Little did the smiling Clarence think, as he sat with his beloved by the river bank, that two boys were concealed in the bushes just behind him listening to his conversation. He had, of course, no eyes or ears for any but the beloved and he was finding it quite up-hill work because, although he’d been paying her attention now for nearly a fortnight, she didn’t seem impressed or responsive.
She seemed, on the contrary, frankly bored, yawned frequently, and quite often forgot even to pretend that she was listening to him.
Clarence, who had a very good opinion of himself, thought that she was merely shy and diffident, and she was, of course, frightfully pretty.
So, unmoved by her silence and inadequate responses, he continued to address his attentions to her.
‘May I take you for a drive tomorrow?’ he pleaded.
‘No,’ said Miss Holding very firmly. ‘I shan’t be at home tomorrow. I’m going to some friends at Beechtop. I’m going to have lunch with them. Then we’re going to take out our tea to the river bank and picnic there.’
‘May I come and help?’ said Clarence.
‘How could you help?’ said Miss Holding brusquely.
‘I could – er – wash up and carry things, and – er – bring you home.’
She relented.
‘All right. You can come over for tea if you like.’
‘Where shall I come – and when?’ said Clarence.
‘Come about four then,’ said Miss Holding, ‘to the bank near the church. It’s rather pretty there. It’s by the roadside, but there’s a good stretch of bank with nice trees.’
‘I’ll come,’ said Clarence fervently.
Then they got up and began to walk along the road to the village. Clarence’s high-pitched laugh rang out as they went.
William and Ginger emerged from their leafy shelter and looked after the departing figures.
‘I bet he’s telling her about it,’ said Ginger gloomily.
‘Well, what we’ve gotter do,’ said William, ‘is to go to this ole picnic an’ see if we can’t do somethin’ to him there. I don’t care if we do spoil her picnic.’
He spoke rather wistfully. The sight and sound of Miss Holding had increased his admiration. But loyalty to her, of course, was as nothing to his loyalty to his Outlaws. Clarence had insulted Douglas and Henry and so Clarence must be punished. He hardened his heart against her.
‘All right,’ said Ginger, and then mournfully, ‘but Beechtop’s a jolly long way off. It’s miles an’ miles an’ miles. How’re we goin’ to get there?’
‘Walk,’ said William sternly.
Ginger groaned.
‘We’ve gotter take a little trouble avengin’ Douglas an’ Henry,’ said William irritably. ‘We’ll start early – d’rectly after lunch, an’ we’ll get there jus’ about tea time, I bet.’
They started directly after lunch and had they gone straight there they might easily have arrived before tea time. But the Outlaws, even when on vengeance bent, were still the Outlaws. They could not pass anything on a road which seemed to call for investigation. And the road positively teemed with such things. There was a pond which delayed them for quite a quarter of an hour. Then there was a tree which Ginger said William couldn’t climb and which William therefore had to climb, though it took him ten minutes, and tore his coat and nearly broke his neck. Then there was a boy who jeered at William’s personal appearance – both pond and tree had left their marks upon him – and was challenged by William to single combat. The fight lasted between five and ten minutes, then, battered but victorious, William rejoined Ginger and they resumed their journey.
‘Wonder if we’re nearly there,’ said Ginger.
‘Course we aren’t,’ said William, ‘it’s ever so many miles yet.’
‘S’pose we don’t get there before they’ve started home,’ said Ginger pessimistically.
‘If you hadn’t wasted all that time over that pond an’ things—’ said William, sublimely ignoring his own part in the delays.
‘Well!’ said Ginger indignantly. ‘Well! I like that! – an’ you climbin’ trees an’ fightin’ boys an’ – an’ anyway, we don’ even know what we’re going’ to do when we do get there.’
‘Somethin’ sure to turn up to do when we get there,’ said William optimistically. ‘Trouble is,’ and his depression returned to him, ‘gettin’ there – miles an’ miles an’ miles.’
Just then they heard the sound of a motorcycle behind them and turned round.
‘It’s him,’ whispered William.
Clarence, be-goggled and wearing a radiant leather coat, flashed by. In flashing by he swerved slightly. Ginger sprang to one side, slipped and fell.
‘Lie right down and keep your eyes shut,’ hissed William quickly.
Ginger obediently lay inert in the road.
‘Hi!’ called William after Clarence.
Clarence slowed down and turned round. He saw Ginger lying inert in the road and a look of horror came into his face. Slowly he wheeled his motorcycle back.
‘I didn’t knock him down,’ he said aggressively.
‘Didn’t you just!’ said William severely. ‘You came right over this side of the road.’
To his relief it was quite evident that Clarence did not recognise them. He had only seen them in the distance in Fanner Jenks’ field. To him they were just two strange boys. Ginger still lay in the dust, his eyes closed.
Clarence took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘I – er – I remember swerving a little. But I felt nothing. I’m sure I didn’t go over him.’
‘No,’ said William rather regretfully, for it would be impossible even to pretend that any motorcycle had passed over the solid and obviously intact form of Ginger. ‘You didn’t go over him, but you – you swerved right on to him an’ gave him a t’riffic blow on his head. He’s got – he’s got,’ the word came with a flash of inspiration, ‘’cussion. That’s what he’s got. He’s got ’cussion.’
‘I don’t believe he has,’ said Clarence, but he sounded uncertain and he watched the motionless figure of Ginger anxiously.
‘Well, he’s unconscious, isn’t he?’ said William, in the tone of one who states an indubitable fact.
‘I expect it just gave him a fright,’ said Clarence, then brightening, ‘anyway he looks healthy enough, doesn’t he?’
‘They always look healthy with ’cussion,’ said William darkly, and with such an air of knowledge that Clarence’s face fell again. ‘I – I once knew a boy what had ’cussion jus’ like that. A motorcycle swerved into him and he lay for a few minutes lookin’ healthy – lookin’ very healthy – that’s one of the signs of ’cussion – unconscious jus’ like that – an’ soon he came round an’ sat up an’ said, “Where am I?” – same as they always say – an’ then he said that he’d got a most awful pain jus’ above his ears – that’s where you always feel the pain in ’cussion – an’ they took him home moanin’ an’ groanin’ somethin’ t’riffic, an’ lookin’ quite healthy all the time same as they always do in ’cussion, an’ he died jus’ when he’d been at home for about an’ hour, moanin’ and groanin’ somethin’ t’riffic, he died. The man what swerved into him was put in prison.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Clarence heartily, but he didn’t look hearty and he didn’t feel hearty.
William wore his most guileless expression. No one could look more like a boy who is telling the truth than William when he wasn’t telling the truth. Experts had often been deceived by it. Just as Clarence stood trying to feel as hearty as he sounded and to rid himself of the effect of William’s earnest words and guileless look, Ginger, in obedience to a surreptitious prod from William’s foot, sat up in the dust and said, ‘Where am I?’
William bent over him in tender solicitude.
‘You’re here, Ginger dear, on the road.’ Then quite politely he effected the introduction. ‘This is the gentleman who knocked you down with his motor cycle.’
Cla
rence blinked again, and again tried to be hearty.
‘I’m quite sure you feel all right, my boy, now,’ he said.
But Ginger began to moan in a particularly resonant manner, rather like the mooing of a cow.
‘Where do you feel the pain, Ginger dear?’ enquired William tenderly.
Ginger stopped moaning to say:
‘Jus’ above my ears.’
‘There.’ said William, as if greatly impressed. ‘It is ’cussion; I said it was ’cussion. Do you feel as if you could walk, Ginger dear?’
Ginger, who had started mooing again, stopped to say ‘No.’
Clarence, who was beginning to look like a man in the grip of a nightmare, said:
‘Where does he live?’
‘At Beechtop,’ said William shamelessly, ‘jus’ near the river.’
‘I – I’ll take him home then,’ said the bewildered and apprehensive Clarence.
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘I think we’d better get him home. Sometimes they go off so quick with ’cussion.’
Between them they lifted the loudly moaning Ginger on to the pillion.
‘I’ll get on with him, shall I?’ said William, ‘then if he goes off sudd’nly on the way, I can catch him.’
William and Ginger enjoyed the drive to Beechtop tremendously. It was far nicer than walking. Ginger enjoyed it so much that he kept forgetting to moan and had to be recalled to his duty by kicks and prods from William. At Beechtop Clarence stopped.
‘Where does he live exactly?’ he inquired.
‘Oh, it’s jus’ near here,’ said William. ‘Do you feel a little better, Ginger dear? Do you feel you could walk?’
‘Yes,’ said Ginger, who had now stopped moaning, ‘I feel I could walk a bit now.’
Clarence looked relieved and recovered something of his aplomb.
‘Your own fault entirely,’ he said, ‘for not keeping right at the side of the road.’
Then he went on to the river bank where Miss Holding and her friends awaited him.
He had completely forgotten the episode a few minutes later when he sat among the other guests on the bank, making little jokes and laughing his high-pitched laugh and handing round bags of cakes.
It was some time before he noticed William’s face peering at him through the bushes making contortions which were obviously meant to be signs of some sort. The memory came back to him like the memory of a nightmare. His smile died away and his high-pitched laugh stopped abruptly on its highest note.
‘I’ll – er – I’ll fetch some more cakes,’ he said, and went over to the provision basket near which William’s face had loomed through the bushes.
Pretending to busy himself with the provisions, he snapped:
‘Well?’
From behind the bushes where William’s face had now discreetly withdrawn itself came a hoarse whisper:
‘It is ’cussion. He’s vi’lently ill.’
‘Well, I can’t help it,’ hissed Clarence irritably. ‘He must have been standing right in the way. I can’t do anything.’
‘No,’ said William. ‘No, I know you can’t. But they say he’s gotter have a lot of nourishment an’ his mother’s not got any food in the house ’cause of them bein’ very poor – ever so poor. So if you could let me have a few cakes an’ things for him I’d take them to his house for him. The. doctor says he can have rich things – he’d like some of those cakes with cream on—’
‘All right,’ hissed Clarence. ‘I’ll – I’ll get some for you. Only – go away.’
‘If you sit down here an’ put them behind you – I’ll take ’em from you.’
‘All right,’ hissed Clarence, in a fever lest anyone should notice his visitor or hear his visitor’s penetrating whisper. He sat down by the basket, very much irritated because it was right away from Miss Holding, and began to talk to a girl with red hair. As he talked he pushed cakes into the bushes. He talked excitedly and increasingly to divert attention from his activities and frequently stopped to mop his brow with his mauve silk handkerchief. He’d had a lot of nightmares in his life, but none as bad as this.
Meanwhile behind him in the bushes William and Ginger sat down happily to their splendid feast.
‘It’s most peculiar,’ Miss Holding was heard to say, ‘I can’t think what’s happened to all the iced cakes. We bought heaps, but they all seem to have gone.’
‘Most mysterious,’ said the girl with the red hair. ‘Never mind, we’ll make the most of the biscuits.’
Clarence began to talk to the red-haired girl again. He was just forgetting his fears and beginning to talk more or less sensibly when he felt a prod in the back.
CLARENCE TALKED EXCITEDLY TO DIVERT ATTENTION, AND AS HE TALKED HE PUSHED CAKES INTO THE BUSHES.
‘He’s finished all those things what you sent,’ hissed William’s voice, ‘an’ the doctor says he’s gotter have some more nourishment. His ’cussion’s getting worse an’ worse.’
‘I don’t wonder if he’s eaten all that stuff I gave you,’ said Clarence bitterly.
‘You’ve gotter eat with ’cussion. It’s the only thing to do to save your life – to go on eatin’ an’ eatin’. Can I have that bag of biscuits for him?’
‘No.’
‘Well – I’ll ask Miss Holding. P’r’aps if I tell her about you knockin’ him down, she’ll give me some for him.’ Hastily Clarence seized the bag of biscuits and pushed them into the bushes.
‘IT’S MOST PECULIAR,’ SAID MISS HOLDING. ‘I CAN’T THINK WHAT’S HAPPENED TO ALL THE ICED CAKES.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Miss Holding, looking around her a few minutes later, ‘all the biscuits seem to have gone now.’
‘It’s always from Mr Bergson’s corner that things go,’ said the youngest guest, aged thirteen. ‘I’ve seen all the things just near him and then when you look again a minute later they aren’t there.’
Everyone turned and stared at Clarence who grew red to the tips of his ears.
‘Well,’ he said at last desperately, ‘I – I’ve had quite a long drive. It – it makes one hungry.’
‘He must have eaten all that pound of biscuits as well as the two dozen iced cakes,’ said the youngest guest dispassionately.
‘Hush dear,’ said her mother, reproachfully, and conversation became general, but Clarence could not help noticing that there seemed to be a tendency to avoid him. And things had hardly become normal again when he felt once more that painful prod in the back that heralded William’s penetrating whisper:
‘I’ve just been to see him again and—’
‘I’m not giving you anything else,’ hissed Clarence.
‘No. He doesn’t want anything now. He’s too ill to eat now. His ’cussion’s something t’riffic now. They’re awful mad about it. His father’s just sent for a policeman—’
‘What?’
‘To take down all about you knockin’ ’im down, case he dies and you have to go to prison.’
The red-haired girl turned to Clarence.
‘Were you speaking to me, Mr Bergson?’ she said politely.
Clarence took out his mauve silk handkerchief and mopped his brow again.
‘Y-yes,’ he said, ‘I was just remarking what – er – what a beautiful view.’
‘Do you think so?’ said the red-haired girl coldly (she simply couldn’t get over this man’s having eaten two dozen iced cakes and a pound of biscuits). ‘I think it’s very ordinary.’
William and Ginger had left the bushes. Gorged with cakes and in a state of hazy content they were walking down the road towards a point at the road where a policeman stood directing the very scanty traffic which came from a side road. They had not finished with Clarence yet. The Outlaws never went in for half measures. On the way they passed a public house called the Staff of Life, and on a bench just outside lounged an enormous man with cross-eyes and abnormally long arms and wearing a smile which in the distance looked ferocious, but on nearer approach became merely fatuous.
William and Ginger watched him with interest as they passed him and then, forgetting him, approached the policeman.
William assumed his expression of innocence.
‘Please sir,’ he said, ‘there’s a gentleman down there what’s just had his pocket picked. He told me to go’n see if I could find a policeman.’
The policeman took out a pocket-book.
‘Who is he?’ he said eagerly. Evidently he welcomed the interruption. There had only been one cart along the side road in the last three-quarters of an hour.
‘He’s with a picnic party down by the bank,’ said William guilelessly, ‘he’s dressed in a leather coat.’
Then William and Ginger melted silently away. The policeman, still holding his note-book, went down to the bank.
Clarence was just beginning to feel that he was returning to favour. He was talking about his motorcycle.
‘Sixty miles an hour is nothing to me,’ he said, ‘there’s no danger at all to a good driver in sixty miles an hour.’
‘That’s what makes you so hungry, I suppose,’ said the youngest guest, as if a problem which had long been troubling her were solved at last.
Her mother said, ‘Hush, dear,’ and again the atmosphere was slightly strained.
‘How fast did you come here today, Mr Bergson?’ said the youngest guest’s mother, feeling that it was up to her to restore the atmosphere.
Clarence’s complacency dropped from him as he thought of how fast he’d come there.
‘Oh – er – it varied,’ he said absently.
What had that little wretch said? A policeman taking down details! It was a horrible thought. He took out the mauve silk handkerchief and wiped his brow again. His mauve silk handkerchief was becoming quite damp. And then – his eyes almost started out of his head. Here was the policeman coming down the river bank and right up to him – the policeman who must have come straight from the bedside of the boy he’d knocked down – with his note-book in his hand.
Clarence didn’t stop to think. He leapt to his feet and took to his heels. The policeman didn’t stop to think either. He saw someone running away from him so, from sheer force of habit, he ran after him. Along the road by the river bank went Clarence, and behind him in hot pursuit, the stalwart figure of the policeman.
William the Good Page 11
