He continued in this strain till they reached Hadley. His jauntiness fell from him as they neared the dentist’s gate, but he managed to enter with something of a flourish and even to produce an untuneful, devil-may-care whistle as he went up the walk to the front door.
“No, dentists don’t worry me,” he said. “I always tell ’em: ‘Go on, don’t be afraid of hurtin’ me. I’m not afraid of a bit of pain.’ I . . .”
His voice trailed away and he looked apprehensively at the window of the surgery.
Ethel stood on the top step and pressed the bell. William stood on the step just behind her. William’s attitude had reassured and disarmed her and she let her thoughts wander off on their own sweet will. She had had two hats sent on approval from a shop in Hadley, and both of them suited her, and she couldn’t make up her mind which to have. She’d spent the whole morning trying them on, one after the other. One was the sophisticated type and the other the unsophisticated type, and Ethel had never been able to discover which type she really belonged to. She was still pondering the question as she stood waiting for the dentist’s front door to open.
William took a furtive step backwards. She did not notice. He took another, and another. Still she did not notice. He found himself at the gate. Ethel still stood on the top step, lost in the long, long thoughts of youth. The gate stood open. Quick as a flash of lightning, William vanished through it, down the road, and round the nearest corner.
The dentist’s receptionist, smart and trim in white overall, opened the door. Ethel roused herself from her dreams. (The sophisticated one, she thought, on the whole.)
“I’ve brought my young—” She turned to the spot where William had been and stood gaping at it in silent dismay. The earth had apparently opened and swallowed him up.
* * *
William wandered slowly through the back streets of Hadley, keeping a wary eye open for Ethel, who might just conceivably, though not very probably, have set off in pursuit of him. He felt disillusioned with life in general. If he went home, his father would insist on another appointment being made with the dentist for tomorrow morning, and probably the dentist, thwarted of his prey one day, would set upon him with redoubled violence the next. Then there was Ethel. She would use the incident as a weapon against him, whenever she had need of one, which was very frequently. “Who ran away from the dentist?” she would say, with that nauseous sweetness that she used to point her jibes. It would be useless to explain that he had seen a friend in the distance, and, suddenly remembering that he had an important message for him, had run off in pursuit, and completely forgotten his appointment. Or that he had seen someone just about to be run over and had dashed off to rescue them. Suddenly, a stupendous thought struck him. Why go home at all? Why not set out to seek his fortune—a thing he’d been meaning to do for years, but had kept postponing to a more fitting occasion?
What occasion could be more fitting than this? After all, one couldn’t be worse off than at home, where one was washed and cleaned and dragged off to torturers without mercy. His mind went over the innumerable stories he had read about boys who set out to seek their fortunes. They were all reassuring. The heroes invariably returned to their native villages as millionaires and made handsome presents to all their old friends. Well, that ole dentist wouldn’t get any present, he said to himself grimly. He’d be jolly lucky if he didn’t get put in prison. And he’d never go to a dentist again all the rest of his life. That, at any rate, was a cheering prospect. He wondered how he’d stood it as long as he had. But he’d rather like to find a friend and companion, for the first stages of his journey—anyway, someone who was more used to the process of seeking his fortune than William was, and who would give him a few tips. One might waste a lot of time at first with not knowing just how to set about it. Walking along, deep in reverie, and not looking where he was going, he almost ran into a man coming from the opposite direction.
“An’ where are you off to, young feller-me-lad, bargin’ into folks like this?”
The man’s voice was quite pleasant, despite the fact that William’s bullet head had prodded his stomach with some force. William, as he apologised, studied him with interest. He had black hair and a rather dirty face, and he obviously belonged to the class of those who are seeking their fortune and have not yet found it. He looked, however, as if he knew the ropes of fortune-seeking and might be a considerable help to William, in the initial stages of it, at any rate. They might set out together. Perhaps they would find a fortune together, discover a diamond-mine or a hitherto undiscovered island, and come back joint millionaires.
"You’ll know me next time you see me, won’t you, youngster?” went on the man, with a friendly grin.
As a matter of fact, there did seem to be something faintly familiar about the man’s face, but William couldn’t quite place it. It was possible, of course, that he’d seen him in the town before, but had not actually made his acquaintance till now.
“And where are you off to, in such a hurry?” went on the man.
He had a sympathetic manner, and William soon found himself pouring out the whole story.
“I thought p’raps you’d sort of help me,” he ended. “I mean, I want to start workin’ my way across the sea, same as most of ’em do, but I’m not sure how you get to it. The sea, I mean. I ’spect you sort of know how to get lifts to it, an’ where to sleep an’ how to get food, an’ that sort of thing.”
The man looked at him speculatively. He was known to his friends (and to the police) as Sandy Dick, but, having come out of prison only last week, and being of a modest, retiring disposition, he had darkened his naturally ginger hair, in order to escape notice as far as possible. And he recognised William. He had met William before. He had, in fact, on one notable occasion, prevailed upon William to hand over to him all his available cash. Obviously, however, William did not recognise him, for which he was thankful. For William seemed to him a direct gift from Providence. He was credulous and romantic. He was small and nimble.
Just before Sandy Dick had retired from public life, to take an enforced rest at the expense of his fellow citizens, he had made the acquaintance of a maid who worked in one of the houses on the outskirts of Hadley, and she had told him that her mistress belonged to that class so dear to the hearts of burglars, who conceal valuables in incongruous places and fondly hope that so they will escape detection.
This particular lady kept a valuable string of pearls in a small box, wrapped in brown paper, addressed to James Limpsfield, Esquire, The Grange, Topham, on the blotter of her writing-table, as if just waiting to be posted. A burglar, she said confidently, would ransack the whole room and never look twice at the little brown paper packet addressed to James Limpsfield, on the writing table. He had had to retire from public life before taking any definite steps in the matter, but immediately on his return, he had made his way back to the spot as unobtrusively as possible, in order to reconnoitre the position. To his disappointment he found that that particular maid had left, and that her successor was a grim elderly female who would, he was sure, be proof against all his blandishments. She had, however, gone out this afternoon, and her mistress had set off from the front gate soon afterwards. Between him and his goal (presuming that the brown paper packet was still on the writing-table) was only ten feet or so of piping, a sloping roof, and an open window. That would, in the ordinary way, have been nothing, but Sandy Dick had decided to pursue a policy of caution. He would only take a few seconds to swarm up the pipe, scale the roof and enter the window, but during those few seconds he would be in the full view of anyone who might happen to pass down the back street. That someone might be a policeman, and Sandy Dick had decided to give the blue-coated brotherhood a wide berth. He felt that he and they had had enough of each other’s company for the present. He had been looking at the half-open window wistfully all the afternoon, had finally decided that it was not worth the risk, and had wandered off to another house in which he was interested. That, howe
ver, had proved to be disappointingly full of inhabitants and, before he had seriously begun his reconnoitring, a gardener had come out and indignantly ordered him off.
And then William had appeared. Sandy looked down at William almost affectionately, while he thought out his line of action. Finally he said: “Well, I was jus’ goin’ off to sea, myself.”
“Can I come with you?” said William, eagerly.
“Yes, but there’s jus’ one or two things I gotter do first,” said Sandy Dick. “What’s your name?”
“William Brown. What’s yours?”
“James Limpsfield.”
“Well, why can’t we start at once? What’ve you gotter do first?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Sandy Dick, “if you’ll just walk along with me a bit.”
They set off, side by side, through the back streets of Hadley, towards the house that contained the magnetic, brown paper packet.
“My father lives just near here,” went on Sandy Dick, “but he’s always been very cruel to me.”
“Mine’s the same,” agreed William heartily. “Sendin’ me off to be torchered! How’d he like it? He takes jolly good care to have false ones.”
“And my step-mother’s worse even than my father. They’ve cheated me out of all my money.”
“I’ve never had any money,” said William, “but I bet they’d have cheated me out of it all right, if I had.”
“My father’s turned me out of the house.”
“Well, so has mine, in a way,” said William, determined not to be outdone in hardship. “I mean, it comes to the same. Come on. Let’s start at once.” He looked round anxiously as he spoke. He still had an uneasy suspicion that Ethel and the dentist might be searching the streets of Hadley for him. “Let’s not stop here any longer.”
Sandy Dick assumed an expression of stern virtue.
“There’s one thing I must do first,” he said. “My conscience won’t let me go till I’ve done it. You see, my mother left a ring of hers for me that she wanted me to have, and my step-mother won’t let me have it. It’s there, made up in a parcel by my mother with my name on it, and the name of the house that ought to belong to me, and that they’ve cheated me out of. I don’t mind about the house, but the ring’s different. It’s not that I want the ring for its own value, of course, because it’s valueless. It’s just that my mother wanted me to have it. It was her dying wish. An’ I can’t go away with a clear conscience till I’ve got it.”
“Why don’t you tell the police about it?” said William.
Sandy Dick shivered involuntarily. “I shouldn’t like to do that,” he said. “I’ve got a kind heart. It’s always been my curse, has my kind heart. I can’t bear getting people into trouble. No, my idea is to go quietly into the house and take it. I feel that that’s what my mother would like me to do. Then I can set off straight away to sea with you, with a clear conscience.”
They had reached the back of the house now, and Sandy Dick gazed wistfully up at the pipe, the sloping roof, and the half-open window.
“It’s on the writing-table in my step-mother’s bedroom, just across the landing from that room,” he said. “Just to think that it’s so near and I can’t get it!”
“Why can’t you go in an’ get it?” said William.
“I’m afraid that if I met my father I’d kill him,” said Sandy Dick.
“Well, I think that’d be a jolly good thing,” said William simply.
“Well, of course, that’s not the only reason,” said Sandy Dick. “Another’s that the doctors have told me that it’s death to me to climb. Even to climb a few feet. I’m perfectly healthy in every other way, but it’s death to me to climb.”
A bright idea struck William. “I could easy nip up and get it,” he suggested.
Sandy Dick heaved a secret sigh of relief, but shook his head as if unwilling to accept the offer.
“I don’t want you to go into any danger for me,” he said.
“Well, that’s nothin’,” said William. “I can nip in an’ get it, ’s easy’s easy. That’s not the sort of danger I mind. It’s bein’ torchered I mind. Ordin’ry danger’s nothin’ to me.”
“Well . . .” said Sandy Dick, as if assenting reluctantly.
“Let’s arrange some signals,” said William, who liked to extract the utmost sensation from an adventure of this sort. “I’ll whistle once from inside the house if there’s danger for you, an’ twice if I’m in danger an’ want your help, an’ you’ll do the same from outside, will you?”
“Right you are!” agreed Sandy Dick.
William climbed over the fence, swarmed up the pipe, scaled the sloping roof, and disappeared in at the half-open window. Sandy Dick remained below, poised for instant flight.
William found himself in a small bedroom, evidently of the spare variety: the bed dismantled; the dressing-table empty of toilet articles; the sole ornaments, family photographs that had obviously begun their career in the drawing-room twenty or thirty years ago. He opened the door and tiptoed across a landing into the bedroom opposite. It was empty, and—yes—there, upon a writing-table on a blotter was a small, brown paper packet addressed to “James Limpsfield, Esq”. It obviously contained the ring that had belonged to his new friend’s mother, and that now belonged by rights to his new friend. He took it up and was just about to return by way of the spare bedroom, when another thought struck him. His heart was bursting with indignation at the dastardly fashion in which his new friend had been treated. Why shouldn’t he get him something more useful than the valueless ring that was only needed to satisfy the demands of his conscience? He was very shabbily dressed, and from the top of the stairs William could see a thick, warm overcoat hanging from a hat-stand. It would help to keep poor James warm and dry on his journey to the coast. And it wasn’t stealing. His cruel parents owed him that, at least, after cheating him out of his ring and house and all his money. It might even actually belong to James. It probably did. They’d probably pinched it as well as his house and his ring and his money. He went quietly down the staircase to the hall, and there—a horrible qualm of recognition crept over him. He knew this hall. He’d been here before. At that moment a door opened and the dentist came out.
“Tut, tut, tut!” he said irritably. “Glad you’ve had the sense to come at last. Silly, childish trick, running away like that. Made you half an hour late for your appointment. Fortunately, I’ve no other client this afternoon.” He flung open the door of his surgery. “Come on in, and let’s get to work.”
With a feeling of sickening horror, William realised that his wanderings had brought him to the back of the very house from which he had fled. The shock had given a jolt to his memory, and he suddenly remembered where he had seen his new friend before. He wasn’t called James Limpsfield. He was called Sandy Dick. Sandy Dick, who had robbed him of an enormous sum of money about a year ago. Sandy Dick, with hair mysteriously black instead of ginger, but Sandy Dick all the same.
In his surprise he dropped the packet. The dentist picked it up.
“What on earth’s the meaning of this?” he said mystified.
William inserted two fingers into the comers of his mouth and emitted a whistle that could have been heard not only in the next street, but in the next street but two. He waited for a few moments, till he was sure that Sandy Dick would have vanished from the landscape, then, with a sigh of resignation, he seated himself in the dentist’s chair.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” he said, “if you’ll promise not to use the drill.”
Chapter 9 – The Holewood Bequest
William did not know whether to be gratified or indignant when he heard that Aunt Louie had invited him to spend a week of the Easter holiday with her.
Aunt Louie herself was all right, of course, but she, in her turn, was staying with an aunt of her own—an ancient aunt, called Aunt Belle Holewood, whom William had never met. Aunt Louie had felt grateful to him ever since he had inadvertently provided her wi
th the little wooden, carved figure which Aunt Belle had asked her to bring from South Africa, and which she had completely forgotten, and so Aunt Louie, who was still in England staying with Aunt Belle, had asked William, on the general principle that one good turn deserves another. She explained in her letter that Aunt Belle did not often leave her room, and that there would be a big garden for William to play in. There was also, she added, a dog, and a wood at the bottom of the garden. The dog and the wood and the element of the unknown in the situation, decided William. Aunt Louie he knew and liked. Aunt Belle, the house, the dog, the wood, were all unknown quantities, and the unknown always fascinated him. He agreed with that school of thought that holds that none of life’s experience should be rejected.
Everything went smoothly enough at first. The house was large and not (as were some houses of his acquaintance), so overcrowded with knick-knacks that it was impossible to move without breaking something. The garden also was large, and did not (as did some gardens of his acquaintance), consist entirely of flowerbeds that must not be jumped over, and lawns that must not be trodden on. The private wood was a real wood and not (as were some private woods of his acquaintance) a narrow strip of trees, so closely planted with bulbs that games of Red Indians were impossible and that every movement brought shrieks of horror from the grown-ups. The dog was an overgrown Alsatian puppy called Thor, who had lived such a decorous life with Aunt Belle that he hardly realised that he was a puppy. Under William’s guidance that omission was quickly rectified. Thor learnt to leap and gambol, to run after sticks and to burrow after rabbits. He seemed to know nothing about rats, either, and that deficiency William hastened to make good. He took him round to various farms and egged him on to every rat he could find. Thor proved an apt pupil, rising to a fine frenzy of excitement in pursuit, though he seldom actually caught his quarry. Even Aunt Belle turned out not to be the cantankerous, repressive old lady William had taken for granted she would be. She was a little absent-minded and distant in manner, it is true, but she did not appear to suffer from that rooted objection to any and every manifestation of youth that, in William’s experience, was the chief characteristic of old age.
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