And so when five minutes later the Outlaws cautiously and fearfully peeped over the hedge, they saw what was apparently Mr Galileo Simpkins metamorphosed by their spell into a donkey lying where they had last seen him still reading his book. No words in the English language could quite describe the Outlaws’ feelings. Not one of them had really expected Joan’s spell to take effect. And here was the incredible spectacle before them – Mr Galileo Simpkins turned into a donkey before their very eyes by one of his own spells. They all went rather pale. William blinked. Ginger’s jaw dropped open. Henry’s eyes seemed on the point of falling out of his head. Douglas swallowed and held on to the gate for support and Joan gave a little scream. At the sound of the scream Maria turned her head and gave them a reproachful glance.
‘Well!’ said Joan.
‘Crumbs!’ said William.
‘Gosh!’ said Douglas.
‘Crikey!’ said Henry.
And ‘Now we’ve done it!’ said Ginger.
Maria turned away her head and surveyed the distant landscape, drowsily. ‘I wonder if he knows,’ said William awefully, ‘or if he thinks he’s still a man.’
‘He must know,’ said Ginger. ‘He’s got eyes. He c’n see his legs ’n tail an’ things.’
‘WELL!’ SAID JOAN. ‘NOW WE’VE DONE IT!’ SAID GINGER.
‘An’ he was reading his book when we first came along,’ said Douglas.
‘P’raps,’ suggested Henry, ‘he’s forgotten all about bein’ a man an’ only feels like a donkey now.’
‘Well, he won’t try stickin’ pins into me again, anyway,’ said Ginger.
HERE WAS THE INCREDIBLE BEFORE THEM – MR SIMPKINS TURNED INTO A DONKEY BY ONE OF HIS OWN SPELLS!
But a new aspect of the affair had come to William.
‘This is Farmer Jenks’ field,’ he said, ‘he’ll be mad findin’ a donkey in it. He won’t know it’s reely Mr Simpkins.’
‘Well, it won’t matter,’ said Ginger.
‘Yes, I bet it will,’ said William. ‘P’raps it can talk still – the donkey, I mean – p’raps it’ll tell people about us an’ get us into trouble. I specks there’s a law against turnin’ people into things like what there is against murder – an’ he’s got a nasty look in his eyes. Look at him now. I bet he c’n still talk an’ he’ll go tellin’ people an’ we’ll be put in prison or hanged or somethin’.’
‘It’s your fault,’ said Ginger, ‘why did you say a big thing like a donkey? If you’d said a little thing like a frog or somethin’ we could’ve put him in a bottle, same as he did other folks, but what can you do with a big thing like a donkey?
‘Well, I never thought he’d really turn into one,’ said William with spirit.
‘Well, he has done,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ we’ve gotter do something about it ’fore anyone comes along and he starts tellin’ them about us.’
At this point Maria uttered a loud, ‘Hee-haw!’
‘There, you see,’ said Henry relieved, ‘he can only talk donkey talk.’
‘I don’ believe it,’ said William doggedly. ‘He’s jus’ pretendin’. He was readin’ his book when we came along an’ I bet he can talk. He only wants to wait till someone comes along an’ then get us into trouble . . . Look at him now eatin’ grass . . . Well,’ virtuously, ‘he’s got no right eatin’ that grass. It’s Farmer Jenks’ grass . . . an’ what’re we goin’ to do when they find out that the man’s disappeared an’ there’s only a donkey left an’ – they’ll blame us . . . they always blame us for everything.’
‘Let’s turn him back now,’ said Joan, ‘we’ve prob’ly taught him a lesson. Now he knows what it feels like to be turned into something perhaps he’ll stop turning other people into things.’
‘And running pins into ’em,’ said Ginger feelingly.
‘Well, we’d better get him to his house, anyway,’ said William, ‘then he can turn himself back with his own things.’
Maria had arisen from the bank and was now munching grass a few yards away. Somewhat cautiously they approached her. William addressed her sternly.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we know that you’re a magician an’ that you turned people into frogs an’ bones an’ run pins into people so we turned you into a donkey, but we’re goin’ to let you turn yourself back if you promise never to be a magician any more. Will you promise never to be a magician any more?’
Maria opened her mouth to its fullest extent and emitted a ‘hee-haw’ that took William’s breath away.
The Outlaws withdrew and held a hasty conclave.
‘I think he meant to promise, William,’ said Joan.
‘Well, I don’t,’ said William, ‘I don’t. I think he meant he wun’t promise.’
‘Well, let’s get him home, anyway,’ said Douglas. ‘Someone’ll only be comin’ along and findin’ out all about it if we leave him here.’
Again William approached Maria and fixed her with a stern eye.
‘You can come home an’ turn yourself back now,’ he said magnanimously, ‘if you want to.’
For answer Maria turned her back on them, kicked her heels into the air, then leapt skittishly away.
It would take too long to describe in detail the struggle by which the Outlaws finally brought the recalcitrant Maria from the field into Mr Simpkins’ garden and from Mr Simpkins’ garden through the French window into Mr Simpkins’ laboratory. Henry retired early from the contest after a kick on the shin.
‘Now you know what he’s like,’ said Ginger bitterly, still obsessed by memories of his gastric trouble.
It was William who had the bright idea of running home for a bunch of carrots and by means of this they led the frisky Maria into the garden of Mr Simpkins’ home. There Maria for a time ran amok. She broke a pane of glass in the greenhouse, she pranced about the well rolled lawn, leaving innumerable hoof holes to mark her progress. She trampled down a bed of heliotrope. She completely demolished a bed of roses. She bit William. She was finally brought through the French window into the lab at the cost of all the glass in the French window. The housekeeper, as it happened, was lying down and was a very sound sleeper. A small child belonging to the jobbing gardener, pressing its nose through the front gate, was the amazed spectator of these proceedings.
Inside the lab Maria grew more frisky still. She broke and ground into the carpet the test tubes that had formed Joan’s magic circle. She wrecked the bench and everything upon it. She kicked over an entire shelf of bottles.
‘He’s mad,’ said William, ‘he’s mad at bein’ a donkey an’ he doesn’t know how to turn himself back.’
‘Say somethin’ to him,’ urged Ginger.
William said something to him.
‘If you can’t turn yourself back,’ said William, ‘you’ll have to stay like you are. We can’t do anything more for you.’
In answer to this Maria kicked over a small cupboard and then put her head through a large glass beaker.
‘HE’S MAD AT BEIN’ A DONKEY,’ SAID WILLIAM, ‘AN’ HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO TURN HIMSELF BACK.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Ginger, ‘let’s go home. We’ve brought him back to his own home. We can’t do anything more. And, anyway, it serves him right, him and his dead bodies an’ sticking pins into people.’
The Outlaws were just going to take his advice and return home as unostentatiously as possible, when they discovered that their line of retreat was cut off. A small band of women headed by the Vicar’s wife was coming up the drive towards the front door. Like five streaks of lightning the Outlaws disappeared behind a screen which Maria amid the general chaos had considerately left standing.
The small band of women headed by the Vicar’s wife were the members of a local Anti-vivisection Society which had been formed in the village by the Vicar’s wife a year ago. Up to now there had been little scope in the village for their activities, though they had all much enjoyed the monthly meetings at which they had had tea and cakes and discussed the various village scandals. Bu
t now, as the Vicar’s wife said, was the Time to Act. They had heard of Mr Galileo Simpkins’ skeleton and bottled frogs and they thought that the local Anti-vivisection Society should approach him and demand from him a guarantee that he would not in his researches touch the hair of the head of any living animal. Also they wanted an opportunity of inspecting the mysterious lab of which they had heard so much. Things in the village had been rather dull lately and like the Outlaws they welcomed any fresh diversion. . . .
They were approaching the front door, meaning to ring and ask to see Mr Simpkins in the normal fashion of callers. But to reach the front door they had to pass the window of the lab and it proved far too thrilling to be passed. The Outlaws, neatly hidden behind the screen, were invisible. Maria stood in the middle of the room, her head drooping in an utterly deceptive attitude of patient meekness. All around was wreckage. The visitors stood and gazed at the scene open-mouthed. Tacitly they abandoned their intention of knocking at the front door and being admitted as callers. Led by the Vicar’s wife, they entered by the French windows.
‘A donkey!’ said Mrs Hopkins, Treasurer of the Anti-vivisection Society (that is to say, she collected their sixpences and bought the cakes for tea). ‘I thought they used monkeys or rabbits.’
‘They use different animals for different experiments,’ said the Vicar’s wife with an air of deep knowledge. ‘I expect that a donkey is the most suitable animal for some experiments.’
‘How terrible!’ said Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald, covering her face with her hands. ‘How truly terrible . . . Poor, patient, suffering, dumb beast.’
Maria laid back her ears and rolled her wicked eyes at them.
Mrs Hopkins and the Vicar’s wife began to wander about the room.
They stopped simultaneously before the row of bottled frogs.
‘Poor creatures!’ said Mrs Hopkins unsteadily. ‘Poor, patient, suffering creatures – once so beautiful and lovable and free.’
(It was only the week before that Mrs Hopkins had screamed for help on meeting a frog in her larder.)
Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald had by this time discovered the skeleton. She adjusted her glasses and looked slowly and closely up and down it several times. Then she pronounced in a sepulchral whisper: ‘Human remains!’
The Outlaws held their breath in their retreat, but a resonant ‘Hee-haw!’ from Maria drew the members of the local Anti-vivisection Society from any further exploring.
‘The patient creature,’ said the Vicar’s wife brokenly, ‘seems to be asking for our help.’
Maria assumed again her attitude of deceptive meekness.
‘We certainly must do something,’ said Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald, ‘we can’t leave our dear dumb friend to torture. Look at the signs of struggle all around us. Look at its air of suffering. The foul work has evidently already begun. Let’s – let’s take it away with us.’
‘On the other hand,’ said the Vicar’s wife slowly, ‘there are the laws of private property to be considered. Mr Simpkins doubtless purchased this creature and the law will hold it to belong to him.’
‘We can buy it from him then,’ said Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald brightly. ‘That would be a noble work indeed. How much money have we in hand, Mrs Hopkins?’
‘Only threepence-halfpenny,’ said Mrs Hopkins gloomily, ‘we’ve been having iced cakes lately, you know. They’re more expensive.’
‘They cost more than that,’ said the Vicar’s wife, ‘donkeys, I mean. But,’ with a flash of inspiration, ‘we can get up a bazaar for it or a concert for it.’
Their spirits rose at the prospect.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hopkins. ‘Why, it’s nearly a month since we had a bazaar. And such a good cause. Rescuing the poor dumb suffering creature from the hands of the torturer – How sad it looks and yet grateful as though it understood all that we were going to do for it.’
Maria rolled her eyes again and drooped her head still further.
‘I’m going to take it straight home,’ said the Vicar’s wife, ‘and give it a good meal and nurse it back to health and strength. I’ll go to the police station and tell them that I have taken it and why. I’ll just fix up something to lead it home by.’
She took down a picture and divested it of its picture cord, which she then tied round the neck of the still meekly unprotesting Maria. The others gazed at her in silent admiration. There was really no one like the Vicar’s wife in a crisis.
Then, with the air of a general who has now marshalled her forces, she led out Maria, followed by her faithful band. The Outlaws, weakly wondering what was going to happen, crept out of their hiding place and followed at a distance.
‘They don’t know it’s him,’ said Joan in a thrilled whisper.
Maria behaved quite well till they got to the hill. Then her familiar devil returned to her. She did not kick or bite. She ran. She ran at top speed up the steep hill, dragging the panting, gasping Vicar’s wife after her at the end of the cord. Maria’s neck seemed to be made of iron. The weight of the Vicar’s wife did not seem to trouble it at all. The picture cord, too, must have been pretty strong. The Vicar’s wife did not let go. With dogged British determination she clung to her end of the cord. She lost her footing, her hat came off, she gasped and panted and gurgled and choked and sputtered. She dropped her bag. But she did not let go her end of the picture cord. Behind her – far behind her – ran her little crowd of followers, clucking in dismayed horror. Mrs Hopkins picked up the Vicar’s wife’s hat and Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald her bag.
At the top of the hill Maria stopped abruptly and reassumed her air of weary patience. The Vicar’s wife sat down in the dust by her side, gasping but still undaunted, holding on to the end of the cord. The others arrived and the Vicar’s wife, still sitting in the road, put on her hat and wiped the dust out of her eyes.
‘What happened?’ panted Mrs Hopkins. ‘Did it – bolt or something?’
But the Vicar’s wife was past speech.
‘Poor creature!’ said Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald in an effort to restore the atmosphere, ‘poor dumb creature.’
She put out her hand to stroke Maria and Maria very neatly bit her elbow.
The Vicar’s wife arose from the dust and wearily but determinedly led Maria through the gate on to the Vicarage lawn. The Outlaws came cautiously up the hill and watched proceedings through the Vicarage gate.
The members of the local Anti-vivisection Society stood round Maria and gazed at her. A close observer might have noticed that their glances held less affection and pity than they had held a short time before.
‘It doesn’t seem at all – er – cowed,’ said Mrs Hopkins at last. ‘It seems quite – er as – fresh. . . . And it hasn’t any wounds or anything.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald, ‘they just use them for diseases. They just inject disease germs into them.’
‘Do you mean,’ said Mrs Hopkins, turning pale, ‘that it may be infected with a deadly disease?’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald.
They looked at the Vicar’s wife for advice and help. And again the Vicar’s wife showed her capacities for dealing with a crisis. Though still dusty and shaken from her inglorious career up the hill at Maria’s heels she took command of affairs once more.
‘One minute,’ she said, and disappeared into the house.
The members of the Anti-vivisection Society stood timorously in the porch, eyes fixed apprehensively upon Maria who stood motionless in the middle of the lawn looking as if butter would not melt in her mouth.
And the Outlaws still watched proceedings with interest through the Vicarage gate.
Then the Vicar’s wife came out staggering beneath the weight of a large pail.
‘Disinfectant,’ she explained shortly to her audience.
She approached Maria who was still standing in maiden meditation fancy free on the lawn, and with a sudden swift movement threw over her the entire pail of carbolic solution, soaking her from head to foot. Then
Maria went mad. She leapt, she kicked, she reared. Dripping with carbolic she dashed round the lawn. She trampled over the flower beds. She broke two dozen flower pots and destroyed their contents. She kicked the greenhouse door in. She put her back hoof through the Vicar’s study window. She tried to climb an apple tree. She wrecked the summer-house. . . .
The members of the local Anti-vivisection Society withdrew into the Vicarage and bolted all the doors. Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald, after explaining that she wasn’t used to this sort of thing, went into hysterics that rivalled Maria’s outburst in intensity.
And still the Outlaws watched spellbound through the gate.
It was the Outlaws who first saw Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper coming up the hill. She entered the Vicarage gate without looking at them. To her they were merely four inoffensive small boys and one inoffensive small girl looking through a gate. She little knew that they held the key to a situation that was becoming more complicated every minute. Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper looked upset. She rang at the Vicarage front door and demanded to see the Vicar. The Vicar was out, but the Vicar’s wife, looking very pale and keeping well within the doorway and casting apprehensive glances round the garden, where Maria, temporarily breathless and exhausted, was standing motionless – the picture of mute patience – on the lawn, interviewed her. From within the house came the unmelodious strains of Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald’s hysterics. Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper said that Mr Simpkins had vanished. He was nowhere to be found. The book he had been reading had been discovered in the field near the garden and his lab was in such a state as to suggest a violent struggle, and Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper suspected foul play of which Mr Simpkins was the victim.
The Vicar’s wife, who was a woman of one idea, only pointed sternly to Maria and said:
William The Outlaw Page 4
