“The sort of things I want to do they don’t want me to do an’ the sort of things I don’t want to do they want me to do. Mother said to knit. Knit!”
His scorn and fury were indescribable. His father looked out of the window.
“Thank Heaven, it’s stopped raining! Go out!”
William went out.
There were some quite interesting things to do outside. In the road there were puddles, and the sensation of walking through a puddle, as every boy knows, is a very pleasant one. The hedges, when shaken, sent quite a shower bath upon the shaker, which also is a pleasant sensation. The ditch was full and there was the thrill of seeing how often one could jump across it without going in. One went in more often than not. It is also fascinating to walk in mud, scraping it along with one’s boots. William’s spirits rose, but he could not shake off the idea of the party. Quite suddenly he wanted to have a party and he wanted to have it on Saturday. His family would be away on Saturday. They were going to spend the day with an aunt. Aunts rarely included William in their invitation.
He came home wet and dirty and cheerful. He approached his father warily.
“Did you say I could have a party, father?” he said casually.
“No, I did not,” said Mr. Brown firmly.
William let the matter rest for the present.
He spent most of the English Grammar class in school next morning considering it. There was a great deal to be said for a party in the absence of one’s parents and grown-up brother and sister. He’d like to ask George and Ginger and Henry and Douglas and—and—and—heaps of them. He’d like to ask them all. “They” were the whole class—thirty in number.
“What have I just been saying, William?”
William sighed. That was the foolish sort of question that schoolmistresses were always asking. They ought to know themselves what they’d just been saying better than anyone. He never knew. Why were they always asking him? He looked blank. Then:
“Was it anythin’ about participles?” He remembered something vaguely about participles, but it mightn’t have been to-day.
Miss Jones groaned.
“That was ever so long ago, William,” she said. “You’ve not been attending.”
William cleared his throat with a certain dignity and made no answer.
“Tell him, Henry.”
Henry ceased his enthralling occupation of trying to push a fly into his ink-well with his nib and answered mechanically:
“Two negatives make an affirmative.”
“Yes. Say that, William.”
William repeated it without betraying any great interest in the fact.
“Yes. What’s a negative, William?”
William sighed.
“Somethin’ about photographs?” he said obligingly.
“No,” snapped Miss Jones. She found William and the heat (William particularly) rather trying.
“It’s ‘no’ and ‘not.’ And an affirmative is ‘yes.’”
“Oh,” said William politely.
“So two ‘nos’ and ‘nots’ mean ‘yes,’ if they’re in the same sentence. If you said ‘There’s not no money in the box’ you mean there is.”
William considered.
He said “Oh” again.
Then he seemed suddenly to become intelligent.
“Then,” he said, “if you say ‘no’ and ‘not’ in the same sentence does it mean ‘yes’?”
“Certainly.”
William smiled.
William’s smile was a rare thing.
“Thank you,” he said.
Miss Jones was quite touched. “It’s all right, William,” she said, “I’m glad you’re beginning to take an interest in your work.”
William was murmuring to himself.
“‘No, of course not’ and ‘No, I did not’ and a ‘no’ an’ a ‘not’ mean a ‘yes,’ so he meant ‘yes, of course’ and ‘yes, I did.’”
He waited till the Friday before he gave his invitations with a casual air.
“My folks is goin’ away to-morrow an’ they said I could have a few fren’s in to tea. Can you come? Tell your mother they said jus’ to come an’ not bother to write.”
He was a born strategist. Not one of his friends’ parents guessed the true state of affairs. When William’s conscience (that curious organ) rose to reproach him, he said to it firmly:
“He said I could. He said ‘Yes, of course.’ He said ‘Yes, I did.’”
He asked them all. He thought that while you are having a party you might as well have a big one. He hinted darkly at unrestrained joy and mirth. They all accepted the invitation.
William’s mother took an anxious farewell of him on Saturday morning.
“You don’t mind being left, darling, do you?”
“No, mother,” said William with perfect truth.
“You won’t do anything we’ve told you not to, will you?”
“No, mother. Only things you’ve said ‘yes’ to.”
Cook and Jane had long looked forward to this day. There would be very little to do in the house and as far as William was concerned they hoped for the best.
William was out all the morning. At lunch he was ominously quiet and polite. Jane decided to go with her young man to the pictures.
Cook said she didn’t mind being left, as “that Master William” had gone out and there seemed to be no prospect of his return before tea-time.
So Jane went to the pictures.
About three o’clock the postman came and cook went to the door for the letters. Then she stood gazing down the road as though transfixed.
William had collected his guests en route. He was bringing them joyfully home with him. Clean and starched and prim had they issued from their homes, but they had grown hilarious under William’s benign influence. They had acquired sticks and stones and old tins from the ditches as they came along. They perceived from William’s general attitude towards it that it was no ordinary party. They were a happy crowd. William headed them with a trumpet.
They trooped in at the garden gate. Cook, pale and speechless, watched them. Then her speechlessness departed.
“You’re not coming in here!” she said fiercely. “What’ve you brought all those boys cluttering up the garden?”
“They’ve come to tea,” said William calmly.
She grew paler still.
“That they’ve not!” she said fiercely. “What your father’d say——”
“He said they could come,” said William. “I asked him an’ he said ‘Yes, of course,’ an’ I asked if he’d said so an’ he said ‘Yes, I did.’ That’s what he said ’cause of English Grammar an’ wot Miss Jones said.”
Cook’s answer was to slam the door in his face and lock it. The thirty guests were slightly disconcerted, but not for long.
“Come on!” shouted William excitedly. “She’s the enemy. Let’s storm her ole castle.”
The guests’ spirits rose. This promised to be infinitely superior to the usual party.
They swarmed round to the back of the house. The enemy had bolted the back door and was fastening all the windows. Purple with fury she shook her fist at William through the drawing-room window. William brandished his piece of stick and blew his trumpet in defiant reply. The army had armed itself with every kind of weapon, including the raspberry-canes whose careful placing was the result of a whole day’s work of William’s father. William decided to climb up to the balcony outside Ethel’s open bedroom window with the help of his noble band. The air was full of their defiant war-whoops. They filled the front garden, trampling on all the rose beds, cheering William as he swarmed up to the balcony, his trumpet between his lips. The enemy appeared at the window and shut it with a bang, and William, startled, dropped down among his followers. They raised a hoarse roar of anger.
“Mean ole cat!” shouted the enraged general.
The blood of the army was up. No army of thirty strong worthy of its name could ever consent to be worsted by an enemy of one. All the doors and windows were bolted. There was only one thing to be done. And this the general did, encouraged by loyal cheers from his army. “Go it, ole William! Yah! He—oo—o!”
The stone with which William broke the drawing-room window fell upon a small occasional table, scattering Mrs. Brown’s cherished silver far and wide.
William, with the born general’s contempt for the minor devastations of war, enlarged the hole and helped his gallant band through with only a limited number of cuts and scratches. They were drunk with the thrill of battle. They left the garden with its wreck of rose trees and its trampled lawn and crowded through the broken window with imminent danger to life and limb. The enemy was shutting the small window of the coal-cellar, and there William imprisoned her, turning the key with a loud yell of triumph.
The party then proceeded.
It fulfilled the expectations of the guests that it was to be a party unlike any other party. At other parties they played “Hide and Seek”—with smiling but firm mothers and aunts and sisters stationed at intervals with damping effects upon one’s spirits, with “not in the bedrooms, dear,” and “mind the umbrella stand,” and “certainly not in the drawing-room,” and “don’t shout so loud, darling.” But this was Hide and Seek from the realms of perfection. Up the stairs and down the stairs, in all the bedrooms, sliding down the balusters, in and out of the drawing-room, leaving trails of muddy boots and shattered ornaments as they went!
Ginger found a splendid hiding-place in Robert’s bed, where his boots left a perfect impression of their muddy soles in several places. Henry found another in Ethel’s wardrobe, crouching upon her satin evening shoes among her evening dresses. George banged the drawing-room door with such violence that the handle came off in his hand. Douglas became entangled in the dining-room curtain, which yielded to his struggles and descended upon him and an old china bowl upon the sideboard. It was such a party as none of them had dreamed of; it was bliss undiluted. The house was full of shouting and yelling, of running to and fro of small boys mingled with subterranean murmurs of cook’s rage. Cook was uttering horrible imprecations and hurling lumps of coal at the door. She was Irish and longed to return to the fray.
It was William who discovered first that it was tea-time and there was no tea. At first he felt slightly aggrieved. Then he thought of the larder and his spirits rose.
“Come on!” he called. “All jus’ get what you can.”
They trooped in, panting, shouting, laughing, and all just got what they could.
Ginger seized the remnants of a cold ham and picked the bone, George with great gusto drank a whole jar of cream, William and Douglas between them ate a gooseberry pie, Henry ate a whole currant cake. Each foraged for himself. They ate two bowls of cold vegetables, a joint of cold beef, two pots of honey, three dozen oranges, three loaves and two pots of dripping. They experimented upon lard, onions, and raw sausages. They left the larder a place of gaping emptiness. Meanwhile cook’s voice, growing hoarser and hoarser as the result of the inhalation of coal dust and exhalation of imprecations, still arose from the depths and still the door of the coal-cellar shook and rattled.
Then one of the guests who had been in the drawing-room window came back.
“She’s coming home!” he shouted excitedly.
They flocked to the window.
Jane was bidding a fond farewell to her young man at the side gate.
“Don’t let her come in!” yelled William. “Come on!”
With a smile of blissful reminiscence upon her face, Jane turned in at the gate. She was totally unprepared for being met by a shower of missiles from upper windows.
A lump of lard hit her on the ear and knocked her hat on to one side. She retreated hastily to the side gate.
“Go on! Send her into the road.”
A shower of onions, the ham bone, and a few potatoes pursued her into the road. Shouts of triumph rent the air. Then the shouts of triumph died away abruptly. William’s smile also faded away, and his hand, in the act of flinging an onion, dropped. A cab was turning in at the front gate. In the sudden silence that fell upon the party, cook’s hoarse cries for vengeance rose with redoubled force from the coal cellar. William grew pale.
The cab contained his family.
Two hours later a small feminine friend of William’s who had called with a note for his mother, looked up to William’s window and caught sight of William’s untidy head.
“Come and play with me, William,” she called eagerly.
“I can’t. I’m goin’ to bed,” said William sternly.
“Why? Are you ill, William?”
“No.”
“Well, why are you going to bed, William?”
William leant out of the window.
“I’m goin’ to bed,” he said, “’cause my father don’t understand ’bout English Grammar, that’s why!”
CHAPTER VII
WILLIAM JOINS THE BAND OF HOPE
“William! you’ve been playing that dreadful game again!” said Mrs. Brown despairingly.
William, his suit covered with dust, his tie under one ear, his face begrimed and his knees cut, looked at her in righteous indignation.
“I haven’t. I haven’t done anything what you said I’d not to. It was ‘Lions an’ Tamers’ what you said I’d not to play. Well, I’ve not played ‘Lions an’ Tamers,’ not since you said I’d not to. I wouldn’t do it—not if thousands of people asked me to, not when you said I’d not to. I——”
Mrs. Brown interrupted him.
“Well, what have you been playing at?” she said wearily.
“It was ‘Tigers an’ Tamers.’” said William. “It’s a different game altogether. In ‘Lions an’ Tamers’ half of you is lions an’ the other half tamers, an’ the tamers try to tame the lions an’ the lions try not to be tamed. That’s ‘Lions an’ Tamers’. It’s all there is to it. It’s quite a little game.”
“What do you do in ‘Tigers and Tamers’?” said Mrs. Brown suspiciously.
“Well——”
William considered deeply.
“Well,” he repeated lamely, “in ‘Tigers an’ Tamers’ half of you is tigers—you see—and the other half——”
“It’s exactly the same thing, William,” said Mrs. Brown with sudden spirit.
“I don’t see how you can call it the same thing,” said William doggedly. “You can’t call a lion a tiger, can you? It jus’ isn’t one. They’re in quite different cages in the Zoo. ‘Tigers an’ Tamers’ can’t be ’zactly the same as ‘Lions an’ Tamers.’”
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Brown firmly, “you’re never to play ‘Tigers and Tamers’ either. And now go and wash your face.”
William’s righteous indignation increased.
“My face?” he repeated as if he could hardly believe his ears. “My face? I’ve washed it twice to-day. I washed it when I got up an’ I washed it for dinner. You told me to.”
“Well, just go and look at it.”
William walked over to the looking-glass and surveyed his reflection with interest. Then he passed his hands lightly over the discoloured surface of his face, stroked his hair back and straightened his tie. This done, he turned hopefully to his mother.
“It’s no good,” she said. “You must wash your face and brush your hair and you’d better change your suit—and stockings. They’re simply covered with dust!”
William turned slowly to go from the room.
“I shouldn’t think,” he said bitterly, as he went, “I shouldn’t think there’s many houses where so much washin’ and brushin’ goes on as in this, an’ I’m glad for their sakes.”
She heard him coming downstairs ten minutes later.
“William!” she called.
He entered. He was transformed. His face and hair shone, he had changed his suit. His air of righteous indignation had not diminished.
“That’s better,” said his mother approvingly. “Now, William, do just sit down here till tea-time. There’s only about ten minutes, and it’s no good your going out. You’ll only get yourself into a mess again if you don’t sit still.”
William glanced round the drawing-room with the air of one goaded beyond bearing.
“Here?”
“Well, dear—just till tea-time.”
“What can I do in here? There’s nothing to do, is there? I can’t sit still and not do anything, can I?”
“Oh, read a book. There are ever so many books over there you haven’t read, and I’m sure you’d like some of them. Try one of Scott’s,” she ended rather doubtfully.
William walked across the room with an expression of intense suffering, took out a book at random, and sat down in an attitude of aloof dignity, holding the book upside down.
It was thus that Mrs. de Vere Carter found him when she was announced a moment later.
Mrs. de Vere Carter was a recent addition to the neighbourhood. Before her marriage she had been one of the Randalls of Hertfordshire. Everyone on whom Mrs. de Vere Carter smiled felt intensely flattered. She was tall, and handsome, and gushing, and exquisitely dressed. Her arrival had caused quite a sensation. Everyone agreed that she was “charming.”
On entering Mrs. Brown’s drawing-room, she saw a little boy, dressed very neatly, with a clean face and well-brushed hair, sitting quietly on a low chair in a corner reading a book.
“The little dear!” she murmured as she shook hands with Mrs. Brown.
William’s face darkened.
Mrs. de Vere Carter floated over to him.
“Well, my little man, and how are you?”
Her little man did not answer, partly because Mrs. de Vere Carter had put a hand on his head and pressed his face against her perfumed, befrilled bosom. His nose narrowly escaped being impaled on the thorn of a large rose that nestled there.
“I adore children,” she cooed to his mother over his head.
William freed his head with a somewhat brusque movement and she took up his book.
“Scott!” she murmured. “Dear little laddie!”
Seeing the expression on William’s face his mother hastily drew her guest aside.
“Do come and sit over here,” she said nervously. “What perfect weather we’re having.”
William walked out of the room.
“You know, I’m frightfully interested in social work,” went on her charming guest, “especially among children. I adore children! Sweet little dear of yours! And I always get on with them. Of course, I get on with most people. My personality, you know! You’ve heard perhaps that I’ve taken over the Band of Hope here, and I’m turning it into such a success. The pets! Yes, three lumps, please. Well, now, it’s here I want you to help me. You will, dear, won’t you? You and your little mannikin. I want to get a different class of children to join the Band of Hope. Such a sweet name, isn’t it? It would do the village children such a lot of good to meet with children of our class.”
Mrs. Brown was flattered. After all, Mrs. de Vere Carter was one of the Randalls.
“For instance,” went on the flute-like tones, “when I came in and saw your little treasure sitting there so sweetly,” she pointed dramatically to the chair that had lately been graced by William’s presence, “I thought to myself, ‘Oh, I must get him to come.’ It’s the refining influence of children in our class that the village children need. What delicious cakes. You will lend him to me, won’t you? We meet once a week, on Wednesday afternoons. May he come? I’ll take great care of him.”
Mrs. Brown hesitated.
“Er—yes,” she said doubtfully. “But I don’t know that William is really suited to that sort of thing. However——”
“Oh, you can’t put me off!” said Mrs. de Vere Carter shaking a playful bejewelled finger. “Don’t I know him already? I count him one of my dearest little friends. It never takes me long to know children. I’m a born child-lover.”
William happened to be passing through the hall as Mrs. de Vere Carter came out of the drawing-room followed by Mrs. Brown.
“There you are!” she said. “I thought you’d be waiting to say good-bye to me.”
She stretched out her arm with an encircling movement, but William stepped back and stood looking at her with a sinister frown.
“I have so enjoyed seeing you. I hope you’ll come again,” untruthfully stammered Mrs. Brown, moving so as to block out the sight of William’s face, but Mrs de Vere Carter was not to be checked. There are people to whom the expression on a child’s face conveys absolutely nothing. Once more she floated towards William.
“Good-bye, Willy, dear. You’re not too old to kiss me, are you?”
Mrs. Brown gasped.
At the look of concentrated fury on William’s face, older and stronger people than Mrs. de Vere Carter would have quailed, but she only smiled as, with another virulent glare at her, he turned on his heel and walked away.
“The sweet, shy thing!” she cooed. “I love them shy.”
Mr. Brown was told of the proposal.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I can’t quite visualise William at a Band of Hope meeting; but of course, if you want him to, he must go.”
“You see,” said Mrs. Brown with a worried frown, “she made such a point of it, and she really is very charming, and after all she’s rather influential. She was one of the Randalls, you know. It seems silly to offend her.”
“She was sweet with him. At least—she meant to be sweet,” she corrected herself hastily, “but you know how touchy William is, and you know the name he always hates so. I can never understand why. After all, lots of people are called Willy.”
The morning of the day of the Band of Hope meeting arrived. William came down to breakfast with an agonised expression on his healthy countenance. He sat down on his seat and raised his hand to his brow with a hollow groan.
Mrs. Brown started up in dismay.
“Oh, William! What’s the matter?”
“Gotter sick headache,” said William in a faint voice.
“Oh, dear! I am sorry. You’d better go and lie down. I’m so sorry, dear.”
“I think I will go an’ lie down,” said William’s plaintive, suffering voice. “I’ll jus’ have breakfast first.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. Not with a sick headache.”
William gazed hungrily at the eggs and bacon.
“I think I could eat some, mother. Jus’ a bit.”
“No, I wouldn’t, dear. It will only make it worse.”
Very reluctantly William returned to his room.
Mrs. Brown visited him after breakfast.
No, he was no better, but he thought he’d go for a little walk. Yes, he still felt very sick. She suggested a strong dose of salt and water. He might feel better if he’d been actually sick. No, he’d hate to give her the trouble. Besides, it wasn’t that kind of sickness. He was most emphatic on that point. It wasn’t that kind of sickness. He thought a walk would do him good. He felt he’d like a walk.
Well wrapped up and walking with little, unsteady steps, he set off down the drive, followed by his mother’s anxious eyes.
Then he crept back behind the rhododendron bushes next to the wall and climbed in at the larder window.
The cook came agitatedly to Mrs. Brown half an hour later, followed by William, pale and outraged.
“’E’s eat nearly everything, ’m. You never saw such a thing. ’E’s eat the cold ’am and the kidney pie, and ’e’s eat them three cold sausages an’ ’e’s eat all that new jar of lemon cheese.”
“William!” gasped Mrs. Brown, “you can’t have a sick headache, if you’ve eaten all that.”
That was the end of the sick headache.
He spent the rest of the morning with Henry and Douglas and Ginger. William and Henry and Douglas and Ginger constituted a secret society called the Outlaws. It had few aims beyond that of secrecy. William was its acknowledged leader, and he was proud of the honour. If they knew—if they guessed. He grew hot and cold at the thought. Suppose they saw him going—or someone told them—he would never hold up his head again. He made tentative efforts to find out their plans for the afternoon. If only he knew where they’d be—he might avoid them somehow. But he got no satisfaction.
They spent the morning “rabbiting” in a wood with Henry’s fox terrier, Chips, and William’s mongrel, Jumble. None of them saw or heard a rabbit, but Jumble chased a butterfly and a bee, and scratched up a molehill, and was stung by a wasp, and Chips caught a field-mouse, so the time was not wasted.
William’s interest, however, was half-hearted. He was turning over plan after plan in his mind, all of which he finally rejected as impracticable.
He entered the dining-room for lunch rather earlier than usual. Only Robert and Ethel, his elder brother and sister, were there. He came in limping, his mouth set into a straight line of agony, his brows frowning.
“Hello! What’s up?” said Robert, who had not been in at breakfast and had forgotten about the Band of Hope.
“I’ve sprained my ankle,” said William weakly.
“Here, sit down, old chap, and let me feel it,” said Robert sympathetically.
William sat down meekly upon a chair.
“Which is it?”
“Er—this.”
“It’s a pity you limped with the other,” said Ethel drily.
That was the end of the sprained ankle.
The Band of Hope meeting was to begin at three. His family received with complete indifference his complaint of sudden agonising toothache at half-past two, of acute rheumatism at twenty-five to three, and of a touch of liver (William considered this a heaven-set inspiration. It was responsible for many of his father’s absences from work) at twenty to three. At a quarter to three he was ready in the hall.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, William,” said Mrs. Brown soothingly. “I expect you’ll all play games and have quite a good time.”
William treated her with silent contempt.
“Hey, Jumble!” he called.
After all, life could never be absolutely black, as long as it held Jumble.
Jumble darted ecstatically from the kitchen regions, his mouth covered with gravy, dropping a half-picked bone on the hall carpet as he came.
“William, you can’t take a dog to a Band of Hope meeting.”
“Why not?” said William, indignantly. “I don’t see why not. Dogs don’t drink beer, do they? They’ve as much right at a Band of Hope meeting as I have, haven’t they? There seems jus’ nothin’ anyone can do.”
“Well, I’m sure it wouldn’t be allowed. No one takes dogs to meetings.”
She held Jumble firmly by the collar, and William set off reluctantly down the drive.
“I hope you’ll enjoy it,” she called cheerfully.
He turned back and looked at her.
“It’s a wonder I’m not dead,” he said bitterly, “the things I have to do!”
He walked slowly—a dejected, dismal figure. At the gate he stopped and glanced cautiously up and down the road. There were three more figures coming down the road, with short intervals between them. They were Henry, Douglas and Ginger.
William’s first instinct was to dart back and wait till they had passed. Then something about their figures struck him. They also had a dejected, dismal, hang-dog look. He waited for the first one, Henry. Henry gave him a shamefaced glance and was going to pass him by.
“You goin’ too?” said William.
Henry gasped in surprise.
“Did she come to your mother?” was his reply.
He was surprised to see Ginger and Douglas behind him and Ginger was surprised to see Douglas behind him. They walked together sheepishly in a depressed silence to the Village Hall. Once Ginger raised a hand to his throat.
“Gotter beas’ly throat,” he complained, “I didn’t ought to be out.”
“I’m ill, too,” said Henry; “I told ’em so.”
“An’ me,” said Douglas.
“An’ me,” said William with a hoarse, mirthless laugh. “Cruel sorter thing, sendin’ us all out ill like this.”
At the door of the Village Hall they halted, and William looked longingly towards the field.
“It’s no good,” said Ginger sadly, “they’d find out.”
Bitter and despondent, they entered.
Within sat a handful of gloomy children who, inspired solely by hopes of the annual treat, were regular attendants at the meeting.
Mrs. de Vere Carter came sailing down to them, her frills and scarfs floating around her, bringing with her a strong smell of perfume.
“Dear children,” she said, “welcome to our little gathering. These,” she addressed the regular members, who turned gloomy eyes upon the Outlaws, “these are our dear new friends. We must make them so happy. Dear children!”
She led them to seats in the front row, and taking her stand in front of them, addressed the meeting.
“Now, girlies dear and laddies dear, what do I expect you to be at these meetings?”
And in answer came a bored monotonous chant:
“Respectful and reposeful.”
“I have a name, children dear.”
“Respectful and reposeful, Mrs. de Vere Carter.”
“That’s it, children dear. Respectful and reposeful. Now, our little new friends, what do I expect you to be?”
No answer.
The Outlaws sat horrified, outraged, shamed.
“You’re such shy darlings, aren’t you?” she said, stretching out an arm.
William retreated hastily, and Ginger’s face was pressed hard against a diamond brooch.
“You won’t be shy with us long, I’m sure. We’re so happy here. Happy and good. Now, children dear, what is it we must be?”
Again the bored monotonous chant:
“Happy and good, Mrs. de Vere Carter.”
“That’s it. Now, darlings, in the front row, you tell me. Willy, pet, you begin. What is it we must be?”
At that moment William was nearer committing murder than at any other time in his life. He caught a gleam in Henry’s eye. Henry would remember. William choked but made no answer.
“You tell me then, Harry boy.”
Henry went purple and William’s spirits rose.
“Ah, you won’t be so shy next week, will they, children dear?”
“No, Mrs. de Vere Carter,” came the prompt, listless response.
“Now, we’ll begin with one of our dear little songs. Give out the books.” She seated herself at the piano. “Number five, ‘Sparkling Water.’ Collect your thoughts, children dear. Are you ready?”
She struck the opening chords.
The Outlaws, though provided with books, did not join in. They had no objection to water as a beverage. They merely objected to singing about it.
Mrs. de Vere Carter rose from the piano.
“Now, we’ll play one of our games, children dear. You can begin by yourselves, can’t you, darlings? I’ll just go across the field and see why little Teddy Wheeler hasn’t come. He must be regular, mustn’t he, laddies dear? Now, what game shall we play. We had ‘Puss in the Corner’ last week, hadn’t we? We’ll have ‘Here we go round the mulberry-bush’ this week, shall we? No, not ‘Blind Man’s Buff,’ darling. It’s a horrid, rough game. Now, while I’m gone, see if you can make these four shy darlings more at home, will you? And play quietly. Now before I go tell me four things that you must be?”
“Respectful and reposeful and happy and good, Mrs. de Vere Carter,” came the chant.
She was away about a quarter of an hour. When she returned the game was in full swing, but it was not “Here we go round the mulberry-bush.” There was a screaming, struggling crowd of children in the Village Hall. Benches were overturned and several chairs broken. With yells and whoops, and blows and struggles, the Tamers tried to tame; with growls and snarls and bites and struggles the animals tried not to be tamed. Gone was all listlessness and all boredom. And William, his tie hanging in shreds, his coat torn, his head cut, and his voice hoarse, led the fray as a Tamer.
“Come on, you!”
“I’ll get you!”
“Gr-r-r-r-r!”
“Go it, men! Catch ’em, beat ’em, knife ’em, kill ’em.”
The spirited roarings and bellowing of the animals was almost blood-curdling.
Above it all Mrs. de Vere Carter coaxed and expostulated and wrung her hands.
“Respectful and reposeful,” “happy and good,” “laddies dear,” and “Willy” floated unheeded over the tide of battle.
Then somebody (reports afterwards differed as to who it was) rushed out of the door into the field and there the battle was fought to a finish. From there the Band of Hope (undismissed) reluctantly separated to its various homes, battered and bruised, but blissfully happy.
Mrs. Brown was anxiously awaiting William’s return.
When she saw him she gasped and sat down weakly on a hall chair.
“William!”
“I’ve not,” said William quickly, looking at her out of a fast-closing eye, “I’ve not been playing at either of them—not those what you said I’d not to.”
“Then—what——?”
“It was—it was—‘Tamers an’ Crocerdiles,’ an’ we played it at the Band of Hope!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE OUTLAWS
It was a half-holiday and William was in his bedroom making careful preparations for the afternoon. On the mantel-piece stood in readiness half a cake (the result of a successful raid on the larder) and a bottle of licorice water. This beverage was made by shaking up a piece of licorice in water. It was much patronised by the band of Outlaws to which William belonged and which met secretly every half-holiday in a disused barn about a quarter of a mile from William’s house.
So far the Outlaws had limited their activities to wrestling matches, adventure seeking, and culinary operations. The week before, they had cooked two sausages which William had taken from the larder on cook’s night out and had conveyed to the barn beneath his shirt and next his skin. Perhaps “cooked” is too euphemistic a term. To be quite accurate, they had held the sausages over a smoking fire till completely blackened, and then consumed the charred remains with the utmost relish.
William put the bottle of licorice water in one pocket and the half cake in another and was preparing to leave the house in his usual stealthy fashion—through the bathroom window, down the scullery roof, and down the water-pipe hand over hand to the back garden. Even when unencumbered by the presence of a purloined half cake, William infinitely preferred this mode of exit to the simpler one of walking out of the front-door. As he came out on to the landing, however, he heard the sound of the opening and shutting of the hall door and of exuberant greetings in the hall.
“Oh! I’m so glad you’ve come, dear. And is this the baby! The duck! Well, den, how’s ’oo, den? Go—o—oo.”
This was William’s mother.
“Oh, crumbs!” said William and retreated hastily. He sat down on his bed to wait till the coast was clear. Soon came the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.
“Oh, William,” said his mother, as she entered his room, “Mrs. Butler’s come with her baby to spend the afternoon, and we’d arranged to go out till tea-time with the baby, but she’s got such a headache, I’m insisting on her lying down for the afternoon in the drawing-room. But she’s so worried about the baby not getting out this nice afternoon.”
“Oh!” said William, without interest.
“Well, cook’s out and Emma has to get the tea and answer the door, and Ethel’s away, and I told Mrs. Butler I was sure you wouldn’t mind taking the baby out for a bit in the perambulator!”
William stared at her, speechless. The Medusa’s classic expression of horror was as nothing to William’s at that moment. Then he moistened his lips and spoke in a hoarse voice.
“Me?” he said. “Me? Me take a baby out in a pram?”
“Well, dear,” said his mother deprecatingly, “I know it’s your half holiday, but you’d be out of doors getting the fresh air, which is the great thing. It’s a nice baby and a nice pram and not heavy to push, and Mrs. Butler would be so grateful to you.”
“Yes, I should think she’d be that,” said William bitterly. “She’d have a right to be that if I took the baby out in a pram.”
“Now, William, I’m sure you’d like to help, and I’m sure you wouldn’t like your father to hear that you wouldn’t even do a little thing like that for poor Mrs. Butler. And she’s got such a headache.”
“A little thing like that!” repeated William out of the bitterness of his soul.
But the Fates were closing round him. He was aware that he would know no peace till he had done the horrible thing demanded of him. Sorrowfully and reluctantly he bowed to the inevitable.
“All right,” he muttered, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
He heard them fussing over the baby in the hall. Then he heard his elder brother’s voice.
“You surely don’t mean to say, mother,” Robert was saying with the crushing superiority of eighteen, “that you’re going to trust that child to—William.”
“Well,” said William’s mother, “someone has to take him out. It’s such a lovely afternoon. I’m sure it’s very kind of William, on his half-holiday, too. And she’s got such a headache.”
“Well, of course,” said Robert in the voice of one who washes his hands of all further responsibility, “you know William as well as I do.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed William’s mother. “And everything so nicely settled, Robert, and you must come and find fault with it all. If you don’t want William to take him out, will you take him out yourself?”
Robert retreated hastily to the dining-room and continued the conversation from a distance.
“I don’t want to take him out myself—thanks very much, all the same! All I say is—you know William as well as I do. I’m not finding fault with anything. I simply am stating a fact.”
Then William came downstairs.
“Here he is, dear, all ready for you, and you needn’t go far away—just up and down the road, if you like, but stay out till tea-time. He’s a dear little baby, isn’t he? And isn’t it a nice Willy-Billy den, to take it out a nice ta-ta, while it’s mummy goes bye-byes, den?”
William blushed for pure shame.
He pushed the pram down to the end of the road and round the corner. In comparison with William’s feelings, the feelings of some of the early martyrs must have been pure bliss. A nice way for an Outlaw to spend the afternoon! He dreaded to meet any of his brother-outlaws, yet, irresistibly and as a magnet, their meeting-place attracted him. He wheeled the pram off the road and down the country lane towards the field which held their sacred barn. He stopped at the stile that led into the field and gazed wistfully across to the barn in the distance. The infant sat and sucked its thumb and stared at him. Finally it began to converse.
“Blab—blab—blab—blab—blub—blub—blub!”
“Oh, you shut up!” said William crushingly.
Annoyed at the prolonged halt, it seized its pram cover, pulled it off its hooks, and threw it into the road. While William was picking it up, it threw the pillow on to his head. Then it chuckled. William began to conceive an active dislike of it. Suddenly the Great Idea came to him. His face cleared. He took a piece of string from his pocket and tied the pram carefully to the railings. Then, lifting the baby cautiously and gingerly out, he climbed the stile with it and set off across the fields towards the barn. He held the baby to his chest with both arms clasped tightly round its waist. Its feet dangled in the air. It occupied the time by kicking William in the stomach, pulling his hair, and putting its fingers in his eyes.
“It beats me,” panted William to himself, “what people see in babies! Scratchin’ an’ kickin’ and blindin’ folks and pullin’ their hair all out!”
When he entered the barn he was greeted by a sudden silence.
“Look here!” began one outlaw in righteous indignation.
“It’s a kidnap,” said William, triumphantly. “We’ll get a ransom on it.”
They gazed at him in awed admiration. This was surely the cream of outlawry. He set the infant on the ground, where it toddled for a few steps and sat down suddenly and violently. It then stared fixedly at the tallest boy present and smiled seraphically.
“Dad—dad—dad—dad—dad!”
Douglas, the tallest boy, grinned sheepishly. “It thinks I’m its father,” he explained complacently to the company.
“Well,” said Henry, who was William’s rival for the leadership of the Outlaws, “What do we do first? That’s the question.”
“In books,” said the outlaw called Ginger, “they write a note to its people and say they want a ransom.”
“We won’t do that—not just yet,” said William hastily.
“Well, it’s not much sense holdin’ somethin’ up to ransom and not tellin’ the folks that they’ve got to pay nor nothin’, is it?” said Ginger with the final air of a man whose logic is unassailable.
“N——oo,” said William. “But——” with a gleam of hope—“who’s got a paper and pencil? I’m simply statin’ a fact. Who’s got a paper and pencil?”
No one spoke.
“Oh, yes!” went on William in triumph. “Go on! Write a note. Write a note without paper and pencil, and we’ll all watch. Huh!”
“Well,” said Ginger sulkily, “I don’t s’pose they had paper and pencils in outlaw days. They weren’t invented. They wrote on—on—on leaves or something,” he ended vaguely.
“Well, go on. Write on leaves,” said William still more triumphant. “We’re not stoppin’ you are we? I’m simply statin’ a fact. Write on leaves.”
They were interrupted by a yell of pain from Douglas. Flattered by the parental relations so promptly established by the baby, he had ventured to make its further acquaintance. With vague memories of his mother’s treatment of infants, he had inserted a finger in its mouth. The infant happened to possess four front teeth, two upper and two lower, and they closed like a vice upon Douglas’ finger. He was now examining the marks.
“Look! Right deep down! See it? Wotcher think of that! Nearly to the bone! Pretty savage baby you’ve brought along,” he said to William.
“I jolly well know that,” said William feelingly. “It’s your own fault for touching it. It’s all right if you leave it alone. Just don’t touch it, that’s all. Anyway, it’s mine, and I never said you could go fooling about with it, did I? It wouldn’t bite me, I bet!”
“Well, what about the ransom?” persisted Henry.
“Someone can go and tell its people and bring back the ransom,” suggested Ginger.
There was a short silence. Then Douglas took his injured finger from his mouth and asked pertinently:
“Who?”
“William brought it,” suggested Henry.
“Yes, so I bet I’ve done my share.”
“Well, what’s anyone else goin’ to do, I’d like to know? Go round to every house in this old place and ask if they’ve had a baby taken off them and if they’d pay a ransom for it back? That’s sense, isn’t it? You know where you got it from, don’t you, and you can go and get its ransom.”
“I can, but I’m not goin’ to,” said William finally. “I’m simply statin’ a fact. I’m not goin’ to. And if anyone says I daren’t,” (glancing round pugnaciously) “I’ll fight ’em for it.”
No one said he daren’t. The fact was too patent to need stating. Henry hastily changed the subject.
“Anyway, what have we brought for the feast?”
William produced his licorice water and half cake, Douglas two slices of raw ham and a dog biscuit, Ginger some popcorn and some cold boiled potatoes wrapped up in newspaper, Henry a cold apple dumpling and a small bottle of paraffin-oil.
“I knew the wood would be wet after the rain. It’s to make the fire burn. That’s sense, isn’t it?”
“Only one thing to cook,” said Ginger sadly, looking at the slices of ham.
“We can cook up the potatoes and the dumpling. They don’t look half enough cooked. Let’s put them on the floor here, and go out for adventures first. All different ways and back in a quarter of an hour.”
The Outlaws generally spent part of the afternoon dispersed in search of adventure. So far they had wooed the Goddess of Danger chiefly by trespassing on the ground of irascible farmers in hopes of a chase which were generally fulfilled.
They deposited their store on the ground in a corner of the barn, and with a glance at the “kidnap,” who was seated happily upon the floor engaged in chewing its hat-strings, they went out, carefully closing the door.
After a quarter of an hour Ginger and William arrived at the door simultaneously from opposite directions.
“Any luck?”
“No.”
“Same here. Let’s start the old fire going.”
They opened the door and went in. The infant was sitting on the floor among the stores, or rather among what was left of the stores. There was paraffin-oil on its hair, face, arms, frock and feet. It was drenched in paraffin-oil. The empty bottle and its hat lay by its side. Mingled with the paraffin-oil all over its person was cold boiled potato. It was holding the apple-dumpling in its hand.
“Ball!” it announced ecstatically from behind its mask of potato and paraffin-oil.
They stood in silence for a minute. Then, “Who’s going to make that fire burn now?” said Ginger, glaring at the empty bottle.
“Yes,” said William slowly, “an’ who’s goin’ to take that baby home? I’m simply statin’ a fact. Who’s goin’ to take that baby home?”
There was no doubt that when William condescended to adopt a phrase from any of his family’s vocabularies, he considerably overworked it.
“Well, it did it itself. It’s no one else’s fault, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” said William. “But that’s the sort of thing folks never see. Anyway, I’m goin’ to wash its face.”
“What with?”
William took out his grimy handkerchief and advanced upon his prey. His bottle of licorice water was lying untouched in the corner. He took out the cork.
“Goin’ to wash it in that dirty stuff?”
“It’s made of water—clean water—I made it myself, so I bet I ought to know, oughtn’t I? That’s what folks wash in, isn’t it?—clean water?”
“Yes,” bitterly, “and what are we goin’ to drink, I’d like to know? You’d think that baby had got enough of our stuff—our potatoes and our apple-dumpling, an’ our oil—without you goin’ an’ givin’ it our licorice water as well.”
William was passing his handkerchief, moistened with licorice water, over the surface of the baby’s face. The baby had caught a corner of it firmly between its teeth and refused to release it.
“If you’d got to take this baby home like this,” he said, “you wouldn’t be thinking much about drinking licorice water. I’m simply statin’——”
“Oh, shut up saying that!” said Ginger in sudden exasperation. “I’m sick of it.”
At that moment the door was flung open and in walked slowly a large cow closely followed by Henry and Douglas.
Henry’s face was one triumphant beam. He felt that his prestige, eclipsed by William’s kidnapping coup, was restored.
“I’ve brought a cow,” he announced, “fetched it all the way from Farmer Litton’s field—five fields off, too, an’ it took some fetching, too.”
“Well, what for?” said William after a moment’s silence.
Henry gave a superior laugh.
“What for! You’ve not read much about outlaws, I guess. They always drove in cattle from the surroundin’ districks.”
“Well, what for?” said William again, giving a tug at his handkerchief, which the infant still refused to release.
“Well—er—well—to kill an’ roast, I suppose,” said Henry lamely.
“Well, go on,” said William. “Kill it an’ roast it. We’re not stoppin’ you, are we? Kill it an’ roast it—an’ get hung for murder. I s’pose it’s murder to kill cows same as it is to kill people—’cept for butchers.”
The cow advanced slowly and deprecatingly towards the “kidnap,” who promptly dropped the handkerchief and beamed with joy.
“Bow-wow!” it said excitedly.
“Anyway, let’s get on with the feast,” said Douglas.
“Feast!” echoed Ginger bitterly. “Feast! Not much feast left! That baby William brought’s used all the paraffin-oil and potatoes, and it’s squashed the apple-dumpling, and William’s washed its face in the licorice water.”
Henry gazed at it dispassionately and judicially.
“Yes—it looks like as if someone had washed it in licorice water—and as if it had used up all the oil and potatoes. It doesn’t look like as if it would fetch much ransom. You seem to have pretty well mucked it up.”
“Oh, shut up about the baby,” said William picking up his damp and now prune-coloured handkerchief. “I’m just about sick of it. Come on with the fire.”
They made a little pile of twigs in the field and began the process of lighting it.
“I hope that cow won’t hurt the ‘kidnap,’” said Douglas suddenly. “Go and see, William; it’s your kidnap.”
“Well, an’ it’s Henry’s cow, and I’m sorry for that cow if it tries playin’ tricks on that baby.”
But he rose from his knees reluctantly, and threw open the barn door. The cow and the baby were still gazing admiringly at each other. From the cow’s mouth at the end of a long, sodden ribbon, hung the chewed remains of the baby’s hat. The baby was holding up the dog biscuit and crowed delightfully as the cow bent down its head and cautiously and gingerly smelt it. As William entered, the cow turned round and switched its tail against the baby’s head. At the piercing howl that followed, the whole band of outlaws entered the barn.
“What are you doing to the poor little thing?” said Douglas to William.
“It’s Henry’s cow,” said William despairingly. “It hit it. Oh, go on, shut up! Do shut up.”
The howls redoubled.
“You brought it,” said Henry accusingly, raising his voice to be heard above the baby’s fury and indignation. “Can’t you stop it? Not much sense taking babies about if you don’t know how to stop ’em crying!”