William—the good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I come and help?” said Clarence.

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

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

She relented.

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

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

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

“I’ll come,” said Clarence fervently.

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

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

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

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

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

“Walk,” said William sternly.

Ginger groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s him,” whispered William.

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

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

Ginger obediently lay inert in the road.

“Hi!” called William after Clarence.

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

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

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

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

Clarence took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

William bent over him in tender solicitude.

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

Clarence blinked again, and again tried to be hearty.

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

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

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

Ginger stopped moaning to say:

“Jus’ above my ears.”

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

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

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

“Where does he live?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where does he live exactly?” he inquired.

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

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

Clarence looked relieved and recovered something of his aplomb.

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

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

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

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

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

Pretending to busy himself with the provisions, he snapped:

“Well?”

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

“It is ’cussion. He’s vi’lently ill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“Good heavens,” said Miss Holding, looking around her a few minutes later, “all the biscuits seem to have gone now.”

“It’s always from Mr. Bergson’s corner that things go,” said the youngest guest, aged thirteen. “I’ve seen all the things just near him and then when you look again a minute later they aren’t there.”

Everyone turned and stared at Clarence who grew red to the tips of his ears.

“Well,” he said at last desperately, “I—I’ve had quite a long drive. It—it makes one hungry.”

“He must have eaten all that pound of biscuits as well as the two dozen iced cakes,” said the youngest guest dispassionately.

“Hush, dear,” said her mother, reproachfully, and conversation became general, but Clarence could not help noticing that there seemed to be a tendency to avoid him. And things had hardly become normal again when he felt once more that painful prod in the back that heralded William’s penetrating whisper:

“I’ve just been to see him again and——”

“I’m not giving you anything else,” hissed Clarence.

“No. He doesn’t want anything now. He’s too ill to eat now. His ’cussion’s something t’riffic now. They’re awful mad about it. His father’s just sent for a policeman——”

“What?”

“To take down all about you knockin’ ’im down, case he dies and you have to go to prison.”

The red-haired girl turned to Clarence.

“Were you speaking to me, Mr. Bergson?” she said politely.

Clarence took out his mauve silk handkerchief and mopped his brow again.

“Y-yes,” he said, “I was just remarking what—er—what a beautiful view.”

“Do you think so?” said the red-haired girl coldly (she simply couldn’t get over this man’s having eaten two dozen iced cakes and a pound of biscuits). “I think it’s very ordinary.”

William and Ginger had left the bushes. Gorged with cakes and in a state of hazy content they were walking down the road towards a point at the road where a policeman stood directing the very scanty traffic which came from a side road. They had not finished with Clarence yet. The Outlaws never went in for half measures. On the way they passed a public house called “The Staff of Life,” and on a bench just outside lounged an enormous man with cross-eyes and abnormally long arms and wearing a smile which in the distance looked ferocious, but on nearer approach became merely fatuous. William and Ginger watched him with interest as they passed him and then, forgetting him, approached the policeman.

William assumed his expression of innocence.

“Please sir,” he said, “there’s a gentleman down there what’s just had his pocket picked. He told me to go’n see if I could find a policeman.”

The policeman took out a pocket-book.

“Who is he?” he said eagerly. Evidently he welcomed the interruption. There had only been one cart along the side road in the last three-quarters of an hour.

“He’s with a picnic party down by the bank,” said William guilelessly, “he’s dressed in a leather coat.”

Then William and Ginger melted silently away. The policeman, still holding his note-book, went down to the bank.

Clarence was just beginning to feel that he was returning to favour. He was talking about his motor cycle.

“Sixty miles an hour is nothing to me,” he said, “there’s no danger at all to a good driver in sixty miles an hour.”

“That’s what makes you so hungry, I suppose,” said the youngest guest, as if a problem which had long been troubling her were solved at last.

Her mother said, “Hush, dear,” and again the atmosphere was slightly strained.

“How fast did you come here to-day, Mr. Bergson?” said the youngest guest’s mother, feeling that it was up to her to restore the atmosphere.

Clarence’s complacency dropped from him as he thought of how fast he’d come there.

“Oh—er—it varied,” he said absently.

What had that little wretch said? A policeman taking down details! It was a horrible thought. He took out the mauve silk handkerchief and wiped his brow again. His mauve silk handkerchief was becoming quite damp. And then—his eyes almost started out of his head. Here was the policeman coming down the river bank and right up to him—the policeman who must have come straight from the bedside of the boy he’d knocked down—with his note-book in his hand.

Clarence didn’t stop to think. He leapt to his feet and took to his heels. The policeman didn’t stop to think either. He saw someone running away from him so, from sheer force of habit, he ran after him. Along the road by the river bank went Clarence, and behind him, in hot pursuit, the stalwart figure of the policeman.

“Well!” said the picnic party, giving inadequate expression to its feelings.

“He seemed to me all the afternoon,” said the girl with red hair, darkly, “like a man with something on his mind.”

“Fancy him being able to run like that,” said the youngest guest admiringly, “when he’s just eaten two dozen iced cakes and a pound of biscuits. I couldn’t.”

“Hush, dear,” said her mother absently.

“There was something about a murder in this morning’s paper,” said the girl with red hair. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he did it.”

“Surely not,” objected someone.

“Well, why should a policeman come for him and he run off like this? Most of these murders in the papers are done by quite ordinary people living quite ordinary lives, you know. He must be one of them. I expect he’ll have caught him by now. He’ll be hung, of course.”

“Well, he’ll have had a jolly good tuck-in first,” said the youngest guest.

“Hush, dear,” said her mother. “Of course it may not be an actual murder. It may be merely robbing a bank or forging a will or something.”

“I’ve always wanted to know a criminal,” said the girl with red hair, heaving a sigh of content, “and I’ve thought he seemed queer all the afternoon. He’s been muttering to himself into the bushes and behaving most peculiarly all the time.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” said the youngest guest’s mother, “I’ll take girlie home. One doesn’t want to be mixed up in this sort of thing—as a witness or jury or anything—and one never knows who a murderer will murder next. They say that it sort of grows on them. If he’s overpowered the policeman—and criminals have the strength of ten men—or is that lunatics?—he may be coming back here in search of fresh victims. He’s probably got homicidal mania—breaking out in spasms, you know.”

She collected the youngest guest and drifted away.

“I think I’ll go too,” said the girl with red hair. “I don’t believe in running unnecessary risks and one does hear of such things in the papers. I could tell the minute I set eyes on him that he wasn’t normal.”

Gradually the other guests followed her example, and when Clarence finally returned panting and breathless, only Miss Holding was left by the river bank among the ruins of the feast. Or rather only Miss Holding was apparently left, for William and Ginger had returned to their leafy shelter and were watching with interest to see what turn events would take.

“Well!” said Miss Holding, as Clarence, holding on to his sides with both hands, came panting up to her and sank on to the river bank by her side. “What in the world——?”

“A mistake,” gasped Clarence, “he’d heard—that a man—had had his—pocket picked—thought it—was me—mistake.”

“But why on earth did you run away?” said Miss Holding.

“I—I don’t know,” panted Clarence.

“I remember once reading about a man who did that,” said Miss Holding. “He’d had an awful dream about a policeman coming for him and the next day he took to his heels as soon as he set eyes on one.”

“Yes,” said Clarence, eagerly accepting the explanation, “that was what happened to me. I had a most terrible dream about a policeman last night and as soon as I saw this one coming up to me my—my dream sort of—came over me again and I—I just ran away. Force of association!”

Miss Holding laughed.

“Well. I think I can squeeze you out another cup of tea to refresh you and there’s a lot of plain cake left in spite of the mysterious disappearance of the iced ones.”

Clarence lay back on the river bank and smoked cigarettes and drank tea and ate plain cake. Then, refreshed and invigorated, he began to talk again. He began to talk about himself.

He began to tell her all about his past life—what noble and heroic things he had done and what a noble and heroic character he was. Miss Holding was kind to him. She led him on. The listeners’ spirits fell. This was not how they had meant their vengeance to end—in this pleasant conversation on the river bank. All they seemed to have done was to have cleared the stage for Clarence’s courtship.

And it was quite evident that Clarence had completely forgotten his victim who now lay (presumably) in the throes of concussion. They were full of virtuous horror at the thought. Then they turned and looked at each other—Ginger with the serene, trusting face of one who knows that his leader will evolve some plan, and William with that ferocious scowl which in William betokened deep thought. Then suddenly the scowl cleared and there flashed across his freckled face the light that betokened inspiration.

“I’ll just go down to the river and wash this cup,” Miss Holding was saying. “No, don’t move. As a matter of fact I’d much rather wash it myself. I never let anyone else wash my picnic cups. They don’t do them properly.”

Clarence, nothing loth, remained on the bank in the sunshine while Miss Holding went down to the water. Then—just as Clarence’s thoughts were happily flitting round the attractive figure that he imagined himself to be cutting—suddenly that awful boy’s face appeared through the bushes again making horrible grimaces. The smile dropped from Clarence’s face.

“Go away!” he hissed, putting out a hand to push William’s face back into the bushes.

“I’ve just come from him,” said William. “He’s ever so much worse.”

“It’s not my fault,” hissed Clarence.

“I know it isn’t,” said William sympathetically. “I keep tellin’ ’em it wasn’t really your fault an’ that you didn’t run over him on purpose, but they won’t listen to me. His father’s out lookin’ for you now. He’s an awful man with cross-eyes an’ very long arms. He say he’s going to wring your neck.”

Clarence went pale, but at that moment Miss Holding returned from washing up the cup, and Clarence, relieved at the sudden disappearance of William’s face, made an effort to entertain her again. He told her about the time he had made a century at cricket at his prep. school, but somehow, despite the fact that she was obviously impressed, he couldn’t put any real zest into the narrative. Cross-eyed and with very long arms.

Meanwhile William and Ginger were creeping silently away from the bushes. It was not for nothing that the Outlaws played Red Indians nearly every day. Not even the cracking of a twig betrayed their passage.

Outside on the main road they looked cautiously up and down to see if the policeman (who was presumably thirsting for their blood) was anywhere in sight. To their relief he wasn’t, and to their still greater relief the cross-eyed man was. He was still sitting on the seat outside “The Staff of Life,” contemplating the road crossways with his ferocious smile. William assumed his guileless expression again and they approached him.

“Please, sir,” began William politely, “would you like a few cakes?”

The man glared at him and at Ginger simultaneously, and smiled his ferocious smile.

“Wouldn’t mind,” he admitted, condescendingly.

“Well,” went on William, “there’s a gentleman an’ a lady havin’ a picnic down on the river bank jus’ behind those bushes, an’ the gentleman told me to find someone what’d like the cakes what’s left over an’ send ’em to him to fetch ’em.”

The man rose slowly.

“Well—I don’t mind,” he said, and set off towards the river bank.

Clarence had passed on from the story of the century he had made at his prep. school and was telling her about the time when he’d put a drawing-pin on a master’s chair at his public school.

Miss Holding seemed very much interested. Everything seemed to be going very nicely. His spirits were gradually rising. He didn’t believe that he’d really hurt the boy or that his father was out looking for him. “Cross-eyed and long arms”—it was ridiculous. He wouldn’t be surprised if that wretched boy had made up the whole thing.

Then suddenly he stopped short. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. A man with cross-eyes and long arms and a ferocious smile was coming down the river bank, towards him. It was true. It was the boy’s father coming to wring his neck.

With a yell of terror as loud and shrill as a factory siren Clarence leapt to his feet, leapt over the bushes and rushed down the road. He did not stop running till he reached home.

The cross-eyed man and Miss Holding stood gazing after his retreating figure. Then the cross-eyed man turned, and looking simultaneously at Miss Holding and the bushes said with dispassionate interest:

“’As somethin’ stung him?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to him,” said Miss Holding.

“Well,” said the cross-eyed man, abandoning all attempts to solve the mystery of Clarence’s flight, “they told me that if I came along ’ere they’d give me some cake.”

“You can have all that’s left,” said Miss Holding, “but who told you?”

One of the cross-eyed man’s eyes had espied a movement in the neighbouring bushes. He dived into it and emerged holding William by his collar.

“This ’ere nipper,” he said.

The cross-eyed man had departed with his booty.

William and Ginger sat on the river bank on either side of Miss Holding.

“It’s a pity we gave him all the buns and plain cake,” said Miss Holding, “because I’m sure you’d have liked some.”

“No, thanks,” said William politely, and added with perfect truth, “we—we’ve sort of had enough.”

A gleam of intelligence shone in Miss Holding’s eyes.

“How long have you been in that bush?” she said.

“Quite a long time,” said William, “on and off.”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Holding, “you accounted for the two dozen iced cakes and the pound of biscuits.”

William assumed his guileless expression.

“Well,” he admitted, “Mr. Bergson did kin’ly give us something to eat.”

“Suppose,” said Miss Holding, “that you tell me all about it.” So they told her.

At the end she dried her eyes and said: “It’s perfectly priceless and the best part of it all is that I’m sure it will make him go home.”

And it did.

They had a lovely journey home packed into Miss Holding’s two-seater, and the first person they saw in the village was Mrs. Holding.

“Whatever’s happened to Clarence?” said Mrs. Holding.

“What has?” said Miss Holding.

“He came home in a most peculiar condition,” went on Mrs. Holding. “He said he’d been running all the way. And he took the first train back to town and wants his things sent on after him. He told me not to give his address to anyone.”

“I’m so glad,” said Miss Holding serenely, “because I was getting bored even with pulling his leg.”

“But what happened?” said her mother.

“He just got up and ran home, didn’t he, children?” said Miss Holding dreamily. “I should think that he suffers from spasmodic insanity. These two little boys have been such a help to me this afternoon, mother. Come and let’s find somewhere to have an ice cream, children.”

William hesitated.

“We oughter go’n’ tell Douglas and Henry that we’ve avenged them first,” he said.

“Good,” said Miss Holding. “Go and find them and bring them along too, and we’ll all go and have ices somewhere.”

And as William remarked blissfully that evening, it was one of the jolliest vengeances they’d ever had.