William—the good

THE Outlaws were depressed. Ordinary pursuits had lost their charms. They neither ran nor leapt nor played Red Indians nor ranged the countryside nor carried on guerrilla warfare with the neighbouring farmers. Instead they held meetings in each other’s back gardens, in each other’s shrubberies and summer-houses and tool-sheds, eloquently discoursing on the gravity of the situation, but finding no remedy for it.

The cause of the whole trouble was the fatal attractiveness of William’s sister Ethel. Not that William or any of his friends actually admitted the fatal attractiveness. Ethel was to them an ordinary disagreeable “grown up” with a haughty manner and impossible standards of cleanliness, who happened also to possess a combination of red hair and blue eyes that had a strange and unaccountable effect upon adult members of the opposite sex. They cherished always a stern and bitter contempt for Ethel’s admirers. And now Douglas’s brother George and Ginger’s brother Hector had joined the number. It is impossible to describe the shame and horror the Outlaws felt at this. That any member of any family of theirs should stoop to the supreme indignity of admiring Ethel.... William felt as deeply outraged as any of them. He felt that the infatuation of Douglas’s brother and Ginger’s brother for his sister exposed the whole body of Outlaws to the scorn of their friends and the laughter of their foes.

The possibility of it had hitherto never even occurred to them. Douglas’s brother George and Ginger’s brother Hector, though objectionable in every other way as only elder brothers can be, had at least been satisfactory in that, almost as much as the Outlaws themselves, they held the female sex in scorn. It was Ethel’s influenza that seemed to have made the difference. Ethel had withdrawn from public life for a term of fourteen days or so with the high temperature, the streaming eyes and the settled pessimism which, taken together, constitute Influenza. Evidently the sudden absence of Ethel’s familiar figure from the lanes and roads of her native village awoke strange feelings in the breast of George and Hector, and the emergence of Ethel from her sick room at the end of the fortnight with, as it seemed by contrast with her absence, redoubled beauty, completed their enslavement. They abandoned their old manner of cold indifference to her. They smiled at her ingratiatingly, they bought new ties and new socks, they waited at spots that it was probable that Ethel would pass. Their old friendship with each other cooled. When waiting at the same spot for a word or a glance from Ethel they affected not to see each other. They passed each other in the village street with no other recognition than a scornful curl of the lip. They no longer discussed the football results with each other. They no longer borrowed each other’s bicycle pumps. In the privacy of their home circle they naturally vented all the bitterness of the pangs of love upon their younger brothers.

The Outlaws had met in the summer-house of William’s garden. Henry was away staying with an aunt and only the three deeply involved parties—William, Douglas and Ginger—were present.

“People laughin’ at ’em,” said Douglas bitterly. “I know they are from somethin’ someone said to me yesterday. S’nice for me,” he added with an air of impersonal bitterness, “s’nice for me havin’ a brother what everyone’s laughin’ at.”

“’S jus’ as bad for me,” retorted Ginger. “An’ ’s not only that. It’s makin’ Hector crabbier an’ crabbier at home.”

This reminded Douglas of his latest grievance.

“Took it off me,” he said fiercely, “took it off me and threw it away. An’ it was new too. ’S no good at all now. Threw it into the ditch an’ it’s full of mud now an’ won’t play anyway whatever I do. It’s ru’ned. An’ it was the best mouth-organ I’ve ever had. It made a noise you could hear for miles and miles. And he took it off me ’n’ threw it away. An’ I wasn’t makin’ much noise. I was only practisin’—practisin’ jus’ outside his room. Well, I din’ know he was makin’ up po’try about Ethel. He needn’t’ve come out roarin’ mad at me like that. I bet I’ve got ’s much right to practise my mouth-organ as he’s got writin’ po’try to Ethel.”

“Jus’ ’xactly what Hector did to me ’n my trumpet last night,” said Ginger, torn between impersonal interest in the coincidence and a personal sense of grievance at the memory of his wrongs. “Came out ravin’ mad at me jus’ ’cause I was sittin’ on the top of the stairs practisin’ a trumpet. Came ravin’ mad out of his room an’ took it off me an’ broke it. D’lib’rately broke it. I bet he was writin’ po’try ’bout Ethel too.” He threw William a cold glance. “Seems to me,” he said, “a pity some people can’t stop their sisters goin’ about the world makin’ all this mis’ry. Breakin’ people’s trumpets an’ throwin’ people’s mouth-organs away.”

“Ethel din’t break your trumpets an’ throw your mouth-organs away,” said William with spirit. “Pity some people can’t stop their brothers actin’ so stupid whenever they see a girl.”

“They don’t,” retorted Ginger, “they’ve never done it before. They’ve always acted to girls same as we do—till this set-out with Ethel,” he ended gloomily.

“Well,” said William with odious complacency, “that only proves that Ethel’s nicer ’n all the other girls.”

Their attitude seemed to be inexplicably deteriorating from a common, lofty scorn of the work of the blind god to a partisanship each of his particular family.

“Oh, it does, does it?” said Ginger aggressively. But William was not to be drawn into personal combat on behalf of Ethel. He was, as a matter of fact, a little bored with the whole proceedings. He disapproved of the situation no less than he had always disapproved of it, but meeting in summer-houses and tool-sheds and discoursing on it did not seem to make it any better and meanwhile the days of the holidays were slipping by wasted. Moreover, the day before an uncle of William’s had taken him up to London, and so William was taking for the time being a broader perspective of life than his friends.

“Never mind,” he said pacifically. “There’s other things to do than keep talkin’ about it an’ there’s other people in the world ’sides Ethel an’ your ole George an’ Hector.”

“Yes,” said Douglas bitterly, “you’d say that if it was your mouth-organ, wun’t you?”

“An’ you’d say that if it was your trumpet,” said Ginger. “Huh! I bet I’ve not got other things to do than forget about that trumpet.”

“Come to that,” said William, “Ethel took my bow an’ arrer off me yesterday ’cause it accident’ly came through her window and broke an ole vase, but I don’ keep talkin’ about it.”

But Ginger refused to be drawn from his grievance.

“He oughter be made to give me a new one,” he said, and added with a melancholy sigh, “An’ jus’ to think that wherever there’s grown-up brothers there’s things like this hap’nin’ all over the country what never get into the newspaper an’ England supposed to be a free country—people’s trumpets bein’ took off them an’ broke for no reason at all. What’s that if it’s not tyranny what the history books talk about? All I c’n say is,” he added darkly, “that all those Magna Charter an’ things what the history books say brought Lib’ty to England don’ seem to’ve done me much good.”

But Douglas had at last, like William, tired of the subject.

“What did your uncle take you to see yesterday, William?” he said.

“He took me to a place with a lot of dead animals—stuffed mostly—but some skeletons—an’ a man givin’ lectures on ’em—tellin’ us about them an’ what they were like an’ what they did.”

“Was he int’restin’?” said Ginger temporarily relinquishing his grievance, as no one would listen to it any longer.

“Yes,” said William simply, “he’d got a loose tooth what you could see movin’ when he talked, an’ there was a boy there what thought he could make faces better’n me, but he found out in the end he jolly well couldn’t.”

The atmosphere was certainly lightened by this breath from the outside world. The Outlaws began to think that perhaps they had discussed the Ethel-George-Hector affair to satiety and the description of William’s excursion of yesterday might afford a little more interest.

“Did he give you a nice dinner, William?” said Douglas.

“Crumbs, yes!” said William, “he let me choose what I’d have for dinner an’ I had six ices an’ then there were some things like cakes with heaps ’n’ heaps of cream on an’ I had twelve of them an’ then I had a bottle of orange squash an’ then I had two plates of trifle.”

“No meat nor potatoes?” said Ginger.

“No,” said William, and added in simple explanation, “I c’n get meat an’ potatoes at home.”

There was a silence during which the Outlaws wistfully contemplated the mental vision of William’s dinner. Then Ginger said bitterly: “That’s the best of uncles. You’d never catch an aunt letting you have a dinner like that,” and he added plaintively, “all mine seem to be aunts.”

“What sort of animals were they, William?” asked Douglas.

“All sorts,” said William, “an’”—slowly—“I’ve been thinkin’. It’d be quite easy to get up a show like that but with live animals ’stead of stuffed ones. I know,” he said quickly, forestalling possible objection, “that we’ve often tried shows somethin’ like that but not quite like. We’ve never tried lecturin’ on ’em. We’ve tried havin’ ’em for a circus and we’ve tried sellin’ ’em but we’ve never tried lecturin’ on ’em.”

“Well, who can lecture on ’em?” said Douglas.

“I can,” said William promptly. “I heard that man doin’ it an’ so I bet I know how to do it now.”

“Can you woggle your teeth?” said Douglas.

“It’s not ne’ssary to woggle your teeth lecturin’ on animals,” said William coldly. “’Sides, I bet I could if I wanted to.”

“I could bring my dormouse,” said Ginger.

“An’ there’s my insecks,” said William, “an’ Jumble an’—all our cats.”

“That’s not much,” said Douglas. “How do they get animals for the big places like the Zoo?”

“People lend ’em,” said Ginger, “or give ’em. I’ve often heard of people givin’ ’em. When the Roy’l Fam’ly goes abroad for its holiday people give ’em animals an’ they bring ’em home and give ’em to the Zoo.”

“Seems a funny sort of thing to do,” said Douglas incredulously.

“Well, I’ve read about it in newspapers so it mus’ be true.”

“’F what my father says about newspapers is true,” objected Ginger, “nothin’ in any of ’em’s true.”

“Somethin’ in some of ’em must be,” objected Douglas, “’cause——”

William determinedly dragged the conversation back from the possible truth or untruth of newspapers to the matter in hand.

“Well, ’bout these animals,” he said. “We’ll have it in our summer-house an’ I’ll lecture on ’em an’ we’ll have all our cats an’ Jumble an’ we’ll c’leck some more insecks an’ we’ll have Ginger’s dormouse an’ we’ll get people to lend us other animals or p’raps give us ’em.”

“Who?” said Douglas gloomily.

“Who what?”

“Who you think’ll give us anythin’, much less an animal.”

“Oh, do shut up,” said William irritably, “carryin’ on jus’ as if nothin’ ever turned out right.”

“Well, nothin’ ever does,” said Douglas, hotly defending his pessimism. “Look at the time you——”

“Oh, both of you shut up,” said Ginger, “an’ let’s go an’ fetch the dormouse.”

They passed the drawing-room where Ethel sat with George on one side of her and Hector on the other. To be quite frank Ethel was a minx who, while remaining always provokingly heart-whole, liked to have as many admirers as possible around her.

Silence and a certain depression fell on the group as the younger brothers of it passed the window.

“He drove me half mad with a beastly mouth-organ yesterday,” groaned George, “till I took it from him and chucked it into the pond.”

“Same here with a trumpet,” said Hector, and added severely, “seems to me extraordinary what boys are like nowadays. I’m quite sure we were never like that.”

“Well, I’m sure no boy ever anywhere was half as bad as William,” said Ethel with a sigh. “He broke a vase that was one of my greatest treasures yesterday with his bow and arrow. He really is the worst of the lot.”

Both Hector and George made an inarticulate murmur that might either have been half-hearted protest or deep sympathy, but neither of them seriously disputed the statement.

“Ginger’s pretty bad, though,” said Hector with a judicial air; “last week he had one of those awful things that are supposed to sound like a dog barking.”

“William had a thing,” said Ethel dreamily, “that was supposed to sound like a bird chirping only it didn’t. It sounded like—well, I don’t know what it sounded like, but it went through and through my head.”

“What a shame,” said Hector and George simultaneously in passionate indignation. Their tone implied that they were lusting for William’s blood.

“After all,” continued Ethel happily, burbling on in the serene consciousness that it didn’t really matter what she said because every single word of it would be heavenly wisdom in the ears of the infatuated youths, “after all a bird’s chirp is quite a nice soft sound. I’m very fond of birds.”

“What sort do you like best?” said George and Hector simultaneously. They glared at each other suspiciously as they spoke. Each had decided to give Ethel a present of her favourite bird in as ornamental a cage as his means would allow on her next birthday, and each had a horrible suspicion that the other had the same project in mind.

“I think that parrots are rather sweet,” said Ethel. “Don’t you?”

Neither spoke, because neither did consider parrots rather sweet and both were having sudden misgivings about the price of parrots.... Didn’t parrots cost an awful lot of money—a matter of pounds, unless, of course, one could meet a sailor just returned from foreign parts with one, and probably even he would demand its market price. A canary now ... both had hoped she’d say a canary. Both had had pleasing visions of themselves presenting Ethel with a very yellow canary in a very ornate cage adorned with a very blue bow ... the vision included Ethel’s delight, her cries of rapture, her sudden realisation that nowhere else would she meet with such tenderness, such understanding, such undying devotion as in this hero who remembered even what sort of bird she liked best, who—anyway, it was all very romantic and there was a beautiful wedding and they lived happily ever after. When the canary was dead, of course, she had it stuffed and it was always one of her dearest treasures. But a parrot ... no, one could never wax sentimental over a parrot. A parrot would never surely inaugurate a romance.

“You can teach it such jolly things to say,” went on Ethel. “I remember once a friend of mine had to go into quarantine for measles or something like that and a friend of hers gave her a parrot to be company for her. He gave it her in rather a nice way, too. He put it on the garden seat on the lawn and sent in a letter to say that if she would look out of her window she would see a little friend who had come to keep her company. Or something like that. She was always devoted to that parrot.”

Both George and Hector checked an impulse to ask whether she married him. Each would have asked it had the other not been present, but there are certain questions which are more effective when asked without an audience. George and Hector walked home together but in silence. The only thing they wanted to talk about was Ethel, but they didn’t want to talk about Ethel to each other. Hector decided that if George won her he would go out to Africa to shoot big game. George, being of a less subtle nature, had decided that if Hector won her he would drown himself in the village pond. But neither was really uneasy because neither thought that the other would win her. After all, thought George, she hadn’t looked at Hector in that meaning way she’d looked at him when she said good-bye, and, after all, thought Hector, she hadn’t pressed George’s hand as she’d pressed his on parting....

They met the Outlaws on their way to William’s house reverently carrying among them what was to be the star turn of the lecture, Ginger’s dormouse.

The Outlaws and Ethel’s suitors looked at each other coldly and without recognition as they passed, but really the Outlaws had the best of the encounter because they could turn round and make grimaces expressive of scorn and derision at the back of their foes, and because they knew that their foes had an uneasy suspicion that they were doing this but considered it inconsistent with their dignity to look back to make sure.

It was the next morning. Ethel was staring wildly at a letter she held in her hand.

“Daphne’s got measles and I was with her last night. What shall I do?”

“You’ll have to go into quarantine, I’m afraid, dear,” said her mother placidly.

“My goodness!” said Ethel in a tone of horror and despair, and feeling the exclamation inadequate, changed it to “Great Heavens!”

After a pause indicative of deep feeling she continued: “Why, only yesterday I was telling George and Hector about the time Lucy Foxe had it and what’s-his-name sent her a parrot. It seems as if just mentioning the thing had brought it on me. Well, I shall die of boredom, that’s all. Do you mean to say that I’ve got to stay in the room all the time.”

“Yes, dear,” said her mother and added placidly, “there’s quite a nice view.”

Ethel went to the window. From it she could see Ginger, Douglas and William clustered round the dormouse’s cage by the side of the lawn.

“That’s a lovely view, isn’t it?” she said bitterly.

William had received the news that Ethel would have to be in quarantine for measles without emotion or indeed without interest of any sort. He had no time or thought or sympathy to spare for Ethel. A more terrible tragedy had happened than Ethel’s quarantine. The dormouse had died in the night. There was no sign to show how it had died. It was certainly not starvation. It had died in the midst of plenty. There were no marks of violence on the body. Douglas had a theory that some of the berries picked promiscuously in the garden for its nourishment yesterday by Ginger from any tree or bush that provided berries of any sort had not agreed with it. Ginger hotly contested this theory.

“That’s what berries are for,” he said indignantly. “That’s what Nachur provides berries on trees for—to feed animals with.”

William interrupted the discussion to suggest that as long as hygiene should allow, the dead body of the dormouse should be exhibited as a stuffed one. “No one’ll know it isn’t,” he added hopefully, “not without cuttin’ it open and we won’t let ’em do that. We’ll jus’ say it’s a stuffed dormouse an’ I’ll talk about it a bit, tellin’ about its habits—sleepin’ an’ such like, an’ p’r’aps it won’t be so bad.”

His optimism was unconvinced and unconvincing. He knew that no stuffed dormouse could compensate for the sight of Ginger’s dormouse going round and round on its little wheel. They took the dead body to the summer-house, leaving William alone on the lawn gloomily considering the prospects of his lecture thus deprived of its star turn.

He did not at first see Ginger’s brother Hector who had come round to the side of the house looking pale and distraught.

“This is terrible news,” began Hector.

William was touched. Somehow he hadn’t expected this kindness, this understanding, from Hector.

“Yes, isn’t it,” he acquiesced despondently, “terrible.”

“She seemed all right yesterday,” continued Hector.

“She was,” affirmed William, “she was quite all right yesterday. I think it was eatin’ those berries.”

“What berries?” said the young man.

“Those berries Ginger gave her.”

“D—did Ginger give her some berries?” stammered Hector aghast.

“Yes—all sorts of different coloured kinds of berries what he found about the garden. And she ate them all.”

The horror of the young man is indescribable. That his young brother—his young brother should be the cause of it....

“B-but,” he stammered, “I—I heard in the village it was measles.”

“No,” said William, “it’s worse than measles. She’s dead. She died in the night.”

“What?” screamed the young man.

“She’s dead,” said William, somewhat flattered if a little surprised by the deep emotion shown by the visitor. “When Ginger ’n’ me came to clean out her cage this mornin’ we found her dead.”

“Clean out her c——! What the dickens are you talking about?”

“Our mouse,” said William simply; “weren’t you?”

The visitor obviously controlled himself with an effort.

“No,” he said with venomous coldness, “I was talking about your sister Ethel.”

“Oh, Ethel——” said William carelessly. “Oh no, it’s not measles. It’s somethin’ else. I’ve forgotten its name.”

Again anxiety clouded the young man’s brow.

“N-nothing serious, I hope?” he said.

“Dunno,” said William, “might be, I suppose. I simply can’t understand it dyin’ like that. I mean I’ve always thought that if berries were pois’nous, an’mals din’ eat them. I always thought that an’mals had some special way of tellin’ pois’nous stuff.”

Again the young man restrained himself with difficulty from inflicting actual physical injury upon William.

“Is your sister allowed visitors?” he asked.

“Ethel?” said William as if bringing his mind with an effort from an affair of vital and universal importance to one of no significance at all. “No. She’s got the sort of illness that she’s not ill with, but she’s not got to see people. It’s got a name but I’ve forgot it. It looked all right last night. It ate Ginger’s berries about six o’clock an’ it looked all right when we left it. If you want to know what I think, I think that someone’s poisoned it. I think——”

“You mean she’s in quarantine?” interrupted Ginger’s brother Hector.

“No,” said William irritably, “I keep tellin’ you—she’s dead.”

“Shut up about your beastly mouse,” commanded Ginger’s brother Hector fiercely. “I don’t care two pins for your beastly mouse——”

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you?” muttered William darkly.

“No, I don’t. It’s your sister I’m talking about. You mean that she’s in quarantine.”

“Yes,” said William, “that’s the name of what she’s got. Dun’t seem to have made much difference to her ’cept makin’ her temper a bit worse than usual and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

Hector turned on his heel contemptuously and strode away, his brow drawn into a thoughtful frown. He’d remembered suddenly what Ethel had said about the parrot. He’d get a parrot. He’d write a note such as she said her friend’s friend had written about a little friend to keep her company, and leave the parrot in the garden as her friend’s friend had done. She had seemed to think it was a beautiful thought. He’d do it ... it would, he was sure, touch her deeply. If only that wretched fellow George didn’t think of it too. He’d hurry home and do it quickly before George thought of it. He met George on the road, acknowledged him with distant hauteur and passed on his way.

William remained upon the garden bench plunged in gloom. The death of the dormouse had imperilled all his plans. He felt that he could have lectured indefinitely upon the dormouse as it went round and round on its little wheel or even as it blinked at them or ate its food, but a stiff, dead dormouse even camouflaged as a “stuffed” exhibit was quite a different affair. It would, he was afraid, fall very flat indeed. But William was never the boy to own himself beaten. He was searching about in his mind for some other exhibit to take the place of the live dormouse when the shadow of George fell upon him and the voice of George broke upon his meditations.

“Well, I’m very sorry to hear this,” began George.

William’s heart warmed to him. Here, at any rate, was sympathy....

“Yes,” he said, “it was an awful shock to us all to find her dead this mornin’.”

“What?” screamed George.

Explanation followed. It appeared that George also did not care two pins about the beastly mouse, and they parted coldly. George walked quickly down the road. He’d suddenly remembered what Ethel had said about the parrot yesterday. He’d get her one.... He’d give it her in the same way as she said that her friend’s friend had given one to her. She’d seemed to think that there was something very graceful about it. It would please her. He’d hurry home now so as to do it before Hector thought of it....

William rejoined the others in the summer-house.

“Takin’ your mouth-organs an’ trumpets off you,” he said bitterly, “an’ carin’ more about someone bein’ ill than someone dyin’. An’ she’s not even reely ill, either. If I get a chance,” he added darkly, “I’ll make ’em buy you new mouth-organs an’ trumpets, an’ make her give me back my bow an’ arrer.”

“Well, you aren’t likely to get a chance,” said the victims without much gratitude, “an’ the thing to do now is to try’n find a few more animals for lecturin’ on. A dead dormouse an’ a few insecks isn’t much.”

William considered this a minute in silence, then he said:

“Tell you what. We’ll put up a notice askin’ people to lend us an’mals or give us an’mals like what they do to the Zoo.”

This suggestion seemed to infuse new life into them. Their gloom departed.

“Who’ll write it an’ where’ll we put it?” said Ginger.

“I’ll write it,” said William, “an’ we’ll put it on the side gate-post. Quite a lot of people go along the lane by the side gate. We’ll put it up an’ then we’ll go out’n look for some more int’restin’ insecks.”

“If we all go out,” objected Ginger, “there’ll be no one to take the an’mals when they bring them.”

The Outlaws tried to visualise a queue of people waiting by the side gate each in charge of a rare and interesting animal, but even to their optimism the vision lacked reality.

“Of course,” admitted William, “it’s jus’ possible that no one’ll see it—at least no one what’s got an an’mal or at least no one what’s got an an’mal what they want to lend us. It doesn’t hardly seem worth while any of us stayin’ behind jus’ on the chance when we might be out catchin’ int’restin’ insecks.”

“Let’s put somethin’ on the notice,” suggested Ginger, “tellin’ ’em to take ’em to the summer-house an’ leave ’em there.”

“Yes,” said William sarcastically, “an’ havin’ ’em eatin’ up or fightin’ our insecks. You don’ know what sort of wild creatures they may bring—all fightin’ each other an’ eatin’ each other up in the summer-house. ’Sides, you can see the summer-house from the road an’ we’ll be gettin’ ’em all stolen by thieves what see them as they pass. No, I vote we shut up the summer-house while we’re away an’ put somethin’ on the notice tellin’ ’em where to leave them. They can leave ’em somewhere where they can’t be seen from the road.” He pondered the problem in silence for a few seconds, frowning thoughtfully, then his face cleared. “I know ... we’ll tell ’em to put ’em on the seat in the back garden, ’cause no one can see that from the road an’ if it’s somethin’ wild they can tie it up.”

This seemed to the Outlaws an excellent solution of the problem, and William went indoors to write out the notice. Soon he emerged carrying it and wearing the complacent smile of successful authorship.

“Here it is,” he said with modest pride. “All right, isn’t it?”

They gathered round to look. It read as follows:

The other Outlaws were less impressed by this than was its author. Ginger voiced their feelings.

“Good deal about you in it,” he commented, “an’ not much about us.”

“Well, who’s the lecturer?” demanded William with spirit, “me or you?”

“Yes,” said Ginger, “an’ who works jus’ as hard as you or harder gettin’ things ready?”

William soothed their feelings by adding a footnote to his notice:

Conciliated by this they helped William to pin the notice on the side gate and sallied forth with him in search of insects.

A short time before their return, Hector appeared looking very hot and breathless. He held a parrot in a cage. He had cycled frenziedly into the nearest town for it and he had spent practically his last penny on it. He came round to the back of the house. Ethel’s window was, he believed, at the back of the house. There he found a garden seat conveniently situated. He put the parrot upon that and tiptoed to the side door. He had decided to do the whole graceful action as Ethel’s friend’s friend had done it. If Ethel was touched at second hand, as it were, by the action as performed by her friend’s friend, how much more would she be touched when it was actually done to her.

He slipped a letter quietly through the letter-box. In the letter he said that if she would look out of the window she would see upon the garden seat a little friend who had come to keep her company. Then, still hot and breathless, but smiling fatuously to himself, he tiptoed away.

Hardly had he disappeared when the Outlaws returned. The expedition had not been, upon the whole, a great success. They had only found one species of caterpillar that William did not already possess. They carried it carefully in a little tin which contained also a large amount of greenery for its nourishment.

“Well, we’ve not found much,” said Douglas despondently.

“No,” said William, “but—but someone might’ve brought an animal for us while we’ve been away.”

“Yes, an’ they mightn’t,” said Douglas. “I bet you anythin’ that we find that ole garden seat as empty as we left it.”

“An’ I bet we find somethin’ put on it,” said William with gallant but unconvinced optimism.

They turned the corner of the house and stood there transfixed for a moment with rapture and amazement.

There upon the garden seat was a parrot in a cage.

Recovering from their paralysis they rushed to it and bore it off in triumph to the summer-house.

“Well,” said William deeply touched and with his faith in human nature entirely restored. “I do call that decent of somebody.”

“An’ no label on,” said Ginger, “that means we can keep it. They’ve given it.”

They crowded round their acquisition, still half incredulous of their amazing good fortune.

“Someone must’ve come down the lane an’ seen the notice,” said William, “an’ then gone home to fetch their parrot to give us. P’raps it’d belonged to some relation what’d died an’ they din’t know what to do with it or p’raps”—hopefully—“it uses such bad language that they din’t like to have it in the house.”

As if intensely amused by the idea the parrot uttered a shrill scream of laughter and when its paroxysm of mirth was over said with deep feeling: “Go away. I hate you.”

This so delighted the Outlaws that they crowded round it again hoping it would repeat it, but though it would whistle and make the sound of a cork coming out of a bottle and utter a most offensive snigger, it refused to oblige the Outlaws by telling them again that it hated them.

“Wonder what they eat,” said Ginger still gazing enraptured at their new pet.

“Well, don’t you start givin’ it any of your berries,” said William sternly. Then looking round: “I say, where’s that tin with my caterpillar in? Who’s took it?”

“You left it on the garden seat when we fetched the parrot in,” said Douglas, “I saw you.”

They hurried out to the garden seat.

It was empty.

“Well, of all the cheek,” said William indignantly, “someone’s pinched it.”

“Never mind it,” said Ginger, “we’ve got a parrot. What’s a caterpillar when we’ve got a parrot?”

“I want that caterpillar,” said William doggedly, “I’d thought of a lot of things to say about it an’ I’m goin’ to get another. Come on. Let’s shut up the parrot in the summer-house where no one can steal it an’ all go out to look for another caterpillar.”

Without much enthusiasm they agreed.

“An’ what I’d like to know,” said William darkly, “is where that caterpillar is.”

That caterpillar was as a matter of fact in Ethel’s bedroom, being flung, tin box and all, into the fireplace in a fit of temper. A housemaid had found Hector’s note on the mat and taken it up to Ethel’s room. Ethel’s room did not happen to overlook the garden. She read the note with a smile almost as fatuous as Hector’s. She remembered what she had told them about the parrot. Suppose he’d remembered the story and brought her a parrot. “A little friend to keep you company.” ... It might, of course, be a kitten or a puppy.... Anyway, it was very, very sweet of him. She opened her door and, still smiling, called to the housemaid who was sweeping the stairs.

“Emma, will you go out and bring me something that you’ll find upon the garden seat.”

Emma went out and returned with a small tin. Ethel’s smile faded.

“Was this all that there was upon the garden seat?” she asked.

“Yes, miss. There was nothing else.”

Ethel returned to her room and opened the tin. Inside were several leaves and a big furry caterpillar. There was nothing else.

“Oh, that’s his idea of being funny, is it?” said Ethel viciously. “Well, it’s not mine.”

And it was then that she flung the tin furiously into the fireplace.

At that very moment had she but known it, the faithful George was tiptoeing softly round the house bearing a parrot in a cage. He too was hot and breathless. He too had cycled into the neighbouring market town for the parrot. He too had spent practically his last penny on it. He too had decided to leave it on the garden seat and drop into the letter-box a note about a “little friend to keep her company.” He entered the back garden. There was a convenient garden seat. He put down the cage upon it, slipped his note into the letter-box and went home smiling to himself. How pleased she’d be about it.... It would give him a pull over that ass Hector. Near the gate he met the Outlaws carrying a tin. They passed each other as usual without any sign of recognition. Both Ginger and Hector and Douglas and George, whatever stage of cordiality or the reverse their relations might have attained at home, made it a point of honour to pass each other on the public highway as if they had never seen each other before. At present relations at home were not cordial.

“Smilin’,” muttered Douglas bitterly when he had passed. “Yes, ’s all right for him to go about smilin’—takin’ people’s mouth-organs off them an’ ru’nin’ them.”

“Funny we only caught one of those caterpillars again,” said William meditatively.

“Well, one’s enough to lecture on, I suppose,” said Douglas rather irritably. The sight of the fatuously smiling George had reminded him of his grievances. “I’d like to see someone take somethin’ of his away,” he went on, little knowing how literally his wish was to be fulfilled.

“An’ I’d saved up for that trumpet,” said Ginger. “I don’t s’pose I’ll ever—what’s the matter?”

William, who was walking in front, had stopped suddenly on turning the corner of the house and was staring in blank amazement, eyes and mouth wide open.

“There—there’s another parrot on the seat,” he said faintly. “Seems—seems sort of impossible but—look!”

They looked. Like William’s, their eyes and mouths opened wide in blank amazement.

“It is, isn’t it?” said William still faintly as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “It is another parrot, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Ginger also rather faintly, “it cert’nly is. Someone else must’ve passed the notice. Seems sort of funny they should all be givin’ us parrots, dun’t it?”

With a certain dazed bewilderment beneath their ecstasy the Outlaws approached this new “gift.”

“Let’s take it in the summer-house an’ see if it talks to the other,” said William.

They took it into the summer-house and the other parrot greeted it with a sardonic laugh. The latest comer gazed round the summer-house with a supercilious air and finally ejaculated “Great Scott!”

Ginger drew a breath of delight but William, in whom familiarity with parrots was breeding contempt and who was becoming over critical, merely said, “If that’s the worst bad language it knows it’s not goin’ to be very int’restin’.” Then he looked about him. “Where’s that tin with the caterpillar in?”

“You left it on the bench again, William;” said Douglas.

They went out and stood around the empty bench.

“Well,” said William “it’s—it’s mos’ mysterious. Someone’s pinched this one too.”

Upstairs Ethel was hurling the second caterpillar and tin furiously into the fireplace.

“Very funny, aren’t they?” she was saying. “‘A little friend to keep you company.’ And two caterpillars. Oh, yes, it’s a great joke, isn’t it. All right, my young friends, all right.”

“Well, all I can say is,” William was saying, “that it’s one of the mos’ mysterious things what’ve ever happened to me in all my life. Two parrots give me an’ two tins of caterpillars stole off me in the same mornin’ ... but ’s no good goin’ out to find another now. There’s not time. We’ll jus’ have to have the lecture without it.”

It was late afternoon. Hector, still wearing his fatuous smile, came round the corner of the house. He’d expected a note of thanks before now. He felt that he couldn’t wait a minute longer without hearing an account of Ethel’s rapturous glee on the receipt of his present. He could imagine it, of course, but he wanted to hear someone telling him about it. “She was delighted” ... “So kind of you” ... “She was deeply touched” ... “She’s writing to you now” ... “She’s longing for the time when her quarantine will be over and she can see you and thank you properly,” ... were a few of the phrases that occurred to him....

A housemaid opened the door.

“I just—er—called to see if the parrot was settling down all right,” said Hector in an ingratiating manner.

“The parrot?” said the housemaid in surprise.

“Yes, the parrot that arrived this morning.”

“No parrot arrived this morning, sir,” said the housemaid.

It was Hector’s turn to be surprised.

“W-what?” he said, “are—are you sure.”

“Quite sure, sir,” said the housemaid. “There’s no parrot in the house at all.”

“Not—er—not in Miss Brown’s room,” said Hector desperately.

“No, sir, I’ve just been there.”

Dazedly Hector walked away. Of course the thing was as plain as daylight. What a fool he’d been to leave the thing out there on the seat. Some tramp had come back to the back door and run off with it. And he’d spent all the money he’d got on it.... Wasn’t it the rottenest—— He stopped and stared. He’d wandered disconsolately round to the other side of the house and there, just outside the closed door of the summer-house, stood William with a parrot in a cage.

The lecture was over. The Outlaws had collected a small and unruly audience of children who’d nothing else to do but no one had enjoyed it except William, who had lectured to his own entire satisfaction and was now feeling tired and hoarse. He was, moreover, beginning to find his parrots more of a liability than an asset. All attempts at closer acquaintance with them had been resisted so promptly that both Ginger and Douglas had had to improvise bandages for bleeding fingers from very grimy handkerchiefs, and William’s nose had been bitten almost in two while he was gazing fondly at his new possessions through the bars. Also there was the economic side of the question to consider. William had been down to the village to ascertain the price of parrot food and had come back aghast at the result.

“We simply can’t afford to keep ’em,” he said.

“Well, I know I can’t. I’d have nothin’ left for myself at all out of the bit of pocket money they give me.”

“Can’t they live on scraps an’ things?” said Ginger.

“Oh, yes,” said William, “I guess you’d like to try feedin’ ’em on pois’nous berries same as what you did the dormouse.”

“Well, it was mine, wasn’t it?” said Ginger with spirit.

“Yes, but this isn’t,” said William, “this was given me to lecture on an’ I’m not goin’ to have it killed with pois’nous berries by you.”

“What are you goin’ to do with it, then?” said Ginger, “if you say you can’t buy it proper food?”

“I don’t know yet,” said William irritably.

Like most other lecturers he was suffering the reaction from his expenditure of eloquence.

At this point the two parrots began to hold a screaming contest till William was forced to take George’s outside and close the door, whereupon the clamour died down. It was at this moment that Hector came round the corner of the house. His first impulse was to hurl himself upon William and accuse him of stealing his parrot. But on approaching nearer he saw that it was not his parrot. It was not his parrot and it was not his cage. His expression changed. He approached William in a manner that can only be described as ingratiating.

“Whose is that parrot, William?” he asked pleasantly.

“Mine,” said William shortly.

“W-where did you get it?” said Hector still more pleasantly.

“Someone gave it to me,” said William.

There was a short silence, then Hector said slowly:

“I was just wanting a parrot like that.”

“Were you?” said William.

Hector cleared his throat and then said in a manner that was more ingratiating than ever:

“They’re rather dangerous, you know, and very expensive to feed.”

William secretly agreed with both these statements, but he gave no sign of having even heard them. A shade of nervousness crept into Hector’s ingratiating manner.

“I—I’m willing to buy that parrot from you, William,” he offered.

William turned a steady eye upon him.

“How much for?” he said sternly.

Hector hesitated. He hadn’t any money to speak of. With a different type of child, of course, one might—— He’d always disliked William far more than the other Outlaws.

“They’re not expensive things, of course,” he said carelessly, hoping that William did not know their value, “and they’re a lot of trouble. One must take into account that they’re delicate birds and one has to——”

William interrupted. A sudden gleam had come into William’s eye.

“I tell you what I’ll do,” he said, “I’ll swop it with you.”

“What for?” said Hector hopefully.

The gleam in William’s eye became brighter, more steely.

“I want to give Ginger a present,” he said carelessly. “I want to give him one of those nice trumpets. The very nice ones. You can get ’em at Foley’s in the village. They cost six shillings. I’ll swop it with you for one of those trumpets to give to Ginger.”

William’s freckled face was absolutely expressionless as he made this offer. For a minute there was murder in Hector’s eye. He went purple, controlled himself with an effort, then after a minute’s silence full of unspoken words, gulped and said:

“Very well. You wait here.”

Soon he was back with the trumpet. He hurled it at William with a gesture of anger and contempt, seized the parrot cage and disappeared. He was going to take it home, write a beautiful little note, fasten it to the ring, and deliver it in person at the front door. He wasn’t going to repeat his mistake of leaving it anywhere where it could be stolen before it reached the beloved’s hands.

Inside the summer-house the Outlaws were dancing a dance of exultation and triumph around Ginger who was producing loud but discordant strains from his magnificent new trumpet.

This festive gathering was, however, broken by the sudden advent of George who, like Hector, had not been able to resist the temptation of coming round to receive a detailed description of Ethel’s delight. Like Hector he had been informed that no parrot had entered the house that day. He had then caught a glimpse of the Outlaws in the summer-house leaping wildly about a parrot in a cage to the mingled strains of some devilish musical instrument and the shrill sardonic chuckles of a parrot. He hurled himself in upon them in fury.

“You little thieves,” he panted, seizing William by both ears. “What do you mean by taking my parrot?”

William firmly but with great dignity freed his ears, then as firmly and with as much dignity replied:

“’S not your parrot. ’S ours.”

George looked at the parrot and his jaw dropped. William was right. It wasn’t his parrot. It wasn’t his cage.

He gulped. His anger departed. A certain propitiatory note came into his voice as he began to make tentative enquiries as to the exact value William set upon his parrot. It appeared that though William valued his parrot very highly indeed, still in order to oblige George he was willing to exchange it for a mouth-organ, one of the six-shilling ones from Foley’s, because he happened to want to give one to Douglas as a present. George, after displaying all the symptoms of an imminent apoplectic fit, went off to buy the mouth-organ, returned with it, flung it furiously at the Outlaws and stalked off with his parrot.

William turned to the other Outlaws.

“I mus’ say,” he admitted, “that a lot of extraordinary things seem to be hap’nin’ to us to-day. People givin’ away parrots an’ other people wantin’ ’em an’—let’s go’n’ see what he’s goin’ to do with it.”

At a discreet distance they followed George round and out of the side gate. George was going to take the parrot in at the front door, ring the bell, and deliver it in person. He wasn’t going to run the risk of having it stolen a second time.... And then, to his amazement, he saw Hector blithely approaching from the opposite direction also carrying a parrot in a cage. Hector had been home, had written a graceful little note, attached it to the ring of the cage, and was now coming to present it to Ethel. They met at the gate. Their mouths slowly opened. Their eyes bulged in fury and amazement as each recognised his own parrot and cage in the hand of the other. Simultaneously they shouted “So you stole my parrot.”

The Outlaws watched in mystified delight. A shabby-looking man who happened to be passing also stopped to form an interested audience.

“It’s not your parrot ... I say you stole mine.”

“I did not ... that’s my parrot you’re holding.”

“You heard her say she’d like a parrot and you——”

“You couldn’t afford one yourself so you pinched mine and——”

“A jolly good thing I’ve caught you——”

“I did not——”

“You did——”

“You’re a liar and a thief.”

“I’m not. You are.”

“I’m what?”

“A liar and a thief.”

“Say that again.”

“A liar and a thief.”

“Are you referring to me or to you?”

“To you.”

“Well, say it again.”

“You’re a liar and a thief.”

Feeling words inadequate, but finding the cage he was carrying an impediment to threatening gestures, George turned round, thrust it into William’s arms with a curt “take that,” and began to roll up his sleeves. Hector turned to the shabby-looking man, who stood just behind him, thrust his cage into his arms, and began to roll up his sleeves. The next minute George and Hector, who attended the same boxing class and knew each other’s style by heart, were giving a splendid display upon the high road, with bare fists. From the mélange came at regular intervals the words “thief” and “liar,” “you did,” “I didn’t.”

It was clear that in the shabby-looking man’s breast there raged a struggle between duty and pleasure—the pleasure of watching the fight and the duty of providing for himself the necessities of life. Duty won, and he crept softly away with his parrot and cage, and was never seen or heard of in that locality again.

William stood for a minute deep in thought, then went quietly indoors with his parrot and cage, leaving Hector and George still deaf and blind to everything but the joy of fighting.

William, still very thoughtful, carried his cage up to Ethel’s room.

“I won’t come in, Ethel,” he said softly, “’cause of catching your quarantine illness, but I’ve brought you a little present. I heard you’d said you’d like a parrot an’ I’ve brought you one.”

Ethel and his mother came to the door and stared at him in amazement. Freckled, stern, inscrutable, he handed the cage to Ethel.

“B-but wherever did you get it, William?” said Mrs. Brown.

“A man gave it me,” said William.

“A man gave it you?” gasped Mrs. Brown.

“Yes,” said William, his face and voice entirely devoid of any expression. “A man in the road gave it me. He just put it in my arms an’ said: ‘Take that.’ He gave it me.”

“Well!” gasped Mrs. Brown, “isn’t that extraordinary! But there are a lot of eccentric people about and”—vaguely—“one’s always reading of queer things in the newspapers.”

Ethel was deeply touched. That William should bring his present straight to her. That it should be William who remembered her lightly expressed wish for a parrot which those two—well, there weren’t any words strong enough for them—had only ridiculed.... She felt drawn to William as never before.

“How—how very kind of you, William,” she said. “I—you can have your bow and arrow back. I’m sorry I took it from you. It’s—it’s very kind of you to bring me the parrot.”

William received his bow and arrow with perfunctory thanks. Just at that moment the housemaid came up with a note. Ethel tore it open.

“Why, it’s all right,” she said. “Daphne hasn’t got measles after all. The rash has all gone, and the doctor says she’s not got it at all, and they want me to go to tea, and they’ve got that artist coming—you know, the one that said that I was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in his life, and—— Oh, how jolly. I’ll start at once.”

“May Douglas and Ginger and me walk with you just as far as there, Ethel?” said William.

“Certainly, William,” said Ethel in her melted mood.

A few minutes later Ethel, accompanied by William, Ginger and Douglas, set out from the front door. William carried his bow and arrow, Ginger his magnificent new trumpet, and Douglas his magnificent new mouth-organ. They walked very jauntily.

At the gate Hector and George came forward to greet them. The fight was just over. It had been indecisive. They were equally matched and knew each other’s style of boxing too well ever to be taken by surprise, so the fight had finally been abandoned by mutual consent. At the unexpected sight of Ethel emerging from the front door escorted by the Outlaws, they pulled themselves together and hastened forward with smiles of greeting. Ethel passed them head in air without any sign of recognition. They stood gaping after her in helpless bewilderment. The Outlaws turned back to look at them, Ginger and Douglas raised trumpet and mouth-organ to their lips and uttered defiant strains, William waved his bow and arrow in careless greeting, then they turned back and went on their way accompanying Ethel, an indescribable swagger in their walk.