Produced by David Clarke, and the Online Distributed

    JUST--WILLIAM

[Illustration: WILLIAM, CLASPING AN EMPTY ACID DROP BOTTLE TO HIS BOSOM,
WAS LEFT TO FACE MR. MOSS. (_See page 202_).]

    JUST--WILLIAM

    BY
    RICHMAL CROMPTON

    ILLUSTRATED BY
    THOMAS HENRY

    LONDON
    GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED
    SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, W.C.

    _First Edition_             _May, 1922._
    _Second Impression_     _October, 1922._
    _Third Impression_      _January, 1923._
    _Fourth Impression_    _February, 1923._
    _Fifth Impression_          _May, 1923._
    _Sixth Impression_    _September, 1923._
    _Seventh Impression_   _December, 1923._
    _Eighth Impression_    _February, 1924._
    _Ninth Impression_          _May, 1924._

    _Made and Printed in Great Britain._
    _Wyman & Sons, Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham._

CONTENTS

    CHAPTER                                           PAGE

         I. WILLIAM GOES TO THE PICTURES                13

        II. WILLIAM THE INTRUDER                        33

       III. WILLIAM BELOW STAIRS                        57

        IV. THE FALL OF THE IDOL                        75

         V. THE SHOW                                    94

        VI. A QUESTION OF GRAMMAR                      117

       VII. WILLIAM JOINS THE BAND OF HOPE             132

      VIII. THE OUTLAWS                                150

        IX. WILLIAM AND WHITE SATIN                    168

         X. WILLIAM'S NEW YEAR'S DAY                   186

        XI. THE BEST LAID PLANS                        205

       XII. "JUMBLE"                                   228

CHAPTER I

WILLIAM GOES TO THE PICTURES

It all began with William's aunt, who was in a good temper that morning,
and gave him a shilling for posting a letter for her and carrying her
parcels from the grocer's.

"Buy some sweets or go to the Pictures," she said carelessly, as she
gave it to him.

William walked slowly down the road, gazing thoughtfully at the coin.
After deep calculations, based on the fact that a shilling is the
equivalent of two sixpences, he came to the conclusion that both
luxuries could be indulged in.

In the matter of sweets, William frankly upheld the superiority of
quantity over quality. Moreover, he knew every sweet shop within a two
miles radius of his home whose proprietor added an extra sweet after the
scale had descended, and he patronised these shops exclusively. With
solemn face and eager eye, he always watched the process of weighing,
and "stingy" shops were known and banned by him.

He wandered now to his favourite confectioner and stood outside the
window for five minutes, torn between the rival attractions of
Gooseberry Eyes and Marble Balls. Both were sold at 4 ounces for 2d.
William never purchased more expensive luxuries. At last his frowning
brow relaxed and he entered the shop.

"Sixpennoth of Gooseberry Eyes," he said, with a slightly self-conscious
air. The extent of his purchases rarely exceeded a penny.

"Hello!" said the shopkeeper, in amused surprise.

"Gotter bit of money this mornin'," explained William carelessly, with
the air of a Rothschild.

He watched the weighing of the emerald green dainties with silent
intensity, saw with satisfaction the extra one added after the scale had
fallen, received the precious paper bag, and, putting two sweets into
his mouth, walked out of the shop.

Sucking slowly, he walked down the road towards the Picture Palace.
William was not in the habit of frequenting Picture Palaces. He had only
been there once before in his life.

It was a thrilling programme. First came the story of desperate crooks
who, on coming out of any building, glanced cautiously up and down the
street in huddled, crouching attitudes, then crept ostentatiously on
their way in a manner guaranteed to attract attention and suspicion at
any place and time. The plot was involved. They were pursued by police,
they leapt on to a moving train and then, for no accountable reason,
leapt from that on to a moving motor-car and from that they plunged into
a moving river. It was thrilling and William thrilled. Sitting quite
motionless, he watched, with wide, fascinated eyes, though his jaws
never ceased their rotatory movement and every now and then his hand
would go mechanically to the paper bag on his knees and convey a
Gooseberry Eye to his mouth.

The next play was a simple country love-story, in which figured a simple
country maiden wooed by the squire, who was marked out as the villain by
his moustachios.

After many adventures the simple country maiden was won by a simple
country son of the soil in picturesque rustic attire, whose emotions
were faithfully portrayed by gestures that must have required much
gymnastic skill; the villain was finally shown languishing in a prison
cell, still indulging in frequent eye-brow play.

Next came another love-story--this time of a noble-hearted couple,
consumed with mutual passion and kept apart not only by a series of
misunderstandings possible only in a picture play, but also by maidenly
pride and reserve on the part of the heroine and manly pride and reserve
on the part of the hero that forced them to hide their ardour beneath a
cold and haughty exterior. The heroine's brother moved through the story
like a good fairy, tender and protective towards his orphan sister and
ultimately explained to each the burning passion of the other.

It was moving and touching and William was moved and touched.

The next was a comedy. It began by a solitary workman engaged upon the
re-painting of a door and ended with a miscellaneous crowd of people,
all covered with paint, falling downstairs on top of one another. It was
amusing. William was riotously and loudly amused.

Lastly came the pathetic story of a drunkard's downward path. He began
as a wild young man in evening clothes drinking intoxicants and playing
cards, he ended as a wild old man in rags still drinking intoxicants and
playing cards. He had a small child with a pious and superior
expression, who spent her time weeping over him and exhorting him to a
better life, till, in a moment of justifiable exasperation, he threw a
beer bottle at her head. He then bedewed her bed in Hospital with
penitent tears, tore out his hair, flung up his arms towards Heaven,
beat his waistcoat, and clasped her to his breast, so that it was not to
be wondered at that, after all that excitement, the child had a relapse
and with the words "Good-bye, Father. Do not think of what you have
done. I forgive you," passed peacefully away.

William drew a deep breath at the end, and still sucking, arose with the
throng and passed out.

Once outside, he glanced cautiously around and slunk down the road in
the direction of his home. Then he doubled suddenly and ran down a back
street to put his imaginary pursuers off his track. He took a pencil
from his pocket and, levelling it at the empty air, fired twice. Two of
his pursuers fell dead, the rest came on with redoubled vigour. There
was no time to be lost. Running for dear life, he dashed down the next
street, leaving in his wake an elderly gentleman nursing his toe and
cursing volubly. As he neared his gate, William again drew the pencil
from his pocket and, still looking back down the road, and firing as he
went, he rushed into his own gateway.

[Illustration: LOOKING BACK DOWN THE ROAD AND FIRING HIS PENCIL WILDLY,
WILLIAM DASHED INTO HIS OWN GATE.]

William's father, who had stayed at home that day because of a bad
headache and a touch of liver, picked himself up from the middle of a
rhododendron bush and seized William by the back of his neck.

"You young ruffian," he roared, "what do you mean by charging into me
like that?"

William gently disengaged himself.

"I wasn't chargin', Father," he said, meekly. "I was only jus' comin' in
at the gate, same as other folks. I jus' wasn't looking jus' the way you
were coming, but I can't look all ways at once, cause----"

"Be _quiet_!" roared William's father.

Like the rest of the family, he dreaded William's eloquence.

"What's that on your tongue! Put your tongue out."

William obeyed. The colour of William's tongue would have put to shame
Spring's freshest tints.

"How many times am I to tell you," bellowed William's father, "that I
won't have you going about eating filthy poisons all day between meals?"

"It's not filthy poison," said William. "It's jus' a few sweets Aunt
Susan gave me 'cause I kin'ly went to the post office for her an'----"

"Be _quiet_! Have you got any more of the foul things?"

"They're not foul things," said William, doggedly. "They're good. Jus'
have one, an' try. They're jus' a few sweets Aunt Susan kin'ly gave me
an'----"

"Be _quiet_! Where are they?"

Slowly and reluctantly William drew forth his bag. His father seized it
and flung it far into the bushes. For the next ten minutes William
conducted a thorough and systematic search among the bushes and for the
rest of the day consumed Gooseberry Eyes and garden soil in fairly equal
proportions.

He wandered round to the back garden and climbed on to the wall.

"Hello!" said the little girl next door, looking up.

Something about the little girl's head and curls reminded William of the
simple country maiden. There was a touch of the artistic temperament
about William. He promptly felt himself the simple country son of the
soil.

"Hullo, Joan," he said in a deep, husky voice intended to be expressive
of intense affection. "Have you missed me while I've been away?"

"Didn't know you'd been away," said Joan. "What are you talking so funny
for?"

"I'm not talkin' funny," said William in the same husky voice, "I can't
help talkin' like this."

"You've got a cold. That's what you've got. That's what Mother said when
she saw you splashing about with your rain tub this morning. She said,
'The next thing that we shall hear of William Brown will be he's in bed
with a cold.'"

"It's not a cold," said William mysteriously. "It's jus' the way I
feel."

"What are you eating?"

"Gooseberry Eyes. Like one?" He took the packet from his pocket and
handed it down to her. "Go on. Take two--three," he said in reckless
generosity.

"But they're--dirty."

"Go on. It's only ord'nery dirt. It soon sucks off. They're jolly good."
He poured a shower of them lavishly down to her.

"I say," he said, reverting to his character of simple country lover.
"Did you say you'd missed me? I bet you didn't think of me as much as I
did of you. I jus' bet you didn't." His voice had sunk deeper and deeper
till it almost died away.

"I say, William, does your throat hurt you awful, that you've got to
talk like that?"

Her blue eyes were anxious and sympathetic.

William put one hand to his throat and frowned.

"A bit," he confessed lightly.

"Oh, William!" she clasped her hands. "Does it hurt all the time?"

Her solicitude was flattering.

"I don't talk much about it, anyway, do I?" he said manfully.

She started up and stared at him with big blue eyes.

"Oh, William! Is it--is it your--lungs? I've got an aunt that's got
lungs and she coughs and coughs," William coughed hastily, "and it hurts
her and makes her awful bad. Oh, William, I do _hope_ you've not got
lungs."

Her tender, anxious little face was upturned to him. "I guess I have got
lungs," he said, "but I don't make a fuss about 'em."

He coughed again.

"What does the doctor say about it?"

William considered a minute.

"He says it's lungs all right," he said at last. "He says I gotter be
jolly careful."

"William, would you like my new paintbox?"

"I don't think so. Not now. Thanks."

"I've got three balls and one's quite new. Wouldn't you like it,
William?"

"No--thanks. You see, it's no use my collectin' a lot of things. You
never know--with lungs."

"Oh, _William_!"

Her distress was pathetic.

"Of course," he said hastily, "if I'm careful it'll be all right. Don't
you worry about me."

"Joan!" from the house.

"That's Mother. Good-bye, William dear. If Father brings me home any
chocolate, I'll bring it in to you. I will--honest. Thanks for the
Gooseberry Eyes. Good-bye."

"Good-bye--and don't worry about me," he added bravely.

He put another Gooseberry Eye into his mouth and wandered round
aimlessly to the front of the house. His grown-up sister, Ethel, was at
the front door, shaking hands with a young man.

"I'll do all I can for you," she was saying earnestly.

Their hands were clasped.

"I know you will," he said equally earnestly.

Both look and handclasp were long. The young man walked away. Ethel
stood at the door, gazing after him, with a far-away look in her eyes.
William was interested.

"That was Jack Morgan, wasn't it?" he said.

"Yes," said Ethel absently and went into the house.

The look, the long handclasp, the words lingered in William's memory.
They must be jolly fond of each other, like people are when they're
engaged, but he knew they weren't engaged. P'raps they were too proud to
let each other know how fond they were of each other--like the man and
girl at the pictures. Ethel wanted a brother like the one in the
pictures to let the man know she was fond of him. Then a light came
suddenly into William's mind and he stood, deep in thought.

Inside the drawing-room, Ethel was talking to her mother.

"He's going to propose to her next Sunday. He told me about it because
I'm her best friend, and he wanted to ask me if I thought he'd any
chance. I said I thought he had, and I said I'd try and prepare her a
little and put in a good word for him if I could. Isn't it thrilling?"

"Yes, dear. By the way, did you see William anywhere? I do hope he's not
in mischief."

"He was in the front garden a minute ago." She went to the window. "He's
not there now, though."

William had just arrived at Mr. Morgan's house.

The maid showed him into Mr. Morgan's sitting-room.

"Mr. Brown," she announced.

The young man rose to receive his guest with politeness not unmixed with
bewilderment. His acquaintance with William was of the slightest.

"Good afternoon," said William. "I've come from Ethel."

"Yes?"

"Yes." William fumbled in his pocket and at last drew forth a rosebud,
slightly crushed by its close confinement in the company of the
Gooseberry Eyes, a penknife, a top and a piece of putty.

"She sent you this," said William gravely.

Mr. Morgan gazed at it with the air of one who is sleep-walking.

[Illustration: "SHE SENT YOU THIS!" WILLIAM SAID GRAVELY.]

"Yes? Er--very kind of her."

"Kinder keep-sake. Souveneer," explained William.

"Yes. Er--any message?"

"Oh, yes. She wants you to come in and see her this evening."

"Er--yes. Of course. I've just come from her. Perhaps she remembered
something she wanted to tell me after I'd gone."

"P'raps."

Then, "Any particular time?"

"No. 'Bout seven, I expect."

"Oh, yes."

Mr. Morgan's eyes were fixed with a fascinated wondering gaze upon the
limp, and by no means spotless, rose-bud.

"You say she--sent this?"

"Yes."

"And no other message?"

"No."

"Er--well, say I'll come with pleasure, will you?"

"Yes."

Silence.

Then, "She thinks an awful lot of you, Ethel does."

Mr. Morgan passed a hand over his brow.

"Yes? Kind--er--very kind, I'm sure."

"Always talkin' about you in her sleep," went on William, warming to his
theme. "I sleep in the next room and I can hear her talkin' about you
all night. Jus' sayin' your name over and over again. 'Jack Morgan, Jack
Morgan, Jack Morgan.'" William's voice was husky and soulful. "Jus'
like that--over an' over again. 'Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan, Jack
Morgan.'"

Mr. Morgan was speechless. He sat gazing with horror-stricken face at
his young visitor.

"Are you--_sure_?" he said at last. "It might be someone else's name."

"No, 'tisn't," said William firmly. "It's yours. 'Jack Morgan, Jack
Morgan, Jack Morgan'--jus' like that. An' she eats just nothin' now.
Always hangin' round the windows to watch you pass."

The perspiration stood out in beads on Mr. Morgan's brow.

"It's--_horrible_," he said at last in a hoarse whisper.

William was gratified. The young man had at last realised his cruelty.
But William never liked to leave a task half done. He still sat on and
calmly and silently considered his next statement. Mechanically he put a
hand into his pocket and conveyed a Gooseberry Eye to his mouth. Mr.
Morgan also sat in silence with a stricken look upon his face, gazing
into vacancy.

"She's got your photo," said William at last, "fixed up into one of
those little round things on a chain round her neck."

"Are--you--_sure_?" said Mr. Morgan desperately.

"Sure's fate," said William rising. "Well, I'd better be goin'. She
pertic-ler wants to see you alone to-night. Good-bye."

But Mr. Morgan did not answer. He sat huddled up in his chair staring in
front of him long after William had gone jauntily on his way. Then he
moistened his dry lips.

"Good Lord," he groaned.

William was thinking of the pictures as he went home. That painter one
was jolly good. When they all got all over paint! And when they all fell
downstairs! William suddenly guffawed out loud at the memory. But what
had the painter chap been doing at the very beginning before he began to
paint? He'd been getting off the old paint with a sort of torch thing
and a knife, then he began putting the new paint on. Just sort of
melting the old paint and then scraping it off. William had never seen
it done in real life, but he supposed that was the way you did get old
paint off. Melting it with some sort of fire, then scraping it off. He
wasn't sure whether it was that, but he could find out. As he entered
the house he took his penknife from his pocket, opened it thoughtfully,
and went upstairs.

Mr. Brown came home about dinner-time.

"How's your head, father?" said Ethel sympathetically.

"Rotten!" said Mr. Brown, sinking wearily into an arm-chair.

"Perhaps dinner will do it good," said Mrs. Brown, "it ought to be ready
now."

The housemaid entered the room.

"Mr. Morgan, mum. He wants to see Miss Ethel. I've shown him into the
library."

"_Now?_" exploded Mr. Brown. "What the deu--why the dickens is the young
idiot coming at this time of day? Seven o'clock! What time does he think
we have dinner? What does he mean by coming round paying calls on people
at dinner time? What----"

"Ethel, dear," interrupted Mrs. Brown, "do go and see what he wants and
get rid of him as soon as you can."

Ethel entered the library, carefully closing the door behind her to keep
out the sound of her father's comments, which were plainly audible
across the hall.

She noticed something wan and haggard-looking on Mr. Morgan's face as he
rose to greet her.

"Er--good evening, Miss Brown."

"Good evening, Mr. Morgan."

Then they sat in silence, both awaiting some explanation of the visit.
The silence became oppressive. Mr. Morgan, with an air of acute misery
and embarrassment, shifted his feet and coughed. Ethel looked at the
clock. Then--

"Was it raining when you came, Mr. Morgan?"

"Raining? Er--no. No--not at all."

Silence.

"I thought it looked like rain this afternoon."

"Yes, of course. Er--no, not at all."

Silence.

"It does make the roads so bad round here when it rains."

"Yes." Mr. Morgan put up a hand as though to loosen his collar.
"Er--very bad."

"Almost impassable."

"Er--quite."

Silence again.

Inside the drawing-room, Mr. Brown was growing restive.

"Is dinner to be kept waiting for that youth all night? Quarter past
seven! You know it's just what I can't stand--having my meals interfered
with. Is my digestion to be ruined simply because this young nincompoop
chooses to pay his social calls at seven o'clock at night?"

"Then we must ask him to dinner," said Mrs. Brown, desperately. "We
really must."

"We must _not_," said Mr. Brown. "Can't I stay away from the office for
one day with a headache, without having to entertain all the young
jackasses for miles around." The telephone bell rang. He raised his
hands above his head.

"Oh----"

"I'll go, dear," said Mrs. Brown hastily.

She returned with a worried frown on her brow.

"It's Mrs. Clive," she said. "She says Joan has been very sick because
of some horrible sweets William gave her, and she said she was so sorry
to hear about William and hoped he'd be better soon. I couldn't quite
make it out, but it seems that William has been telling them that he had
to go and see a doctor about his lungs and the doctor said they were
very weak and he'd have to be careful."

Mr. Brown sat up and looked at her. "But--why--on--earth?" he said
slowly.

"I don't know, dear," said Mrs. Brown, helplessly. "I don't know
anything about it."

"He's mad," said Mr. Brown with conviction. "Mad. It's the only
explanation."

Then came the opening and shutting of the front door and Ethel entered.
She was very flushed.

[Illustration: WILLIAM WAS HAPPILY AND QUIETLY ENGAGED IN BURNING THE
PAINT OFF HIS BEDROOM DOOR.]

"He's gone," she said. "Mother, it's simply horrible! He didn't tell me
much, but it seems that William actually went to his house and told him
that I wanted to see him alone at seven o'clock this evening. I've
hardly spoken to William to-day. He couldn't have misunderstood anything
I said. And he actually took a flower with him--a dreadful-looking
rosebud--and said I'd sent it. I simply didn't know where to look or
what to say. It was horrible!"

Mrs. Brown sat gazing weakly at her daughter.

Mr. Brown rose with the air of a man goaded beyond endurance.

"Where _is_ William?" he said shortly.

"I don't know, but I thought I heard him go upstairs some time ago."

William _was_ upstairs. For the last twenty minutes he had been happily
and quietly engaged upon his bedroom door with a lighted taper in one
hand and penknife in the other. There was no doubt about it. By
successful experiment he had proved that that was the way you got old
paint off. When Mr. Brown came upstairs he had entirely stripped one
panel of its paint.

An hour later William sat in the back garden on an upturned box sucking,
with a certain dogged defiance, the last and dirtiest of the Gooseberry
Eyes. Sadly he reviewed the day. It had not been a success. His
generosity to the little girl next door had been misconstrued into an
attempt upon her life, his efforts to help on his only sister's love
affair had been painfully misunderstood, lastly because (among other
things) he had discovered a perfectly scientific method of removing old
paint, he had been brutally assaulted by a violent and unreasonable
parent. Suddenly William began to wonder if his father drank. He saw
himself, through a mist of pathos, as a Drunkard's child. He tried to
imagine his father weeping over him in Hospital and begging his
forgiveness. It was a wonder he wasn't there now, anyway. His shoulders
drooped--his whole attitude became expressive of extreme dejection.

Inside the house, his father, reclining at length in an armchair,
discoursed to his wife on the subject of his son. One hand was pressed
to his aching brow, and the other gesticulating freely. "He's insane,"
he said, "stark, raving insane. You ought to take him to a doctor and
get his brain examined. Look at him to-day. He begins by knocking me
into the middle of the rhododendron bushes--under no provocation, mind
you. I hadn't spoken to him. Then he tries to poison that nice little
thing next door with some vile stuff I thought I'd thrown away. Then he
goes about telling people he's consumptive. He looks it, doesn't he?
Then he takes extraordinary messages and love tokens from Ethel to
strange young men and brings them here just when we're going to begin
dinner, and then goes round burning and hacking at the doors. Where's
the sense in it--in any of it? They're the acts of a lunatic--you ought
to have his brain examined."

Mrs. Brown cut off her darning wool and laid aside the sock she had just
finished darning.

"It certainly sounds very silly, dear," she said mildly. "But there
might be some explanation of it all, if only we knew. Boys are such
funny things."

She looked at the clock and went over to the window, "William!" she
called. "It's your bed-time, dear."

William rose sadly and came slowly into the house.

"Good night, Mother," he said; then he turned a mournful and reproachful
eye upon his father.

"Good night, Father," he said. "Don't think about what you've done, I
for----"

He stopped and decided, hastily but wisely, to retire with all possible
speed.

CHAPTER II

WILLIAM THE INTRUDER

"She's different from everybody else in the world," stammered Robert
ecstatically. "You simply couldn't describe her. No one could!"

His mother continued to darn his socks and made no comment.

Only William, his young brother, showed interest.

"_How's_ she different from anyone else?" he demanded. "Is she blind or
lame or sumthin'?"

Robert turned on him with exasperation.

"Oh, go and play at trains!" he said. "A child like you can't understand
anything."

William retired with dignity to the window and listened, with interest
unabated, to the rest of the conversation.

"Yes, but who is she, dear?" said their mother. "Robert, I can't _think_
how you get these big holes in your heels!"

Robert ran his hands wildly through his hair.

"I've _told_ you who she is, Mother," he said. "I've been talking about
her ever since I came into the room."

"Yes, I know, dear, but you haven't mentioned her name or anything about
her."

"Well," Robert spoke with an air of super-human patience, "she's a Miss
Cannon and she's staying with the Clives and I met her out with Mrs.
Clive this morning and she introduced me and she's the most beautiful
girl I've ever seen and she----"

"Yes," said Mrs. Brown hastily, "you told me all that."

"Well," went on the infatuated Robert, "we must have her to tea. I know
I can't marry yet--not while I'm still at college--but I could get to
know her. Not that I suppose she'd look at me. She's miles above
me--miles above anyone. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
You can't imagine her. You wouldn't believe me if I described her. No
one could describe her. She----"

Mrs. Brown interrupted him with haste.

"I'll ask Mrs. Clive to bring her over one afternoon. I've no more of
this blue wool, Robert. I wish you didn't have your socks such different
colours. I shall have to use mauve. It's right on the heel; it won't
show."

Robert gave a gasp of horror.

"You _can't_, Mother. How do you know it won't show? And even if it
didn't show, the thought of it--! It's--it's a crisis of my life now
I've met her. I can't go about feeling ridiculous."

"I say," said William open-mouthed. "Are you spoony on her?"

"William, don't use such vulgar expressions," said Mrs. Brown. "Robert
just feels a friendly interest in her, don't you, Robert?"

"'A friendly interest'!" groaned Robert in despair. "No one ever _tries_
to understand what I feel. After all I've told you about her and that
she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and miles above me and
above anyone and you think I feel a 'friendly interest' in her.
It's--it's the one great passion of my life! It's----"

"Well," put in Mrs. Brown mildly, "I'll ring up Mrs. Clive and ask if
she's doing anything to-morrow afternoon."

Robert's tragic young face lit up, then he stood wrapt in thought, and a
cloud of anxiety overcast it.

"Ellen can press the trousers of my brown suit to-night, can't she? And,
Mother, could you get me some socks and a tie before to-morrow? Blue, I
think--a bright blue, you know, not too bright, but not so as you don't
notice them. I wish the laundry was a decent one. You know, a man's
collar ought to _shine_ when it's new on. They never put a shine on to
them. I'd better have some new ones for to-morrow. It's so important,
how one looks. She--people _judge_ you on how you look. They----"

Mrs. Brown laid her work aside.

"I'll go and ring up Mrs. Clive now," she said.

When she returned, William had gone and Robert was standing by the
window, his face pale with suspense, and a Napoleonic frown on his brow.

"Mrs. Clive can't come," announced Mrs. Brown in her comfortable voice,
"but Miss Cannon will come alone. It appears she's met Ethel before. So
you needn't worry any more, dear."

Robert gave a sardonic laugh.

"_Worry!_" he said, "There's plenty to worry about still. What about
William?"

"Well, what about him?"

"Well, can't he go away somewhere to-morrow? Things never go right when
William's there. You know they don't."

"The poor boy must have tea with us, dear. He'll be very good, I'm sure.
Ethel will be home then and she'll help. I'll tell William not to worry
you. I'm sure he'll be good."

William had received specific instructions. He was not to come into the
house till the tea-bell rang, and he was to go out and play in the
garden again directly after tea. He was perfectly willing to obey them.
He was thrilled by the thought of Robert in the rôle of the love-lorn
hero. He took the situation quite seriously.

He was in the garden when the visitor came up the drive. He had been
told not to obtrude himself upon her notice, so he crept up silently and
peered at her through the rhododendron bushes. The proceeding also
happened to suit his character of the moment, which was that of a Red
Indian chief.

Miss Cannon was certainly pretty. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and
dimples that came and went in her rosy cheeks. She was dressed in white
and carried a parasol. She walked up the drive, looking neither to right
nor left, till a slight movement in the bushes arrested her attention.
She turned quickly and saw a small boy's face, smeared black with burnt
cork and framed in hens' feathers tied on with tape. The dimples peeped
out.

"Hail, O great chief!" she said.

William gazed at her open-mouthed. Such intelligence on the part of a
grown-up was unusual.

[Illustration: "HAIL, O GREAT CHIEF!" SHE SAID.]

"Chief Red Hand," he supplied with a fierce scowl.

She bowed low, brown eyes alight with merriment.

"And what death awaits the poor white face who has fallen defenceless
into his hand?"

"You better come quiet to my wigwam an' see," said Red Hand darkly.

She threw a glance to the bend in the drive behind which lay the house
and with a low laugh followed him through the bushes. From one point the
drawing-room window could be seen, and there the anxious Robert stood,
pale with anxiety, stiff and upright in his newly-creased trousers (well
turned up to show the new blue socks), his soulful eyes fixed
steadfastly on the bend in the drive round which the beloved should
come. Every now and then his nervous hand wandered up to touch the new
tie and gleaming new collar, which was rather too high and too tight for
comfort, but which the shopkeeper had informed his harassed customer was
the "latest and most correct shape."

Meanwhile the beloved had reached William's "dug-out." William had made
this himself of branches cut down from the trees and spent many happy
hours in it with one or other of his friends.

"Here is the wigwam, Pale-face," he said in a sepulchral voice. "Stand
here while I decide with Snake Face and the other chiefs what's goin' to
be done to you. There's Snake Face an' the others," he added in his
natural voice, pointing to a small cluster of shrubs.

Approaching these, he stood and talked fiercely and unintelligibly for
a few minutes, turning his scowling corked face and pointing his finger
at her every now and then, as, apparently, he described his capture.

Then he approached her again.

"That was Red Indian what I was talkin' then," he explained in his
ordinary voice, then sinking it to its low, roaring note and scowling
more ferociously than ever, "Snake Face says the Pale-face must be
scalped and cooked and eat!"

He took out a penknife and opened it as though to perform the operation,
then continued, "But me and the others say that if you'll be a squaw an'
cook for us we'll let you go alive."

Miss Cannon dropped on to her knees.

"Most humble and grateful thanks, great Red Hand," she said. "I will
with pleasure be your squaw."

"I've gotter fire round here," said William proudly, leading her to the
back of the wigwam, where a small wood fire smouldered spiritlessly,
choked by a large tin full of a dark liquid.

"That, O Squaw," said Red Hand with a dramatic gesture, "is a Pale-face
we caught las' night!"

The squaw clasped her hands together.

"Oh, how _lovely_!" she said. "Is he cooking?"

Red Hand nodded. Then,

"I'll get you some feathers," he said obligingly. "You oughter have
feathers, too."

He retired into the depth of the wigwam and returned with a handful of
hen feathers. Miss Cannon took off her big shady hat and stuck the
feathers into her fluffy brown hair with a laugh.

"This is jolly!" she said. "I love Red Indians!"

"I've got some cork you can have to do your face, too," went on William
with reckless generosity. "It soon burns in the fire."

She threw a glance towards the chimneys of the house that could be seen
through the trees and shook her pretty head regretfully.

"I'm afraid I'd better not," she said sadly.

"Well," he said, "now I'll go huntin' and you stir the Pale-face and
we'll eat him when I come back. Now, I'll be off. You watch me track."

He opened his clasp-knife with a bloodthirsty flourish and, casting
sinister glances round him, crept upon his hands and knees into the
bushes. He circled about, well within his squaw's vision, obviously bent
upon impressing her. She stirred the mixture in the tin with a twig and
threw him every now and then the admiring glances he so evidently
desired.

Soon he returned, carrying over his shoulder a door-mat which he threw
down at her feet.

"A venison, O squaw," he said in a lordly voice. "Let it be cooked. I've
had it out all morning," he added in his ordinary tones; "they've not
missed it yet."

He fetched from the "wigwam" two small jagged tins and, taking the
larger tin off the fire, poured some into each.

"Now," he said, "here's some Pale-face for you, squaw."

"Oh," she said, "I'm sure he's awfully good, but----"

"You needn't be frightened of it," said William protectively. "It's
jolly good, I can tell you." He picked up the paper cover of a packet of
soup from behind the trees. "It's jus' that and water and it's jolly
good!"

"How lovely! Do they let you----?"

"They don't let me," he broke in hastily, "but there's heaps in the
larder and they don't notice one every now an' then. Go on!"
encouragingly, "I don't mind you having it! Honest, I don't! I'll get
some more soon."

Bravely she raised the tin to her lips and took a sip.

"Gorgeous!" she said, shutting her eyes. Then she drained the tin.

William's face shone with pride and happiness. But it clouded over as
the sound of a bell rang out from the house.

"Crumbs! That's tea!"

Hastily Miss Cannon took the feathers from her hair and put on her hat.

"You don't keep a looking-glass in your wigwam I suppose?" she said.

"N-no," admitted William. "But I'll get one for next time you come. I'll
get one from Ethel's room."

"Won't she mind?"

"She won't know," said William simply.

Miss Cannon smoothed down her dress.

"I'm horribly late. What will they think of me? It was awful of me to
come with you. I'm always doing awful things. That's a secret between
you and me." She gave William a smile that dazzled him. "Now come in and
we'll confess."

"I can't," said William. "I've got to wash an' come down tidy. I
promised I would. It's a special day. Because of Robert, you know. Well
_you_ know. Because of--Robert!"

He looked up at her mystified face with a significant nod.

Robert was frantic. He had run his hands through his hair so often that
it stood around his head like a spiked halo.

"We _can't_ begin without her," he said. "She'll think we're awful. It
will--put her off me for ever. She's not used to being treated like
that. She's the sort of girl people don't begin without. She's the most
beautiful girl I've ever met in all my life and you--my own
mother--treat her like this. You may be ruining my life. You've no idea
what this means to me. If you'd seen her you'd feel more sympathy. I
simply can't describe her--I----"

"I said four o'clock, Robert," said Mrs. Brown firmly, "and it's after
half-past. Ethel, tell Emma she can ring the bell and bring in tea."

The perspiration stood out on Robert's brow.

"It's--the downfall of all my hopes," he said hoarsely.

Then, a few minutes after the echoes of the tea-bell died away, the
front door bell rang sharply. Robert stroked his hair down with wild,
unrestrained movements of his hands, and summoned a tortured smile to
his lips.

Miss Cannon appeared upon the threshold, bewitching and demure.

"Aren't I perfectly disgraceful?" she said with her low laugh. "To tell
the truth, I met your little boy in the drive and I've been with him
some time. He's a perfect little dear, isn't he?"

Her brown eyes rested on Robert. Robert moistened his lips and smiled
the tortured smile, but was beyond speech.

"Yes, I know Ethel and I met your son--_yesterday_, wasn't it?"

Robert murmured unintelligibly, raising one hand to the too tight
collar, and then bowed vaguely in her direction.

Then they went in to tea.

William, his hair well brushed, the cork partially washed from his face,
and the feathers removed, arrived a few minutes later. Conversation was
carried on chiefly by Miss Cannon and Ethel. Robert racked his brain for
some striking remark, something that would raise him in her esteem far
above the ranks of the ordinary young man, but nothing came. Whenever
her brown eyes rested on him, however, he summoned the mirthless smile
to his lips and raised a hand to relieve the strain of the imprisoning
collar. Desperately he felt the precious moments passing and his passion
yet unrevealed, except by his eyes, whose message he was afraid she had
not read.

As they rose from tea, William turned to his mother, with an anxious
sibilant whisper,

"Ought _I_ to have put on my best suit _too_?"

The demure lights danced in Miss Cannon's eyes and the look the
perspiring Robert sent him would have crushed a less bold spirit.

William had quite forgotten the orders he had received to retire from
the scene directly after tea. He was impervious to all hints. He
followed in the train of the all-conquering Miss Cannon to the
drawing-room and sat on the sofa with Robert who had taken his seat next
his beloved.

"Are you--er--fond of reading, Miss Cannon?" began Robert with a painful
effort.

"I--_wrote_ a tale once," said William boastfully, leaning over Robert
before she could answer. "It was a jolly good one. I showed it to some
people. I'll show it to you if you like. It began with a pirate on a
raft an' he'd stole some jewel'ry and the king the jewels belonged to
was coming after him on a steamer and jus' when he was comin' up to him
he jumped into the water and took the jewls with him an' a fish eat the
jewls and the king caught it an'," he paused for breath.

"I'd love to read it!" said Miss Cannon.

Robert turned sideways, and resting an arm on his knee to exclude the
persistent William, spoke in a husky voice.

"What is your favourite flower, Miss Cannon?"

William's small head was craned round Robert's arm.

"I've gotter garden. I've got Virginia Stock grow'n all over it. It
grows up in no time. An' must'erd 'n cress grows in no time, too. I like
things what grow quick, don't you? You get tired of waiting for the
other sorts, don't you?"

Robert rose desperately.

"Would you care to see the garden and green-houses, Miss Cannon?" he
said.

"I'd love to," said Miss Cannon.

With a threatening glare at William, Robert led the way to the garden.
And William, all innocent animation, followed.

[Illustration: WILLIAM'S SMALL HEAD WAS CRANED ROUND ROBERT'S ARM. "I
LIKE THINGS WHAT GROW QUICK, DON'T YOU?" HE SAID--ALL INNOCENT
ANIMATION.]

"Can you tie knots what can't come untied?" he demanded.

"No," she said, "I wish I could."

"I can. I'll show you. I'll get a piece of string and show you
afterwards. It's easy but it wants practice, that's all. An' I'll teach
you how to make aeroplanes out of paper what fly in the air when it's
windy. That's quite easy. Only you've gotter be careful to get 'em the
right size. I can make 'em and I can make lots of things out of match
boxes an' things an'----"

The infuriated Robert interrupted.

"These are my father's roses. He's very proud of them."

"They're beautiful."

"Well, wait till you see my Virginia Stock! that's all. Wait----"

"Will you have this tea-rose, Miss Cannon?" Robert's face was purple as
he presented it. "It--it--er--it suits you. You--er--flowers and
you--that is--I'm sure--you love flowers--you should--er--always have
flowers. If I----"

"An' I'll get you those red ones and that white one," broke in the
equally infatuated William, determined not to be outshone. "An' I'll get
you some of my Virginia Stock. An' I don't give my Virginia Stock to
_anyone_," he added with emphasis.

When they re-entered the drawing-room, Miss Cannon carried a large
bouquet of Virginia Stock and white and red roses which completely hid
Robert's tea-rose. William was by her side, chatting airily and
confidently. Robert followed--a pale statue of despair.

In answer to Robert's agonised glance, Mrs. Brown summoned William to
her corner, while Robert and Miss Cannon took their seat again upon the
sofa.

"I hope--I hope," said Robert soulfully, "I hope your stay here is a
long one?"

"Well, why sha'n't I jus' _speak_ to her?" William's whisper was loud
and indignant.

"'Sh, dear!" said Mrs. Brown.

"I should like to show you some of the walks around here," went on
Robert desperately with a fearful glance towards the corner where
William stood in righteous indignation before his mother. "If I could
have that--er--pleasure--er--honour?"

"I was only jus' _speaking_ to her," went on William's voice. "I wasn't
doin' any harm, was I? Only _speaking_ to her!"

The silence was intense. Robert, purple, opened his lips to say
something, anything to drown that horrible voice, but nothing would
come. Miss Cannon was obviously listening to William.

"Is no one else ever to _speak_ to her." The sibilant whisper, raised in
indignant appeal, filled all the room. "Jus' 'cause Robert's fell in
love with her?"

The horror of the moment haunted Robert's nights and days for weeks to
come.

Mrs. Brown coughed hastily and began to describe at unnecessary length
the ravages of the caterpillars upon her husband's favourite rose-tree.

William withdrew with dignity to the garden a minute later and Miss
Cannon rose from the sofa.

"I must be going, I'm afraid," she said with a smile.

Robert, anguished and overpowered, rose slowly.

"You must come again some time," he said weakly but with passion
undaunted.

"I will," she said. "I'm longing to see more of William. I adore
William!"

They comforted Robert's wounded feelings as best they could, but it was
Ethel who devised the plan that finally cheered him. She suggested a
picnic on the following Thursday, which happened to be Robert's birthday
and incidentally the last day of Miss Cannon's visit, and the picnic
party was to consist of--Robert, Ethel, Mrs. Clive and Miss Cannon, and
William was not even to be told where it was to be. The invitation was
sent that evening and Robert spent the week dreaming of picnic lunches
and suggesting impossible dainties of which the cook had never heard. It
was not until she threatened to give notice that he reluctantly agreed
to leave the arrangements to her. He sent his white flannels (which were
perfectly clean) to the laundry with a note attached, hinting darkly at
legal proceedings if they were not sent back, spotless, by Thursday
morning. He went about with an expression of set and solemn purpose upon
his frowning countenance. William he utterly ignored. He bought a book
of poems at a second-hand bookshop and kept them on the table by his
bed.

They saw nothing of Miss Cannon in the interval, but Thursday dawned
bright and clear, and Robert's anxious spirits rose. He was presented
with a watch and chain by his father and with a bicycle by his mother
and a tin of toffee (given not without ulterior motive) by William.

They met Mrs. Clive and Miss Cannon at the station and took tickets to a
village a few miles away whence they had decided to walk to a shady spot
on the river bank.

William's dignity was slightly offended by his pointed exclusion from
the party, but he had resigned himself to it, and spent the first part
of the morning in the character of Chief Red Hand among the rhododendron
bushes. He had added an ostrich feather found in Ethel's room to his
head-dress, and used almost a whole cork on his face. He wore the
door-mat pinned to his shoulders.

After melting some treacle toffee in rain-water over his smoking fire,
adding orange juice and drinking the resulting liquid, he tired of the
game and wandered upstairs to Robert's bedroom to inspect his birthday
presents. The tin of toffee was on the table by Robert's bed. William
took one or two as a matter of course and began to read the love-poems.
He was horrified a few minutes later to see the tin empty, but he
fastened the lid with a sigh, wondering if Robert would guess who had
eaten them. He was afraid he would. Anyway he'd given him them. And
anyway, he hadn't known he was eating them.

He then went to the dressing-table and tried on the watch and chain at
various angles and with various postures. He finally resisted the
temptation to wear them for the rest of the morning and replaced them on
the dressing-table.

Then he wandered downstairs and round to the shed, where Robert's new
bicycle stood in all its glory. It was shining and spotless and William
gazed at it in awe and admiration. He came to the conclusion that he
could do it no possible harm by leading it carefully round the house.
Encouraged by the fact that Mrs. Brown was out shopping, he walked it
round the house several times. He much enjoyed the feeling of importance
and possession that it gave him. He felt loth to part with it. He
wondered if it was very hard to ride. He had tried to ride one once when
he was staying with an aunt. He stood on a garden bench and with
difficulty transferred himself from that to the bicycle seat. To his
surprise and delight he rode for a few yards before he fell off. He
tried again and fell off again. He tried again and rode straight into a
holly bush. He forgot everything in his determination to master the art.
He tried again and again. He fell off or rode into the holly bush again
and again. The shining black paint of the bicycle was scratched, the
handle bars were slightly bent and dulled; William himself was bruised
and battered but unbeaten.

At last he managed to avoid the fatal magnet of the holly bush, to steer
an unsteady ziz-zag course down the drive and out into the road. He had
had no particular intention of riding into the road. In fact he was
still wearing his befeathered headgear, blacked face, and the mat pinned
to his shoulders. It was only when he was actually in the road that he
realised that retreat was impossible, that he had no idea how to get off
the bicycle.

What followed was to William more like a nightmare than anything else.
He saw a motor-lorry coming towards him and in sudden panic turned down
a side street and from that into another side street. People came out of
their houses to watch him pass. Children booed or cheered him and ran
after him in crowds. And William went on and on simply because he could
not stop. His iron nerve had failed him. He had not even the presence of
mind to fall off. He was quite lost. He had left the town behind him and
did not know where he was going. But wherever he went he was the centre
of attraction. The strange figure with blackened, streaked face, mat
flying behind in the wind and a head-dress of feathers from which every
now and then one floated away, brought the population to its doors. Some
said he had escaped from an asylum, some that he was an advertisement of
something. The children were inclined to think he was part of a circus.
William himself had passed beyond despair. His face was white and set.
His first panic had changed to a dull certainty that this would go on
for ever. He would never know how to stop. He supposed he would go right
across England. He wondered if he were near the sea now. He couldn't be
far off. He wondered if he would ever see his mother and father again.
And his feet pedalled mechanically along. They did not reach the pedals
at their lowest point; they had to catch them as they came up and send
them down with all their might.

It was very tiring; William wondered if people would be sorry if he
dropped down dead.

I have said that William did not know where he was going.

_But Fate knew._

The picnickers walked down the hill from the little station to the river
bank. It was a beautiful morning. Robert, his heart and hopes high,
walked beside his goddess, revelling in his nearness to her though he
could think of nothing to say to her. But Ethel and Mrs. Clive chattered
gaily.

"We've given William the slip," said Ethel with a laugh. "He's no idea
where we've gone even!"

"I'm sorry," said Miss Cannon, "I'd have loved William to be here."

"You don't know him," said Ethel fervently.

"What a beautiful morning it is!" murmured Robert, feeling that some
remark was due from him. "Am I walking too fast for you--Miss Cannon?"

"Oh, no."

"May I carry your parasol for you?" he enquired humbly.

"Oh, no, thanks."

He proposed a boat on the river after lunch, and it appeared that Miss
Cannon would love it, but Ethel and Mrs. Clive would rather stay on the
bank.

His cup of bliss was full. It would be his opportunity of sealing
lifelong friendship with her, of arranging a regular correspondence, and
hinting at his ultimate intentions. He must tell her that, of course,
while he was at college he was not in a position to offer his heart and
hand, but if she could wait---- He began to compose speeches in his
mind.

They reached the bank and opened the luncheon baskets. Unhampered by
Robert the cook had surpassed herself. They spread the white cloth and
took up their position around it under the shade of the trees.

Just as Robert was taking up a plate of sandwiches to hand them with a
courteous gesture to Miss Cannon, his eyes fell upon the long, white
road leading from the village to the riverside and remained fixed there,
his face frozen with horror. The hand that held the plate dropped
lifelessly back again on to the table-cloth. Their eyes followed his. A
curious figure was cycling along the road--a figure with blackened face
and a few drooping feathers on its head, and a door-mat flying in the
wind. A crowd of small children ran behind cheering. It was a figure
vaguely familiar to them all.

"It can't be," said Robert hoarsely, passing a hand over his brow.

No one spoke.

It came nearer and nearer. There was no mistaking it.

"William!" gasped four voices.

William came to the end of the road. He did not turn aside to either of
the roads by the riverside. He did not even recognise or look at them.
With set, colourless face he rode on to the river bank, and straight
amongst them. They fled from before his charge. He rode over the
table-cloth, over the sandwiches, patties, rolls and cakes, down the
bank and into the river.

They rescued him and the bicycle. Fate was against Robert even there. It
was a passing boatman who performed the rescue. William emerged soaked
to the skin, utterly exhausted, but feeling vaguely heroic. He was not
in the least surprised to see them. He would have been surprised at
nothing. And Robert wiped and examined his battered bicycle in impotent
fury in the background while Miss Cannon pillowed William's dripping
head on her arm, fed him on hot coffee and sandwiches and called him "My
poor darling Red Hand!"

[Illustration: HE RODE OVER THE TABLE-CLOTH, OVER THE SANDWICHES AND
PATTIES, DOWN THE BANK AND INTO THE RIVER.]

She insisted on going home with him. All through the journey she
sustained the character of his faithful squaw. Then, leaving a casual
invitation to Robert and Ethel to come over to tea, she departed to
pack.

Mrs. Brown descended the stairs from William's room with a tray on which
reposed a half-empty bowl of gruel, and met Robert in the hall.

"Robert," she remonstrated, "you really needn't look so upset."

Robert glared at her and laughed a hollow laugh.

"Upset!" he echoed, outraged by the inadequacy of the expression. "You'd
be upset if your life was ruined. You'd be upset. I've a _right_ to be
upset."

He passed his hand desperately through his already ruffled hair.

"You're going there to tea," she reminded him.

"Yes," he said bitterly, "with other people. Who can talk with other
people there? No one can. I'd have talked to her on the river. I'd got
heaps of things ready in my mind to say. And William comes along and
spoils my whole life--and my bicycle. And she's the most beautiful girl
I've ever seen in my life. And I've wanted that bicycle for ever so
long and it's not fit to ride."

"But poor William has caught a very bad chill, dear, so you oughtn't to
feel bitter to him. And he'll have to pay for your bicycle being mended.
He'll have no pocket money till it's paid for."

"You'd think," said Robert with a despairing gesture in the direction of
the hall table and apparently addressing it, "you'd think four grown-up
people in a house could keep a boy of William's age in order, wouldn't
you? You'd think he wouldn't be allowed to go about spoiling people's
lives and--and ruining their bicycles. Well, he jolly well won't do it
again," he ended darkly.

Mrs. Brown, proceeded in the direction of the kitchen.

"Robert," she said soothingly over her shoulder, "you surely want to be
at peace with your little brother, when he's not well, don't you?"

"_Peace?_" he said. Robert turned his haggard countenance upon her as
though his ears must have deceived him. "_Peace!_ I'll wait. I'll wait
till he's all right and going about; I won't start till then.
But--peace! It's not peace, it's an _armistice_--that's all."

WILLIAM BELOW STAIRS

William was feeling embittered with life in general. He was passing
through one of his not infrequent periods of unpopularity. The climax
had come with the gift of sixpence bestowed on him by a timid aunt, who
hoped thus to purchase his goodwill. With the sixpence he had bought a
balloon adorned with the legs and head of a duck fashioned in cardboard.
This could be blown up to its fullest extent and then left to subside.
It took several minutes to subside, and during those minutes it emitted
a long-drawn-out and high-pitched groan. The advantage of this was
obvious. William could blow it up to its fullest extent in private and
leave it to subside in public concealed beneath his coat. While this was
going on William looked round as though in bewildered astonishment. He
inflated it before he went to breakfast. He then held it firmly and
secretly so as to keep it inflated till he was sitting at the table.
Then he let it subside. His mother knocked over a cup of coffee, and his
father cut himself with the bread knife. Ethel, his elder sister,
indulged in a mild form of nervous breakdown. William sat with a face of
startled innocence. But nothing enraged his family so much as William's
expression of innocence. They fell upon him, and he defended himself as
well as he could. Yes, he was holding the balloon under the table. Well,
he'd blown it up some time ago. He couldn't keep it blown up for ever.
He had to let the air out some time. He couldn't help it making a noise
when the air went out. It was the way it was made. He hadn't made it. He
set off to school with an air of injured innocence--and the balloon.
Observing an elderly and irascible-looking gentleman in front of him, he
went a few steps down a back street, blew up his balloon and held it
tightly under his coat. Then, when abreast of the old gentleman, he let
it off. The old gentleman gave a leap into the air and glared fiercely
around. He glanced at the small virtuous-looking schoolboy with
obviously no instrument of torture at his lips, and then concentrated
his glare of fury and suspicion on the upper windows. William hastened
on to the next pedestrian. He had quite a happy walk to school.

School was at first equally successful. William opened his desk, hastily
inflated his balloon, closed his desk, then gazed round with his
practised expression of horrified astonishment at what followed. He
drove the French master to distraction.

"Step out 'oo makes the noise," he screamed.

No one stepped out, and the noise continued at intervals.

The mathematics master finally discovered and confiscated the balloon.

"I hope," said the father at lunch, "that they've taken away that
infernal machine of yours."

William replied sadly that they had. He added that some people didn't
seem to think it was stealing to take other people's things.

"Then we may look forward to a little peace this evening?" said the
father politely. "Not that it matters to me, as I'm going out to dinner.
The only thing that relieves the tedium of going out to dinner is the
fact that for a short time one has a rest from William."

William acknowledged the compliment by a scowl and a mysterious muttered
remark to the effect that some people were always at him.

During preparation in afternoon school he read a story-book kindly lent
him by his next-door neighbour. It was not because he had no work to do
that William read a story-book in preparation. It was a mark of defiance
to the world in general. It was also a very interesting story-book. It
opened with the hero as a small boy misunderstood and ill-treated by
everyone around him. Then he ran away. He went to sea, and in a few
years made an immense fortune in the goldfields. He returned in the last
chapter and forgave his family and presented them with a noble mansion
and several shiploads of gold. The idea impressed William--all except
the end part. He thought he'd prefer to have the noble mansion himself
and pay rare visits to his family, during which he would listen to their
humble apologies, and perhaps give them a nugget or two, but not very
much--certainly not much to Ethel. He wasn't sure whether he'd ever
really forgive them. He'd have rooms full of squeaky balloons and
trumpets in his house anyway, and he'd keep caterpillars and white rats
all over the place too--things they made such a fuss about in their old
house--and he'd always go about in dirty boots, and he'd never brush his
hair or wash, and he'd keep dozens of motor-cars, and he wouldn't let
Ethel go out in any of them. He was roused from this enthralling
day-dream by the discovery and confiscation of his story-book by the
master in charge, and the subsequent fury of its owner. In order
adequately to express his annoyance, he dropped a little ball of
blotting-paper soaked in ink down William's back. William, on attempting
retaliation, was sentenced to stay in half an hour after school. He
returned gloomily to his history book (upside down) and his misanthropic
view of life. He compared himself bitterly with the hero of the
story-book and decided not to waste another moment of his life in
uncongenial surroundings. He made a firm determination to run away as
soon as he was released from school.

He walked briskly down the road away from the village. In his pocket
reposed the balloon. He had made the cheering discovery that the
mathematics master had left it on his desk, so he had joyfully taken it
again into his possession. He thought he might reach the coast before
night, and get to the goldfields before next week. He didn't suppose it
took long to make a fortune there. He might be back before next
Christmas and--crumbs! he'd jolly well make people sit up. He wouldn't
go to school, for one thing, and he'd be jolly careful who he gave
nuggets to for another. He'd give nuggets to the butcher's boy and the
postman, and the man who came to tune the piano, and the chimney-sweep.
He wouldn't give any to any of his family, or any of the masters at the
school. He'd just serve people out the way they served him. He just
would. The road to the coast seemed rather long, and he was growing
rather tired. He walked in a ditch for a change, and then scraped
through a hedge and took a short cut across a ploughed field. Dusk was
falling fast, and even William's buoyant spirits began to flag. The
fortune part was all very well, but in the meantime he was cold and
tired and hungry. He hadn't yet reached the coast, much less the
goldfields. Something must be done. He remembered that the boy in the
story had "begged his way" to the coast. William determined to beg his.
But at present there seemed nothing to beg it from, except a hawthorn
hedge and a scarecrow in the field behind it. He wandered on
disconsolately deciding to begin his career as a beggar at the first
sign of human habitation.

At last he discovered a pair of iron gates through the dusk and,
assuming an expression of patient suffering calculated to melt a heart
of stone, walked up the drive. At the front door he smoothed down his
hair (he had lost his cap on the way), pulled up his stockings, and rang
the bell. After an interval a stout gentleman in the garb of a butler
opened the door and glared ferociously up and down William.

"Please----" began William plaintively.

The stout gentleman interrupted.

"If you're the new Boots," he said majestically, "go round to the back
door. If you're not, go away."

[Illustration: "IF YOU'RE THE NEW BOOTS," HE SAID MAJESTICALLY, "GO
ROUND TO THE BACK DOOR."]

He then shut the door in William's face. William, on the top step,
considered the question for a few minutes. It was dark and cold, with
every prospect of becoming darker and colder. He decided to be the new
Boots. He found his way round to the back door and knocked firmly. It
was opened by a large woman in a print dress and apron.

"What y' want?" she said aggressively.

"He said," said William firmly, "to come round if I was the new Boots."

The woman surveyed him in grim disapproval.

"You bin round to the front?" she said. "Nerve!"

Her disapproval increased to suspicion.

"Where's your things?" she said.

"Comin'," said William without a moment's hesitation.

"Too tired to bring 'em with you?" she said sarcastically. "All right.
Come in!"

William came in gratefully. It was a large, warm, clean kitchen. A small
kitchen-maid was peeling potatoes at a sink, and a housemaid in black,
with a frilled cap and apron, was powdering her nose before a glass on
the wall. They both turned to stare at William.

"'Ere's the new Boots," announced Cook, "'is valet's bringin' 'is things
later."

The housemaid looked up William from his muddy boots to his untidy hair,
then down William from his untidy hair to his muddy boots.

"Imperdent-lookin' child," she commented haughtily, returning to her
task.

William decided inwardly that she was to have no share at all in the
nuggets.

The kitchen-maid giggled and winked at William, with obviously friendly
intent. William mentally promised her half a ship-load of nuggets.

"Now, then, Smutty," said the house-maid with out turning round, "none
of your sauce!"

"'Ad your tea?" said the cook to William. William's spirits rose.

"No," he said plaintively.

"All right. Sit down at the table."

William's spirits soared sky high.

He sat at the table and the cook put a large plate of bread and butter
before him.

William set to work at once. The house-maid regarded him scornfully.

"Learnt 'is way of eatin' at the Zoo," she said pityingly.

The kitchen-maid giggled again and gave William another wink. William
had given himself up to whole-hearted epicurean enjoying of his bread
and butter and took no notice of them. At this moment the butler
entered.

He subjected the quite unmoved William to another long survey.

"When next you come a-hentering of this 'ouse, my boy," he said, "kindly
remember that the front door is reserved for gentry an' the back for
brats."

William merely looked at him coldly over a hunk of bread and butter.
Mentally he knocked him off the list of nugget-receivers.

The butler looked sadly round the room.

"They're all the same," he lamented. "Eat, eat, eat. Nothin' but eat.
Eat all day an' eat all night. 'E's not bin in the 'ouse two minutes an'
'e's at it. Eat! eat! eat! 'E'll 'ave all the buttons bust off his
uniform in a week like wot the larst one 'ad. Like eatin' better than
workin', don't you?" he said sarcastically to William.

"Yes, I do, too," said William with firm conviction.

The kitchen-maid giggled again, and the housemaid gave a sigh expressive
of scorn and weariness as she drew a thin pencil over her eyebrows.

"Well, if you've quite finished, my lord," said the butler in ponderous
irony, "I'll show you to your room."

William indicated that he had quite finished, and was led up to a very
small bed-room. Over a chair lay a page's uniform with the conventional
row of brass buttons down the front of the coat.

"Togs," explained the butler briefly. "Your togs. Fix 'em on quick as
you can. There's company to dinner to-night."

William fixed them on.

"You're smaller than wot the last one was," said the butler critically.
"They 'ang a bit loose. Never mind. With a week or two of stuffin'
you'll 'ave most probable bust 'em, so it's as well to 'ang loose first.
Now, come on. 'Oo's bringing over your things?"

"E--a friend," explained William.

"I suppose it _is_ a bit too much to expeck you to carry your own
parcels," went on the butler, "in these 'ere days. Bloomin' Bolshevist,
I speck, aren't you?"

William condescended to explain himself.

"I'm a gold-digger," he said.

"Criky!" said the butler.

William was led down again to the kitchen.

The butler threw open a door that led to a small pantry.

"This 'ere is where you work, and this 'ere," pointing to a large
kitchen, "is where you live. You 'ave not," he ended haughtily "the
hentry into the servants' 'all."

"Crumbs!" said William.

"You might has well begin at once," went on the butler, "there's all
this lunch's knives to clean. 'Ere's a hapron, 'ere's the knife-board
an' 'ere's the knife-powder."

He shut the bewildered William into the small pantry and turned to the
cook.

"What do you think of 'im?" he said.

"'E looks," said the cook gloomily, "the sort of boy we'll 'ave trouble
with."

"Not much clarse," said the house-maid, arranging her frilled apron. "It
surprises me 'ow any creature like a boy can grow into an experienced,
sensible, broad-minded man like you, Mr. Biggs."

Mr. Biggs simpered and straightened his necktie.

"Well," he admitted, "as a boy, of course, I wasn't like 'im."

Here the pantry-door opened and William's face, plentifully adorned with
knife-powder came round.

"I've done some of the knives," he said, "shall I be doin' something
else and finish the others afterwards?"

"'Ow many 'ave you done?" said Mr. Biggs.

"One or two," said William vaguely, then with a concession to accuracy,
"well, two. But I'm feeling tired of doin' knives."

The kitchen-maid emitted a scream of delight and the cook heaved a deep
sigh.

The butler advanced slowly and majestically towards William's tousled
head, which was still craned around the pantry door.

"You'll finish them knives, my boy," he said, "or----"

William considered the weight and size of Mr. Biggs.

"All right," he said pacifically. "I'll finish the knives."

He disappeared, closing the pantry door behind him.

"'E's goin' to be a trile," said the cook, "an' no mistake."

"Trile's 'ardly the word," said Mr. Biggs.

"Haffliction," supplied the housemaid.

"That's more like it," said Mr. Biggs.

Here William's head appeared again.

"Wot time's supper?" he said.

He retired precipitately at a hysterical shriek from the kitchen-maid
and a roar of fury from the butler.

"You'd better go an' do your potatoes in the pantry," said the cook to
the kitchenmaid, "and let's 'ave a bit of peace in 'ere and see 'e's
doin' of 'is work all right."

The kitchenmaid departed joyfully to the pantry.

William was sitting by the table, idly toying with a knife. He had
experimented upon the knife powder by mixing it with water, and the
little brown pies that were the result lay in a row on the mantelpiece.
He had also tasted it, as the dark stains upon his lips testified. His
hair was standing straight up on his head as it always did when life was
strenuous. He began the conversation.

"You'd be surprised," he said, "if you knew what I really was."

She giggled.

"Go on!" she said. "What are you?"

"I'm a gold-digger," he said. "I've got ship-loads an' ship-loads of
gold. At least, I will have soon. I'm not goin' to give _him_," pointing
towards the door, "any, nor any of them in there."

"Wot about me?" said the kitchenmaid, winking at the cat as the only
third person to be let into the joke.

"You," said William graciously, "shall have a whole lot of nuggets. Look
here." With a princely flourish he took up a knife and cut off three
buttons from the middle of his coat and gave them to her. "You keep
those and they'll be kind of tokens. See? When I come home rich you show
me the buttons an' I'll remember and give you the nuggets. See? I'll
maybe marry you," he promised, "if I've not married anyone else."

The kitchenmaid put her head round the pantry door.

"'E's loony," she said. "It's lovely listening to 'im talkin.'"

Further conversation was prevented by the ringing of the front-door bell
and the arrival of the "company."

Mr. Biggs and the housemaid departed to do the honours. The kitchenmaid
ran to help with the dishing up, and William was left sitting on the
pantry table, idly making patterns in knife powder with his finger.

[Illustration: "I'M A GOLD DIGGER," SAID WILLIAM. "I'VE GOT SHIPLOADS
AN' SHIPLOADS OF GOLD. AT LEAST, I WILL HAVE SOON."]

"Wot was 'e doin'?" said the cook to the kitchenmaid.

"Nothin'--'cept talkin'," said the kitchenmaid. "'E's a cure, _'e_ is,"
she added.

"If you've finished the knives," called out the cook, "there's some
boots and shoes on the floor to be done. Brushes an' blacking on the
shelf."

William arose with alacrity. He thought boots would be more interesting
than knives. He carefully concealed the pile of uncleaned knives behind
the knife-box and began on the shoes.

The butler returned.

"Soup ready?" he said. "The company's just goin' into the dining-room--a
pal of the master's. Decent-lookin' bloke," he added patronisingly.

William, in his pantry, had covered a brush very thickly with blacking,
and was putting it in heavy layers on the boots and shoes. A large part
of it adhered to his own hands. The butler looked in at him.

"Wot's 'appened to your buttons?" he said sternly.

"Come off," said William.

"Bust off," corrected the butler. "I said so soon as I saw you. I said
you'd 'ave eat your buttons bust off in a week. Well, you've eat 'em
bust off in ten minutes."

"Eatin' an' destroyin' of 'is clothes," he said gloomily, returning to
the kitchen. "It's all boys ever do--eatin' an' destroyin' of their
clothes."

He went out with the soup and William was left with the boots. He was
getting tired of boots. He'd covered them all thickly with blacking, and
he didn't know what to do next. Then suddenly he remembered his balloon
in his pocket upstairs. It might serve to vary the monotony of life. He
slipped quietly upstairs for it, and then returned to his boots.

Soon Mr. Biggs and the housemaid returned with the empty soup-plates.
Then through the kitchen resounded a high-pitched squeal, dying away
slowly and shrilly.

The housemaid screamed.

"Lawks!" said the cook, "someone's atorchurin' of the poor cat to death.
It'll be that blessed boy."

The butler advanced manfully and opened the pantry door. William stood
holding in one hand an inflated balloon with the cardboard head and legs
of a duck.

The butler approached him.

"If you let off that there thing once more, you little varmint," he
said, "I'll----"

Threateningly he had advanced his large expanse of countenance very
close to William's. Acting upon a sudden uncontrollable impulse William
took up the brush thickly smeared with blacking and pushed back Mr.
Biggs's face with it.

There was a moment's silence of sheer horror, then Mr. Biggs hurled
himself furiously upon William....

In the dining-room sat the master and mistress of the house and their
guest.

"Did the new Boots arrive?" said the master to his wife.

[Illustration: WILLIAM TOOK UP THE BRUSH, THICKLY SMEARED WITH BLACKING,
AND PUSHED BACK MR. BIGGS'S FACE WITH IT.]

"Yes," she said.

"Any good?" he said.

"He doesn't seem to have impressed Biggs very favourably," she said,
"but they never do."

"The human boy," said the guest, "is given us as a discipline. I possess
one. Though he is my own son, I find it difficult to describe the
atmosphere of peace and relief that pervades the house when he is out of
it."

"I'd like to meet your son," said the host.

"You probably will, sooner or later," said the guest gloomily. "Everyone
in the neighbourhood meets him sooner or later. He does not hide his
light under a bushel. Personally, I prefer people who haven't met him.
They can't judge me by him."

At this moment the butler came in with a note.

"No answer," he said, and departed with his slow dignity.

"Excuse me," said the lady as she opened it, "it's from my sister. 'I
hope,' she read, 'that you aren't inconvenienced much by the non-arrival
of the Boots I engaged for you. He's got "flu."' But he's come," she
said wonderingly.

There came the sound of an angry shout, a distant scream and the
clattering of heavy running footsteps ... growing nearer....

"A revolution, I expect," said the guest wearily. "The Reds are upon
us."

At that moment the door was burst open and in rushed a boy with a
blacking brush in one hand and an inflated balloon in the other. He was
much dishevelled, with three buttons off the front of his uniform, and
his face streaked with knife powder and blacking. Behind him ran a fat
butler, his face purple with fury beneath a large smear of blacking. The
boy rushed round the table, slipped on the polished floor, clutched
desperately at the neck of the guest, bringing both guest and chair down
upon the floor beside him. In a sudden silence of utter paralysed
horror, guest and boy sat on the floor and stared at each other. Then
the boy's nerveless hand relaxed its hold upon the balloon, which had
somehow or other survived the vicissitudes of the flight, and a shrill
squeak rang through the silence of the room.

The master and mistress of the house sat looking round in dazed
astonishment.

As the guest looked at the boy there appeared on his countenance
amazement, then incredulity, and finally frozen horror. As the boy
looked at the guest there appeared on his countenance amazement, then
incredulity and finally blank dejection.

"Good Lord!" said the guest, "it's _William_!"

"Oh, crumbs!" said the Boots, "it's _father_!"

CHAPTER IV

THE FALL OF THE IDOL

William was bored. He sat at his desk in the sunny schoolroom and gazed
dispassionately at a row of figures on the blackboard.

"It isn't _sense_," he murmured scornfully.

Miss Drew was also bored, but, unlike William, she tried to hide the
fact.

"If the interest on a hundred pounds for one year is five pounds," she
said wearily, then, "William Brown, do sit up and don't look so stupid!"

William changed his position from that of lolling over one side of his
desk to that of lolling over the other, and began to justify himself.

"Well, I can't unner_stand_ any of it. It's enough to make anyone look
stupid when he can't unner_stand_ any of it. I can't think why people go
on givin' people bits of money for givin' 'em lots of money and go on
an' on doin' it. It dun't seem sense. Anyone's a mug for givin' anyone a
hundred pounds just 'cause he says he'll go on givin' him five pounds
and go on stickin' to his hundred pounds. How's he to _know_ he will?
Well," he warmed to his subject, "what's to stop him not givin' any five
pounds once he's got hold of the hundred pounds an' goin' on stickin'
to the hundred pounds----"

Miss Drew checked him by a slim, upraised hand.

"William," she said patiently, "just listen to me. Now suppose," her
eyes roved round the room and settled on a small red-haired boy,
"suppose that Eric wanted a hundred pounds for something and you lent it
to him----"

"I wun't lend Eric a hundred pounds," he said firmly, "'cause I ha'n't
got it. I've only got 3½d., an' I wun't lend that to Eric, 'cause I'm
not such a mug, 'cause I lent him my mouth-organ once an' he bit a bit
off an'----"

Miss Drew interrupted sharply. Teaching on a hot afternoon is rather
trying.

"You'd better stay in after school, William, and I'll explain."

William scowled, emitted his monosyllable of scornful disdain "Huh!" and
relapsed into gloom.

He brightened, however, on remembering a lizard he had caught on the way
to school, and drew it from its hiding-place in his pocket. But the
lizard had abandoned the unequal struggle for existence among the
stones, top, penknife, bits of putty, and other small objects that
inhabited William's pocket. The housing problem had been too much for
it.

William in disgust shrouded the remains in blotting paper, and disposed
of it in his neighbour's ink-pot. The neighbour protested and an
enlivening scrimmage ensued.

Finally the lizard was dropped down the neck of an inveterate enemy of
William's in the next row, and was extracted only with the help of
obliging friends. Threats of vengeance followed, couched in
blood-curdling terms, and written on blotting-paper.

Meanwhile Miss Drew explained Simple Practice to a small but earnest
coterie of admirers in the front row. And William, in the back row,
whiled away the hours for which his father paid the education
authorities a substantial sum.

But his turn was to come.

At the end of afternoon school one by one the class departed, leaving
William only nonchalantly chewing an india-rubber and glaring at Miss
Drew.

"Now, William."

Miss Drew was severely patient.

William went up to the platform and stood by her desk.

"You see, if someone borrows a hundred pounds from someone else----"

She wrote down the figures on a piece of paper, bending low over her
desk. The sun poured in through the window, showing the little golden
curls in the nape of her neck. She lifted to William eyes that were
stern and frowning, but blue as blue above flushed cheeks.

"Don't you _see_, William?" she said.

There was a faint perfume about her, and William the devil-may-care
pirate and robber-chief, the stern despiser of all things effeminate,
felt the first dart of the malicious blind god. He blushed and simpered.

"Yes, I see all about it now," he assured her. "You've explained it all
plain now. I cudn't unner_stand_ it before. It's a bit soft--in't
it--anyway, to go lending hundred pounds about just 'cause someone
says they'll give you five pounds next year. Some folks is mugs. But I
do unner_stand_ now. I cudn't unnerstand it before."

[Illustration: WILLIAM FELT THE FIRST DART OF THE LITTLE BLIND GOD. HE
BLUSHED AND SIMPERED.]

"You'd have found it simpler if you hadn't played with dead lizards all
the time," she said wearily, closing her books.

William gasped.

He went home her devoted slave. Certain members of the class always
deposited dainty bouquets on her desk in the morning. William was
determined to outshine the rest. He went into the garden with a large
basket and a pair of scissors the next morning before he set out for
school.

It happened that no one was about. He went first to the hothouse. It was
a riot of colour. He worked there with a thoroughness and concentration
worthy of a nobler cause. He came out staggering beneath a piled-up
basket of hothouse blooms. The hothouse itself was bare and desolate.

Hearing a sound in the back garden he hastily decided to delay no
longer, but to set out to school at once. He set out as unostentatiously
as possible.

Miss Drew, entering her class-room, was aghast to see instead of the
usual small array of buttonholes on her desk, a mass of already
withering hothouse flowers completely covering her desk and chair.

William was a boy who never did things by halves.

"Good Heavens!" she cried in consternation.

William blushed with pleasure.

He changed his seat to one in the front row. All that morning he sat,
his eyes fixed on her earnestly, dreaming of moments in which he
rescued her from robbers and pirates (here he was somewhat inconsistent
with his own favourite _rôle_ of robber-chief and pirate), and bore her
fainting in his strong arms to safety. Then she clung to him in love and
gratitude, and they were married at once by the Archbishops of
Canterbury and York.

William would have no half-measures. They were to be married by the
Archbishops of Canterbury and York, or else the Pope. He wasn't sure
that he wouldn't rather have the Pope. He would wear his black pirate
suit with the skull and cross-bones. No, that would not do----

"What have I just been saying, William?" said Miss Drew.

William coughed and gazed at her soulfully.

"'Bout lendin' money?" he said, hopefully.

"William!" she snapped. "This isn't an arithmetic lesson. I'm trying to
teach you about the Armada."

"Oh, _that_!" said William brightly and ingratiatingly. "Oh, yes."

"Tell me something about it."

"I don't _know_ anything--not jus' yet----"

"I've been _telling_ you about it. I do wish you'd listen," she said
despairingly.

William relapsed into silence, nonplussed, but by no means cowed.

When he reached home that evening he found that the garden was the scene
of excitement and hubbub. One policeman was measuring the panes of glass
in the conservatory door, and another was on his knees examining the
beds near. His grown-up sister, Ethel, was standing at the front door.

"Every single flower has been stolen from the conservatory some time
this morning," she said excitedly. "We've only just been able to get the
police. William, did you see any one about when you went to school this
morning?"

William pondered deeply. His most guileless and innocent expression came
to his face.

"No," he said at last. "No, Ethel, I didn't see nobody."

William coughed and discreetly withdrew.

That evening he settled down at the library table, spreading out his
books around him, a determined frown upon his small face.

His father was sitting in an armchair by the window reading the evening
paper.

"Father," said William suddenly, "s'pose I came to you an' said you was
to give me a hundred pounds an' I'd give you five pounds next year an'
so on, would you give it me?"

"I should not, my son," said his father firmly.

William sighed.

"I knew there was something wrong with it," he said.

Mr. Brown returned to the leading article, but not for long.

"Father, what was the date of the Armada?"

"Good Heavens! How should I know? I wasn't there."

William sighed.

"Well, I'm tryin' to write about it and why it failed an'--why did it
fail?"

Mr. Brown groaned, gathered up his paper, and retired to the
dining-room.

He had almost finished the leading article when William appeared, his
arms full of books, and sat down quietly at the table.

"Father, what's the French for 'my aunt is walking in the garden'?"

"What on earth are you doing?" said Mr. Brown irritably.

"I'm doing my home-lessons," said William virtuously.

"I never even knew you had the things to do."

"No," William admitted gently, "I don't generally take much bother over
them, but I'm goin' to now--'cause Miss Drew"--he blushed slightly and
paused--"'cause Miss Drew"--he blushed more deeply and began to stammer,
"'c--cause Miss Drew"--he was almost apoplectic.

Mr. Brown quietly gathered up his paper and crept out to the verandah,
where his wife sat with the week's mending.

"William's gone raving mad in the dining-room," he said pleasantly, as
he sat down. "Takes the form of a wild thirst for knowledge, and a
babbling of a Miss Drawing, or Drew, or something. He's best left
alone."

Mrs. Brown merely smiled placidly over the mending.

Mr. Brown had finished one leading article and begun another before
William appeared again. He stood in the doorway frowning and stern.

"Father, what's the capital of Holland?"

"Good Heavens!" said his father. "Buy him an encyclopedia. Anything,
anything. What does he think I am? What----"

"I'd better set apart a special room for his homework," said Mrs. Brown
soothingly, "now that he's beginning to take such an interest."

"A room!" echoed his father bitterly. "He wants a whole house."

Miss Drew was surprised and touched by William's earnestness and
attention the next day. At the end of the afternoon school he kindly
offered to carry her books home for her. He waved aside all protests. He
marched home by her side discoursing pleasantly, his small freckled face
beaming devotion.

"I like pirates, don't you, Miss Drew? An' robbers an' things like that?
Miss Drew, would you like to be married to a robber?"

He was trying to reconcile his old beloved dream of his future estate
with the new one of becoming Miss Drew's husband.

"No," she said firmly.

His heart sank.

"Nor a pirate?" he said sadly.

"No."

"They're quite nice really--pirates," he assured her.

"I think not."

"Well," he said resignedly, "we'll jus' have to go huntin' wild animals
and things. That'll be all right."

"Who?" she said, bewildered.

"Well--jus' you wait," he said darkly.

Then: "Would you rather be married by the Archbishop of York or the
Pope?"

"The Archbishop, I think," she said gravely.

He nodded.

"All right."

She was distinctly amused. She was less amused the next evening. Miss
Drew had a male cousin--a very nice-looking male cousin, with whom she
often went for walks in the evening. This evening, by chance, they
passed William's house, and William, who was in the garden, threw aside
his temporary _rôle_ of pirate and joined them. He trotted happily on
the other side of Miss Drew. He entirely monopolised the conversation.
The male cousin seemed to encourage him, and this annoyed Miss Drew. He
refused to depart in spite of Miss Drew's strong hints. He had various
items of interest to impart, and he imparted them with the air of one
assured of an appreciative hearing. He had found a dead rat the day
before and given it to his dog, but his dog didn't like 'em dead and
neither did the ole cat, so he'd buried it. Did Miss Drew like all those
flowers he'd got her the other day? He was afraid that he cudn't bring
any more like that jus' yet. Were there pirates now? Well, what would
folks do to one if there was one? He din't see why there shun't be
pirates now. He thought he'd start it, anyway. He'd like to shoot a
lion. He was goin' to one day. He'd shoot a lion an' a tiger. He'd bring
the skin home to Miss Drew, if she liked. He grew recklessly generous.
He'd bring home lots of skins of all sorts of animals for Miss Drew.

"Don't you think you ought to be going home, William?" said Miss Drew
coldly.

William hastened to reassure her.

[Illustration: WILLIAM HAD VARIOUS ITEMS OF INTEREST TO IMPART, AND HE
IMPARTED THEM WITH THE AIR OF ONE ASSURED OF AN APPRECIATIVE HEARING.]

"Oh, no--not for ever so long yet," he said.

"Isn't it your bed-time?"

"Oh, no--not yet--not for ever so long."

The male cousin was giving William his whole attention.

"What does Miss Drew teach you at school, William?" he said.

"Oh, jus' ornery things. Armadas an' things. An' 'bout lending a hundred
pounds. That's a norful _soft_ thing. I unner_stand_ it," he added
hastily, fearing further explanation, "but it's _soft_. My father thinks
it is, too, an' he oughter _know_. He's bin abroad lots of times. He's
bin chased by a bull, my father has----"

The shades of night were falling fast when William reached Miss Drew's
house still discoursing volubly. He was drunk with success. He
interpreted his idol's silence as the silence of rapt admiration.

He was passing through the gate with his two companions with the air of
one assured of welcome, when Miss Drew shut the gate upon him firmly.

"You'd better go home now, William," she said.

William hesitated.

"I don't mind comin' in a bit," he said. "I'm not tired."

But Miss Drew and the male cousin were already half-way up the walk.

William turned his steps homeward. He met Ethel near the gate.

"William, where _have_ you been? I've been looking for you everywhere.
It's _hours_ past your bed-time."

"I was goin' a walk with Miss Drew."

"But you should have come home at your bed-time."

"I don't think she wanted me to go," he said with dignity. "I think it
wun't of bin p'lite."

William found that a new and serious element had entered his life. It
was not without its disadvantages. Many had been the little diversions
by which William had been wont to while away the hours of instruction.
In spite of his devotion to Miss Drew, he missed the old days of
care-free exuberance, but he kept his new seat in the front row, and
clung to his _rôle_ of earnest student. He was beginning to find also,
that a conscientious performance of home lessons limited his activities
after school hours, but at present he hugged his chains. Miss Drew, from
her seat on the platform, found William's soulful concentrated gaze
somewhat embarrassing, and his questions even more so.

As he went out of school he heard her talking to another mistress.

"I'm very fond of syringa," she was saying. "I'd love to have some."

William decided to bring her syringa, handfuls of syringa, armfuls of
syringa.

He went straight home to the gardener.

"No, I ain't got no syringa. Please step off my rose-bed, Mister
William. No, there ain't any syringa in this 'ere garding. I dunno for
why. Please leave my 'ose pipe alone, Mister William."

"Huh!" ejaculated William, scornfully turning away.

He went round the garden. The gardener had been quite right. There were
guelder roses everywhere, but no syringa.

He climbed the fence and surveyed the next garden. There were guelder
roses everywhere, but no syringa. It must have been some peculiarity in
the soil.

William strolled down the road, scanning the gardens as he went. All had
guelder roses. None had syringa.

Suddenly he stopped.

On a table in the window of a small house at the bottom of the road was
a vase of syringa. He did not know who lived there. He entered the
garden cautiously. No one was about.

He looked into the room. It was empty. The window was open at the
bottom.

He scrambled in, removing several layers of white paint from the
window-sill as he did so. He was determined to have that syringa. He
took it dripping from the vase, and was preparing to depart, when the
door opened and a fat woman appeared upon the threshold. The scream that
she emitted at sight of William curdled the very blood in his veins. She
dashed to the window, and William, in self-defence, dodged round the
table and out of the door. The back door was open, and William blindly
fled by it. The fat woman did not pursue. She was leaning out of the
window, and her shrieks rent the air.

"Police! Help! Murder! Robbers!"

The quiet little street rang with the raucous sounds.

William felt cold shivers creeping up and down his spine. He was in a
small back garden from which he could see no exit.

Meanwhile the shrieks were redoubled.

[Illustration: THE DOOR OPENED AND A FAT WOMAN APPEARED ON THE
THRESHOLD.]

"Help! _Help!_ _Help!_"

Then came sounds of the front-door opening and men's voices.

"Hello! Who is it? What is it?"

William glared round wildly. There was a hen-house in the corner of the
garden, and into this he dashed, tearing open the door and plunging
through a mass of flying feathers and angry, disturbed hens.

William crouched in a corner of the dark hen-house determinedly
clutching his bunch of syringa.

Distant voices were at first all he could hear. Then they came nearer,
and he heard the fat lady's voice loudly declaiming.

"He was quite a small man, but with such an evil face. I just had one
glimpse of him as he dashed past me. I'm sure he'd have murdered me if I
hadn't cried for help. Oh, the coward! And a poor defenceless woman! He
was standing by the silver table. I disturbed him at his work of crime.
I feel so upset. I shan't sleep for nights. I shall see his evil,
murderous face. And a poor unarmed woman!"

"Can you give us no details, madam?" said a man's voice. "Could you
recognise him again?"

"_Anywhere!_" she said firmly. "Such a criminal face. You've no idea how
upset I am. I might have been a lifeless corpse now, if I hadn't had the
courage to cry for help."

"We're measuring the footprints, madam. You say he went out by the front
door?"

"I'm convinced he did. I'm convinced he's hiding in the bushes by the
gate. Such a low face. My nerves are absolutely jarred."

"We'll search the bushes again, madam," said the other voice wearily,
"but I expect he has escaped by now."

"The brute!" said the fat lady. "Oh, the _brute_! And that _face_. If I
hadn't had the courage to cry out----"

The voices died away and William was left alone in a corner of the
hen-house.

A white hen appeared in the little doorway, squawked at him angrily, and
retired, cackling indignation. Visions of life-long penal servitude or
hanging passed before William's eyes. He'd rather be executed, really.
He hoped they'd execute him.

Then he heard the fat lady bidding good-bye to the policeman. Then she
came to the back garden evidently with a friend, and continued to pour
forth her troubles.

"And he _dashed_ past me, dear. Quite a small man, but with such an evil
face."

A black hen appeared in the little doorway, and with an angry squawk at
William, returned to the back garden.

"I think you're _splendid_, dear," said the invisible friend. "How you
had the _courage_."

The white hen gave a sardonic scream.

"You'd better come in and rest, darling," said the friend.

"I'd better," said the fat lady in a plaintive, suffering voice. "I do
feel very ... shaken...."

Their voices ceased, the door was closed, and all was still.

Cautiously, very cautiously, a much-dishevelled William crept from the
hen-house and round the side of the house. Here he found a locked
side-gate over which he climbed, and very quietly he glided down to the
front gate and to the road.

"Where's William this evening?" said Mrs. Brown. "I do hope he won't
stay out after his bed-time."

"Oh, I've just met him," said Ethel. "He was going up to his bedroom. He
was covered with hen feathers and holding a bunch of syringa."

"Mad!" sighed his father. "Mad! mad! mad!"

The next morning William laid a bunch of syringa upon Miss Drew's desk.
He performed the offering with an air of quiet, manly pride. Miss Drew
recoiled.

"_Not_ syringa, William. I simply can't _bear_ the smell!"

William gazed at her in silent astonishment for a few moments.

Then: "But you _said_ ... you _said_ ... you said you were fond of
syringa an' that you'd like to have them."

"Did I say syringa?" said Miss Drew vaguely. "I meant guelder roses."

William's gaze was one of stony contempt.

He went slowly back to his old seat at the back of the room.

That evening he made a bonfire with several choice friends, and played
Red Indians in the garden. There was a certain thrill in returning to
the old life.

"Hello!" said his father, encountering William creeping on all fours
among the bushes. "I thought you did home lessons now?"

William arose to an upright position.

"I'm not goin' to take much bother over 'em now," said William. "Miss
Drew, she can't talk straight. She dunno what she _means_."

"That's always the trouble with women," agreed his father. "William says
his idol has feet of clay," he said to his wife, who had approached.

"I dunno as she's got feet of clay," said William, the literal. "All I
say is she can't talk straight. I took no end of trouble an' she dunno
what she means. I think her feet's all right. She walks all right.
'Sides, when they make folks false feet, they make 'em of wood, not
clay."

CHAPTER V

THE SHOW

The Outlaws sat around the old barn, plunged in deep thought. Henry, the
oldest member (aged 12¼) had said in a moment of inspiration:

"Let's think of--sumthin' else to do--sumthin' quite fresh from what
we've ever done before."

And the Outlaws were thinking.

They had engaged in mortal combat with one another, they had cooked
strange ingredients over a smoking and reluctant flame with a fine
disregard of culinary conventions, they had tracked each other over the
country-side with gait and complexions intended to represent those of
the aborigines of South America, they had even turned their attention to
kidnapping (without any striking success), and these occupations had
palled.

In all its activities the Society of Outlaws (comprising four members)
aimed at a simple, unostentatious mode of procedure. In their shrinking
from the glare of publicity they showed an example of unaffected modesty
that many other public societies might profitably emulate. The parents
of the members were unaware of the very existence of the society. The
ill-timed and tactless interference of parents had nipped in the bud
many a cherished plan, and by bitter experience the Outlaws had learnt
that secrecy was their only protection. Owing to the rules and
restrictions of an unsympathetic world that orders school hours from 9
to 4 their meetings were confined to half-holidays and occasionally
Sunday afternoons.

William, the ever ingenious, made the first suggestion.

"Let's shoot things with bows an' arrows same as real outlaws used to,"
he said.

"What things?" and

"What bows an' arrows?" said Henry and Ginger simultaneously.

"Oh, anything--birds an' cats an' hens an' things--an' buy bows an'
arrows. You can buy them in shops."

"We can make them," said Douglas, hopefully.

"Not like you can get them in shops. They'd shoot crooked or sumthin' if
we made them. They've got to be jus' so to shoot straight. I saw some in
Brook's window, too, jus' right--jus' same as real outlaws had."

"How much?" said the outlaws breathlessly.

"Five shillings--targets for learnin' on before we begin shootin' real
things an' all."

"Five shillings!" breathed Douglas. He might as well have said five
pounds. "We've not got five shillings. Henry's not having any money
since he broke their drawing-room window an' Ginger only has 3_d._ a
week an' has to give collection an' we've not paid for the guinea pig
yet, the one that got into Ginger's sister's hat an' she was so mad at,
an'----"

"Oh, never mind all that," said William, scornfully. "We'll jus' get
five shillings."

"How?"

"Well," uncertainly, "grown-ups can always get money when they want it."

"How?" again.

William disliked being tied down to details.

"Oh--bazaars an' things," impatiently.

"Bazaars!" exploded Henry. "Who'd come to a bazaar if we had one? Who
would? Jus' tell me that if you're so clever! Who'd come to it? Besides,
you've got to sell things at a bazaar, haven't you? What'd we sell?
We've got nothin' to sell, have we? What's the good of havin' a bazaar
with nothin' to sell and no one to buy it? Jus' tell me that!"

Henry always enjoyed scoring off William.

"Well--shows an' things," said William desperately.

There was a moment's silence, then Ginger repeated thoughtfully.
"Shows!" and Douglas, whose eldest brother was home from college for his
vacation, murmured self-consciously, "By Jove!"

"We _could_ do a show," said Ginger. "Get animals an' things an' charge
money for lookin' at them."

"Who'd pay it?" said Henry, the doubter.

"Anyone would. You'd pay to see animals, wouldn't you?--real animals.
People do at the Zoo, don't they? Well, we'll get some animals. That's
easy enough, isn't it?"

A neighbouring church clock struck four and the meeting was adjourned.

"Well, we'll have a show an' get money and buy bows an' arrows an' shoot
things," summed up William, "an we'll arrange the show next week."

William returned home slowly and thoughtfully. He sat on his bed, his
hands in his pockets, his brow drawn into a frown, his thoughts
wandering in a dreamland of wonderful "shows" and rare exotic beasts.

Suddenly from the next room came a thin sound that gathered volume till
it seemed to fill the house like the roaring of a lion, then died
gradually away and was followed by silence. But only for a second. It
began again--a small whisper that grew louder and louder, became a
raucous bellow, then faded slowly away to rise again after a moment's
silence. In the next room William's mother's Aunt Emily was taking her
afternoon nap. Aunt Emily had come down a month ago for a week's visit
and had not yet referred to the date of her departure. William's father
was growing anxious. She was a stout, healthy lady, who spent all her
time recovering from a slight illness she had had two years ago. Her
life held two occupations, and only two. These were eating and sleeping.
For William she possessed a subtle but irresistible fascination. Her
stature, her appetite, her gloom, added to the fact that she utterly
ignored him, attracted him strongly.

The tea bell rang and the sound of the snoring ceased abruptly. This
entertainment over, William descended to the dining-room, where his
father was addressing his mother with some heat.

"Is she going to stay here for ever, or only for a few years? I'd like
to know, because----"

Perceiving William, he stopped abruptly, and William's mother murmured:

"It's so nice to have her, dear."

Then Aunt Emily entered.

"Have you slept well, Aunt?"

"Slept!" repeated Aunt Emily majestically. "I hardly expect to sleep in
my state of health. A little rest is all I can expect."

"Sorry you're no better," said William's father sardonically.

"_Better?_" she repeated again indignantly. "It will be a long time
before I'm better."

She lowered her large, healthy frame into a chair, carefully selected a
substantial piece of bread and butter and attacked it with vigour.

"I'm going to the post after tea," said William's mother. "Would you
care to come with me?"

Aunt Emily took a large helping of jam.

"You hardly expect me to go out in the evening in my state of health,
surely? It's years since I went out after tea. And I was at the post
office this morning. There were a lot of people there, but they served
me first. I suppose they saw I looked ill."

William's father choked suddenly and apologised, but not humbly.

"Though I must say," went on Aunt Emily, "this place does suit me. I
think after a few months here I should be a little stronger. Pass the
jam, William."

The glance that William's father fixed upon her would have made a
stronger woman quail, but Aunt Emily was scraping out the last remnants
of jam and did not notice.

"I'm a bit over-tired to-day, I think," she went on. "I'm so apt to
forget how weak I am and then I overdo it. I'm ready for the cake,
William. I just sat out in the sun yesterday afternoon and sat a bit too
long and over-tired myself. I ought to write letters after tea, but I
don't think I have the strength. Another piece of cake, William. I'll go
upstairs to rest instead, I think. I hope you'll keep the house quiet.
It's so rarely that I can get a bit of sleep."

William's father left the room abruptly. William sat on and watched,
with fascinated eyes, the cake disappear, and finally followed the
large, portly figure upstairs and sat down in his room to plan the
"show" and incidentally listen, with a certain thrilled awe, for the
sounds from next door.

The place and time of the "show" presented no little difficulty. To hold
it in the old barn would give away to the world the cherished secret of
their meeting place. It was William who suggested his bedroom, to be
entered, not by way of the front door and staircase, but by the less
public way of the garden wall and scullery roof. Ever an optimist, he
affirmed that no one would see or hear. The choice of a time was limited
to Wednesday afternoon, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday. Sunday at first
was ruled out as impossible. But there were difficulties about Wednesday
afternoon and Saturday afternoon. On Wednesday afternoon Ginger and
Douglas were unwilling and ungraceful pupils at a dancing class. On
Saturday afternoon William's father gardened and would command a view of
the garden wall and scullery roof. On these afternoons also Cook and
Emma, both of a suspicious turn of mind, would be at large. On Sunday
Cook and Emma went out, William's mother paid a regular weekly visit to
an old friend and William's father spent the afternoon on the sofa, dead
to the world.

Moreover, as he pointed out to the Outlaws, the members of the Sunday
School could be waylaid and induced to attend the show and they would
probably be provided with money for collection. The more William thought
over it, the more attractive became the idea of a Sunday afternoon in
spite of superficial difficulties; therefore Sunday afternoon was
finally chosen.

The day was fortunately a fine one, and William and the other Outlaws
were at work early. William had asked his mother, with an expression of
meekness and virtue that ought to have warned her of danger, if he might
have "jus' a few friends" in his room for the afternoon. His mother,
glad that her husband should be spared his son's restless company, gave
willing permission.

By half-past two the exhibits were ready. In a cage by the window sat a
white rat painted in faint alternate stripes of blue and pink. This was
Douglas' contribution, handpainted by himself in water colours. It wore
a bewildered expression and occasionally licked its stripes and then
obviously wished it hadn't. Its cage bore a notice printed on cardboard:

    +-------------------+
    |  RAT FROM CHINA   |
    | RATS ARE ALL LIKE |
    |   THIS IN CHINA   |
    +-------------------+

Next came a cat belonging to William's sister, Smuts by name, now
imprisoned beneath a basket-chair. At the best of times Smuts was
short-tempered, and all its life had cherished a bitter hatred of
William. Now, enclosed by its enemy in a prison two feet square, its
fury knew no bounds. It tore at the basket work, it flew wildly round
and round, scratching, spitting, swearing. Its chair bore the simple and
appropriate notice:

    +----------+
    | WILD CAT |
    +----------+

William watched it with honest pride and prayed fervently that its
indignation would not abate during the afternoon.

Next came a giant composed of Douglas upon Ginger's back, draped in two
sheets tied tightly round Douglas's neck. This was labelled:

    +--------------+
    | GENWIN GIANT |
    +--------------+

Ginger was already growing restive. His muffled voice was heard from the
folds of the sheets informing the other Outlaws that it was a bit thick
and he hadn't known it would be like this or he wouldn't have done it,
and anyway he was going to change with Douglas half time or he'd chuck
up the whole thing.

The next exhibit was a black fox fur of William's mother's, to which was
fortunately attached a head and several feet, and which he had
surreptitiously removed from her wardrobe. This had been tied up,
stuffed with waste paper and wired by William till it was, in his eyes,
remarkably lifelike. As the legs, even with the assistance of wire,
refused to support the body and the head would only droop sadly to the
ground, it was perforce exhibited in a recumbent attitude. It bore marks
of sticky fingers, and of several side slips of the scissors when
William was cutting the wire, but on the whole he was justly proud of
it. It bore the striking but untruthful legend:--

    +------------+
    |  BEAR SHOT |
    | BY OUTLAWS |
    |  IN RUSHER |
    +------------+

Next came:

    +------------+
    |  BLUE DOG  |
    +------------+

This was Henry's fox terrier, generally known as Chips. For Chips the
world was very black. Henry's master mind had scorned his paint box and
his water colours. Henry had "borrowed" a blue bag and dabbed it
liberally over Chips. Chips had, after the first wild frenzied struggle,
offered no resistance. He now sat, a picture of black despair, turning
every now and then a melancholy eye upon the still enraged Smuts. But
for him cats and joy and life and fighting were no more. He was abject,
shamed--a blue dog.

William himself, as showman, was an imposing figure. He was robed in a
red dressing-gown of his father's that trailed on the ground behind him
and over whose cords in front he stumbled ungracefully as he walked. He
had cut a few strands from the fringe of a rug and glued them to his
lips to represent moustaches. They fell in two straight lines over his
mouth. On his head was a tinsel crown, once worn by his sister as Fairy
Queen.

The show had been widely advertised and all the neighbouring children
had been individually canvassed, but under strict orders of secrecy. The
threats of what the Outlaws would do if their secret were disclosed had
kept many a child awake at night.

William surveyed the room proudly.

"Not a bad show for a penny, I _should_ say. I guess there aren't many
like it, anyway. Do shut up talkin', Ginger. It'll spoil it all, if
folks hear the giant talking out of his stomach. It's Douglas that's got
to do the giant's _talking_. Anyone could see that. I say, they're
comin'! Look! They're comin'! Along the wall!"

There was a thin line of children climbing along the wall in single file
on all fours. They ascended the scullery roof and approached the window.
These were the first arrivals who had called on their way to Sunday
School.

Henry took their pennies and William cleared his throat and began:--

"White rat from China, ladies an' gentlemen, pink an' blue striped. All
rats is pink an' blue striped in China. This is the only genwin China
rat in England--brought over from China special las' week jus' for the
show. It lives on China bread an' butter brought over special, too."

[Illustration: WILLIAM WAS AN IMPOSING FIGURE.]

"Wash it!" jeered an unbeliever. "Jus' wash it an' let's see it then."

"Wash it?" repeated the showman indignantly. "It's gotter be washed.
It's washed every morning an' night same as you or me. China rats have
gotter be washed or they'd die right off. Washin' 'em don't make no
difference to their stripes. Anyone knows that that knows anything about
China rats, I guess."

He laughed scornfully and turned to Smuts. Smuts had grown used to the
basket chair and was settling down for a nap. William crouched down on
all fours, ran his fingers along the basket-work, and, putting his face
close to it, gave vent to a malicious howl. Smuts sprang at him,
scratching and spitting.

"Wild cat," said William triumphantly. "Look at it! Kill anyone if it
got out! Spring at their throats, it would, an' scratch their eyes out
with its paws an' bite their necks till its teeth met. If I jus' moved
away that chair it would spring out at you." They moved hastily away
from the chair, "and I bet some of you would be dead pretty quick. It
could have anyone's head right off with bitin' and scratchin'. Right
off--separate from their bodies!"

There was an awe-stricken silence.

Then:

"Garn! It's Smuts. It's your sister's cat!"

William laughed as though vastly amused by this idea.

"Smuts!" he said, giving a surreptitious kick to the chair that
infuriated its occupant still more. "I guess there wouldn't be many of
us left in this house if Smuts was like this."

They passed on to the giant.

"A giant," said William, re-arranging the tinsel crown, which was
slightly too big for him. "Real giant. Look at it. As big as two of you
put together. How d'you think he gets in at doors and things? Has to
have everything made special. Look at him walk. Walk, Ginger."

Ginger took two steps forward. Douglas clutched his shoulders and
murmured anxiously, "By Jove!"

"Go on," urged William scornfully, "That's not walkin'."

The goaded Ginger's voice came from the giant's middle regions!

"If you go on talkin' at me, I'll drop him. I'm just about sick of it."

"All right," said William hastily.

"Anyway it's a giant," he went on to his audience. "A jolly fine giant."

"It's got Douglas's face," said one of his audience.

William was for a moment at a loss.

"Well," he said at last, "giant's got to have some sort of a face,
hasn't it? Can't not have a face, can it?"

The Russian Bear, which had often been seen adorning the shoulders of
William's mother and was promptly recognised, was greeted with ribald
jeers, but there was no doubt as to the success of the Blue Dog. Chips
advanced deprecatingly, blue head drooping, and blue tail between blue
legs, making abject apologies for his horrible condition. But Henry
had done his work well. They stood around in rapt admiration.

[Illustration: THE GOADED GINGER'S VOICE CAME FROM THE GIANT'S MIDDLE
REGIONS.]

"Blue dog," said the showman, walking forward proudly and stumbling
violently over the cords of the dressing gown. "Blue dog," he repeated,
recovering his balance and removing the tinsel crown from his nose to
his brow. "You never saw a blue dog before, did you? No, and you aren't
likely to see one again, neither. It was made blue special for this
show. It's the only blue dog in the world. Folks'll be comin' from all
over the world to see this blue dog--an' thrown in in a penny show! If
it was in the Zoo you'd have to pay a shilling to see it, I bet.
It's--it's jus' luck for you it's here. I guess the folks at the Zoo
wish they'd got it. Tain't many shows have blue dogs. Brown an' black
an' white--but not blue. Why, folks pay money jus' to see shows of
ornery dogs--so you're jus' lucky to see a blue dog _an'_ a dead bear
from Russia _an'_ a giant, _an'_ a wild cat, _an'_ a China rat for jus'
one penny."

After each speech William had to remove from his mouth the rug fringe
which persisted in obeying the force of gravity rather than William's
idea of what a moustache should be.

"It's jus' paint. Henry's gate's being painted blue," said one critic
feebly, but on the whole the Outlaws had scored a distinct success in
the blue dog.

Then, while they stood in silent admiration round the unhappy animal,
came a sound from the next door, a gentle sound like the sighing of the
wind through the trees. It rose and fell. It rose again and fell again.
It increased in volume with each repetition, till at its height it
sounded like a wild animal in pain.

"What's that?" asked the audience breathlessly.

William was slightly uneasy. He was not sure whether this fresh
development would add lustre or dishonour to his show.

"Yes," he said darkly to gain time, "what is it? I guess you'd like to
know what it is!"

"Garn! It's jus' snorin'."

"Snorin'!" repeated William. "It's not ornery snorin', that isn't. Jus'
listen, that's all! You couldn't snore like that, I bet. Huh!"

They listened spellbound to the gentle sound, growing louder and louder
till at its loudest it brought rapt smiles to their faces, then ceasing
abruptly, then silence. Then again the gentle sound that grew and grew.

William asked Henry in a stage whisper if they oughtn't to charge extra
for listening to it. The audience hastily explained that they weren't
listening, they "jus' couldn't help hearin'."

A second batch of sightseers had arrived and were paying their entrance
pennies, but the first batch refused to move. William, emboldened by
success, opened the door and they crept out to the landing and listened
with ears pressed to the magic door.

Henry now did the honours of showman. William stood, majestic in his
glorious apparel, deep in thought. Then to his face came the faint smile
that inspiration brings to her votaries. He ordered the audience back
into the showroom and shut the door. Then he took off his shoes and
softly and with bated breath opened Aunt Emily's door and peeped
within. It was rather a close afternoon, and she lay on her bed on the
top of her eiderdown. She had slipped off her dress skirt so as not to
crush it, and she lay in her immense stature in a blouse and striped
petticoat, while from her open mouth issued the fascinating sounds. In
sleep Aunt Emily was not beautiful.

William thoughtfully propped up a cushion in the doorway and stood
considering the situation.

In a few minutes the showroom was filled with a silent, expectant crowd.
In a corner near the door was a new notice:

    +----------------------+
    |   PLACE FOR TAKING   |
    | OFF SHOES AND TAKING |
    |    OTH OF SILENCE    |
    +----------------------+

William, after administering the oath of silence to a select party in
his most impressive manner led them shoeless and on tiptoe to the next
room.

From Aunt Emily's bed hung another notice:

    +------------------+
    |  FAT WILD WOMAN  |
    |   TORKIN NATIF   |
    |    LANGWIDGE     |
    +------------------+

They stood in a hushed, delighted group around her bed. The sounds never
ceased, never abated. William only allowed them two minutes in the room.
They came out reluctantly, paid more money, joined the end of the queue
and re-entered. More and more children came to see the show, but the
show now consisted solely in Aunt Emily.

The China rat had licked off all its stripes; Smuts was fast asleep;
Ginger was sitting down on the seat of a chair and Douglas on the back
of it, and Ginger had insisted at last on air and sight and had put his
head out where the two sheets joined; the Russian Bear had fallen on to
the floor and no one had picked it up; Chips lay in a disconsolate heap,
a victim of acute melancholia--and no one cared for any of these things.
New-comers passed by them hurriedly and stood shoeless in the queue
outside Aunt Emily's room eagerly awaiting their turn. Those who came
out simply went to the end again to wait another turn. Many returned
home for more money, for Aunt Emily was 1d. extra and each visit after
the first, ½d. The Sunday School bell pealed forth its summons, but no
one left the show. The vicar was depressed that evening. The attendance
at Sunday School had been the worst on record. And still Aunt Emily
slept and snored with a rapt, silent crowd around her. But William could
never rest content. He possessed ambition that would have put many of
his elders to shame. He cleared the room and re-opened it after a few
minutes, during which his clients waited in breathless suspense.

When they re-entered there was a fresh exhibit. William's keen eye had
been searching out each detail of the room. On the table by her bed now
stood a glass containing teeth, that William had discovered on the
washstand, and a switch of hair and a toothless comb, that William had
discovered on the dressing-table. These all bore notices:

    +----------+   +----------+   +----------+
    | FAT WILD |   | FAT WILD |   | FAT WILD |
    |  WOMAN'S |   |  WOMAN'S |   |  WOMAN'S |
    |  TEETH   |   |   HARE   |   |   KOME   |
    +----------+   +----------+   +----------+

Were it not that the slightest noise meant instant expulsion from the
show (some of their number had already suffered that bitter fate) there
would have been no restraining the audience. As it was, they crept in,
silent, expectant, thrilled, to watch and listen for the blissful two
minutes. And Aunt Emily never failed them. Still she slept and snored.
They borrowed money recklessly from each other. The poor sold their
dearest treasures to the rich, and still they came again and again. And
still Aunt Emily slept and snored. It would be interesting to know how
long this would have gone on, had she not, on the top note of a peal
that was a pure delight to her audience, awakened with a start and
glanced around her. At first she thought that the cluster of small boys
around her was a dream, especially as they turned and fled precipitately
at once. Then she sat up and her eye fell upon the table by her bed, the
notices, and finally upon the petrified horror-stricken showman. She
sprang up and, seizing him by the shoulders, shook him till his teeth
chattered, the tinsel crown fell down, encircling ears and nose, and one
of his moustaches fell limply at his feet.

"You wicked boy!" she said as she shook him, "you _wicked_, _wicked_,
_wicked_ boy!"

He escaped from her grasp and fled to the showroom, where, in sheer
self-defence, he moved a table and three chairs across the door. The
room was empty except for Henry, the blue dog, and the still sleeping
Smuts. All that was left of the giant was the crumpled sheets. Douglas
had, with an awe-stricken "By Jove!" snatched up his rat as he fled. The
last of their clients was seen scrambling along the top of the garden
wall on all fours with all possible speed.

Mechanically William straightened his crown.

"She's woke," he said. "She's mad wild."

He listened apprehensively for angry footsteps descending the stairs and
his father's dread summons, but none came. Aunt Emily could be heard
moving about in her room, but that was all. A wild hope came to him
that, given a little time, she might forget the incident.

"Let's count the money--" said Henry at last.

They counted.

"Four an' six!" screamed William. "Four an' six! Jolly good, I _should_
say! An' it would only have been about two shillings without Aunt Emily,
an' I thought of her, didn't I? I guess you can all be jolly grateful to
me."

"All right," said Henry unkindly. "I'm not envying you, am I? You're
welcome to it when she tells your father."

And William's proud spirits dropped.

Then came the opening of the fateful door and heavy steps descending the
stairs.

William's mother had returned from her weekly visit to her friend. She
was placing her umbrella in the stand as Aunt Emily, hatted and coated
and carrying a bag, descended. William's father had just awakened from
his peaceful Sunday afternoon slumber, and, hearing his wife, had come
into the hall.

Aunt Emily fixed her eye upon him.

"Will you be good enough to procure a conveyance?" she said. "After the
indignities to which I have been subjected in this house I refuse to
remain in it a moment longer."

Quivering with indignation she gave details of the indignities to which
she had been subjected. William's mother pleaded, apologised, coaxed.
William's father went quietly out to procure a conveyance. When he
returned she was still talking in the hall.

"A crowd of vulgar little boys," she was saying, "and horrible indecent
placards all over the room."

He carried her bag down to the cab.

"And me in my state of health," she said as she followed him. From the
cab she gave her parting shot.

"And if this horrible thing hadn't happened, I might have stayed with
you all the winter and perhaps part of the spring."

William's father wiped his brow with his handkerchief as the cab drove
off.

"How dreadful!" said his wife, but she avoided meeting his eye.
"It's--it's _disgraceful_ of William," she went on with sudden spirit.
"You must speak to him."

"I will," said his father determinedly. "William!" he shouted sternly
from the hall.

William's heart sank.

"She's told," he murmured, his last hope gone.

"You'd better go and get it over," advised Henry.

"William!" repeated the voice still more fiercely.

Henry moved nearer the window, prepared for instant flight if the
voice's owner should follow it up the stairs.

"Go on," he urged. "He'll only come up for you."

William slowly removed the barricade and descended the stairs. He had
remembered to take off the crown and dressing gown, but his one-sided
moustache still hung limply over his mouth.

His father was standing in the hall.

"What's that horrible thing on your face?" he began.

"Whiskers," answered William laconically.

His father accepted the explanation.

"Is it true," he went on, "that you actually took your friends into your
aunt's room without permission and hung vulgar placards around it?"

William glanced up into his father's face and suddenly took hope. Mr.
Brown was no actor.

"Yes," he admitted.

"It's disgraceful," said Mr. Brown, "_disgraceful_! That's all."

But it was not quite all. Something hard and round slipped into
William's hand. He ran lightly upstairs.

"Hello!" said Henry, surprised. "That's not taken long. What----"

William opened his hand and showed something that shone upon his
extended palm.

"Look!" he said. "Crumbs! Look!" It was a bright half-crown.

CHAPTER VI

A QUESTION OF GRAMMAR

It was raining. It had been raining all morning. William was intensely
bored with his family.

"What can I do?" he demanded of his father for the tenth time.

"_Nothing!_" said his father fiercely from behind his newspaper.

William followed his mother into the kitchen.

"What can I do?" he said plaintively.

"Couldn't you just sit quietly?" suggested his mother.

"That's not _doin'_ anything," William said. "I _could_ sit quietly all
day," he went on aggressively, "if I wanted."

"But you never do."

"No, 'cause there wouldn't be any _sense_ in it, would there?"

"Couldn't you read or draw or something?"

"No, that's lessons. That's not doin' anything!"

"I could teach you to knit if you like."

With one crushing glance William left her.

He went to the drawing-room, where his sister Ethel was knitting a
jumper and talking to a friend.

"And I heard her say to him----" she was saying. She broke off with the
sigh of a patient martyr as William came in. He sat down and glared at
her. She exchanged a glance of resigned exasperation with her friend.

"What are you doing, William?" said the friend sweetly.

"Nothin'," said William with a scowl.

"Shut the door after you when you go out, won't you, William?" said
Ethel equally sweetly.

William at that insult rose with dignity and went to the door. At the
door he turned.

"I wun't stay here now," he said with slow contempt, "not even if--even
if--even if," he paused to consider the most remote contingency, "not
even if you wanted me," he said at last emphatically.

He shut the door behind him and his expression relaxed into a sardonic
smile.

"I bet they feel _small_!" he said to the umbrella-stand.

He went to the library, where his seventeen-year-old brother Robert was
showing off his new rifle to a friend.

"You see----" he was saying, then, catching sight of William's face
round the door, "Oh, get out!"

William got out.

He returned to his mother in the kitchen with a still more jaundiced
view of life. It was still raining. His mother was looking at the
tradesmen's books.

"Can I go out?" he said gloomily.

"No, of course not. It's pouring."

"I don't mind rain."

"Don't be silly."

William considered that few boys in the whole world were handicapped by
more unsympathetic parents than he.

"Why," he said pathetically, "have they got friends in an' me not?"

"I suppose you didn't think of asking anyone," she said calmly.

"Well, can I have someone now?"

"No, it's too late," said Mrs. Brown, raising her head from the
butcher's book and murmuring "ten and elevenpence" to herself.

"Well, when can I?"

She raised a harassed face.

"William, do be quiet! Any time, if you ask. Eighteen and twopence."

"Can I have lots?"

"Oh, go and ask your father."

William went out.

He returned to the dining-room, where his father was still reading a
paper. The sigh with which his father greeted his entrance was not one
of relief.

"If you've come to ask questions----" he began threateningly.

"I haven't," said William quickly. "Father, when you're all away on
Saturday, can I have a party?"

"No, of course not," said his father irritably. "Can't you _do_
something?"

William, goaded to desperation, burst into a flood of eloquence.

[Illustration: "THE SORT OF THINGS I WANT TO DO THEY DON'T WANT ME TO
DO, AN' THE SORT OF THINGS I DON'T WANT TO DO THEY WANT ME TO DO."