They concealed themselves in the loft in good time. They looked very anxious. If Oswald won the badge again today they felt that life would not be endurable.
The Twentieth Century Poets assembled by degrees. They also looked rather anxious. They also recognised the solemnity of the occasion. They also did not wish the all-conquering Oswald to conquer yet again. Robert looked especially nervous, as though wrought up to do or die. He had spent all the previous night over his poem. Oswald came in last, wearing the badge and smiling. He took the conduct of affairs from Robert’s hands entirely. He evidently considered himself President now as well as Treasurer and Secretary and Vice-President.
George read his poem first. George was feeling gloomy. He had had to begin the rabbit hutch all over again. The attractive female cousin had scornfully refused the fretwork. She said her rabbits would catch their deaths and did he think he was being funny or what?
So he had written a poem about a blighted lover who ended his life by hanging himself from the top of a tall pine tree and whose bleached bones were found dangling there by the maiden in the morning. He received Hector’s comment, ‘He’d bleached and skeletoned pretty quick’ in dignified silence and sat down, staring moodily in front of him.
Either the threat of the sixpence fine or the intolerably superior mien of Oswald had had effect upon the Twentieth Century Poets. All had brought a contribution. They read their efforts nervously, one eye fixed the while upon Oswald to see if his superior smile should fade at all as he listened. It did not.
Their gloom increased except in the case of George. A sudden brilliant idea had occurred to George; he’d turn the abortive rabbit hutch into a work-box for the attractive female cousin. Line it with red satin or something. She’d like that, surely. His spirits rose considerably.
Robert was reading his poem. It was entitled ‘To Spring’ and, though it contained many time-honoured and therefore doubtless true sentiments, it somehow did not read as well as Robert had hoped it would when he had sat composing it through the midnight hours. It was better than the others, but it quite evidently did not cause the superior Oswald one moment’s uneasiness.
Then came Oswald’s turn. Oswald, this time, had rather a narrow squeak. Relying rather too confidently upon his readers’ poetic ignorance he had borrowed a poem of Lord Byron’s and was just beginning to read in stirring tones:
‘Oh, snatched away in beauty’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;’
when Jameson Jameson interrupted.
‘I say,’ he said, frowning thoughtfully, ‘I’m almost sure I learnt that at school – something awfully like it, anyway.’
Oswald, however, had made preparations for this contingency. He looked at the paper more closely, then smiled:
‘Of course!’ he said. ‘I’ve made a mistake. This is a poem of Byron’s I’d brought to read to you after the meeting.’ He put it away and took another paper from his pocket. The second paper was a sonnet of Matthew Arnold’s with which he was more fortunate. The only poem of Matthew Arnold’s with which the poets were familiar was the ‘Forsaken Merman,’ which they had all learnt at their Preparatory schools. They listened in a gloomy silence; at the end every one of them, as Robert morosely ascertained, was unanimous. Oswald again solemnly handed the badge to Robert and Robert solemnly handed it back to Oswald.
The meeting, however, did not end in a reading of poetry by Oswald, though Oswald was evidently quite willing that it should. Oswald was enjoying his glorious career of badge-winning and poetry reading. But Hector had a suggestion. Hector had come across a paper for young people called The Young Crusader, which was making its appearance. The first number had only just been published, and a prize was to be given for the best poem, and he proposed that they should all compete and see whether any of them won the prize.
The secret hope of Hector’s was not that any of them should win the prize, but rather that Oswald should not win it. He thought that Oswald was finding things too easy. He suspected that in a large newspaper competition the great Oswald might find himself among the also rans. Oswald himself, apparently, had the same suspicions.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but what it wouldn’t be best to wait a bit before we start going in for outside competitions.’
But rather to his surprise the others did not agree with him. They were beginning to find the proceedings of the Society of the Twentieth Century Poets a little monotonous. An outside competition might vary that monotony.
Oswald yielded with his superior smile.
‘Very well,’ he said in a kind and condescending tone of voice, ‘if it gives you any pleasure—’
‘I put the matter to the vote,’ said Robert, who, in a noble effort to save the rags of the dignity of his Presidential position, had taken a book called The Conduct of Public Meetings out of the library, and had been studying it in secret.
The matter was put to the vote and duly carried.
Hector had brought a copy of the paper, and Robert began to read out the rules of the Poetry Competition. Only began – for once more, when Robert who still found his position as President glorious but embarrassing, stopped for his nervous cough, Oswald again expressed concern for his throat, took the paper from him and finished reading it.
The poem was to be a sonnet. It could be on any subject (Oswald’s smile may have been seen to widen at this news), and it must be the unaided work of the competitor. The poets listened with interest. They made little notes on the backs of envelopes.
‘What is a sonnet, anyway?’ asked George.
The others affected not to hear him. Robert decided to go to the library at once after the meeting before the others should have time and get out some sort of a book that would explain to him the exact nature of a sonnet.
The Outlaws walked home in a gloomy silence.
‘Well, he got it again,’ said Ginger at last in a tone that voiced the general feeling of despondency.
‘They’ll be worse than ever,’ said Douglas.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘an’ he’ll go an’ get the big prize an’ then there’ll be no doin’ anythin’ with them.’
‘It isn’t as if they’d have a proper fight,’ said William.
‘An’ him goin’ about wearing the old badge all day,’ groaned Ginger.
‘Well, I think,’ said William sternly, voicing the inevitable resentment of the backer against the unsuccessful backed, ‘I think they might try a bit harder. Why, I could write po’try better than some of them write it. An’ anyway, I think Robert’s po’try jolly good, an’ if I was one of ’em I’d vote for it. ’S only ’cause they can’t understand that Oswald’s po’try an’ so it sounds sort of grand to them. That’s all. I bet Robert could do it as well if he wanted to. Pers’n’ly,’ with dogged loyalty, ‘I like Robert’s sort of po’try better’n his.’
‘Why shou’n’t we make a Po’try Society?’ suggested Ginger.
As a matter of fact, William had already thought of this.
‘We could,’ he said stoutly, ‘an’ I bet we’d make up better po’try than any of ’em. But – well, we can’t jus’ yet. Not while Bertie Franks an’ the others are carryin’ on like this. We’ve got to go on watchin’ Robert’s Society an’ perhaps we can help them sometime. I bet I could help Robert to make up a reely fine poem, but,’ sadly, ‘I know he wun’t let me. I c’ make up pages an’ pages of po’try.’
‘Well, we c’ practise makin’ po’try,’ said Ginger.
They agreed that they could.
‘I c’ make up all sorts of po’try,’ said William with a swagger. ‘I can make up the nachur sort, like—
‘The day is bright to see,
An’ lots of leaves are growin’ on the tree—
‘An’ the adventure sort, like—
‘He bashed him dead
An’ blood came pourin’ out of his head—
‘an’ – an’ – any sort straight off like that without stop-pin’ to t
hink – rhymes an’ all. I bet,’ darkly, ‘that if I b’longed to their ole society that ole fat Oswald wun’t carry off the badge every time like what he does.’
But their way led past the Franks’ house and silence fell upon them as they approached. Yes – Oswald had evidently reached home with his badge.
A little crowd of triumphantly yelling, jeering boys stood at the gate. Bertie Franks and his friends were awaiting them. Their taunts were not marked by any great originality.
‘Yah! Whose brothers can’t write po’try? Yah! They thought they’d get it this time, then, didn’t they?
‘Yah! An’ they didn’t – they can’t write po’try for nuts. We’ve got the badge again,’ they chanted. ‘We’ve got the badge again. WE’VE GOT THE BADGE AGAIN.’’
The Outlaws’ onslaught was too late. Bertie Franks & Co. reached the safety of the side door just in time. The side door was fortunately near the front gate. Overcome by their feelings, the Outlaws once more charged up after them to the side door, but were indignantly repelled by a large and muscular gardener, and their ignominious retreat watched gleefully by Bertie Franks & Co. from the window. They walked away seething with fury.
‘We’ve gotter do somethin’ about this,’ said William grimly.
The Outlaws lay in the field near the old barn. They were still gloomy. They had been very busy lately carrying out the self-appointed task of guardian angels to the Twentieth Century Poets. William had visited Robert’s bedroom daily in secret to inspect the progress of his sonnet. It was, William pronounced condescendingly, in conclave with the Outlaws, going on quite nicely, though he gave them to understand that he could have improved on it considerably had Robert been wise enough to ask his help. He still went about uttering extempore poems. The habit was beginning to annoy the Outlaws. They lay at their ease eating grass and brooding over the problems of the Twentieth Century Poets.
It appeared that no one had been able to ascertain anything about Oswald’s sonnet, but as Oswald still wore his superior smile they assumed that Oswald himself at any rate was satisfied with it.
Bertie Franks & Co. felt no doubts on the subject.
‘Yah!’ they had yelled only the day before from a safe refuge. ‘Yah! Who’s goin’ to get the Magazine prize? I bet you think your ole Robert is! Well, he’s not! Oswald is. Poor ole Robert – poor ole Robert – thinks he can write po’try – Yah!’
‘If only they’d let us get prop’ly near them,’ said William longingly, for the hundredth time.
‘Well, let’s plan somethin’ to do,’ said Henry impatiently.
Ginger interrupted.
‘There’s some teeny little mushrooms jus’ where I’m lyin’,’ he said with interest.
They abandoned the immediate discussion to examine them.
‘They’re toadstools!’ they jeered derisively.
Ginger paled.
‘I’ve been eatin’ ’em,’ he said faintly.
‘Well, I bet you anything you like you’ll be dead tomorrow,’ said William, with the air of one who makes a sporting offer.
‘How many ’ve you eaten, Ginger?’ said Henry with interest.
‘About four,’ said Ginger.
‘Poor ole Ginger,’ said William cheerfully, ‘you’re sure to die. I bet I can make up a piece of po’try about it,’ he went on, with a burst of inspiration.
‘Ole Ginger is dead,
He ate toadstools instead
Of mushrooms—’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ginger. ‘I bet if it was you what was goin’ to die—’
But here Douglas provided a diversion. He had found a copy of The Young Crusader lying about at home, and had quietly appropriated it. The Outlaws bent over it eagerly, studying the rules, all except Ginger, who sat staring morosely in front of him, evidently contemplating mentally his immediate dissolution, and murmuring ‘’S all very well for you—’
‘The man what writes the paper,’ said William excitedly, ‘he’s called Mr Boston, an’ there’s a Mr Boston comin’ to give a speech at the village hall nex’ week on somethin’ called Prortional Representation.’
‘He’s the same one,’ said Douglas, ‘he goes about speakin’ on politics as well as writin’ the paper. I heard George say so.’
‘He’s comin’ here?’ said William slowly, ‘the man wot’s goin’ to judge their pomes?’
‘Yes,’ said Douglas.
‘Crumbs!’ said William, impressed, and again after a pause, ‘Crumbs.’ They looked at him expectantly. Even Ginger lost his toadstool complex, and said, ‘Yes? – well?’
‘Well,’ said William slowly, ‘we oughter be able to do somethin’.’
Mr Eugene Boston, editor of The Young Crusader and amateur politician, arrived by a train about an hour before the one by which he was expected, and set off for a brisk walk. He met no one, arrived at the village hall just very shortly after the time he was expected, gave an interesting lecture on Proportional Representation and then went home.
It was for Mr Eugene Boston quite a pleasant and uneventful evening.
When the time came for the arrival of the train by which Mr Eugene Boston was expected, William crept furtively on to the station. His frowning, freckled face wore a look of tense resolve.
He watched the train with a ferocious scowl as it slid to a standstill, and scanned the passengers who alighted with the air of a detective on the lookout for criminals. Finally his eye rested on one of them. He certainly might be a lecturer. He was a precise-looking man who wore a beard and an air of intellect and carried a leather bag. And curiously enough, though he was not Mr Eugene Boston, he was a lecturer.
He was a Mr Farqueson, mis-named by his parents Augustus, and he had come to lecture on Central Asia at a village a few miles farther on which did not possess a station. He had said in his letter to the Vicar that he would walk, but he was half-expecting someone to meet him. He looked around. He was a very amiable, mild, short-sighted man. William approached him.
‘You the lecturer?’ said William, with stern, unsmiling countenance.’
‘Er – yes, my little boy. Yes, certainly.’
He was rather taken aback by the ferocity of William’s expression.
‘You – er – you’ve come to meet me?’ he went on pleasantly.
‘Yes,’ said William.
The whole thing seemed to be simpler than William had thought it would be.
‘I thought it might be rather nice to walk,’ said Mr Augustus Farqueson tentatively, ‘but if you have some conveyance with you—’
‘No,’ said William, ‘I haven’t got anything like that with me.’
‘Well, come along,’ said Mr Augustus Farqueson brightly, ‘let us set off.’
They set off.
William had counted on the lecturer’s not knowing his way, and in this he was right. They set off together down the high road in the direction leading away from the village hall. Mr Augustus Farqueson conversed about Central Asia, but William did not respond.
William led the way over a stile, Mr Augustus Farqueson followed less nimbly.
‘A short cut, I presume?’ he said rather breathlessly, and then returned to Central Asia.
William, still silent, led him over the field up the hill.
Mr Augustus Farqueson’s breathlessness increased, but with true British determination he continued to talk about Central Asia. He asked if William were interested in Central Asia. William, it seemed, was not. Mr Augustus Farqueson could hardly believe his ears. Despite his breathlessness he began to do his utmost to interest William in Central Asia. They came to another stile. It was rather a difficult stile and it led into a ploughed field. Mr Augustus Farqueson, from the top rung of the stile, looked at it in dismay. Then he looked down at his little twinkling, highly-polished boots.
‘It’s – er – rather muddy, is it not?’ he said.
There was a right of way and, generally, a path through that field, but it happened that the farmer had just finished pl
oughing, and it was for the public now to claim its right of way and make its own footpath over the loosened, furrowed earth. It happened that William and Mr Augustus Farqueson were pioneers. The farmer had only finished ploughing that afternoon, and no one else had as yet appeared to claim the right of way.
‘It’s all right,’ said William, leaping down into the loose muddy earth.
Mr Augustus Farqueson followed more slowly. He was beginning to feel a horrible misgiving about the boy and another about the ploughed field and another about whether he really was on the right road to the Church Hall at Bassenton. There was something – something rather peculiar about the boy. Very gingerly he lowered a small shining boot into the loose clayey soil. ‘I think,’ he said pleadingly, ‘that – that perhaps we’re trespassing. Perhaps it would be wiser to return to the main road.’
‘I THINK,’ SAID MR FARQUESON, ‘THAT PERHAPS WE’RE TRESPASSING. PERHAPS IT WOULD BE WISER TO RETURN TO THE MAIN ROAD.
But William didn’t think so. William hastened on ahead through the mud. Mr Augustus Farqueson floundered unhappily behind. He didn’t talk about Central Asia any more. For the time being he’d lost all interest in Central Asia. The loose earth was ploughed into little hillocks over which Mr Augustus Farqueson kept stumbling. He had clay and mud on his nice dark suit. His nice shiny little boots and the bottoms of his trouser legs were caked with clay and mud. Dusk was falling.
WILLIAM HASTENED ON AHEAD THROUGH THE MUD
He began to feel very unhappy.
Yet he stumbled desperately on in the wake of the strange boy. It was just like a nightmare. Instead of being in a nice warm, brightly lit room, talking about Central Asia to a nice, interested audience he was struggling over hills and dales of clay and mud behind a boy he was beginning to detest.
He ought never to have come with this boy. He was beginning to believe that this boy hadn’t really been sent to meet him. He’d noticed something strange about the boy from the very first. He ought to have been on his guard against him. Why, the boy hadn’t even been interested in Central Asia. He ought to have guessed then that there was something wrong with him. And suddenly the boy stopped and waited for him with a look of determination on his frowning face. Little Mr Augustus Farqueson advanced slowly, feeling more apprehensive than ever.
William in Trouble Page 15
