Just—William

He stopped, simply for lack of further expressions, and bowed with would-be gracefulness as she went through the doorway.

As she passed the window she was rewarded by a spreading effusive smile in a flushed face.

She stopped and kissed her hand.

William blinked with pure emotion.

He continued his smile long after its recipient had disappeared. Then absent-mindedly he crammed his mouth with a handful of Mixed Dew Drops and sat down behind the counter.

As he crunched Mixed Dew Drops he indulged in a day dream in which he rescued the little girl in the white fur coat from robbers and pirates and a burning house. He was just leaping nimbly from the roof of the burning house, holding the little girl in the white fur coat in his arms, when he caught sight of two of his friends flattening their noses at the window. He rose from his seat and went to the door.

“’Ullo, Ginger! ’Ullo, Henry!” he said with an unsuccessful effort to appear void of self-consciousness.

They gazed at him in wonder.

“I’ve gotta shop,” he went on casually. “Come on in an’ look at it.”

They peeped round the door-way cautiously and, reassured by the sight of William obviously in sole possession, they entered, openmouthed. They gazed at the boxes and bottles of sweets. Aladdin’s Cave was nothing to this.

“Howd’ you get it, William?” gasped Ginger.

“Someone gave it me,” said William. “I took one of them things to be p’lite an’ someone gave it me. Go on,” he said kindly. “Jus’ help yourselves. Not at all. Jus’ help yourselves an’ don’t menshun it.”

They needed no second bidding. With the unerring instinct of childhood (not unsupported by experience) that at any minute their Eden might be invaded by the avenging angel in the shape of a grown-up, they made full use of their time. They went from box to box, putting handfuls of sweets and chocolates into their mouths. They said nothing, simply because speech was, under the circumstances, a physical impossibility. Showing a foresight for the future, worthy of the noble ant itself, so often held up as a model to childhood, they filled pockets in the intervals of cramming their mouths.

A close observer might have noticed that William now ate little. William himself had been conscious for some time of a curious and inexplicable feeling of coldness towards the tempting dainties around him. He was, however, loth to give in to the weakness, and every now and then he nonchalantly put into his mouth a Toasted Square or a Fruity Bit.

It happened that a loutish boy of about fourteen was passing the shop. At the sight of three small boys rapidly consuming the contents, he became interested.

“What yer doin’ of?” he said indignantly, standing in the doorway.

“You get out of my shop,” said William valiantly.

“Yer shop?” said the boy. “Yer bloomin’ well pinchin’ things out o’ someone else’s shop, I can see. ’Ere, gimme some of them.”

“You get out!” said William.

“Get out yerself!” said the other.

“If I’d not took one to be p’lite,” said William threateningly, “I’d knock you down.”

“Yer would, would yer?” said the other, beginning to roll up his sleeves.

“Yes, an’ I would, too. You get out.” Seizing the nearest bottle, which happened to contain Acid Drops, he began to fire them at his opponent’s head. One hit him in the eye. He retired into the street. William, now a-fire for battle, followed him, still hurling Acid Drops with all his might. A crowd of boys collected together. Some gathered Acid Drops from the gutter, others joined the scrimmage. William, Henry, and Ginger carried on a noble fight against heavy odds.

It was only the sight of the proprietor of the shop coming briskly down the side-walk that put an end to the battle. The street boys made off (with what spoils they could gather) in one direction and Ginger and Henry in another. William, clasping an empty Acid Drop bottle to his bosom, was left to face Mr. Moss.

Mr. Moss entered and looked round with an air of bewilderment.

“Where’s Bill?” he said.

“He’s ill,” said William. “He couldn’t come. I’ve been keepin’ shop for you. I’ve done the best I could.” He looked round the rifled shop and hastened to propitiate the owner as far as possible. “I’ve got some money for you,” he added soothingly, pointing to the four pennies that represented his morning’s takings. “It’s not much,” he went on with some truth, looking again at the rows of emptied boxes and half-emptied bottles and the débris that is always and everywhere the inevitable result of a battle. But Mr. Moss hardly seemed to notice it.

“Thanks, William,” he said almost humbly. “William, she’s took me. She’s goin’ ter marry me. Isn’t it grand? After all these years!”

“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a mess,” said William, returning to the more important matter.

Mr. Moss waved aside his apologies.

“It doesn’t matter, William,” he said. “Nothing matters to-day. She’s took me at last. I’m goin’ to shut shop this afternoon and go over to her again. Thanks for staying, William.”

“Not at all. Don’t menshun it,” said William nobly. Then, “I think I’ve had enough of that bein’ p’lite. Will one mornin’ do for this year, d’you think?”

“Er—yes. Well, I’ll shut up. Don’t you stay, William. You’ll want to be getting home for lunch.”

Lunch? Quite definitely William decided that he did not want any lunch. The very thought of lunch brought with it a feeling of active physical discomfort which was much more than mere absence of hunger. He decided to go home as quickly as possible, though not to lunch.

“Goo’-bye,” he said.

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Moss.

“I’m afraid you’ll find some things gone,” said William faintly; “some boys was in.”

“That’s all right, William,” said Mr. Moss, roused again from his rosy dreams. “That’s quite all right.”

But it was not “quite all right” with William. Reader, if you had been left, at the age of eleven, in sole charge of a sweet shop for a whole morning, would it have been “all right” with you? I trow not. But we will not follow William through the humiliating hours of the afternoon. We will leave him as, pale and unsteady, but as yet master of the situation, he wends his homeward way.

CHAPTER XI
THE BEST LAID PLANS

I

“She’s—she’s a real Botticelli,” said the young man dreamily, as he watched the figure of William’s sister, Ethel, disappearing into the distance.

William glared at him.

“Bottled cherry yourself!” he said indignantly. “She can’t help having red hair, can she? No more’n you can help havin’—havin’——” his eye wandered speculatively over the young man in search of physical defects—“having big ears,” he ended.

The young man did not resent the insult. He did not even hear it. His eyes were still fixed upon the slim figure in the distance.

“‘Eyes of blue and hair red-gold,’” he said softly. “Red-gold. I had to put that because it’s got both colours in it. Red-gold, ‘Eyes of blue and hair red-gold.’ What rhymes with gold?”

“Cold,” suggested William brightly. “That’s jolly good, too, ’cause she has gotter cold. She was sneezing all last night.”

“No. It should be something about her heart being cold.

“That’s jolly good!” said William with admiration. “It’s just like what you read in real books—poetry books!”

The young man—James French by name—had met Ethel at an evening party and had succumbed to her charm. Lacking courage to pursue the acquaintance, he had cultivated the friendship of her small brother, under a quite erroneous impression that this would win him her good graces.

“What would you like most in the world?” he said suddenly, leaning forward from his seat on the top of the gate. “Suppose someone let you choose.”

“White rats,” said William without a moment’s hesitation.

The young man was plunged in deep thought.

“I’m thinking a way,” he said at last. “I’ve nearly got it. Just walk home with me, will you? I’ll give you something when we get there,” he bribed with pathetic pleading, noting William’s reluctant face. “I want to tell you my idea.”

They walked down the lane together. The young man talked volubly and earnestly. William’s mouth opened wide with amazement and disapproving horror. The words “white rats” were repeated frequently. Finally William nodded his head, as though acquiescing.

“I s’pose you’re balmy on her,” he said resignedly at the end, “like what folks are in books. I want ’em with long tails, mind.”

William was not unacquainted with the tender passion. He had been to the pictures. He had read books. He had seen his elder brother Robert pass several times through every stage of the consuming fever. He had himself decided in moments of deep emotion to marry the little girl next door as soon as he should reach manhood’s estate. He was willing to further his new friend’s suit by every legitimate means, but he was rather aghast at the means suggested. Still—white rats were white rats.

The next morning William assumed his expression of shining virtue—the expression he reserved for special occasions.

“You goin’ shoppin’ this mornin’?” he inquired politely of Ethel.

“You know I am,” said Ethel shortly.

“Shall I come with you to carry parcels an’ things?” said William unctuously.

Ethel looked at him with sudden suspicion.

“What do you want?” she said. “I’m not going to buy you anything.”

William looked pained.

“I don’t want anything,” he said. “I jus’ want to help you, that’s all. I jus’ want to carry your parcels for you. I—I jus’ don’t want you to get tired, that’s all.”

“All right.” Ethel was still suspicious. “You can come and you can carry parcels, but you won’t get a penny out of me.”

They walked down together to the shops, and William meekly allowed himself to be laden with many parcels. Ethel’s grim suspicion passed into bewilderment as he passed toyshop after toyshop without a glance. In imagination he was already teaching complicated tricks to a pair of white rats.

“It’s—it’s awfully decent of you, William,” said Ethel, at last, almost persuaded that she had misjudged William for the greater part of his life. “Do you feel all right? I mean, you don’t feel ill or anything, do you?”

“No,” he said absently, then corrected himself hastily. “At least, not jus’ now. I feel all right jus’ now. I feel as if I might not feel all right soon, but I don’t know.”

Ethel looked anxious.

“Let’s get home quickly. What have you been eating?”

“Nothing,” said William indignantly. “It’s not that sort of not well. It’s quite diff’rent.”

“What sort is it?”

“It’s nuffin’—not jus’ now. I’m all right jus’ now.”

They walked in silence till they had left the road behind and had turned off to the long country road that led to William’s house. Then, slowly and deliberately, still clasping his burden of parcels, William sat down on the ground.

“I can’t walk any more, Ethel,” he said, turning his healthy countenance up to her. “I’m took ill sudden.”

She looked down at him impatiently.

“Don’t be absurd, William,” she said. “Get up.”

“I’m not absurd,” he said firmly. “I’m took ill.”

“Where do you feel ill?”

“All over,” he said guardedly.

“Does your ankle hurt?”

“Yes—an’ my knees an’ all up me. I jus’ can’t walk. I’m took too ill to walk.”

She looked round anxiously.

“Oh, what are we going to do? It’s a quarter of a mile home!”

At that moment there appeared the figure of a tall young man. He drew nearer and raised his hat.

“Anything wrong, Miss Brown?” he said, blushing deeply.

“Just look at William!” said Ethel, pointing dramatically at the small figure seated comfortably in the dust of the road. “He says he can’t walk, and goodness knows what we’re going to do.”

The young man bent over William, but avoided meeting his eyes.

“You feeling ill, my little man?” he said cheerfully.

“Huh!” snorted William. “That’s a nice thing for you to ask when you know you told me——”

The young man coughed long and loud.

“All right,” he said hastily. “Well, let’s see what we can do. Could you get on my back, and then I can carry you home? Give me your parcels. That’s right. No, Miss Brown. I insist on carrying the parcels. I couldn’t dream of allowing you—well, if you’re sure you’d rather. Leave me the big ones, anyway. Now, William, are we ready?”

William clung on behind, nothing loth, and they set off rather slowly down the road. Ethel was overcome with gratitude.

“It is kind of you, Mr. French. I don’t know what we should have done without you. I do hope he’s not fearfully heavy, and I do hope he’s not beginning anything infectious. Do let me take the other parcels. Won’t you, really? Mother will be grateful to you. It’s such a strange thing, isn’t it? I’ve never heard of such a thing before. I’ve always thought William was so strong. I hope it’s not consumption or anything like that. How does consumption begin?”

Mr. French had had no conception of the average weight of a sturdy small boy of eleven. He stumbled along unsteadily.

“Oh, no,” he panted. “Don’t mention it—don’t mention it. It’s a pleasure—really it is. No, indeed you mustn’t take the parcels. You have quite enough already. Quite enough. No, he isn’t a bit heavy. Not a bit. I’m so glad I happened to come by at a moment that I could do you a service. So glad!” He paused to mop his brow. He was breathing very heavily. There was a violent and quite unreasonable hatred of William at his heart.

“Don’t you think you could walk now—just a bit, William?” he said, with a touch of exasperation in his panting voice. “I’ll help you walk.”

“All right,” William acceded readily. “I don’t mind. I’ll lean on you hard, shall I?”

“Do you feel well enough?” said Ethel anxiously.

“Oh, yes. I can walk now, if he wants—I mean if he doesn’t mind me holding on to his arm. I feel as if I was goin’ to be quite all right soon. I’m nearly all right now.”

The three of them walked slowly up the drive to the Brown’s house, William leaning heavily on the young man’s arm. Mrs. Brown saw them from the window and ran to the door.

“Oh, dear!” she said. “You’ve run over him on your motor-cycle. I knew you’d run over somebody soon. I said when I saw you passing on it yesterday——”

Ethel interrupted indignantly.

“Why, Mother, Mr. French has been so kind. I can’t think what I’d have done without him. William was taken ill and couldn’t walk, and Mr. French has carried him all the way from the other end of the road, on his back.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! How very kind of you, Mr. French. Do come in and stay to lunch. William, go upstairs to bed at once and I’ll ring up Dr. Ware.”

“No,” said William firmly. “Don’t bother poor Dr. Ware. I’m all right now. Honest I am. He’d be mad to come and find me all right.”

“Of course you must see a doctor.”

“No, I mustn’t. You don’t understand. It wasn’t that kind of not wellness. A doctor couldn’t of done me no good. I jus’—jus’ came over queer,” he ended, remembering a phrase he had heard used recently by the charwoman.

“What do you think, Mr. French?” said Mrs. Brown anxiously.

Both Mrs. Brown and Ethel turned to him as to an oracle. He looked from one to the other and a deep flush of guilt overspread his countenance.

“Oh—er—well,” he said nervously. “He looks all right, doesn’t he? I—er—wouldn’t bother. Just—er—don’t worry him with questions. Just—let him go about as usual. I—er—think it’s best to—let him forget it,” he ended weakly.

“Of course he’s growing very fast.”

“Yes. I expect it was just a sort of growing weakness,” said Mr. French brightly.

“But Mr. French was splendid!” said Ethel enthusiastically, “simply splendid. William, I don’t think you realise how kind it was of Mr. French. I think you ought to thank him.”

William fixed his benefactor with a cold eye.

“Thank you very much indeed for carrying me,” he said. Then, as his mother turned to Ethel with a remark about the lunch, he added. “Two, remember, and, with long tails!”

Mr. French stayed for lunch and spent the afternoon golfing with Ethel up at the links. William was wrapt up in rugs and laid upon the library sofa after lunch and left to sleep off his mysterious complaint in quietness with the blinds down.

Mrs. Brown, entering on tiptoe to see how her son was faring, found him gone.

“Oh, he’s gone,” she said anxiously to her husband. “I left him so comfortable on the sofa, and told him to try to sleep. Sleep is so important when you’re ill. And now he’s gone—he’ll probably stay away till bedtime!”

“All right,” said her husband sardonically. “Be thankful for small mercies.”

Ethel and her esquire returned to tea, and, yielding to the entreaties of the family, who looked upon him as William’s saviour, he stayed to dinner. He spent the evening playing inadequate accompaniments to Ethel’s songs and ejaculating at intervals rapturous expressions of delight. It was evident that Ethel was flattered by his obvious admiration. He stayed till nearly eleven, and then, almost drunk with happiness, he took his leave while the family again thanked him profusely.

As he walked down the drive with a smile on his lips and his mind flitting among the blissful memories of the evening, an upper window was opened cautiously and a small head peeped out. Through the still air the words shot out——

“Two, mind, an’ with long tails.”

II

“Where did you get it from?” demanded Mr. Brown fiercely.

William pocketed his straying pet.

“A friend gave it me.”

“What friend?”

“Mr. French. The man what carried me when I was took ill sudden. He gave me it. I di’n’t know it was goin’ to go into your slipper. I wun’t of let it if I’d known. An’ I di’n’t know it was goin’ to bite your toe. It di’n’t mean to bite your toe. I ’spect it thought it was me givin’ it sumthin’ to eat. I expect——”

“Be quiet! What on earth did Mr. French give you the confounded thing for?”

“I dunno. I s’pect he jus’ wanted to.”

“He seems to have taken quite a fancy to William,” said Mrs. Brown.

Ethel blushed faintly.

“He seems to have taken a spite against me,” said Mr. Brown bitterly. “How many of the wretched pests have you got?”

“They’re rats,” corrected William, “White ’uns. I’ve only got two.”

“Good Heavens! He’s got two. Where’s the other?”

“In the shed.”

“Well, keep it there, do you hear? And this savage brute as well. Good Lord! My toe’s nearly eaten off. They ought to wear muzzles; they’ve got rabies. Where’s Jumble? He in the shed, too?” hopefully.

“No. He dun’t like ’em. But I’m tryin’ to teach him to like ’em. I let ’em loose and let him look at ’em with me holdin’ on to him.”

“Yes, go on doing that,” said Mr. Brown encouragingly. “Accidents sometimes happen.”

That night William obeyed the letter of the law by keeping the rats in a box on his bedroom window-sill.

The household was roused in the early hours of the morning by piercing screams from Ethel’s room. The more adventurous of the pair—named Rufus—had escaped from the box and descended to Ethel’s room by way of the creeper. Ethel awoke suddenly to find it seated on her pillow softly pawing her hair. The household, in their various sleeping attire, flocked to her room at the screams. Ethel was hysterical. They fed her on hot tea and biscuits to steady her nerves. “It was horrible!” she said. “It was pulling at my hair. It just sat there with its pink nose and long tail. It was perfectly horrible!”

“Where is the wretched animal?” said Mr. Brown looking round with murder in his eyes.

“I’ve got it, Father,” piped up William’s small voice at the back of the crowd. “Ethel di’n’t understand. It was playin’ with her. It di’n’t mean to frighten her. It——”

“I told you not to keep them in the house.”

Mr. Brown in large pyjamas looked fiercely down at William in small pyjamas with the cause of all the tumult clasped lovingly to his breast. Ethel, in bed, continued to gasp weakly in the intervals of drinking tea.

“They weren’t in the house,” said William firmly. “They were outside the window. Right outside the window. Right on the sill. You can’t call outside the window in the house, can you? I put it outside the house. I can’t help it comin’ inside the house when I’m asleep, can I?”

Mr. Brown eyed his son solemnly.

“The next time I catch either of those animals inside this house, William,” he said slowly, “I’ll wring its neck.”

When Mr. French called the next afternoon, he felt that his popularity had declined.

“I can’t think why you gave William such dreadful things,” Ethel said weakly, lying on the sofa. “I feel quite upset. I’ve got such a headache and my nerves are a wreck absolutely.”

Mr. French worked hard that afternoon and evening to regain his lost ground. He sat by the sofa and talked in low tones. He read aloud to her. He was sympathetic, penitent, humble and devoted. In spite of all his efforts, however, he felt that his old prestige was gone. He was no longer the Man Who Carried William Home. He was the Man Who Gave William the Rat. He felt that, in the eyes of the Brown household, he was solely responsible for Ethel’s collapse. There was reproach even in the eyes of the housemaid who showed him out. In the drive he met William. William was holding a grimy, blood-stained handkerchief round his finger. There was reproach in William’s eyes also. “It’s bit me,” he said indignantly. “One of those rats what you gave me’s bit me.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Mr. French penitently. Then, with sudden spirit, “Well, you asked for rats, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said William. “But not savage ones. I never asked for savage ones, did I? I di’n’t ask for rats what would scare Ethel and bite me, did I? I was jus’ teaching it to dance on its hind legs an’ holding up its front ones for it an’ it went an’ bit me.”

Mr. French looked at him apprehensively.

“You—you’d better not—er—tell your mother or sister about your finger. I—I wouldn’t like your sister to be upset any more.”

“Don’t you want me to let ’em know?”

“Er—no.”

“Well, what’ll you give me not to?” said William brazenly.

Mr. French plunged his hand into his pocket.

“I’ll give you half-a-crown,” he said.

William pocketed the coin.

“All right!” he said. “If I wash the blood off an’ get my hands dirty nobody’ll notice.”

Things went well for several days after that. Mr. French arrived the next morning laden with flowers and grapes. The household unbent towards him. Ethel arranged a day’s golfing with him. William spent a blissful day with his half-crown. There was a fair in full swing on the fair ground, and thither William and Jumble wended their way. William had eleven consecutive rides on the merry-go-round. He had made up his mind to have twelve, but, much to his regret, had to relinquish the twelfth owing to certain unpleasant physical sensations. With a lordly air, he entered seven tents in succession and sat gazing in a silent intensity of rapture at the Strong Man, the Fat Woman, the Indiarubber Jointed Boy, the Siamese Twins, the Human Eel, the Man-headed Elephant and the Talking Monkey. In each tent he stayed, silent and enraptured, till ejected by the showman to make room for others who were anxious to feast their eyes upon the marvels. Having now completely recovered from the sensations caused by the merry-go-round, he purchased a large bag of pop-corn and stood leaning against a tent-pole till he had consumed it. Then he purchased two sticks of nougat and with it drank two bottles of ginger-beer. The remaining 4d. was spent upon a large packet of a red sticky mixture called Canadian Delight.

Dusk was falling by this time and slowly, very slowly, William returned home. He firmly refused all food at supper. Mrs. Brown grew anxious.

“William, you don’t look a bit well,” she said. “You don’t feel like you did the other day, do you?”

William met Mr. French’s eye across the table and Mr. French blushed.

“No, not a bit like that,” said William.

When pressed, he admitted having gone to the fair.

“Someone gave me half-a-crown,” he excused himself plaintively. “I jus’ had to go somewhere.”

“It’s perfectly absurd of people,” said Mrs. Brown indignantly, “to give large sums of money to a boy of William’s age. It always ends this way. People ought to know better.”

As they passed out from the supper-table, William whispered hoarsely to Mr. French:

“It was the half-crown what you give me.”

“Don’t tell them,” whispered Mr. French desperately.

“What’ll you give me not to?”

Furtively Mr. French pressed a two-shilling piece into his hand.

Glorious vistas opened before William’s eyes He decided finally that Mr. French must join the family. Life then would be an endless succession of half-crowns and two-shilling pieces.

The next day was Sunday, and William went to the shed directly after breakfast to continue the teaching of Rufus, the dancing rat. Rufus was to be taught to dance, the other, now christened Cromwell, was to be taught to be friends with Jumble. So far this training had only reached the point of Cromwell’s sitting motionless in the cage, while in front of it William violently restrained the enraged Jumble from murder. Still, William thought, if they looked at each other long enough, friendship would grow. So they looked at each other each day till William’s arm ached. As yet friendship had not grown.

“William! It’s time for church.”

William groaned. That was the worst of Sundays. He was sure that with another half-hour’s practice Rufus would dance and Cromwell would be friends with Jumble. He was a boy not to be daunted by circumstance. He put Rufus in his pocket and put the cage containing Cromwell on the top of a pile of boxes, leaving Jumble to continue the gaze of friendship from the floor.

He walked to church quietly and demurely behind his family, one hand clutching his prayer-book, the other in his pocket clasping Rufus. He hoped to be able to continue the training during the Litany. He was not disappointed. Ethel was on one side of him, and there was no one on the other. He knelt down devoutly, one hand shading his face, the other firmly holding Rufus’s front paws as he walked it round and round on the floor. He grew more and more interested in its progress.

“Tell William to kneel up and not to fidget,” Mrs. Brown passed down via Ethel.

William gave her a virulent glance as he received the message and, turning his back on her, continued the dancing lesson.

The Litany passed more quickly than he ever remembered its doing before. He replaced the rat in his pocket as they rose for the hymn. It was during the hymn that the catastrophe occurred.

The Browns occupied the front seat of the church. While the second verse was being sung, the congregation was electrified by the sight of a small, long-tailed white creature appearing suddenly upon Mr. Brown’s shoulder. Ethel’s scream almost drowned the organ. Mr. Brown put up his hand and the intruder jumped upon his head and stood there for a second, digging his claws into his victim’s scalp. Mr. Brown turned upon his son a purple face that promised future vengeance. The choir turned fascinated eyes upon it, and the hymn died away. William’s face was a mask of horror. Rufus next appeared running along the rim of the pulpit. There was a sudden unceremonial exit of most of the female portion of the congregation. The clergyman grew pale as Rufus approached and slid up his reading-desk. A choir-boy quickly grabbed it, and retired into the vestry and thence home before his right to its possession could be questioned. William found his voice.

“He’s took it,” he said in a sibilant whisper. “It’s mine! He took it!”

“Sh!” said Ethel.

“It’s mine,” persisted William. “It’s what Mr. French give me for being took ill that day, you know.”

“What?” said Ethel, leaning towards him.

The hymn was in full swing again now.

“He gave it me for being took ill so’s he could come and carry me home ’cause he was gone on you an’ it’s mine an’ that boy’s took it an’ it was jus’ gettin’ to dance an’——”

“Sh!” hissed Mr. Brown violently.

“I shall never look anyone in the face again,” lamented Mrs. Brown on the way home. “I think everyone was in church! And the way Ethel screamed! It was awful! I shall dream of it for nights. William, I don’t know how you could!”

“Well, it’s mine,” said William. “That boy’d no business to take it. It was gettin’ to know me. I di’n’t mean it to get loose, an’ get on Father’s head an’ scare folks. I di’n’t mean it to. I meant it to be quiet and stay in my pocket. It’s mine, anyway, an’ that boy took it.”

“It’s not yours any more, my son,” said Mr. Brown firmly.

Ethel walked along with lips tight shut.

In the distance, walking towards them, was a tall, jaunty figure. It was Mr. French, who, ignorant of what had happened, was coming gaily on to meet them returning from church. He was smiling as he came, secure in his reception, composing airy compliments in his mind. As Ethel came on he raised his hat with a flourish and beamed at her effusively. Ethel walked past him, without a glance and with head high, leaving him, aghast and despairing, staring after her down the road. He never saw Mr. and Mrs. Brown. William realised the situation. The future half-crowns and two-shilling pieces seemed to vanish away. He protested vehemently.

“Ethel, don’t get mad at Mr. French. He di’n’t mean anything! He only wanted to do sumthin’ for you ’cause he was mad on you.”

“It’s horrible!” said Ethel. “First you bringing that dreadful animal to church, and then I find that he’s deceived me and you helped him. I hope Father takes the other one away.”

“He won’t,” said William. “He never said anything about that. The other’s learnin’ to be friends with Jumble in the shed. I say, Ethel, don’t be mad at Mr. French. He——”

“Oh, don’t talk about him,” said Ethel angrily.

William, who was something of a philosopher, accepted failure, and the loss of any riches a future allied with Mr. French might have brought him.

“All right!” he said. “Well, I’ve got the other one left, anyway.”

They entered the drive and began to walk up to the front-door. From the bushes came a scampering and breaking of twigs as Jumble dashed out to greet his master. His demeanour held more than ordinary pleasure: it expressed pride and triumph. At his master’s feet he laid his proud offering—the mangled remains of Cromwell.

William gasped.

“Oh, William!” said Ethel, “I’m so sorry.”

William assumed an expression of proud, restrained sorrow.

“All right!” he said generously. “It’s not your fault really. An’ it’s not Jumble’s fault. P’r’aps he thought it was what I was tryin’ to teach him to do. It’s jus’ no one’s fault. We’ll have to bury it.” His spirits rose. “I’ll do the reel buryin’ service out of the Prayer Book.”

He stood still gazing down at what was left of Jumble’s friend. Jumble stood by it, proud and pleased, looking up with his head on one side and his tail wagging. Sadly William reviewed the downfall of his hopes. Gone was Mr. French and all he stood for. Gone was Rufus. Gone was Cromwell. He put his hand into his pocket and it came in contact with the two-shilling piece.

“Well,” he said slowly and philosophically, “I’ve got that left anyway.”

CHAPTER XII
“JUMBLE”

William’s father carefully placed the bow and arrow at the back of the library cupboard, then closed the cupboard door and locked it in grim silence. William’s eyes, large, reproachful, and gloomy, followed every movement.

“Three windows and Mrs. Clive’s cat all in one morning,” began Mr. Brown sternly.

“I didn’t mean to hit that cat,” said William earnestly. “I didn’t—honest. I wouldn’t go round teasin’ cats. They get so mad at you, cats do. It jus’ got in the way. I couldn’t stop shootin’ in time. An’ I didn’t mean to break those windows. I wasn’t tryin’ to hit them. I’ve not hit anything I was trying to hit yet,” wistfully. “I’ve not got into it. It’s jus’ a knack. It jus’ wants practice.”

Mr. Brown pocketed the key.

“It’s a knack you aren’t likely to acquire by practice on this instrument,” he said drily.

William wandered out into the garden and looked sadly up at the garden wall. But The Little Girl Next Door was away and could offer no sympathy, even if he climbed up to his precarious seat on the top. Fate was against him in every way. With a deep sigh he went out of the garden gate and strolled down the road disconsolately, hands in pockets.

Life stretched empty and uninviting before him without his bow and arrow. And Ginger would have his bow and arrow, Henry would have his bow and arrow, Douglas would have his bow and arrow. He, William, alone would be a thing apart, a social outcast, a boy without a bow and arrow; for bows and arrows were the fashion. If only one of the others would break a window or hit a silly old cat that hadn’t the sense to keep out of the way.

He came to a stile leading into a field and took his seat upon it dejectedly, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Life was simply not worth living.

“A rotten old cat!” he said aloud, “a rotten old cat!—and didn’t even hurt it. It—it made a fuss—jus’ out of spite, screamin’ and carryin’ on! And windows!—as if glass wasn’t cheap enough—and easy to put in. I could—I could mend ’em myself—if I’d got the stuff to do it. I——” He stopped. Something was coming down the road. It came jauntily with a light, dancing step, fox-terrier ears cocked, retriever nose raised, collie tail wagging, slightly dachshund body a-quiver with the joy of life.

It stopped in front of William with a glad bark of welcome, then stood eager, alert, friendly, a mongrel unashamed.

“Rats! Fetch ’em out!” said William idly.

It gave a little spring and waited, front paws apart and crouching, a waggish eye upraised to William. William broke off a stick from the hedge and threw it. His visitor darted after it with a shrill bark, took it up, worried it, threw it into the air, caught it, growled at it, finally brought it back to William and waited, panting, eager, unmistakably grinning, begging for more.

William’s drooping spirits revived. He descended from his perch and examined its collar. It bore the one word “Jumble.”

“Hey! Jumble!” he called, setting off down the road.

Jumble jumped up around him, dashed off, dashed back, worried his boots, jumped up at him again in wild, eager friendship, dashed off again, begged for another stick, caught it, rolled over with it, growled at it, then chewed it up and laid the remains at William’s feet.

“Good ole chap!” said William encouragingly. “Good ole Jumble! Come on, then.”

Jumble came on. William walked through the village with a self-conscious air of proud yet careless ownership, while Jumble gambolled round his heels.

Every now and then he would turn his head and whistle imperiously, to recall his straying protégé from the investigation of ditches and roadside. It was a whistle, commanding, controlling, yet withal careless, that William had sometimes practised privately in readiness for the blissful day when Fate should present him with a real live dog of his own. So far Fate, in the persons of his father and mother, had been proof against all his pleading.

William passed a blissful morning. Jumble swam in the pond, he fetched sticks out of it, he shook himself violently all over William, he ran after a hen, he was chased by a cat, he barked at a herd of cows, he pulled down a curtain that was hanging out in a cottage garden to dry—he was mischievous, affectionate, humorous, utterly irresistible—and he completely adopted William. William would turn a corner with a careless swagger and then watch breathlessly to see if the rollicking, frisky little figure would follow, and always it came tearing eagerly after him.

William was rather late to lunch. His father and mother and elder brother and sister were just beginning the meal. He slipped quietly and unostentatiously into his seat. His father was reading a newspaper. Mr. Brown always took two daily papers, one of which he perused at breakfast and the other at lunch.

“William,” said Mrs. Brown, “I do wish you’d be in time, and I do wish you’d brush your hair before you come to table.”

William raised a hand to perform the operation, but catching sight of its colour, hastily lowered it.

“No, Ethel dear, I didn’t know anyone had taken Lavender Cottage. An artist? How nice! William dear, do sit still. Have they moved in yet?”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “they’ve taken it furnished for two months, I think. Oh, my goodness, just look at William’s hands!”

William put his hands under the table and glared at her.

“Go and wash your hands, dear,” said Mrs. Brown patiently.

For eleven years she had filled the trying position of William’s mother. It had taught her patience.

William rose reluctantly.

“They’re not dirty,” he said in a tone of righteous indignation. “Well, anyway, they’ve been dirtier other times and you’ve said nothin’. I can’t be always washin’ them, can I? Some sorts of hands get dirty quicker than others an’ if you keep on washin’ it only makes them worse an’——”

Ethel groaned and William’s father lowered his paper. William withdrew quickly but with an air of dignity.

“And just look at his boots!” said Ethel as he went. “Simply caked; and his stockings are soaking wet—you can see from here. He’s been right in the pond by the look of him and——”

William heard no more. There were moments when he actively disliked Ethel.

He returned a few minutes later, shining with cleanliness, his hair brushed back fiercely off his face.

“His nails,” murmured Ethel as he sat down.

“Well,” said Mrs. Brown, “go on telling us about the new people. William, do hold your knife properly, dear. Yes, Ethel?”

William finished his meal in silence, then brought forth his momentous announcement.

“I’ve gotter dog,” he said with an air of importance.

“What sort of a dog?” and “Who gave it to you?” said Robert and Ethel simultaneously.

“No one gave it me,” he said. “I jus’ got it. It began following me this morning an’ I couldn’t get rid of it. It wouldn’t go, anyway. It followed me all round the village an’ it came home with me. I couldn’t get rid of it, anyhow.”

“Where is it now?” said Mrs. Brown anxiously.

“In the back garden.”

Mr. Brown folded up his paper.

“Digging up my flower-beds, I suppose,” he said with despairing resignation.

“He’s tied up all right,” William reassured him. “I tied him to the tree in the middle of the rose-bed.”

“The rose-bed!” groaned his father. “Good Lord!”

“Has he had anything to eat?” demanded Robert sternly.

“Yes,” said William, avoiding his mother’s eye. “I found a few bits of old things for him in the larder.”

William’s father took out his watch and rose from the table.

“Well, you’d better take it to the Police Station this afternoon,” he said shortly.

“The Police Station!” repeated William hoarsely. “It’s not a lost dog. It—it jus’ doesn’t belong to anyone, at least it didn’t. Poor thing,” feelingly. “It—it doesn’t want much to make it happy. It can sleep in my room an’ jus’ eat scraps.”

Mr. Brown went out without answering.

“You’ll have to take it, you know, William,” said Mrs. Brown, “so be quick. You know where the Police Station is, don’t you? Shall I come with you?”

“No, thank you,” said William hastily.

A few minutes later he was walking down to the Police Station followed by the still eager Jumble, who trotted along, unconscious of his doom.

Upon William’s face was a set, stern expression which cleared slightly as he neared the Police Station. He stood at the gate and looked at Jumble. Jumble placed his front paws ready for a game and wagged his tail.

“Well,” said William, “here you are. Here’s the Police Station.”

Jumble gave a shrill bark. “Hurry up with that stick or that race, whichever you like,” he seemed to say.

“Well, go in,” said William, nodding his head in the direction of the door.

Jumble began to worry a big stone in the road. He rolled it along with his paws, then ran after it with fierce growls.

“Well, it’s the Police Station,” said William. “Go in if you want.”

With that he turned on his heel and walked home, without one backward glance. But he walked slowly, with many encouraging “Hey! Jumbles” and many short commanding whistles. And Jumble trotted happily at his heels. There was no one in the garden, there was no one in the hall, there was no one on the stairs. Fate was for once on William’s side.

William appeared at the tea-table well washed and brushed, wearing that air of ostentatious virtue that those who knew him best connected with his most daring coups.

“Did you take that dog to the Police Station, William?” said William’s father.

William coughed.