‘I know you, my boy, and I know where you live. I shall call to see your father this very evening.’
Then he arose with great dignity and led the recalcitrant Eglantine as best he could back to her sty. Eglantine was, considering her previous lack of exercise, almost incredibly recalcitrant. Her taste of liberty had gone to her head and her failure to win that second handful of sawdust had embittered her spirit. She butted her master in all directions, and, when he finally secured her, lay on the floor of her sty with an expression of ill-humour on her face that was almost human. Her master stood leaning over the gate and gazing at her tragically.
‘Pounds she must have lost today,’ he said, ‘literally pounds!’
Meanwhile William, much shaken and battered by Eglantine and her master, was meeting the other Outlaws on the road where all of them had taken refuge. The full meaning of the situation was only just dawning on them.
‘He’ll tell your father an’ you won’t be able to go to the pantomine,’ said Douglas dolefully.
‘An’ we were going to buy a toboggan with that money,’ said Henry.
‘Yes,’ said William gloomily, ‘an’ he nearly pulled my ears off an’ she kicked me so’s I’m all bruises.’
‘P’raps he’ll forget to tell your father,’ said Henry without much hope.
‘No, he won’t,’ said William. ‘I could tell he wouldn’t by the way he pulled at my ears. It’s extraordinary to me how fast my ears seem to be stuck on to my head. I bet he’d have had ’em right off if they’d been anyone else’s. Then he’d’ve been put in prison.’ The thought of this seemed to afford him a certain gloomy pleasure. ‘Put in prison,’ he repeated, ‘where he couldn’t keep pigs or pull people’s ears off.’
‘Yes, but he’s not in prison,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ he’s goin’ to go ’n’ tell your father tonight.’
‘P’raps if you tell your father about your ears he’ll let you go to the pantomine to make up,’ said Henry, vaguely consoling.
‘No, he won’t,’ said William; ‘you don’t know my father. And he’s not fond of pantomines.’
‘What’ll we do then?’ said Henry.
‘We’ve jus’ gotter stop him goin’ to my father,’ said William.
‘How?’ said Henry.
‘We’ve gotter think of a way,’ said William irritably. ‘You seem to ’spect me to think of a thing the minute I’ve said it, same as if I was a sort of conj’rer. I’m not magic. I’m only yuman same as everyone else. I’ve s’ggested that we stop him goin’ to my father. There mus’ be ever so many ways. You might try to think of one.’
They had reached the old barn now and sat on the floor in frowning concentration.
‘Poison him,’ suggested Douglas at last, his face brightening.
This idea, though attractive, was considered impractical.
‘Lock him up in his house till after William’s been to the pantomine an’ got the five shillings,’ suggested Henry.
‘He’d break a window an’ get out,’ said William, ‘an’ then there’d be far worse for all of us than jus’ not goin’ to a pantomine. No, we’ve gotter think of somethin’ more cunnin’ than that.’
‘All right,’ said Henry, offended. ‘If you c’n think of a more cunnin’ way than lockin’ him up in his house, think of it.’
‘I bet I will, too,’ said William. ‘I bet I c’n find one all right, if I think long enough. People in books always find ways of stoppin’ other people doin’ things they don’t want them to, an’ I bet I’m as good as a person in a book any day.’
‘How do they stop people doin’ things they don’t want them to?’ said Douglas.
‘Sometimes—’ began William, then suddenly his face shone. ‘Yes!’ he said, ‘that’s how we’ll do it.’
‘How?’ said the Outlaws eagerly.
‘We’ll find out somethin’ he’s done wrong in his past an’ hold it over him that if he goes an’ tells about the pig we’ll set the police on him.’
The faces of the Outlaws shone eagerly at this, then clouded over as its one weak spot dawned on them.
‘S’pose he hasn’t done anythin’ wrong in his past,’ said Douglas.
‘He doesn’t look as if he’d ever done anythin’ wrong in his past,’ said Henry sadly; ‘he’s got a – a good sort of face.’
‘Yes,’ said William eagerly, ‘but that’s why he’s never got found out. With him havin’ a good sort of face people took for granted that he hadn’t done it. If he’d had a bad sort of face they’d have known he did it.’
‘Did what?’ said Henry the literal.
‘Did whatever he did,’ said William.
‘Well, what did he do?’
‘That’s what we’ve gotter find out,’ said William, and added feelingly, ‘I bet he murdered someone pullin’ their ears out.’
‘But we haven’t any proof he’s done anythin’ wrong at all,’ persisted Henry.
‘If he hasn’t done anythin’ wrong,’ said William, ‘why’s he livin’ in the country keepin’ pigs?’
This question seemed unanswerable to everyone but Henry, who ventured mildly:
‘P’raps he likes livin’ in the country keepin’ pigs.’
‘’Course he doesn’t,’ said William. ‘He may like livin’ in the country, but he doesn’t like keepin’ pigs.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘’Cause no one could like keepin’ pigs,’ said William firmly. ‘There’s nothin’ about pigs. I mean, if he kept wild animals or snakes or even butterflies or birds – somethin’ int’restin’, anyway – you might think he was keepin’ ’em because he wanted to keep ’em. But pigs . . . he mus’ be keepin’ ’em so’s to stop people suspectin’ that he was a crim’nal. I bet he’s a crim’nal same as that man at Beechcroft. Prob’ly he wears a wig, too, like that man called Bert. I bet his real hair’s black.’
Such was the magnetism of William’s personality that his band was now firmly convinced that Mr Ballater was a world-famous criminal in hiding.
‘How’re we goin’ to find out?’ said Ginger eagerly.
‘Jus’ watch him an’ listen to him,’ said William. ‘Prob’ly he’s got some confederation comin’ to see him sometimes. They gen’rally do. Come to that I don’t s’pose he’s stopped. You don’t often find ’em stoppin’. I mean, once you’ve got into the way of stealin’, you sort of can’t stop all at once. I bet it’s stealin’ that he did. Where’d he get his money if he’s not a thief? He doesn’t go up to London to an office same as our fathers do. He doesn’t earn it. He mus’ have stole it. I bet he’s stealin’ now from all the people about here. I bet that pig’s jus’ to put people off.’
‘But – but it doesn’t give us much time to find out he’s a thief an’ tell him before your father comes home tonight,’ said Ginger.
It turned out, however, that William’s father was not coming home that night. He was staying with friends in town, so that gave the Outlaws one extra day.
‘We oughter be able to do it in that time,’ said William with his unfailing optimism. ‘We’d better start at once. We’ll go back now an’ start watchin’ his house an’ listenin’. We’ll keep a good look out so’s the minute he sees us we’ll start runnin’ away. An’ I advise anyone he catches hold of to take care of their ears,’ he ended with deep feeling.
‘Oh, do shut up about your ears,’ said Ginger wearily. ‘We’re riskin’ our lives jus’ so that you can go to the pantomine, an’ you will keep on an’ on an’ on about your ears.’
‘You’d keep on an’ on an’ on about your ears, too, if he’d got hold of them same as he got hold of mine,’ said William spiritedly.
‘I’d have shut up about them by now, anyway,’ asserted Ginger, and continued hastily before William could contradict him, ‘anyway, let’s go back now an’ watch his house to see if we can get any clues to the wrong he did in his past.’
They went back to Mr Ballater’s house and William posted them at various p
oints. Ginger was to guard the front gate, Henry was to guard the back gate, and Douglas was to hide in the shrubbery that commanded the kitchen door. William, as leader, chose the most exciting part for himself. He was to hide outside the open drawing-room window to overhear any conversation that might be going on.
It happened that Mr Ballater had had an aunt and cousin to lunch. The aunt had retired to rest after the meal, and the cousin was talking to her host in the drawing-room. She was a nice cousin, the sort of cousin you confide in, so Mr Ballater was confiding in her. He was telling her about Eglantine. He had already told her about the dastardly boy who had let her out of her sty and ridden – ridden – her across the lawn.
‘Must have lost pounds,’ he moaned, ‘and upset her so much that she wouldn’t touch her dinner – and the show next week.’
The nice cousin smothered a yawn and uttered a sympathetic murmur. Mr Ballater was encouraged to deeper confidences.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I have a good deal of jealousy to contend with. You know how little minded people are where pigs are concerned. I once grew marrows, and it was just the same with those. Cucumbers, too. There’s something about pigs and marrows and cucumbers that seems to bring out the worst in people, seems to paralyse their sense of truth. You’d be surprised if you knew the people that have told me that Eglantine is nothing to pigs they’ve had. Just the same as people did with marrows. Fortunately I’ve got a check on most of the people that have kept pigs about here, because I managed to get snapshots of most of them, and when they begin to talk about it I just bring them out and show them the photograph of their pig beside the snapshot I’ve got of Eglantine taken at just the same distance. Even the Vicar – he’s not kept them for a few years now – but even the Vicar started the other day saying that his prize pig was quite as big as Eglantine. I took out the photograph to show him. He didn’t like it at all. Ordinarily he’s a perfectly truthful man, of course. It’s amazing to me—’ He crossed over to a bureau and took out a snapshot album and pointed at it at the first page. ‘That’s the Vicar’s,’ he said; ‘I took it about two years ago.’
William had just crept with elaborate secrecy to the drawing-room window and was crouching beneath it to listen to whatever was going on inside. This was the first and only sentence he heard. No sooner had he heard it than Mr Ballater accidentally knocked over an occasional table and William, startled by the noise, fled. But he did not regret his departure. He had heard enough to settle all his doubts. He reached the road and uttered the low, clear whistle with which he summoned his band. They assembled with eager haste.
‘He is one,’ said William triumphantly. ‘When I got there he’d got someone in with him and he was showing whoever it was the things he’d stole. He was just showing something he’s stole from the Vicar. He was jus’ sayin’ “This was the Vicar’s. I took it two years ago.” Tellin’ ’em straight out like that.’
‘What was he showin’ ’em?’ said Ginger excitedly.
‘I couldn’t see,’ said William, ‘but I could jus’ see that there was a lot of silver stuff in the room. I ’spect he was showin’ him some of that. I heard him movin’ then so I came away, because I ’spect he’s a pretty ruthless sort of man if he finds anyone’s found out about his secret career of crime. Well, I know he is, from my ears.’
‘How’re we goin’ to let him know we know?’ said Henry. ‘I mean about his career of crime?’
‘I votes we write to him,’ said Douglas, who never liked to run unnecessary risks, ‘I don’t think it’d be quite safe to tell him. He might set on us.’
So they wrote a note and put it through his letterbox. It was short, terse, and in the best traditions of melodrama. It read quite simply:
‘All is nown fle.’
It was very beautifully written in William’s best writing, but it didn’t have much effect, because it fluttered beneath the hall mat and wasn’t found till a week later.
‘But it won’t be much use to me – him fleein’,’ said William, ‘if he wrote to my father first.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Ginger with a burst of inspiration, ‘we’ll find out what he stole from the Vicar an’ take it back. Well – even if he’s wrote to your father – if we take back something that was stole from the Vicar, that’ll make it all right, won’t it? They’ll sort of cross each other off, I should think – lettin’ the pig out an’ takin’ back somethin’ that’s been stole.’
The others thought so, too, but there were obvious disadvantages to the plan.
‘How’re we goin’ to find out what he stole?’ said Henry.
‘We’ll jus’ go along to the Vicarage an’ see,’ said William vaguely.
They trudged along the road to the Vicarage, whistling cheerfully. It was turning out an adventure after their own hearts.
At the Vicarage they slowed down and looked at William. The Outlaws were not personæ gratæ at the Vicarage. Many little scores paid and unpaid lay between them and the Vicar’s wife. She was just coming out of the front gate as they reached it. She wore her Sunday clothes and was obviously in a good temper.
She was going away for the night to speak at a Mothers’ Meeting Conference, and there was nothing in the world that the Vicar’s wife enjoyed more than speaking at Mothers’ Meeting Conferences – or, indeed, anywhere at all. So she beamed through her pince-nez at the Outlaws, quite forgetting that only a few weeks ago they had put years on to the life of the Vicarage wheelbarrow and that entirely owing to them the church pillars had had to be wreathed at Christmas with laurel instead of holly.
‘Well, dear boys,’ she said brightly, ‘and what are you about this fine day? Not spending it quite uselessly, I hope? Trying to give pleasure to others besides yourselves, I hope?’
‘Please,’ said William earnestly, ‘did you have anything stole about two years ago?’
‘Stolen, dear boy, stolen. Past participle, stolen. I steal, he stole, the teapot has been stolen.’
‘A teapot, was it?’ said William eagerly.
‘Well, as a matter of fact we did have a teapot stolen about two years ago,’ she said. ‘A beautiful silver teapot. It was a great grief to us. The only thing we’ve ever had stolen. Stolen, note, dear boy, not stole. Past participle, stolen. I steal, he stole, the teapot has been stolen.’
‘About two years ago?’ said William.
‘Yes, my dear boy. Why?’
‘I jus’ wondered,’ said William non-committally.
‘Ah, but you shouldn’t, you know,’ said the Vicar’s wife reproachfully. ‘You shouldn’t wonder. Curiosity, you know. Idle curiosity. You remember what the Vicar said about idle curiosity in his last sermon, don’t you?’
Ginger made an inarticulate sound that might have meant that he did, and she sailed on down the road towards the station, smiling vaguely, her lips moving silently. Already in imagination she was addressing her Mothers’ Meeting.
‘A teapot,’ said William in a brisk, businesslike tone of voice. ‘That’s what he mus’ have been showin’ his confederation. Come on. Let’s go back an’ get it. Well, even if he’s wrote about the pig, it’ll make up for it – gettin’ back somethin’ stole out of a thief’s den.’
‘It might be a bit diff’cult,’ said Douglas doubtfully, ‘if he’s one of these desp’rate criminals what you read about in books. I’d almost as soon miss that five shillings as get gagged an’ left in cellars, same as people get in books.’
‘I bet he won’t be there at all,’ said William. ‘I bet he’ll have got that note and be fleein’ abroad for all he’s worth.’
‘Takin’ the teapot with him,’ said Douglas gloomily, ‘an’ writin’ to your father before he goes.’
They entered the gate and looked about cautiously. The aunt and cousin had gone home and Mr Ballater was hanging over Eglantine’s sty, gazing at her sadly and adoringly. Pounds she must have lost today, running across the lawn like that and missing her dinner. She’d forgotten the sawdust now and was eating
her meal with every appearance of enjoyment, but still she must have lost pounds. And the show next week . . .
‘WELL, BOYS, WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT THIS FINE DAY? NOT SPENDING IT QUITE USELESSLY, I HOPE?’
‘PLEASE,’ SAID WILLIAM EARNESTLY, ‘DID YOU HAVE ANYTHING STOLE ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO?’
The Outlaws crept up the empty front garden in the shelter of the bushes to the drawing-room window. Cautiously they peered in. And the first thing they saw was a cabinet full of old silver pieces, among which was a silver teapot.
‘There it is!’ gasped the Outlaws.
Almost before he had said it William was over the window-sill and across the room.
‘Be careful,’ hissed Douglas, ‘he’ll be comin’ back with his gags and things!’ But the cabinet door happened to be unlocked, and William was back with the silver teapot in a few seconds.
‘Quick,’ he said in a melodramatic whisper as he whipped it under his coat. ‘Quick, before he comes back!’ They fled precipitately to the gate, then down the road, not pausing to draw breath till they were near the gate of the Vicarage. Then William took the teapot from under his coat and they examined it.
‘I don’t see how it can help bein’ the Vicar’s,’ said William, as if trying to quiet some small doubt in his mind. ‘He had it stole about two years ago an’ I heard this man sayin’ he stole it from the Vicar about two years ago, so I don’t see how it can help bein’ the one.’
William Page 21
