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, 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:
‘HERE’S ROBERT’S WIRELESS SET, UNCLE FREDERICK’ SAID WILLIAM. ‘YOU JUST TURN THIS – THERE!’
‘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.
CHAPTER 8
WILLIAM’S LUCKY DAY
WILLIAM and the other Outlaws sat in the old bam 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 bulls-eyes 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 g
reeted 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 dimishing 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 matchboxes 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, penknife 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 tomorrow. 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 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 tonight.’
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—’
William the Good Page 17
