William The Outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

  They crept away through the darkness in a stricken silence and did not speak till they reached the road. Then: ‘Crumbs!’ said William, in a hoarse whisper. ‘What is he? What’s he doin’?’

  ‘I think he’s a sort of Bolsh’vist goin’ to blow up all the world,’ said Douglas with a burst of inspiration.

  ‘An’ a dead body an’ all,’ said Ginger, deeply awed by the memory of what they had seen.

  ‘P’rhaps he’s just doin’ ordinary chemistry,’ suggested Henry mildly.

  This suggestion was indignantly scouted by the Outlaws.

  ‘’Course it’s not jus’ ordin’ry chemistry,’ said William, ‘not with all that set-out.’

  ‘Dead bodies an’ all,’ murmured Ginger again in a sepulchral voice.

  ‘An’ dressed all funny,’ said William, ‘an’ queer sorts of things all over the place. ’Sides, what’d he be doin’ ordin’ry chemistry for, anyway? He’s too old to be goin’ in for exams.’

  This was felt to be unanswerable.

  ‘What I think is—’ began William, but he never got as far as what he thought.

  A plaintive voice came through the dusk – the voice of William’s sister Ethel.

  ‘William! Mother says it’s long past your bedtime and will you come in and she says—’

  The Outlaws crept off through the dusk.

  The next day Joan came back from a visit to an aunt.

  Joan was the only female member of the Outlaws. Though she did not accompany them on their more dangerous and manly exploits she was their unfailing confidante and sympathiser and could be always counted on to side with them against a hostile and unsympathetic world. She was small and dark and very pretty and she considered William the greatest hero the world has ever known.

  She joined them the first morning of her return and they told her without any undue modesty of their exploits during her absence – of their heroic flights from irate farmers, of their miraculous creation of motor boats and aeroplanes (they omitted any reference to the over-officious law of gravity), of their glorious culinary operations (they omitted the sequel), their Herculean contest with the wasps, their tightrope walking performance, their (partial) mastery over the brute creation as represented by Etheldrida, their glorious feats of stone throwing and arrow shooting.

  ‘An’ no one what’s run after us has caught us – not once,’ ended William proudly and added, ‘I bet we c’n run faster’n anyone else in the world.’

  Joan smiled upon him fondly. She firmly believed that William could do anything in the world better than any one else in it.

  ‘And what are you going to do today?’ she said with interest.

  That, the expressions of the Outlaws gave her to understand, was the question. The Outlaws had no idea what they were going to do today. They were obviously ready for any suggestion from the gentleman who, moralists inform us, specialises in providing occupation for the unoccupied.

  ‘Let’s make another motor boat,’ said Henry feebly, but his suggestion was treated with well-deserved contempt. The Outlaws were not in the habit of repeating their effects. Moreover, the motor boat experiment had not been so successful as to warrant its repetition.

  Suddenly Ginger’s face lit up.

  ‘I know!’ he said, ‘let’s show Joan him . . . you know, him what we saw last night – with the dead body—’

  Joan’s eyes grew round with horror.

  ‘It wasn’t a dead body,’ said Douglas impatiently, ‘it was a skeleton.’

  ‘That’s the same as a dead body,’ said Ginger pugnaciously, ‘it was a body, wasn’t it? an’ now it’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s bones,’ protested Douglas.

  ‘Well, a body’s bones, isn’t it?’ said Ginger.

  But here Joan interrupted. ‘Oh, what is it, where is it?’ she said, clasping her hands, ‘it sounds awful.’

  Her horror satisfied them completely. With Joan you could always be so pleasantly sure that your effects would come off.

  ‘Come on,’ said William briskly assuming his air of Master of the Ceremonies, ‘we’ll show him you. We c’n get through the hole in the hedge ’n creep up to the window through the bushes without him seein’ us at all.’

  They got through the hole in the hedge and crept up to the window through the bushes. William, as Master of the Ceremonies, had an uneasy suspicion that in the cold morning light both man and room might look perfectly normal, that the ghostly effect of the night before might have vanished completely. But the suspicions proved to be groundless. The room looked, if possible, even more uncanny than it had done. And Mr Galileo Simpkins still pottered about it happily in his black dressing gown and skull cap (it was a costume in which he rather fancied himself). Mr Galileo Simpkins liked his nice large downstairs lab and felt very happy in it. As he stirred an experiment in a little crucible he sang softly to himself from sheer good spirits. He was quite unaware of the Outlaws watching his every movement with eager interest from the bushes outside the window. It was Ginger who saw and pointed out to the others the shelf at the back of the room on which stood a row of bottles containing wizened frogs in some sort of liquid.

  Aghast, they crept away.

  ‘Well, I’m cert’n that’s what he’s goin’ to do,’ said Douglas as soon as they reached the road, ‘he’s goin’ to blow up all the world. He’s jus’ mixin’ up the stuff to do it with.’

  ‘Well, I still think he might be jus’ an ornery sort of man doin’ ornery chemistry,’ said Henry.

  ‘What about the dead body, then?’ said Ginger.

  ‘An’ what about frogs an’ things shut up in bottles an’ things?’ said William.

  Then Joan spoke.

  ‘He’s a wizard,’ she said, ‘of course he’s a wizard.’

  William treated this suggestion with derision.

  ‘A wizard,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Soppy fairytale stuff! Course he’s not. There aren’t any!’

  But Joan was not crushed.

  ‘There are, William,’ she said solemnly, ‘I know there are.’

  ‘How d’you know there are?’ said William incredulously.

  ‘And what about the dead body?’ said Ginger with the air of one bringing forward an unanswerable objection.

  ‘The skeleton,’ corrected Douglas.

  ‘It’s someone he’s turned into a skeleton, of course,’ said Joan firmly.

  ‘Soppy fairy-tale stuff,’ commented William again with scorn. Joan bore his reproof meekly but clung to her point with feminine pertinacity.

  ‘It’s not, William. It’s true. I know it’s true.’

  There was certainly something convincing about her earnestness though the Outlaws were determined not to be convinced by it.

  ‘No,’ said Douglas very firmly. ‘He’s a blower up, that’s what he is. He’s goin’ to blow up all the world.’

  ‘What about the frogs in bottles?’ said Henry.

  ‘They’re people he’s turned into frogs,’ said Joan.

  The frogs certainly seemed to fit into Joan’s theory better than they fitted into Douglas’s. Joan pursued her advantage. ‘And didn’t you hear him sort of singing as he mixed the things? He was making spells over them.’

  The Outlaws were, outwardly at least, still sceptical.

  ‘Soppy fairy-tale stuff,’ said William once more with masculine superiority. ‘I tell you there aren’t any.’

  But there was a fascination about the sight and they were loth to go far from it.

  ‘Let’s go back an’ see what he’s doin’ now,’ said Ginger, and eagerly they accepted the proposal. The hole in the hedge was conveniently large, the bushes by the window afforded a convenient shelter and all would have gone well had not Mr Galileo Simpkins been engaged on the simple task of washing out some test tubes in a cupboard just outside the Outlaws’ line of vision. This was more than they could endure.

  ‘What’s he doin’?’ said William in a voice of agonised suspense.

  But non
e of them could see what he was doing.

  ‘I’ll go out,’ said Ginger with a heroic air. ‘I bet he won’t see me.’

  So Ginger crept out of the shelter of the bushes and advanced boldly to the window. Too boldly – for Mr Galileo Simpkins, turning suddenly, saw, to his great surprise and indignation, a small boy with an exceedingly impertinent face standing in his garden and staring rudely at him through his window. Mr Galileo Simpkins hated small boys, especially small boys with impertinent faces. With an unexpected agility he leapt to the window and threw it open. Ginger fled in terror to the gate. Mr Galileo Simpkins shook his fist after him.

  ‘All right, you wait, my boy, you wait!’ he called.

  By this time he wanted the boy with the impertinent face to understand that he was going to find out who he was and tell his father. He was going to put a stop to that sort of thing once and for all. He wasn’t going to have boys with impertinent faces wandering about his garden and looking through his windows. He’d frighten them off now – at once. ‘You wait!’ he shouted again with vague but terrible menace in his voice.

  Then he returned to his lab well pleased with himself.

  The Outlaws crept back through the hole in the hedge and met Ginger in the road. They looked at Ginger as one might look at someone who has returned from the jaws of death. Ginger, now that the danger was over, rather enjoyed his position.

  ‘Well,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘did you see him an’ hear him? I bet he’d’ve killed me if he’d caught me.’

  ‘Blown you up,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Turned you into something,’ said Joan.

  ‘Wonder what he meant by saying ‘Wait’ like that?’ said William meditatively.

  ‘He meant that he was goin’ to put a spell on you,’ said Joan composedly.

  Ginger went rather pale.

  ‘Soppy fairy-tale stuff,’ said William.

  ‘All right,’ said Joan, ‘just you wait and see.’

  So they waited and they saw.

  It was, of course, a coincidence that that night Ginger’s mother’s cook had made trifle for supper and that Ginger ate of this not wisely, but too well, and was the next morning confined to bed with what the doctor called ‘slight gastric trouble’.

  The Outlaws called for him the next morning and were curtly informed by the housemaid (who, like Mr Galileo Simpkins, hated all boys on principle) that Ginger was ill in bed and would not be getting up that day.

  They walked away in silence.

  ‘Well,’ said Joan in triumph, ‘what do you think about him being a magician now?’

  This time William did not say ‘Soppy fairy-tale stuff.’

  Ginger returned to them, somewhat pale and wobbly, the next day. Like them he preferred to lay the blame of his enforced retirement on to Mr Galileo Simpkins, rather than upon the trifle.

  ‘Yes, that’s what he said,’ agreed Ginger earnestly. ‘He said, ‘you wait,’ an’ then jus’ about an hour after that I began to feel orful pains. An’ I hadn’t had hardly any of that ole trifle . . . well, not much, anyway; well, not too much . . . well, not as much as I often have of things . . . an’ I had most orful pains an’—’

  ‘He must have made a little image of you in wax, Ginger,’ said Joan with an air of deep wisdom, ‘and stuck pins into it. That’s what they do . . . I expect he thinks you’re dead now. That’s why he said “You wait”!’

  They did not scoff at her any longer.

  ‘Well, I was nearly dead yesterday all right,’ said Ginger. ‘I’ve never had such orful pains. Jus’ like pins running into me.’

  ‘They were pins running into you, Ginger,’ said Joan simply. ‘We’d better keep right away from him now or he’ll be turning us into something.’

  ‘Like to turn him into something,’ said Ginger who was still feeling vindictive towards the supposed author of his gastric trouble.

  But Joan shook her head. ‘No,’ said Joan, ‘we must keep right out of his way. You don’t know what they can do – magicians and people like that.’

  ‘I do,’ groaned Ginger.

  So they went for a walk and held races and played Red Indians and sailed boats on the pond and climbed trees – but there was little zest in any of these pursuits. Their thoughts were with Mr Galileo Simpkins the magician as he stirred his concoctions and uttered his spells and gazed upon his bottled victims and stuck pins into the waxen images of his foes.

  ‘Let’s jus’ go ’n look at him again,’ said William, when they met in the afternoon. ‘We won’t go near enough for him to see us but – but let’s jus’ go ’n see what he’s doin’!’

  ‘You can,’ said Ginger bitterly. ‘He’s not stuck pins into you an’ given you orful pains. Why, I’m still feelin’ ill with it. We had trifle again for lunch an’ I can’t eat more’n three helpin’s of it.’

  ‘No, we’d better not go near him again,’ said Joan shaking her head, her eyes wide.

  But William did not agree with them.

  ‘I only want jus’ to look at him again an’ see what he’s doin’. I’m goin’, anyway.’

  So they all went.

  They had decided to creep down through the field behind the Red House to the road and thence through the hole in the hedge to the sheltering cluster of bushes that commanded the magician’s room, but they had not so far to go before they saw him. It was a fine afternoon and Mr Galileo Simpkins had taken his detective novel and gone into the field just behind his house. And there he was when the Outlaws stopped at the gate of the field, lying on the bank in the shade, reading. He was feeling at peace with all the world. He did not see the five faces that gazed at him over the gate of the field and then disappeared. He went on dozing happily over his novel. He’d had a very happy morning. Though none of his experiments had come out still he’d much enjoyed doing them. He’d thought once of that boy with the impertinent face and felt glad that he’d frightened him away so successfully. He’d seen no signs of him since. That was what you had to do with boys – scare them off, or you got no peace at all . . . Very nice warm sun . . . very exciting novel . . .

  Meanwhile the Outlaws crept past the field and were standing talking excitedly in the road.

  ‘Did you see?’ gasped Ginger, ‘jus’ sittin’ an’ readin’ ornery jus’ as if he hadn’t been stickin’ pins into me all last night.’

  ‘Let’s go home,’ pleaded Joan. ‘You – you don’t know what he’ll do.’

  ‘No,’ said William, ‘now he’s all right readin’ in that field let’s go into his room an’ look at his things.’

  There was a murmur of dissent.

  ‘All right,’ said William, ‘you needn’t. I’m jolly well goin’.’

  So they all went.

  It was certainly thrilling to creep through the window and stand in the terrible room with the knowledge that at any minute the Magician might return, change them into frogs and cork them up in bottles.

  ‘Wonder if I can find the wax thing of me he was sticking pins into last night,’ said Ginger looking round the bench.

  ‘Let’s make a wax thing of him ’n stick pins into it,’ suggested Henry.

  ‘No, let’s turn him into something,’ said Douglas.

  Joan clapped her hands.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘let’s! That would be fun! His spells and things must be all over the place.’

  Ginger took up a pestle and mortar.

  ‘This is what he was stirring today,’ he said, ‘wonder what this changes folks into.’

  ‘Prob’ly depends what sort of a spell you say when you stir it,’ said Joan.

  ‘Well, let’s try it,’ said William.

  ‘What’ll we turn him into?’ said Ginger.

  ‘A donkey,’ suggested William.

  ‘Well, who’ll do it?’

  ‘Let me try,’ said Joan who had a certain prestige as originator of the now generally accepted magician theory.

  Ginger handed her the crucible. ‘I think,’ said Joan importa
ntly, ‘that I ought to have a circle of chalk drawn round me.’

  They couldn’t find any chalk so they made a little circle of test tubes around her and watched her with interest. Joan shut her eyes, stirred up the mixture in the crucible and chanted:

  ‘Turn into a donkey,

  Turn into a donkey,

  Turn into a donkey,

  Mr Magician.’

  Then she opened her eyes.

  ‘It may be all wrong,’ she admitted, ‘I’m only guessing how to do it. But if it’s a very good spell it may be all right.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and have a look at him,’ said William, ‘and if he’s still there we’ll come back and try again.’

  So they went.

  And now comes one of those coincidences without which both life and the art of the novelist would be so barren. Five minutes after the Outlaws had left Mr Galileo Simpkins peacefully reading his novel on a bank in the shade in the field, a boy crossed the field carrying a telegram. He came from the post office and the telegram was for Mr Galileo Simpkins, so, on seeing Mr Galileo Simpkins in the field, the boy took it up to him. Mr Simpkins opened it. It summoned him to the sick bed of a great-aunt from whom he had expectations. There was a train to town in ten minutes. Mr Simpkins had his hat and coat and plenty of money on him. He decided not to risk missing the train by going back to the house. He set off at once for the station, meaning to telegraph to his housekeeper from town (which he quite forgot to do). He left his book on the bank where he had laid it down on taking the telegram from the boy’s hand.

  Five minutes after he had gone Farmer Jenks, to whom the field belonged, brought to it a young donkey which he had just purchased, and departed. The young donkey had been christened ‘Maria’ by Mrs Jenks. Maria kicked her heels happily in the field for a few minutes, then realised that it was rather a hot afternoon. There was only one bit of shade in the field and that was the bank where but lately Mr Galileo Simpkins had reposed and where even now his book lay. Maria went over to this and lay down in it just by the book. In fact her attitude suggested that she was engaged in reading the book.