He was talking about orphans.
He represented an Orphanage to which the school evidently sent an annual contribution. He was pleading for an increase in the contributions. He was urging them to ‘adopt’ an orphan, that is, to pay for its maintenance each year. He had just reached the climax of his speech.
‘Those of you who are well fed, well clothed, well looked after,’—William’s eye stole round. The master was still watching him. He stiffened to attention again—‘owe a duty to those who are less well clothed and fed and looked after. You owe a debt to them. Good things are given to you in order that you may pass them on to others. It’s your social duty. Some people, of course, take an orphan into their homes and give it all the blessings of home life. And I may say that prosperity always visits those homes. If every family in England adopted an orphan we could close down our Institutions. That, of course, is impossible, but I hope, dear boys, that you will all give of your best this year so that we may inscribe the name of your school in our book of honour as wholly maintaining an orphan each year.’
He sat down amidst deafening applause.
The headmaster, who had been growing more and more restive, because the lecturer had overstepped his time and encroached upon the headmaster’s Latin Prose class, arose and, with one eye upon the clock, said how much they all had enjoyed the lecture and how sorry they were that it had come to an end, and that he hoped that the annual Sale of Work would double their subscription, and as time was getting on would the boys go straight to their class rooms, please. Frenzied applause broke out again, prolonged to its utmost limits by the headmaster’s Latin Prose class, who had been watching the clock with emotions as deep as the headmaster’s, though of a different nature.
The master, who had appointed himself guardian angel of the Outlaws, gave them one last long, meaning glance and went to join his colleagues.
The Outlaws filed out with the others and went to an Algebra class. William could generally be trusted to hold up the Algebra class indefinitely by not understanding. William had a very plausible way of not understanding, and the Mathematical master was so new to teaching that he had not yet seen through it. He was a very conscientious young man and it was a matter of principle with him never to go on to the next step till everyone in the class fully understood the first one. He took William’s expression of earnest endeavour at its face value. He thought that William was slow but well meaning and deeply interested in Algebra. And so, provided that William was in good form, no second step in any lesson was ever reached.
But William was distrait this morning. He let slip every opportunity of not understanding and did not even notice the reproachful glances and exhortatory nudges of his classmates. Various others of them tried to take his place but they lacked his skill. The master simply explained their difficulties and passed on. They could not, like William, think of another difficulty while he was explaining the first. The lesson progressed with unwonted speed and the master began to think that he was really making headway with them at last.
The Outlaws streamed out of school at the end of the morning with the others. They scuffled in and out of the ditch as usual on their homeward way, but William scuffled half-heartedly. Obviously his thoughts were still elsewhere.
‘I say, we were jolly lucky,’ Ginger was saying, ‘I thought old Stinks was going to keep us in.’
‘Jus’ like you,’ said Douglas disgustedly, ‘sendin’ it right on to his head.’
‘It was jolly clever,’ said Ginger proudly, ‘I bet you couldn’t have done it if you’d tried.’
‘No, neither could you if you’d tried,’ said Douglas.
William awoke from his reverie.
‘Did you hear what he said about it bein’ everyone’s juty to adopt a norphan?’ he asked.
‘He didn’t,’ said Ginger.
‘He did,’ said William. ‘I know, ’cause I was listenin’. He said that everyone ought to adopt a norphan. He said that if everyone adopted a norphan all the orphan places would shut up.’
‘I wish you’d shut up.’
‘All right,’ encouraged William. ‘Come on. Shut me up.’
Ginger closed with him, and they wrestled till the arrival of a motor car sent them both into the ditch. They found a frog in it, and after another fight that was to decide the ownership of the frog (during which the frog disappeared), climbed out, much invigorated and having completely forgotten what both fights were about.
‘What’ll we do this afternoon?’ said Douglas (it was a half-holiday). ‘I votes we go to the stream.’
‘He said,’ put in William suddenly, ‘that everyone oughter adopt a norphan. He said it brought you luck.’
‘He didn’t,’ said Ginger again.
‘You’re thinking of horse shoes,’ said Douglas, ‘they bring you luck.’
‘I’m not,’ said William doggedly, ‘I’m thinking of orphans. He said that everyone ought to adopt a norphan. You weren’t listening. He said that it brought them luck. He din’ say it in jus’ those words. He said it in the sort of langwidge letcherers talk in. But it meant that it brought them luck.’
‘He din’ say everyone ought to adopt one.’
‘He did. He said it was a sociable juty. He said that everyone what had clothes ought to adopt a norphan. You weren’t listenin’. I was. Ole Stinks was starin’ at me so’s I’d got to listen, ’cause with him starin’ at me I’d gotter look somewhere else, so I looked at him, an’ when you look at a person you’ve got to listen to what they’re sayin’, even if you don’t want to. An’ he was sayin’ that it was everyone’s sociable juty to adopt a norphan ’cause it brought ’em good luck. He said all about them havin’ no home an’ how we ought to adopt ’em so’s to give ’em a home. He said it was a sociable juty.’
‘What is a sociable juty?’ said Ginger.
‘Dunno,’ said William vaguely, ‘but it’s what he said.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said Ginger, ‘we can’t adopt a norphan, so let’s talk about what we’re goin’ to do this afternoon. I don’ want to go fishin’. I’d rather play Red Indians.’
‘We can ask our parents to, can’t we?’ said William. ‘He said everyone ought to.’
‘He didn’t. I votes we play Red Indians in Croombe Woods.’
‘He did. You weren’t listening. I was. I listened all the time after old Stinks came to stare at us. He said that if you’d got clothes you ought to take a norphan into your home to give it blessings. He said it was a sociable juty, and I’m going to ask my mother to adopt one, anyway. I’m goin’ to tell her what he said.’
But there were William’s favourite dishes for lunch—baked potatoes and roast chicken, followed by trifle—and he completely forgot the morning’s lecture till an aunt, who was lunching with them, fixed her eyes on him grimly and said: ‘I hope you realise how fortunate you are, William, to have such a good dinner, and I hope that you remember how many little boys there are who haven’t got a good home like yours.’
This reminded William. He swallowed half a potato and said:
‘Mother, may we adopt a norphan!’
‘What!’ gasped his mother.
‘I said may we adopt a norphan,’ repeated William rather impatiently.
‘Why?’ said his mother.
‘A man came round to school this morning and said we’d got to,’ said William, ‘he said they brought you luck.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what he said,’ said William calmly, and with an air of one who disclaims all responsibility.
‘William! I’m sure he never said that.’
‘He did,’ William assured her, ‘you weren’t there. I was listening ’cause of old Stinks. He said it in lecturing sort of langwidge, but that was what it meant.’
‘I never heard such nonsense.’
‘Aren’t you goin’ to, then?’ said William, disappointed.
‘Going to what?’ said Mrs. Brown.
‘Adopt a norphan?’
‘Of course not, William.’
‘Well,’ said William darkly, ‘if you don’t get good luck now after this, don’t blame me. You take a lot of trouble throwin’ salt over your shoulder when you spill it and touching wood and that sort of thing, and yet you won’t do a little thing like adoptin’ a norphan. It isn’t as if you’d have to pay anything for one. They give them free. And you needn’t buy new clothes for it. It could wear mine. It could wear my Sunday suit while I was wearing my weekday one, and my weekday suit while I was wearing my Sunday suit. And it could sleep with me and have half my food at meals. It needn’t be any trouble or expense at all, and this man said—’
‘William, will you get on with your lunch and stop talking.’
‘When I was young,’ said the aunt, ‘children were seen and not heard.’
William finished his meal in gloomy silence and then went out to meet the other Outlaws.
‘Well, I asked mine,’ he said disconsolately, ‘and she wouldn’t. Did you ask yours?’
It appeared that Douglas had mentioned it tentatively, but that his mother had rejected the idea as summarily as William’s.
‘Well, then, let’s go an’ play Red Indians,’ said Ginger impatiently.
But once William had formed a project it was never easy to induce him to abandon it.
‘Why shun’t we adopt one?’ he said slowly.
They stared at him open-mouthed with amazement.
‘We couldn’t,’ gasped Ginger.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said William aggressively. ‘Why couldn’t we as well as anyone else?’
‘They wouldn’t let us,’ said Douglas.
‘They needn’t know,’ said William. ‘We could keep it in the old barn while we were at school an’ it could go about with us after school and we could get food for it from home. Surely if all of us got a bit at each meal it would be enough for one orphan. It could sleep with us in turns. I guess we could easily get him up the stairs without anyone seeing if we’re careful. And he could get under the bed when they come to call us in the morning so that no one’d know he’d been sleeping there at all. And we could get him up something to eat for breakfast and then get him down to the barn while we go to school, without anyone knowing. Just keep a look out till no one’s about and then jus’ get him quickly downstairs. I bet it would be fun. Jus’ like hiding a fugitive. I’ve always wanted to live in the days when they went in for hidin’ fugitives. An’ he’ll be so grateful to us for givin’ him a home that he’ll do everything we tell him. He’ll field balls for us when we play cricket an’ make arrows for us an’ be the squaw when we’re playing Red Indians.’
‘But—but what about him not going to school?’ objected Henry. ‘There’s a lor that everyone’s got to go to school. If they find you don’t know anythin’ when you grow up ’cause of not havin’ been to school they put you in prison.’
‘I wish he could go to school ’stead of me,’ said William in a heartfelt tone, then suddenly his whole face lit up. ‘I say! I know what I’m goin’ to do. I’m goin’ to try’n’ get one that looks like me an’ let him go to school ’stead of me an’ I’ll stay away.’
‘Yes, an’ then when you grow up an’ they find you don’t know anythin’ they’ll put you in prison,’ Henry warned him darkly. ‘There’s a lor about it.’
‘I shan’t care,’ said William. ‘I bet it’ll’ve been worth it . . . An’ he might get on better at school than me, too. He might get me a good report. My father’s promised me five shillings if ever I get a good report. If he got me one I’d give him half.’
‘You’d never get anyone that looked jus’ like you, William,’ said Ginger gazing at William’s homely freckled countenance with its scowl of aggressive determination, and shock of wiry hair. ‘I don’t s’pose that there is anyone else that looks like you.’
‘Why not?’ challenged William threateningly, scenting a personal insult in the words.
Ginger, who had intended a personal insult, hastily withdrew from his position at William’s tone and said:
‘Well, I mean that we’re all made jus’ a bit different. It’s a lor of nature. And they know your face so well at school that they’d know at once if anyone came without your face pretendin’ to be you. An’ then it’d spoil everything.’
Despite themselves the Outlaws were becoming interested in the orphan scheme. William could always make the most outrageous schemes sound reasonable.
‘How’re you goin’ to get one?’ said Douglas.
‘Well, how do they get them?’ said William.
‘I think they advertise,’ said Henry.
‘All right,’ said William, ‘we’ll advertise.’
The notice was written and pinned up outside the old barn. Though short, it had caused the Outlaws much searching of heart. None of them was widely read, and it so happened that none of them remembered ever having seen the word ‘orphan’ in print.
At first its spelling suggested no difficulties to them, and William wrote:
‘Wanted an orfun,’ with no misgivings at all except for the blots that his crossed nib (William’s nibs were always crossed) had deposited on it. It was Douglas who cast the first doubt upon it. Douglas felt it his duty to sustain his reputation as a master of the intricacies of spelling.
‘I don’t think that’s the way you spell it,’ he said.
‘It must be,’ said William firmly, ‘it couldn’t be any other way. It couldn’t possibly. How could it? Orfun. Well, you spell or O-R—don’t you?—and you spell fun F-U-N. So orphan must be ORFUN.’
‘Well, what about words like awful,’ said Douglas, ‘you spell or A-W then. It might be that sort of an or. It might be AWFUN.’
‘Well, we’ll put it both ways then,’ said William firmly. ‘I shun’t like one to come along an’ not know we want one ’cause of it not being spelt right. We’ll put it both ways.’
But Douglas was still pondering the problem and the more he pondered it the more beset with difficulties did it appear.
‘Then there’s the —un,’ he said, ‘it might be O-N, not U-N. You know, like lesson. You say it lessun but you write it lesson, O-N.’
The subject was becoming too complicated for William. ‘Well, let’s spell it all the ways it could be spelt, so’s if one comes it’ll know we want one.’
Douglas therefore drew up a fresh notice whose final form was:
orfun
Wanted an
awfun
orfon
awfon
They fixed it on the barn door and gazed at it proudly.
‘Well, one’s more likely to come along if we aren’t here, waiting for it to come,’ said William. ‘Things never happen when you’re waiting for them to happen. I votes we go out to look for one and then I bet you anything that when we come back we’ll find one waiting for us here.’
The Outlaws recognised the sound sense of this and set off. As they were setting off Ginger looked doubtfully back at the notice.
‘I bet he won’t think much of us not knowin’ how to spell it,’ he said.
Douglas returned and wrote slowly and carefully at the foot of the notice:
‘we gnow whitch is wright.’
Clarence Mapleton stood at the gate of his aunt’s garden and looked gloomily about him. He had been told not to go into the road and so, in order to assert his independence, he went into the road and walked up and down it several times, although the procedure did not afford him much pleasure, as the garden was far more interesting in every way. He then returned to the gate and stood leaning against it in an attitude of dejection. Though nearly eight years old, he still wore his hair in a mop of curls and he was still dressed in a tunic suit with microscopic knickers from which long bare legs emerged to end in baby socks and strap-over shoes. Despite appearances, however, there beat within Clarence Mapleton’s breast a manly heart and he felt deeply the ignominy of his appearance. Nor were the curls and tunic suit all. Besides the obnoxious name of Clar
ence he possessed the name of John, and yet no one called him by it. They called him Clarence because his aunt with whom he lived loved the name of Clarence and disliked the name of John.
He was the apple of his aunt’s eye. She worshipped him from his curly head to his strap-over shoes. She called him her ‘little Prince Charming.’ When he pleaded for more manly attire, she said: ‘Oh no, no, darling. Not yet. You’re not old enough for those horrid boys’ suits yet. He’s his auntie’s darling baby boy . . .’ And other yet more revolting epithets.
She didn’t even let him go to a proper boys’ school. He still had a governess.
‘No, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Auntie doesn’t want her darling to go with all those horrid rough boys yet.’
Considering the limitations of his circumstances, however, Clarence had not done badly. He had undertaken his own education to the best of his ability under the general directorship of the butcher’s boy, and the result was on the whole quite creditable. Despite his curls and tunic suit he could hold his own in single combat against the butcher’s boy, who was several inches taller and of a fierce disposition. He could walk on his hands and he could distort his angelic features into a mask so horrible that strong men blenched at it. Moreover, though his devoted aunt should wash him and change his suit and brush up his golden curls a dozen times a day,—a dozen times a day he could conscientiously dishevel himself in order to assert his manhood.
William the Bad Page 12
