‘Well, what is yours?’ challenged Ginger. ‘You tell us what yours is an’ then p’raps we’ll b’lieve it’s better.’
William put on his most irritatingly superior manner.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘if you don’t want my plan, you go on an’ do your own. Go on an’ kidnap him. I bet you’ll be sorry when you find out what my plan is.’
Even William was surprised (and, if the truth must be told, rather gratified than otherwise) at his skill in double-dealing. The assurance of his manner carried the day.
‘A’right,’ said Ginger meekly. ‘A’right. Only I don’t see why we can’t know about it now. We might be doin’ somethin’ to help.’
‘You can,’ said William. ‘You can do somethin’ to help. You can pretend to be nice to him. We’ve got to lure’ (he meant lull) ‘his suspicions if my plan’s goin’ to come off all right.’
All that evening as he moved about his home—doing his homework, sliding down the balusters, inadequately washing his hands, attending the family meals—William was conversing with the little girl. He was telling her of his heroic exploits . . . of how he had wrestled with a lion and killed it with his naked hands, how he had held at bay a hundred hostile Red Indians, armed with poisoned arrows, and how he had made his way alone and unarmed through the enemies’ lines, bearded the hostile commander-in-chief in his tent, and forced him at the point of the sword to hand over all his maps and plans of battle. (William was vague as to the historical background of these exploits, but he had performed the exploits so often in imagination that the exploits themselves were more vivid than many things that had actually happened to him.)
In his mental recital of them to the little girl, he uttered his short scornful laugh so often that his father, who wasn’t in a very good temper, said, ‘What on earth’s the matter with you? If you want to clear your throat, clear it. Don’t go choking about the place like that.’
William gave him what he fondly imagined to be a crushing glance, and went out into the garden, where he told the little girl in imagination of how he had unmasked and handcuffed an international crook, whose appearance, as described by William, bore a striking resemblance to that of his father.
The next morning passed uneventfully. The white-clad child arrived in his limousine, superior and immaculate as ever. Despite the curls and white sailor suit, there was something about him that made his class-mates give him a wide berth. They hadn’t forgotten the little incident of the ink pool. All except the Outlaws. The Outlaws didn’t give him a wide berth. They fussed about him in revolting friendliness, occasionally getting behind him to wink at William and double up in mirth, evidently deriving intense amusement from the thought of William’s secret plan in which they were assisting.
William was at the corner of the road again when the little girl returned from school, and approached her with an appearance of truculence that would have effectively concealed his feelings from any observer, but that did not seem to alarm the little girl. She greeted him eagerly.
‘Oh, William,’ she said, ‘how nice of you.’
‘I jus’ happened to be here,’ said William with an elaborate unconcern that defeated its own ends. ‘I’d forgot that this was the time you came from school.’
‘Oh, William, I’ve been longing to see you again. Thank you so much. Reggie said that all the boys were so nice to him at school, and I’m sure it was because of you.’
‘THANK YOU SO MUCH,’ SAID THE LITTLE GIRL. ‘REGGIE SAID ALL THE BOYS WERE SO NICE TO HIM.’
William laughed his short, sinister laugh.
‘Oh yes, it was because of me all right. I jus’ told ’em they’d got to. There’s not many people that’d dare do a thing I tell ’em not to. People that know me do as I tell ’em. They jolly well remember one or two things an’—’ he hesitated a moment, wondering whether to introduce at this point the story of his wrestling with a lion and killing it with his naked hands, or the story of how he had held at bay a hundred hostile Red Indians, armed with poisoned arrows, or how he had made his way alone and unarmed through the enemy’s lines. He’d worked them all up to such a fine pitch of perfection that he didn’t want any of them to be wasted. She broke in, however, before he could introduce any of them.
‘And he said that the masters were nice to him, too, but, of course, that’s because he’s so clever.’
Again William laughed his short sinister laugh. It was so short and so sinister now that it startled a horse looking over the fence and it fled neighing to the other side of the field.
‘Oh, no,’ said William. ‘I bet it wasn’t that. No, it wasn’t that all right.’
His voice expressed amusement as at some dark secret.
‘Oh, William, what was it then? It wasn’t you, was it? You couldn’t make the masters nice to him, surely?’
This seemed to amuse William intensely.
‘Oh, couldn’t I?’ he said. ‘You don’t know the things I c’n do . . .’ And he managed to get in his story of how he had made his way alone and unarmed through the enemy’s lines, bearded the hostile commander-in-chief in his tent, and forced him at the point of the sword to hand over all his maps and plans of battle.
The little girl was impressed, but less impressed than by his alleged despotism over the staff of the school he attended.
‘But William, the masters? How do you make the masters do what you tell them to? You can’t take a sword to school.’
The mental picture thus evoked of his rising in his desk, and with drawn sword insisting on old Sparkie marking all his sums right was a pleasant one, but had to be abandoned as too difficult to substantiate.
He smiled a superior smile.
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘I don’t make ’em do what I want with a sword. Not a sword exactly. But I’ll tell you what I did once, I was out walkin’ in the jungle one day an’ I suddenly heard an awful whizzin’ noise, an’ it was a lion leapin’ down at me through the air from a tree where it’d crept to hide till I came along an’ I jus’ caught . . .’
But the little girl wasn’t interested in the story of the lion. She believed it implicitly, but what she was interested in—passionately, morbidly interested in—was William’s terrorising of the muscular young men who formed the staff of the local Grammar School.
‘But, William, the masters! How do you make them do what you want them to?’
William was rather irritated at being dragged back from the free unhampered atmosphere of the jungle to the cramped atmosphere of the school room, with young men in grey flannel suits as antagonists instead of lions.
‘Oh, I jus’ do,’ he said vaguely, and then with a sudden inspired modesty, ‘I don’ talk about it. It might make other people jealous, so I don’ tell people about it.’
‘Oh, but, William. William, do tell me. William, I won’t tell anyone how you do it. William, I promise you I won’t. Oh, William, I thought I was your friend.’ There was a hint of tears in her voice. William melted to it.
‘I jus’ look at ’em,’ he said darkly.
‘Oh, but, William, you couldn’t make them do things by just looking.’
‘Oh, cudn’t I?’
William uttered his short laugh again. So short it had grown by now that the little girl threw him a glance of sympathy and said:
‘Have you got hiccoughs, William? Isn’t it a horrid feeling? Hold your breath an’ count twenty.’
‘No,’ said William coldly, ‘I’ve not got hiccoughs, thanks.’
‘Well, do tell me what you do.’
‘I’ve told you. I look at ’em.’
‘But, William, looking at them couldn’t make them do things.’
‘My lookin’ at ’em does,’ said William with such emphasis that he convinced both himself and the little girl.
‘Oh, William, show me. Show me how you look at them.’
‘I cudn’t. I cudn’t do it to you. It’d scare you so’s you’d have nightmares every night all the rest of your life.’
>
‘Oh, William, do they have nightmares every night—the masters?’
William made as if to utter his short laugh again, then thought better of it and smiled sardonically.
‘I bet one or two of them do,’ he said.
‘Oh, William, do show it me. Do do it.’
He shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I wun’t do it to you. Ever. It’s a norful look.’
‘What sort of a look?’ It was evident that the little girl took a fearful pleasure in his strange power. ‘A fierce sort of look?’
‘Yes, it’s so fierce that people that’ve once seen it never forget it, an’ what’s more, they feel scared of me all the rest of their lives.’
He spoke with conviction. He was coming to believe in his Look.
‘But, William, you din’t ever look at the head master that way, did you? Not at Mr. Ferris?’
She was thrilling with delicious terror at the thought.
‘He’s not the real head,’ said William with airy contempt.
‘But did you?’ she persisted.
He laughed.
‘Him? I should jus’ think I did. I should jus’ think I did. He’s jolly careful what he says to me now.’
‘Oh, William! Tell me about it.’
‘Oh, well. I jus’ went to him . . .’
‘To his house?’
‘Yes, to his house. I jus’ went to his house an’ I walked into the room where he was sittin’ . . .’
‘Oh, William!’
‘I jus’ walked in the room where he was sittin’ an’ I stood an’ looked at him.’
‘With your Look?’
‘Yes. With my Look. I stood an’ looked at him with my Look, an’ I din’t say anythin’ at first . . .’
William was warming to his theme. He could see the scene quite plainly.
‘I jus’ looked at him an’ then I said: “You’d jus’ better look out what you do to me. That’s what you’d better do”.’
‘An’ what did he look like?’
‘Same as people do on the pictures. His mouth open an’ all scrunched up.’
‘Oh, I know. And then what happened?’
‘What happened? I said: “Jus’ you jolly well don’t forget that!”’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Him? Huh! Nothin’. He was too scared.’
‘An’ after that did he leave you alone?’
‘Huh! I should jolly well think so. He daren’t speak to me or look at me now, he’s so scared of me.’
‘Has he never spoke to you since?’
But William was growing tired of Mr. Ferris. His Look was an idea worthy of larger scope, and already his fertile imagination was at work upon it. He was advancing stealthily upon a serried mass of Red Indians in war paint, fixing his eyes upon them with the terrible Look . . . they were dropping their poisoned arrows and turning to flee . . . He was advancing through the jungle, his head poked forward in a sinister fashion, the terrible Look upon his face. Lions, tigers, elephants, snakes, fled in a panic-stricken stampede before him . . .
‘I’ll tell you somethin’ I once did—’ he began, but the church clock struck, and with a ‘Oh, my goodness! I shall be late for tea,’ she ran away down the road, turning at the corner to kiss her hand to him.
He stood for a moment, gazing at the spot where she had disappeared, a languishing smile on his face, but he was not allowed the enjoyment of these softer feelings for long.
Ginger, Henry and Douglas appeared at the spot where he was gazing languishingly, and his expression changed abruptly to his customary scowl.
‘Now tell us about that plan,’ they shouted as they leapt down the road to him.
The plan—he’d forgotten the plan. He gazed at them distastefully. After the little girl they looked singularly unattractive.
‘What plan?’ he said.
They stared at him blankly.
‘What plan?’ they repeated. ‘The plan for takin’ the cheek out of him an’ cuttin’ off his curls, of course.’
‘Oh, that,’ said William loftily. ‘Well, I bet I’ve had other things to think of than that.’
‘You’ve—what?’ they said indignantly. ‘But you said you’d gotter plan. You told us that the beginnin’ of it was to lure his suspicions, an’ you’d tell us the rest when we’d done that. Well, haven’t we been doin’ that all mornin’? Haven’t we been lurin’ his suspicions, ’stead of cuttin’ his hair off at once same as we wanted to, jus’ ’cause of your ole plan. Well, what is it, that’s what we want to know?’
They were staring at him mutinously. He turned on them with a ferocious grimace that was meant to represent his Look. The result was disappointing. They retorted by grimaces fiercer and more effective.
‘You’d jolly well like to know what it is, wouldn’t you?’ he said mockingly. ‘Oh, yes, I bet you’d jolly well like to know.’
‘Yes, an’ if you don’t tell us,’ said Ginger threateningly, ‘we’ll stop helpin’ you.’
‘I picked up his pencil for him to-day,’ said Douglas morosely.
‘An’ I said good mornin’ to him,’ said Henry, and repeated with fierce indignation, ‘Good mornin’. To him.’
‘An’ we’re sick of your ole plan that never comes off,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ if you won’t tell us we’ll have one on our own an’ kidnap him.’
‘Oh, will you!’ jeered William, ‘I’d jolly well like to see you.’
He felt, however, more uncomfortable than he sounded.
Though he’d never heard the phrase ‘between the devil and the deep sea,’ he quite appreciated its meaning.
‘Yes an’ we’ll kidnap you, too, if you aren’t careful,’ said Ginger.
‘Oh will you! You’ll have to catch me first. Come on . . . catch me . . . Come on!’
In the exciting chase that followed all four Outlaws forgot how it had begun.
William woke up the next morning with a distinct feeling of uneasiness that was partly retrospective and partly anticipatory. Certainly the thought of the little girl and her admiration still thrilled him, but, the more he thought over what he had said to her yesterday, the more uneasy he felt. He’d definitely told her that he could assume a look that struck terror to the heart of even that redoubtable athlete Mr. Ferris. Her belief in him was touching and inspiring, but any chance might discredit his story and he could not bear the thought of losing her admiration. Moreover, there were the Outlaws clamouring for his ‘plan’, becoming more mutinous and turbulent every minute. How could he stop them laying violent hands upon the sacred form of Reggie, and how could he face her if they did?
Fortunately the early morning left no time to ponder on the problem, and William, flying breathlessly from his bed to breakfast and from breakfast to school—always five minutes late—was at his desk in his form room before he had time to consider the situation again.
And here the situation forced itself upon his notice in the very first period.
The mathematical master (known as Sparkie) was away with influenza, and Mr. Ferris took them for arithmetic in his place. Without exactly seeing where the danger lay, William was vaguely aware that the situation was fraught with danger. He decided that the best way of meeting it was to obliterate himself from public notice as far as possible. He applied himself earnestly to the first sum put up on the board by Mr. Ferris, which had to do with the time taken by two men to cut down eighty-eight trees at the rate of one every two hours.
‘Give you an easy one to start with,’ he had said with that misplaced brightness that school masters bring to bear on such subjects.
William had moved his desk slightly so that Henry’s back hid him from the gaze of Authority. He sat working in an almost painful silence and immobility hardly daring to breathe lest he should bring upon himself that vague catastrophe that he felt sure the situation contained.
But he knew, of course, that Fate was not so easy to evade as that, and it was with a sinking of the heart but
without surprise that he heard Mr. Ferris say:
‘You, Brown, read out your answer.’
‘Forty pounds, four shillings, sir,’ read William in a tone of deprecating politeness.
There was a silence broken by Reggie’s laugh.
It was not a laugh of honest amusement. It was a superior snigger. The acting head turned upon him.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded curtly.
‘Nothing sir,’ said Reggie.
‘What are you laughing at then?’
‘That boy’s answer,’ said Reggie.
‘All right. You can stay in an hour after school and do a few more sums as they amuse you so much.’
‘I’m having a music lesson after school to-day,’ objected Reggie.
‘You can stay in an hour and a half to-morrow then instead.’
This sentence was greeted with subdued triumph by the form. William’s delight alone was tempered by apprehension. He was very thoughtful for the rest of the day, and set off homewards promptly after afternoon school in order to avoid the meeting with the little girl. The little girl, however, was there at the corner waiting for him. He saw at once that she was distressed. She greeted him without the dimples.
‘Oh, William! He says he’s got to stay in to-morrow. William, he’s never been kept in before all his life. Oh, William, do make him say he needn’t.’
‘Me?’ said William faintly.
‘Yes . . . Oh, William, he didn’t do anything. They had a sum about how many days it would take some woodcutters to cut down some trees, and some stupid boy said pounds instead of days and Reggie laughed. Well, William, wouldn’t you have laughed if some stupid boy had said pounds instead of days?’
‘Me?’ said William again feebly.
‘Yes. Oh, William, I can’t bear him to be kept in. He’s never been kept in before. William, do make him let him off.’
‘Me?’ said William yet again.
‘Yes . . . you know . . . You can. You know you can go to him an’ look at him with your Look an’ tell him to an’ he’ll have to. You know you can, William.’
‘Yes,’ said William desperately, ‘I know I can, an’ I wish I’d got time to but I simply haven’t got time to. I’m late for tea now an’ then I’ve got my homework an’ that’ll take me till bedtime so that I simply haven’t got time to. An’ I’m busy every minute to-morrow. I’m sorry an’ I would if I’d got time to, but I simply haven’t.’
William's Happy Days Page 14
