Agnes Matilda was not accustomed to being addressed in this fashion. With Agnes Matilda one coaxed and cajoled. One did not order. She stood her ground staring at him in amazement. He turned and went on down the road. She continued to follow him. He stopped again and angrily ordered her back. She merely stared at him and, as soon as he moved on, continued to follow. Nonplussed, he decided to ignore her. She’d soon get tired of it. Anyhow, he wasn’t going to encourage her by taking any more notice of her.
He had arranged to meet the Outlaws and go with them to Dean Copse, where an owl’s nest had discovered. They were waiting for him at the corner of the road. William approached them self-consciously, still followed by the glowering Agnes Matilda.
The smiles of welcome faded from the Outlaws’ faces when they saw his companion.
“What’ve you brought her for?” demanded Ginger, indignantly.
“I’ve not,” retorted William. “I’ve been tryin’ to get rid of her. It’s that awful girl that’s been stayin’ at our house. Don’t take any notice of her. She’ll soon go back.”
The gang walked on down the road, Agnes Matilda still following. Agnes Matilda was controlling her feelings with difficulty. Never before in her precious, petted, guarded life had she been treated like this. She, whose slightest word was listened to with loving sympathy, whose slightest wish was obeyed, was being deliberately ignored by four nasty, dirty little boys, who ought to be grateful to her for speaking to them at all.
They had stopped at a gate leading into a field
“Bet I hit that tree,” said William, drawing his catapult from his pocket.
He shot. His shot went wide. The three others tried with the same result. Agnes Matilda watched, her disdain conquered by interest.
“Let me have a try,” she demanded.
“No, I jolly well won’t,” said William. “You can go home. We don’t want you.”
She turned to Ginger, who was holding the catapult. “Give it me,” she said.
“No, I won’t,” retorted Ginger, with spirit. “You go home, same as he said. We don’t want you.”
Primitive emotions surged in Agnes Matilda’s breast. Suddenly she launched herself on Ginger, as if the catapult itself had propelled her, biting, scratching, kicking. She was a large, powerfully-built child, and struggle was short and victorious. In a few minutes Ginger had taken to flight to an accompaniment of roars of derisive laughter from the others. He had dropped the catapult during the struggle and William had picked it up, Agnes Matilda advanced upon William.
“Give me that,” she said, shortly.
“No, I won’t,” said William, but he spoke without his usual confidence, and looked about him in a harassed fashion as he spoke. “It’s my catapult, an’ anyway,” he ended weakly, “we’re goin’ on now.”
Agnes Matilda wasted no time on him. Deep and primeval instincts had been released in her. Glorious to scratch and bite and hit and kick. One got a few knocks in return, but nothing in comparison with the wild, fierce exhilaration of the process. William, like Ginger, was at a disadvantage. He had been trained in the orthodox school of fighting. He wasn’t used to opponents who pulled his hair one minute, scratched his face the next, bit his hand the next, and kicked him all the time. He, too, took to flight, but the laughter of the remaining two lacked heartiness. Before the fight William had given the catapult to Henry, who now tried without success to pass it on to Douglas. Henry was obviously next on the list. Agnes Matilda advanced upon him slowly and deliberately.
“Give me that,” she said.
Henry, after a moment’s silent struggle with his dignity, during which the light of battle glowed and flickered in Agnes Matilda’s eye, threw it to her. “All right,” he muttered. “Take it.”
Agnes Matilda picked it up. She was obviously somewhat disappointed at having won it so easily. She’d been looking forward to two more good fights. She was perfecting her technique, and it was annoying to be thus baulked of further practice. She felt that she hadn’t really done herself justice with either Ginger or William.
The Outlaws walked on down the road in a sheepish silence, followed by their unwelcome comrade.
“Wasn’t much of a catapult, anyway,” said William at last.
The others hastened to support this view.4
“No,” agreed Ginger. “The elastic’d almost gone.”
“I’d meant to throw it away,” said William.
"Jolly good thing it’s gone,” said Henry.
“Jolly good thing,” agreed Douglas, casting an apprehensive glance behind.
Agnes Matilda was experimenting with the catapult, picking up small stones, fixing them in the elastic, and aiming at trees. Her shots went extravagantly wide of their mark. The Outlaws broke into a jeering laugh then, meeting her eye, hastily turned and went on their way.
“Let’s go into the field,” whispered William. “P’raps she’ll go straight on down the road.”
They dived through the hole in the hedge and set off across the field. A furtive glance behind told them that Agnes Matilda had also dived through the hole in the hedge and was still following them. They hurried across the field and into the next.
“Look!” said Ginger, excitedly. “There’s Hubert Lane an’ his gang.”
Sure enough, Hubert Lane and five of his supporters were at the other end of the field. Hubert was using his blow-pipe upon several unconcerned sparrows. The sparrows evidently knew Hubert and his blow-pipe, and felt themselves quite safe as long as he was actually aiming at them.
Ordinarily the Outlaws would have attacked their enemy in full force, for only last Tuesday the Hubert Laneites had hidden behind a hedge and thrown handfuls of mud at them as they passed in the road, escaping before they had recovered from the attack. But, instead of leading his followers to a glorious victory, William stood looking about him speculatively. For an idea had occurred to him. How much more ignominious for the Hubert Laneites to be routed by a girl than by their legitimate foes! He waited for Agnes Matilda to come up.
“Like to go’n’ see that boy’s blow-pipe?” he said, carelessly. “It’s a jolly fine one. Much better than any ole catapult.”
Agnes Matilda was, in truth, feeling disappointed in the catapult. It hadn’t hit a single thing.
“Does the blow-pipe hit things?” she asked.
“Yes. Always,” William assured her. “It’s jolly good at hitting things. A jolly sight better’n any ole catapult.”
He approached Hubert in obviously friendly fashion.
“Hello, Hubert,” he said.
The Hubert Laneites looked at him suspiciously. Overtures from William, especially after last Tuesday, were unexpected. They were six to four (not including the small girl who, of course, did not count), but even at those odds the Outlaws could do a good deal of damage.
“We’re goin’ to see an owl’s nest,” went on William. “Like to come too?”
Suspiciously, uncertainly, the Hubert Laneites drew near. After all, they were six to four, and an owl’s nest was an owl’s nest . . .
William turned to his followers.
“They can come with us, can’t they?” he said.
Blindly following his lead, the other Outlaws smiled with glassy friendliness.
“’Course they can,” they said.
The hesitancy dropped from the manner of the Hubert Laneites as the meaning of this sudden friendliness dawned on them. The Outlaws were, of course, afraid. They’d learnt a lesson from last Tuesday. An insolent swagger invaded their walk as they moved towards the Outlaws.
“Come on. You show us that owl’s nest an’ be quick about it,’’ blustered Hubert.
“Yes, you hurry up or you’ll get twice what you got on Tuesday,” said Bertie Franks.
The others joined in, imitating their leaders. Willis retained his glassy smile by a superhuman effort. The agony of being polite to his foes was almost more than he could bear. Would that girl never act? Quite suddenly she did. Above Hubert’s blustering
voice rose a shrill: “Give me that blow-pipe.”
Hubert looked at her, astonished and indignant. How dared this representative of a despised and negligible sex raise her voice, when even the Outlaws had plainly shown their fear of him?
“No, I jolly well won’t,” he said, “an’ you can jolly well shut up or you’ll get something you won’t forget in a hurry.”
The rest happened exactly as William had meant it to happen. It far surpassed Agnes Matilda’s previous efforts. She had evidently learnt much from experience. Her onset was more sudden, her scratches and bites deeper, her kicks more savage. In a few moments a bellowing, panic-stricken Hubert was fleeing from the scene as fast as his fat legs could carry him. His followers watched, aghast. For their leader to be defeated by a girl was bad enough, but for it to happen in front of the Outlaws was nothing short of calamity. It would be all over the village in no time. Bertie Franks had picked up the blow-pipe when Hubert dropped it, and he went rather pale as the fatal demand: “Give me that,” reached his ears. He looked at the ruthlessly advancing Agnes Matilda as a rabbit might look at a weasel, then, throwing it to her with a “Take it, then,” set off after his leader, accompanied by all the other Hubert Laneites. Their departure was in fact a precipitous flight, and they were sped on their way by the jeers and cat-calls of the Outlaws.
The Outlaws’ feelings towards Agnes Matilda had now changed completely. They felt warmly grateful to her. They turned to her to congratulate her, as she stood there testing the blow-pipe. But she fixed them with a hard, accusing eye.
“Thought you said this would hit things,” she said in an ominous voice. “Well, it doesn’t.”
“It will when you’ve had a bit more practice,” William reassured her, pacifically. “Honest, it will.”
“You said it would, anyway,” she accused him. “And it doesn’t. It hasn’t hit anything I’ve aimed at, no more than the other thing did. You’re a story-teller, that’s what you are.”
“Come on,” said William to the others, in disgust, and they set off quickly down the road. But it was not so easy to shake off Agnes Matilda. She continued to follow them, muttering angrily to herself, enlarging on the inadequacy of the blow-pipe and the mendacity of William.
“Doesn’t hit a single thing. A story-teller, that’s what you are. A nasty mean ole story-teller. I’m goin’ to lay you out too. I’m goin’—”
The Outlaws slackened their pace. They had reached the wood now. In Dean Copse their objective awaited them—the owl’s nest. It would be sacrilege, somehow, to take Agnes Matilda to the owl’s nest. Besides, they’d jolly well stood her as long as they could. She’d served her purpose in humiliating their foes, and now they must, somehow or other, get rid of her. They held a quick, whispered consultation. Even to their rudimentary sense of honour a concerted attack on her was impossible, and they had tried single combats without success. Suddenly, William’s attention was caught by an old shed that had once been used by the keepers for storing food for game. It was never used now (except occasionally by the Outlaws), but there was a strong and serviceable bolt on the outside.
“If we could get her in there,” whispered William.
Agnes Matilda came up to them, still harping on her grievance.
“It’s not hit a single thing I aimed at ever since I got it,” she said. “You’re a mean ole story-teller, that’s what you are.”
“Can’t you talk about somethin’ else for a change?” said William.
“What else is there to talk about?” demanded Agnes Matilda.
“Well, there’s this shed,” said William. “It’s a jolly nice shed. Go in an’ have a look at it.”
“Go in yourself,” said Agnes Matilda.
The Outlaws were nonplussed for the moment. Then William had another idea. He went to the door and called out: “Gosh! Look at this great big rat.”
But there his knowledge of feminine psychology was at fault. He expected Agnes Matilda to be as fond of rats as he was, and she wasn’t. Far from it. She blenched and drew back.
“All right,” said William. “There isn’t a rat. I was, only pulling your leg. Go in an’ see for yourself that there isn’t a rat.”
“No, I won’t,” retorted Agnes Matilda, with spirit. “I’m sick of the silly ole shed. Come on an’ show me that owl’s nest you talked about. I don’t believe there is one. If it’s as good as your ole catapult an’ blow-pipe it’ll be a rotten ole thing.”
Then William had another idea—a better one this time.
“Come on in,” he said to the others. “There’s somethin’ jolly int’restin’ in there I want to show you.” He turned to Agnes Matilda. “Don’t you come in,” he said. “It’s a secret.”
In her indignation Agnes Matilda forgot even the rat.
“I’m comin’ in too,” she said, “an’ if anyone tries to stop me I’ll—”
She pushed her way through them into the shed, and then, to her amazement, found herself alone. The Outlaws had swiftly withdrawn. She started to follow them, but it was too late. The door was slammed, the bolt shot home. It was the Outlaws’ turn to blench at the tornado of rage that filled the air—the screams and yells and threats, the pounding on the door. So violent was her onset that the Outlaws almost feared the shed would collapse before their eyes.
“Gosh!” breathed William, dismayed. “I say, we can’t leave her in there goin’ on like that.”
“Well, we can’t let her out goin’ on like that,” said Ginger, firmly. “Let’s get away quick before she breaks the whole thing down. She’s more like a tiger than a yuman being.”
“Yes, let’s get away quick,” agreed Douglas, nervously,
Douglas had not actually been attacked by the lady, but he had watched her attacking others, and it had been an awe-inspiring sight.
They hastened to Dean Copse and inspected the owl’s nest. It was a good nest (in a hollow tree), but the Outlaws’ interest in it was only half-hearted.
“What’re we goin’ to do about that girl?” said Henry at last, voicing the general feeling of uneasiness. “We can’t leave her there to starve to death.”
“Well, we can’t let her out,” said Ginger again, “she’ll be awful. Worse than she was before she went in.”
“Tell you what,” said William. “We’ll get someone else to let her out. Someone who doesn’t know what she’s like.”
“Yes, but who?” said Henry.
“Let’s have a good think,’’ said William.
They had a good think.
“Someone brave,” stipulated Ginger, breaking the silence of thought.
“Yes, they’ll have to be jolly brave,” agreed Douglas.
“I know,” said William, excitedly. “General Moult! He’s been in a war. He’s fought savages. He oughter be all right with her.”
“We’d better not tell him we put her in.”
“No, we jolly well won’t. Tell you what. We’ll write a note an’ put it through his letter-box. Without any name, so he won’t know who did it. Like what they do in books an’ the pictures.”
“Anonymous,” put in Henry, with an irritating air of knowledge.
“Oh, shut up!” said William. “That’s what we’ll do, anyway. Let’s go to Ginger’s an’ do it. His house is nearest.”
They went to Ginger’s, where Ginger produced a crumpled piece of paper and a pencil with an almost invisible point. Sitting on his bedroom floor, surrounded by the others, he wrote slowly and laboriously in capital letters at William’s dictation:
GIRL IMPRISSONED IN HUT NEER DEEN COPS PLESE RELESE.
Then, very furtively, they all sallied out to General Moult’s house. No one seemed to be about. William crept up to the front door and dropped the note through the letter-box. They could not know, of course, that General Moult had gone away for a few days, giving his domestic staff a holiday, and that the house was shut up. Then, feeling that a delicate situation had been adequately dealt with, they separated for lunch.
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br /> “She’ll make a jolly fuss when she does get out,” said William, as he accompanied Ginger home. “Shun’t be surprised to hear poor old General Moult’s in hospital after it.”
“Well, he’s used to it,” Ginger reassured him. “He’s been in wars an’ things. I expect he likes it.”
“An’ we’ll get in a jolly row when she starts tellin’ how we shut her in,” said William, gloomily. “I bet I don’t get that sixpence now. As if I could help it! I din’ ask her to come.”
“We’ll pretend the wind blew the door to, an’ the bolt sort of got shut in with the bang, an’ that we thought she’d gone home,” suggested Ginger.
“Yes,” agreed William, “an’, anyway, I’m not goin’ home till to-night. Perhaps they’ll all have forgot by then.”
“Yes, an’ we’ve got all this afternoon,” Ginger reminded him. “We can go an’ fish in that stream where we caught all those minnows las’ week. I bet there’ll be more still by now.”
“Yes, an’ I’d get some better worms than I had las’ time.” said William. “Some of ’em weren’t any good at all.”
* * *
They had completely forgotten Agnes Matilda by the time they reached Ginger’s house.
No one would have recognised the usual listless, despondent Agnes Matilda in the small, screaming virago who flung herself again and again upon the wooden door. Oddly enough, she wasn’t frightened. She was even enjoying the experience. Strange things had happened to her to-day. Instincts that had never before found outlet had found it to-day, and the excitement of it all was still upon her. She was enjoying smashing at the door and screaming, just as she’d enjoyed biting and scratching. She went on screaming and banging the door, long after she realised that the Outlaws had left her. Then she sat down to rest. She realised suddenly that she was tired. She’d had more exercise to-day than she’d had for months past. And she was hungry. There was no doubt at all that she was hungry. She’d missed her usual allowance of sweets and the large basin of broth at eleven, and it was long after lunch-time. Her perpetually over-burdened stomach realised, with surprise and dismay, that for the first time in its life it was empty. Or almost empty. And its usual state of surfeit made the emptiness all the more unbearable. Still, she was even more tired than hungry so, curling up on a heap of bracken in the corner of the hut, she went to sleep.
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