William—the good

THE atmosphere in William’s home was electric, or, as William put it, everyone seemed to be in a bait but him. Uncle Frederick was staying with them, and not only Uncle Frederick but also a distant cousin, many times removed, called Flavia. Flavia is a romantic name, but not as romantic as its owner. Flavia was tall and slim and dark with deep violet eyes. Not that William thought her romantic. He did not even realise that she was tall and slim and dark with deep violet eyes. To William she was merely an ordinary and quite unattractive grown-up. He had tested her intelligence and found it entirely lacking (she did not, for instance, know the difference between a Poplar Hawk and a Vaporer, nor did she take the slightest interest in the records of his prize “conker”). He felt in her, however, the aloof impersonal interest he felt for all the girls whom Robert admired. For Robert admired Flavia. At sight of her he had forgotten all his other ladye loves (and they had been numerous), had forgotten even that he had always intended to marry a small girl with golden hair and blue eyes, and had gazed on her even while the introduction was taking place with a lovelorn gaze that riveted William’s attention at once. William liked to keep up with Robert’s love affairs, and on account of their fleeting nature, this was less easy than it sounds. As he watched the introduction he mentally transferred the focus of Robert’s affection from the golden-haired girl he’d been taking on the river last week to this new arrival. He was on the whole relieved to find her devoid of intelligence. It always vaguely shocked him to find intelligence—a knowledge of insects or interest in conker battles—in inamoratas of Robert’s. It seemed such a waste of it.

It might be supposed that the course of true love would run very smooth indeed with the inamorata beneath the same roof, but it didn’t. It didn’t because of Uncle Frederick. Uncle Frederick needed a perpetual audience. Uncle Frederick accompanied Flavia and Robert wherever they went. He insisted on walking in the middle and he talked all the time. He talked about his stamp collection. He had a collection of ten thousand stamps, and he was never perfectly happy except when he was talking about them. He knew his collection by heart and he could describe each one of them in detail. He could—in fact he did—talk about his collection for hours and hours and hours and hours without stopping. He took for granted that Robert and Flavia liked to have him with them wherever they went and so he always went with them. He went for walks with them. He went for picnics with them. He went on the river with them. He went out to tea with them. He played tennis with them. He sat in the garden with them. And always he talked to them about his stamp collection. Sometimes in the evening he read aloud to them from a book called “The Joy of Stamp Collecting.”

They were sitting on a seat in the garden—Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side.

“I wish you could see it,” Uncle Frederick was saying; “it’s quite an unique collection. Did I ever tell you how I got that Japanese stamp?”

“Yes,” said Robert gloomily.

Robert had an uneasy suspicion that he could see William’s face through the laurel bushes, framed in its feathered Indian head-dress, wearing its unholy grin.

“I’d like to have brought the collection with me,” went on Uncle Frederick, “but of course it’s very large and cumbersome. And I’m afraid of thieves. It’s extraordinary how thieves do get to hear of these things, and of course they’re very cunning. Did I tell you about the man I met who’d had a very rare complete set of Italian stamps taken out of his pocket-book during a journey without feeling anything?”

“Yes,” said Robert.

Uncle Frederick threw him a suspicious glance. He was almost sure he’d never told Robert that story. Slightly disconcerted, he paused a minute, then pulling himself together continued: “I keep them at home in a specially constructed safe. It would, I think, baffle any burglar, but of course they are very cunning. I never come away like this without feeling anxious about my stamps. The first thing I do when I get home is to go to my safe and ascertain that they are all there. Did I ever tell you——” He stopped, glanced at Robert and began the sentence again. “I remember hearing of a man once who had a most valuable collection stolen and faked stamps put in its stead. It was some months before he discovered the trick.”

Robert leant over to Flavia who sat serene in the consciousness of her beauty, and, assuming an expression which caused much delight to the hidden William—an expression which soulless people sometimes compare to that of “a dying duck in a thunderstorm”—said:

“Would you like to come to the summer-house, Flavia? There’s a very pretty view of the rose garden from there.”

“Certainly,” said Flavia demurely as she rose.

“You stay here, Uncle Frederick,” said Robert hastily, seeing that Uncle Frederick, too, was rising, and added solicitously, “I’m sure you’re tired with our walk this morning. You rest here while I show Flavia the view from the summer-house.”

“Oh, no,” said Uncle Frederick briskly, “I’m not at all tired; I’m a very good walker. I could outwalk you both, I dare say. I’ll come and look at this view from the summer-house with you. I remember there was a summer-house at home when I was a boy. I used to take my stamp collection down there to arrange them. I remember that it was in the old summer-house that I added the last of the complete set of Austrian stamps to my collection. A friend of my father gave it to me, and I took it down to the summer-house to put it into my album.”

The three of them wended their way to the summer-house. William, wearing his Red Indian costume, followed through the bushes. He found the expression on Robert’s face highly diverting.

They stood in the summer-house, Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side, William discreetly peeping through a crack in the side.

“Well, where’s this view from the summer-house?” said Uncle Frederick.

“There,” said Robert savagely. Uncle Frederick looked through the little window.

“It doesn’t seem to me,” he said, “much different from the view you get from the house.”

Robert ground his teeth.

“I don’t see anything at all specially attractive about the view of the rose garden from this particular spot,” went on Uncle Frederick. “However—we each have our own standard of beauty, and what appeals to one does not appeal to all. I know quite a lot of people, for instance, who judge stamps entirely by their artistic appearance, quite irrespective of their value. Did I ever tell you of the lady who——?”

“Yes,” interrupted Robert viciously. Uncle Frederick looked at him coldly.

“I don’t think I did,” he said. “You must be thinking of some other story I told you. This lady was forming a stamp collection and I told her that she could choose any stamp she liked on a certain page of my album (not one containing my most valuable stamps, of course) to form the nucleus of her collection, and she chose one of no value at all just because she liked the picture on it.”

Robert leaned over to Flavia again.

“Would you care to come and see the greenhouse,” he said, “and look at the—er—carnations?”

“Certainly,” said Flavia pleasantly, rising.

“We’ll be back with you in a minute, Uncle,” said Robert hastily, seeing that Uncle Frederick was rising, too.

“Oh, I’ll come and look at the carnations,” said Uncle Frederick. “I’m very much interested in carnations. And very unusual, too, for them to be out this time of the year.”

The three of them went on to the greenhouse and stood there, Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side. Uncle Frederick looked about him.

“Well,” he said, “where are the carnations? I don’t see any carnations.”

“I didn’t mean carnations,” said Robert desperately, “I meant,” he swept his arm wildly round the greenhouse, “I meant these.”

“These,” Uncle Frederick adjusted his spectacles and began to look around. “I see ... Begonias. Very nice, very nice. I’m glad you thought of showing us these, Robert. I’m very fond of begonias, aren’t you, Flavia?”

Robert, standing behind his uncle, bared his lips in a silent and impotent snarl of fury. It was at that moment that he espied William’s feather-encircled head gazing through one of the glass panes with a smile of quiet enjoyment. He turned the snarl of fury on to William. William promptly disappeared. Uncle Frederick turned abruptly and caught the tail-end of the snarl of fury. He looked startled and concerned.

“Are you in pain, my poor boy?” he said.

“No,” said Robert, “I mean yes. I mean, not much.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been over-doing it,” he said. “Flavia, we’ve tired out our young friend, I’m afraid. The walk was too much for him. I suspect that he indulges in too much physical exercise and too little mental recreation. You should collect stamps, my boy. There’s nothing like it. Have I ever told you how I came to collect stamps?”

“No,” said Robert. “I mean yes. Yes, you have.”

At that minute the first lunch gong sounded.

“I’ll tell you about the origin of my stamp collection afterwards. Let us now follow yon welcome sound.”

Groaning inwardly, Robert followed it. He stalked angrily into the dining-room and flung himself into the nearest chair. It was unfortunate that William had been into the room a minute before and had carelessly flung down his Red Indian head-dress upon that very chair, and that at the end of the head-dress was the unguarded pin that had secured it around William’s head. Robert leapt into the air with a high-pitched cry of agony, which swiftly changed to a growl of fury when he saw the cause of his involuntary ascent. The sight of the head-dress reminded him, too, of the unholy grin on William’s face as it peered in at the greenhouse, rejoicing in his discomfiture. With a gesture of rage he flung the whole thing into the fire. That to a small extent—a very small extent—relieved his feelings, so that when William entered a few minutes later, still wearing his frilled khaki trousers and looked around with a stern “Where’s my feather thing?” Robert could answer with great dignity and nonchalance: “In the fire.”

“Who put it there?” said William.

“I did,” said Robert.

William’s face grew stern and lowering, but he said nothing.

“You shouldn’t leave it about all over the place,” said Robert.

“Did you sit on the pin?” said William with sudden hope.

But Robert refused to allow him even that gleam of comfort.

“Course I didn’t,” he said.

“I bet you did,” said William, “an’ let me tell you. There’s not many people’d dare to throw away a Red Indian head thing. At least,” he ended darkly, “not without knowin’ somethin’d happen to them.”

With this sinister threat he withdrew, to put his head round the door a few minutes later, having thought of something else to say.

“You needn’t be so mad at me,” he said. “I’ve not been goin’ round with you all mornin’ talkin’ about my stamp collection. Why don’ you throw one of his hats in the fire?”

And withdrew before Robert could get hold of anything to throw at him.

They met in the barn. William, Ginger, Douglas and Joan. They all wore their Red Indian dresses. Joan—the only female Outlaw—had a squaw-dress which she had made herself and which made up in ornamentation what it lacked in cut and unobtrusiveness of stitching. Its ornamentation was little short of reckless. She had sewn the entire contents of twelve penny boxes of beads on to it. All of them—Joan openly, the Outlaws secretly—were intensely proud of it. All except William wore feathered head-dresses. Briefly William told the story of its disappearance.

“He oughter know it’s a serious thing,” he said, “throwin’ Red Indian chief’s feathers into the fire. It’s a ninsult. He’s lucky I’m not a real Red Indian or he’d be scalped. That’s what he deserves. He deserves to be scalped—throwin’ Red Indian chief’s head things into the fire.”

They set out for the wood where they had agreed to “scout” each other, but William’s gloomy sense of outraged honour threw a shadow over all of them. In vain for Ginger, Douglas, Henry and Joan to comment brightly on the fine day or the prospect of a good scouting expedition. In vain for each of them to offer to lend him his own head-dress. In reply William muttered, “He’s jolly lucky not to be scalped, that’s what he is. I bet if any real Red Indian knew he’d done it, he’d come over an’ scalp him.”

They began to walk over the field that led to the wood where their scouting expedition was to take place. Suddenly Joan stopped. “Look!” she said. “A fairy ring!” William snorted scornfully and strode on. “Oh, but it is,” said Joan, “do come and look at it.”

They stopped to look at a little circle of toadstools in the green grass.

“Well, what of it?” said William, determined not to be impressed.

“What is it?” said Ginger.

“It’s a fairy ring,” said Joan, “if you stand in the middle and wish, your wish comes true.”

William emitted again his famous snort of contempt and derision.

“It does,” persisted Joan. “Honestly. The last time I came across one I stood in the middle and wished there’d be trifle for dinner and there was.”

The Outlaws were despite themselves impressed by this. William, however, merely said:

“Oh, yes, we’ve had enough of your fairy stuff. Do you remember the ole donkey what——”

“But, William,” said Joan. “It couldn’t do any harm just to wish something.”

“All right,” said William.

He stepped into the fairy ring.

“I wish a real Indian Chief’d come along an’ scalp Robert for burnin’ my head thing,” he said.

Then they all proceeded except Ginger, who stepped hastily into the ring and silently wished that there might be roast turkey, strawberries and cream and trifle and ice cream for supper. He was aware that this was very unlikely, but he was optimistic and thought it worth trying.

William had almost forgotten his grievance when he returned home for tea. His mother was out, but Uncle Frederick was having tea with Robert and Flavia.

“Apart from its historical and geographical interest it’s such a wonderful investment,” Uncle Frederick was saying. “I know of a stamp which sold for four pounds in 1898 and which sells for over fifteen pounds to-day.”

Robert cleared his throat. He had long ago relinquished subtle methods in trying to oust Uncle Frederick’s stamps from the conversation and introduce his own topics.

“I made a wireless set last month,” he said.

“Great Britain 1840,” said Uncle Frederick.

“Seven valves,” said Robert.

“Black V. R.,” said Uncle Frederick.

“I can get Germany,” said Robert.

Flavia merely sat by as usual serenely conscious of her beauty.

Uncle Frederick despite himself yielded to Robert’s determined egotism.

“A what?” he said, “a wireless set?”

“Yes,” said Robert, glancing at Flavia to make sure that she was listening. “I made it myself. Seven valves. I can get anywhere with it.”

“Strange as it may seem,” said Uncle Frederick, “I have never listened to one of those instruments—‘listened in’ is, I believe, the correct expression. As it happens I do not possess one myself, nor do any of my friends. Nor have I ever wished to purchase one. As an entertainment I do not consider that it even approaches stamp collecting. But still—I see that it might be interesting. The news, for instance—the weather forecast—that is given every night, I believe.”

William, considering that he had been left out of the conversation long enough and seeing an opportunity of entering into it, swallowed half a bun unmasticated and burst out:

“Yes, it’s giv’n every night, but it’s nothin’ to go by. The weather forecast, I mean. If it says it’s goin’ to rain it gen’rally doesn’t, and if it says it isn’t, it gen’rally does.” He caught Robert’s eye fixed on him sternly, with an expression that could only mean that he was going to eject him mercilessly from the conversation at the first opportunity, and returning the gaze defiantly continued in a loud voice: “The weather forecast comes first an’ then the S.O.S’s and then——”

“S.O.S.?” said Uncle Frederick, “and what is that?”

“Oh, it’s telling people away from home when they’re wanted at home,” said William vaguely. “Tellin’ ’em you know when somethin’s gone wrong an’ they’ve gotter go home at once.”

Uncle Frederick seemed much impressed.

“I see,” he said, “an excellent idea. A means of getting into touch at once with anyone who is absent. An excellent idea. I see. Then——”

“Seven valves,” said Robert at last, forcing his way back into the conversation, talking to Uncle Frederick and gazing at the serene and beautiful Flavia, “seven valves—a much larger number than most sets are made with. It took me a very long time to make it. I——”

William, realising that all further attempts on his part at getting back into the conversation would be firmly thwarted by Robert, put one bun into his mouth, slipped another into his pocket and quietly departed.

The indignity of having had his Indian head-dress destroyed still rankled in William’s breast, but it was growing dimmer with the passage of time. He made his way to a neighbouring farm and there made a collection of hens’ feathers to form a new and yet more splendid head-band. He then took them to a wood near by to count and he was engaged thus when to his amazement and dismay he beheld a Red Indian Chief in full panoply approaching him through the wood. He rubbed his eyes to make sure that it was true and not a vision. It was true. A tall man with a red, hawk-nosed face, an enormous head-dress of feathers, wearing magnificent Red Indian panoply, was stalking past him through the wood in the direction of the road that led to William’s house. It was amazing. But there it was. It was true. And suddenly he remembered his wish in the fairy ring—that a real Red Indian Chief should come and scalp Robert. His heart sank down to his shoes. Crumbs! This was more than he’d bargained for! Crumbs! He’d no idea—— He gazed at the vision with awe and astonishment and growing horror. He could not, of course, know that the vision was an acquaintance of Robert’s who had arranged to call for Robert on his way to a small fancy dress party to which they were both going. Robert had as a matter of fact carefully hidden from William his intention of going to the fancy dress party, on the general principle that the less William knew of his movements the better. William roused himself from his paralysis and rose trembling to intercept the stranger.

“Where you goin’?” he demanded tremulously.

“To The Hollies,” said the stranger.

William’s heart sank yet deeper. The Hollies was the name of William’s house.

“Who—who you goin’ there for?” he faltered.

“For Robert Brown,” said the stranger.

It was true. William moistened his lips.

“What you goin’ to do to Robert?” he said faintly.

The stranger looked down. He liked making fun of small boys.

“Scalp him,” he answered with a dramatic snarl, and began again to stride through the wood. William hurried along trying to keep pace with him.

“Look here,” he said breathlessly. “I didn’t mean it. Honest, I didn’t. I didn’t know there was anythin’ in it. Honest, I didn’t. I don’ want you to do it, really. I mean, I c’n make a new one an’ I don’ really mind now. P’raps he sat on the pin an’ then threw it into the fire without thinkin’ what he was doin’. Look here, if you go back where you came from——”

“What on earth do you mean?” demanded the stranger, striding onwards.

“You—you can’t go to Robert,” said William desperately. “’S’no use goin’ for him. You won’t find him. He’s not at home.”

“Where is he?” demanded the stranger.

William was silent for a moment, searching in his mind for some place whither a Red Indian, lusting for vengeance, could not follow.

At last:

“He’s gone up in an aeroplane,” he said, “an’ none of us know when he’s comin’ down, so it’s no use you waitin’ for him.”

At this moment Robert, dressed in a Harlequin costume, issued from a side gate and hailed his friend.

“Hallo,” he said, “you’re in jolly good time, and, by Jove, you do look fine!”

William, with a snort of disgust, turned on his heel.

Robert’s friend watched his retreating figure.

“Who’s that?” he said.

“My brother,” said Robert.

“Is he potty?” said the friend. “He just said you’d gone up in an aeroplane.”

“Oh, yes, he’s as potty as they make ’em,” said Robert carelessly.

Robert had been uncertain whether to go to the fancy dress party or not. Had there been any chance of spending the evening alone with Flavia, he would, of course, not have gone, but Uncle Frederick had announced his intention of reading aloud to Flavia and him a little pamphlet he had just bought called “The Romance of Stamp Collecting.” So in disgust Robert went with his friend to the fancy dress party. And the next morning he carelessly threw to William the most magnificent feathered head-dress William had ever seen.

“That chap who went with me last night gave me that,” he said; “he’d got two and didn’t want this one, so he gave it to me. You can have it.”

It is probable that very mixed motives had prompted Robert’s gift. It is possible that he felt some compunction of heart at his impulsive destruction of William’s treasured head-dress. It is more than possible that he felt apprehensive as to the results. He knew that people did not as a rule insult William with impunity. He had been as a matter of fact nervously awaiting some counter-move on William’s part ever since he committed the outrage.

It was such a very magnificent head-dress that William felt an overpowering sensation of gratitude. It tied his hands. It poisoned his peace of mind. It made him feel obliged to be polite and subservient to Robert, and William hated feeling obliged to be polite and subservient to anyone. He liked to feel free, and untrammelled to carry on that perpetual guerilla warfare with Robert that lent life some of its necessary zest. The only way of escaping this nauseating sense of obligation was, of course, to bestow upon Robert some magnificent benefit in return—some benefit, in short, commensurate with the feathered head-dress.

William sat in his bedroom gazing at the stupendous gift, torn between ecstasy at its possession, and a hopeless realisation of the impossibility of conferring upon Robert any comparable benefit. He rose, put on his Red Indian suit, tied on the wonderful feather head-band, and, drunk with pride and rapture, swaggered to and fro before his looking-glass. Then he sat down on the floor, and chin in hand, brows drawn into a fierce frown, he thought and thought and thought and thought. What could he give to Robert, what could he do for Robert, to win back his independence of spirit? No light broke in upon the problem. He rose and went to the window. There below him in the garden walked Uncle Frederick with Robert and Flavia upon either side. Uncle Frederick looked very happy. He was gesticulating forcibly as he talked. He was talking about his set of 1923 Esthonia Triangular, over printed and surcharged. Scarce.

Robert walked dejectedly, casting alternate glances of fury at Uncle Frederick and languishment at Flavia. Flavia walked with eyes demurely downcast, occasionally returning Robert’s gaze. Emboldened by this, Robert suggested that Uncle Frederick should sit down and rest upon the garden seat and that he and Flavia should have a little game of tennis on the hard court. Uncle Frederick said that he’d love a little game of tennis and that he’d take them both on and beat them both hollow. He went in to change his shoes and dejectedly they followed.

William returned to his seat on the floor and again contorted his freckled countenance into an expression indicative of deep thought. Then suddenly a light shone through it. He rose to his feet and, still wearing his head-dress, performed a dance of victory, snatching up a tooth-brush to wave in lieu of a spear.

He knew now what he was going to do for Robert.

It was the next evening. Flavia had gone out to tea with Mrs. Brown. Robert had very, very moodily gone off for a walk by himself. Uncle Frederick was sitting alone in the dining-room reading the paper.

He was interrupted by the entry of William—William wearing that guileless expression of imbecility that to those who knew him well betokened danger. Uncle Frederick, however, was not among those who knew William well. William sat and looked into the fire in silence, a far-away, wistful expression upon his face. This attracted Uncle Frederick’s attention.

“A penny for your thoughts, my little man.”

William with an effort concealed his indignation at being thus addressed, and still guilelessly, wistfully replied:

“I was thinking about the wireless Robert’s made. It’s such a beautiful one.”

“Ah!” said Uncle Frederick pleasantly, “I must certainly hear that wireless.”

“Would you like to go and hear it now,” said William. “I think that Robert would be so pleased when he came in to know that you’d been listening to his wireless.” Again Uncle Frederick was vaguely touched by this.

“Then certainly we must go and listen to it, my little man,” he said.

“Will you come now?” said his little man, rising and holding out a grubby hand confidingly.

Uncle Frederick was very, very comfortable, but he could not resist the invitation of that outstretched grubby hand. He rose reluctantly, took it somewhat gingerly and saying heartily:

“Oh, yes, we must certainly hear this wireless. Just for a few minutes, of course. A few minutes, I think, will be enough.”

He threw a longing glance at the fire and his newspaper, then yielded to the firm pressure of William’s hand and allowed himself to be drawn from the room.

“Here it is,” said William. “You just turn this,” and William, secure in the knowledge that no programme was going on at the moment, made the reaction handle turn a complete circuit till it was where it had been to start with.

“It will begin in a few minutes now,” he said. “Only I’ve just got to go an’ do some lessons. Jus’ wait a minute an’ it will come. I’m sorry I can’t wait.”

Uncle Frederick, sitting in front of Robert’s wireless which was just in front of the drawn window curtains, waited just a minute or two—waited in fact just long enough for William to run out of the side door round the house, and to put in his head at the open window of the morning-room behind the curtain. Then Uncle Frederick’s patience was rewarded. A deep bass voice (which those who knew William better might have recognised as one of his “disguised” voices) began to speak. It said:

“London callin’ the British Isles. There is a ridge of high pressure movin’ Eastwards over England, together with a secondary anticyclone deepenin’ over Scandinavia.

“There is one S.O.S. Will Mr. Frederick Brown kindly go home at once as his Stamp Collection has been stolen. It——”

But Uncle Frederick could not wait for more. He leapt from his seat, flew up to his bedroom, hastily packed a bag and, hurling an incoherent message at William, rushed forth into the night.

William, looking quite expressionless, explained matters as best he could to his bewildered family on their return.

“Well, he just said he’d had bad news and had to go home. Had he had a telegram? I dunno. P’raps he had. No, I didn’t see one. No, he didn’t say what sort of bad news. Something about something stolen. Had he been rung up? I dunno. P’raps he had. I wasn’t at home in the afternoon. Well, he’d just gone into the morning-room to listen to Robert’s wireless. I wasn’t there with him. I just turned it on for him to listen and then I went out. I keep tellin’ you I wasn’t there with him. He came rushin’ out an’ said he’d gotter go home. No, why should I know anythin’ about it? I keep tellin’ you. He went into the mornin’ room to listen to Robert’s wireless and he came rushin’ out and went home. Well, how should I know anythin’ about it, more’n anyone else?”

Robert’s expression throughout the recital had been gradually brightening till it was now a veritable glow. He looked at Flavia.

“Would you care to come out for a little stroll in the garden, Flavia?” he said. “It’s quite a nice evening.”

And Flavia dimpling demurely murmured: “Yes, I’d love it.”

The next morning there arrived a long letter from Uncle Frederick. He told them about the message he’d received by wireless and how he’d been assured by all his friends that no such message had been sent by wireless, and that no such message could have been sent by wireless. They all said that he must have dropped asleep and dreamed it, and that was the explanation that he had finally adopted. He must have dropped into a doze while he sat waiting for the wireless to begin and dreamed it. Anyway, he thought that he’d stay at home now and not return for the remainder of his visit as the incident had made him nervous. Dreams were, he was sure, often sent for a warning and he thought he’d like to be on the spot for the next few months in case there were any thieves about who had their eye on his stamp collection. He was afraid that his two young friends would miss him very much, but he was sure they would forgive him and understand.

It was evening. All was well. An atmosphere of peace hung over the house. Robert and Flavia had packed a picnic basket and gone off for the day.

William, wearing his new and magnificent headgear, was demonstrating his freshly regained independence of spirit by erecting a cunning arrangement above Robert’s bedroom door, whereby when Robert opened it a pillow would drop down and, he hoped, completely envelop Robert’s head.