 1 A Busy Day William awoke and rubbed his eyes. It was Christmas Day, the day to which he had looked forward with mingled feelings for twelve months. It was a jolly day, of course, presents and turkey and crackers and staying up late. On the other hand, there were generally too many relations about. Too much was often expected of one. The curious taste displayed by people who gave one presents often marred one's pleasure. He looked round his bedroom expectantly. On the wall, just opposite the bed, was a large illuminated card hanging by a string from a nail. A busy day is a happy day. That had not been there the day before. Brightly coloured roses and forget-be-nots and honeysuckle twined round all the words. William hastily thought over the three aunts staying in the house and put it down to Aunt Lucy. He looked at it with a doubtful frown. He distrusted the sentiment. A copy of portraits of our kings and queens he put aside as beneath contempt. Things a boy can do was more promising, much more promising. After inspecting a pen-eye for pocket compass and a pencil box, which shared the fate of portraits of our kings and queens, William returned to Things a Boy Can Do. As he turned the pages, his face lit up. He leapt lightly out of bed and dressed. Then he began to arrange his own gifts to his family. For his father, he had bought a bottle of highly coloured sweets. For his elder brother, Robert, aged nineteen, he had expended a vast sum of money on a copy of the Pirates of the Bloody Hand. These gifts had cost him much thought. The knowledge that his father never touched sweets and that Robert professed scorn of pirate stories had led him to hope that the recipients of his gifts would make no objection to the unobtrusive theft of them by their recent donor in the course of the next few days. For his grown-up sister, Ethel, he had bought a box of coloured jokes. That also might come in useful later. Funds now had been running low, but for his mother, he had bought a small cream jug which, after fierce bargaining, the man had let him have at half price because it was cracked. Singing, Christians awake at the top of his lusty young voice, he went along the landing, putting his gifts outside the doors of his family, and pausing to yell, Happy Christmas! as he did so. From within he was greeted in each case by muffled groans. He went downstairs into the hall, still singing. It was earlier than he thought, just five o'clock. The maids were not down yet. He switched on lights recklessly, and discovered that he was not the only person in the hall. His four-year-old cousin, Jimmy, was sitting on the bottom step in an attitude of despondency, holding an empty tin. Jimmy's mother had influenza at home, and Jimmy and his small sister, Barbara, were in the happy position of spending Christmas with relations, but immune from paternal or maternal interference. They've gotten out, said Jimmy sadly. I got them for presents yesterday, and they've gotten out. I've been feeling for them in the dark, but I can't find them. What? said William. Snails, great, big, huge ones! With great, big, huge shells! I put him in a tin for presents, and they've gotten out, and I've gotten no presents for nobody. He relapsed into despondency. William surveyed the hall. They've got out right enough, he said sternly. They've gotten out right enough. Just look at our hall. Just look at our clothes. They've gotten out right enough. Enumerable, slimy, iridescent trails shone over hats and coats and umbrellas and wallpaper. Grunted William, who was apt to overwork his phrases, they've got out right enough. He looked at the tracks again and brightened. Jimmy was frankly delighted. Look, he cried. Oh, funny! William's thoughts flew back to his bedroom wall. A busy day is a happy day. Let's clean it up, he said. Let's have it all nice and clean for when they come down. We'll be busy. You tell me if you feel happy when we've done. It might be true what it says, but I don't like the flowers messing all over it. Investigation in the kitchen provided them with a large pail of water and a scrubbing brush each. For a long time, they worked in silence. They used plenty of water. When they had finished, the trails were all gone. Each soaked garment on the hat stand was sending a steady drip onto the already flooded floor. The wallpaper was sodden, but the feeling of blankness, they realized that there was nothing else to clean. It was Jimmy who conceived the exquisite idea of dipping his brush in the bucket. And sprinkling William with water. A scrubbing brush is in many ways almost as good as a hose. Each had a pail of ammunition. Each had a good sized brush. During the next few minutes, they experienced purest joy. Then William heard threatening movements above and decided hastily that the battle must cease. Backstayers, he said shortly, come on. Marking their track by a running stream of water, they crept up the backstayers. But two small boys soaked to the skin could not disclaim all knowledge of a flooded hall. William was calm and collected when confronted with a distracted mother. We was trying to clean up, he said. We found all snail marks and we was trying to clean up. We was trying to help. You said so last night, you know, when you was talking to me. You said to help. Well, I thought I was helping to try and clean up. You can't clean up with water and not get wet. Not if you do it properly. You said, try and make Christmas day happy for other folks. Then I'd be happy. Well, I don't know as I'm very happy, he said bitterly. But I've been working hard enough since early this morning. I've been working, he went on pathetically. His eyes wandered to the notice on his wall. I've been busy all right, but it doesn't make me happy. Not just now, he added, with memories of the rapture of the fight. That certainly must be repeated some time. Buckets of water and scrubbing brushes. He wondered he'd never thought of that before. William's mother looked down at his dripping form. Did you get all that water with just cleaning up the sail marks, she said? William coughed and cleared his throat. Well, he said depreciatingly, most of it. I think I got most of it. It wasn't Christmas day, she went on darkly. William's spirits rose. There was certainly something to be said for Christmas day. It was decided to hide the traces of the crime as far as possible from William's father. It was felt, and not without reason, that William's father's feelings of respect for the sanctity of Christmas day might be overcome by his feelings of paternal ire. Half an hour later, William dried, dressed, brushed, and chastened, descended the stairs, as the gong sounded in a hall, which was bear of hats and coats, and whose floor shone with cleanliness. And just to think, said William despondently, that it's only just got to breakfast time, William's father was at the bottom of the stairs. William's father frankly disliked Christmas day. Good morning, William, he said, and a happy Christmas, and I hope it's not too much to ask of you that, on this relation-infested day, one's feelings may be harrowed by you as little as possible, and why the dew dickens, they think it necessary to wash the whole floor before breakfast heaven only knows. William coughed. A cough meant to be a polite mixture of greeting and deference. William's face was a study in holy innocence. His father glanced at him suspiciously. There were certain expressions of Williams that he distrusted. William entered the dining room morosely. Jimmy's sister Barbara, a small bundle of curls and white frills, was already beginning her porridge. Good morning, she said politely. Did you hear me cleaning my teeth? He crushed her with a glance. He sat, eating in silence, till everyone had come down, and Aunt Jane, Evangeline, and Lucy were consuming porridge with that mixture of festivity and solemnity that they felt the occasion demanded. Then Jimmy entered, radiant with a tin in his hand. Got presents? He said proudly. Got presents? Lots of presents! He deposited on Barbara's plate a worm, which Barbara promptly threw at his face. Jimmy looked at her reproachfully and proceeded to Aunt Evangeline. Aunt Evangeline's gift was a centipede, a live centipede that ran gaily off the tablecloth onto Aunt Evangeline's lap before anyone could stop it. With a yell that sent William's father to the library with his hands to his ears, Aunt Evangeline leapt to her chair and stood with her skirts held to her knees. Help, help! she cried. The horrible boy catch it, kill it! Jimmy gazed at her in amazement. Barbara looked with interest at Aunt Evangeline's long expanse of shin. My legs isn't like your legs! she said pleasantly and conversationally. My legs is knees! It was some time before order was restored. The centipede killed, and Jimmy's remaining gifts thrown out of the window. William looked across the table at Jimmy with respect in his eye. Jimmy, in spite of his youth, was an acquaintance worth cultivating. Jimmy was eating porridge unconcernedly. Aunt Evangeline had rushed from the room when the slaughter of the centipede had left the coast clear, and refused to return. She carried on a conversation from the top of the stairs. When that horrible child has gone, I'll come. He may have insects concealed on his person. And someone's been dropping water all over these stairs. They're damp! Dear, dear! murmured Aunt Jane sadly. Jimmy looked up from his porridge. How was I to know she didn't like insects? he said aggrievedly. I like them! William's mother's despair was only tempered by the fact that this time William was not the culprit. To William also it was a novel sensation. He realised the advantages of a fellow criminal. After breakfast peace reigned. William's father went out for a walk with Robert. The aunts sat round the drawing-room fire talking and doing crochet work. In this consists the whole art and duty of aunthood. All aunts do crochet work. They had made careful inquiries about the time of the service. You needn't worry, had said William's mother. It's at ten thirty. If you go to get ready when the clock in the library strikes ten it will give you peeps of time. Peace, calm, quiet. Mrs. Brown and Ethel in the kitchen supervising the arrangements for the day. The aunts in the drawing-room discussing over their crochet work the terrible way in which their sisters have brought up their children. That also is a necessary part of aunthood. Time slipped by happily and peacefully. Then William's mother came into the drawing-room. I thought you were going to church, she said. We are. The clock hasn't struck. But it tilleth no clock. There was a gasp of dismay. The clock never struck. Indignantly they set off to the library. Peace and quiet reigned also in the library. On the floor sat William and Jimmy, gazing with frowns of concentration, as an open page of things a boy can do. Around them lay most indecently exposed the internal arrangements of the library clock. William, you wicked boy! William raised a frowning face. It's not put together right, he said. It's not been put together right all this time. We're making it right now. It must have wanted mend in forever so long. I don't know how it's been going at all. It's lucky we found it out. It's put together wrong. I guess it's made wrong. It's going to be a lot of trouble to us to put it right, and we can't do much when you're all standing in the light. We're very busy working at trying to mend this old clock for you all. Clever, said Jimmy admiringly. Mending the clock? Clever. William, groaned his mother. You've ruined the clock. What will your father say? Well, the cogwheel was wrong, said William doggedly. See, and this ratchet wheel isn't on the pole properly. Not like what the book says it ought to be. Seems we've got to take it all to pieces to get it right. Seems to me the person what made this clock didn't know much about clockmaking. Seems to me, be quiet, William. We must be quieting for you came in, said Jimmy severely. You stirb'd us. Leave it just as it is, William, said his mother. You don't understand, said William, with the excitement of the fanatic. The cogwheel and the ratchet ought to be put on the arbor different. See, this is the cogwheel. Well, it ought to be like what it was. It was put on all wrong. Well, we was mending it, and we was doing it for you, he ended bitterly, just to help, and to make other folks happy. It makes folks happy, having clocks going right. Anyone would think. But if you want your clocks put together wrong, I don't care. He picked up his book and walked proudly from the room, followed by the admiring Jimmy. William, said Aunt Lucy patiently as he passed. I don't want to say anything unkind. And I hope you won't remember all your life that you have completely spoiled this Christmas day for me. Oh, dear, murmured Aunt Jane sadly. William, with a look before which she should have sunk into the earth, answered shortly that he didn't think he would. During the midday dinner, the grown-ups, as is the foolish fashion of grown-ups, wasted much valuable time in the discussion of such futilities as the weather and the political state of the nation. Aunt Lucy was still suffering and aggrieved. I can go this evening, of course, she said. But it's not quite the same. The morning service is different. Yes, please, dear, and stuffing. Yes, I have a little more turkey, too. And, of course, the vicar may not preach tonight. That makes such a difference. The gravy on the potatoes, please. It's almost the first Christmas I've not been in the morning. It seems quite too spoiled the day for me. She bent on William a glance of gentle reproach. William was quite capable of meeting adequately that or any other glance. But at present he was too busy for minor hostilities. He was extremely busy. He was doing his utmost to do full justice to a meal that only happens once a year. William, said Barbara pleasantly, I can dween, can you? He made no answer. Answer your cousin, William, said his mother. He swallowed, then spoke plaintively. You always say not to talk with my mouth full, he said. You could speak when you finished the mouthful. No, because I want to fill it again, then, said William firmly. Dear, dear, murmured Aunt Jane. This was Aunt Jane's usual contribution to any conversation. He looked coldly at the three pairs of horrified aunt's eyes around him, but then placidly continued his meal. Mrs. Brown hastily changed the subject of conversation. The art of combining the duties of mother and hostess is sometimes a difficult one. Christmas afternoon is a time of rest. The three aunts withdrew from public life. Aunt Lucy found a book of sermons in the library and retired to her bedroom with it. It's the next best thing, I think, she said with a sad glance at William. William was beginning definitely to dislike Aunt Lucy. Please, Aunt, said the cook, an hour later. The mincey machines disappeared. Disappeared, said William's mother, raising her hand to her head. Clean gone. How am I to get supprim? You, said, as how I could get it done this afternoon, so as to go to church this evening. I can't do nothing with the mincey machine gone. I'll come and look. They searched every corner of the kitchen. Then William's mother had an idea. William's mother had not been William's mother for eleven years, without learning many things. She went wearily up to William's bedroom. William was sitting on the floor. Open beside him was, Things a Boy Can Do. Around him lay various parts of the mincey machine. His face was set and strained in mental and physical effort. He looked up as she entered. It's a funny kind of mincey machine, he said crushingly. It's not got enough parts. It's made wrong. Do you know, she said slowly, that we've all been looking for that mincey machine for the last half hour. No, he said without much interest. I didn't. I'd have told you I was mending it, if you told me you was looking for it. It's wrong, he went on aggrievedly. I can't make anything with it. Look, it says in my book, how to make a model railway signal with parts of a mincey machine. Listen, it says, borrow a mincey machine from your mother. Did you borrow it? Said Mrs. Brown. Yes, well, I've got it, haven't I? I went all the way down to the kitchen for it. Who lent it to you? No one lent it to me. I borrowed it. I thought you'd like to see a model railway signal. I thought you'd be interested. Anyone would think anyone would be interested in seeing a railway signal made out of a mincey machine. His tone implied that the dullness of people in general was simply beyond him. And you haven't got the right sort of mincey machine. It's wrong. It's parts of the wrong shape. I've been hammering them, trying to make them right, but they're made wrong. Mrs. Brown was past expostulating. Take them all down to the kitchen to cook, she said. She's waiting for them. On the stairs, William met Aunt Lucy, carrying her volume of sermons. It's not quite the same as the spoken word, William, dear, she said. It hasn't the force. The written word doesn't reach the heart, as the spoken word does. But I don't want you to worry about it. William walked on, as if he had not heard her. It was Aunt Jane, who insisted on the little entertainment after tea. I loved to hear the dear children recite, she said. I'm sure they have some little recitation they can say. Barbara arose with shy delight to say her peace. It could brown seed, it could brown weather. And what way are you going to be? I'll be a poppy as white as my mother. Oh, do be a poppy like me. What, you'll be a sunflower? Oh, how I shall miss you. When you are golden and high. But I'll send all the bees up to diss you. It could brown weather. Goodbye. She sat down, blushing, amid rapturous applause. Next, Jimmy was dragged from his corner. He stood up as one prepared for the worst. Shut his eyes, and… Lick-a-luck's a kindness. Lick-a-lick's a love. Make the surfer needn't like the even above. That's all I know. He gasped, all in one breath, and sat down panting. This was greeted with slightly milder applause. Now, William, I don't know any, he said. Oh, you do, said his mother. Say the one you learned at school last term. Stand up, dear, and speak clearly. Slowly, William rose to his feet. It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea. He began. There he stopped, coughed, cleared his throat, and began again. It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea. Oh, get on, must had his brother, irritably. I can't get on if you keep talking to me, said William sternly. How can I get on if you keep taking all the time up? Sayen, get on. I can't get on if you're talking, can I? It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea, and I'm not going on. If Ethel's going to keep giggling, it's not a funny piece. If she's going on giggling like that, I'm not saying any more of it. Ethel, dear, murmured Mrs. Brown reproachfully. Ethel turned her chair completely round, and left her back only exposed to William's view. He glared at it suspiciously. Now, William, dear, continued his mother, begin again, and no one shall interrupt you. William again went through the preliminaries of coughing, and clearing his throat. It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry seas. He stopped again, and slowly and carefully straightened his collar and smoothed back the lock of hair which was dangling over his brow. The skipper had brought, prompted Aunt Jane kindly. William turned on her. I was going to say that if you'd left me alone, he said. I was just thinking. I've got to think sometimes. I can't say of a great long poem like that without stopping to think sometimes, can I? I'll do a conjuring trick for you instead. He burst out desperately. I've learnt one from my book. I'll go and get it ready. He went out of the room. Mr. Brown took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. May I ask, he said patiently, how long this exhibition is to be allowed to continue? Here William returned, his pockets bulging. He held a large handkerchief in his hand. This is a handkerchief, he announced. If anyone would like to feel it, to see if it's a real one, they can. Now I want a shilling. He looked around expectantly, but no one moved. Or a penny would do, he said, with a slightly disgusted air. Robert threw one across the room. Well, I put the penny into the handkerchief. You can see me do it, can't you? If anyone wants to come and feel the penny in the handkerchief, they can. Well, he turned his back on them and took something out of his pocket. After a few contortions, he turned round again, holding the handkerchief tightly. Now you look close, he went over to them, and you'll see the shill, I mean penny, he looked scornfully at Robert, has changed to an egg. It's a real egg. If anyone thinks it isn't a real egg, but it was a real egg. It confirmed his statement by giving a resounding crack, and sending a shining stream, partly onto the carpet, and partly onto Aunt Evangeline's black silk knee. A storm of reproaches burst out. First that horrible insect, almost wept, Aunt Evangeline, and then this messy stuff all over me. It's a good thing I don't live here. One day a year is enough, my nerves. Dear, dear, said Aunt Jane. Fancy taking a new-laid egg for that. Said Ethel severely. William was pale and indignant. Well, I just did what the book said to do. Look at it. It says, take an egg. Conceal it in the pocket. Well, I took an egg and concealed it in the pocket. Seems to me, he said bitterly. Seems to me that this book isn't things a boy can do. It's things a boy can't do. Mr. Brown rose slowly from his chair. You're just about right there, my son. Thank you, he said with a labyrinth of politeness. As he took the book from William's reluctant hands and went over with it to a small cupboard in the wall. In this cupboard reposed an air-gun, a bugle, a catapult, and a mouth-organ. As he unlocked it to put the book inside, a fleeting glimpse of his confiscated treasures added to the bitterness of William's soul. On Christmas Day, too, while he was still afire with silent indignation, Aunt Lucy returned from church. The vicar didn't preach, she said. They say that this morning's sermon was beautiful. As I say, I don't want William to reproach himself, but I feel he's deprived me of a very great treat. Nice, William, murmured Jimmy sleepily from his corner. As William undressed that night, his gaze fell upon the flower-bedecked motto. A busy day is a happy day. It's a story, he said indignantly. It's just a wicked old story. End of Chapter 1, A Busy Day. Rice mould, said the little girl next door bitterly. Rice mould, rice mould. Every single day I hate it, don't you? She turned gloomy blue eyes upon William, who was perched perilously on the ivy-covered wall. William considered thoughtfully. Dunno, he said. I just eat it, I never thought about it. It's hateful, just hateful. I've had it at dinner, and I'll have it at supper. Bet you anything. I say, you're going to have a party tonight, aren't you? William nodded carelessly. Are you going to be there? Me, ejaculated William in a tone of amused surprise. I should think so. You don't think they could have it without me, do you? Not much. She gazed at him enviously. You are lucky. I expect you'll have a lovely supper, not rice mould, bitterly. Rather, said William with an air of superiority. What are you going to have to eat at your party? Oh, everything, said William vaguely. Cream blemange? Heaps of it. Buckets off it. The little girl next door clasped her hands. Oh, just think of it. You're eating cream blemange, and me eating rice mould. It is impossible to convey in print the intense scorn and hatred which the little girl next door could compress into the two syllables. Here an idea struck William. What time do you have supper? Seven. Well, now. Magnanimously. If you'll be in your summer house at half past, I'll bring you some cream blemange. Truly, I will. The little girl's face beamed with pleasure. Will you? Will you really? You won't forget. Not me. I'll be there. I'll slip away from our show on the quiet with it. Oh, how lovely. I'll be thinking of it every minute. Don't forget. Goodbye. She blew him a kiss and flitted daintily into the house. William blushed furiously at the blow and kiss and descended from his precarious perch. He went to the library where his grown-up sister Ethel and his elder brother Robert were standing on ladders at opposite ends of the room, engaged in hanging up for stones of ivy and holly across the wall. There was to be dancing in the library after supper. William's mother watched them from a safe position on the floor. Look here, mother, began William. Am I or am I not coming to the party tonight? William's mother sighed. For goodness' sake, William, don't open that discussion again. For the tenth time today, you are not. But why not? he persisted. I only want to know why not. That's all I want to know. It looks a bit funny, doesn't it, to give a party and leave out your only son, at least, with a glance at Robert, and a slight concession to accuracy. To leave out one of your only two sons? It looks a bit queer, surely. That's all I'm thinking of, how it will look. A bit higher your end, said Ethel. Yes, that's better, said William's mother. It's a young folks party, went on William, warming to a subject. I heard you tell Aunt Jane it was a young folks party. Well, I'm young, aren't I? I'm eleven. Do you want me any younger? You aren't ashamed of folks seeing me, are you? I'm not deformed or anything. That's right, put the nail in there, Ethel. Just a bit higher, that's right. Perhaps you're afraid of what I'll eat, went on William bitterly. Well, everyone eats, don't they? They've got to, to live. And you've got things for us, them, to eat tonight. You don't grudge me just a bit of supper, do you? You'd think it was less trouble for me to have my bit of supper with you all, than in a separate room. That's all I'm thinking of, the trouble. William's sister turned round in her ladder and faced the room. Can't anyone, she said desperately, stop that child talking? William's brother began to dissent his ladder. I think I can, he said grimly. But William had thrown dignity to the winds and fled. He went down the hall to the kitchen, where the cook hastily interposed herself between him and the table that was laden with cakes and jellies and other delicacies. Now, Master William, she said sharply, you clear out of here. I don't want any of your things cook, said William magnificently, but untruthfully. I only came to see how you were getting on. That's all I came for. We are getting on very well indeed. Thank you, Master William, she said, with sarcastic politeness. But nothing for you till tomorrow, when we can see how much they've left. She returned to her task of cutting sandwiches. William, from a respectful distance, surveyed the table with its enticing burden. He ejaculated bitterly. Think of them sitting and stuffing and stuffing and stuffing away at our food all night. I don't suppose they'll leave much, not if I know the set that lives round here. Don't judge them all by yourself, Master William, said the cook unkindly, keeping a watchful eye upon him. Here Emma put that rice mould away in the pantry. It's for tomorrow's lunch. Rice mould, that reminded him. Cook, he said ingratiatingly. Are you going to make cream blemange? I am not, Master William, she said firmly. Well, he said, with a short laugh. It'll be a queer party without cream blemange. I've never heard of a party without cream blemange. They'll think it's a bit funny. No one ever gives a party round here without cream blemange. Don't they indeed, Master William, said the cook, with ironic interest. No, you'll be making one perhaps later on. Just a little one, won't you? And why should I? Well, I'd like to think they had a cream blemange. I think they'd enjoy it. That's all I'm thinking of. Oh, is it? Well, it's your ma that tells me what to make and pays me for it, not you. This was a novel idea to William, he thought deeply. Look here, he said at last. If I gave you, he paused for effect, then brought out the startling offer. Sixpence? Would you make a cream blemange? I'd want to see your sixpence first, said the cook, with a wink of Emma. William retired upstairs to his bedroom and counted out his money. Tuppence was all he possessed. He had expended the enormous sum of a shilling the day before on a grass snake. It had died in the night. He must get a cream blemange somehow. His reputation for omnipotence in the eyes of the little girl next door, a reputation very dear to him, depended on it. And if the cook would do it for sixpence, he must find sixpence. By fair means or file, it must be done. He tried fair means, and there only remained file. He went softly downstairs to the dining room, where, upon the mantelpiece, reposed the missionary box. He'd tell someone next day, or put it back, or something. Anyway, people did worse things than that in the pictures. With a knife from the table, he extracted the contents. Three hepence, he glared at it balefully. Three hepence, he said, allied in righteous indignation. This supposed to be a Christian house, and three hepence is all they can give to the poor heathen. They can spend pines and pines on. He glanced round the room and saw a pyramid of pairs on the sideboard. Tons of pairs and green stuff to put on the walls, and they gave three hepence to the poor heathen. He opened the door and heard his sister's voice from the library. He's probably in mischief somewhere. He'll be a perfect nuisance all the evening. Mother, couldn't you make him go to bed an hour earlier? William had no doubt, as to the subject of the conversation, make him go to bed early. He'd like to see them, he'd just like to see them, and he'd show them. Anyway, yes, he would show them, exactly what he would show them, and how he would show them, he was not as yet very clear. He looked round the room again. There were no eatables in it so far, except the piled-up plate of huge pairs on the sideboard. He looked at it longingly. They'd probably counted them and knew just how many there ought to be. Mean sort of thing they would do. And they'd be in counting them every other minute, just to see if he'd taken one. While he was going to score off somebody, somehow, make him go to bed early, indeed. He stood with nit-brise, deep in thought, then his face cleared, and he smiled. He'd got it. For the next five minutes, he munched the delicious pears. But at the end, the piled-up pyramid was apparently exactly, as he found it, not a pair gone, only on the inner side of each pair. The side that didn't show was a huge semicircular bite. William wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve. They were jolly good pears, and a blissful vision came to him of the faces of the guests as they took the pears, of the faces of his father and mother and Robert and Ethel. Oh, crumbs! He chuckled to himself as he went down to the kitchen again. I say, could you make a small one, quite a small one, for a thruppen's hipney? Cook laughed. I was only pulling your leg, Master William. I've got one made and locked up in the larder. That's all right, said William. I wanted them to have a cream blemange, that's all. Oh, they'll have it all right. They won't leave much for you. I only made one. Did you say, locked in the larder? Said William carelessly. It must be a bother for you to lock the larder door each time you go in. Oh, no trouble, Master William. Thank you, said the cook sarcastically. There's more than the cream blemange there. There's pasties and cakes and other things. I'm thinking of the last party your ma gave. William had the grace to blush. On that occasion William and a friend had spent the hour before supper in the larder and supper had to be postponed while fresh provisions were beaten up from any and every quarter. William had passed a troubled night and spent the next day in bed. Oh, then that was a long time ago. I was only a kid then. Granted cook, then relenting. Well, if there's any cream blemange left, I'll bring it up to you in bed. Now that's a promise. Here, Emma, put these sandwiches in the larder. Here's the key. Now mind you lock it after you. Cook, just come here for a minute. It was the voice of William's mother from the library. William's heart rose. With Cook away from the scene of action, great things might happen. Emma took the dish of sandwiches, unlocked the pantry door and entered. There was a crash of crockery from the back kitchen. Emma fled out leaving the door unlocked after she had picked up several broken plates which had unaccountably slipped from the shelves. She returned and locked the pantry door. William in the darkness within heaved a sigh of relief. He was in anyway. How he was going to get out, he wasn't quite sure. He stood for a few minutes and wrapped admiration of his own cleverness. He'd scored off Cook. Crumbs, he'd scored off Cook so far at any rate. The first thing to do was to find the cream blemange. He found it at last and sat down with it on the bread pan to consider his next step. Suddenly he became aware of two green eyes staring at him in the darkness. The cat was in too. Crumbs, the cat was in too. The cat, recognizing its inveterate enemy, set up a vindictive wail. William grew cold with fright. The rotten old cat was going to give the show away. Hey pussy, good old pussy. He whispered hoarsely. Nice old pussy, good old pussy. The cat gazed at him in surprise. This form of address from William was unusual. Good old pussy went on William feverishly. Shut up then. Here's some nice blemange. Just have a bit. Go on, have a bit and shut up. He put the dish down on the larger floor before the cat. And the cat, after a few preliminary licks, decided it was good. William sat watching for a bit. Then he came to the conclusion it was no use wasting time and began to sample the plates around him. He ate a whole jelly and then took four sandwiches off each plate and four cakes and pasties off each plate. He had learned wisdom since the last party. Meanwhile, the cat licked away at the cream blemange with every evidence of satisfaction. It even began to purr. And as its satisfaction increased, so did the purr, it possessed a peculiar penetrating purr. Cook called out Emma from the kitchen. Cook came out of the library where she was assisting with the fist stone hanging. What's the matter? There's a funny buzzing noise in the larder. Well, go in and see what it is. It's probably a wasp, that's all. Emma approached with the key and William, clasping the blemange to his bosom, withdrew behind the door, slipping off his shoes and readiness for action. Poor puss said Emma, opening the door and meeting the cat's green unabashed gaze. Did it get shut up in the nasty dark larder then? Who did it then? She was bending down with her back to William, stroking the cat in the doorway. William seized his chance. He dashed past her and up the stairs and stocking feet like a flash of lightning. But Emma, leaning over the cat, had aspired a dark flying figure out of the corner of her eye. She set up a scream. Out of the library came William's mother, William's sister, William's brother and Cook. A burglar in the larder gasped Emma. I see to him I did, out of the corner of my eye like. And when I looked up he wasn't there no more, flitting up the all like a shadow he was. Oh Lord, it's fairly turned me inside. Oh Lord. What rubbish said William's mother. Emma, you must control yourself. I went into the larder myself, said Cook indignantly. Just before I came to help with the greenery ornaments and it was empty as hair. It's all that silly Emma, always having the jump she is. Where's William? Said William's mother with sudden suspicion. William? William came out of his bedroom and looked over the balusters. Yes mother, he said, with that wondering innocence of voice and look which he'd brought to a fine art and which proved one of his greatest assets in times of stress and strain. What are you doing? Just reading quietly in my room mother. Oh for heaven's sake don't disturb him then, said William's sister. It's those silly books you read Emma, you're always imagining things. If you'd read the ones I recommend, instead of the foolish ones you will get hold of. William's mother was safely minded on one of her favorite hobby horses. William withdrew to his room and carefully concealed the cream blemange beneath his bed. He then waited until he heard the guests arrive and exchanged greetings in the hall. William listening with his door open, carefully committed to memory the voice and manner of his sister's greeting to her friends. That would come in useful later on probably. No weapon of offence against the world in general and his own family in particular was to be despised. He held her rehearsal in his room when the guests were all safely assembled in the drawing room. Oh how are you Mrs. Green? He said in a high falsetto, meant to represent the feminine voice. And how's the darling baby? Such a duck, I'm dying to see him again. Oh dearly a darling, there you are, so glad you could come. What a perfect darling of a dress my dear. I know whose heart you'll break in that. Oh Mr. Thompson, here William languished, bridled and ogled in a fashion scene nowhere on earth except in his imitations of his sister when engaged in conversation with one of the male sex. If reproduced at the right moment, it was guaranteed to drive her to frenzy. I'm so glad to see you, yes of course I really am. I wouldn't say it if I wasn't. The drawing room door opened and a chatter of conversation and a rustling of dresses arose from the hall. Oh crumbs, they were going into supper. Yes, the dining room door closed, the coast was clear. William took out the rather battered-looking delicacy from under the bed and considered it thoughtfully. The dish was big and awkwardly shaped. He must find something that would go under his coat better than that. He couldn't march through the hall and out of the front door, bearing a cream blemange, naked and unashamed, and the back door through the kitchen was impossible. With infinite care but little success as far as the shape of the blemange was concerned, he removed it from its dish onto his soap dish. He forgot, in the excitement of the moment, to remove his soap, but after all it was only a small piece. The soap dish was decidedly too small for it, but clasped to William's bosom inside his coat, it could be partly supported by his arm outside. He descended the stairs cautiously. He tiptoed lightly past the dining room door, which was slightly ajar, from which came the shrill, noisy, meaningless conversation of the grown-ups. He was just about to open the front door when there came the sound of a key turning in the lock. William's heart sank. He had forgotten the fact that his father generally returned from his office about this time. William's father came into the hall and glanced at his youngest offspring suspiciously. Hello, he said. Where are you going? William cleared his throat nervously. Me, he questioned lightly. Oh, I was just going a little walk up the road before I went to bed. That's all I was going to do, Father. Flop. A large segment of cream blemange had disintegrated itself from the fast-melting mass, and evading William's uncircling arm had fallen onto the floor at his feet, with praiseworthy presence of mind, William promptly stepped onto it and covered it with his feet. William's father turned round quickly from the stand where he was replacing his walking-stick. What was that? William looked round the hall absently. What, Father? William's father and I fastened his eyes upon William's person. What have you got under your coat? Where? Said William with apparent surprise. Then looking down at the damp excretions of his coat, as if he noticed it for the first time. Oh, that with a mirthless smile. Do you mean that? Oh, that's just, just something I'm taking out with me. That's all. Again, William's father grunted. Well, he said, if you're going for this walk up the road, why on earth don't you go instead of standing as if you'd lost the use of your feet? William's father was hanging up his overcoat with his back to William, and the front door was open. William wanted no second bidding. He darted out of the door and dined the drive, but he was just in time to hear the thud of a falling body and to hear a muttered curse as the head of the house entered the dining room. Feet first on a long slide of some white glutinous substance. Oh, crumbs, gasped William as he ran. The little girl next door was sitting in the summer house, armed with a spoon when William arrived. His precious burden had now saturated his shirt and was striking cold and damp on his chest. He drew it from his coat and displayed it proudly. It had certainly lost its pristine white rounded appearance. The marks of the cat's licks were very evident. Grime from William's coat adhered to its surface. It wobbled limply over the soap dish, but the little girl's eyes sparkled as she saw it. Oh, William, I never thought you really would. Oh, you are wonderful, and I had it. What? Rice mould for supper, but I didn't mind because I thought I hoped you'd come with it. Oh, William, you are a nice boy. William glowed with pride. William, bellowed an irate voice from William's front door. William knew that voice. It was the voice of the male parent who astute. All East Jollywell going to stand from that kid and is out for vengeance. They got to the pairs. Oh, crumbs, they got to the pairs. And even the thought of nemesis to come could not dull for William the bliss of that vision. Oh, William, said the little girl next door sadly. They're calling you. Will you have to go? Not me, said William earnestly. I'm not going, not till I fetch me. Here, you begin. I don't want any. I've had lots of things. You eat it all. Her face radiant with anticipation, the little girl took up her spoon. William lent back in a superior, benevolent manner and watched the smile freeze upon her face and her look of ecstasy changed to one of fury. With a horrible suspicion at his heart, he seized the spoon she had dropped and took her mouthful himself. He had brought the rice mould by mistake. Chapter 3 William's Burglar When William first saw him, he was leaning against the wall of the white lion, gazing at the passers-by with a moody smile upon his villainous-looking countenance. It was evident to any careful observer that he had not confined his attentions to the exterior of the white lion. William at whose heels trotted his beloved mongrel, rightly named Jumble, was passing him with a casual glance. When something attracted his attention, he stopped and looked back. Then, turning round, stood in front of the tall, untidy figure, gazing up at him with frank and unabashed curiosity. Who cuts him off? He said at last in an awed whisper. The figure raised his hands and stroked the long-haired on the side of his face. Now you're asking, he said with a grin. Well, who did? persisted William. That'll be telling, answered his new friend, moving unsteadily from one foot to the other. See? You got him cut off in the war, said William firmly. I didn't. I've been in the war all right, stroking me pink. I've been in the war, and that's the truth. I didn't get him cut off in the war. Well, I'll stop kidding you. I'll tell you straight. I never had none. Nah! William stood on tiptoe to peer under the untidy hair at the small apertures that, in his strange new friend, took the place of ears. Adoration shone in William's eyes. What's you borne without him? he said enviously. His friend nodded. Now don't you go talking about it? he went on modestly, though seeming to bask in the sun of William's evident awe and respect. I don't want all folks knowing about it, see? It kind of marks a man this year sort of thing, see? Makes him too easy to track like. That's why I grow my hair long, see? Here, have a drink. He put his head inside the window of the white lion and wrought out, bottler lemon-eyed for the young gent. William followed him to a small table in the little sunny porch, and his heart swelled with pride as he sat, and quaffed his beverage with a manly air. His friend, who said his name was Mr. Blank, showed a most flattering interest in him. He elicited from him the whereabouts of his house and the number of his family, a description of the door and window fastenings, of the dining room silver, and his mother's jewellery. William, his eyes fixed with a fascinated stare upon Mr. Blank's ears, gave the required information readily, glad to be able in any way to interest this intriguing and mysterious being. Tell me about the war, said William at last. It were all right while it lasted, said Mr. Blank with a sigh. It were all right, but I suppose, like most things in this year world, it couldn't last forever. See? William sat down the empty glass of lemonade, and leant across the table, almost dizzy with the romance of the moment. Had Douglas, had Henry, had Ginger, had any of those boys who sat next to him at school, and joined in the feeble relaxations provided by the authorities out of school. Ever done this. Ever sat at a real table outside a real public house drinking lemonade, and talking to a man with no ears who'd fought in the war, and who looked as if he might have done anything. Jumble, meanwhile, sat and snapped at flies, frankly bored. Did you? said William in a sibilant whisper. Did you ever kill anyone? Mr. Blank laughed aloft, which made William's blood curdle. Me kill anyone! Me kill anyone! Hundreds! William breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Here was romance and adventure incarnate. What do you do now, the war's over? Mr. Blank closed one eye. That'd be telling him, wouldn't it? I'll keep it awfully secret, pleaded William. I'll never tell anyone. Mr. Blank shook his head. What you want to know for anyway, he said. William answered eagerly, his eyes alight. Because I'd like to do just the same when I grow up. Mr. Blank flung back his head and emitted a gaffer after gaffer of unaffected mirth. Oh well! said he, wiping his eyes. Oh, strike me pink! That's good, that is. You wait, young gent, you wait till you've grown up, and see what your past is to it. Oh well! he rose and pulled his cap down over his eyes. Well, oh, say good day to you, young gent. William looked at him wistfully. I'd like to see you again, Mr. Blank. I would, honest. Will you be here this afternoon? What do you want to see me again for? Said Mr. Blank, suspiciously. I like you, said William fervently. I like the way you talk. I like the things you say, and I want to know about what you do. Mr. Blank was obviously flattered. I may be around here again this after. Though I might no promise, see? I've got to be careful, I have. I've got to be careful, oh, seize me, and oh, ears me. And where I go? That's the worst of very no ears, see? William did not see, but he was thrilled to the soul by the mystery. And you don't tell no one you've seen me, nor nothing about me. Went on, Mr. Blank. Pulling his cap still further over his head, Mr. Blank set off unsteadily down the road, leaving William to pay for his lemonade with his last penny. He walked home, his heart set firmly on a lawless career of crime. Opposition he expected from his father and mother and Robert and Ethel, but his determination was fixed. He wondered if it would be very painful to have his ears cut off. He entered the dining room with an air of intense mystery, pulling his cap over his eyes and looking round in a threatening manner. William, what do you mean by coming into the house in your cap? Take it off at once. William sighed. He wondered if Mr. Blank had a mother. When he returned, he sat down and began quietly to remodel his life. He would not be an explorer after all, nor an engine driver nor chimney sweep. He would be a man of mystery, a murderer, a fighter, a forger. He fingered his ears tentatively. They seemed fixed on jolly fast. He glanced with utter contempt at his father who'd just come in. His father's life of blameless respectability seemed to him at that minute utterly despicable. The Wilkinsons over at Toddfoot have had their house broken into now. Mrs. Brown was saying. All her jewelry gone. They think it's a gang. It's just the villages round here that seems to be one every day. William expressed his surprise. Oh, well, he ejaculated with a slightly self-conscious air. Mr. Brown turned round and looked at his son. May I ask, he said politely, where you picked up that expression? I just got off one of my friends, said William, with quiet pride. Then I'd take it as a personal favour, went on Mr. Brown. If you'd kindly refrain from airing your friends' vocabularies in this house. He means you're never to say it again, William, translated Mrs. Brown sternly. Never. All right, said William. I won't see. I doubt, jolly well won't. Strike me pink, see? He departed with an air of scowling mystery and dignity combined, leaving his parents speechless with amazement. That afternoon, he returned to the White Lion. Mr. Blank was standing unobtrusively in the shadow of the wall. Hello, young gent, he greeted William. Nice dog you've got. William looked proudly down at Jumble. You won't find, he said proudly and with some truth, you won't find another dog like this, not for miles. Will he be much good as a watchdog now? Asked Mr. Blank carelessly. Good, said William, almost indignant at the question. There isn't any sort of dog he isn't good at. Umph, said Mr. Blank, looking at him thoughtfully. Tell me about things you've done, said William, earnestly. Yes, I will too, said Mr. Blank. But just you tell me first, who lives at all these ear-nice houses and all about them. See? William readily complied. And the strange couple gradually wended their way along the road towards William's house. William stopped at the gate and considered deeply. He was torn between instincts of hospitality, and a dim suspicion that his family would not afford to Mr. Blank that courtesy which is a guest's due. He looked at Mr. Blank's old green-black cap, long and tidy hair, dirty, lined sly old face, muddy clothes, and gaping boots, and decided quite finally that his mother would not allow him in her drawing room. William, he said tentatively, will you come round and see our back garden? If you go behind these old bushes and keep close along the wall no one will see us. To William's relief, Mr. Blank did not seem to resent the suggestion of secrecy. They crept along the wall in silence, except for Jumble, who loudly worried Mr. Blank's trailing boot strings as he walked. They reached a part of the back garden that was not visible from the house, and sat down together under a shady tree. Perhaps, began Mr. Blank politely, you could bring a bit of tea out to me on the quiet like. I'll ask mother, began William. Oh no, said Mr. Blank, modestly. I don't want to give no one no trouble. Just a slice of bread if you can find it without troubling no one see. William had a brilliant idea. Let's go cross to that window and get in, he said, eagerly. That's the library and no one uses except father. And he's not in till later. Mr. Blank insisted on tying Jumble up, then swung himself dexterously through the window. William gave a gasp of admiration. You did that fine, he said. Again, Mr. Blank closed one eye. Not the first time I've gotten into a window, young gent, nor the last, I bet. Not by a long way, see? William followed more slowly. His eyes gleamed with pride. This hero of romance and adventure was now his guest under his roof. They got off quite at home, Mr. Blank, he said, with an air of intense politeness. Mr. Blank did. He emptied Mr. Brown's cigar box into his pocket. He drank three glasses of Mr. Brown's whiskey and soda. While William's back was turned, he filled his pockets with the silver ornaments from the mantelpiece. He began to inspect the drawers in Mr. Brown's desk. Then, William, come to tea. You stay here, whispered William. I'll bring you some. But luck was against him. It was a visitor's tea in the drawing-room, and Mrs. DeVier Carter, a neighbour, was there in all her glory. She rose from her seat with an ecstatic murmur. William, dear child, sweet little soul! With one arm she crushed the infuriated William against her belt. With the other she caressed his hair. Then William, in moody silence, sat down in a corner and began to eat bread and butter. Every time he prepared to slip a piece into his pocket, he found his mother's, or Mrs. DeVier Carter's, eye fixed upon him, and hastily began to eat it himself. He sat, miserable and hot, seeing only the heroic figure starving in the next room, and planned a raid on the ladder as soon as he could reasonably depart. Every now and then he scowled across at Mrs. DeVier Carter and made a movement with his hands as though pulling a cap over his eyes. He invested even his eating with an air of dark mystery. Then Robert, his elder brother, came in, followed by a thin pale man with eyeglasses and long hair. This is Mr. Louis's mother, said Robert with an air of pride and triumph, his editor of fiddle-strings. There was an immediate stir and sensation. Robert had often talked about his famous friend. In fact, Robert's family was weary of the sound of his name. But this was the first time Robert had induced him to leave the lawns of his genius, and to visit the brown household. Mr. Louis bowed with a set stern, self-conscious expression, as though to convey to all that his celebrity was more of a weight than a pleasure to him. Mrs. DeVier Carter bridled and fluttered, for fiddle-strings had a society column and a page of scrappy news of the town. And Mrs. DeVier Carter's greatest ambition was to see her name in print. Mr. Louis sat back in his chair, took his teacup as though it were a fresh addition to his responsibilities, and began to talk. He talked, apparently, without even breathing. He began on the weather, drifted on to art and music, and was just beginning a monologue on the novel, when William rose and crept from the room like a guilty spirit. He found Mr. Blank under the library table, having heard a noise in the kitchen and fearing a visitor. A cigar and a silver snuffer had fallen from his pocket to the floor. He hastily replaced them. William went up and took another look at the wonderful ears, and heaved a sigh of relief. While parted from his strange friend, he had had a horrible suspicion that the whole thing was a dream. I'll go to the larder and get you something, he said. You just stay here. I think, young gent, said Mr. Blank, I think I'll just go and look round upstairs on the quiet like. And you needn't mention it to no one. See? Again he performed the fascinating wink. They crept on tiptoe into the hall. But the drawing-room door was ajar. William! William's heart stood still. He could hear his mother coming across the room. Then she stood in the doorway, her face filled with horror, as her eyes fell upon Mr. Blank. William! she said. William's feelings were beyond description. Desperately he sought for an explanation for his friend's presence. With what pride and sang foie had Robert announced his uninvited guest. William determined to try it at any rate, advanced boldly into the drawing-room. This is Mr. Blank, mother. He announced gently. He hasn't got no ears. Mr. Blank stood in the background, awaiting developments. Flight was now impossible. The announcement fell flat. There was nothing but horror upon the five silent faces that confronted William. He made one last desperate effort. He's been in the war. He pleaded. He's killed folks. Then the unexpected happened. Mrs. DeVier Carter rose with a smile of welcome. In her mind's eye she saw the touching story already in print. The tattered hero, the gracious lady, the age of democracy. The stage was laid, and that dark pale young man had only to watch and listen. Ah! one of our dear heroes! My poor brave man! a cup of tea, my dear! Turning to William's thunderstruck mother. And he may sit down, may he not? She kept her face well turned towards a sardonic looking, Mr. Lewis. He must not miss a word or gesture. How proud we are to do anything for our dear heroes! Wounded perhaps? Ah! poor man! She floated across to him with a cup of tea, and plied him with bed and butter and cake. William sat down meekly on her chair, looking rather pale. Mr. Blank, whose philosophy was to take the goods the gods gave, and not to look to the future, began to make a hearty meal. Are you looking for work, my poor man? Asked Mrs. DeVier Carter, leaning forward in her chair. Her poor man replied with simple manly directness, that he was damned if he was, see? Mr. Lewis began to discuss the drama with Robert. Mrs. DeVier Carter raised her voice. How you must have suffered! Yes, there is suffering ingrained in your face. A piece of shrapnel ten inches square, right in at one hip and out at the other. Oh, my poor man! How I feel for you! How all class distinctions vanish at such a time! How! She stopped, while Mr. Blank drank his tea. In fact, all conversations ceased while Mr. Blank drank his tea. Just as conversation on a station ceases while a train passes through. Mrs. Brown looked helplessly around her. When Mr. Blank had eaten a plate of sandwiches, a plate of bread and butter, and half a cake, he rose slowly, keeping one hand over the pocket in which reposed the silver ornaments. Well, um, he said, touching his cap. Thank you kindly. I've had a fine tea, I have. A damn fine tea. And I'll not forget your kindness to a poor old soldier. Here he winked brazenly at William. And good day to you all. Mrs. DeVier Carter floated out to the front door with him, and William followed as in a dream. Mrs. Brown found her voice. We'd better have the chair disinfected, she murmured to Ethel. Then Mrs. DeVier Carter returned, smiling to herself and eyeing the young editor, surmisingly. I witnessed a pretty scene the other day in a suburban drawing room. It might begin like that. William followed the amazing figure around the house to the library window. Here it turned to him with a friendly grin. I'm just going to have that look round upstairs now, see? He said, and once more you don't need to say nothing to no one, see? With the familiar, beloved gesture, he drew his old cap down over his eyes and was gone. William wandered upstairs a few minutes later to find his visitor, standing at the landing window, his pockets bulging. I'm going to try this here window, young gent. He said, in a quick business-like voice. I see a park, I'm in at the front gate. Give me a shove. Quick now. Mr. Brown entered the drawing room. Mulroids had his house burgled now, he said. Every bit of his wife's jewelry gone. They've got some clues, though, it's a gang all right, and one of them is a chap without ears. Grows his hair long to hide it, but it's a clue. The police are hunting for him. He looked in amazement at the horror-stricken faces before him. Mrs. Brown sat down weakly. Ethel, my smelling salts, they're on the mantelpiece. Robert grew pale. Good Lord, my silver cricket-cup! He got, racing upstairs. The landing-window had been too small, and Mr. Blank too big. The William did his best. They came to the astounded listeners the sound of a fierce scuffle. Then Robert descended, his hair rumbled and his tie awry, holding William by the arm. William looked pale and apprehensive. He was there, panted Robert, just getting out of the window. He chucked the things out of his pockets and got away. I couldn't stop him, and William was there. William's face assumed the expression of one who was prepared for the worst. The plucky little chap, struggling with him, trying to pull him back from the window all by himself. I wasn't, cried William excitedly. I was helping him. He's my friend. I—but they heard not a word. They crowded round him, praised him, shook hands with him, asked if he was hurt. Mrs. DeVier Carter kept up one perpetual stream of delight and congratulation. The dear boy, the little pet, how brave! What courage! What an example to us all! And the horrid wretched man, posing as a hero, wangling himself into a sweet child's confidence. Are you hurt, my precious? Did the nasty man hurt you, you darling boy? When the babble had somewhat subsided, Mr. Brown came forward and laid a hand on William's shoulder. I'm very pleased with you, my boy, he said. You can buy anything you like tomorrow, up to five shillings. William's bewildered countenance cleared. Thank you, Father, he said meekly. Chapter 4 The Night at Arms A knight, said Miss Drew, who was struggling to inspire her class with enthusiasm for Tennyson's Idols of the King. A knight was a person who spent his time going round suckering the oppressed. Suckin' what? said William bewildered. Sucker means to help. He spent his time helping anyone who was in trouble. How much did he get for it? asked William. Nothing, of course, said Miss Drew, appalled by the base commercialism of the 20th century. He helped the poor because he loved them, William. He had a lot of adventures and fighting, and he helped beautiful, persecuted damsels. William's respect for the knight rose. Of course, said Miss Drew hastily, they needn't necessarily be beautiful, but in most of the stories we have, they were beautiful. Followed some stories of fighting and adventure and the rescuing of beautiful damsel. The idea of the thing began to take hold of William's imagination. I say, he said to us, chum, ginger, after school. That knight thing sounds all right. Suckin', I mean, helping people and fighting and all that. I wouldn't mind doing it, and you could be my squire. Yes, said Ginger slowly. I'd thought of doin' it, but I'd thought of you bein' the squire. Well, said William after a pause, let's be squires in turn. You first, he added hastily. What will you give me if I'm first, said Ginger? Displaying again the base commercialism of his age. William considered. I'll give you first drink out of a bottle of ginger ale, what I'm going to get with my next money. It'll be three weeks off, because they're takin' the next two weeks to pay for an old window what my ball slipped into by mistake. He spoke with the bitterness that always characterized his statements of the injustice of the grown-up world. All right, said Ginger. I won't forget about the drink of ginger ale. No, you won't, said Ginger simply. I'll remind you all right. Well, let's set off. Course, said William, it would be nicer with armor and horses and trumpets, but I suspect folks would think anyone a bit soft what went about in the streets and armor now, because these times is different. She said so. Anyway, she said we could still be knights and help people, didn't she? Anyway, I'll get my bugle. That'll be something. William's bugle had just returned to public life after one of its periodic terms of retirement into his father's keeping. William took his bugle proudly in one hand and his pistol, the glorious result of a dip in the brand tub at a school party in the other, and sternly denying themselves the pleasure of afternoon school, off the two set upon the road of romance and adventure. I'll carry the bugle, said Ginger, because I'm squire. William was loath to give up his treasure. Well, I'll carry it now, he said, but when I begin fighting folks, I'll give it you to hold. They walked along for about a mile without meeting anyone. William began to be aware of a sinking feeling in the region of his waist. I wonder what they eat, he said at last. I'm getting so, as I wouldn't mind something to eat. We didn't ought to have set off before dinner, said the squire, after the event wisdom. We ought to have waited till after dinner. You ought to have brought something, said William severely. You're the squire. You're not much of a squire, not to have brought something for me to eat. And me, put in Ginger, if I brought any, I'd have brought it for me, more than for you. William fingered his manute pistol. If we meet any wild animals, he said darkly. A coy gazed at the mournfully over a hedge. You might go and milk that, suggested William. Milk could be better than nothing. You go and milk it. No, I'm not squire. I bet squires did the milking. Knights wouldn't have done the milking. I'll remember, said Ginger bitterly, when you're squire, all the things what you said a squire ought to do when I was squire. They entered the field and gazed at the coy from a respectful distance. She turned her eyes upon them sadly. Go on, said the knight to his reluctant squire. I'm not good at coy's, objected that gentleman. Well, I will then, said William with reckless bravado and advanced boldly upon the animal. The animal very slightly lured its horns, perhaps in sign of greeting, and emitted a sonorous moo, like lightning the gallant pear made for the road. Anyway, said William gloomily. We'd got nothing to put it in, so we'd only have got tossed for nothing, perhaps if we'd gone on. They walked on down the road till they came to a pair of iron gates and a drive that led up to a big house. William's spirits rose as hunger was forgotten. Come on, he said, we might find someone to rescue here. It looks like a place where there might be someone to rescue. There was no one in the garden to question the right of entry of two small boys armed with a bugle and a toy pistol. Unchallenged, they went up to the house. While the knight was wondering whether to blow his bugle at the front door or by the open window, they suddenly caught sight of a vision inside the window. It was a girl as fair and slim as beautiful as any wandering knight could desire, and she was speaking fast and passionately. William, ready for all contingencies, marshaled his forces. Follow me, he whispered, and crept on all fours near the window. They could see a man now, an elderly man with white hair and a white beard. And how long will you keep me in this vile prison? She was saying in a voice that trembled with anger, base wretch that you are. Crumbs, ejaculated William. Ha-ha, sneered the man, I have you in my power. I will keep you here a prisoner till you sign the paper, which will make me master of all your wealth. And beware, girl, if you do not sign, you may answer for it with your life. Golly, murmured William. Then he crawled away into the bushes, followed by his attendant, Squire. Well, said William, his face purple with excitement. We find someone to rescue all right. He's a base wretch, what she said. All right, will you kill him? Said the odd Squire. How big was he? Could you see, said William, the discreet. He was ever so big, great big face he had too with a beard. Then I won't try killing him, not straight off. I'll think of some plan, something cunning. He sat with his chin on his hands, gazing into space, till they were surprised by the opening of the front door and the appearance of a tall, thick-set elderly man. William quivered with excitement. The man went along a path through the bushes. William and Ginger followed an all fours with elaborate caution. At every almost inaudible sign from Ginger, William turned his red-friening face onto him with a resounding shh. The path ended at a small shed with a locked door. The man opened the door. The key stood in the lock and entered. Promptly William, with a snarl expression of cunning and triumph, hurled himself at the door and turned the key in the lock. Here came an angry shaped man inside. Who's that? What the devil? Your low old Catef, said William through the keyhole. Who the juice? Exploded the voice. You base wretch like what she said you was, bald William, has my still applied closely to the keyhole. Let me out at once, or I'll you mean older presser. Who the juice are you? What's this tomfool trick? Let me out, do you hear? A resounding kick shook the door. I've got her pistol, said William sternly. I'll shoot you dead if you kick the door down, you mangy old beast. The sound of kicking ceased and a scrambling and scraping accompanied by oaths proceeded from the interior. I'll stay on guard, said William, with a tense expression of the soldier at his post. And you go and set her free. Go and blow the bugle at the front door. Then they'll know something's happened. He added simply Ms. Priscilla Green was pouring out tea in the drawing room. Two young men and a maiden were the recipients of her hospitality. Dad will be here in a minute, she said. He's just gone to the dark room to see to some photos he'd left in toning or fixing or something. We'll get on with the rehearsal as soon as he comes. We'd just rehearsed the scene he and I have together, so we're ready for the ones where we all come in. How did it go off? Oh, quite well. We knew our parts anyway. I think the village will enjoy it. Anyway, it's never very critical, is it? And it loves a melodrama. Yes, I wonder if Father knows you're here. He said he'd come straight back. Perhaps I'd better go and find him. Oh, let me go, Ms. Green, said one of the youths ardently. Well, I don't know whether you'd find the place. It's a shed in the garden that he uses. We use it half as a dark room and half as a coal cellar. I'll go, he stopped. A nightmare signed as discordant as it was ear splitting filled the room. Ms. Green sank back into her chair suddenly white. One of the young men let a cup of tea fall neatly from his fingers onto the floor and their crash into fragments. The young lady visitor emitted a scream that would have done credit to a factory siren. Then, at the open French window, appeared a small boy holding a bugle, purple-faced with the effort of his performance. One of the young men was the first to recover speech. He stepped away from the broken crockery on the floor, as if to disclaim all responsibility for it and said sternly, Did you make that horrible noise? Ms. Green began to laugh hysterically. Do have some tea now you've come, she said to Ginger. Ginger remembered the pangs of hunger, of which excitement had momentarily rendered him oblivious, and deciding that there was no time like the present, took a cake from the stand and began to consume it in silence. You'd better be careful, said the young lady to her hostess. He might have escaped from the asylum. He looks mad. He had a very mad look, I thought, when he was standing at the window. He's evidently hungry anyway. I can't think why father doesn't come. Here, Ginger, fortified by a walnut bun, remembered his mission. It's all right now, he said. You can go home. He shut up. Me and William shut him up. You see, said the young lady with a meaning glance around. I said he was from the asylum. He looked mad. We'd better humour him and ring up the asylum. Have another cake, darling boy, she said, in a tone of honeyed sweetness. Nothing loath, Ginger selected an ornate pyramid of icing. At this point, there came a bellowing and crashing and tramping outside, and Miss Priscilla's father, roaring fury and threats of vengeance, hurled himself into the room. Miss Priscilla's father had made his escape by a small window at the other end of the shed. To do this, he had to climb over the coals in the dark. His face and hands and clothes and once white beard were covered with coal. His eyes gleamed whitely. An abominable attack utterly unprovoked, dastardly ruffians. Here he stopped to splutter because his mouth was full of coal dust. While he was spluttering, William, who had just discovered that his bird had flown, appeared at the window. He's got out, he said reproachfully. Look at him, he's got out. And all our trouble for nothing. Why didn't someone stop him getting out? William and Ginger sat on the railing that separated their houses. It's not really much fun being a knight, said William slowly. No, agreed Ginger. You never know when folks is oppressed. Anyway, what's one afternoon away from school to make such a fuss about? Seems to me, from what father said, William and on gloomily, you'll have to wait a jolly long time for that drink of ginger ale. An expression of dejection came over Ginger's face. And he wasn't even ever squire, he said. Then he brightened. They were jolly good cakes, weren't they? He said. William's lips curved into a smile of blissful reminiscence. Jolly good, he agreed. End of Chapter 4. Recording by Barbara Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 5. William's Hobby Uncle George was William's godfather, and he was intensely interested in William's upbringing. It was an interest with which William would gladly have dispensed. Uncle George's annual visit was, to William, a purgatory only to be endured by a resolutely philosophical attitude of mind, and the knowledge that sooner or later it must come to an end. Uncle George had an ideal of what a boy should be. And it was a continual grief to him that William fell so short of this ideal. But he never relinquished his efforts to make William conform to it. His ideal was a gentle boy of exquisite courtesy and of intellectual pursuits. Such a boy he could have loved. It was hard that fate had endowed him with a godson like William. William was neither quiet nor gentle, nor courteous nor intellectual. But William was intensely human. The length of Uncle George's visit this year was beginning to reach the limits of William's patience. He was beginning to feel that sooner or later something must happen. For five weeks now he had, reluctantly, accompanied Uncle George upon his morning walk. He had, generally unsuccessfully, tried to maintain that state of absolute quiet that Uncle George's afternoon rest required. He had an evening listened, wearily, to Uncle George's stories of his youth. His usual feeling of mild contempt for Uncle George was beginning to give way to one which was much stronger. Now, William, said Uncle George at breakfast, I'm afraid it's going to rain today, so we'll do a little work together this morning, shall we? Nothing like work is there. Your arithmetic's a bit shaky, isn't it? We'll rub that up. We love our work, don't we? William eyed him coldly. I don't think I'd better get muddling up my schoolwork. I shouldn't like to be more on than the other boy's next term. It wouldn't be fair to them. Uncle George rubbed his hands. That feeling does you credit, my boy, he said. But if we go over some of the old work, no harm can be done. History now. There's nothing like history, is there? William agreed, quite heartily, that there wasn't. We'll do some history then, said Uncle George briskly. Lives are the great, most inspiring. Better than those terrible things you used to waste your time on. Better than those terrible things you used to waste your time on, eh? The terrible things had included a trumpet, a beloved motor-hooter, and an ingenious instrument very dear to William's soul that reproduced most realistically the sound of two cats fighting. These, as Uncle George's request, had been confiscated by William's father. Uncle George had not considered them educational. They also disturbed his afternoon's rest. Oh, George, settled himself and William down for a nice quiet morning in the library. William, looking round for escape, found none. The outside world was wholly uninviting. The rain came down in torrents. Moreover, the five preceding weeks had broken William's spirits. He realized the impossibility of evading Uncle George. His own family were not sympathetic. They suffered from him considerably during the rest of the year and were not sorry to see him absorbed completely by Uncle George's conscientious zeal. So, Uncle George seated himself slowly and ponderously in an armchair by the fire. When I was a boy, William, he began leaning back and joining the tips of his fingers together. I loved my studies. I'm sure you love your studies, don't you? What do you love most? Me, said William, I like shooting and playing in red engines. Yes, yes, as Uncle George impatiently. Those aren't studies, William. You must aim at being gentle. It's not much good being gentle when you're playing in red engines, said William Stoutly. A gentle red engine won't get much done. Ah, but why play red Indians, said Uncle George. A nasty rough game. Now, we'll talk about history. You must mould your character upon that of the great heroes, William. You must be a clive and a polion, a wolf. I've been a wolf, said William. That game is nearly as good as red engines. And Bear is a good game, too. We might have bears here, he went on brightening. Just you and me. Would you soon be bear or hunter? I'd soon be hunter, he hinted, gently. You misunderstand, said Uncle George. I meant wolf the man, wolf the hero. William had little patience with heroes who came within the school curriculum, relapsed into gloom. What lessons do we learn from such names, my boy? Went on, Uncle George, William was on the floor behind Uncle George's chair, endeavouring to turn a somersault in a very restricted space. History lessons and dates and things, he said shortly. And the things they expect you to remember, he added with disgust. No, no, said Uncle George, but the fire was hot and his chair was comfortable, and his educational zeal was dying away. To endure the buffets of fate with equanimity, to smile at misfortune, to endure the pain of death, to smile at misfortune, to endure whatever comes and so on. He stopped suddenly. William had managed the somersault, but it had somehow brought his feet into collision with Uncle George's neck. Uncle George sleepily shifted his position. Boistress, boistress, he murmured disapprovingly. You should combine the gentleness of a moor with the courage of a Wellington, William. William now perceived that Uncle George's eyelids were drooping slowly, and William's sudden statuette calm would have surprised many of his instructors. The silence and the warmth of the room had their effect. In less than three minutes, Uncle George was dead to the world around him. William's form relaxed. Then he crept up to look closely at the face of his enemy. He decided that he disliked it intensely. Something must be done at once. He looked round the room. There were not many weapons handy. Only his mother's work box stood on a chair by the window, and only a pile of socks belonging to Robert, William's elder brother. Beneath either arm of his chair, one of Uncle George's coat tails protruded. William soon departed on his way, rejoicing. While on one of Uncle George's coat tails was firmly stitched a bright blue sock, and on the other a brilliant orange one. Robert's taste in socks was decidedly loud. William felt almost happy. The rain had stopped, and he spent the morning with some of his friends whom he met in the road. They went bear hunting in the wood, and though no bears were found, still their disappointment was considerably allayed, by the fact that one of them saw a mouse and another one distinctly smelled a rabbit. William returned to lunch, whistling to himself, and had the intense satisfaction of seeing Uncle George enter the dining room. Obviously roused from his slumbers by the luncheon bell, and obviously quite unaware of the blue and orange socks that still adorned his person. Curious, he ejaculated as Ethel, William's grown-up sister, pointed out the blue sock to him. Most curious, William departed discreetly, muttering something about better tidy up a bit, which drew from his sister expressions of surprise and solicitous questions as to the state of his health. Most curious, again, said Uncle George, who had now discovered the orange sock. When William returned, all excitement was over, and Uncle George was consuming roast beef with energy. Ah, William, he said. We must complete the history lesson soon. Nothing like history, nothing like history, nothing like history. Teach us to endure the buffets of fate with equanimity, and to smile at misfortune. Then we must do some geography. William groaned. Most fascinating study, rivers, mountains, cities, etc., most improving. The morning should be devoted to intellectual work at your age, William, and the afternoon to the quiet pursuit of some improving hobby. You would then find the true joy of life. The judge from William's countenance, he did not wholly agree, but he made no objection. He had learnt that objection was useless against Uncle George's eloquence, silence was his only weapon. After lunch, Uncle George followed his usual custom and retired to rest. William went to the shed in the back garden, and continued the erection of a rabbit-hutch he had begun a few days before. He hoped that if he made a hutch, providence would supply a rabbit. He whistled blithely as he knocked nails in at random. William, you mustn't do that now. He turned a stern gaze upon his mother. Why not? he said. Uncle George is resting. With a crushing glance at her, he strolled away from the shed. Someone had left the lawn mower in the middle of the lawn. With one of his rare impulses of pure virtue, he determined to be useful. Also, he rather liked mowing the grass. William, don't do that now! called his sister from the window. Uncle George is resting. He deliberately drove the mowing machine into the middle of a garden bed and left it there. Then, what can I do? he said bitterly to Ethel, who was still at the window. You better find some quiet improving hobby, she said, unkindly, as she went away. It is a proof of the utterly broken state of William's spirit that he did actually begin to think of hobbies. But none of those that occurred to him interested him. Stamp collecting, pressed flowers, crest collecting. Ugh! He set off down the road, his hands in his pockets, and his brows drawn into a stern frown. He amused himself by imagining Uncle George in various predicaments, lost on a desert island, captured by pirates, carried off by an eagle. Then, something in the window of a house he passed caught his eye, and he stopped suddenly. It was a stuffed bird under a glass case. Now, that was something like that. Stuffing dead animals. He wouldn't mind having that for a hobby. And it was quite quiet. He could do it while Uncle George was resting. And it must be quite easy. The first thing to do, of course, was to find a dead animal. Any old thing would do to begin on, dead cat or dog. He would do bigger ones like bears and lions later on. He spent nearly an hour in a fruitless search for a dead cat. He spent nearly an hour in a fruitless search for a dead cat. He searched the ditches on both sides of the road and several gardens. He began to have a distinct sense of grievance against the race of cats and dogs in general, but not dying in his vicinity. At the end of the hour, he found a small dead frog. It was very dry and shriveled, but it was certainly a dead frog, and would do to begin on. He took it home in his pocket. He wondered what they did first in stuffing dead animals. He'd heard something about tannin them. But what was tannin, and how did one get it? Then he remembered suddenly having heard Ethel talk about tannin in tea. So that was all right. The first thing to do was to get some tea. He went to the drawing room. It was empty. But on a table near the fire was a tea tray and two cups. Evidently his mother and sister just had tea there. He put the frog at the bottom of a cup, and carefully filled the cup with tea from the teapot. Then he left it to soak and went out into the garden. A few minutes later, William's mother entered the drawing room. Uncle George had finished resting and was standing by the mantelpiece with a cup in his hand. I see you've poured out my tea for me, he said. Rather a curious taste. Doubtless you boil the milk now, safer of course, much safer, but it imparts a curious flavour. He took another sip. But I didn't pour out your tea, began Mrs. Brown. Here William entered. He looked quickly at the table. Who's meddling with my frog? He said angrily. It's my hobby. And I'm stuffing frogs and someone's been and took my frog. I left it on the table. On the table, said his mother. Yes, in a cup of tea. Get in tannin, you know, for stuffing. I was putting him in tannin first. Then he went out into the garden. Then he went out into the garden. Then he went out into the garden. I was putting him in tannin first. I, Uncle George, grew pale. In frozen silence he put a spoon into his cup and investigated the contents. In still more frozen silence, Mrs. Brown and William watched. That moment held all the cumulative horror of a Greek tragedy. Then Uncle George put down his cup and went silently from the room. On his face was the expression of one who was going to look up the first train home. Fate had sent him a buffet which he could not endure with equanimity and misfortune at which he could not smile and fate had avenged William for much. End of Chapter 5 of More William. Read by Tim Bulkley of bigbible.org Chapter 6 of More William This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Barbara Bulkley of bigbible.org More William by Richmond Crompton Chapter 6 The Rivals William was aware of a vague feeling of apprehension when he heard that Joan Clive, the little girl who lived next door, was having a strange cousin to stay for three weeks. All his life, William had accepted Joan's adoration and homage with condescending indifference, but he did not like to imagine a possible rival. What's he coming for? he demanded with an ungracious smile, perched uncomfortably and dangerously on the high wall that separated the two gardens and glaring down at Joan. What's he coming for, anyway? Cos mothers invited him, explained Joan simply with a shake of her golden curls. He's called Cuthbert. She says he's a sweet little boy. Sweet! Echoed William in a tone of exaggerated horror. Ugh! Well said Joan, with the smallest note of indignation in her voice. You needn't play with him if you don't like. Me? Play with him? Skyled William as if he could not believe his ears. I'm not likely to go playing with a kid like what he'll be. Joan raised aggrieved blue eyes. You're a horrid boy sometimes, William, she said. Anyway, I shall have him to play with soon. It was the first time he had received anything but admiration from her. He scowled speechlessly. Cuthbert arrived the next morning. William was restless and ill at ease and several times climbed the ladder for a glimpse of the guest, but all he could see was the garden, inhabited only by a cat and a gardener. He amused himself by throwing stones at the cat till he hit the gardener by mistake and then fled precipitately before a storm of abuse. William and the gardener were enemies of very long standing. After dinner, he went out again into the garden and stood gazing through a chink in the wall. Cuthbert was in the garden. Though as old and as tall as William, he was dressed in an embroidered tunic, very short knickers and white socks. Over his blue eyes, his curls were brushed up into a golden halo. He was a picturesque child. What shall we do, Joan was saying, would you like to play hide-and-seek? No, let not play a rough game, said Cuthbert. With a wild spasm of joy, William realised his enemy lisped. It is always well to have a handle against one's enemies. What shall we do then, said Joan, somewhat weirly? Let sit down and I'll tell you very thorny, said Cuthbert. A large snort from inside the wall just by his ear startled him and he clutched Joan's arm. What that, he said. There were sounds of clambering feet on the other side of the wall. Then William's grimy countenance appeared. Hello, Joan, he said, ignoring the stranger. Joan's eyes brightened. Come and play with us, William, she begged. We don't want dirty little boys, murmured Cuthbert fastidiously. William could not, with justice, have objected to the epithet. He had spent the last half hour climbing onto the rafters of the disused coach house and dust and cobwebs adorned his face and hair. He's always like that, explained Joan carelessly. By this time William had thought of a suitable rejoinder. All righty, jeer, don't look at me then. Go on telling fairy Thorith. Cuthbert flushed angrily. You're a naughty, rude little boy, he said. I'll tell my mother. Thus war was declared. He came to tea the next day. Not all William's pleading could persuade his mother to cancel the invitation. Well said William Darkley. Wait until you've seen him, that's all. Wait till you've heard him speaking. He can't talk even, he can't play. He tells fairy stories, he don't like dirt. He's got long hair and a funny long coat. He's awful, I tell you. I don't want to have him to tea. I don't want to be washed and all just because he's coming to tea. But as usual, William's eloquence availed nothing. Several people came to tea that afternoon as a sudden silence when Mrs Clive, Joan and Cuthbert entered. Cuthbert was in a white silk tunic embroidered with blue. He wore white shoes and white silk socks. His golden curls shone. He looked angelic. Oh, the darling. Isn't he adorable? What a picture. Come here, sweetheart. Cuthbert was quite used to this sort of thing. They were more delighted than ever with him when they discovered his lisp. His manners were perfect. He raised his face with a charming smile to be kissed, then sat down on the sofa between Joan and Mrs Clive, swinging long bare legs. William, sitting an unwilling victim on a small chair in a corner of the room, brushed and washedly shone again, was conscious of a feeling of fury quite apart from the usual sense of outrage that he always felt upon such an occasion. It was bad enough to be washed until the soap went into his eyes and down his ears despite all his protests. It was bad enough to have had his hair brushed till his head smarted. It was bad enough to be hustled out of his comfortable jersey into his eaten suit which he loathed. But to see Joan, his Joan, sitting next to the strange, dressed up, lisping boy, smiling and talking to him, that was almost more than he could bear with calmness. Previously, as has been said, he had received Joan's adoration with coldness. But previously there had been no rival. William, said his mother, take Joan and Cuthbert and show them your engine and books and things. Remember you're the host, dear, she mattered as she passed. Try to make them happy. He turned upon her a glance that would have made a stronger woman queal. Silently he led them up to his playroom. There's my engine and my books, you can play with them, he said coolly to Cuthbert. Let's go and play in the garden, you and me, Joan. But Joan shook her head. I don't suppose they'd like to go out without me, said Cuthbert, eerily. I'll go with you, this boy can play here if he likes. And William, artist in the tupperation as he was, could think of no response. He followed them into the garden and there came upon him a wild determination to show his superiority. You can't climb that tree, he began. I can, said Cuthbert sweetly. Well, climb it then, roomly. No, I don't want to get my things all messed. I can climb it, but you can't. He can't climb it, Joan. He's trying to pretend he can climb it when he can't. He knows I can climb it, but I don't want to get my things messed. Joan smiled admiringly at Cuthbert. I'll show you, said William, desperately. I'll just show you. He showed them. He climbed till the tree top swayed with his weight. Then descended hot and triumphant. The tree was covered with green lichen, a great part of which had deposited itself upon William's suit. His efforts had also twisted his collar rind till its stud was beneath his ear. His heated continence beamed with pride. For a moment Cuthbert was non-plussed. Then he said scornfully, Don't he look a fright, Joan? Joan giggled. But William was wholly engrossed in a self-imposed task of showing them. He led them to the bottom of the garden where a small stream, now almost dry, disappeared into a narrow tunnel to flow under the road and reappear in the field at the other side. You can't crawl through that, challenged William. You can't do it. I've done it, done it often. I bet you can't. I bet you can't get halfway. I, well, do it then, jeered Cuthbert. William, on all fours, disappeared into the mud and slime of the small rind aperture. Joan clasped her hands and even Cuthbert was secretly impressed. They stood in silence. At intervals, William's muffled voice came from the tunnel. It's jolly muddy too, I can tell you. I've caught a frog. I say I've caught a frog. Crumbs, it's got away. It's nearly quicksands here. If I tried, I could nearly drain here. At last, through the hedge, they saw him emerge in the field across the road. He swaggered across to them a glow with his own heroism. As he entered the gate, he was rewarded by the old light of adoration in Joan's blue eyes. But on full sight of him, it quickly turned to consternation. His appearance was beyond description. There was a malicious smile on Cuthbert's face. Do something, F, he urged him. Go on, do something, F. Oh, William said, Joan, anxiously, you better not. But the gods had sent madness to William. He was drunk with the sense of his own prowess. He was regardless of consequences. He pointed to a little window high up in the coal house. I can climb up that and slide down the coal inside. That's what I can do. There's nothing I can't do. All right, urged Cuthbert. If you can do that, do it, and I'll believe you can do anything. For Cuthbert, with unholy glee, foresaw William's undoing. Oh, William pleaded, Joan, I know you're brave, but don't. But William was already doing it. They saw his disappearance into the little window. They heard plainly his descent down the coal heap inside, and in less than a minute he appeared in the doorway. He was almost unrecognizable. Cold dust adhered freely to the moist consistency of the mud and lichen already clinging to his suit, as well as to his hair and face. His collar had been almost torn away from its stud. William himself was smiling proudly, utterly unconscious of his appearance. Joan was plainly wavering between horror and admiration, then the moment for which Cuthbert had longed arrived. Children, come in now! Cuthbert, clean and dainty, entered the drawing room first, and pointed an accusing finger at the strange figure which followed. Heath been climbing trees and crawling in the mud and rolling down the coals. Heath a nasty, rough boy. A wild babel arose as William entered. William, you dreadful boy! Joan, come right away from him. Come over here. What will your father say? William, my carpet! For the greater part of the stream's bed still clung to William's boots. Doggedly, William defended himself. I was showing him how to do things. I was being a host. I was trying to make him happy. William, don't stand there talking. Go straight upstairs to the bathroom. It was the end of the first battle, and unditedly, William had lost. Yet William had caught sight of the smile on Cuthbert's face, and William had decided that that smile was something to be avenged. But fate did not favour him. Indeed, fate seemed to do the reverse. The idea of a children's play did not emanate from William's mother or Joan's. They were both free from guilt in that respect. It emanated from Mrs. Devere Carter. Mrs. Devere Carter was a neighbour with a genius for organisation. There were few things she did not organise till their every other aspect or aim was lost but that of organisation. She also had what amounted practically to a disease for getting up things. She got up plays and bazaars and pageants and concerts. There were in fact few things she did not get up. It was the sight of Joan and Cuthbert walking together down the road, the sun shining on their golden curls that had inspired her with the idea of getting up a children's play. And Joan must be the princess and little Cuthbert the prince. Mrs. Devere Carter was to write the play herself. At first she decided on Cinderella. Unfortunately there was a dearth of little girls in the neighbourhood. And therefore it was decided at a meeting composed of Mrs. Devere Carter, Mrs. Clive, Mrs. Brine, William's mother and Ethel, William's sister, that William could easily be dressed up to represent one of the ugly sisters. It was I ever decided at a later meeting consisting of William and his mother and sister that William could not take the part. It was William who came to this decision. He was adamant against both threats and treaties. Without cherishing any delusions about his personal appearance he firmly declined to play the part of the ugly sister. They took the news with deep apologies to Mrs. Devere Carter who was already in the middle of the first act. Her already low opinion of William sank to zero. Their next choice was little red riding hood and William was lured by glowing pictures of a realistic costume into consenting to take the part of the wolf. Every day he had to be dragged by some elder and responsible member of his family to a rehearsal. His hatred of Cuthbert was only equaled by his hatred of Mrs. Devere Carter. He acts so unnaturally moaned Mrs. Devere Carter. Try really to think you're a wolf darling. Put some spirit into it, be animated. William scyled at her and once more muttered monotonously his opening lines. A wolf on eye, a wolf on mischief bent a little maid is my intent. Take a breath after bent darling and I say it again. William complied, introducing this time a loud and audible gasp to represent the breath Mrs. Devere Carter sighed. Now Cuthbert darling draw your little sword and put your arm around Joan, that's right. Cuthbert obeyed and his clear voice rose in a high chanting monotone. Avant be gone you wicked wolf away, this gentle age I'll never be your prey. That's beautiful darling. Now William slink away. Slink away darling. Don't stand staring at Cuthbert like that. Slink away. I'll show you. Watch me slink away. Mrs. Devere Carter slunk away realistically and the sight of it brought momentary delight to William's weary soul. Otherwise their rehearsals were not far removed from torture to him. The thought of being a wolf had at first affected him but actually a wolf character who had to repeat Mrs. Devere Carter's meaningless couplets and be worsted at every turn by the smiling Cuthbert who was forced to watch from behind the scenes the fond embraces of Cuthbert and Joan galled his pride spirit unspeakably. Moreover Cuthbert monopolised her both before and after the rehearsals. Come away Joan, he'll probably all over cold doth and all of a meth. The presence of unsympathetic elders prevented his proper avenging of such insults. The day of the performance approached and there arose some little trouble about William's costume. If the wearing of the dining room hearth rug had been forbidden by authority it would have at once become the dearest wish of William's heart and a thing to be accomplished at all costs. But because authority decreed that that should be William's official costume as a wolf, William at once began to say, it's a dirty old thing, all dust and bits of black hair come off it onto me. I don't think it looks like a wolf. Well, if I've got to be a wolf folks might just as well know what I am. This looks like as if it came off a black sheep or something. You don't want folks to think I'm a sheep instead of a wolf do you? You don't want me to be made look ridiculous before all these folks do you? He was slightly mollified by their promise to hire a wolf's head for him. He practiced wolf's highlings though these had no part in Mrs. Devere Carter's play at night in his room till he drove his family almost beyond the bounds of sanity. Mrs. Devere Carter had hired the village hall for the performance and the proceeds were to go to a local charity. On the night of the play the hall was packed and Mrs. Devere Carter was in a flutter of excitement and importance. Yes, the dear children are splendid and they look beautiful. We've all worked so hard, yes entirely my own composition I only hope that William Bryan won't murder my poetry as he does at rehearsals. The curtain went up. The scene was a wood as was evident from a few small branches of trees placed here and there at intervals on the stage. Joan in a white dress and red cloak entered and began to speak quickly and breathlessly stressing every word with impartial regularity. A little lady made an eye red riding hood. My journey lies along this dark thick wood. Within my basket is a little jar off jam a present for my grandmother. Then Cuthbert entered a prince and white satin with a blue sash. There was a wrapped murmur of admiration in the audience as he made his appearance. William waited impatiently and uneasily behind the scenes. His wolf's head was very hot. One of the eye holes was beyond his range of vision. Through the other he had a somewhat prescribed view of what went on around him. He had been pinned tightly into the dining room hearth rug. His arms pinion down by his side. He was distinctly uncomfortable. At last his cue came. Red riding hood and the prince parted after a short conversation in which their acquaintance made rapid strides. And at the end of which the prince said casually as he turned to go, made have I never seen ere long I hope to make her my wife and queen. Red riding hood gazed after him remarking all in the same breath and tone. How kind he is, how gentle and how good, but see what evil beast comes through the wood. Here William entered a mid-wild applause. On the stage he found that his one eye hole gave him an excellent view of the audience. His mother and father were in the second row. Turning his head round slowly he discovered his sister Ethel sitting with a friend near the back. William hissed the prompter, go on. A wolf, am I? But William was engrossed in the audience. There was Mrs. Clive about the middle of the room. A wolf, am I? Go on, William. William had now found the cook and heistmaid in the last row of all and was turning his eye hole round in search of fresh discoveries. The prompter grew desperate. A wolf, am I? A wolf, a mischief bent. Say it, William. William turned his wolf's head towards the wings. Well, I was going to say it, he said irritably. If you'd left me alone, the audience tittered. Well, say it, said the voice of the invisible prompter. Well, I'm going to, said William. I'm not going to say that again, what you said, because they all heard it, I'll go on from there. The audience rocked in wild delight. Behind the scenes Mrs. Devere Carter wrung her hands and sniffed strong smelling salts. That boy, she moaned. Then William, sinking his voice from the indignant clearness with which it had addressed the prompter to a muffled inaudibility continued. To eat this little maid is my intent. But there, left on the stage again the radiant white and blue figure of the prince brandishing his wooden sword. Avant be gone, you wicked wolf away. This gentle maid shall never be your prey. At this point, William should have slunk away. But the vision revealed by his one available eye-hole of the prince standing in a threatening attitude with one arm round Joan filled him with a sudden and unaccountable annoyance. He advanced slowly and pugniciously towards the prince and the prince who had never before acted with William in his head which was hard for one evening only fled from the stage with a wild yell of fear. The curtain was lowered hastily. There was consternation behind the scenes. William glaring from out his eye-hole refusing to remove his head, defended himself in his best manner. Well, I didn't tell him to run away, did I? I didn't mean him to run away. I only looked at him. Well, I was going to slink in a minute. I only wanted to look at him. I was gonna slink. Oh, never mind. Get on with the play, Mount Mrs. Devere Carter. But you've quite destroyed the atmosphere, William. You have spoiled the beautiful story. But hurry up. It's time for the grandmother's cottage scene now. Not a word of William's speeches was audible in the next scene. But his tack-on and consumption of the aged grandmother was one of the most realistic parts of the play, especially considering the fact that his arms were imprisoned. Not so roughly, William, said the prompter in a sibilant whisper, don't make so much noise, they can't hear a word anyone saying. At last, William was clothed in the nightgown and nightcap and lying in the bed ready for little Red Riding Hood's entrance. The combined effect of the rug in the head and the thought of Cuthbert had made him hotter and crosser than he ever remembered having felt before. He was conscious of a wild and unreasoning indignation against the world in general. Then Joan entered and began to pipe monotonously. Dear grandmother, I've come with all quickness to comfort you and soothe your bed of sickness. Here are some little dainties I have brought to show you how we cherish you in our thought. Here, William, wearily rose from his bed and made an unconvincing spring in her direction. But onto the stage leapt Cuthbert once more, the vision in blue and white with golden curls shining and sword again drawn. Ha, evil beast! It was too much for William. The heat and discomfort of his attire, the sight of the hated Cuthbert already about to embrace his Joan, goaded him to temporary madness. With a furious gesture, he burst the pins which attached the dining room hearthrug to his person and freed him. He tore off the white night going. He sprang at the petrified Cuthbert, a small wild figure in a jersey suit and a wolf's head. Mrs. Devere Carter had filled Red Riding Hood's basket with packages of simple groceries, which included, among other things, a paper bag of flower and a jar of jam. William seized these wildly and hurled handfuls of flower at the prostrate screaming Cuthbert. The stage was suddenly pandemonium. The other small actors promptly joined the couple to lower the curtain. The air was white with clouds of flower. The victim scrambled to his feet and fled a ghost-like figure round the table. Take him off me, he yelled. Take him off me! Take William off me! His will was deafening. The next second, he was on the floor with William on top of him. William now varied the proceedings by emptying the jar of jam onto Cuthbert's face and tear. They were separated at last by the prompter and stage manager, while the audience rose in the cheering rose the sound of Cuthbert's lamentation. He's a naughty rough boy. He pushed me down. He's met my nice cloth boo-hoo! Mrs. Devere Carter was in articulate. That boy! That boy! That boy! Was all she could say. William was hurried away by his family before she could regain speech. You've disgraced us publicly, said Mrs. Brown plaintively. I thought she must have gone mad. People will never forget that she might have known when pressed for an explanation William would only say, well, I felt hot. I felt awful hot. And I didn't like Cuthbert. He appeared to think this sufficient explanation, though he was fully prepared for the want of sympathy displayed by his family. Well, he said, I'd just like to see you do it. I'd just like to see you be in the head and that old rug and then have to say stupid things and see folks you don't know. He felt that public feeling was against him and relapsed, sadly, into silence. From the darkness in front of them came the sound of Cuthbert's wailing as Mrs. Clive led her to charge his home. Poor little Cuthbert, said Mrs. Brown, if I were Joe, and I don't think I'd ever speak to you again. Huh! ejaculated William scornfully. But at William's gate a small figure slipped out from the darkness and two little arms crept round William's neck. Oh, William, she whispered, he's isn't he as softy. Oh, William, I do love you. You do such sighting things. The end of chapter 6, The Rivals.