The baby was now purple in the face.
The Outlaws stood around and watched it helplessly.
“P’raps it’s hungry,” suggested Douglas.
He took up the half cake from the remains of the stores and held it out tentatively to the baby. The baby stopped crying suddenly.
“Dad—dad—dad—dad—dad,” it said tearfully.
Douglas blushed and grinned.
“Keeps on thinking I’m its father,” he said with conscious superiority. “Here, like some cake?”
The baby broke off a handful and conveyed it to its mouth.
“It’s eating it,” cried Douglas in shrill excitement. After thoroughly masticating it, however, the baby repented of its condescension and ejected the mouthful in several instalments.
William blushed for it.
“Oh, come on, let’s go and look at the fire,” he said weakly.
They left the barn and returned to the scene of the fire-lighting. The cow, still swinging the remains of the baby’s hat from its mouth, was standing with its front feet firmly planted on the remains of what had been a promising fire.
“Look!” cried William, in undisguised pleasure. “Look at Henry’s cow! Pretty nice sort of cow you’ve brought, Henry. Not much sense taking cows about if you can’t stop them puttin’ folks’ fires out.”
After a heated argument, the Outlaws turned their attention to the cow. The cow refused to be “shoo’d off.” It simply stood immovable and stared them out. Ginger approached cautiously and gave it a little push. It switched its tail into his eye and continued to munch the baby’s hat-string. Upon William’s approaching it lowered its head, and William retreated hastily. At last they set off to collect some fresh wood and light a fresh fire. Soon they were blissfully consuming two blackened slices of ham, the popcorn, and what was left of the cake.
After the “feast,” Ginger and William, as Wild Indians, attacked the barn, which was defended by Douglas and Henry. The “kidnap” crawled round inside on all fours, picking up any treasures it might come across en route and testing their effect on its palate.
Occasionally it carried on a conversation with its defenders, bringing with it a strong perfume of paraffin oil as it approached.
“Blab—blab—blab—blab—blub—blub—Dad—dad—dad—dad—dad. Go—o—o—o.”
William had insisted on a place on the attacking side.
“I couldn’t put any feelin’,” he explained, “into fightin’ for that baby.”
When they finally decided to set off homewards, William gazed hopelessly at his charge. Its appearance defies description. For many years afterwards William associated babies in his mind with paraffin-oil and potato.
“Just help me get the potato out of its hair,” he pleaded; “never mind the oil and the rest of it.”
“My hat! doesn’t it smell funny!—and doesn’t it look funny—all oil and potato and bits of cake!” said Ginger.
“Oh! shut up about it,” said William irritably.
The cow followed them down to the stile and watched them sardonically as they climbed it.
“Bow-wow!” murmured the baby in affectionate farewell.
William looked wildly round for the pram, but—the pram was gone—only the piece of string dangled from the railings.
“Crumbs!” said William, “Talk about bad luck! I’m simply statin’ a fact. Talk about bad luck!”
At that minute the pram appeared, charging down the hill at full speed with a cargo of small boys. At the bottom of the hill it overturned into a ditch accompanied by its cargo. To judge from its appearance, it had passed the afternoon performing the operation.
“That’s my pram!” said William to the cargo, as it emerged, joyfully, from the ditch.
“Garn! S’ours! We found it.”
“Well, I left it there.”
“Come on! We’ll fight for it,” said Ginger, rolling up his sleeves in a businesslike manner. The other Outlaws followed his example. The pram’s cargo eyed them appraisingly.
“Oh, all right! Take your rotten old pram!” they said at last.
Douglas placed the baby in its seat and William thoughtfully put up the hood to shield his charge as far as possible from the curious gaze of the passers-by. His charge was now chewing the pram cover and talking excitedly to itself. With a “heart steeled for any fate” William turned the corner into his own road. The baby’s mother was standing at his gate.
“There you are!” she called. “I was getting quite anxious. Thank you so much, dear.”
BUT THAT IS WHAT SHE SAID BEFORE SHE SAW THE BABY!
CHAPTER IX
WILLIAM AND WHITE SATIN
“I’d simply love to have a page,” murmured Miss Grant wistfully. “A wedding seems so—second-rate without a page.”
Mrs. Brown, her aunt and hostess, looked across the tea-table at her younger son, who was devouring iced cake with that disregard for consequences which is the mark of youth.
“There’s William,” she said doubtfully. Then, “You’ve had quite enough cake, William.”
Miss Grant studied William’s countenance, which at that moment expressed intense virtue persecuted beyond all bearing.
“Enough!” he repeated. “I’ve had hardly any yet. I was only jus’ beginning to have some when you looked at me. It’s a plain cake. It won’t do me any harm. I wu’nt eat it if it’d do me any harm. Sugar’s good for you. Animals eat it to keep healthy. Horses eat it an’ it don’t do ’em any harm, an’ poll parrots an’ things eat it an’ it don’t do ’em any——”
“Oh, don’t argue, William,” said his mother wearily.
William’s gift of eloquence was known and feared in his family circle.
Then Miss Grant brought out the result of her study of his countenance.
“He’s got such a—modern face!” she said. “There’s something essentially mediæval and romantic about the idea of a page.”
Mrs. Brown (from whose house the wedding was to take place) looked worried.
“There’s nothing mediæval or romantic about William,” she said.
“Well,”—Miss Grant’s intellectual face lit up—“what about his cousin Dorita. They’re about the same age, aren’t they? Both eleven. Well, the two of them in white satin with bunches of holly. Don’t you think? Would you mind having her to stay for the ceremony?” (Miss Grant always referred to her wedding as “the ceremony.”) “If you don’t have his hair cut for a bit, he mightn’t look so bad?”
William had retired to the garden with his three bosom friends—Ginger, Henry, and Douglas—where he was playing his latest game of mountaineering. A plank had been placed against the garden wall, and up this scrambled the three, roped together and wearing feathers in their caps. William was wearing an old golf cap of his mother’s, and mentally pictured himself as an impressive and heroic figure. Before they reached the top they invariably lost their foothold, rolled down the plank and fell in a confused and bruised heap at the bottom. The bruises in no way detracted from the charm of the game. To William the fascination of any game consisted mainly in the danger to life and limb involved. The game had been suggested by an old alpenstock which had been thoughtlessly presented to William by a friend of Mr. Brown’s. The paint of the staircase and upstairs corridor had been completely ruined before the family knew of the gift, and the alpenstock had been confiscated for a week, then restored on the condition that it was not to be brought into the house. The result was the game of mountaineering up the plank. They carried the alpenstock in turns, but William had two turns running to mark the fact that he was its proud possessor.
Mrs. Brown approached William on the subject of his prospective rôle of page with a certain apprehension. The normal attitude of William’s family towards William was one of apprehension.
“Would you like to go to Cousin Sybil’s wedding?” she said.
“No, I wu’nt,” said William without hesitation.
“Wouldn’t you like to go dressed up?” she said.
“Red Injun?” said William with a gleam of hope.
“Er—no, not exactly.”
“Pirate?”
“Not quite.”
“I’d go as a Red Injun, or I’d go as a Pirate,” he said firmly, “but I wu’nt go as anything else.”
“A page,” said Miss Grant’s clear, melodious voice, “is a mediæval and romantic idea, William. There’s the glamour of chivalry about it that should appeal strongly to a boy of your age.”
William turned his inscrutable countenance upon her and gave her a cold glare.
They discussed his costume in private.
“I’ve got a pair of lovely white silk stockings,” said his mother. “They’d do for tights, and Ethel has got a satin petticoat that’s just beginning to go in one place. I should think we could make some sort of costume from that, don’t you? We’ll buy some more white satin and get some patterns.”
“No, I won’t wear Ethel’s ole clothes,” said William smouldering. “You all jus’ want to make me look ridiclus. You don’t care how ridiclus I look. I shall be ridiclus all the rest of my life goin’ about in Ethel’s ole clothes. I jus’ won’t do it. I jus’ won’t go to any ole weddin’. No, I don’t want to see Cousin Sybil married, an’ I jus’ won’t be made look ridiclus in Ethel’s ole clothes.”
They reasoned and coaxed and threatened, but in vain. Finally William yielded to parental authority and went about his world with an air of a martyr doomed to the stake. Even the game of mountaineering had lost its charm and the alpenstock lay neglected against the garden wall. The attitude of his select circle of friends was not encouraging.
“Yah! Page! Who’s goin’ to be a page? Oh, crumbs. A page all dressed up in white. Dear little Willie. Won’t he look swe-e-e-et?”
Life became very full. It was passed chiefly in the avenging of insults. William cherished a secret hope that the result of this would be to leave him disfigured for life and so unable to attend the wedding. However, except for a large lump on his forehead, he was none the worse. He eyed the lump thoughtfully in his looking-glass and decided that with a little encouragement it might render his public appearance in an affair of romance an impossibility. But the pain which resulted from one heroic effort at banging it against the wall caused him to abandon the plan.
Dorita arrived the next week, and with her her small brother, Michael, aged three. Dorita was slim and graceful, with a pale little oval face and dark curling hair.
Miss Grant received her on the doorstep.
“Well, my little maid of honour?” she said in her flute-like tones. “Welcome! We’re going to be such friends—you and me and William—the bride” (she blushed and bridled becomingly) “and her little page and her little maid of honour. William’s a boy, and he’s just a leetle bit thoughtless and doesn’t realise the romance of it all. I’m sure you will. I see it in your dear little face. We’ll have some lovely talks together.” Her eyes fell upon Michael and narrowed suddenly. “He’d look sweet, too, in white satin, wouldn’t he?” turning to Mrs. Brown. “He could walk between them.... We could buy some more white satin....”
When they had gone the maid of honour turned dark, long-lashed, demure eyes upon William.
“Soft mug, that,” she said in clear refined tones, nodding in the direction of the door through which the tall figure of Miss Grant had just disappeared.
William was vaguely cheered by her attitude.
“Are you keen on this piffling wedding affair?” she went on carelessly, “’cause I jolly well tell you I’m not.”
William felt that he had found a kindred spirit. He unbent so far as to take her to the stable and show her a field-mouse he had caught and was keeping in a cardboard box.
“I’m teachin’ it to dance,” he confided, “an’ it oughter fetch a jolly lot of money when it can dance proper. Dancin’ mice do, you know. They show ’em on the stage, and people on the stage get pounds an’ pounds every night, so I bet mice do, too—at least the folks the mice belong to what dance on the stage. I’m teachin’ it to dance by holdin’ a biscuit over its head and movin’ it about. It bit me twice yesterday.” He proudly displayed his mutilated finger. “I only caught it yesterday. It oughter learn all right to-day,” he added hopefully.
Her intense disappointment, when the only trace of the field-mouse that could be found was the cardboard box with a hole gnawed at one corner, drew William’s heart to her still more.
He avoided Henry, Douglas and Ginger. Henry, Douglas and Ginger had sworn to be at the church door to watch William descend from the carriage in the glory of his white satin apparel, and William felt that friendship could not stand the strain.
He sat with Dorita on the cold and perilous perch of the garden wall and discussed Cousin Sybil and the wedding. Dorita’s language delighted and fascinated William.
“She’s a soppy old luny,” she would remark sweetly, shaking her dark curls. “The soppiest old luny you’d see in any old place on this old earth, you betcher life! She’s made of sop. I wouldn’t be found dead in a ditch with her—wouldn’t touch her with the butt-end of a bargepole. She’s an assified cow, she is. Humph!”
“Those children are a leetle disappointing as regards character—to a child lover like myself,” confided Miss Grant to her intellectual fiancé. “I’ve tried to sound their depths, but there are no depths to sound. There is none of the mystery, the glamour, the ‘clouds of glory’ about them. They are so—so material.”
The day of the ordeal drew nearer and nearer, and William’s spirits sank lower and lower. His life seemed to stretch before him—youth, manhood, and old age—dreary and desolate, filled only with humiliation and shame. His prestige and reputation would be blasted for ever. He would no longer be William—the Red Indian, the pirate, the daredevil. He would simply be the Boy Who Went to a Wedding Dressed in White Satin. Evidently there would be a surging crowd of small boys at the church door. Every boy for miles round who knew William even by sight had volunteered the information that he would be there. William was to ride with Dorita and Michael in the bride’s carriage. In imagination he already descended from the carriage and heard the chorus of jeers. His cheeks grew hot at the thought. His life for years afterwards would consist solely in the avenging of insults. He followed the figure of the blushing bride-to-be with a baleful glare. In his worst moments he contemplated murder. The violence of his outburst when his mother mildly suggested a wedding present to the bride from her page and maid of honour horrified her.
“I’m bein’ made look ridiclus all the rest of my life,” he ended. “I’m not givin’ her no present. I know what I’d like to give her,” he added darkly.
“Yes, and I do, too.”
Mrs. Brown forebore to question further.
The day of the wedding dawned coldly bright and sunny. William’s expressions of agony and complaints of various startling symptoms of serious illnesses were ignored by his experienced family circle.
Michael was dressed first of the three in his minute white satin suit and sent down into the morning-room to play quietly. Then an unwilling William was captured from the darkest recess of the stable and dragged pale and protesting to the slaughter.
“Yes, an’ I’ll die pretty soon, prob’ly,” he said pathetically, “and then p’r’aps you’ll be a bit sorry, an’ I shan’t care.”
In Michael there survived two of the instincts of primitive man, the instinct of foraging for food and that of concealing it from his enemies when found. Earlier in the day he had paid a visit to the kitchen and found it empty. Upon the table lay a pound of butter and a large bag of oranges. These he had promptly confiscated and, with a fear of interruption born of experience, he had retired with them under the table in the morning-room. Before he could begin his feast he had been called upstairs to be dressed for the ceremony. On his return (immaculate in white satin) he found to his joy that his treasure trove had not been discovered. He began on the butter first. What he could not eat he smeared over his face and curly hair. Then he felt a sudden compunction and tried to remove all traces of the crime by rubbing his face and hair violently with a woolly mat. Then he sat down on the Chesterfield and began the oranges. They were very yellow and juicy and rather overripe. He crammed them into his mouth with both little fat hands at once. He was well aware, even at his tender years, that life’s sweetest joys come soonest to an end. Orange juice mingled with wool fluff and butter on his small round face. It trickled down his cheeks and fell on to his white lace collar. His mouth and the region round it were completely yellow. He had emptied the oranges out of the bag all around him on the seat. He was sitting in a pool of juice. His suit was covered with it, mingled with pips and skin, and still he ate on.
His first interruption was William and Dorita, who came slowly downstairs holding hands in silent sympathy, two gleaming figures in white satin. They walked to the end of the room. They also had been sent to the morning-room with orders to “play quietly” until summoned.
“Play?” William had echoed coldly. “I don’t feel much like playing.”
They stared at Michael, openmouthed and speechless. Lumps of butter and bits of wool stuck in his curls and adhered to the upper portion of his face. They had been washed away from the lower portion of it by orange juice. His suit was almost covered with it. Behind he was saturated with it.
“Crumbs!” said William at last.
“You’ll catch it,” remarked his sister.
Michael retreated hastily from the scene of his misdeeds.
“Mickyth good now,” he lisped deprecatingly.
They looked at the seat he had left—a pool of crushed orange fragments and juice. Then they looked at each other.
“He’ll not be able to go,” said Dorita slowly.
Again they looked at the empty orange-covered Chesterfield and again they looked at each other.
“Heth kite good now,” said Michael hopefully.
Then the maid of honour, aware that cold deliberation often kills the most glorious impulses, seized William’s hand.
“Sit down. Quick!” she whispered sharply.
Without a word they sat down. They sat till they felt the cold moisture penetrate to their skins. Then William heaved a deep sigh.
“We can’t go now,” he said.
Through the open door they saw a little group coming—Miss Grant in shining white, followed by William’s mother, arrayed in her brightest and best, and William’s father, whose expression revealed a certain weariness mingled with a relief that the whole thing would soon be over.
“Here’s the old sardine all togged up,” whispered Dorita.
“William! Dorita! Michael!” they called.
Slowly William, Dorita and Michael obeyed the summons.
When Miss Grant’s eyes fell upon the strange object that was Michael, she gave a loud scream.
“Michael! Oh, the dreadful child!”
She clasped the centre of the door and looked as though about to swoon.
Michael began to sob.
“Poor Micky,” he said through his tears. “He feelth tho thick.”
They removed him hastily.
“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Brown soothingly, “the other two look sweet.”
But Mr. Brown had wandered further into the room and thus obtained a sudden and startling view of the page and maid of honour from behind.
“What? Where?” he began explosively.
William and Dorita turned to him instinctively, thus providing Mrs. Brown and the bride with the spectacle that had so disturbed him.
The bride gave a second scream—shriller and wilder than the first.
“Oh, what have they done? Oh, the wretched children! And just when I wanted to feel calm. Just when all depends on my feeling calm. Just when——”
“We was walkin’ round the room an’ we sat down on the Chesterfield and there was this stuff on it an’ it came on our clothes,” explained William stonily and monotonously and all in one breath.
“Why did you sit down,” said his mother.
“We was walkin’ round an’ we jus’ felt tired and we sat down on the Chesterfield and there was this stuff on it an’ it came on——”
“Oh, stop! Didn’t you see it there?”
William considered.
“Well, we was jus’ walking round the room,” he said, “an’ we jus’ felt tired and we sat——”
“Stop saying that.”
“Couldn’t we make cloaks?” wailed the bride, “to hang down and cover them all up behind. It wouldn’t take long——”
“The carriage has been waiting a quarter of an hour already,” he said firmly. “We’ve no time to spare. Come along, my dear. We’ll continue the investigation after the service. You can’t go, of course, you must stay at home now,” he ended, turning a stern eye upon William. There was an unconscious note of envy in his voice.
“And I did so want to have a page,” said Miss Grant plaintively as she turned away.
Joy and hope returned to William with a bound. As the sound of wheels was heard down the drive he turned head over heels several times on the lawn, then caught sight of his long-neglected alpenstock leaning against a wall.
“Come on,” he shouted joyfully. “I’ll teach you a game I made up. It’s mountaineerin’.”
She watched him place a plank against the wall and begin his perilous ascent.
“You’re a mug,” she said in her clear, sweet voice. “I know a mountaineering game worth ten of that old thing.”
And it says much for the character and moral force of the maid-of-honour that William meekly put himself in the position of pupil.
It must be explained at this point that the domestics of the Brown household were busy arranging refreshments in a marquee in the garden. The front hall was quite empty.
In about a quarter of an hour the game of mountaineering was in full swing. On the lowest steps of the staircase reposed the mattress from William’s father’s and mother’s bed, above it the mattress from Miss Grant’s bed, above that the mattress from William’s bed, and on the top, the mattress from Dorita’s bed. In all the bedrooms the bedclothes lay in disarray on the floor. A few nails driven through the ends of the mattresses into the stairs secured the stability of the “mountain.” Still wearing their robes of ceremony, they scrambled up in stockinged feet, every now and then losing foothold and rolling down to the pile of pillows and bolsters (taken indiscriminately from all the beds) which was arranged at the foot of the staircase. Their mirth was riotous and uproarious. They used the alpenstock in turns. It was a great help. They could get a firm hold on the mattresses with the point of the alpenstock. William stood at the top of the mountain, hot and panting, his alpenstock in his hand, and paused for breath. He was well aware that retribution was not far off—was in the neighbouring church, to be quite exact, and would return in a carriage within the next few minutes. He was aware that an explanation of the yellow stain was yet to be demanded. He was aware that this was not a use to which the family mattresses could legitimately be put. But he cared for none of these things. In his mind’s eye he only saw a crowd of small boys assembled outside a church door with eager eyes fixed on a carriage from which descended—Miss Grant, Mrs. Brown, and Mr. Brown. His life stretched before him bright and rose-coloured. A smile of triumph curved his lips.
“Yah! Who waited at a church for someone what never came? Yah!”
“I hope you didn’t get a bad cold waitin’ for me on Wednesday at the church door.”
“Some folks is easy had. I bet you all believed I was coming on Wednesday.”
Such sentences floated idly through his mind.
“I say, my turn for that stick with the spike.”
William handed it to her in silence.
“I say,” she repeated, “what do you think of this marriage business?”
“Dunno,” said William laconically.
“If I’d got to marry,” went on the maid of honour, “I’d as soon marry you as anyone.”
“I wu’nt mind,” said the page gallantly. “But,” he added hastily, “in ornery clothes.”
“Oh, yes,” she lost her foothold and rolled down to the pile of pillows. From them came her voice muffled, but clear as ever. “You betcher life. In ornery clothes.”
CHAPTER X
WILLIAM’S NEW YEAR’S DAY
William went whistling down the street, his hands in his pockets. William’s whistle was more penetrating than melodious. Sensitive people fled shuddering at the sound. The proprietor of the sweet-shop, however, was not sensitive. He nodded affably as William passed. William was a regular customer of his—as regular, that is, as a wholly inadequate allowance would permit. Encouraged William paused at the doorway and ceased to whistle.
“’Ullo, Mr. Moss!” he said.
“’Ullo, William!” said Mr. Moss.
“Anythin’ cheap to-day?” went on William hopefully.
Mr. Moss shook his head.
“Twopence an ounce cheapest,” he said.
William sighed.
“That’s awful dear,” he said.
“What isn’t dear? Tell me that. What isn’t dear?” said Mr. Moss lugubriously.
“Well, gimme two ounces. I’ll pay you to-morrow,” said William casually.
“Go on!” said William. “I get my money to-morrow. You know I get my money to-morrow.”
“Cash, young sir,” said Mr. Moss heavily. “My terms is cash. ’Owever,” he relented, “I’ll give you a few over when the scales is down to-morrow for a New Year’s gift.”
“Honest Injun?”
“Honest Injun.”
“Well, gimme them now then,” said William.
Mr. Moss hesitated.
“They wouldn’t be no New Year’s gift then, would they?” he said.
William considered.
“I’ll eat ’em to-day but I’ll think about ’em to-morrow,” he promised. “That’ll make ’em a New Year’s gift.”
Mr. Moss took out a handful of assorted fruit drops and passed them to William. William received them gratefully.
“An’ what good resolution are you going to take to-morrow?” went on Mr. Moss.
William crunched in silence for a minute, then,
“Good resolution?” he questioned. “I ain’t got none.”
“You’ve got to have a good resolution for New Year’s Day,” said Mr. Moss firmly.
“Same as giving up sugar in tea in Lent and wearing blue on Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race Day?” said William with interest.
“Yes, same as that. Well, you’ve got to think of some fault you’d like to cure and start to-morrow.”
William pondered.
“Can’t think of anything,” he said at last. “You think of something for me.”
“You might take one to do your school work properly,” he suggested.
William shook his head.
“No,” he said, “that wun’t be much fun, would it? Crumbs! It wun’t!”
“Or—to keep your clothes tidy?” went on his friend.
William shuddered at the thought.
“Or to—give up shouting and whistling.”
Williams crammed two more sweets into his mouth and shook his head very firmly.
“Crumbs, no!” he ejaculated indistinctly.
“Or to be perlite.”
“Perlite?”
“Yes. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you,’ and ‘if you don’t mind me sayin’ so,’ and ‘if you excuse me contradictin’ of you,’ and ‘can I do anything for you?’ and such like.”
William was struck with this.
“Yes, I might be that,” he said. He straightened his collar and stood up. “Yes, I might try bein’ that. How long has it to go on, though?”
“Not long,” said Mr. Moss. “Only the first day gen’rally. Folks generally give ’em up after that.”
“What’s yours?” said William, putting four sweets into his mouth as he spoke.
Mr. Moss looked round his little shop with the air of a conspirator, then leant forward confidentially.
“I’m goin’ to arsk ’er again,” he said.
“Who?” said William mystified.
“Someone I’ve arsked regl’ar every New Year’s Day for ten year.”
“Asked what?” said William, gazing sadly at his last sweet.
“Arsked to take me o’ course,” said Mr. Moss with an air of contempt for William’s want of intelligence.
“Take you where?” said William. “Where d’you want to go? Why can’t you go yourself?”
“Ter marry me, I means,” said Mr. Moss, blushing slightly as he spoke.
“Well,” said William with a judicial air, “I wun’t have asked the same one for ten years. I’d have tried someone else. I’d have gone on asking other people, if I wanted to get married. You’d be sure to find someone that wouldn’t mind you—with a sweet-shop, too. She must be a softie. Does she know you’ve got a sweet-shop?”
Mr. Moss merely sighed and popped a bull’s eye into his mouth with an air of abstracted melancholy.
The next morning William leapt out of bed with an expression of stern resolve. “I’m goin’ to be p’lite,” he remarked to his bedroom furniture. “I’m goin’ to be p’lite all day.”
He met his father on the stairs as he went down to breakfast.
“Good mornin’, Father,” he said, with what he fondly imagined to be a courtly manner. “Can I do anything for you to-day?”
His father looked down at him suspiciously.
“What do you want now?” he demanded.
“I’m only bein’ p’lite. It’s—you know—one of those things you take on New Year’s Day. Well, I’ve took one to be p’lite.”
His father apologised. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You see, I’m not used to it. It startled me.”
At breakfast William’s politeness shone forth in all its glory.
“Can I pass you anything, Robert?” he said sweetly.
His elder brother coldly ignored him. “Going to rain again,” he said to the world in general.
“If you’ll ’scuse me contradicting of you Robert,” said William, “I heard the milkman sayin’ it was goin’ to be fine. If you’ll ’scuse me contradictin’ you.”
“Look here!” said Robert angrily, “Less of your cheek!”
“Seems to me no one in this house understands wot bein’ p’lite is,” said William bitterly. “Seems to me one might go on bein’ p’lite in this house for years an’ no one know wot one was doin’.”
His mother looked at him anxiously.
“You’re feeling quite well, dear, aren’t you?” she said. “You haven’t got a headache or anything, have you?”
“No. I’m bein’ p’lite,” he said irritably, then pulled himself up suddenly. “I’m quite well, thank you, Mother dear,” he said in a tone of cloying sweetness.
“Does it hurt you much?” inquired his brother tenderly.
“No thank you, Robert,” said William politely.
After breakfast he received his pocket-money with courteous gratitude.
“Thank you very much, Father.”
“Not at all. Pray don’t mention it, William. It’s quite all right,” said Mr. Brown, not to be outdone. Then, “It’s rather trying. How long does it last?”
“What?”
“The resolution.”
“Oh, bein’ p’lite! He said they didn’t often do it after the first day.”
“He’s quite right, whoever he is,” said Mr. Brown. “They don’t.”
“He’s goin’ to ask her again,” volunteered William.
“Who ask who what?” said Mr. Brown, but William had departed. He was already on his way to Mr. Moss’s shop.
Mr. Moss was at the door, hatted and coated, and gazing anxiously down the street.
“Goo’ mornin’ Mr. Moss,” said William politely.
Mr. Moss took out a large antique watch.
“He’s late!” he said. “I shall miss the train. Oh, dear! It will be the first New Year’s Day I’ve missed in ten years.”
William was inspecting the sweets with the air of an expert.
“Them pink ones are new,” he said at last. “How much are they?”
“Eightpence a quarter. Oh, dear, I shall miss the train.”
“They’re very small ones,” said William disparagingly “You’d think they’d be less than that—small ones like that.”
“Will you—will you do something for me and I’ll give you a quarter of those sweets.”
William gasped. The offer was almost too munificent to be true.
“I’ll do anythin’ for that,” he said simply.
“Well, just stay in the shop till my nephew Bill comes. ’E’ll be ’ere in two shakes an’ I’ll miss my train if I don’t go now. ’E’s goin’ to keep the shop for me till I’m back an’ ’e’ll be ’ere any minute now. Jus’ tell ’im I ’ad to run for to catch my train an’ if anyone comes into the shop before ’e comes jus’ tell ’em to wait or to come back later. You can weigh yourself a quarter o’ those sweets.”
Mr. Moss was certainly in a holiday mood. William pinched himself just to make sure that he was still alive and had not been translated suddenly to the realms of the blest.
Mr. Moss, with a last anxious glance at his watch, hurried off in the direction of the station.
William was left alone. He spent a few moments indulging in roseate day dreams. The ideal of his childhood—perhaps of everyone’s childhood—was realised. He had a sweet-shop. He walked round the shop with a conscious swagger, pausing to pop into his mouth a Butter Ball—composed, as the label stated, of pure farm cream and best butter. It was all his—all those rows and rows of gleaming bottles of sweets of every size and colour, those boxes and boxes of attractively arranged chocolates. Deliberately he imagined himself as their owner. By the time he had walked round the shop three times he believed that he was the owner.
At this point a small boy appeared in the doorway. William scowled at him.
“Well,” he said ungraciously, “what d’you want?” Then, suddenly remembering his resolution, “Please what d’you want?”
“Where’s Uncle?” said the small boy with equal ungraciousness. “’Cause our Bill’s ill an’ can’t come.”
William waved him off.
“That’s all right,” he said. “You tell ’em that’s all right. That’s quite all right. See? Now, you go off!”
The small boy stood, as though rooted to the spot. William pressed into one of his hands a stick of liquorice and into the other a packet of chocolate.
“Now, you go away! I don’t want you here. See? You go away you little—assified cow!”
William’s invective was often wholly original.
The small boy made off, still staring and clutching his spoils. William started to the door and yelled to the retreating figure, “if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
He had already come to look upon the Resolution as a kind of god who must at all costs be propitiated. Already the Resolution seemed to have bestowed upon him the dream of his life—a fully-equipped sweet-shop.
He wandered round again and discovered a wholly new sweetmeat called Cokernut Kisses. Its only drawback was its instability. It melted away in the mouth at once. So much so that almost before William was aware of it he was confronted by the empty box. He returned to the more solid charms of the Pineapple Crisp.
He was interrupted by the entrance of a thin lady of uncertain age.
“Good morning,” she said icily. “Where’s Mr. Moss?”
William answered as well as the presence of five sweets in his mouth would allow him.
“I can’t hear a word you say,” she said—more frigidly than ever.
William removed two of his five sweets and placed them temporarily on the scale.
“Gone,” he said laconically, then murmured vaguely, “thank you,” as the thought of the Resolution loomed up in his mind.
“Who’s in charge?”
“Me,” said William ungrammatically.
She looked at him with distinct disapproval.
“Well, I’ll have one of those bars of chocolates.”
William looking round the shop, realised suddenly that his own depredations had been on no small scale. But there was a chance of making good any loss that Mr. Moss might otherwise have sustained.
He looked down at the twopenny bars.
“Shillin’ each,” he said firmly.
She gasped.
“They were only twopence yesterday.”
“They’re gone up since,” said William brazenly, adding a vague, “if you’ll kin’ly ’scuse me sayin’ so.”
“Gone up——?” she repeated indignantly.
“Have you heard from the makers they’re gone up?”
“Yes’m,” said William politely.
“When did you hear?”
“This mornin’—if you don’t mind me saying so.”
William’s manner of fulsome politeness seemed to madden her.
“Did you hear by post?”
“Yes’m. By post this mornin’.”
She glared at him with vindictive triumph.
“I happen to live opposite, you wicked, lying boy, and I know that the postman did not call here this morning.”
William met her eye calmly.
“No, they came round to see me in the night—the makers did. You cou’n’t of heard them,” he added hastily. “It was when you was asleep. If you’ll ’scuse me contradictin’ of you.”
It is a great gift to be able to lie so as to convince other people. It is a still greater gift to be able to lie so as to convince oneself. William was possessed of the latter gift.
“I shall certainly not pay more than twopence,” said his customer severely, taking a bar of chocolate and laying down twopence on the counter. “And I shall report this shop to the Profiteering Committee. It’s scandalous. And a pack of wicked lies!”
William scowled at her.
“They’re a shillin’,” he said. “I don’t want your nasty ole tuppences. I said they was a shillin’.”
He followed her to the door. She was crossing the street to her house. “You—you ole thief!” he yelled after her, though, true to his Resolution, he added softly with dogged determination, “if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
“I’ll set the police on you,” his late customer shouted angrily back across the street. “You wicked, blasphemous boy!”
William put out his tongue at her, then returned to the shop and closed the door.
Here he discovered that the door, when opened, rang a bell, and, after filling his mouth with Liquorice All Sorts, he spent the next five minutes vigorously opening and shutting the door till something went wrong with the mechanism of the bell. At this he fortified himself with a course of Nutty Footballs and, standing on a chair, began ruthlessly to dismember the bell. He was disturbed by the entry of another customer. Swallowing a Nutty Football whole, he hastened to his post behind the counter.
The newcomer was a little girl of about nine—a very dainty little girl, dressed in a white fur coat and cap and long white gaiters. Her hair fell in golden curls over her white fur shoulders. Her eyes were blue. Her cheeks were velvety and rosy. Her mouth was like a baby’s. William had seen this vision on various occasions in the town, but had never yet addressed it. Whenever he had seen it, his heart in the midst of his body had been even as melting wax. He smiled—a self-conscious, sheepish smile. His freckled face blushed to the roots of his short stubby hair. She seemed to find nothing odd in the fact of a small boy being in charge of a sweet-shop. She came up to the counter.
“Please, I want two twopenny bars of chocolate.”
Her voice was very clear and silvery.
Ecstasy rendered William speechless. His smile grew wider and more foolish. Seeing his two half-sucked Pineapple Crisps exposed upon the scales, he hastily put them into his mouth.
She laid four pennies on the counter.
William found his voice.
“You can have lots for that,” he said huskily. “They’ve gone cheap. They’ve gone ever so cheap. You can take all the boxful for that,” he went on recklessly. He pressed the box into her reluctant hands. “An’—what else would you like? You jus’ tell me that. Tell me what else you’d like?”
“Please, I haven’t any more money,” gasped a small, bewildered voice.
“Money don’t matter,” said William. “Things is cheap to-day. Things is awful cheap to-day. Awful cheap! You can have—anythin’ you like for that fourpence. Anythin’ you like.”
“’Cause it’s New Year’s Day?” said the vision, with a gleam of understanding.
“Yes,” said William, “’cause it’s that.”
“Is it your shop?”
“Yes,” said William with an air of importance. “It’s all my shop.”
She gazed at him in admiration and envy.
“I’d love to have a sweet-shop,” she said wistfully.
“Well, you take anythin’ you like,” said William generously.
She collected as much as she could carry and started towards the door. “Sank you! Sank you ever so!” she said gratefully.
William stood leaning against the door in the easy attitude of the good-natured, all-providing male.
“It’s all right,” he said with an indulgent smile. “Quite all right. Quite all right.” Then, with an inspiration born of memories of his father earlier in the day. “Not at all. Don’t menshun it. Not at all. Quite all right.”