the thrill
of the trap-door by which you could get out on to the roof.

“Who’ll try it first?” said William.

“Bags me. I saw it first,” said Ginger.

He climbed on to the balusters, leapt at the trap-door, caught it by a
miracle, and swung himself up. It was a spectacle guaranteed to give
any mother nervous breakdowns for months.

“Does it go out on to the roof?” called the Outlaws, breathless with
suspense.

Faint but ecstatic came back Ginger’s voice:

“Yes, it does. It’s scrummy. Right on the edge of the roof. I can see
right down into the garden. I can----”

“Shut up,” hissed William, “someone’s coming.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Downstairs Mr. and Mrs. Carroway, Miss Seed and the Great Man entered
the hall and hastily shut and locked the front door.

They had gone to the Vicarage and stayed there for an hour. To the
Vicar and his wife it had seemed much more than an hour because Mrs.
Carroway was acquiring a fatal facility in hysterics and was apparently
beginning to count every moment wasted that was not devoted to them.

Finally the Vicar rang up the police, learnt that the missing lion
had been seen going down the road at the other end of the village,
and politely but firmly insisted on his guests departing homewards.
He was beginning to fear the effect of Mrs. Carroway’s hysterics upon
his wife. No woman likes being put so completely in the shade as Mrs.
Carroway’s hysterics put the Vicar’s wife, and he had noticed that
she was beginning to watch the various stages of the attacks with an
interest that suggested to him that she was storing them up for future
use.

“Nothing,” wailed Mrs. Carroway, “_nothing_ will induce me to leave
this house again to-night. What I have suffered during that terrible
walk from the Vicarage, hearing and seeing lions at every step, no one
will ever understand. _No_ one. If I talked all night I couldn’t make
you understand.”

“I’m sure you couldn’t, dear,” said her husband hastily.

“I--er--I suppose the house _is_ safe,” said the Great Man uneasily.
“I--er--I cannot help remembering that we left the--er--the dining-room
window open and that the--er--the place from which the--er--the beast
escaped was--er--just over the fence.”

“Miss Seed,” said Mrs. Carroway faintly, “go and see whether there are
any traces of it in the dining-room. The food, you remember, was left
on the table. If that has been tampered with----”

Miss Seed sidled cautiously to the dining-room and peeped in. Then she
gave a wild scream.

“It’s been here,” she panted. “It’s been here. It’s been here. It’s
eaten up everything. It must be in the house--NOW!”

Miss Seed, of course, was overwrought, or she would have stopped to
take into consideration the fact that a lion does not eat out of a
plate with knives and forks and spoons and that even if it did one lion
would not have used four of each.

“It must be in the house NOW!” she repeated desperately.

There was a sudden silence--a silence of paralysed horror. Through this
silence came the sound of a heavy crash upstairs, followed by a snarl
of rage.

In less time than it takes to tell the hall was empty.

Mrs. Carroway had locked herself into the conservatory.

Miss Seed was under the drawing-room sofa.

Mr. Carroway was on the drawing-room mantelpiece.

The Great Man was in the rug box in the hall.

The heavy crash had been Ginger overbalancing and falling back through
the trap-door upon William in his over anxiety to find out what was
going on. The snarl of rage was William’s involuntary reaction to the
sudden descent of Ginger’s solid form upon him.

The Outlaws, aghast at the noise they had made, froze into a petrified
silence.

The four grown-ups, in their hiding-places downstairs, also froze in a
petrified silence.

Complete silence reigned throughout the house.

The minutes passed slowly by--one minute, two minutes, three minutes,
five minutes. Of the eight people in the house no one spoke, no one
moved, no one breathed.

At last William whispered: “They must’ve gone out again.”

“I din’t hear the door,” hissed Ginger.

“I’m goin’ to see,” said William.

He peeped cautiously over the balusters. The hall was empty. The only
sound was the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock.

“I b’lieve they _have_ gone out again,” whispered William. “I’m goin’
down. Seems to me they’re all potty.”

He took off his shoes, crept silently down the stairs to the empty,
silent hall and stood there irresolute.

Then he thought he heard a movement in a chest near the clock. He
approached it and listened. Heavy, raucous breathing came from inside.
He raised the lid. As he did so there came from it a high-pitched
scream of terror. The open lid revealed the Great Man. The high-pitched
scream of terror had come from the Great Man. William stared at him in
blank amazement.

The Great Man, instead of seeing the fanged, tawny face he had expected
when the chest lid began slowly to open, met the astonished gaze of the
boy who had shot at him with a catapult that morning.

They stared at each other in silence. Then a thoughtful expression came
over the face of the Great Man.

“Er--was it you who made that noise upstairs?” he said.

“Yes,” said William. “Ginger fell on me. I bet you’d’ve made a noise if
Ginger’d fell on you.”

The expression of the Great Man became yet more thoughtful.

“And the--er--the dinner----?” he said, still reclining in the rug box.

“Yes,” admitted William, “it--it seemed sort of _meant_.”

Slowly, stiffly, the Great Man climbed out of the rug box. It had been
a very tight fit.

[Illustration: WILLIAM AND THE GREAT MAN STARED BLANKLY AT EACH OTHER.
“ER--WAS IT YOU WHO MADE THAT NOISE UPSTAIRS?” THE GREAT MAN ASKED.]

Just then the telephone bell rang, and the Great Man went to answer it.
He was glad of the diversion. He was remembering more and more clearly
the high-pitched cry of terror he had uttered as the chest opened. He
was wondering what explanation he could give this boy of that and of
his presence in the rug box.

The telephone call was from the police. The lion had been found. The
rumour that it had been seen at the other end of the village had proved
to be incorrect. On escaping from its cage it had wandered into the
further field and gone to sleep in the shelter of a hayrick. It had
just been discovered, roused and taken back to its cage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Within a few minutes Miss Seed was putting Mrs. Carroway to bed, Mr.
Carroway was trying to mend the more valuable of the ornaments he had
displaced from the mantelpiece in his hurried ascent, and the Great
Man had called William aside. The Great Man was aware that this was
a situation requiring delicate handling. He had tried to think of
some dignified explanation of his presence in the rug box and of that
unfortunate scream, and not one had occurred to him. He had decided,
therefore, not to attempt any. Instead he assumed his most genial
expression and said:

“I believe, my boy, that you--er--are the boy who accidentally--er--hit
me with some missile this morning.”

“Yes,” said William simply, “a pea.”

“I have no doubt at all,” said the Great Man, “that it was--er--an
accident, and--ahem--I do not after all intend to mention the matter to
your headmaster.”

“Thank you,” said William, but without much enthusiasm. William knew
when he held the reins of a situation in his hand.

The Great Man continued: “No need for you--ahem--for you to mention to
anyone what has occurred here to-night.”

William said nothing. His face was drained of expression. His eye was
blank.

“I will, of course,” went on the Great Man hastily, “I will--ahem--of
course ask for the usual half-holiday from your headmaster.”

William turned upon the Great Man his expressionless face and his blank
eye and said suavely:

“Why not ask for two, sir?”

The Great Man swallowed and cleared his throat. Then, with a more or
less convincing attempt at heartiness, he said: “Certainly, my boy.
Certainly. A very good idea. I’ll ask for two. And with regard to what
happened here to-night----”

The Great Man was uncomfortably aware that the story of what had
happened there that night as told by this boy might take some living
down.

But William’s face was still expressionless, his eye still blank.

“You hidin’ in that box to give me a fright?” he said carelessly. “Oh,
no! Why, I’ve nearly forgot that already.” His blank, unblinking eye
was fixed upon the Great Man. “I bet that after two half-holidays I’ll
have forgot it altogether.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Great Man brought out the request for two half-holidays with
something of an effort. The headmaster wasn’t prepared for it and was
taken aback. However, he didn’t want to offend the Great Man, so after
a brief inward struggle he promised the two half-holidays.

Frenzied cheers rent the air.

At the back of the hall, in the back row, sat William nonchalantly
manufacturing a blotting-paper dart, wholly unmoved apparently by the
glorious news.

“Din’t you hear?” yelled a frenzied neighbour, “din’t you _hear_? _Two_
half-holidays.”

“Yes, I heard all right,” said William carelessly.

And, making careful aim, threw his dart at Ginger.




CHAPTER IX

A LITTLE ADVENTURE


William and Ginger walked slowly down the village street. They were
discussing with much animation some burglaries that had lately taken
place in the village.

“Robert says,” said William, “that _he_ b’lieves that it’s not ordin’ry
robbers at all an’ that _he_ b’lieves that it’s people livin’ in the
place, people what _seem_ all right an’ go about doin’ shoppin’ an’
goin’ to church an’ going out to tea same as orn’ery people. He’s been
readin’ a book where that happened--someone what was churchwarden in
the daytime an’ went out stealin’ at night. Robert says that he’s goin’
to try to find out who it is.”

“I bet I know why he wants to find out who it is,” said Ginger with a
note of bitterness in his voice.

“Why?” challenged William.

“’Cause of that Miss Bellairs,” said Ginger.

Miss Bellairs was Robert’s latest inamorata. Robert’s love affairs
were of such a kaleidoscopic nature that William had long ago ceased
to trouble to keep up with them but not even William had been able
quite to ignore the affair with Miss Bellairs. Miss Bellairs was an
(in William’s eye) elderly woman of about twenty who had come to stay
in the village with her aunt. Her aunt had a son who was the object of
Robert’s deadly jealousy. So much William knew, and he knew it only
because it was impossible to live in the same house as Robert and not
know it. He took no interest in it. He did not know or care where the
girl’s aunt lived or what she was called or anything else about the
matter whatsoever. He was annoyed at Ginger’s remark, suspecting a
hidden insult in it.

“What d’you know about _that_?” he said aggressively.

“I know ’cause Hector’s potty on her too,” said Ginger dejectedly.

Hector was Ginger’s elder brother. He was (in the Outlaw’s eyes) as
lacking in sanity and consideration for his youngers as are all elder
brothers.

William’s aggressiveness vanished. He felt drawn to Ginger by a common
bond of misfortune and shame.

“Can’t make out what makes ’em act like that about her,” he said
with fierce exasperation in his voice. “I’ve seen her an’ she looks
perfectly orn’ery to me.”

“Me, too,” agreed Ginger with heartfelt emphasis, and added scornfully.
“_Girls!_ I’m jolly well not goin’ to _speak_ to a girl ’cept what you
have to all my life.”

“Same here,” agreed William.

This agreement seemed to form a yet closer bond between them and, each
feeling cheered and invigorated by the knowledge that the world held
at least one person of intelligence besides himself, they returned to
the subject of the burglaries. They discussed burglaries in general and
the present village burglaries in particular. They discussed burglary
as a career and finally decided that it was less exciting than that
of piracy though more exciting than that of engine driver--careers to
which they had always inclined.

They had been walking aimlessly along the road without noticing
particularly where they were going, and they discovered suddenly that
they were passing Ginger’s aunt’s house.

“Let’s see if we can see her parrot,” said Ginger. “It’ll probably be
in the front room.”

They crept cautiously up to the window. Ginger’s aunt was what is known
as “house proud” and Ginger--leaver of muddy boot marks and sticky
finger marks, breaker of nearly everything he touched--knew that he
was not a welcome visitor to her house. He was not at all sensitive
to shades of manner, but she had left him in no doubt at all on that
subject.

Therefore he crept furtively up to her front window in order to enjoy
the intriguing spectacle of his aunt’s parrot hopping up and down upon
its perch and uttering malicious chuckles.

“I bet she’s out,” said Ginger. “She always goes out shopping in the
mornings. Let’s open the window an’ listen to it.”

They opened the window cautiously and put their heads inside. The
parrot began to jump up and down on his perch still more excitedly when
he saw them.

“Hello, Polly!” said William encouragingly.

“Oh, shut up,” said the parrot.

This delighted his visitors.

“Go on, Polly,” encouraged Ginger. “Go on! Say something else.”

“Get out, you old fool,” said the parrot with a snigger.

“Jolly good, isn’t it?” said Ginger proudly. “And it’s quite tame. It
comes out an’ sits on your finger. My aunt lets me take it out and hold
it. At least,” he corrected himself, “she used to before that last vase
got broke. How could I know,” he added bitterly, “that a vase would
fall off the hall table on to the floor an’ get broke simply with me
comin’ downstairs?”

William made a vague sound suggestive of sympathy but he was not really
interested in the disastrous reverberations of Ginger’s footfall. He
was interested in the parrot.

“I bet it doesn’t jus’ sit quietly on _your_ finger,” he said. “It
knows _her_ finger, of course, but I bet if you took it out it wouldn’t
sit quiet on yours.”

“It would,” affirmed Ginger aggressively.

“Easy to say that,” said William, “when you know that you can’t try.”

“I _can_ try,” said Ginger. “She’s out shoppin’, anyway. She always is
in the morning. I bet you _anythin’_ it’ll sit quiet on my finger. It
won’t take a _second_. Let’s jus’ get in an’ see.”

He raised the window and with a cautious glance around the room
entered. William followed. The parrot gave its most vulgar snigger and
said: “Oh, shut up.” It was certainly an attractive bird....

With another hasty glance round Ginger opened the catch of the cage and
put out his finger ready for the bird to alight upon.

The bird said: “Get out, you old fool,” and hopped obligingly on to
Ginger’s finger.

“_There!_” said Ginger proudly standing with his arm outstretched.
“There! What did I _tell_ you?”

For a second he stood like that with an indescribable swagger in his
pose, holding out the bird at arm’s length. For a second only. At the
end of a second the bird suddenly spread its wings and without any
warning at all flew straight out of the window. The swagger dropped
incontinently from Ginger’s pose. He gazed at the open window, his
freckled face pale, his mouth open.

“_Crumbs!_” he gasped.

“_Crumbs!_” echoed William.

Then both of them dived simultaneously through the window into the
garden.

There they gazed around them. The parrot was sitting quite calmly on a
low bush in the next-door neighbour’s garden.

The two Outlaws crept up to the fence and climbing over it, approached
the parrot. The parrot awaited their approach, chuckling his most
malicious chuckle. He let them come up quite close to him. He waited
till Ginger had put out a hand to grab him, and then with a combination
of his malicious chuckle and his vulgar snigger he flew off from under
Ginger’s very hand through the open window into the next-door house.

“_Crumbs!_” said Ginger again in a tone of helpless horror.

William crept cautiously up to the window.

“I can see him,” he whispered, “he’s sittin’ on the piano.”

“Is there anyone in the room?” whispered Ginger from behind the laurel
bush where he had taken cover.

“No. No one. Just a lot of chairs. I’ll go in an’ fetch him. I’ll jus’
get in at this window an’ fetch him. I’ll----”

He was cautiously pushing up the window.

“I’ll come too,” volunteered Ginger somewhat dispiritedly. Mental
visions of his aunt when she discovered that her pet was missing were
beginning to haunt him.

“No. Best let only one go alone,” said William, “then if anything
happens to me you’ll be safe to go on lookin’ for it.”

William’s spirits were rising at the prospects of an adventure.

He swung himself over the sill and found himself in a small
drawing-room. It was full of chairs arranged in rows as if for a
meeting and there was a table at one end.

“Oh, shut up,” said the parrot excitedly from the piano.

William began to stalk his prey in his best Red Indian fashion. It
waited till his hand was nearly on him then, chuckling, flew to the
mantelpiece.

“Polly, Polly,” whispered William in fierce, hoarse coaxing as he
approached the mantelpiece.

“Get out, you old fool,” said the parrot who seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying himself. He let William think that he was really going to get
him this time, then with another chuckle spread his wings and flew
off again. This time he circled round and round the room and finally
disappeared behind a cabinet that stood across a corner of the room,
having a fair-sized recess between it and the wall.

William was just pursuing it to this retreat when the door opened and a
tall, stern-looking woman wearing pince-nez and a high collar entered
the room. She looked at William in surprise and disapproval.

“You mustn’t come into a house like this without knocking at the door,”
she said. “If you’ve come to the meeting you should have knocked at the
door properly and, anyway, the meeting doesn’t begin till half-past.
Have you come to the meeting?”

William hesitated. If he told her that he had come to catch Ginger’s
aunt’s escaped parrot then there was no doubt at all that Ginger’s
aunt would hear of the escapade from her neighbour and it was of vital
importance to Ginger’s peace of mind and body that the parrot should be
caught and returned to its cage without Ginger’s aunt having known of
its escape. It seemed better therefore on the whole to have come to the
meeting.

“Yes,” he said, assuming his blankest expression.

Then another lady very like the first one came in and stared at William.

“Who is this boy and what’s he doing here?” she said to the first lady.

“He says he’s come to the meeting,” said the first lady helplessly.

“But, my _dear_!” said the second lady, “we don’t want people like
_that_ at the meeting. A rough-looking boy like _that_!”

The first lady grew yet more helpless.

“But we’ve advertised it as a public meeting,” she said. “We can’t turn
people away, I mean--_well_, we _can’t_. I don’t think it would be
legal,” she ended vaguely.

“But what does he _want_ to come to the meeting for?” said the second
lady. “And a quarter of an hour too early, too.”

“I suppose he’s interested in Total Abstinence,” said the first lady
doubtfully. “I suppose there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be.” She
turned to William. “Are you interested in Total Abstinence?”

“Yes,” said William without a second’s hesitation and looking blanker
than ever.

Both ladies stared at him and looked very much perplexed.

Then a man with crossed eyes behind huge horn-rimmed spectacles and
carrying a sheaf of papers entered and said briskly:

“Is everything ready?”

The first lady pointed to William.

“This boy says he’s interested in Total Abstinence and wants to come to
the meeting,” she said.

William turned a sphinx-like face to the man.

The man subjected William to a lengthy inspection. William met it
unblinkingly. The lengthy inspection did not seem to reassure the young
man at all. He said reluctantly:

“Well, I suppose we can’t turn him out if he wants to come. I mean
we’ve _advertised_ it as a public meeting----”

“Just what I said,” said the first lady.

“But any monkey tricks from you, my boy----” said the man threateningly.

“_Me!_” said William, his sphinx-like look changing to one of righteous
indignation. “_Me!_” He seemed hardly able to believe his ears.

“All right,” said the man irritably. “Go and sit down somewhere at the
back. People will be coming in in a minute.”

William chose a seat just in front of the cabinet behind which the
parrot had taken refuge. The parrot was preserving a strange silence.
William made violent efforts to see it from his chair till the second
lady said:

“Do sit still there, boy! You make me feel quite giddy fidgeting about
like that.”

So William sat (comparatively) still, wondering how he could entice
the parrot from behind the cabinet and make his departure with it
unobserved. The parrot’s silence puzzled him. Was it merely resting
after the excitement of its flight or was it planning some outrageous
piece of devilry? People were beginning to arrive now. They all threw
glances at William, curious and in most cases disapproving. William’s
whole energy was now taken up in meeting their glances with his
blankest stare.

Evidently one lady (who presumably knew him) was objecting to his
presence because he heard the first lady saying helplessly:

“Well, I don’t see how we _can_ turn him out. He said that he wanted to
come to the meeting because he was interested in Total Abstinence ...
and he isn’t _doing_ anything we can turn him out for.”

Fortunately the chair William occupied stood by itself next to the
cabinet. Just in front of him was the last row of chairs. The chairs
were all full now and the meeting was beginning. He was craning his
neck round to see what had happened to the parrot. There was still no
sound from behind the cabinet.... He began to think that it must have
gone to sleep....

The cross-eyed man was speaking. “It gives me great pleasure to
introduce to you our speaker, Miss Rubina Thomasina Fawshaw. Her name
is well known, of course, to all of us----”

[Illustration: “GET OUT, YOU OLD FOOL!” SAID A VOICE. WILLIAM WAS
STARING IN FRONT OF HIM WITH A SET, FIXED STARE.]

It was at this point that the parrot behind the cabinet suddenly
ejaculated:

“Oh, shut up!”

The meeting wheeled round to gaze at William open-mouthed with
horror and indignation. William with a great effort maintained his
sphinx-like expression and stared fixedly in front of him, trying to
look as if he were in a brown study and had not heard the interruption.

The man was fortunately rather deaf. After looking about him vaguely
for some minutes he continued. With a last stern and threatening glance
at William the audience turned round again to listen.

[Illustration: “ONE MORE INTERRUPTION FROM YOU, MY BOY,” SAID THE MAN
WITH THE SPECTACLES, “AND OUT YOU GO!”]

“She is a splendid and well-known worker in this noble cause. She has
for the last six weeks been travelling in America, and she has there
studied the question of Prohibition in all its aspects----”

“Get out, you old fool!”

They all swung round again. It couldn’t have come from anyone but
William. William was making a supreme and quite unconvincing attempt to
look innocent. He was staring in front of him with a set, fixed stare
and a purple face. The man with the squint had heard now. Fixing one
furious eye on William and the other out of the window he said:

“One more such interruption from you, my boy, and out you go.”

The unhappy William made a vague sound in his throat suggestive of
innocence and surprise and apology and continued to stare fixedly in
front of him. After another short silence the cross-eyed man continued
his speech. The audience, pausing only to throw final vitriolic glances
at William, turned round again to listen.

“I personally,” went on the cross-eyed man, “have known Miss Fawshaw
for a good many years----”

There was no mistaking it. It was a vulgar snigger coming from the back
of the room where William sat.

Without a word the cross-eyed man arose and came down the room, one
baleful eye fixed on William. He seized his victim by the neck and
propelled him before him out of the room down the hall to the front
door, where he ignominiously ejected him.

Ginger was anxiously awaiting his return.

“Hello,” he greeted him, “you’ve not got it after all! Whatever’s been
happenin’ in there?”

“All sorts of things,” groaned William, rubbing his neck where the
cross-eyed man had held it. “Crumbs! It was awful. They’re having a
meetin’ an’ it kept sayin’ things an’ they thought it was me. It was
awful! An’ he’s nearly broke my neck.”

“Where is it?” asked Ginger anxiously. He meant the parrot, not
William’s neck. He wasn’t interested in William’s neck.

“It went behind a sort of cupboard place,” said William, still tenderly
caressing his neck, “an’ it was quite quiet till they started havin’ a
meetin’ an’ then it started sayin’ its things an’ they thought it was
me. Crumbs! It was _awful_!... It’s right behind the cupboard thing
now. I kept tryin’ to see it but I couldn’t.”

“Let’s see if we can see it from the window,” suggested Ginger.

They crept very, very cautiously up to the window. They could see the
parrot quite plainly. It was on the floor behind the cupboard gazing
about it with a sort of cynical enjoyment. It evidently had not spoken
since it had secured William’s ignominious ejection. It suddenly saw
the Outlaws watching it through the window and began to walk towards
them across the floor. So intent was the audience upon Miss Rubina
Thomasina Fawshaw’s discourse (she was giving a lucid account of the
effect of alcohol upon the liver) that no one noticed the parrot
walking sedately across the floor from the cabinet to the window.
Having reached the window it stood for a few minutes gazing wickedly up
at the Outlaws’ faces. Then silently, suddenly it hopped up on to the
open window sill. William put out his hand.

“Got it!” he breathed.

But he spoke too soon. He hadn’t got it. With a chuckle it flew off
over the fence into the next garden, leaving William and Ginger gazing
after it despairingly.

“_Well!_” said William after an eloquent silence. “We seem sort of
_doomed_ with that bird!”

“Yes, an’ if we’ve not got it put back by the time my aunt comes back
we’ll be still more doomed,” said Ginger dejectedly.

“Come on then,” said William, “let’s catch it. It’s only just sitting
on a tree.”

“Oh, shut up!” called the parrot, challengingly, from a small almond
tree on which he was perching.

The two Outlaws scaled the fence and very, very cautiously approached
the truant.

“Got him _this_ time,” said William again joyfully as his outstretched
hand descended.

But again he spoke too soon. The parrot squawked “Get out, you fool,”
and slipping nimbly away from William’s grimy hand flew on to the
window sill where it hopped up and down excitedly as if executing a
war dance.

“Go on, Ginger,” said William. “Get him! You can get him there all
right!”

Ginger pounced desperately, but the parrot merely hopped through the
open window into the front room of the house.

“_There!_” said William, hoarse with horror and despair, “it’s gone
into _another_ house. Well, I’ve jolly well done enough goin’ into
houses after it an’ getting pushed out with someone’s fingers nearly
meetin’ through my neck. You can jolly well go after it, this time.”

“A’ right,” said Ginger meekly, surveying the room with some anxiety.

“Go on--it’s all right. It’s empty ’cept for it,” said William.

The parrot had perched upon an electric light that hung down from the
centre of the ceiling and was swinging briskly to and fro. Ginger
slowly pushed up the window and slung one leg over the ledge.

Then he looked back at William.

“’S goin’ to be an awful job catchin’ him alone,” he said pleadingly.

William had been regretting his decision not to join the expedition.
William hated not being in the thick of an adventure.

“All right,” he said, “I bet it will take both of us to catch him.”

And despite his recent ignominious ejection he slung his leg over
the sill after Ginger with quite pleasurable feelings of zest and
excitement.

The parrot had stopped swinging on the electric light bulb now and
was hopping to and fro upon a polished table. He suggested someone
slightly inebriated trying to perform a very complicated dance. He
probably _was_ slightly inebriated with freedom and excitement....
The two Outlaws approached him. With one beady eye fixed on them,
but still merrily performing his dance, he waited again till Ginger’s
outstretched hand was a fraction of an inch from his back, and then
with a diabolical chuckle he flew straight out of the window again.

“_Crumbs!_” said William. “Quick! Let’s go after him or we shan’t know
which way he’s gone.”

But just at that minute there came the sound of the opening of a door
and voices approached the room. Someone was coming.... There wasn’t
time to get out of the window. Already someone was holding the handle
and the voices were just outside the door. Quick as lightning William
and Ginger plunged beneath the nearest piece of furniture which
happened to be a sofa with--mercifully--a frilled loose cover that hid
them from view. There wasn’t room to move or breathe but they felt
grateful for the temporary shelter it afforded.

They were in fact so much exercised with the problem of existence in a
space that did not allow for movement or breathing that at first they
did not listen to what the voices were saying. But having partially
solved the problem of existence in the cramped space and becoming
gradually accustomed to the taste of the carpet their attention fixed
itself upon the conversation that was going on in the room. Neither
Ginger nor William could see the speakers, but the voices were those of
a girl and a man. The girl was saying:

“Then we’ll do Latham House on Wednesday?”

“I think so,” said the man’s voice.

“What time?”

“I suggest three o’clock. Will that do for you?”

“Yes. Quite well. You’re _sure_ they’re away?”

“Oh, yes.... We can get the things ready in the coach-house. All the
servants are away too.”

“Good! I hope it will be a success. Frenshams’ was a _great_ success,
wasn’t it?”

They may have said more, but the Outlaws heard no more. They were dazed
and astounded by the one stupendous fact. They had found the burglars.
They swallowed several mouthfuls of carpet dust in sheer ecstasy....
They had found the burglars. Soon the closing of the door and the
silence that followed it told them that the room was empty, and they
crept out of their hiding-place, tiptoed across the room and clambered
out of the still open window.

“Gosh!” said William as soon as they were outside. “The burglars!”

Ginger was no less thrilled than William, but the parrot still lay upon
his conscience.

“The parrot!” he murmured, looking around at the parrotless expanse of
sky and road and garden that met his gaze.

William looked about too. There was certainly no sign of the parrot.

“Oh, never mind the parrot!” he said contemptuously. “What’s a
_parrot_?”

Ginger murmured, truly enough, that a parrot is a parrot, but William
stoutly denied it and even Ginger felt that a parrot paled into
complete insignificance besides a burglar.

“She won’t know it was us,” said William (though without conviction),
“and, anyway, it’s lunch time. I’m _sick_ of tryin’ to catch parrots.
Burglars are more fun and I bet they’re a jolly sight easier to catch.”

“What d’you think we’d better do?” said Ginger. “Go round to Latham
House at three o’clock an’ catch ’em?”

But even William’s glorious optimism could not quite visualise this
capture. He frowned for a minute perplexedly. Then he said:

“Tell you what! We’ll get Robert to come an’ help. He’s mad keen on
catchin’ ’em.”

“And Hector,” said Ginger.

“All right,” agreed William. “Robert an’ Hector. We’ll tell ’em after
dinner--on condition that they let us help with the catchin’.”

“Of course,” said Ginger.

       *       *       *       *       *

William found that there was no need to lead up to the question of the
burglaries. Robert at lunch could talk of nothing else. He had decided
quite definitely to capture the burglars. William knew that this
decision was inspired solely by a desire to attain a heroic standard
in the eyes of Miss Julia Bellairs. Robert wanted to catch the burglar
not for the sake of the adventure but so that Miss Julia Bellairs might
hear that he had caught the burglar. While despising the motive William
appreciated the decision.

“My theory is,” said Robert importantly, “that they’ll do our house
this afternoon. You see, they’ve probably discovered that we’re all
going to be out this afternoon. They know that the maids are going to
the fair at Balton and that I’m going out to the tennis club, and that
you and Ethel are going to the Barlows’ and William’s going to tea to
Ginger’s. They always find out exactly which house is going to be empty
during the afternoon. Now I’ve decided to pretend to go out to tennis,
but I’m going to come back by the back way and wait in the house for
them. They won’t be expecting me, you see, and I’ll overpower them
before they’ve time to resist and----”

“How will you overpower them?” said Ethel, quite unimpressed.

“Well,” said Robert still more importantly, “I know a very good way to
do that. I was reading in the paper about a man who did it. He knew
that a burglar was coming, so he arranged a pail of water over the back
door, where he knew he’d come in because it was the only door not
fastened and it fell down on him and drenched him and took away his
breath, so that the man got him tied up before he recovered his breath.”

“You mustn’t do any such thing, Robert,” said Mrs. Brown indignantly,
“_ruining_ the carpets!”

William took no part in the discussion. William believed in doing one
thing at a time and he was giving his whole attention to the Irish
stew. Moreover, he realised that Robert must be approached privately,
man to man, on the subject. Women had such queer ideas. Both his mother
and his sister would, he knew, want to mess up the whole thing by
bringing in the police.

So he followed Robert into the garden after lunch to impart his
information.

“I say, Robert,” he began carelessly. “I know all about those burglars.
They aren’t comin’ here to-day. They’re goin’ to Latham House. At three
o’clock. I heard ’em say so.”

“Rubbish!” said Robert with elder brother contempt and severity.

“_Honest_, Robert!” persisted William. “I’m not makin’ it up. Honest,
I’m not. Ask Ginger. We heard ’em talkin’ when we was out this morning.”

“Where did you hear them talking?” said Robert.

William hesitated. To answer that question accurately would be to
reveal the whole parrot episode--an episode far better left unrevealed.
Robert would have no compunction at all about informing Ginger’s aunt
that it had been Ginger and William who had let her parrot out. After a
slight hesitation William replied unblushingly:

“Up on the common. On one of the seats.”

He assuaged his conscience (that very amenable organ) firstly by the
consideration that the story in the main was true and the details were
unessential and secondly that probably all land was common land before
they built houses on it, so really he wasn’t telling a story at all.

“What were they saying?” said Robert with slightly less contempt and
severity.

“Well, one of them was a woman and she said, ‘Let’s go an’ burgle
Latham House to-morrow,’ an’ they arranged to do that, an’ they said
that they knew that it would be empty an’ they said they’d get their
jemmies and things ready in the coach-house an’ one of them said what a
lot of fine things they got out of Frenshams’.”

“Yes, they jolly well did,” commented Robert. “They got all the silver
and a lot of jewellery.”

“Yes, they said that,” said William vaguely, “at least, I _think_ they
said that. They said somethin’ like it, anyway. About all the fine
things they stole out of it.”

“What were they like to look at?” said Robert.

William realised that if he’d heard them talking on a bench he must
have seen them.

“Oh, they looked--they jus’ looked like thieves,” said William vaguely.
“He’d got a beard an’ she’d got black hair.”

So plainly did William visualise the couple he described--a Russian
communist and a vamp once seen on the pictures--that he could hardly
believe he hadn’t really seen them.

“She’d got a lot of jewellery on--things she’d stole, I suppose--an’
he’d got a muffler half-way up his face an’ a cap pulled down low over
his eyes.”

“How did you know he’d got a beard then?” said Robert.

William was taken aback just for a second, but quickly recovered
himself.

“It was one of those sorts of beards that stretch right up to the top
of the person’s face and then it went down underneath his muffler too.
It was a big sort of beard.”

“Did you say Ginger was with you?”

“Yes. We thought you an’ Hector would like to catch ’em without
troublin’ the police.”

“Oh, the police!” said Robert with a scornful laugh (Robert had been
reading a good many detective stories lately). “The police aren’t much
good at anything like this. They muddle every case they touch. But,”
rather coldly, “I don’t see why it was necessary to bring Hector into
it. I could have managed it perfectly well without Hector.”

“Well, nacherally,” retorted William. “Ginger wanted to have Hector in
it same as I wanted to have you in it. If we thought we could have done
it ourselves we wouldn’t have had either of you in it, but we thought
that probably bein’ bigger than what we are they’d overpower us before
we’d time to catch ’em properly. But, anyway, Ginger heard it same as I
did, an’ he’s as much right to have Hector in it as I have to have you.”

“All right,” said Robert stiffly, “I suppose it cannot be helped now,
in any case. I suppose he’ll have told him.”

A month ago Robert would have delighted in having Hector to catch the
thieves with him. A month ago Hector had been his bosom friend. But
since a month ago they had both met Miss Julia Bellairs, and now Hector
was no longer his bosom friend but his rival. They gave each other now
only the barest sign of recognition when meeting in the street, and
when they were both in the presence of the beloved they affected to be
unaware of each other’s existence.... The one drawback in Robert’s eyes
to the present situation was that the glory of catching the thieves
red-handed would have to be shared with Hector. Still, probably the
beloved would understand that Hector had been merely Watson to his
Sherlock Holmes. If she did not so understand Robert decided it should
not be for lack of hints.... “A useful fellow, Hector,” he would say,
“of course, I couldn’t have brought it off without him. I planned the
whole thing, of course, but I couldn’t have pulled it off without
someone to help me.”

“How’re you goin’ to catch ’em?” said William with interest.

Robert tore himself with an effort from a pleasant day dream in which
Miss Julia Bellairs was saying, “But how _splendid_! How _wonderful_!
How _brave_!... Weren’t you afraid of being killed?”

And he was replying with a modest laugh: “Well, you know, I never
thought of it. I never do when there’s any danger.”

“Er--you said three o’clock, didn’t you?” he said coldly to William.

He wished he’d discovered the thing himself. It spoilt it somehow to
have William and Ginger and Hector in it....

“Yes,” said William, “an’ they were goin’ to get their tools ready in
the coach-house.”

“Well,” said Robert assuming a stern and superior air, as befitted a
master detective, addressing one of his underlings, “I’ll see Hector
and tell him what to do.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They were all in the coach-house of Latham House. It was five minutes
to three. Robert had fixed up a very complicated erection--consisting
of a lot of ropes and a pail of water--over the door of the coach-house
in such a way that anyone opening the door would receive the
contents of the pail in full force upon their head. At least Robert
hoped he would. His band of underlings had proved disappointingly
unaccommodating about that. He had urged them--or one of them--to go
out by the window and enter by the door in order to see whether the
contrivance worked and all of them had refused. Robert rather hoped
that Hector would offer. His pride as he gazed up at the elaborate
erection was clouded only by the thought that no official of Scotland
Yard would see it. He felt that if any official in Scotland Yard were
to see it, they would at once offer him a high salaried post on the
staff. Robert had often thought that he would make a good detective....

Hector was bitterly resenting the airs that Robert was putting on over
this. He was afraid that Miss Julia Bellairs would think that Robert’s
share in the capture was more important than it really was. He was
indulging in a day dream in which the beloved was saying to him: “How
_wonderful_! How _brave_! But weren’t you _afraid_?”

And he was saying nonchalantly:

“Oh, no. Not a bit. I never am, you know. I’d really as soon have done
it without Robert, but the poor boy was very anxious to help and I
didn’t like to refuse him.”

“It’s nearly three,” said William hopefully.

William was feeling that if he could just live to see that pail of
water overturning on to somebody he didn’t mind how soon he died after
it.

“Quick,” said Robert. “We’d better hide! They mustn’t see us through
the window.”

“Hide quickly,” said Hector in order to prove to himself that he was
giving orders, not taking them from Robert.

They retired to the shadowy corner of the room--only just in time.
Almost at once two figures were seen to pass the window walking
furtively in single file. The windows were smeared and dusty, but
it was clear that the figures were those of a man and a woman. They
stopped at the door. Very cautiously they opened it and entered.

[Illustration: ROBERT, WITH A FLOURISH, REMOVED THE BUCKET. “JULIA!” HE
GASPED.]

Robert’s contrivance acted. It acted even more effectively than he had
intended it to act. Not only did the bucket discharge its contents
upon the couple as they entered. It discharged itself as well,
completely enveloping both of them. The four amateur Sherlock Holmes’
came out of their hiding-places to behold the amazing spectacle of
two drenched forms--one a man and the other a woman--sitting back to
back, the upper portion of both their forms completely enveloped by a
tin bucket which had very neatly caught them both. Muffled screams and
shouts came from beneath the bucket. With admirable presence of mind
Robert darted forward and firmly held down the extinguisher.

“Get the rope quick, Hector,” he said.

Even as he said it he was mentally composing an account of the affair
for Miss Julia Bellairs.

“At once I held down the bucket quite firmly despite their struggling
and called to Hector to get the rope for me to tie them up.”

How he wished she were here to see him....

The two were firmly bound together and then Robert with a flourish
removed the extinguisher.

It revealed the bedraggled upper portions of Miss Julia Bellairs and
her cousin.

There followed a scene that baffles description.

William and Ginger crept unostentatiously away before it had even
reached its climax, but before they departed they had gathered that
Miss Julia Bellairs and her cousin were not burglars, but that they
were engaged in the production of a little souvenir booklet of the
village to be presented to every guest at a garden party they were
giving the next month. The booklet was to contain a photograph of the
house of every guest but this was to be a surprise--hence the mystery
surrounding the taking of the photographs.

As William said: “With a cracked idea like that they couldn’t _expect_
anythin’ but trouble.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was that evening.

William and Ginger walked slowly and sadly down the road.

“Then there’s that parrot,” said Ginger gloomily.

“Yes. I’d been quite forgetting the parrot,” said William.

“It started it all,” said Ginger yet more gloomily.

“I s’pose so,” said William, “but she doesn’t know you let it out.
She’s not been to see your father about it yet, has she?”

“No, but she might any time--an’ on the top of the _other_----”

“Let’s go’n’ see what she’s doin’ about it,” said William, who never
could resist the temptation to revisit the scene of a crime.

They approached Ginger’s aunt’s house and once more crept cautiously up
to the drawing-room window.

The first sight that met their eyes was the reassuring one of Ginger’s
aunt’s parrot hanging as usual in the cage and swinging to and fro on
his perch.

Further investigation revealed the figure of Ginger’s aunt and a friend
sitting over a tea table.

Their conversation reached the watchers through the open window.

“Oh, yes, he’s a _very_ clever bird,” Ginger’s aunt was saying proudly.
“Why, do you know what he did this morning? Someone must have left the
window open and he opened his cage door _himself_ and got out. Right
out of the window. I was _distracted_ when I came home and found him
gone. And then just when I was in the middle of ringing up the police
about it he came back. Simply came in again through the window and went
back into his cage.”

The two Outlaws crept back to the road.

“Well, _that’s_ all right!” said William.

“Yes,” admitted Ginger, “that’s cert’nly _one_ thing all right....
What’re you goin’ to do now?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said William. “Only,” very firmly, “I’m not goin’
home jus’ yet. Robert’s goin’ out at six o’clock an’ I’m not goin’ home
till after that.”

“I’m not either,” said Ginger. “Hector’s goin’ out about then an’ I’m
not goin’ home till after that ... you’d think they’d be grateful to
us, wouldn’t you? It made them friends again.”

“Yes, but they aren’t grateful to us,” said William, “and, of course,
it made Robert madder still to find that the burglars had been to our
house while he’d been out tryin’ to catch ’em at Latham House.”

“Yes, and the way they make it all out _our_ fault----” said Ginger
bitterly.

“They always do that,” said William.

“She said she’d never speak to ’em again,” said Ginger meditatively,
“but she said some jolly fine things to ’em first. Before she said
that.”

“So did he,” said William.

With reminiscent appreciative smiles on their countenances they walked
on slowly down the road.


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


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