William the Bad

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘The lekcherer will be here in a minute,’ he said; ‘his train’s a bit late an’ he’s got to come all the way up from the station. I’m goin’ to tell you a bit about him first. He’s—he’s a very small man. I’m tellin’ you that so’s you won’t be surprised when you see him. He’s the cleverest man in the world an’ that’s why he’s so small. All his strength has gone to his brain leavin’ none over to go to makin’ him tall. He’s quite an old man but he’s not much taller than you or me. That’s because of him bein’ so clever an’ all his strength goin’ to his brain.’

  They stared at him open-mouthed with interest and surprise but entirely credulous. It never occurred to them to doubt what Ginger told them. It never occurred to them to doubt what anyone told them. It was not by doubting what people told them that they had won their good conduct medals.

  One boy, who had been gazing round the room, said suddenly: ‘Isn’t anybody else coming to this lecture? I thought that lots of people were coming to it.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Ginger, ‘this is a lekcher spechul for you. This clever lekcherer what I told you about he’s so clever that he’s not much bigger than you or me with all his strength goin’ to his brain—well, this clever lekcherer heard about you havin’ all those medals an’ such-like and so he very kin’ly said he’d come down and give you a lekcher speshul all to yourselves. On Central Asher.’

  The campers glanced down complacently at their good conduct medals.

  ‘Mrs. Griffiths-Griffiths never told us that,’ said one of them.

  ‘P’raps she forgot,’ said Ginger. ‘I know she was very pleased about it. Pleased at this very clever lekcherer what I told you about, what all his strength has gone to his brain, havin’ heard about all your medals an’ such like an’ wanting to come down an’ give you a lekcher speshul. I s’pose with havin’ to go off to see her ole friend she forgot to tell you. He’ll be here soon, the lekcherer. He’s just been givin’ a lekcher to the King up in London. That’s why he’s a bit late.’

  ‘Shall I sing our Band of Hope song?’ said a small innocent with projecting teeth. ‘I often do when we have to wait for anything. It helps to fill in the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ginger, without enthusiasm, ‘you sing what you like, but this lekcherer will be here in a minute.’

  The small innocent piped up untunefully:

  ‘My drink is water bright,

  Water bright,

  Water bright,

  My drink is water bright,

  From the crystal stream.’

  At that moment William entered. No one except his most intimate friends would have recognised him as William. He wore a white beard and wig that belonged by right to his elder brother, but that William frequently ‘borrowed.’ He wore an old pair of long trousers, which also had once belonged to Robert, and which William had salved from the Jumble Sale cupboard and cut down to fit him. He wore an overcoat and a muffler. His audience gazed at him with awe and interest as he walked up to the end of the hall. It was clear that they felt not the slightest shadow of doubt. They began to clap enthusiastically as he turned to face them. He bowed slightly, then plunged straight into his lecture without wasting time on preliminaries.

  ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen,’ he began, speaking with some difficulty through his thick beard. ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen, I’m goin’ to tell you this afternoon all about a place called Central Asher, where natives an’ such-like are heathen, an’ what we’ve gotter do is to convert ’em, same as we converted the people in—in China an’ all the other places we learn about in geography, an’ make ’em into good people goin’ to Sunday School an’ belongin’ to Band of Hopes an’ such-like. We’ve gotter do that with the people in Central Asher. The people in Central Asher live very wicked an’ unhappy lives, jus’ worshippin’ idols an’ bein’ eaten alive by crocodiles an’ suchlike. We’ve got to convert ’em an’ turn ’em into good people, goin’ to Sunday School every Sunday, an’ then their lives’ll be quite different.’

  He paused for breath, and the campers clapped. They had been told to clap whenever the lecturer paused. Mrs. Griffiths-Griffiths had meant the whole village to be impressed by the keenness of her dear boys. William bowed again, and as soon as the applause had died away continued his lecture.

  ‘Now what people don’t know is that there’s a lot of Central Asher people livin’ quite near here.’ His audience gasped with amazement, but he continued unperturbed.

  ‘It’s a sort of camp of natives that’s come over from Central Asher, an’ they live on Ringers Hill, jus’ a short way from here, carryin’ on jus’ like what they used to at home, worshippin’ idols an’ such-like all over the place. Well, what we’ve gotter do is to convert ’em. We don’t need to go right over to Central Asher to convert ’em, ’cause they’re jus’ here, an’ we can get to ’em in a few minutes. Well, now, that’s what we’ve gotter do this afternoon. We’ve gotter convert ’em.’

  He paused again for breath. His audience was too much amazed even to applaud. The innocent with projecting teeth found his voice first.

  ‘B-b-b-but,’ he objected, ‘we don’t know their language. They don’t talk English, do they?’

  ‘No,’ said William, ‘they talk Central Ashan. But I know it. It’s a very difficult langwidge, an’ it took me years to learn, even though I’m jolly quick at learning foreign langwidges. So I can tell you what to say to ’em to convert ’em.’

  They stared at him helplessly. Even the innocent with projecting teeth was past speech now. But despite their amazement, it didn’t occur to one of them even now to question the truth of his words.

  ‘What we’ve decided to do,’ continued William, calmly, ‘is to give a speshul medal in Sunday Schools for convertin’ heathen, to wear nex’ your good conduct medal. An’ I want you to be the first to win this new medal for convertin’ the heathen. Wun’t you like to win another medal this afternoon, a speshully big one for convertin’ the heathen?’ Their eyes gleamed. They thirsted for medals as a drug maniac for his drug. They made eager gloating sounds for acquiescence.

  ‘Well, then,’ went on William, ‘I’ll take you to ’em an’ teach you a sermon in Central Ashan that’ll convert ’em. I’ll teach you the words an’ you say ’em to them. Or rather, you’ll have to shout ’em. They all shout in Central Asher. They wun’t understand you if you jus’ speak. The shoutin’ is part of the langwidge. The louder you speak the quicker they understand. Now are you all ready to learn the words?’

  Eagerly the campers said that they were.

  ‘There are only two ackshual words in the sermon,’ went on William, unblushingly, ‘but they’re words that mean as much in Central Ashan as pages an’ pages in English. Each of these two words what I’m goin’ to teach you is a long sermon convertin’ ’em. It’s a sermon what every heathen that hears it gets converted by it, however long he’s been a heathen worshippin’ idols an’ bein’ eaten by crocodiles an’ such-like. Each of these two words I’m goin’ to teach you is a long sermon what would convert any one what heard it, so of course the two of them together makes the sort of sermon in Central Ashan, such as only very important bishops what have passed the highest exams in bein’ bishops could give in the English langwidge. These two words mean pages an’ pages an’ pages of convertin’ stuff. Now, are you ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the campers zestfully.

  ‘Well, one word’s “Ra,” an’ the other word’s “Hosh.” But in the Central Ashan langwidge it isn’t only the words you say, it’s the way you say ’em. Now listen very carefully to me and Ging—an’ this other gentleman here, an’ we’ll say ’em the way to make ’em mean all those pages an’ pages of sermons, what they mean when you say ’em the right way. Now listen very carefully. Come on, Ginger. One, two, three.’

  Ginger and William drew in their breath and emitted the battle cry of the Outlaw band of ‘savvidges.’ The campers listened carefully. Then they tried it. It was, of course, a poor enough attempt. Wil
liam made them do it again and again and again, till at last they managed to instil into it something of the bloodcurdling quality of William’s own rendering. They worked zealously and conscientiously, occasionally glancing complacently down at their good conduct medal and picturing the new medal for converting the heathen beside it.

  ‘Will it hang from a blue ribbon same as the good conduct medal?’ asked the boy with the turned-up nose. William assured him that it would. When they were nearly perfect he made another speech.

  ‘Now you’ve gotter be very careful with these Central Ashans. They’ve got their speshul ways same as heathens always have. They’re fond of killin’ people.’ The campers paled. ‘It’s nothin’ to them to kill people. They do it without thinkin’. They don’t mean to be unkind or anything. They jus’ do it ’cause it’s a sort of fashion. They’ll stop doin’ it, of course, after you’ve converted ’em. But they’ve got a very strict rule, an’ that is that they never kill people what come to them runnin’ an’ with their faces blacked. That’s a very strict rule. When any one comes to them runnin’ with their faces blacked they’re very polite to them an’ listen to what they’ve got to say. That’s a very strict rule with them. An’ if the person’s wearin’ a sort of thing that looks like a mat to us—I’ve got a few here—they listen to them an’ do everything they tell them. Now would any of you like to have your faces blacked, an’ one of these little things tied round him before we start convertin’ the heathen?’

  They crowded round him eagerly.

  Ginger appeared with a box full of burnt corks. William dragged forward a pile of odds and ends of carpet. They set to work.

  The Hubert Laneites assembled on Ringers Hill. Gloating is the only word that adequately describes their attitude.

  ‘They won’t come, an’ if they do, we’ll lick ’em.’

  ‘They can’t get anyone else, ’cause all their people are away.’

  ‘If they come we’ll lick ’em, an’ if they don’t come they’ll not have taken a dare and be cowardy custards.’

  ‘Cowardy, cowardy custards!’ sang Hubert, as though he were already jeering at William and Ginger from the usual safe distance.

  ‘Cowardy, cowardy custards!’ sang the Hubert Laneites, joyfully.

  Then suddenly the words froze on their lips. Their eyes bulged. Their mouths dropped open.

  ‘COWARDY, COWARDY, CUSTARDS!’ SANG THE HUBERT LANEITES JOYFULLY. THEN SUDDENLY THE WORDS DIED ON THEIR LIPS.

  For up the hill came charging William and Ginger at the head of a band of ‘savvidges.’ Strange warriors unknown in the neighbourhood, with faces horribly blacked and uttering the Outlaws’ war-cry in tones that turned the blood of the Hubert Laneites to water in their veins. The very unfamiliarity of the new warriors made them the more ferocious and terrible in the eyes of the other band. With panic-stricken cries the Hubert Laneites turned to flee.

  The Outlaws held the hill.

  The campers marched neatly back. They had washed away all traces of the burnt cork, and looked almost as tidy as when they had set out. They had spent rather a bewildering afternoon, but William had assured them that it was all right, and that the flight of the heathen meant that they were fully converted.

  They marched into the tent where Mrs. Griffiths-Griffiths was awaiting them.

  William and Ginger, unable to resist the temptation to hear their charges’ account of the afternoon, lay in the field behind the tent, their ears to the flap of the tent.

  ‘Well, boys dear,’ said Mrs. Griffiths-Griffiths, ‘now tell me all about the lecture. Was it interesting?’

  ‘Yes very,’ said the innocent with projecting teeth. ‘He was a very clever man.’

  ‘I’m sure he was, dear. And did he tell you all about Central Asia?’

  ‘Yes, an’ he told us about the Central Ashans on Ringers Hill, an’ he blacked our faces an’ taught us a sermon to convert ’em and—’

  ‘What?’ screamed Mrs. Griffiths-Griffiths.

  William and Ginger crept quietly away.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE OUTLAWS AND THE CUCUMBER

  Mrs. Roundway had always been a friend of the Outlaws. She was a small stout woman with a perpetual smile and a very large heart, who lived in a cottage just outside the village, and made the sort of cookie boys that one would hardly expect to meet this side the grave. Her friendship had begun with William and had gradually extended itself to the others. She seemed to regard boys in a light that was novel and touching to the Outlaws. She talked to them, and liked to hear their views. She made cookie boys for them—beautiful creatures of dough or gingerbread with currants for eyes, nose, mouth and buttons. The Outlaws felt vaguely grateful to her—not so much for the cookie boys as for what the cookie boys stood for, an oasis of grown-up understanding and kindness in a desert world. Most grown-ups of the Outlaws’ acquaintance considered boys in the light of a discipline inflicted upon a suffering world by a mysterious Providence. But Mrs. Roundway actually liked them. She didn’t seem a grown-up at all.

  Mrs. Roundway was a widow with a comfortable income, a comfortable cottage and a comfortable disposition, and one would have thought that she had everything her heart could desire. But she hadn’t. Her heart desired to get the first prize at the local flower show for her cucumbers and she couldn’t. She could only get the second. Every year she cherished and guarded and tended and fed them as a mother her children, till they assumed balloon-like proportions. She lay awake at night thinking about them. When she fell asleep she dreamed of them. Every year she was sure that she was going to get the first prize. And every year Mrs. Bretherton got it instead. Mrs. Bretherton produced at the last minute an exhibit that put Mrs. Roundway’s exhibit entirely to shame, a cucumber so fat and long that it looked as if it had begun by trying to be a pumpkin, and then had decided to be a cucumber, but had a strong sense of proportion.

  On the day after the flower show Mrs. Roundway’s smile was woe-begone and forlorn, and yet even in the downfall of all her hopes she remembered to make a cookie boy for the Outlaws. She came down to the gate with the smile that was so different from her usual smile, and said:

  ‘Here it is, dears. It’s gingerbread. And here’s a few extra currants.’

  William took the cookie boy and Ginger the handful of currants, and they gazed at her sorrowfully, their hearts overflowing with sympathy.

  ‘We’re sorry about the cucumber,’ said William.

  ‘That’s kind of you, love,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can’t pretend I don’t feel it. It may be foolish to take it to heart so, but—I can’t help it. I was almost sure this time. I know she doesn’t take the time and care that I do.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I can’t think how it is.’

  ‘Well, I jolly well think you oughter’ve had the prize,’ said William stoutly.

  ‘No, love,’ sighed Mrs. Roundway. ‘Hers was bigger than what mine was. There wasn’t no doubt about it.’

  ‘Well, I bet you’ll get it next year,’ said William.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, love,’ said Mrs. Roundway and a gleam of hope pierced through the gloom of her good-natured countenance. ‘Yes, there’s always next year to look forward to, isn’t there?’

  The Outlaws walked thoughtfully down the road, nibbling the cookie boy. Ginger had the arms, Henry the legs, Douglas the head and hat, William the body. Yet so depressed were they by their friend’s disappointment that they did not even pretend to be a tribe of cannibals or a herd of wolves. They ate the cookie boy as if he’d been merely an ordinary piece of gingerbread.

  ‘I bet she’ll get it all right next year,’ said Ginger as he carefully divided the handful of currants. ‘I bet you anythin’ she’ll get it next year.’

  ‘I bet she will, too,’ said William. ‘If I’d been judge I’d’ve give it her this. I say, I votes we keep a look out on Mrs. Bretherton’s this year an’ see how it goes on. If we know how big it’s gettin’ then we can tell Mrs. Roundway an’ she can sort of fat hers up a bit so�
�s to be jus’ bigger. That’s what I votes we do, anyway.’

  The others, swallowing their last mouthfuls of currants, agreed.

  The Outlaws led a full and varied life, and the months slipped quickly by, but they did not forget their plan, and when the cucumber season approached they held a meeting in the old barn to discuss their programme. William took the chair, as usual, metaphorically speaking, for the barn contained no seating accommodation beyond a few precarious boxes.

  ‘Well, I votes that we go round to ole Mrs. Bretherton’s every week an’ measure her cucumber an’ tell Mrs. Roundway about it so she can fat hers up to be bigger by the day.’ The proposal was carried by acclamation and the Outlaws, inspired by a pleasant sense of adventure, marched off to inspect Mrs. Bretherton’s exhibit. This, however, proved more difficult than they had thought it would. Mrs. Bretherton was not another Mrs. Roundway. Mrs. Bretherton had an irascible temper and a hatred of boys that amounted almost to an obsession. And she was certainly terrifying enough even without her irascible temper, for she was in appearance exactly like the witch of the fairy tales—bent and wizened and malevolent-looking, with a jaw and chin that almost met.

  The Outlaws clustered about her gate, uncertain how exactly to begin operations. Then her door opened suddenly, and she came hobbling down the path to them muttering angrily and making threatening gestures with her stick. The Outlaws fled precipitately.

  ‘I thought it was best to run away an’ let her think we were frightened,’ said William nonchalantly when they paused for breath at the end of the road.

  Ginger and Henry and Douglas said that that was why they’d run away too.

  ‘It sort of puts them off their guard an’—an’ sort of lulls their suspicions,’ said William who read a good deal of lurid literature.

  ‘Let’s go back now,’ he went on when he had recovered his breath, ‘and see if she’s about.’