“You’d have found it simpler if you hadn’t played with dead lizards all the time,” she said wearily, closing her books.
William gasped.
He went home her devoted slave. Certain members of the class always deposited dainty bouquets on her desk in the morning. William was determined to outshine the rest. He went into the garden with a large basket and a pair of scissors the next morning before he set out for school.
It happened that no one was about. He went first to the hothouse. It was a riot of colour. He worked there with a thoroughness and concentration worthy of a nobler cause. He came out staggering beneath a piled-up basket of hothouse blooms. The hothouse itself was bare and desolate.
Hearing a sound in the back garden he hastily decided to delay no longer, but to set out to school at once. He set out as unostentatiously as possible.
Miss Drew, entering her class-room, was aghast to see instead of the usual small array of buttonholes on her desk, a mass of already withering hothouse flowers completely covering her desk and chair.
William was a boy who never did things by halves.
“Good Heavens!” she cried in consternation.
William blushed with pleasure.
He changed his seat to one in the front row. All that morning he sat, his eyes fixed on her earnestly, dreaming of moments in which he rescued her from robbers and pirates (here he was somewhat inconsistent with his own favourite rôle of robber-chief and pirate), and bore her fainting in his strong arms to safety. Then she clung to him in love and gratitude, and they were married at once by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York.
William would have no half-measures. They were to be married by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, or else the Pope. He wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t rather have the Pope. He would wear his black pirate suit with the skull and cross-bones. No, that would not do——
“What have I just been saying, William?” said Miss Drew.
William coughed and gazed at her soulfully.
“’Bout lendin’ money?” he said, hopefully.
“William!” she snapped. “This isn’t an arithmetic lesson. I’m trying to teach you about the Armada.”
“Oh, that!” said William brightly and ingratiatingly. “Oh, yes.”
“Tell me something about it.”
“I don’t know anything—not jus’ yet——”
“I’ve been telling you about it. I do wish you’d listen,” she said despairingly.
William relapsed into silence, nonplussed, but by no means cowed.
When he reached home that evening he found that the garden was the scene of excitement and hubbub. One policeman was measuring the panes of glass in the conservatory door, and another was on his knees examining the beds near. His grown-up sister, Ethel, was standing at the front door.
“Every single flower has been stolen from the conservatory some time this morning,” she said excitedly. “We’ve only just been able to get the police. William, did you see any one about when you went to school this morning?”
William pondered deeply. His most guileless and innocent expression came to his face.
“No,” he said at last. “No, Ethel, I didn’t see nobody.”
William coughed and discreetly withdrew.
That evening he settled down at the library table, spreading out his books around him, a determined frown upon his small face.
His father was sitting in an armchair by the window reading the evening paper.
“Father,” said William suddenly, “s’pose I came to you an’ said you was to give me a hundred pounds an’ I’d give you five pounds next year an’ so on, would you give it me?”
“I should not, my son,” said his father firmly.
William sighed.
“I knew there was something wrong with it,” he said.
Mr. Brown returned to the leading article, but not for long.
“Father, what was the date of the Armada?”
“Good Heavens! How should I know? I wasn’t there.”
William sighed.
“Well, I’m tryin’ to write about it and why it failed an’—why did it fail?”
Mr. Brown groaned, gathered up his paper, and retired to the dining-room.
He had almost finished the leading article when William appeared, his arms full of books, and sat down quietly at the table.
“Father, what’s the French for ‘my aunt is walking in the garden’?”
“What on earth are you doing?” said Mr. Brown irritably.
“I’m doing my home-lessons,” said William virtuously.
“I never even knew you had the things to do.”
“No,” William admitted gently, “I don’t generally take much bother over them, but I’m goin’ to now—’cause Miss Drew”—he blushed slightly and paused—“’cause Miss Drew”—he blushed more deeply and began to stammer, “’c—cause Miss Drew”—he was almost apoplectic.
Mr. Brown quietly gathered up his paper and crept out to the verandah, where his wife sat with the week’s mending.
“William’s gone raving mad in the dining-room,” he said pleasantly, as he sat down. “Takes the form of a wild thirst for knowledge, and a babbling of a Miss Drawing, or Drew, or something. He’s best left alone.”
Mrs. Brown merely smiled placidly over the mending.
Mr. Brown had finished one leading article and begun another before William appeared again. He stood in the doorway frowning and stern.
“Father, what’s the capital of Holland?”
“Good Heavens!” said his father. “Buy him an encyclopedia. Anything, anything. What does he think I am? What——”
“I’d better set apart a special room for his homework,” said Mrs. Brown soothingly, “now that he’s beginning to take such an interest.”
“A room!” echoed his father bitterly. “He wants a whole house.”
Miss Drew was surprised and touched by William’s earnestness and attention the next day. At the end of the afternoon school he kindly offered to carry her books home for her. He waved aside all protests. He marched home by her side discoursing pleasantly, his small freckled face beaming devotion.
“I like pirates, don’t you, Miss Drew? An’ robbers an’ things like that? Miss Drew, would you like to be married to a robber?”
He was trying to reconcile his old beloved dream of his future estate with the new one of becoming Miss Drew’s husband.
“No,” she said firmly.
His heart sank.
“Nor a pirate?” he said sadly.
“No.”
“They’re quite nice really—pirates,” he assured her.
“I think not.”
“Well,” he said resignedly, “we’ll jus’ have to go huntin’ wild animals and things. That’ll be all right.”
“Who?” she said, bewildered.
“Well—jus’ you wait,” he said darkly.
Then: “Would you rather be married by the Archbishop of York or the Pope?”
“The Archbishop, I think,” she said gravely.
He nodded.
“All right.”
She was distinctly amused. She was less amused the next evening. Miss Drew had a male cousin—a very nice-looking male cousin, with whom she often went for walks in the evening. This evening, by chance, they passed William’s house, and William, who was in the garden, threw aside his temporary rôle of pirate and joined them. He trotted happily on the other side of Miss Drew. He entirely monopolised the conversation. The male cousin seemed to encourage him, and this annoyed Miss Drew. He refused to depart in spite of Miss Drew’s strong hints. He had various items of interest to impart, and he imparted them with the air of one assured of an appreciative hearing. He had found a dead rat the day before and given it to his dog, but his dog didn’t like ’em dead and neither did the ole cat, so he’d buried it. Did Miss Drew like all those flowers he’d got her the other day? He was afraid that he cudn’t bring any more like that jus’ yet. Were there pirates now? Well, what would folks do to one if there was one? He din’t see why there shun’t be pirates now. He thought he’d start it, anyway. He’d like to shoot a lion. He was goin’ to one day. He’d shoot a lion an’ a tiger. He’d bring the skin home to Miss Drew, if she liked. He grew recklessly generous. He’d bring home lots of skins of all sorts of animals for Miss Drew.
“Don’t you think you ought to be going home, William?” said Miss Drew coldly.
William hastened to reassure her.
“Oh, no—not for ever so long yet,” he said.
“Isn’t it your bed-time?”
“Oh, no—not yet—not for ever so long.”
The male cousin was giving William his whole attention.
“What does Miss Drew teach you at school, William?” he said.
“Oh, jus’ ornery things. Armadas an’ things. An’ ’bout lending a hundred pounds. That’s a norful soft thing. I unnerstand it,” he added hastily, fearing further explanation, “but it’s soft. My father thinks it is, too, an’ he oughter know. He’s bin abroad lots of times. He’s bin chased by a bull, my father has——”
The shades of night were falling fast when William reached Miss Drew’s house still discoursing volubly. He was drunk with success. He interpreted his idol’s silence as the silence of rapt admiration.
He was passing through the gate with his two companions with the air of one assured of welcome, when Miss Drew shut the gate upon him firmly.
“You’d better go home now, William,” she said.
William hesitated.
“I don’t mind comin’ in a bit,” he said. “I’m not tired.”
But Miss Drew and the male cousin were already half-way up the walk.
William turned his steps homeward. He met Ethel near the gate.
“William, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. It’s hours past your bed-time.”
“I was goin’ a walk with Miss Drew.”
“But you should have come home at your bed-time.”
“I don’t think she wanted me to go,” he said with dignity. “I think it wun’t of bin p’lite.”
William found that a new and serious element had entered his life. It was not without its disadvantages. Many had been the little diversions by which William had been wont to while away the hours of instruction. In spite of his devotion to Miss Drew, he missed the old days of care-free exuberance, but he kept his new seat in the front row, and clung to his rôle of earnest student. He was beginning to find also, that a conscientious performance of home lessons limited his activities after school hours, but at present he hugged his chains. Miss Drew, from her seat on the platform, found William’s soulful concentrated gaze somewhat embarrassing, and his questions even more so.
As he went out of school he heard her talking to another mistress.
“I’m very fond of syringa,” she was saying. “I’d love to have some.”
William decided to bring her syringa, handfuls of syringa, armfuls of syringa.
He went straight home to the gardener.
“No, I ain’t got no syringa. Please step off my rose-bed, Mister William. No, there ain’t any syringa in this ’ere garding. I dunno for why. Please leave my ’ose pipe alone, Mister William.”
“Huh!” ejaculated William, scornfully turning away.
He went round the garden. The gardener had been quite right. There were guelder roses everywhere, but no syringa.
He climbed the fence and surveyed the next garden. There were guelder roses everywhere, but no syringa. It must have been some peculiarity in the soil.
William strolled down the road, scanning the gardens as he went. All had guelder roses. None had syringa.
Suddenly he stopped.
On a table in the window of a small house at the bottom of the road was a vase of syringa. He did not know who lived there. He entered the garden cautiously. No one was about.
He looked into the room. It was empty. The window was open at the bottom.
He scrambled in, removing several layers of white paint from the window-sill as he did so. He was determined to have that syringa. He took it dripping from the vase, and was preparing to depart, when the door opened and a fat woman appeared upon the threshold. The scream that she emitted at sight of William curdled the very blood in his veins. She dashed to the window, and William, in self-defence, dodged round the table and out of the door. The back door was open, and William blindly fled by it. The fat woman did not pursue. She was leaning out of the window, and her shrieks rent the air.
“Police! Help! Murder! Robbers!”
The quiet little street rang with the raucous sounds.
William felt cold shivers creeping up and down his spine. He was in a small back garden from which he could see no exit.
Meanwhile the shrieks were redoubled.
Then came sounds of the front-door opening and men’s voices.
“Hello! Who is it? What is it?”
William glared round wildly. There was a hen-house in the corner of the garden, and into this he dashed, tearing open the door and plunging through a mass of flying feathers and angry, disturbed hens.
William crouched in a corner of the dark hen-house determinedly clutching his bunch of syringa.
Distant voices were at first all he could hear. Then they came nearer, and he heard the fat lady’s voice loudly declaiming.
“He was quite a small man, but with such an evil face. I just had one glimpse of him as he dashed past me. I’m sure he’d have murdered me if I hadn’t cried for help. Oh, the coward! And a poor defenceless woman! He was standing by the silver table. I disturbed him at his work of crime. I feel so upset. I shan’t sleep for nights. I shall see his evil, murderous face. And a poor unarmed woman!”
“Can you give us no details, madam?” said a man’s voice. “Could you recognise him again?”
“Anywhere!” she said firmly. “Such a criminal face. You’ve no idea how upset I am. I might have been a lifeless corpse now, if I hadn’t had the courage to cry for help.”
“We’re measuring the footprints, madam. You say he went out by the front door?”
“I’m convinced he did. I’m convinced he’s hiding in the bushes by the gate. Such a low face. My nerves are absolutely jarred.”
“We’ll search the bushes again, madam,” said the other voice wearily, “but I expect he has escaped by now.”
“The brute!” said the fat lady. “Oh, the brute! And that face. If I hadn’t had the courage to cry out——”
The voices died away and William was left alone in a corner of the hen-house.
A white hen appeared in the little doorway, squawked at him angrily, and retired, cackling indignation. Visions of life-long penal servitude or hanging passed before William’s eyes. He’d rather be executed, really. He hoped they’d execute him.
Then he heard the fat lady bidding good-bye to the policeman. Then she came to the back garden evidently with a friend, and continued to pour forth her troubles.
“And he dashed past me, dear. Quite a small man, but with such an evil face.”
A black hen appeared in the little doorway, and with an angry squawk at William, returned to the back garden.
“I think you’re splendid, dear,” said the invisible friend. “How you had the courage.”
The white hen gave a sardonic scream.
“You’d better come in and rest, darling,” said the friend.
“I’d better,” said the fat lady in a plaintive, suffering voice. “I do feel very ... shaken....”
Their voices ceased, the door was closed, and all was still.
Cautiously, very cautiously, a much-dishevelled William crept from the hen-house and round the side of the house. Here he found a locked side-gate over which he climbed, and very quietly he glided down to the front gate and to the road.
“Where’s William this evening?” said Mrs. Brown. “I do hope he won’t stay out after his bed-time.”
“Oh, I’ve just met him,” said Ethel. “He was going up to his bedroom. He was covered with hen feathers and holding a bunch of syringa.”
“Mad!” sighed his father. “Mad! mad! mad!”
The next morning William laid a bunch of syringa upon Miss Drew’s desk. He performed the offering with an air of quiet, manly pride. Miss Drew recoiled.
“Not syringa, William. I simply can’t bear the smell!”
William gazed at her in silent astonishment for a few moments.
Then: “But you said ... you said ... you said you were fond of syringa an’ that you’d like to have them.”
“Did I say syringa?” said Miss Drew vaguely. “I meant guelder roses.”
William’s gaze was one of stony contempt.
He went slowly back to his old seat at the back of the room.
That evening he made a bonfire with several choice friends, and played Red Indians in the garden. There was a certain thrill in returning to the old life.
“Hello!” said his father, encountering William creeping on all fours among the bushes. “I thought you did home lessons now?”
William arose to an upright position.
“I’m not goin’ to take much bother over ’em now,” said William. “Miss Drew, she can’t talk straight. She dunno what she means.”
“That’s always the trouble with women,” agreed his father. “William says his idol has feet of clay,” he said to his wife, who had approached.
“I dunno as she’s got feet of clay,” said William, the literal. “All I say is she can’t talk straight. I took no end of trouble an’ she dunno what she means. I think her feet’s all right. She walks all right. ’Sides, when they make folks false feet, they make ’em of wood, not clay.”
CHAPTER V
THE SHOW
The Outlaws sat around the old barn, plunged in deep thought. Henry, the oldest member (aged 12¼) had said in a moment of inspiration:
“Let’s think of—sumthin’ else to do—sumthin’ quite fresh from what we’ve ever done before.”
And the Outlaws were thinking.
They had engaged in mortal combat with one another, they had cooked strange ingredients over a smoking and reluctant flame with a fine disregard of culinary conventions, they had tracked each other over the country-side with gait and complexions intended to represent those of the aborigines of South America, they had even turned their attention to kidnapping (without any striking success), and these occupations had palled.
In all its activities the Society of Outlaws (comprising four members) aimed at a simple, unostentatious mode of procedure. In their shrinking from the glare of publicity they showed an example of unaffected modesty that many other public societies might profitably emulate. The parents of the members were unaware of the very existence of the society. The ill-timed and tactless interference of parents had nipped in the bud many a cherished plan, and by bitter experience the Outlaws had learnt that secrecy was their only protection. Owing to the rules and restrictions of an unsympathetic world that orders school hours from 9 to 4 their meetings were confined to half-holidays and occasionally Sunday afternoons.
William, the ever ingenious, made the first suggestion.
“Let’s shoot things with bows an’ arrows same as real outlaws used to,” he said.
“What things?” and
“What bows an’ arrows?” said Henry and Ginger simultaneously.
“Oh, anything—birds an’ cats an’ hens an’ things—an’ buy bows an’ arrows. You can buy them in shops.”
“We can make them,” said Douglas, hopefully.
“Not like you can get them in shops. They’d shoot crooked or sumthin’ if we made them. They’ve got to be jus’ so to shoot straight. I saw some in Brook’s window, too, jus’ right—jus’ same as real outlaws had.”
“How much?” said the outlaws breathlessly.
“Five shillings—targets for learnin’ on before we begin shootin’ real things an’ all.”
“Five shillings!” breathed Douglas. He might as well have said five pounds. “We’ve not got five shillings. Henry’s not having any money since he broke their drawing-room window an’ Ginger only has 3d. a week an’ has to give collection an’ we’ve not paid for the guinea pig yet, the one that got into Ginger’s sister’s hat an’ she was so mad at, an’——”
“Oh, never mind all that,” said William, scornfully. “We’ll jus’ get five shillings.”
“How?”
“Well,” uncertainly, “grown-ups can always get money when they want it.”
“How?” again.
William disliked being tied down to details.
“Oh—bazaars an’ things,” impatiently.
“Bazaars!” exploded Henry. “Who’d come to a bazaar if we had one? Who would? Jus’ tell me that if you’re so clever! Who’d come to it? Besides, you’ve got to sell things at a bazaar, haven’t you? What’d we sell? We’ve got nothin’ to sell, have we? What’s the good of havin’ a bazaar with nothin’ to sell and no one to buy it? Jus’ tell me that!”
Henry always enjoyed scoring off William.
“Well—shows an’ things,” said William desperately.
There was a moment’s silence, then Ginger repeated thoughtfully. “Shows!” and Douglas, whose eldest brother was home from college for his vacation, murmured self-consciously, “By Jove!”
“We could do a show,” said Ginger. “Get animals an’ things an’ charge money for lookin’ at them.”
“Who’d pay it?” said Henry, the doubter.
“Anyone would. You’d pay to see animals, wouldn’t you?—real animals. People do at the Zoo, don’t they? Well, we’ll get some animals. That’s easy enough, isn’t it?”
A neighbouring church clock struck four and the meeting was adjourned.
“Well, we’ll have a show an’ get money and buy bows an’ arrows an’ shoot things,” summed up William, “an we’ll arrange the show next week.”
William returned home slowly and thoughtfully. He sat on his bed, his hands in his pockets, his brow drawn into a frown, his thoughts wandering in a dreamland of wonderful “shows” and rare exotic beasts.
Suddenly from the next room came a thin sound that gathered volume till it seemed to fill the house like the roaring of a lion, then died gradually away and was followed by silence. But only for a second. It began again—a small whisper that grew louder and louder, became a raucous bellow, then faded slowly away to rise again after a moment’s silence. In the next room William’s mother’s Aunt Emily was taking her afternoon nap. Aunt Emily had come down a month ago for a week’s visit and had not yet referred to the date of her departure. William’s father was growing anxious. She was a stout, healthy lady, who spent all her time recovering from a slight illness she had had two years ago. Her life held two occupations, and only two. These were eating and sleeping. For William she possessed a subtle but irresistible fascination. Her stature, her appetite, her gloom, added to the fact that she utterly ignored him, attracted him strongly.
The tea bell rang and the sound of the snoring ceased abruptly. This entertainment over, William descended to the dining-room, where his father was addressing his mother with some heat.
“Is she going to stay here for ever, or only for a few years? I’d like to know, because——”
Perceiving William, he stopped abruptly, and William’s mother murmured:
“It’s so nice to have her, dear.”
Then Aunt Emily entered.
“Have you slept well, Aunt?”
“Slept!” repeated Aunt Emily majestically. “I hardly expect to sleep in my state of health. A little rest is all I can expect.”
“Sorry you’re no better,” said William’s father sardonically.
“Better?” she repeated again indignantly. “It will be a long time before I’m better.”
She lowered her large, healthy frame into a chair, carefully selected a substantial piece of bread and butter and attacked it with vigour.
“I’m going to the post after tea,” said William’s mother. “Would you care to come with me?”
Aunt Emily took a large helping of jam.
“You hardly expect me to go out in the evening in my state of health, surely? It’s years since I went out after tea. And I was at the post office this morning. There were a lot of people there, but they served me first. I suppose they saw I looked ill.”
William’s father choked suddenly and apologised, but not humbly.
“Though I must say,” went on Aunt Emily, “this place does suit me. I think after a few months here I should be a little stronger. Pass the jam, William.”
The glance that William’s father fixed upon her would have made a stronger woman quail, but Aunt Emily was scraping out the last remnants of jam and did not notice.
“I’m a bit over-tired to-day, I think,” she went on. “I’m so apt to forget how weak I am and then I overdo it. I’m ready for the cake, William. I just sat out in the sun yesterday afternoon and sat a bit too long and over-tired myself. I ought to write letters after tea, but I don’t think I have the strength. Another piece of cake, William. I’ll go upstairs to rest instead, I think. I hope you’ll keep the house quiet. It’s so rarely that I can get a bit of sleep.”
William’s father left the room abruptly. William sat on and watched, with fascinated eyes, the cake disappear, and finally followed the large, portly figure upstairs and sat down in his room to plan the “show” and incidentally listen, with a certain thrilled awe, for the sounds from next door.
The place and time of the “show” presented no little difficulty. To hold it in the old barn would give away to the world the cherished secret of their meeting place. It was William who suggested his bedroom, to be entered, not by way of the front door and staircase, but by the less public way of the garden wall and scullery roof. Ever an optimist, he affirmed that no one would see or hear. The choice of a time was limited to Wednesday afternoon, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday. Sunday at first was ruled out as impossible. But there were difficulties about Wednesday afternoon and Saturday afternoon. On Wednesday afternoon Ginger and Douglas were unwilling and ungraceful pupils at a dancing class. On Saturday afternoon William’s father gardened and would command a view of the garden wall and scullery roof. On these afternoons also Cook and Emma, both of a suspicious turn of mind, would be at large. On Sunday Cook and Emma went out, William’s mother paid a regular weekly visit to an old friend and William’s father spent the afternoon on the sofa, dead to the world.
Moreover, as he pointed out to the Outlaws, the members of the Sunday School could be waylaid and induced to attend the show and they would probably be provided with money for collection. The more William thought over it, the more attractive became the idea of a Sunday afternoon in spite of superficial difficulties; therefore Sunday afternoon was finally chosen.
The day was fortunately a fine one, and William and the other Outlaws were at work early. William had asked his mother, with an expression of meekness and virtue that ought to have warned her of danger, if he might have “jus’ a few friends” in his room for the afternoon. His mother, glad that her husband should be spared his son’s restless company, gave willing permission.
By half-past two the exhibits were ready. In a cage by the window sat a white rat painted in faint alternate stripes of blue and pink. This was Douglas’ contribution, handpainted by himself in water colours. It wore a bewildered expression and occasionally licked its stripes and then obviously wished it hadn’t. Its cage bore a notice printed on cardboard:
RAT FROM CHINA
RATS ARE ALL LIKE
THIS IN CHINA
Next came a cat belonging to William’s sister, Smuts by name, now imprisoned beneath a basket-chair. At the best of times Smuts was short-tempered, and all its life had cherished a bitter hatred of William. Now, enclosed by its enemy in a prison two feet square, its fury knew no bounds. It tore at the basket work, it flew wildly round and round, scratching, spitting, swearing. Its chair bore the simple and appropriate notice:
WILD CAT
William watched it with honest pride and prayed fervently that its indignation would not abate during the afternoon.
Next came a giant composed of Douglas upon Ginger’s back, draped in two sheets tied tightly round Douglas’s neck. This was labelled:
GENWIN GIANT
Ginger was already growing restive. His muffled voice was heard from the folds of the sheets informing the other Outlaws that it was a bit thick and he hadn’t known it would be like this or he wouldn’t have done it, and anyway he was going to change with Douglas half time or he’d chuck up the whole thing.
The next exhibit was a black fox fur of William’s mother’s, to which was fortunately attached a head and several feet, and which he had surreptitiously removed from her wardrobe. This had been tied up, stuffed with waste paper and wired by William till it was, in his eyes, remarkably lifelike. As the legs, even with the assistance of wire, refused to support the body and the head would only droop sadly to the ground, it was perforce exhibited in a recumbent attitude. It bore marks of sticky fingers, and of several side slips of the scissors when William was cutting the wire, but on the whole he was justly proud of it. It bore the striking but untruthful legend:—
BEAR SHOT
BY OUTLAWS
IN RUSHER
Next came:
BLUE DOG
This was Henry’s fox terrier, generally known as Chips. For Chips the world was very black. Henry’s master mind had scorned his paint box and his water colours. Henry had “borrowed” a blue bag and dabbed it liberally over Chips. Chips had, after the first wild frenzied struggle, offered no resistance. He now sat, a picture of black despair, turning every now and then a melancholy eye upon the still enraged Smuts. But for him cats and joy and life and fighting were no more. He was abject, shamed—a blue dog.
William himself, as showman, was an imposing figure. He was robed in a red dressing-gown of his father’s that trailed on the ground behind him and over whose cords in front he stumbled ungracefully as he walked. He had cut a few strands from the fringe of a rug and glued them to his lips to represent moustaches. They fell in two straight lines over his mouth. On his head was a tinsel crown, once worn by his sister as Fairy Queen.
The show had been widely advertised and all the neighbouring children had been individually canvassed, but under strict orders of secrecy. The threats of what the Outlaws would do if their secret were disclosed had kept many a child awake at night.
William surveyed the room proudly.
“Not a bad show for a penny, I should say. I guess there aren’t many like it, anyway. Do shut up talkin’, Ginger. It’ll spoil it all, if folks hear the giant talking out of his stomach. It’s Douglas that’s got to do the giant’s talking. Anyone could see that. I say, they’re comin’! Look! They’re comin’! Along the wall!”
There was a thin line of children climbing along the wall in single file on all fours. They ascended the scullery roof and approached the window. These were the first arrivals who had called on their way to Sunday School.
Henry took their pennies and William cleared his throat and began:—
“White rat from China, ladies an’ gentlemen, pink an’ blue striped. All rats is pink an’ blue striped inChina. This is the only genwin China rat in England—brought over from China special las’ week jus’ for the show. It lives on China bread an’ butter brought over special, too.”
“Wash it!” jeered an unbeliever. “Jus’ wash it an’ let’s see it then.”
“Wash it?” repeated the showman indignantly. “It’s gotter be washed. It’s washed every morning an’ night same as you or me. China rats have gotter be washed or they’d die right off. Washin’ ’em don’t make no difference to their stripes. Anyone knows that that knows anything about China rats, I guess.”
He laughed scornfully and turned to Smuts. Smuts had grown used to the basket chair and was settling down for a nap. William crouched down on all fours, ran his fingers along the basket-work, and, putting his face close to it, gave vent to a malicious howl. Smuts sprang at him, scratching and spitting.
“Wild cat,” said William triumphantly. “Look at it! Kill anyone if it got out! Spring at their throats, it would, an’ scratch their eyes out with its paws an’ bite their necks till its teeth met. If I jus’ moved away that chair it would spring out at you.” They moved hastily away from the chair, “and I bet some of you would be dead pretty quick. It could have anyone’s head right off with bitin’ and scratchin’. Right off—separate from their bodies!”
There was an awe-stricken silence.
Then:
“Garn! It’s Smuts. It’s your sister’s cat!”
William laughed as though vastly amused by this idea.
“Smuts!” he said, giving a surreptitious kick to the chair that infuriated its occupant still more. “I guess there wouldn’t be many of us left in this house if Smuts was like this.”
They passed on to the giant.
“A giant,” said William, re-arranging the tinsel crown, which was slightly too big for him. “Real giant. Look at it. As big as two of you put together. How d’you think he gets in at doors and things? Has to have everything made special. Look at him walk. Walk, Ginger.”
Ginger took two steps forward. Douglas clutched his shoulders and murmured anxiously, “By Jove!”
“Go on,” urged William scornfully, “That’s not walkin’.”
The goaded Ginger’s voice came from the giant’s middle regions!
“If you go on talkin’ at me, I’ll drop him. I’m just about sick of it.”
“All right,” said William hastily.
“Anyway it’s a giant,” he went on to his audience. “A jolly fine giant.”
“It’s got Douglas’s face,” said one of his audience.
William was for a moment at a loss.
“Well,” he said at last, “giant’s got to have some sort of a face, hasn’t it? Can’t not have a face, can it?”
The Russian Bear, which had often been seen adorning the shoulders of William’s mother and was promptly recognised, was greeted with ribald jeers, but there was no doubt as to the success of the Blue Dog. Chips advanced deprecatingly, blue head drooping, and blue tail between blue legs, makingabject apologies for his horrible condition. But Henry had done his work well. They stood around in rapt admiration.
“Blue dog,” said the showman, walking forward proudly and stumbling violently over the cords of the dressing gown. “Blue dog,” he repeated, recovering his balance and removing the tinsel crown from his nose to his brow. “You never saw a blue dog before, did you? No, and you aren’t likely to see one again, neither. It was made blue special for this show. It’s the only blue dog in the world. Folks’ll be comin’ from all over the world to see this blue dog—an’ thrown in in a penny show! If it was in the Zoo you’d have to pay a shilling to see it, I bet. It’s—it’s jus’ luck for you it’s here. I guess the folks at the Zoo wish they’d got it. Tain’t many shows have blue dogs. Brown an’ black an’ white—but not blue. Why, folks pay money jus’ to see shows of ornery dogs—so you’re jus’ lucky to see a blue dog an’ a dead bear from Russia an’ a giant, an’ a wild cat, an’ a China rat for jus’ one penny.”
After each speech William had to remove from his mouth the rug fringe which persisted in obeying the force of gravity rather than William’s idea of what a moustache should be.
“It’s jus’ paint. Henry’s gate’s being painted blue,” said one critic feebly, but on the whole the Outlaws had scored a distinct success in the blue dog.
Then, while they stood in silent admiration round the unhappy animal, came a sound from the next door, a gentle sound like the sighing of the wind through the trees. It rose and fell. It rose again and fell again. It increased in volume with each repetition, till at its height it sounded like a wild animal in pain.
“What’s that?” asked the audience breathlessly.
William was slightly uneasy. He was not sure whether this fresh development would add lustre or dishonour to his show.
“Yes,” he said darkly to gain time, “what is it? I guess you’d like to know what it is!”
“Garn! It’s jus’ snorin’.”
“Snorin’!” repeated William. “It’s not ornery snorin’, that isn’t. Jus’ listen, that’s all! You couldn’t snore like that, I bet. Huh!”
They listened spellbound to the gentle sound, growing louder and louder till at its loudest it brought rapt smiles to their faces, then ceasing abruptly, then silence. Then again the gentle sound that grew and grew.
William asked Henry in a stage whisper if they oughtn’t to charge extra for listening to it. The audience hastily explained that they weren’t listening, they “jus’ couldn’t help hearin’.”
A second batch of sightseers had arrived and were paying their entrance pennies, but the first batch refused to move. William, emboldened by success, opened the door and they crept out to the landing and listened with ears pressed to the magic door.
Henry now did the honours of showman. William stood, majestic in his glorious apparel, deep in thought. Then to his face came the faint smile that inspiration brings to her votaries. He ordered the audience back into the showroom and shut the door. Then he took off his shoes and softly and with bated breath opened Aunt Emily’s door and peeped within. It was rather a close afternoon, and she lay on her bed on the top of her eiderdown. She had slipped off her dress skirt so as not to crush it, and she lay in her immense stature in a blouse and striped petticoat, while from her open mouth issued the fascinating sounds. In sleep Aunt Emily was not beautiful.
William thoughtfully propped up a cushion in the doorway and stood considering the situation.
In a few minutes the showroom was filled with a silent, expectant crowd. In a corner near the door was a new notice:
PLACE FOR TAKING
OFF SHOES AND TAKING
OTH OF SILENCE
William, after administering the oath of silence to a select party in his most impressive manner led them shoeless and on tiptoe to the next room.
From Aunt Emily’s bed hung another notice:
FAT WILD WOMAN
TORKIN NATIF
LANGWIDGE
They stood in a hushed, delighted group around her bed. The sounds never ceased, never abated. William only allowed them two minutes in the room. They came out reluctantly, paid more money, joined the end of the queue and re-entered. More and more children came to see the show, but the show now consisted solely in Aunt Emily.
The China rat had licked off all its stripes; Smuts was fast asleep; Ginger was sitting down on the seat of a chair and Douglas on the back of it, and Ginger had insisted at last on air and sight and had put his head out where the two sheets joined; the Russian Bear had fallen on to the floor and no one had picked it up; Chips lay in a disconsolate heap, a victim of acute melancholia—and no one cared for any of these things. New-comers passed by them hurriedly and stood shoeless in the queue outside Aunt Emily’s room eagerly awaiting their turn. Those who came out simply went to the end again to wait another turn. Many returned home for more money, for Aunt Emily was 1d. extra and each visit after the first, ½d. The Sunday School bell pealed forth its summons, but no one left the show. The vicar was depressed that evening. The attendance at Sunday School had been the worst on record. And still Aunt Emily slept and snored with a rapt, silent crowd around her. But William could never rest content. He possessed ambition that would have put many of his elders to shame. He cleared the room and re-opened it after a few minutes, during which his clients waited in breathless suspense.
When they re-entered there was a fresh exhibit. William’s keen eye had been searching out each detail of the room. On the table by her bed now stood a glass containing teeth, that William had discovered on the washstand, and a switch of hair and a toothless comb, that William had discovered on the dressing-table. These all bore notices:
FAT WILD
WOMAN’S
TEETH
FAT WILD
WOMAN’S
HARE
FAT WILD
WOMAN’S
KOME
Were it not that the slightest noise meant instant expulsion from the show (some of their number had already suffered that bitter fate) there would have been no restraining the audience. As it was, they crept in, silent, expectant, thrilled, to watch and listen for the blissful two minutes. And Aunt Emily never failed them. Still she slept and snored. They borrowed money recklessly from each other. The poor sold their dearest treasures to the rich, and still they came again and again. And still Aunt Emily slept and snored. It would be interesting to know how long this would have gone on, had she not, on the top note of a peal that was a pure delight to her audience, awakened with a start and glanced around her. At first she thought that the cluster of small boys around her was a dream, especially as they turned and fled precipitately at once. Then she sat up and her eye fell upon the table by her bed, the notices, and finally upon the petrified horror-stricken showman. She sprang up and, seizing him by the shoulders, shook him till his teeth chattered, the tinsel crown fell down, encircling ears and nose, and one of his moustaches fell limply at his feet.
“You wicked boy!” she said as she shook him, “you wicked, wicked, wicked boy!”
He escaped from her grasp and fled to the showroom, where, in sheer self-defence, he moved a table and three chairs across the door. The room was empty except for Henry, the blue dog, and the still sleeping Smuts. All that was left of the giant was the crumpled sheets. Douglas had, with an awe-stricken “By Jove!” snatched up his rat as he fled. The last of their clients was seen scrambling along the top of the garden wall on all fours with all possible speed.
Mechanically William straightened his crown.
“She’s woke,” he said. “She’s mad wild.”
He listened apprehensively for angry footsteps descending the stairs and his father’s dread summons, but none came. Aunt Emily could be heard moving about in her room, but that was all. A wild hope came to him that, given a little time, she might forget the incident.
“Let’s count the money—” said Henry at last.
They counted.
“Four an’ six!” screamed William. “Four an’ six! Jolly good, I should say! An’ it would only have been about two shillings without Aunt Emily, an’ I thought of her, didn’t I? I guess you can all be jolly grateful to me.”
“All right,” said Henry unkindly. “I’m not envying you, am I? You’re welcome to it when she tells your father.”
And William’s proud spirits dropped.
Then came the opening of the fateful door and heavy steps descending the stairs.
William’s mother had returned from her weekly visit to her friend. She was placing her umbrella in the stand as Aunt Emily, hatted and coated and carrying a bag, descended. William’s father had just awakened from his peaceful Sunday afternoon slumber, and, hearing his wife, had come into the hall.
Aunt Emily fixed her eye upon him.
“Will you be good enough to procure a conveyance?” she said. “After the indignities to which I have been subjected in this house I refuse to remain in it a moment longer.”
Quivering with indignation she gave details of the indignities to which she had been subjected. William’s mother pleaded, apologised, coaxed. William’s father went quietly out to procure a conveyance. When he returned she was still talking in the hall.
“A crowd of vulgar little boys,” she was saying, “and horrible indecent placards all over the room.”
He carried her bag down to the cab.
“And me in my state of health,” she said as she followed him. From the cab she gave her parting shot.
“And if this horrible thing hadn’t happened, I might have stayed with you all the winter and perhaps part of the spring.”
William’s father wiped his brow with his handkerchief as the cab drove off.
“How dreadful!” said his wife, but she avoided meeting his eye. “It’s—it’s disgraceful of William,” she went on with sudden spirit. “You must speak to him.”
“I will,” said his father determinedly. “William!” he shouted sternly from the hall.
William’s heart sank.
“She’s told,” he murmured, his last hope gone.
“You’d better go and get it over,” advised Henry.
“William!” repeated the voice still more fiercely.
Henry moved nearer the window, prepared for instant flight if the voice’s owner should follow it up the stairs.
“Go on,” he urged. “He’ll only come up for you.”
William slowly removed the barricade and descended the stairs. He had remembered to take off the crown and dressing gown, but his one-sided moustache still hung limply over his mouth.
His father was standing in the hall.
“What’s that horrible thing on your face?” he began.
“Whiskers,” answered William laconically.
His father accepted the explanation.
“Is it true,” he went on, “that you actually took your friends into your aunt’s room without permission and hung vulgar placards around it?”
William glanced up into his father’s face and suddenly took hope. Mr. Brown was no actor.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“It’s disgraceful,” said Mr. Brown, “disgraceful! That’s all.”
But it was not quite all. Something hard and round slipped into William’s hand. He ran lightly upstairs.
“Hello!” said Henry, surprised. “That’s not taken long. What——”
William opened his hand and showed something that shone upon his extended palm.
“Look!” he said. “Crumbs! Look!” It was a bright half-crown.
CHAPTER VI
A QUESTION OF GRAMMAR
It was raining. It had been raining all morning. William was intensely bored with his family.
“What can I do?” he demanded of his father for the tenth time.
“Nothing!” said his father fiercely from behind his newspaper.
William followed his mother into the kitchen.
“What can I do?” he said plaintively.
“Couldn’t you just sit quietly?” suggested his mother.
“That’s not doin’ anything,” William said. “I could sit quietly all day,” he went on aggressively, “if I wanted.”
“But you never do.”
“No, ’cause there wouldn’t be any sense in it, would there?”
“Couldn’t you read or draw or something?”
“No, that’s lessons. That’s not doin’ anything!”
“I could teach you to knit if you like.”
With one crushing glance William left her.
He went to the drawing-room, where his sister Ethel was knitting a jumper and talking to a friend.
“And I heard her say to him——” she was saying. She broke off with the sigh of a patient martyr as William came in. He sat down and glared at her. She exchanged a glance of resigned exasperation with her friend.
“What are you doing, William?” said the friend sweetly.
“Nothin’,” said William with a scowl.
“Shut the door after you when you go out, won’t you, William?” said Ethel equally sweetly.
William at that insult rose with dignity and went to the door. At the door he turned.
“I wun’t stay here now,” he said with slow contempt, “not even if—even if—even if,” he paused to consider the most remote contingency, “not even if you wanted me,” he said at last emphatically.
He shut the door behind him and his expression relaxed into a sardonic smile.
“I bet they feel small!” he said to the umbrella-stand.
He went to the library, where his seventeen-year-old brother Robert was showing off his new rifle to a friend.
“You see——” he was saying, then, catching sight of William’s face round the door, “Oh, get out!”
William got out.
He returned to his mother in the kitchen with a still more jaundiced view of life. It was still raining. His mother was looking at the tradesmen’s books.
“Can I go out?” he said gloomily.
“No, of course not. It’s pouring.”
“I don’t mind rain.”
“Don’t be silly.”
William considered that few boys in the whole world were handicapped by more unsympathetic parents than he.
“Why,” he said pathetically, “have they got friends in an’ me not?”
“I suppose you didn’t think of asking anyone,” she said calmly.
“Well, can I have someone now?”
“No, it’s too late,” said Mrs. Brown, raising her head from the butcher’s book and murmuring “ten and elevenpence” to herself.
“Well, when can I?”
She raised a harassed face.
“William, do be quiet! Any time, if you ask. Eighteen and twopence.”
“Can I have lots?”
“Oh, go and ask your father.”
William went out.
He returned to the dining-room, where his father was still reading a paper. The sigh with which his father greeted his entrance was not one of relief.
“If you’ve come to ask questions——” he began threateningly.
“I haven’t,” said William quickly. “Father, when you’re all away on Saturday, can I have a party?”
“No, of course not,” said his father irritably. “Can’t you do something?”
William, goaded to desperation, burst into a flood of eloquence.