William—the good

WILLIAM and the other Outlaws sat in the old barn discussing the latest tragedy that had befallen them. Tragedies, of course, fell thick and fast upon the Outlaws’ path through life. They waged ceaseless warfare upon the grown-up world around them and, as was natural, they frequently came off second best. But this was a special tragedy. Not only was it a grown-up victory, but it was a victory that bade fair to make the Outlaws’ daily lives a perpetual martyrdom at the hands of their contemporaries.

Usually, the compensating element of a grown-up victory was the fact that it concentrated upon them the sympathy of their associates—a sympathy that not infrequently found tangible form in the shape of bullseyes or conkers. But this grown-up victory was a victory that promised to make the lives of the early Christian martyrs beds of roses in comparison with those of the Outlaws.

The way it happened was this.

The headmaster of William’s school had a cousin who was a Great Man, and once a year the cousin who was a Great Man came down to the school to address the boys of William’s school. He possessed, presumably, gifts of a high and noble order, otherwise he would not have been a Great Man, but whatever those gifts may have been they did not include that of holding the interest of small boys. Only the front two rows could ever hear anything he said and not even the front two rows (carefully chosen by the headmaster for their—misleadingly—intelligent expressions) could understand it.

It might be gathered from this that the annual visit of the Great Man was looked forward to without enthusiasm, but this was not the case, for always at the end of the lecture he turned to the headmaster and asked that the boys might be given a half-holiday the next day, and the headmaster, after simulating first of all intense surprise and then doubt and hesitation, while the rows of small boys watched him in breathless suspense, their eyes nearly dropping out of their heads, finally said that they might. Then someone called for three cheers for the Great Man, and the roof quivered. The Great Man was always much gratified by his reception. He always said afterwards that it was delightful to see young boys taking a deep and intelligent interest in such subjects as Astronomy and Egyptology and Geology, and that the cheers with which they greeted the close of the lecture left him with no doubt at all of their appreciation of it. The school in general went very carefully the day before the lecture because it was known that the headmaster disliked granting the half-holiday and with the meanness of his kind would welcome with hidden joy and triumph any excuse for cancelling it. The Great Man’s visit was a nervous strain on the headmaster, and his temper was never at its best just then. To begin with, it was an exhausting and nerve-racking task to discover sufficient boys with intelligent expressions to fill the front rows. Then the other boys had to be graded in diminishing degrees of cleanliness and presentability to the back of the hall which the Great Man, being very short-sighted, could not see, and where the least presentable specimens were massed. The Outlaws were always relegated to the very back row. They found no insult in this, but were, on the contrary, grateful for it. By a slight adjustment of their positions they could hide themselves comfortably from the view of Authority, and give their whole attention to such pursuits as conker battles, the swopping of cigarette-cards, or the “racing” of insects conveyed thither in match-boxes for the purpose. But this year a terrible thing had happened.

The Great Man arrived at the village as usual. As usual he stayed with the headmaster. As usual the Outlaws hid behind the hedge to watch him with interest and curiosity as he passed to and from the headmaster’s house, going to the village or returning from it. It was unfortunate that the Great Man happened to be wearing a bowler hat that was undoubtedly too small for him. He may have bought it in a hurry and not realised till he had worn it once or twice how much too small it was, and then with dogged British courage and determination decided to wear it out. He may have been honestly labouring under the delusion that it suited and fitted him. The fact remains that when he emerged from the headmaster’s gate into the lane the waiting and watching Outlaws drew deep breaths and ejaculated simultaneously:

“Crumbs! Look at his hat!”

“Don’t look like a hat at all,” commented Douglas.

“Looks like as if he was carryin’ an apple on his head,” said Ginger.

“William Tell,” said Henry with the modest air of one who, without undue ostentation, has no wish to hide his culture and general information under a bushel. “You know, William Tell. What his father shot an apple off his head without touchin’ him.”

“An’ I bet I could shoot his hat off his head without touchin’ him if I’d got my catapult here,” said William, in order to divert the limelight from Henry’s intellect to his own physical prowess.

“Bet you couldn’t,” challenged Ginger.

“Bet I could,” said William.

“Bet you couldn’t.”

“Bet I could.”

It was the sort of discussion that can go on for ever. However, when it had gone only about ten minutes, William said with an air of finality:

“Well, I haven’t got my catapult, anyway, or else I’d jolly well show you.”

Ginger unexpectedly produced a catapult.

“Here’s mine,” he said.

“Well, I haven’t got anything to shoot.”

Douglas searched in his pocket and produced from beneath the inevitable string, hairy boiled sweets, pen-knife and piece of putty, two or three shrivelled peas.

William was taken aback till he realised that the Great Man had passed out of sight. Then he said, with something of relief: “Well, I can’t, can I? Considerin’ he’s gone!” and added with withering sarcasm, “if you’ll kin’ly tell me how to shoot the hat off a person’s head what isn’t here I’ll be very glad to——”

But at that moment the figure of the Great Man was seen returning down the lane. He had only been to the post. The spirit of adventure—that Will-o’-the-wisp that had so often led the Outlaws astray but that they never could resist—entered into them.

“Go on, William,” urged Ginger. “Have a shot at his hat an’ see if you c’n knock it off. It won’t matter. It’ll only go ‘ping’ against his hat and we’ll be across the next field before he knows what’s happened. He’ll never know it was us. Go on, William. Have a shot at his hat.”

The figure was abreast of them now on the other side of the hedge.

William, his eyes gleaming with excitement, his face set and stern with determination, raised the catapult and had a shot at the Great Man’s hat.

He had been unduly optimistic. He did not shoot the little hat off the Great Man’s head as he had boasted he could. Instead he caught the Great Man himself just above his ear. It was, on the whole, not a very bad shot, but William did not stop to point that out to his friends. A dried pea emitted from a catapult can hurt more than those who have never received it have any conception of.

For a minute the Great Man was literally paralysed by the shock. Then he uttered a roar of pain, fury and outraged dignity and started forward, lusting for the blood of his assailant. The dastardly attack had seemed to come from the direction of the hedge. He flung himself in that direction. He could see three boys fleeing over the field and then—clutching desperately at the hedge above him—a fourth boy rolled back into the ditch. The Great Man pounced upon him. It was William, who had caught his foot while scrambling through the hedge, and lost his balance. He bore in his hand the evidence of his guilt in the shape of Ginger’s catapult. It was useless for him to deny that he was the perpetrator of the outrage—useless even to plead the analogy of William Tell and the apple.

The Great Man had mastered the first violence of his fury. With a great effort he choked back several expressions which, though forcible, were unsuited for the ears of the young, and fixing William with a stern eye said severely: “I see by your cap that you attend the school at which I am to lecture to-morrow. After this outrage I shall not, of course, ask for the usual half-holiday, and I shall request your headmaster to inform your schoolfellows of the reason why no half-holiday is accorded this year.”

Then—stern, dignified, an impressive figure were it not for the smallness of his hat, which the shock of William’s attack had further knocked slightly crooked—the Great Man passed on down the lane.

William, with pale, set face, returned to his waiting friends.

“Well!” he said succinctly, “that’s done it. That’s jolly well done it.” Then, savagely, to Ginger: “It’s all your fault, taking your silly ole catapult about with you wherever you go an’ gettin’ people to shoot at other people all over the place. Now look what you’ve done.”

“Huh! I like that!” said Ginger with spirit. “I like that. What about you falling about in ditches? If you’d not gone fallin’ about in ditches he’d never’ve known about it. Huh! A nice Red Indian you’d make fallin’ about in ditches. An’, anyway, you were wrong an’ I was right. You couldn’t shoot his hat off without touchin’ his face. I said you couldn’t.”

He ended on a high-pitched note of jeering triumph which the proud spirit of William found intolerable. They hurled themselves upon each other in deadly combat, which was, however, terminated by Henry who enquired with innocent curiosity:

“What did he say, anyway?”

This suddenly reminded William of what the Great Man had said, and his fighting spirit died abruptly.

He sat down on the ground with Ginger on top of him and told them forlornly what the Great Man had said.

On hearing it Ginger’s fighting spirit, too, died, and he got off William and sat in the road beside him.

“Crumbs!” he said in an awestruck voice of horror.

It was characteristic of the Outlaws that all their mutual recrimination promptly ceased at this news.

This was no mere misfortune. This was tragedy, and a tragedy in which they must all stand together. In the persecution from all ranks of their schoolfellows that would inevitably follow, they must identify themselves with William, their leader; they must share with him the ostracism, and worse than ostracism, that the Great Man’s sentence would bring upon them.

“Crumbs!” breathed Henry, voicing their feelings, “won’t they just be mad!”

“I’ll tell ’em I did it,” said William in a faint voice.

“You didn’t do it,” said Ginger aggressively. “Whose catapult was it, anyway? An’ who dared you to?”

“An’ whose pea was it?” put in Douglas with equal indignation.

“I did it, anyway,” said William. “It was my fault. I’ll tell ’em so.”

“It was me just as much as you,” said Ginger with spirit.

“It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

This argument, like the previous one, might have developed into a healthy physical contest had not Henry said slowly:

“He can’t’ve told him yet ’cause he’s gone up to London to choose prizes an’ I heard someone say he wun’t be back till the last train to-night.”

There was a silence. Through four grimy, freckled, disconsolate faces shone four sudden gleams of hope.

“P’raps if you told him you were sorry an’ ask him not to——” suggested Douglas.

William leapt to his feet with alacrity.

“Come on,” he said tersely and followed by his faithful band made his way across the field through the hedge and down the lane that led to the headmaster’s house.

He performed an imperious and very lengthy tattoo on the knocker—a tattoo meant to be indicative of the strength and durability of his repentance.

A pretty housemaid appeared.

She saw one small and very dirty boy on the doorstep and three other small and very dirty boys hanging over the gate. She eyed them with disfavour. She disliked small and dirty boys.

“We’re not deaf,” she said haughtily.

“Aren’t you?” said William with polite interest. “I’m not either. But I’ve gotter naunt what’s so deaf that——”

“What do you want?” she snapped.

William, pulled up in this pleasant chat with the pretty housemaid, remembered what he wanted and said gloomily: “I want to speak to the man what’s staying with the headmaster.”

“What’s your name?”

“William Brown.”

“Well, stay there, and I’ll ask him.”

“All right,” said William preparing to enter.

She pushed him back.

“I’m not having them boots in my hall,” she said with passionate indignation, and went in, closing the door upon him.

William looked down at his boots with a puzzled frown and then called out anxiously to his friends over the gate:

“There’s nothing wrong with my boots, is there?”

They looked at William’s boots, large, familiar, mud-encrusted.

“No,” they said, “they’re quite all right.”

“What’s she talkin’ about, then?” said William.

“P’raps she means they’re muddy,” suggested Douglas tentatively.

“Well, that’s what boots are for, i’n’t it?” said William sternly.

Just then the housemaid returned and opened the door.

“He says if you’re the boy who’s just shot a catapult at him, certainly not.”

It was quite obvious from William’s expression that he was the boy.

“Well, what I wanted to say was that——”

Slowly but very firmly she was closing the door upon him. William planted one of his boots in the track of the closing door.

“Look here!” he said desperately, “tell him he can shoot a catapult at me. I don’t mind. Look here. Tell him I’ll put an apple on my head an’ he can——”

Again the housemaid indignantly pushed him back.

“Look at my step!” she said fiercely as she closed the door. “You and your boots!”

The door was quite closed now.

William opened the flap of the letter-box with his hand and said hoarsely:

“Tell him that it was all because of his hat. Say that——”

But she’d disappeared and it was obvious that she didn’t intend to return.

He rejoined his friends at the gate.

“’S no good,” he said dejectedly. “She won’t even listen to me. Jus’ keeps on talkin’ about my boots. They’re jus’ the same as anyone else’s boots, as far as I can see. Anyway, what’re we goin’ to do now?”

“Let’s find out what he’s doin’ to-night,” said Ginger. “If he’s goin’ anywhere you might meet him on the way an’ see if he’ll listen to you.”

“Yes,” said William, “that’s a jolly good idea, but—how’re we goin’ to find out what he’s doin’ to-night?”

“It’s after tea-time,” announced Henry rather pathetically. (Henry hated missing his meals.) “I votes we go home to tea now and then come back an’ talk it over some more.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s goin’ to be rather hard,” said William still dejectedly, “findin’ out what he’s goin’ to do to-night.”

But it turned out to be quite simple.

While Douglas was having tea he heard his father say to his mother that he’d heard that the headmaster’s cousin was going to dine with the Carroways, as the headmaster had gone to London on business and wasn’t coming back till the last train.

Douglas joyfully took this news back to the meeting of the Outlaws.

They gave him a hearty cheer and William began to look as if the whole thing was now settled.

“That’s all right,” he said. “Now I’ll go ’n’ stay by the front gate of the Carroway house till he comes along and then I’ll plead with him.”

They looked at him rather doubtfully. Somehow they couldn’t visualise William pleading. William defying, William commanding, were familiar figures, but they had never yet seen William pleading.

“We’ll come along with you,” said Ginger, “an’ help you.”

“All right,” said William cheerfully. “We’ll all plead. It oughter melt him all right, four people pleadin’. What time ought we to be there?”

“I ’spect they have dinner at half-past seven,” said Ginger.

“Let’s be there at a quarter past six so’s to be quite sure not to miss him.”

They reached the Carroways’ at a quarter past six and took up their posts by the gate. So far, so good. All would, in fact, have gone splendidly had not a circus happened to be in the act of unloading itself in the field next the Carroways’ house. The Outlaws caught a glimpse of tents, vans, cages. They heard the sound of a muffled roar, they distinctly saw an elephant. It was more than flesh and blood could stand.

“Well,” said William carelessly, “we’ve got here too early an’ it’s no good wastin’ time hangin’ about. Let’s jus’ go’n wait in the field jus’ for five minutes or so. That can’t do any harm.”

Douglas, who was of a cautious disposition, demurred, but his protests were half-hearted and already the others were through the hedge and making their way to the little crowd that surrounded the caravans and cages. It was beyond their wildest dreams. There was a lion. There was a tiger. There was an elephant. There was a bear. There were several monkeys. They saw a monkey bite a piece out of someone’s trousers. William laughed at this so much that they thought he was going to be sick. The bear sat on its hind legs and flapped its arms. The lion roared. The elephant took someone’s hat off. The whole thing was beyond description.

The Outlaws wandered about, getting in everyone’s way, putting their noses through the bars of every cage, miraculously escaping sudden death at every turn. It was when William thought that they must have been there nearly five minutes that they asked the time and found that it was twenty past seven. They had been there over an hour.

“Crumbs!” they ejaculated in dismay, and William said slowly:

“Seems impossible to me. P’raps,” with sudden hope, “their clocks are wrong.”

But their clocks weren’t wrong. They asked four or five other men and were impatiently given the same reply.

Aghast, they wandered back to the gate where they had meant to accost the Great Man, but they realised that it was no use waiting there now. He would certainly have arrived by now.

“Let’s go up the drive,” said Ginger, “an’ see if we c’n see him.”

They crept up the drive. Dusk was falling quickly and the downstairs rooms were lit up. The drawing-room curtains were not drawn and the Outlaws were rewarded by the sight of the Great Man standing on the hearthrug talking to Mr. and Mrs. Carroway.

They stared at him forlornly from the bushes.

“Well!” moaned William, “of all the rotten luck!”

Then they discussed the crisis in hoarse whispers. It would be impossible, of course, to wait till he came home and by to-morrow he would have seen and reported matters to the headmaster. Anyone less determined than the Outlaws would have abandoned the project and gone home. But not the Outlaws.

“Let’s go round to the other side of the house,” said William, “an’ have a look at the dining-room. We might get a chance to whisper to him through the window or somethin’.”

This was felt to be unduly optimistic, but the suggestion appealed to the Outlaws’ spirit of adventure and they followed William round to the side of the house.

The dining-room window was open but the curtains were drawn. The curtains, however, did not quite meet at the top and William said that by climbing on to the roof of the summer-house he thought he could see into the room.

Using Ginger and Douglas as a step ladder, he hoisted himself up on to the roof of the summer-house. It was now so dark that he could not see the Outlaws down among the bushes.

“I can’t see into the room yet,” he whispered, “but,” he added optimistically, “I bet if I stand on tiptoe——”

At this point the Outlaws became conscious of some sort of a commotion, of the sound of many excited voices. Then a man with a lighted lantern began to make what was obviously a tour of inspection of the garden.

William crouched down upon his summer-house and the others crouched down among the bushes.

The man with the lighted lantern passed, muttering to himself.

The Great Man stood in the drawing-room talking to Mr. and Mrs. Carroway and to Mrs. Carroway’s companion, Miss Seed.

It was, of course, unfortunate that Mrs. Carroway’s companion was called Miss Seed, and had there been any other suitable applicant for the post, Mrs. Carroway would certainly not have chosen Miss Seed. However, there hadn’t been, so both of them made the best of the situation and had brought to a fine art the capacity of looking quite unconscious when their names were pronounced together.

The Great Man was talking. The Great Man was, as a matter of fact, never completely happy unless he was talking, and he had been pleased to find that he was the only guest because he so often found that other guests liked to talk as well, and that completely spoilt the evening for him. He was, however, rather annoyed when Mrs. Carroway was called out to someone at the front door in the middle of his very brilliant summary of the political situation. He cleared his throat in an annoyed fashion, frowned, and stood in silence watching the door for her return. He didn’t consider Mr. Carroway alone worth addressing, and Miss Seed had gone out to see to the dinner, because Mrs. Carroway was, as usual, without maids and one of the reasons why Mrs. Carroway had chosen Miss Seed as a companion, despite her name, was that she did not mind seeing to dinners in the intervals of companioning Mrs. Carroway. After a few minutes Mrs. Carroway returned.

“When I say that this Government has missed some of its finest opportunities,” he began at once, “I refer of course——”

But Mrs. Carroway didn’t wait to hear to what he referred. She didn’t care at all what opportunities the Government had missed.

“What shall we do?” she burst out hysterically. “Here’s a man to say that a lion has escaped from the circus and they think it may be in our back garden, because there’s only a fence between our back garden and the field where the circus is. Oh, what shall we do? We shall all be eaten alive.”

The Great Man cleared his throat and took command of the situation.

“Send the man round the garden to search,” he said, “and we will meantime remain perfectly calm and lock up all the doors and windows. Be brave, Mrs. Carroway, and trust yourself to my protection. I will see that all the doors and windows are securely fastened. Courage! Remember we are English men and, ahem, English women, and must show no fear. Lock and bolt the front door at once and shout through the letter-box to the man to make a thorough search of the garden.”

This was done. The man seemed slightly peeved and went off alone muttering.

The Great Man then made a tour of the house, closing every door and window firmly. Finally, he collected Mr. and Mrs. Carroway and Miss Seed into the drawing-room where he locked the shutters and moved the grand piano across the door.

“Let courage and fortitude be our motto,” he said. “Let us now meet danger calmly.”

No one listened to him. Miss Seed was tending Mrs. Carroway who was in hysterics and was hoping that she’d soon be sufficiently recovered to allow her to have them in her turn, and Mr. Carroway was trying to get under the sofa.

The Great Man, therefore, had no one to address but his own reflection in the full-length mirror. So he addressed it spiritedly.

“England expects——” he began. At this moment there came a loud rat-tat-tat at the knocker. Mrs. Carroway, who was just coming out of hysterics, went into them again, and Mr. Carroway put his head out of the sofa to say reassuringly: “Don’t be alarmed, dearest. It can’t be the lion. The lion couldn’t reach up to the knocker.”

Then someone pushed open the letter-box and the voice of the man with the lantern called: “He ain’t in your garden, mister. I’ve been all over your garden,” and added sarcastically: “You can come out from hunder the sofa. ’E won’t ’urt you.”

With great dignity, Mr. Carroway came out from under the sofa.

“What a very impertinent man,” said Mr. Carroway. “I shall report him to the manager of his firm.”

The Great Man began to unbarricade the door.

“We may all justly pride ourselves,” he said, “upon the dauntless courage we have displayed in face of this crisis.”

“I’m so hungry,” said Miss Seed pathetically.

“Hungry?” said Mrs. Carroway. “I’m past hunger. I shall never, never, never be able to describe to you what I’ve suffered during these last few minutes.”

Mr. Carroway looked rather relieved at the information.

They went into the dining-room and took their seats. Miss Seed brought in the dinner, and the Great Man returned to the opportunities the Government had missed.

“I still feel faint,” said Mrs. Carroway, unwilling to share the limelight with the Government or anyone else. “I still feel most faint. I always do after any nervous shock.”

Her husband went to the window and drew back the curtains and opened the window.

“I—I don’t know that I’d do that,” said Mrs. Carroway, gazing fearfully out into the dark garden. “One can’t be quite sure—I mean——”

At that moment came the sound of a heavy body crashing through the undergrowth. With a wild scream Mrs. Carroway rose and fled from the room.

“Quick,” she panted, “out of the front door and across to the Vicarage for refuge. The creature is gathering for a spring. This house is unsafe——”

She was half-way down the front drive by this time, followed closely by the others. The Great Man, being far from nimble on his feet, panted along at the end, gasping “Courage, friends ... let courage be our motto.”

The house was left empty and silent.

The sound of the heavy crashing through the undergrowth had of course been William leaping down from the roof of the shed to join his companions below, losing his balance just as he leapt, and falling among the laurel bushes.

He sat up, rubbing his head and ejecting laurel leaves from his mouth. Then: “I say, what’s all the fuss about?” he whispered. “I thought I heard someone scream.”

“So’d I,” said the Outlaws mystified.

“What was that man goin’ round with a lantern for?” whispered William.

“I d’no,” said the Outlaws, still more mystified.

“Well,” said William, abandoning the mystery for the moment, “let’s go an’ see if we can see what they’re doin’ now. Someone’s drawn the curtains.”

They crept up through the bushes to the open dining-room window. To their amazement they saw a brightly lit room, a table laid for four, steaming dishes upon it, and chairs drawn up in position—all completely empty.

“Crumbs!” said William in amazement, “that’s queer.”

The Outlaws gazed in silence at the astounding sight till Ginger said weakly:

“Where’ve they all gone to?”

“P’raps they’re in the other room,” suggested Douglas.

They crept round to the drawing-room window. The drawing-room was empty.

“P’raps—p’raps,” said Henry without conviction, “they’re all in the kitchen.”

They crept round to the kitchen. The kitchen was empty. They looked at the upstairs windows. They were all in darkness.

William scratched his head and frowned.

“’S very mysterious,” he commented.

Then they returned to the dining-room. It was still empty. The steaming dishes were still upon the table. An odour was wafted out to the waiting Outlaws—an odour so succulent that it was impossible to resist it. It was William who first swung himself over the low window sill of the open window into the room. The others followed. They stood in silence and gazed at the steaming dishes on the table, the four places, the four chairs.

“Seems,” said Ginger dreamily, “seems sort of like a fairy-tale—like a sort of Arabian Nights story.”

“Well,” said William slowly, “it cert’nly seems sort of meant.”

“I read a tale once like this,” said Douglas, “and they sat down at the table and invisible hands waited on them.”

“Let’s try,” said William suddenly, taking his seat at the head of the table, “let’s try if invisible hands’ll wait on us.”

They needed no encouragement. They all took their seats with alacrity. In fairness to whatever invisible hands might have waited upon the Outlaws, it must be admitted that they did not get much chance. The Outlaws began immediately to wait upon themselves with visible and very grimy hands. Each had a suspicion that at any minute the feast might be interrupted. None of them really had much faith in the Arabian Nights idea. Under the cover in front of William was a roast chicken. The dishes contained bread sauce, gravy, potatoes and cauliflower. William dismembered the chicken ruthlessly and with a fine disregard for anatomy, and they helped themselves from the various dishes. It was a glorious meal. There was in the room complete silence, broken only by the sounds of the Outlaws endeavouring to put away as much of this gorgeous repast as they could before the dream should fade into reality, and some grown-up confront them, demanding explanation. They did not draw breath till every dish was bare and then, flushed and panting, they sat back and William said meditatively: “Wonder what they were goin’ to have after this?”

Douglas suggested giving the invisible hands a chance, but the suggestion was not popular and Henry, catching sight of a hatch in the wall, went to investigate. The hatch slid up and on the ledge just inside was waiting a magnificent cream edifice and a little pile of four plates. Four gasps of ecstasy went up. Again there was silence, broken only by the sounds of the Outlaws working hard against time. At last that dish, too, was empty. There was a barrel of biscuits and a pile of fruit on the sideboard, but the capacity even of the Outlaws was exhausted.

“I feel I wouldn’t want to eat another thing for hundreds and hundreds of years,” said Henry blissfully.

“Seems about time we woke up now,” said Douglas.

But to William, who lived ever in the present, the feast, though the most gorgeous of its kind he had ever known, was already a thing of the past, and he was concentrating his whole attention on the problem of the present.

“I wonder what’s happened to ’em?” he said. “I wonder where they are.”

“Looks like the thing old Markie was tellin’ us about in school yesterday,” said Henry, “a place where a volcano went off suddenly, an’ killed all the people and left their houses an’ furniture an’ things an’ you can see it to-day. It’s called Pomples or somethin’ like that.”

This information as emanating from Authority and savouring of swank was rightly ignored.

“P’raps they’ve all died suddenly of the plague or something,” suggested Douglas cheerfully.

But the best suggestion came from Ginger.

“I guess someone’s murdered them an’ hid all their dead bodies upstairs. I bet if we go upstairs we’ll find all their dead bodies hid there.”

Much inspirited at this prospect the Outlaws swarmed upstairs and concluded a thorough search of the premises. The search was disappointing.

“Not many dead bodies,” said William rather bitterly.

Ginger, feeling that his prestige had suffered from his failure to prove his theory, looked about him and with a yell of glee, said:

“No, but look! There’s a trap-door up there and I bet we could get out on to the roof from it.”

The Outlaws completely forgot both feast and dead bodies in the thrill of the trap-door by which you could get out on to the roof.

“Who’ll try it first?” said William.

“Bags me. I saw it first,” said Ginger.

He climbed on to the balusters, leapt at the trap-door, caught it by a miracle, and swung himself up. It was a spectacle guaranteed to give any mother nervous breakdowns for months.

“Does it go out on to the roof?” called the Outlaws, breathless with suspense.

Faint but ecstatic came back Ginger’s voice:

“Yes, it does. It’s scrummy. Right on the edge of the roof. I can see right down into the garden. I can——”

“Shut up,” hissed William, “someone’s coming.”

Downstairs Mr. and Mrs. Carroway, Miss Seed and the Great Man entered the hall and hastily shut and locked the front door.

They had gone to the Vicarage and stayed there for an hour. To the Vicar and his wife it had seemed much more than an hour because Mrs. Carroway was acquiring a fatal facility in hysterics and was apparently beginning to count every moment wasted that was not devoted to them.

Finally the Vicar rang up the police, learnt that the missing lion had been seen going down the road at the other end of the village, and politely but firmly insisted on his guests departing homewards. He was beginning to fear the effect of Mrs. Carroway’s hysterics upon his wife. No woman likes being put so completely in the shade as Mrs. Carroway’s hysterics put the Vicar’s wife, and he had noticed that she was beginning to watch the various stages of the attacks with an interest that suggested to him that she was storing them up for future use.

“Nothing,” wailed Mrs. Carroway, “nothing will induce me to leave this house again to-night. What I have suffered during that terrible walk from the Vicarage, hearing and seeing lions at every step, no one will ever understand. No one. If I talked all night I couldn’t make you understand.”

“I’m sure you couldn’t, dear,” said her husband hastily.

“I—er—I suppose the house is safe,” said the Great Man uneasily. “I—er—I cannot help remembering that we left the—er—the dining-room window open and that the—er—the place from which the—er—the beast escaped was—er—just over the fence.”

“Miss Seed,” said Mrs. Carroway faintly, “go and see whether there are any traces of it in the dining-room. The food, you remember, was left on the table. If that has been tampered with——”

Miss Seed sidled cautiously to the dining-room and peeped in. Then she gave a wild scream.

“It’s been here,” she panted. “It’s been here. It’s been here. It’s eaten up everything. It must be in the house—NOW!”

Miss Seed, of course, was overwrought, or she would have stopped to take into consideration the fact that a lion does not eat out of a plate with knives and forks and spoons and that even if it did one lion would not have used four of each.

“It must be in the house NOW!” she repeated desperately.

There was a sudden silence—a silence of paralysed horror. Through this silence came the sound of a heavy crash upstairs, followed by a snarl of rage.

In less time than it takes to tell the hall was empty.

Mrs. Carroway had locked herself into the conservatory.

Miss Seed was under the drawing-room sofa.

Mr. Carroway was on the drawing-room mantelpiece.

The Great Man was in the rug box in the hall.

The heavy crash had been Ginger overbalancing and falling back through the trap-door upon William in his over anxiety to find out what was going on. The snarl of rage was William’s involuntary reaction to the sudden descent of Ginger’s solid form upon him.

The Outlaws, aghast at the noise they had made, froze into a petrified silence.

The four grown-ups, in their hiding-places downstairs, also froze in a petrified silence.

Complete silence reigned throughout the house.

The minutes passed slowly by—one minute, two minutes, three minutes, five minutes. Of the eight people in the house no one spoke, no one moved, no one breathed.

At last William whispered: “They must’ve gone out again.”

“I din’t hear the door,” hissed Ginger.

“I’m goin’ to see,” said William.

He peeped cautiously over the balusters. The hall was empty. The only sound was the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock.

“I b’lieve they have gone out again,” whispered William. “I’m goin’ down. Seems to me they’re all potty.”

He took off his shoes, crept silently down the stairs to the empty, silent hall and stood there irresolute.

Then he thought he heard a movement in a chest near the clock. He approached it and listened. Heavy, raucous breathing came from inside. He raised the lid. As he did so there came from it a high-pitched scream of terror. The open lid revealed the Great Man. The high-pitched scream of terror had come from the Great Man. William stared at him in blank amazement.

The Great Man, instead of seeing the fanged, tawny face he had expected when the chest lid began slowly to open, met the astonished gaze of the boy who had shot at him with a catapult that morning.

They stared at each other in silence. Then a thoughtful expression came over the face of the Great Man.

“Er—was it you who made that noise upstairs?” he said.

“Yes,” said William. “Ginger fell on me. I bet you’d’ve made a noise if Ginger’d fell on you.”

The expression of the Great Man became yet more thoughtful.

“And the—er—the dinner——?” he said, still reclining in the rug box.

“Yes,” admitted William, “it—it seemed sort of meant.”

Slowly, stiffly, the Great Man climbed out of the rug box. It had been a very tight fit.