It was several hours later that she woke, to find someone cautiously opening the door. She sat up and met the startled gaze of Fat Sam, the tramp, who, while in that district, was in the habit of using the little hut as a hostelry. Of the two, Fat Sam got by far the greater shock. He was on the point of quickly withdrawing and vanishing from the landscape (for, despite his fatness, Sam could vanish from any landscape with almost incredible rapidity) when Agnes Matilda said:
“Don’t stand there like that. Come in.”
Shorn, as it now was, of its usual listless whine, Agnes Matilda’s voice had a sharply compelling quality that Fat Sam automatically obeyed. He’d once had a wife who ordered him about in that voice. He had, in fact, taken to the road in order to escape that voice, but the habit of years was strong. He entered the shed and stood looking meekly down upon Agnes Matilda.
“What have you come here for?” she demanded.
“Well,” he explained, apologetically, “it’s like this ’ere. I comes ’ere when I’m roundabouts, to ’ave a rest an’ a bit of somethin’ to eat.”
Agnes Matilda’s eyes gleamed at the mention of something to eat. Her sleep, though it had refreshed her, had made her hungrier than ever.
“What are you going to eat?” she demanded.
Fat Sam drew a large newspaper package from his ancient, tattered coat. “Jus’ a bit of bread an’ cheese,” he said.
“Come on,” she said, shortly. “Sit down and let’s start.”
Fat Sam sat down and opened the newspaper package. It contained some crusts of hard bread and some mouldy cheese.
“We’ll divide it,” said Agnes Matilda, generously.
Fat Sam sighed—it had been barely enough for himself—but he knew better than to argue with that voice. Agnes Matilda divided the crusts and cheese in a businesslike fashion, then set to work with gusto upon her share. Never in all her life had she tasted anything so delicious—not even the delicacies with which at home her mother tried to coax her reluctant appetite. She finished first, then turned such a speculative eye upon what was left of Sam’s that he hastily bolted it.
She took up the newspaper from the floor, searching it for crumbs, and swallowed the very last fragment before she laid it aside. She then turned her attention to Fat Sam, who had lit up a small, dirty, clay pipe.
“Where d’you live?” she demanded.
“Well, I don’t live nowheres, as you might say,” said Fat Sam after deep cogitation. “I’m on the road, like.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep nowheres. Leastways, I sleeps in places like this when I gets the chance an’ if not, outdoors under hedges an’ such.”
“And how do you get your food?” said Agnes Matilda. “It was lovely bread and cheese.”
“Oh, jus’ as it comes, like,” said Fat Sam vaguely. “Folks gives it me or I earns a copper or two. Or I picks it up. I gets a rabbit or bit of poultry some days . . .”
“How?” demanded Agnes Matilda.
“Oh, I jus’ takes ’em when they comes my way, like.”
Proudly Agnes Matilda brought out the catapult and blow-pipe.
“I can help you get some,” she said. “I nearly hit the last thing I tried. I’m a good fighter, too. I never found that out till to-day.”
Fat Sam rose, stretched, knocked out his pipe and put it in his pocket.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll be gettin’ on.”
Agnes Matilda also stood up.
“Where are we goin’ to?” she said.
Fat Sam looked down at her, his hand on the door latch.
“You’re goin’ ’ome,” he said firmly, “an’ I’m goin’ on Marleigh way,”
“No, I’m not going home,” said Agnes Matilda. “I’ll coming with you.”
“Me?” gasped Fat Sam.
“Yes,” said Agnes Matilda. “I’m going to be a tramp, too. I like it. I’d like it much better than living at home.”
“’Ere, you can’t,” said Fat Sam aghast. “You’ve gotter go ’ome.”
“Come on,” snapped Agnes Matilda, setting out firmly from the hut. “Don’t stand there talking. We’ll never get anywhere at this rate.”
* * *
In the Browns’ household wild confusion reigned. Mrs. Brown had come back from the village to find the precious Agnes Matilda missing. Distracted, she had hunted through the house and garden and then gone out to search the village, in case Agnes Matilda had gone there after her and they had missed each other. She went into every shop to ask if anyone had seen her, but nobody had. For once, William was not suspected. Mrs. Brown had seen him set off to spend the day with Ginger before she went into the village while Agnes Matilda lounged listlessly as usual in a garden chair. In this situation, at any rate, therefore, William could have no hand. The child must have wandered out into the road and been run over or kidnapped or—innumerable catastrophies unrolled themselves in Mrs. Brown’s horrified imagination, each more terrible than the last. She was a delicate child. Perhaps she’d fainted into a pond or into a stream. Perhaps she’d wandered into the field where Farmer Jenks’s bull was kept and been gored to death. Perhaps she’d fallen and sprained her ankle and was lying in some remote spot, helpless and starving. Perhaps she’d been lured away by some enemy of her father’s, who would hold her up to ransom. In any case, she, Mrs. Brown, was directly responsible. The precious child had been committed to her care. She was almost beside herself when lunch-time came and still the child had not returned. She’d hoped not to have to make the matter public, but now she rang up the police, the local hospital, and everyone else she could think of. She wondered whether to send for William to help with the search and finally decided not to. William meant well, but there was no doubt that his very eagerness made him more of a hindrance than a help. He got in everyone’s way and propounded impossible theories and conducted investigations in a fashion that invariably still further complicated already sufficiently complicated situations. No, better leave William out of this. She herself had seen him set off for Ginger’s before any of the trouble had started, so he couldn’t possibly know anything about it. The nightmare afternoon wore on. Mrs. Brown, at her wits’ end, would rush out to look up and down the road, then rush back in case the telephone bell rang. When it did ring and she took up the receiver with trembling hands and a sob in her throat, it was only the butcher asking whether she’d ordered seven or eight chops for to-night, and she slammed the receiver down again without answering. She had rung up Mr. Brown, and at four o’clock he arrived, pale and anxious.
“Any news?” he said.
“No, none,” said Mrs. Brown, repressing a strong and natural desire for hysterics. “Heaven knows what her people will say. I suppose we ought to ring them up, but I’ve not had the courage.”
“Yes, I suppose we ought,” agreed Mr. Brown. He saw the many pieces of good business, that Agnes Matilda’s father might have put in his way, turning round and making off as fast as they could in the opposite direction. “Probably the girl’s only playing some prank. Let’s just give her ten minutes more before we ring them up. What about William, by the way?”
“Oh, it’s nothing to do with William, this time,” said Mrs. Brown wearily. “William was out of the house before it happened and hasn’t been back since. I wish it was William. We might do something about it, then.”
“Perhaps we’d better ring up Warrender now,” said Mr. Brown, turning reluctantly to the telephone.
But at that moment a car drew up at the gate and Mr. Warrender himself, red-faced and smiling, got out. Mrs. Brown sat down weakly in a chair.
“I simply can’t bear it,” she said. “I know I’m going to have hysterics.”
Almost immediately Mr. Warrender entered the room, rubbing his hands together genially.
“Well, well, well, well,” he said. “Forgive my barging in like this, but I was coming in this direction and I thought I’d pick the child up now. Save me coming round again to-morrow. Th
e wife’s very anxious to have her back. Nervous about her, you know. Thinks p’raps she wasn’t really well enough to leave the doctor’s care. A great responsibility, a delicate child. Anyway, I said I’d pick her up, if it’s not inconveniencing you at all, and take her home to-night . . .”
He stopped. It occurred to him that his host and hostess were looking at him in a very peculiar way. Mr. Brown cleared his throat and began.
“Warrender, I have something—”
At this moment Mrs. Brown happened to glance out of the window. She saw at the gate a very strange couple—a large and tattered individual, obviously of the tramp species, and with him a dirty and dishevelled little girl. Despite the dirt and dishevelment, the little girl was obviously Agnes Matilda. Fat Sam had managed to find out from her the address where she was staying, and had determinedly brought her back to it. He thought it might be good for half a crown at least, and in any case he was sick of being bossed by her. She was every bit as bad as his wife. One minute she said he walked too fast and the next that he walked too slowly. She’d been on at him about something or other every minute since they left the hut. At first Agnes Matilda had been furious when she found that she was being brought back by a circuitous route to the Browns’ house. On second thoughts, however, she had acquiesced. She had had a long and tiring day, and the thought of bed was a welcome one. It was beginning to rain and quite definitely she didn’t want to sleep in a ditch. Better call it a day and return to civilisation.
Mr. Warrender’s back was turned to the window, and he did not see the strange sight that caused his hostess such deep emotion, or the gesture with which she called her husband’s attention to it.
Mr. Brown acted with commendable promptitude. He turned to his wife with a careless: “Will you fetch Agnes Matilda, dear?” and then to his guest, “As I was saying, Warrender, I have something to show you that I think will interest you.”
With that he led the innocent Mr. Warrender to a corner of the room from which the strange couple outside could not be seen and showed him a very ordinary brass ornament.
“You’re interested in old brass, I believe?”
“Well, no,” admitted Mr. Warrender. “You must be thinking of someone else. It’s old snuff-boxes I collect.” That launched him upon one of his hobby-horses, and he was still describing his collection of snuff-boxes when Mrs. Brown entered with Agnes Matilda. Fat Sam had been paid off and his professional tale of woe cut short, Agnes Matilda had been hastily and somewhat inadequately washed and brushed and the more glaring deficiencies of her toilet remedied.
Mr. Warrender stared at her. Her cheeks were flushed with exercise, her eyes bright with the day’s excitement. She looked alert and happy—almost mischievous. Where was the pale, listlesss child he had left here?
“By Jove!” he said. “This is marvellous. Marvellous. A transformation. A miracle. My wife will be delighted. Delighted.” He held out his hand expansively to Mr. Brown. “My dear fellow, I am grateful to you. I can never repay you for this.”
In the handclasp that followed, Mr. Brown saw all the good pieces of business turn round and fairly rush back in his direction.
While Mrs. Brown was getting Agnes Matilda ready for her journey home and packing her things, William returned, but no one took much notice of him. William was afraid that Agnes Matilda would have accused him of shutting her into the shed, but she had quite forgotten the incident. The whole day had been one of glorious adventure, of which the details were a trifle blurred in her memory She remembered that William had had something to do with her day of adventure (she had a vague idea that he’d given her the catapult and blowpipe), and for that she felt only gratitude. Mr. Brown, however, watched William rather thoughtfully and, when Agnes Matilda had departed with her father still profusely grateful, drew him to one side.
“Have you had anything to do with Agnes Matilda today, William?” he asked.
“Well,” William temporised, “Mother promised me sixpence for leavin’ her alone.”
“But have you left her alone?” demanded his father.
“Well, I did till to-day,” said William.
“But you didn’t to-day?”
“No,” admitted William, “I didn’t to-day. I didn’t want her, though,” he added. “She would come.”
Mr. Brown put his hand in his pocket.
“I don’t know whether your mother will give you your sixpence for leaving her alone or not,” he said, “but, in any case, here’s half a crown for not leaving her alone today.”
Chapter 4 – A Question of Exchange
“There’s only one day left of the holidays,” said William. “Let’s do somethin’ we’ve never done before.”
The others looked at him with interest, then Ginger said: “We’ve done everythin’.”
“No, we’ve not,” said William. “I bet I could think of over a hundred things we’ve not done.”
“I bet you couldn’t,” said Ginger. “We’ve had every possible sort of show there is, anyway.”
"I bet we’ve not,” said William.
“We’ve had a seaside show an’ an animal show,” enumerated Ginger, “an’ a night club an’—an’ every poss’ble other sort of show.”
“We’ve not had television,” said William triumphantly.
“Well, we couldn’t have that.”
“I bet we could,” persisted William. “I’ve seen it an’ it’s only people’s heads carryin’ on—actin’ an’ suchlike—in a little hole. I bet we could easy make a little hole an’ have our heads in it, actin’ an’ suchlike.”
“People wouldn’t pay to see it,” prophesied Douglas. “Don’t care whether they do or not,” said William. “It’d be somethin’ we’ve never done before, an’ it’ll be somethin’ to do the last day before we go back to school, an’ it’ll be somethin’ to think of when ole Markie’s goin’ on at us with all that rubbish about fractions an’ decimals an’ what not.”
“Yes, but what’ll we do?” asked Douglas.
“We’ll do a sort of play,” said William, “same as the one I saw. It was jus’ heads in a sort of hole doin’ a sort of play. I bet we could do one as good as that any day.”
“We’ve done plays before an’ they weren’t any good,” Henry reminded him.
“But we’ve not done a television play,” said William patiently. “Not heads in a sort of hole, actin’. It’s not like an ordinary play. We’ll write it special.”
“What’ll it be about?” asked Ginger.
“We’ve gotter think about that,” said William. “We can’t do everythin’ all in a minute. You’ve gotter have a bit of patience. I bet people what write plays don’t do ’em straight off without thinkin’.”
“Let’s start thinkin’ about it now, then.”
“All right. We’ve gotter have a bad man an’ a good man. You’ve always gotter have those two in a play.”
“An’ a girl,” said Ginger.
“We’re not havin’ a real girl in it,” said William firmly. “They mess everythin’ up. One of us’ll be the girl. All you’ve gotter do to be a girl is to put on a sort of silly look an’ one of Ethel’s hats. It’s only heads in this sort of hole, you see. It won’t matter what the rest of us looks like. I’m not goin’ to be the girl,” he added hastily.
“Neither am I,” said Ginger, Douglas and Henry simultaneously.
“Well, we’ll wait till a bit later to fix that up,” said William. “Let’s fix up the others now. I’ll be the good man.”
“I’ll be the bad one, then,” claimed Ginger hastily.
“Who’ll I be?” said Douglas.
“You can be the good man’s ole father,” said William. “He thinks his son’s been killed by the bad man an’ he turns out alive, after all. He’d only been stunned.”
“An’ who’ll I be?” said Henry.
“You be the policeman,” said William. “He comes with the good man to rescue the girl when the bad man’s got her kidnapped an’ all
tied up in an attic.”
“Yes, but who’s goin’ to be the girl?” said Douglas.
It was at this moment that Violet Elizabeth Bott appeared in the doorway of the old barn. She looked at them from beneath her mop of curls.
“Can I come in?”
“No,” said William sternly.
Violet Elizabeth entered and gazed round at them with a seraphic smile.
“What you doing?” she asked.
“Nothin’,” said William. “You get out.”
She smiled still more seraphically. Violet Elizabeth always seemed to thrive under insults and rebuffs.
“Can I play, too?” she said.
“No, you jolly well can’t,” said William.
“She’s a girl,” Ginger reminded him, “an’ we want a girl.”
They all looked at Violet Elizabeth, who continued to smile at them seraphically. They knew her to be unreliable, fickle and, like most of her sex, utterly unsportsmanlike, but, as Ginger had reminded them, they wanted a girl. William fixed her with his sternest frown.
“Will you do just what you’re told?” he said.
“Yeth,” promised Violet Elizabeth glibly. Violet Elizabeth had a lisp, which her admirers thought charming and her detractors detestable.
“Well, then, you’ve gotter act a girl what’s kidnapped by a bad man an’ then rescued by a good one.”
“Ith it a tharade?” lisped Violet Elizabeth.
“No, it’s not a tharade,” mimicked William. “It’s television.”
“Whath televithun?” said Violet Elizabeth.
“My goodness! Don’t you know anythin’?” said William.
“Yeth,” smiled Violet Elizabeth. “I know loth of thingth. I bet I know ath muth ath you. I bet you don’t know who dithcovered America. I do. I thaw it on a thigarette card.”
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