William in Trouble

by Richmal Crompton

  Ginger, writhing about the floor of the barn, simulated to his own entire satisfaction the agonies of one suffering from the pangs of extreme hunger. No one took much notice of him, but he did not mind. He was thoroughly enjoying his own performance.

  Douglas set up a rival show by making a pretence of eating one of the packing-cases which he said was a dead horse.

  William and Henry with great ostentation of secrecy crept through the hedge that represented the enemy’s lines and across the field to the road, where they separated.

  William swung along the road. It was still raining. His gait alternated between swagger and caution, according as the rôle of world famous editor or creeper through an enemy’s lines in search of provender for his starving comrades, was uppermost in his mind.

  It was still raining. He looked up with a certain apprehension, not unmixed with interest, at the smoking chimneys of the Hall as he passed it. At the Hall lived Mr Bott of Bott’s Sauce, with his wife and daughter. Mr and Mrs Bott were negligible in William’s eyes. Not so the daughter. Violet Elizabeth Bott was a maiden of six years, with a lisp, an angelic face and a will of iron.

  She cultivated and used for her own purpose a scream that would have put a factory siren to shame and which was guaranteed to reduce anyone within ten yards of it to quite an expensive nervous breakdown. It had never yet been known to fail. William dreaded and respected Violet Elizabeth Bott. She had been away on a holiday with her family for the last month, but William knew that they had returned yesterday.

  He hoped that she would leave them in peace for that day at least. She cherished an affection for the Outlaws which was not reciprocated though they were helpless against her weapons. Then William remembered that he was editor of a world-famous newspaper, and throwing a contemptuous laugh in the direction of the Hall chimneys, swaggered on scornfully down the road.

  As he neared his house he met a young man with curly hair and a nice mouth walking slowly and despondently down the road with a fishing rod in his hand. He gave William a pleasant smile.

  William’s stern countenance did not soften. He knew all about that young man and all about that smile. That young man was an undergraduate of Cambridge, who was staying at the village inn for a week’s fishing.

  For the first few days the fishing had given him complete satisfaction. On the third day he had seen William’s pretty nineteen-year-old sister Ethel, and, after that, he had spent most of his time hanging about the road that led past the Browns’ house, trying to make friends with William (who did not respond) or taking unauthorised snapshots of Ethel whenever she passed him on the road.

  Today the young man looked excited, despite the rain. He had yesterday, by a master stroke of tact and persistence, made friends with the Vicar and had been invited to a party at the Vicarage which was to take place that afternoon.

  He was now anxious to know whether Ethel would be there.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the young man effusively to William.

  ‘G’afternoon,’ said William without enthusiasm and without stopping.

  William had a hearty contempt for all Ethel’s admirers. As he frequently and bitterly remarked, he couldn’t see what people ‘saw in’ Ethel.

  ‘I say – wait a minute,’ said the young man desperately.

  William, still scowling, slowed down ungraciously.

  ‘Is – I say – is your sister going to the Vicarage party this afternoon?’ said the young man blushing.

  As he spoke his hand stole to his pocket.

  William stopped and his scowl faded. A hand stealing to a pocket put quite a different complexion on the matter.

  ‘Uh-huh?’ said William with his eye on the hand.

  ‘I say, is your sister coming to the Vicarage party this afternoon?’ said the young man.

  William had enough knowledge of the young man’s state of mind to realise that in this case an affirmative answer would be better paid than a negative one.

  ‘Yuh,’ he said.

  ‘You mean she is?’ said the young man.

  ‘Yuh,’ said William.

  The young man brought out a half-crown and pressed it rapturously into William’s hand.

  William, clasping it firmly, retreated into the house.

  William’s task was to collect pencils. Henry’s was to supply the paper. William collected pencils, and in collecting pencils as in everything else he was very thorough. He seemed to attract pencils like a magnet. They left their hiding-places of bureaus and davenports and attaché cases and pockets and boxes and flocked into his possession. For days afterwards the adult members of the Brown family were indignantly accusing each other of having taken each other’s pencils, nor was peace restored till Mr Brown brought back a large supply of fresh pencils from the City.

  In the drawing-room William found Ethel reading a novel.

  ‘I say, Ethel!’ said William, ‘you are goin’ to the Vicarage party this afternoon, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Ethel.

  ‘I thought you were,’ said William.

  ‘Well, I’m not. I said I’d got another engagement. I don’t want to go to a beastly dull Vicarage party. And, anyway,’ with sisterly ungraciousness, ‘what’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Oh, nothin’,’ said William airily, looking round the room to make sure that it concealed no more pencils.

  Then, with a reassuring ‘All right, I won’t,’ to his mother, whose voice was now heard entreating him plaintively from upstairs not to get wet, he went out into the rain once more, his ‘bag’ of pencils concealed in his pockets.

  The young man was still in the lane, but with his back to him. William had an uneasy suspicion that a course of absolute probity demanded a report of the fact that Ethel would not be at the party and a return (or, at any rate, an offer of the return) of the half-crown which had obviously been obtained under false pretences.

  William, however, remembered suddenly and with relief that he was a disguised spy bringing aid to a beleagured army through the lines of the enemy (one of whom, of course, was the young man with curly hair) and crouching low in the shadow of the hedge, he managed to pass the young man without attracting his attention.

  Henry was at the barn with his ‘bag’ of paper when William reached it. Henry, too, had done well. He had brought an unused drawing book that belonged by rights to his younger sister, the four middle pages from all his school exercise books (more than four invites comment and demands for explanations), all the envelopes and foolscap he could find, and a piece of very elegant mauve note-paper stamped with his address that he had found on his mother’s bureau.

  William had brought, as well as his pencils, a false moustache and a wig, chiefly consisting of baldness, which belonged to his elder brother Robert. These were meant to shed lustre on his editorial rôle. He donned them immediately on entering the barn. Then, with an air of businesslike concentration, he dealt out paper and pencil. The editorial staff (late Outlaws) fought each other for the best packing-cases and the dryest spots on the floor of the barn, and finally took their places and what remained of the paper and pencils after the fight.

  ‘Well,’ said Henry rather gloomily, ‘how’re we goin’ to start?’

  ‘Gotter think of a name first, I s’pose.’

  There was silence while the Outlaws thought.

  ‘Outlaws’ Daily Times,’ said Ginger at last.

  ‘That means doin’ it every day whether it rains or not!’ jeered Douglas. ‘Not likely.’

  ‘Outlaws’ Weekly Times, then,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Not every week, neither,’ said Douglas very firmly.

  ‘Why not Outlaws’ Telegraph?’ said Henry.

  ‘’Cause it’s not a telegraph, silly,’ said William, ‘it’s a newspaper.’

  ‘Well, why not have Outlaws’ and District Times?’ said Douglas, ‘same as the one we take in at home?’

  This title met with no objection. The name Outlaws’ and District Times was adopted.
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  ‘Now we’ve gotter write news,’ said William cheerfully. William sat, moustached and wigged, at the biggest packing-case.

  ‘But there isn’t any news,’ objected Henry, ‘nothin’s happened ’cept rain.’

  ‘Well, say it’s been rainin’ then,’ said Douglas encouragingly.

  ‘You can’t fill a newspaper with sayin’ it’s rainin’,’ said Henry.

  ‘Newspapers don’ only say news,’ contributed Ginger with an air of deep wisdom, ‘they – they sort of say what they sort of – think of things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ said Henry.

  ‘They sort of write about things they don’t like,’ said Ginger rather vaguely, ‘an’ about people doin’ things they don’t like.’

  William brightened.

  ‘We could easy do that,’ he said. Then after a slight deliberation, pencil on insecurely moustached lip and head on one side: ‘Well, let’s all start writin’ about people doin’ things we don’t like, and start now straight off.’

  The Outlaws signified their assent.

  There was silence – a silence broken only by the sound of the rain dripping on and through the roof of the old barn, and the groans of the Outlaws in mental travail.

  Then suddenly through the silence came a shrill voice.

  ‘Hello, William, darling.’

  He looked up with a groan.

  Violet Elizabeth, gum-booted, macintoshed, sou’-westered, stood smiling happily in the doorway.

  ‘I made them let me come,’ she explained. ‘I wanted to find you all an’ play with you, tho I thcreamed an’ thcreamed an’ thcreamed till they let me.’

  She beamed around triumphantly.

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘We’re writing a newspaper an’ we don’t – want – girls,’ said William firmly.

  ‘But I want to write a newthpaper, too,’ pleaded Violet Elizabeth.

  William scowled so fiercely that his moustache fell off. He picked it up and carefully adjusted it again.

  ‘Well, you’re not going to,’ he said, with an air of finality.

  Violet Elizabeth’s blue eyes filled with tears. That was her first weapon. William, though he had no hopes of final victory, did not mean to be worsted by her first weapon.

  ‘I c’ write, too, I can,’ said Violet Elizabeth plaintively. ‘I c’ write newthpaperth, too, I can. I’m a good writer, I am. I can thpell, too, I can.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to thpell here,’ mimicked William heartlessly.

  Violet Elizabeth dried her tears. She saw that they were useless and she did not believe in wasting her effects.

  ‘All right,’ she said calmly, ‘I’ll thcream then. I’ll thcream, an’ thcream, an’ thcream till I’m thick.’

  More than once William had seen the small but redoubtable lady fulfil this threat quite literally. He watched her with fearsome awe. Violet Elizabeth with a look of fiendish determination upon her angelic face opened her small mouth.

  ‘’Sall right,’ said William brokenly. ‘Come on – write if you want to.’

  Violet Elizabeth came on. She wanted to. She found on the floor a piece of grimy paper and a pencil with a broken point, both of which had been discarded as unfit for use by the others, and sat down beaming ecstatically on the ground by William. Violet Elizabeth adored William. She smiled around on them all.

  ‘What thall I write?’ she demanded happily.

  ‘Write anything,’ snapped William.

  ‘I’ll make up a croth-word puthle,’ she said brightly.

  William threw her a glance over his unstable moustache. In spite of her general objectionableness she certainly had ideas.

  ‘What you doin’, William?’ she said sweetly.

  ‘I’m writing a serial,’ said William with a superior air.

  He stooped to pick up his moustache and then tried to affix it again, but it seemed to have exhausted its adhesive powers, and after a few unsuccessful attempts, he slipped it surreptitiously into his pocket.

  ‘Dothn’t it thtick any more?’ said Violet Elizabeth sympathetically, ‘I’m tho thorry.’

  He disdained to answer.

  ‘You writing a therial, William?’ she said. ‘How nithe!’

  ‘People,’ said William ferociously, ‘what write newspapers aren’t allowed to talk.’

  ‘All right,’ said Violet Elizabeth sweetly. ‘I don’t mind.’

  Again there was silence. All the Outlaws were working hard, with frowning brows, bitten pencils, dishevelled hair, agonised, grimy countenances.

  ‘I’ve finished my croth-word puthle,’ piped Violet Elizabeth.

  ‘You can’t have,’ said William in indignant surprise.

  ‘Well, I have, tho there!’ said Violet Elizabeth with spirit.

  ‘Let me look at it,’ he said sternly.

  She passed it to him.

  1 down – Wot you hav dropps of.

  1 acros – Oppossit of cat.

  William looked at this sternly for a long time.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ he said at last.

  ‘Can’t you gueth it, William?’ said Violet Elizabeth with triumph in her voice, ‘ith cough an’ dog. C-O-F – Cough.’

  ‘You don’t have drops of cough,’ said William scornfully.

  ‘Yeth, you do, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth. ‘You have cough dropth. I’ve had them. I’ve had cough dropth, I have.’

  ‘You don’t spellem like that, anyway,’ said William.

  ‘Well, how do you thpellem?’ said Violet Elizabeth.

  William, who was rather hazy on the point, quickly changed the subject.

  ‘Well, what’s the opposite of a cat?’

  ‘Dog, William.’

  ‘Dog isn’t the opposite of cat.’

  ‘Yeth it ith, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth sweetly, ‘’cauth I know it ith.’

  ‘It’s a rotten puzzle,’ said William with contempt.

  ‘Ith not, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth unperturbed, ‘ith a nithe one. You ought to give a prithe of a hundred poundth for guething it like they do in new-thpaperth.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to,’ said William firmly.

  ‘Wish you two’d shut up,’ growled Ginger who was pulling his hair and chewing his pencil. ‘I can’t think.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said William to Violet Elizabeth.

  ‘All right, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth meekly. ‘I don’t mind.’ Violet Elizabeth, having gained her main object, could be disarmingly meek.

  For some minutes there was silence broken only by the sighs and groans of the editorial staff.

  The silence was finally broken by Violet Elizabeth who raised her voice again shrill and unabashed.

  ‘I don’t thee what good a newthpaper ith without any crimeth.’

  They looked at her. She met their gaze unflinchingly and repeated her statement.

  ‘I don’t thee what good a newthpaper ith without any crimeth.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop int’ruptin’ an’ int’ruptin’ an’ int’ruptin’,’ said William. ‘How d’you think we’re goin’ to get any work done with you int’ruptin’ an’ int’ruptin’?’ But he added, because her words had really intrigued him, ‘What d’you mean sayin’ that a newspaper isn’t any good without crimes?’

  ‘Thereth alwayth crimeth in newthpaperth,’ said Violet Elizabeth, with that air of superior knowledge which the Outlaws always found so maddening in one of her extreme youth. ‘Thereth crimeth and polithe an’ people goin’ to prithon. If you’re goin’ to have a real newthpaper, thomebody ought to do a crime.’

  ‘All right,’ said William, nettled by this terrible child’s invasion of his editorial province. ‘All right. Go an’ do one then!’

  Violet Elizabeth leapt to her feet.

  ‘Yeth, I will, William,’ she said sweetly. ‘I don’t mind.’

  A sigh of relief went up as the small form disappeared into the rain. And again there was silence in the barn.

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p; It was evident at last that most of the Outlaws had finished their tasks or, at any rate, that the first fine careless rapture of inspiration was failing. Ginger began to throw mud pellets at Douglas while Henry began to direct, by means of various dams, the course of a small rivulet that was trickling down the barn floor, so that it should reach William.

  ‘IF YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE A REAL NEWTHPAPER,’ LISPED VIOLET ELIZABETH, ‘THOMEBODY OUGHT TO DO A CRIME.’

  They all scuffled exuberantly for a few minutes, then William said:

  ‘Well, let’s c’lect the papers now an’ make up the newspaper.’

  ‘How much’re you goin’ to sell it for, William?’ said Ginger optimistically.

  ‘Who’d buy it, anyway?’ said Henry.

  ‘I bet anyone’d be glad to buy it,’ said William indignantly, ‘a jolly good newspaper like this!’

  William collected the papers, perched himself upon the most important-looking packing-case, made a last unsuccessful attempt to put on his moustache, pulled up his wig (which was too big for him), and began to read. It is perhaps unnecessary to remark that on all the Outlaws’ school reports on spelling, the comment ‘Poor’ occurred with monotonous regularity.

  This was Henry’s contribution:

  ‘SWEETS.’

  ‘Something ought to be don about sweets. Even the cheepest sorts are too deer fancy paing a penny an ounce for quite ornery sweets when you only get tuppence a week and an ounce lars no time. They ought to be made harder to so as they’d lars longer. Wot we all say is that somethin ought to be don about sweets fancy people letting this stat of things go on and on and not doing something about it. The guvment ought to do something about it, they ought to give a subciddy to it like what they do to mins fancy them not doing wot we all says is—’

  Here, apparently, Henry’s inspiration had entirely given out.

  Henry listened to William’s reading of his contribution with a blush of pride.

  ‘That’s jolly good,’ commented William.

  ‘Yes, that’s jolly good,’ the others agreed feelingly. The modest author’s blush deepened. ‘Yes, we’ll put that first.’