‘Yes,’ said William eagerly, ‘but he’d prob’ly made the map for his mother or wife an’ they’d know which ones he meant, only of course he was caught an’ took to prison before he could give it to them, an’ threw it into this hedge an’ a bird found it. It was prob’ly a copper beech an’ a cedar jus’ near his house. Well, of course, he’d be sure to bury it near his own home, wun’t he? He’d nacherally do that, bury it near his own home.’
‘Yes,’ said Ginger, who was now almost as excited as William, ‘an’ his home mus’ be near here ’cause of finding the paper here.’
‘Yes,’ shouted William, and his face shone with sudden illumination, ‘there’s a copper beech an’ a cedar tree in Miss Peache’s garden. It’s the only place there’s both. He must’ve buried it in Miss Peache’s garden.’
‘Course he must,’ said Ginger, shrilly. ‘An’ I bet he lived at that little cottage opposite Miss Peache’s. I bet he did. I bet he jus’ slipped across at night an’ buried it in Miss Peache’s garden when he heard the police’d found out about him bein’ a pirate, an’ he’d got the map all ready to give to his mother or his wife or someone, an’ they caught him before he’d had time to give it her, an’ all he could do was to throw it into the hedge on the way to prison hopin’ she’d find it, an’ she didn’t, ’cause a bird got hold of it to make its nest an’ ’—he paused for a second to take breath and ended—‘anhereitis,’ all in one word.
‘I say . . . I votes we sleep in tents all night in the garden with the wild animals an’ have camp fires,’ said Henry, his thoughts returning to their future millionaire ménage.
‘Let’s have a room full of monkeys,’ said Douglas.
But William’s thoughts were intent on the present.
‘We’ve got to dig for it first,’ he said slowly, ‘we’ve got to find the ’xact spot an’ dig for it. I bet it’s not as easy as it looks. They never are. He must’ve put some catch in it, so’s if anyone who wasn’t his mother or wife found it they wun’t be able to get hold of the treasure.’
‘What does P.M. 7-10 mean?’ said Ginger.
‘I guess that’s the catch,’ said William gloomily. ‘I guess that’s the part that makes it hard.’
‘There were witches in those days, you know,’ said Henry mysteriously, ‘an’ I bet they used to get witches to put spells on maps of hidden treasure. I bet they did. Well, if they didn’t, everyone’d start diggin’ an’ findin’ hidden treasure. I bet they paid witches to put a spell on ’em, so’s only the people they meant to find ’em could find ’em. They’d give ’em sixpence for a spell for a little treasure, an’ a shilling for a spell for a big one.’
The Outlaws saw no reason to disbelieve this theory. They treated the idea of fairies with incredulous scorn, but they had a wholesome respect for witches.
‘Yes,’ agreed William excitedly, ‘I bet that was it. P.M. 7.10. That’s the spell. It means ten minutes past seven in the evening . . . Well, don’t you see? That’s the spell. It means you’ll only find it if you dig for it at ten past seven in the evening. That’s it!’
‘We’ll do it to-night,’ said Ginger hoarsely. ‘We’ll go there at ten past seven an’ start diggin’ to-night.’
William’s eyes were fixed dreamily on the distance.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we’ll buy all the monkeys out of the Zoo an’ teach ’em tricks.’
They met outside the gate of Miss Peache’s house a little before ten past seven, armed with various tools. William had a garden spade, Ginger a coal shovel, Douglas a fork, and Henry the wooden spade that had been bought for his little sister at the seaside last summer. On the map the cross was placed exactly between the copper beech and the cedar, and fortunately there was a rose bed in the precise spot, which would considerably facilitate digging operations. They advanced cautiously across the lawn, and there they met their first reverse. For Miss Peache, prim and middle-aged and angular, was sitting writing at a desk at a window that overlooked the lawn. Seeing four boys trespassing in her garden, she adjusted her pince-nez and sternly motioned them away. In face of that imperious gesture they could not very well proceed with the search for hidden treasure. They returned rather disconsolately to the road.
‘Well,’ said Ginger, ‘what’re we goin’ to do now?’
‘We’ll jus’ have to wait an’ try another time,’ said William philosophically. ‘It doesn’t matter which day we do it so long as it’s ten minutes past seven. We’ll try tomorrow, an’ if she’s there to-morrow we’ll try the day after, an, if she’s there the day after we’ll try the day after that. We’ll jus’ go on tryin’ every day till we find a day when she’s not there.’
There followed a week of daily disappointment.
Every evening at ten minutes past seven the Outlaws met outside Miss Peache’s house and cautiously reconnoitred. Every day at ten minutes past seven Miss Peache was seated at her writing-table in the window, gazing abstractedly down her garden as if for inspiration.
‘We can’t go on for ever an’ ever till she dies, goin’ every night watching her looking through the window,’ said Ginger eloquently. ‘She might live for years and years. She doesn’t look as if she’d ever die. Why, we may die before she does an’ then what’ll happen to the treasure?’
‘Yes,’ agreed William thoughtfully. ‘We’ve gotter do somethin’ now.’
‘What can we do?’ said Douglas dispiritedly.
‘We’ve gotter get her away somehow. Get her away by ten minutes past seven one day, so’s we can go an’ find the treasure. We’ve gotter find out the sort of things she’s int’rested in first. That’s always the thing to do first—to find out what people are int’rested in.’
‘How can we?’ said Douglas.
‘Oh, I bet we can,’ said William. ‘We’ve only got to listen to grown up people talkin’. They always talk about each other. I guess there isn’t a single grown-up you couldn’t find out all about by jus’ listening to other grown-ups talkin’.’
‘All right,’ said Douglas without much hope, ‘but if I know anything about grown-ups they never talk about anything you ever want to know anything about while you’re there.’
But Douglas was wrong, for it was in Douglas’s mother’s own drawing-room that he heard Miss Peache discussed that very afternoon.
‘What does she write?’ said Douglas’s mother.
‘Miss Peache?’ said someone. ‘She writes about dreams.’
‘She’s wonderful,’ said another visitor, a woman with a fringe and a very bright smile, ‘simply wonderful. She’s an expert on dreams. She interprets them. She knows all about what a man called Froude said about dreams.’
‘I thought he was a historian.’
‘Oh, no, my dear. Not a bit. He may have written histories, too, but really he’s a sort of dream specialist. Tells you that they mean you had a fright as a child and that sort of thing. Most interesting. At present Miss Peache is making a special study of people who have real dreams—you know what I mean. People who dream about places and people that really exist but that they’ve never seen. She says that quite a lot of people do. It’s wonderful to think of, isn’t it? She’s really marvellous, you know. She edits a magazine called “Dreams.” She’s a simply marvellous worker. She works every day from five to half-past seven without stopping and nothing, nothing is allowed to come in the way of it. She says that she sits at her desk in the window and looks at her garden for inspiration. She says that if the last trump should come between five and half-past seven it will find her there at her desk. I think it’s so wonderful, don’t you?’ She turned and looked about her and ended brightly: ‘And how is my dear little Douglas to-day?’
But her dear little Douglas had slipped away to impart the news to the Outlaws.
‘It’s dreams she’s int’rested in,’ he was saying, ‘an’ she’s most interested of all in people that have real dreams.’
‘All right,’ said William in his most business-like manner, ‘then we’
d better start havin’ real dreams.’
Miss Peache was a woman of method and habit. Every afternoon from two-thirty to three-thirty she went for her ‘constitutional’. Every evening from five to seven thirty she worked in her study that overlooked the front garden. She always emerged from her gates at two-thirty to the minute, and walked through the village and up the hill, then down the hill again and through the village, reentering her gates at precisely half-past three. This afternoon she emerged from her gate as usual at two-thirty. Four boys were standing near the gate as she emerged. She could not help noticing that one of them gave a violent start of surprise on seeing her, and pointed her out to the others. Miss Peache proceeded on her way for a few yards, then looked back. The four boys were still staring after her as if transfixed with amazement. Miss Peache went a few steps farther on her way, then faltered. She was a woman of great independence and strength of mind, but those expressions of blank amazement demoralised her. Suppose she had an ink mark on her forehead, suppose her hair was coming down, suppose—she knew suddenly that she simply couldn’t go on till those expressions of blank astonishment had been explained to her. She summoned an air of dignity and severity, and returned to the boys.
‘What is the matter, little boys?’ she said sharply, ‘why are you looking at me like that? Is—is there anything strange about me?’
‘Oh, no,’ said one of them hastily. He had an earnest, freckled face, and looked transparently ingenuous. ‘Oh, no. It’s only that—that I dreamed about you last night, an’ I was so surprised to see you comin’ out of the gate ’cause I din’ know you were a real person. I thought you were only in a dream. I’d jus’ been tellin’ Ginger about you in my dream, you see, an’ then you came walkin’ out of the gate an’ I was so s’prised that I simply couldn’t help looking at you like that. You see, I’d just been telling Ginger about my dream about you, and I was so surprised to find you were a real person when I thought you were only a dream that I couldn’t help lookin’ surprised. I’m sorry,’ ended the ingenuous child smugly, ‘if I was rude.’
‘Not at all,’ said the lady, ‘not at all. This is most interesting, most interesting. Am I—er—exactly like the lady in your dream, my boy?’
‘’Xactly,’ said her boy earnestly, ‘but in my dream you hadn’t got a coat on. You’d got a dress.’
‘What sort of dress?’ said the lady.
‘A sort of—black dress with blue on it,’ said the boy.
‘B—but how amazing!’ shrilled the lady, ‘how amazing! I’ve got a dress like that. I was wearing it last night. How—how—how very amazing. Do tell me quickly—where was I in your dream? What was I doing? Wait a minute.’
Frenziedly the lady tore open a little handbag she carried, and took out a note-book.
‘Now, my dear boy, please begin again at the very beginning.’ The lady’s pencil flew erratically over the paper. ‘You dreamed of me—just as I am now. But in my black dress. Black with blue on it?’
‘Yes,’ said the boy expressionlessly, ‘an’ you had a long chain round your neck with a bit of glass on the end.’
‘Crystal, dear, not glass,’ said the lady. ‘I had a crystal drop on the end of a chain. It’s most amazing. Most circumstantial in every detail. Now, where was I, and what was I doing?’
‘You were in a sort of room,’ said William slowly; ‘there was a sort of writing-table in the window and book-cases all round the room an’ there was a sort of statue on one of the book-cases and there was a sort of fur rug on the floor in front of the fire and there was a sort of big blue pot umbrella-stand in a corner of the room—’
‘A Nankin vase, dear,’ said the lady in rather a pained voice, as she continued to scribble hard in her little notebook, ‘a Nankin vase. But it’s all most amazing. One of the most wonderful pieces of material that’s ever come my way. Now what was I doing in your dream, my dear?’
‘You were writing at the table,’ said William, ‘an’ then someone brought you in a cup of something on a tray—’
‘Coffee, my dear,’ put in the lady, still writing busily, ‘and what happened then?’
‘You drunk it up—’
‘Drank,’ murmured the lady.
‘And then you got up an’ went to the book-shelves an’ took a book out an’ read it for a bit. An’ then you sat down for a bit by the fire lookin’ at it an’ then you walked about the room again for a bit—’
‘Seeking inspiration,’ murmured the lady.
‘YOU WERE IN A SORT OF ROOM,’ SAID WILLIAM SLOWLY.
‘Yes,’ said William vaguely, ‘seekin’—what you said. An’ then you sat down and moved a vase of flowers further away from you—’
‘I remember. It was unsymmetrical,’ murmured the lady. ‘I simply can’t work where anything about me is unsymmetrical.’
‘Yes,’ agreed William, ‘they do make an awful smell when they get like that. But they looked quite fresh to me. In the dream, I mean,’ he added hastily.
‘You misunderstand me, dear boy,’ said the lady, ‘but never mind. Continue. What did I do next?’
‘You took up your pen an’ put it in a sort of big silver inkpot—’
‘That was presented to me, dear boy,’ said the lady, still writing busily, ‘by the members of a little society I was once president of. It was a little society for the interpretation of dreams. We brought our dreams to be interpreted. It was finally dissolved by ourselves because we could never agree on the interpretation of our dreams. We had, however, some very interesting and—er—animated discussions, and on the dissolution of the society the members kindly presented me with a silver inkstand. It was purchased with the money they had been collecting for the hire of a public hall for a public meeting at which we were to interpret the dreams of the public, but it was felt, perhaps rightly, that if we could not agree on the interpretation of our own dreams we should probably disagree on the interpretation of the dreams of the public. Therefore we dissolved the society. It has always been a great treasure to me. I could not work at all without it. If it were not in its place there on my writing-table I should not, I am quite sure, be able to carry on my wonderful work at all. But we are wandering from your wonderful, wonderful dreams, dear boy. You’d just got to where you dreamed I dipped my pen into my precious inkstand. What did I do next?’
But it was at this point that the Outlaws had left their point of vantage in the bushes near Miss Peache’s window to go home to bed.
‘I woke up then,’ said William simply.
‘Dear, dear,’ said Miss Peache regretfully. ‘That was a pity. Never mind. I suppose it can’t be helped now . . .’ She closed the little note-book, and put it back into her bag. ‘Now I want you to come to me to-morrow and tell me just what you dream tonight. This is all most valuable material for me. Most valuable. It will form the basis of my next article. I think that I must forfeit my constitutional to-day to go home to write it up at once. Meet me, dear boy, at the same place and time tomorrow, and tell me exactly what you dream to-night.’
Her eyes still a-gleam with eagerness, she hurried back into the house.
The next day the Outlaws met Miss Peache, as arranged, just outside her house at two-thirty. It appeared that William had again dreamed about Miss Peache, but Miss Peache had this time been wearing a green velvet dress. Miss Peache’s excitement at this bordered on the delirious. She had been wearing a green velvet dress the evening before. It was too wonderful. She tore out the little note-book again, quivering with eagerness, and took down verbatim William’s account of his dream.
‘An’ then you took up the paper an’ began to read it . . .’
‘But I did do that yesterday just before I settled down to work. It’s too wonderful. It really is too wonderful . . what did I do next, dear?’
‘You took out a magazine and read that.’
‘It wasn’t a fiction magazine, of course, dear. It was a copy of the magazine I edit—“Dreams”. I was re-reading an old article in the light
of the wonderful experience you had described to me yesterday . . . What did I do next, dear? In your dream, of course, I mean. It tallies simply wonderfully so far with what actually happened.’
‘Next,’ said William, who had at the outset of the interview assumed his most bland and earnest expression and was ably maintaining it, ‘next you rang the telephone.’
‘And I did, my dear,’ screamed Miss Peache. ‘I actually did. Oh, it’s all too wonderful. Too wonderful. I was ringing up a dear friend of mine who is almost as deeply interested in dreams as I am to tell her about your wonderful experience, and then I—what did I do next in your dream, dear child?’
‘You sat down at your table an’ put your pen into your inkstand—’
‘My beloved inkstand!’ murmured Miss Peache fondly.
‘Yes, your b’loved inkstand, then you put your hand to your head an’ thought a bit—’
‘I did,’ squeaked Miss Peache, scribbling away for dear life. ‘There must be some meaning in all this if only one could find it . . . It will probably come to us sooner or later if we just watch and wait. There’s never any hurry about supernatural manifestations, you know, dear, and I always class dreams under that heading, don’t you?’
William murmured quite earnestly that he did, and Miss Peache continued: ‘And what did I do next, dear?’
But it had been exactly at that point that the Outlaws had realised that it was bedtime, and had crept out of the bushes whose shelter afforded them so convenient a view of Miss Peache and her room, and yet completely concealed them from her view.
‘I woke up then,’ said William.
‘I see,’ said Miss Peache. Then she said: ‘Well, never mind. It’s all been most wonderful. Of course we can’t quite see where it’s leading at present, but no doubt all that will be cleared up eventually. Your dreams, dear child, have so far depicted events that have actually happened in actual surroundings. You’ve never dreamed of events that have not yet come to pass, but that do actually come to pass, have you, dear child?’
William's Happy Days Page 11
