William Again (13 page)

‘Huh! If I wanted anything to eat, I wun’t come
here
for it. I wun’t care to eat anything out of
this
larder. My goodness! I’d sooner starve than eat stuff
out of
this
larder, if I make myself quite clear.’

Cheered by these crushing remarks, but still apprehensive of what the next few hours might bring him, he went into the dining-room. His spirits rose still further at the sight of a lavish meal,
but dropped as he noticed the presence of his mother and grown-up sister, Ethel. He would have preferred a clear field for his operations.

He uttered the mumbling sound with which he generally greeted his family.

‘You’re rather late, dear,’ said his mother. ‘Are your hands clean?’

William replied by the same non-committal grunt, pushed back his untidy hair with his hands, then hastily sat down, keeping his hands beneath the tablecloth till public interest in their colour
should have waned. Through the window he could plainly see the forms of Sam, Albert and Leopold standing outside, and his apprehension increased.

‘Mother,’ he said faintly, ‘it feels kind of stuffy in here. May I take my tea out into the garden? I think I could eat it better there.’

Mrs Brown looked at him anxiously.

‘Do you feel ill, darling?’

‘Kind of,’ said William. ‘I feel kind of as if I’d like to have tea out of doors. I could eat quite a big tea, but only out of doors. It’s that kind of a feeling.
Sort of as if I felt faint and not hungry indoors, but would be all right an’ wantin’ a big tea in the garden.’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ remarked Ethel, coldly.

‘If you feel like that, darling,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I think you’d better lie down. I’ll bring you up a nice little tea on a tray.’

William perceived that Sam was grimacing at him through the window and pointing meaningly to the table.

‘It’s not that sort of a feeling at all,’ said William. ‘It’s quite a different sort. I’d like jus’ cake – lots of cake – in the garden. I’d feel
all right then, if I could jus’ take a lot of cake to eat outside.’

‘William!’ said Mrs Brown, who had moved over to the window. ‘Who are those boys in the garden?’

William moistened his lips.

‘Which boys?’ he said, innocently, but with an expression of grim despair.

‘There! By the hedge. They’re pulling faces at you.’

‘Oh,
those
!’ said William, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Do you mean
those?

‘Who are they, William?’

‘Those boys?’ said William slowly, to gain time. ‘Jus’ frens of mine. That’s all. Jus’ frens of mine that was interested in gardens an’ wanted to
see—’

‘But they’re horrid, common, rough boys.’

William gave a hollow laugh.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘They’re not really. They only
look
like horrid, common, rough boys. They’re
dressed
like horrid, common, rough boys.
They—’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, William. Go and tell them to go away at once. Have you finished your tea?’

William glared bitterly at the people who seemed bent on bringing about his doom.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve had all the tea I feel like having in here. I don’t know what’ll happen to me later on,’ he went on pathetically, ‘with
not having been able to have my tea the way I felt like—’

‘Go and send those boys away at once, William, and never bring them here again.’

William, whose opinion of life in general was, at this moment, unprintable, went slowly into the garden.

‘You’ve gotter go away,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.
‘She
says so.’

‘Orl right. We’ll go an’ tell your father—’

‘No,’ said William, ‘you wait by the gate an’ I’ll bring you something soon an’ – my goodness – it’ll be a long time before I go in for any more secret
sercieties!’

They went furtively down the garden drive, and William returned to the house.

The guests were arriving. He caught sight of the Rev. Cuthbert Pugh and Mr Beal as they were ushered into the drawing-room. He hovered disconsolately round the kitchen. Cook was securely in possession. She watched his every movement suspiciously. The position was desperate. Something must be done.

THROUGH THE WINDOW WILLIAM COULD PLAINLY SEE THE MENACING FACES OF SAM, ALBERT AND LEOPOLD.

‘WHO ARE THOSE BOYS?’ ASKED HIS MOTHER. ‘THOSE BOYS?’ SAID WILLIAM SLOWLY, TO GAIN TIME. ‘JUS’ FRENS OF MINE.’

At any moment the story of his crimes might be laid before his father. As cook opened and shut the larder door, he caught sight of a large pie, with brown, crisp-looking pastry, upon the top
shelf. That surely would pay off the blackmailing ex-secretaries of the Secret Society of Vengeance.

Quickly William formed his plans. To go to the larder by the kitchen door was impossible. But, somehow or other, he must get that pie. He went out of the front door and crept round the house to
the larder window. It was unlatched. He opened it quietly and climbed in. Holding his breath in suspense, his fierce and scowling gaze fixed upon the door that led to the kitchen, he took the pie
and silently climbed out again. There was exultation in his heart. The end was in sight. But he reckoned without Cæsar.

Cæsar was a boarhound belonging to Mr Beal, who accompanied his master on all his social calls, and waited outside the front door for him. On this occasion he seemed to be labouring under
the delusion that William was kindly bringing some refreshment for him to beguile his long evening.

He advanced to meet William with tail wagging, and nose eagerly sniffing the delirious perfume of veal and ham pie. His whole being expressed anticipation and gratitude.

William said ‘Down!’ in a fierce whisper, and held his precious pie high above his head. Cæsar pranced along by his side, his eyes uplifted towards the heavenly smell. William
had planned to creep through a shrubbery to the side gate, but it is difficult to creep through a shrubbery holding a heavy pie above one’s head in close company with an enormous dog, whose
energies are wholly concentrated on obtaining possession of the pie. William managed the situation for some time. He said ‘Down!’ often, and fiercely, and straggled on bravely, dragging
the pie aloft through laurel and holly bushes. But Cæsar felt at last that he had been trifled with long enough.

He rose on two legs, placed his paws on William’s shoulders, impelled him gently to the ground, and plunged his nose into his delicious supper. William sat up, nibbed a bruised elbow and
looked around. Cæsar’s appetite and capacity were unlimited. Half the pie had disappeared already, and the rest was fast disappearing.

‘Crumbs!’ said William, remembering the title of a book he had read lately. ‘Talk about
Dogged by Fate
!’

With that thought came the thought of the hero of the book, Dick the Dauntless.
He’d
have thought nothing of a thing like that.
He’d
have thought nothing of taking on
Sam and Albert and Leopold all together and licking them. He’d have just walked up to them and let them see that they’d jolly well better leave
him
alone in future.
He’d
have just laughed at that dog eating up all the pie. William promptly uttered a harsh sound and Cæsar cocked an ear and looked up apologetically. William was not a romancist
for nothing. He had ceased to be William. Dick the Dauntless swaggered down the path to the gate with a dark scowl on his face.

Sam peered through the dusk.

‘Well,’ he said, eagerly. ‘What ’v’ you got?’

Through the bushes Cæsar swallowed the last mouthful of veal and ham pie and sat back with an expression of seraphic happiness, and Jumble humbly came forward to lick the dish.

‘Nothin’, you – you ole varlets,’ cried Dick the Dauntless. ‘An’ I jolly well won’t get anything, ever – till death – so there – an’ you jus’ clear
off from outside my house, or I’ll—’

He flung himself upon Sam. Sam, who was taken by surprise, rolled into the ditch. Albert and Leopold rushed upon William, Sam crawled out of the ditch to join them, and the battle began.

‘It’s gone,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Simply gone.’ The three men looked at her in bewilderment.

‘The veal and ham pie,’ exclaimed Mrs Brown. ‘The one we were going to have for supper. Cook says she put it in the larder only two minutes ago, and now it’s gone – simply
gone. No one’s been through the kitchen. Cook’s been near the larder door all the time. Some tramp must have seen it through the window and taken it and—’

‘He can’t have gone far,’ said Mr Brown.

Mr Beal sprang up.

‘Let’s catch him,’ he said. ‘He’s probably eating it in the shrubbery now.’

The three men went out and gazed upon the darkening garden. A faint cracking of twigs in the shrubbery reached them. In single file and on tiptoe they set out. At last they discerned a dim
figure in front of them carrying something in its arms and accompanied by a dog.

‘There he is!’

‘Quietly! We’ll get him!’

‘He’s made friends with Cæsar!’

‘Quite a small man.’

Almost a boy.’

There was a horrible suspicion at the heart of William’s father, but he followed with the rest. The figure disappeared behind a laurel bush. They followed, still on tiptoe.

Behind the bush they found only Cæsar finishing the remains of the pie and Jumble watching him with wistful envy

‘Catch the old villain before he makes off,’ said Mr Beal, and they hastened on to the hedge at the end of the garden and looked over it. There a glorious sight met their eyes. Dick
the Dauntless was fighting for his life against hundreds of foes. He punched and butted and dodged and closed. Thousands fell at each stroke. He was dimly aware of three heads watching him over the
hedge, but he had no time to look at them. He heard vague sounds, such as:

‘Go it, William!’

‘Get one in now, old chap!’

‘Jolly good! Jolly good!’

‘Give it ’em strong!’

Albert, with a bewildered cry of ‘Oh, ’elp!’ and a bleeding nose, began to run off towards home. There was very little left of Dick the Dauntless, but with a desperate effort
he flung Leopold into the ditch, whence Leopold crawled forth and followed Albert. Only Sam was left. Sam was large and no coward, and, in spite of a bruised eye, would have kept up the fight
longer had not Cæsar appeared.

One glance at Cæsar was enough for Sam. Echoing Albert’s cry of ‘Oh, ’elp!’ he fled for dear life down the road. Then Dick the Dauntless vanished, and William, his
collar burst, his tie streaming, his coat torn, his ear bleeding, turned to survey his audience of three from a quickly closing eye.

William, in his pyjamas, pondered for a moment over the mystery of human life as he bestowed those few perfunctory brushes upon his shock of hair that constituted its evening
toilet. He had that day committed almost every crime known to boyhood.

He had brought ‘common’ boys home.

He had stolen a pie.

He had fought openly on the high road.

He had spoilt his collar and tie and coat, and acquired a thoroughly disreputable black eye.

Finally, turning from these crimes, fully expecting to meet with retribution at the hands of his family, he had been acclaimed as a hero. He was bewildered. He did not understand it. He did not
know why he was a hero instead of a criminal. Anyway, it wasn’t worth bothering over, and, anyway, he was going to have a jolly fine black eye, he thought proudly. He turned a somersault from
his chair to his bed, which was his normal manner of entering it, and drew the clothes up to his chin. Before he finally surrendered to the power of sleep, he summed up his chief impressions of the
evening.

‘They’re jolly queer, grown-ups are,’ he said, sleepily. ‘Jolly queer!’

CHAPTER 8

THE NATIVE PROTÉGÉ

T
he person who was ultimately to blame was the secretary of the Dramatic Society of the school of which William was a humble member. The Dramatic
Society had given an historical play in which Christopher Columbus was depicted among the aborigines of America. William was too unimportant a member of the institution which served him out his
daily ration of education to figure on the stage, but he was a delighted spectator in the back row. Christopher Columbus interested him not at all. Christopher Columbus was white, and except for
his rather curious and violently anachronistic costume, looked exactly as the postman or William’s own father might look. But the aborigines! William could not take his eyes from them. They
were Jones Minor and Pinchin Major and Goggles, and all that crew. Of course he knew that. Yet how different – how rapturously different. Browned from head to foot – a lovely walnut
brown. It made their eyes look queer and their teeth look queer. It set them in a world apart. It must feel ripping. William decided then and there that his life’s happiness could never be
complete till he had browned himself like that. He wondered whether brown boot polish would do it. Knife polish might. Something must.