William in Trouble (22 page)

‘Will you promise to give it to Robert?’ said William.

Of course it was only a boy, but it was well known that a madman’s strength is ten times that of an ordinary man’s. This mad boy’s, therefore, would probably be at least five
times.

‘Er – certainly I’ll give it to Robert,’ he said again soothingly.

‘You promise on your honour?’ said William.

‘Yes, I promise. And now, my dear kind little boy’ (one ought always to humour them. He remembered hearing that) ‘and now, my
dear
kind little boy, will you
kindly
take me back to—’

‘What’s it going to be?’ said William.

Mr Augustus Farqueson took out his handkerchief and furtively mopped his brow.

‘Er – what’s what going to be, dear little boy?’ he said, with a ghastly smile.

‘The prize,’ said William, ‘what’s it goin’ to be?’

Mr Farqueson’s smile grew more ghastly still.

‘We – we must wait and see, mustn’t we?’ he said with an unconvincing playfulness, mopping his brow again.

‘Then you won’t give it to Oswald?’ said William.

‘Oh, no,’ Mr Augustus Farqueson assured him with another mirthless smile. ‘Oh, no, most certainly I won’t give it to Oswald.’

‘Thanks,’ said William, then ‘Well, let’s get on.’

So they got on. They proceeded over the hills and dales of loose earth till they reached the further stile. This led to a large field in which was an old barn. The boy was evidently leading him
to the barn. Mr Augustus Farqueson followed simply because he was too much bewildered to do anything else. The boy stopped at the door and Mr Augustus Farqueson peered curiously over his
shoulder.

There were three other boys there.

‘He’s here,’ said his leader triumphantly, ‘and he’s
promised
to give the prize to Robert and not to Oswald.’

The three boys cheered. Mr Augustus Farqueson stood blinking with horror in the doorway. Four of them – all mad – all as mad as hatters. There must be some sort of Asylum for the
Young near from which they’d escaped. It was awful – four mad boys each with the strength of five men. He did a hasty sum of mental arithmetic in his head.

Yes, it would be like fighting with twenty men. He must escape while he had time.

He turned and fled into the gathering darkness. He ran faster than he had run since his far-distant schooldays. He emerged at last, breathless and panting, into a main road. He ran along the
main road. There was a lighted building and people standing at the doorway looking up and down the road. It was his audience watching out for him. Fate had kindly led him straight to the Church
hall, Bassenton.

When Robert returned from Mr Boston’s lecture that evening, William was waiting for him. William’s face wore its most sphinx-like look.

‘Was it nice, Robert?’ he said innocently.

‘Yes,’ said Robert.

‘Did he – did he speak to you?’

‘Of course not,’ said Robert again.

‘Was he late?’ said William.

‘A little,’ said Robert. ‘Why?’

William smiled to himself.

The fact that Robert actually did win the prize needs some explanation. Both paper and circulation were in its infancy. There were only twelve entries for the competition.

Of these only one reached any poetic standard at all, and it was disqualified because its author had omitted to give his name and address. Most of the others were disqualified for some reason or
other. Some omitted to sign the paper certifying that the poem was their own unaided work. Some had omitted to ascertain what a sonnet was. Oswald signed the paper and sent in a sonnet in perfectly
correct form, but, having grown over-confident, he had chosen a fairly well-known sonnet of Shakespeare’s, so he, too, was disqualified. That left Robert. Robert’s effort was not
poetry, but it indubitably conformed to the rules governing the composition of a sonnet, so the editor, somewhat reluctantly, adjudged the prize to Robert.

So he wrote quite a long article about Oswald’s sonnet, pointing out how immoral it was of Oswald to sign a paper certifying that he had written one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He held
Oswald up to public execration; he poured scorn upon Oswald’s superior head, naming him by name.

The prize was a small silver cup which Robert received by registered post the day after the results were published. It was a pleasant ending to the activities of the Twentieth Century Poets. It
was the end, of course. The weather had improved; none of the Twentieth Century Poets wanted to be a twentieth century poet any longer. They were immensely proud of Robert and Robert was immensely
proud of himself.

But their pride was nothing compared with the pride of the Outlaws.

Only the day before the results were published Bertie Franks & Co. had followed them down the road (at a safe distance) with derisive yells of ‘Who’s goin’ to win the
prize? Yah boo! WE’RE goin’ to win the prize.’ So completely had Bertie Franks & Co. identified themselves with Oswald.

But now it was the Outlaws’ turn. Very daringly William ‘borrowed’ the cup that stood in state in Robert’s bedroom, and fastened it on to a long pole. They inscribed a
(very) home-made banner with the words, ‘WE’VE WON THE PRIZE.’ William and Ginger (whose digestion seemed to have been quite untroubled by the toadstools) carried the banner.
Douglas carried the pole and the cup. Henry performed inharmoniously on a trumpet. They did not see Oswald. Oswald, after reading the article about himself in
The Young Crusader
, had retired
into private life till such time as his unenviable notoriety should have faded. But they met Bertie Franks & Co. They took no notice of them. They marched past them in proud triumph, chanting
the legend of the banner and blowing on the trumpet. And they were rewarded by the glorious sight of their enemies slinking off, abject and ashamed.

After this most satisfactory triumphal procession, the Outlaws went home again.

Then William descended to the morning-room where Robert sat reading for the hundredth time his sonnet which was printed on the competition page of
The Young Crusader.
Robert’s face
was glowing with pride.

He was thinking what a pity it was that he couldn’t really take up the calling of a famous Poet – but now that the weather had cleared, what with tennis and the river, and the footer
season beginning as soon as the tennis and river season closed, one really hadn’t time for it. He’d shown them that he could be a poet if he cared to be and that was the main thing. He
didn’t know that it was worth the trouble to keep on with it indefinitely. It took up too much of one’s time.

The Twentieth Century Poets had had a final meeting yesterday (Oswald had not attended) at which they had cheered Robert till they were hoarse, solemnly deposed Oswald from all his offices and
then dissolved the Society. They’d all agreed that though it had been interesting in a way they’d had quite enough of it.

Robert saw William approaching and hastily turned over the page. He didn’t want William to see him reading his own poem. He thought how well they’d managed to keep the Society a
secret from those little wretches. Those little wretches had had absolutely no idea of it till they heard that he’d won a prize.

William cleared his throat and drew nearer. He thought that the time had come to tell Robert. Robert ought to know that he owed it all to him. It ought to make Robert so grateful that he’d
do anything in the world for him. There were quite a lot of things he’d like Robert to do for him. He’d like, for instance, a much closer acquaintance with the internal organism of
Robert’s runabout than Robert had so far allowed him.

Then there was that telescope of Robert’s and that ukulele of Robert’s. He’d like undisputed possession of both those for at least a day. Surely when he told Robert all he owed
to him he’d be ready to give him anything. A picture of a life of pleasant intimacy with Robert’s possessions arose before his mental vision. Robert would probably be quite
overcome
with gratitude and would ask him to choose anything he liked. He thought he’d choose the telescope.

He looked over Robert’s shoulder at the paper, and by way of opening conversation pointed to a photograph in the middle of the page. It was the photograph of a young and muscular man with
a clean-shaven face.

‘Who’s that, Robert?’ he said pleasantly.

‘The editor,’ said Robert shortly.

William’s jaw dropped open. He blinked. By no stretch of imagination could the original of this photograph be the man whom William had led to the barn that night, and from whom he had
extorted a promise to give the prize to Robert.

‘N – not the man what judged the pomes an’ gave the prize, Robert?’ he said almost pleadingly.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Robert impatiently.

‘N – not the man what you went to hear lecture?’ said William.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Robert.

‘D – did he look
jus
’ like that?’ said William faintly.

‘
Yes
,’ said Robert, ‘why?’

‘N – nothing,’ said William.

He walked away looking rather thoughtful.

He decided not to ask Robert for the telescope, after all.

He decided not to ask Robert for anything.

He’d done his best, but—

Anyway, he’d collect the others and they could march past the Franks’ house again with the banner and the trumpet.

That
part of it was all right, anyway
– jolly
well all right. The other part must have gone wrong somehow, but – Well, after all, everyone made mistakes sometimes. Even
Moses and Napoleon and people like that made mistakes sometimes.

William’s thoughtful expression died away and a smile of triumph took its place.

Yes, they’d have another procession.

That
part was all right.

CHAPTER 8

W
ILLIAM was feeling grateful to Robert. Gratitude to Robert was not a normal emotion of William’s. Their ordinary relationship was marked by
that deep distrust not unusual between brothers aged eleven and seventeen respectively. William cherished in his breast many, many grievances against Robert, and Robert cherished in his breast
many, many grievances against William – but last week, Robert had all unwittingly earned that not unmixed blessing. William’s gratitude.

There were those who said that they preferred William’s open enmity to William’s gratitude. William had a laudable habit of translating feelings into action and when William was
openly out to avenge himself upon you the results were as a rule far less devastating than when he was out to help you.

Anyway, Robert, having received a handsome present of five pounds from his godmother, and being in a generous mood, gave William five shillings. This munificent gift happened to extricate
William from a difficult financial position. William had taken his air gun to be mended and had subsequently, through a series of unfortunate incidents (including a broken pane in the greenhouse,
and damage done to an enemy’s school cap, which resulted in parental correspondence and the enforced purchase of a new cap for the enemy by William’s father), found himself
insolvent.

The air gun was mended, but Mr Beezum, the repairer, showed an uncharitableness that caused William unbounded surprise and pain, and refused to let William have it without payment, and moreover
refused to take William’s collection of stag beetles as payment, although William explained that they were worth far more than a shilling (the sum total of his debt), because he had
‘tamed’ them. Mr Beezum did not stop at this ungenerous refusal. He showed a still more unchristian spirit by adding that unless he were paid by the end of the week he would go to see
William’s father about it. William felt that this would be an undesirable anticlimax.

William had seen quite as much of his father as he wanted to see for the present over the greenhouse pane and the enemy’s cap, and he felt, rightly, that his father reciprocated the
feeling. A visit from Mr Beezum to William’s father, complaining of William’s undischarged liabilities was, thought William, to be prevented at all costs. So he strained every nerve to
raise the shilling before the end of the week.

He offered his services to his mother at 6d. an hour, and his mother, after a slight hesitation, allowed him to help with the arrangement of the flowers. In ten minutes he had broken two vases,
knocked over a pail of water, annihilated a bunch of sweet peas by sitting on them, and left the tap running in the pantry so that the hall was completely flooded. At this point his mother hastily
terminated the arrangement, refusing even to pay him for the ten minutes. William then wandered into the garden to brood over the unreasonableness and unkindness of the human beings among whom Fate
had cast his lot.

‘’Straordinary,’ he said bitterly to the next door neighbour’s cat on the wall, as he absently threw small pebbles at it, ‘’straordinary – You’d
think they’d
like
helpin’ folks an’ bein’
kind.
You’d think she wouldn’t mind jus’ a bit of water about the hall – jus’ sort of
washin’ it for her. You’d think – well, anyway, how’d I know the ole glass pane would break when a stone jus’
touched
it – they oughter’ve been
cross with the man who made such bad glass ’stead of with me, an’ I bet he’d’ve threw
my
cap into the pond if I’d given him a chance an’ it’s a nice
thing, isn’t it,
me
havin’ to pay for
his
ole cap – an’
he’s
a mean ole thing not to let me have my air gun back. It’s same as
stealin’,
I
think – keepin’ things what don’t belong to you – I bet I c’ld have him put in prison if I went an’ told a judge about it –
an’ I bet my beetles is worth pounds an’
pounds
now I’ve tamed ’em and if he comes up to tell Father, I shall jus’ say – I shall jus’
say—’

It was while William, with frowning brows, still absently throwing stones at the cat on the fence, who remained quite unperturbed (because it knew that William’s stone-throwing was merely
a gentle accompaniment to his thoughts), was seeking some brilliant and crushing remark which would overwhelm with shame both his father and Mr Beezum, that Robert came out, his five-pound note in
his pocket and a general air of affluence about him, and carelessly presented William with five shillings.