WILLIAM--THE FOURTH
_By the Same Author_
(1) JUST WILLIAM
(2) MORE WILLIAM
(3) WILLIAM AGAIN
(4) WILLIAM--THE FOURTH
(5) STILL--WILLIAM
(6) WILLIAM--THE CONQUEROR
(7) WILLIAM--THE OUTLAW
(8) WILLIAM--IN TROUBLE
(9) WILLIAM--THE GOOD
(10) WILLIAM
(11) WILLIAM--THE BAD
(12) WILLIAM’S HAPPY DAYS
(13) WILLIAM’S CROWDED HOURS
(14) WILLIAM--THE PIRATE
(15) WILLIAM--THE REBEL
(16) WILLIAM--THE GANGSTER
(17) WILLIAM--THE DETECTIVE
(18) SWEET WILLIAM
(19) WILLIAM--THE SHOWMAN
(20) WILLIAM--THE DICTATOR
(21) WILLIAM AND A.R.P.
(22) WILLIAM AND THE EVACUEES
(23) WILLIAM DOES HIS BIT
(24) WILLIAM CARRIES ON
(25) WILLIAM AND THE BRAINS TRUST
(26) JUST WILLIAM’S LUCK
(27) WILLIAM--THE BOLD
(28) WILLIAM AND THE TRAMP
* * * * *
JIMMY
JIMMY AGAIN
[Illustration: “YOU CAN LOOK AT THE ALBUM WHILE I AM GETTING READY.”
WILLIAM WAS TRAPPED, TRAPPED IN A HUGE AND HORRIBLE DRAWING-ROOM, BY A
HUGE AND HORRIBLE WOMAN. (_See page 38._)]
WILLIAM--THE
FOURTH
BY
RICHMAL CROMPTON
ILLUSTRATED BY
THOMAS HENRY
LONDON
GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED
TOWER HOUSE, SOUTHAMPTON STREET
STRAND, W.C. 2
_Copyright_
_All Rights Reserved_
_First Published_ _1924_
_Printed in Great Britain by
Wyman & Sons, Ltd., London, Fakenham and Reading_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WEAK SPOT 13
II. WILLIAM AND PHOTOGRAPHY 28
III. THE FÊTE--AND FORTUNE 42
IV. WILLIAM ALL THE TIME 59
V. AUNT JANE’S TREAT 75
VI. “KIDNAPPERS” 89
VII. WILLIAM’S EVENING OUT 108
VIII. WILLIAM ADVERTISES 124
IX. WILLIAM AND THE BLACK CAT 143
X. WILLIAM THE SHOWMAN 158
XI. WILLIAM’S EXTRA DAY 175
XII. WILLIAM ENTERS POLITICS 195
XIII. WILLIAM MAKES A NIGHT OF IT 210
XIV. A DRESS REHEARSAL 227
TO
GWEN
CHAPTER I
THE WEAK SPOT
“You see,” said Jameson Jameson, “we’re all human beings. That’s a very
important point. You must admit that we’re all human beings?”
Jameson Jameson, aged nineteen and three-quarters, was very eloquent.
He paused more for rhetorical effect than because he really needed
confirmation on the point. His audience, all under nineteen, agreed
hoarsely and unanimously.
They were all human beings. They admitted it.
“Well, then,” Jameson continued, warming to his subject, “as human
beings we’re equal. As being equal we’ve got equal rights, I suppose.
Anyone deny that?”
Robert Brown, aged seventeen, in whose room the meeting took place,
leaned forward eagerly. He was thoroughly enjoying the meeting. The
only drawback was the presence of his younger brother, William, aged
eleven. By some mistake someone had admitted William, and by some still
greater mistake no one had ejected him; and now it was too late. He
gave no excuse for ejection. He was sitting motionless, his hands on
his knees, his eyes, under their untidy shock of hair, glued on the
speaker, his mouth wide open. There was no doubt at all that he was
impressed. But Robert wished he wasn’t there. He felt that the presence
of a kid was an insult to the mature intelligences round him, most of
whom were in their first year at college.
But no one seemed to mind, so he contented himself with sitting so that
he could not see William.
“Well,” continued Jameson Jameson, “then why aren’t we equal? Why are
some rich and some poor? Why do some work and others not? Tell me that.”
There was no answer--only a gasp of wonder and admiration.
Jameson Jameson (whose parents had perpetrated on him the supreme
practical joke of giving him his surname for a Christian name, so that
people who addressed him by his full name always seemed to be indulging
in some witticism) brought down his fist upon the table with a bang.
“Then it’s somebody’s duty to make us equal. It’s only common justice,
isn’t it? You admit that? Those who haven’t money must be given money,
and those who have too much must have some taken off them. We want
Equality. And no more Tyranny. The working-class must have Freedom. And
who’s going to do it?”
He thrust his hand into his coat front in a manner reminiscent of the
late Mr. Gladstone and glared at his audience from under scowling brows.
“Ah, who?” gasped the audience.
“It’s here that the Bolshevists come in!”
“Bolshevists?” said Robert, aghast.
“The Bolshevists are very much misjudged and--er--maligned,” retorted
Jameson Jameson, with emotion. “Shamefully misjudged and----” he wasn’t
sure whether he’d pronounced it right, so he ended feebly, “what I said
before. I’m not,” he admitted frankly, “in direct communication with
Lenin, but I’ve read about it in a magazine, and I know a bit about it
from that. The Bolshevists want to share things out so as we’re equal,
and that’s only right, isn’t it? ’Cause we’re all human beings, and
as such are equal, and as such have equal rights. Well, that’s clear,
isn’t it? Does anyone,” he glared round fiercely, “wish to contradict
me?”
No one did. William, who was sitting in a draught, sneezed and was
annihilated by a glance from Robert.
“Well,” he continued, “I propose to form a Bolshevist Society, first
of all, just to start with. You see, the Bolshevists have gone to
extremes, but we’ll join the Bolshevist party and--and purge it of all
where it’s wrong now. Now, who’ll join the Society?”
As human beings with equal rights they were all anxious to join. They
were all fired to the soul by Jameson Jameson’s eloquence. Even William
pressed onward to give in his name, but was sternly ordered away by
Robert.
“But I believe all you do,” he pleaded wistfully, “’bout want’n other
people’s money an’ thinking we oughtn’t to work.”
“You’ve misunderstood me, my young friend,” said Jameson Jameson, with
a sigh, “but we want numbers. There’s no reason why----”
“If that kid belongs, I’m not going to,” said Robert firmly.
“We might have a Junior Branch----” suggested one of them.
So thus it was finally settled. William became the Junior Branch of the
Society of Reformed Bolshevists. Alone he was President and Secretary
and Committee and Members. He resented any suggestion of enlarging
the Junior Branch. He preferred to form the Branch himself. He held
meetings of his Branch under the laurel bushes in the garden, and made
eloquent speeches to an audience consisting of a few depressed daffodil
roots, and sometimes the cat from next door.
“All gotter be equal,” he pronounced fiercely, “all gotter have lots
of money. All ’uman beings. That’s _sense_, isn’t it? Is it _sense_ or
isn’t it?”
The cat from next door scratched its ear and slowly winked.
“Well, _then_,” said William, “someone ought to _do_ somethin’.”
The Society of Advanced Bolshevists met next month in Robert’s room.
William had left nothing to chance. He had heard Robert saying that
he’d see no kids got in to this one, so he installed himself under
Robert’s bed before anyone arrived. Robert looked round the room with
a keen and threatening gaze before he ushered Jameson Jameson into the
chair, or, to be more accurate, on to the bed. The meeting began.
“Comrades,” began Jameson Jameson, “we have, I hope, all spent this
time in thinking things out and making ourselves more devoted to the
cause. But now is the time for action. We’ve got to _do_ something. If
we had any money ’cept the mean bit that our fathers allow us we could
make people jolly well sit up--we could----”
Here William, who had just inhaled a large mouthful of dust, sneezed
loudly, and Robert made a dive beneath the bed. In the scuffle that
ensued William embedded his teeth deeply into Jameson Jameson’s ankle,
and vengeance was vowed on either side.
[Illustration: WILLIAM MADE ELOQUENT SPEECHES TO AN AUDIENCE OF
DEPRESSED DAFFODIL ROOTS AND THE CAT FROM NEXT DOOR.]
“Well, why can’t I come? I’m a Bolshevist too like wot all you are!”
“Well, you’ve got a Branch of your own,” said Robert fiercely.
Jameson Jameson was still standing on one leg and holding the other in
two hands with an expression of (fortunately) speechless agony on his
face.
“Look!” went on Robert, “you may have maimed him for life for all you
know, and he’s the life and soul of the Cause, and what can he do with
a maimed foot? You’ll have to keep him all his life if he is maimed for
life, and when the Bolshevists get in power he’ll have your blood--and
I shan’t mind,” he added, darkly.
Jameson Jameson gave a feeble smile.
“It’s all right, Comrade,” he said, “I harbour no thoughts of
vengeance. I hope I can bear more than this for the Cause.”
Very ungently William was deposited on the landing outside.
“You can keep your nasty little Branch to yourself, and don’t come
bothering us,” was Robert’s parting shot.
It was then that William realised the power of numbers. He resolved at
once to enlarge his Branch.
Rubbing the side on which he had descended on the landing, and frowning
fiercely, he went downstairs and out into the road. Near the gate
was Victor Jameson, Jameson Jameson’s younger brother, gazing up at
Robert’s bedroom window, which could be seen through the trees.
“He’s up there talkin’,” he muttered scornfully. “Doesn’t he _talk_?”
The tone of contempt was oil on the troubled waters of William’s
feelings.
“I’ve just bit him hard,” he said modestly.
The two linked arms affectionately and set off down the road. At the
corner of the road they fell in with George Bell. William had left
Ronald Bell, George’s elder brother, leaning against the mantelpiece in
Robert’s room and examining himself in the glass. He was letting his
hair grow long, and he hoped it was beginning to show.
“What do they _do_ up at your house?” demanded George with curiosity.
“He won’t tell me anything. He says it’s secret. He says no one’s got
to know now, but all the world will know some day. That’s what he
_says_.”
“_Huh_,” said Victor scornfully, “they _talk_. That’s all they do. They
_talk_.”
“Let’s find a few more,” said William, “an’ I’ll tell you all about it.”
It being Saturday afternoon they soon collected the few more, and the
company returned to the summer-house at the end of William’s garden.
The company consisted chiefly of younger brothers of the members of the
gathering upstairs.
William rose to address them with one hand inside his coat in an
attitude copied faithfully from Jameson Jameson.
“They’ve gotter ole society,” he said, “an’ they’ve made me a Branch,
so I can make all you Branches. So, now you’re all Branches. See? Well,
they say how we’re all ’uman bein’s an’ equal. Well, they say if we’re
equal we oughtn’t to have less money an’ things than other folks, and
more work to do, an’ all that. That’s wot I heard ’em say.”
Here the cat from next door, drawn by the familiar sound of William’s
voice, peered into the summer-house, and was promptly dismissed by a
well-aimed stick. It looked reproachfully at William as it departed.
“And to-day they said,” went on William, “that now is the time for
_Action_, an’ how we’d only the mean bit of money our fathers gave us;
and then they found me an’ I bit his leg, and they threw me out, an’ I
bet I’ve got a big ole bruise on my side, an’ I bet he’s got a bigger
ole bite on his leg.”
He sat down, amid applause, and George, acting with a generosity born
of a sudden feeling of comradeship, took a stick of rock from his
pocket and passed it round for a suck each. This somewhat disturbed
the harmony of the meeting, as “Ginger,” William’s oldest friend, was
accused of biting a piece off, and the explanation, that it “came off
in his mouth,” was not accepted by the irate owner, who was already
regretting his generosity. The combatants were parted by William, and
peace was sealed by the passing round of a bottle of liquorice water
belonging to Victor Jameson.
Then William rose for a second speech.
“Well, we’re all Branches, so let’s do same as them. They’re goin’ to
get equal cause they’re ’uman bein’s; so let’s try and get equal too.”
“Equal with what?” demanded Douglas, whose elder brother had joined
Jameson Jameson’s society, and had secretly purchased a red tie, which
he did not dare to wear in public, but which he donned behind a tree
on his way to William’s house, and doffed in the same place on his way
from William’s house.
“Equal to _them_,” said William. “Why, just think of the things they’ve
got. They’ve got lots of money, haven’t they?--lots more than what we
have, an’ they can buy anything they want, an’ they stay up for dinner
always, and go out late at night, an’ eat what they want with no one
sayin’ had they better, or cert’nly not, or what happened last time,
an’ they smoke an’ don’t go to school, an’ go to the pictures, an’
they’ve got lots more things ’n we’ve got--bicycles an’ grammerphones,
an’ fountain-pens, an’ watches, an’ things what we’ve not got. Well,
an’ we’re ’uman beings, too, an’ we ought to be equal, an’ why shun’t
we be equal?--an’ now’s the time for _Action!_ They said so.”
[Illustration: ... AN’ WE’RE ’UMAN BEINGS, TOO, AN’ WE OUGHT TO BE
EQUAL, AN’ WHY SHUN’T WE BE EQUAL?...”]
There was a silence.
“But----” said Douglas slowly, “we can’t just _take_ things, can we?”
“Yes,” said William, “we _can_ if we’re Bolshevists. They said so. An’
we’re all Bolshevist Branches. They made me, an’ I made you. See? So
we can take anything to make us equal. See? We’ve got to be equal.”
Here the meeting was stopped by the spectacle of the Senior Bolshevists
issuing from the side door wearing frowns of stern determination.
Douglas’s brother fingered his red tie ostentatiously; Ronald pulled
down his cap over his eyes with the air of a conspirator; Jameson
Jameson limped slightly and smiled patiently and forgivingly upon
Robert, who was still apologising for William. The words that were
wafted across to listening ears upon the Spring breeze were: “Next
Tuesday, then.”
Then the Branches turned to a discussion of details. They were nothing
if not practical. After about a quarter of an hour they departed,
each pulling his cap over his eye and frowning. As they departed they
murmured: “Next Tuesday, then.”
Next Tuesday dawned bright and clear, with no hint that it was one of
those days on which the world’s fate is decided.
The Senior Bolshevists met in the morning. They discussed the
possibility of getting into touch with Lenin, but no one knew his exact
address, or the rate of postage to Russia, so no definite step was
taken.
During the afternoon Robert followed his father into the library. His
face was set and stern.
“Look here, father,” he said, “we’ve been thinking--some of us. Things
don’t seem fair. We’re all human beings. It’s time for action. We’ve
all agreed to speak to our fathers to-day and point things out to them.
They’ve been misjudged and maligned, but we’re going to purge them of
all that. You see, we’re all human beings, and it’s time for action.
We’re all agreed on that. We’ve got equal rights, because we’re all
human beings.”
He paused, inserted a finger between his neck and collar as if he found
its pressure intolerable, then smoothed back his hair. He was looking
almost apoplectic.
“I don’t know whether I make my meaning clear,” he began again.
“You don’t, old chap, whatever it may be,” said his father soothingly.
“Perhaps you feel the heat?--or the Spring? You ought to take something
cooling, and then lie down for a few hours.”
“You don’t understand,” said Robert desperately. “It’s life or death to
civilisation. You see, we’re all human beings, and all equal, and we’ve
got equal rights, and yet some have all the things, and some have none.
You see, we thought we’d all start at home and get things made more
fair there, and our fathers to divide up the money more fairly and give
us our real share, and then we could go round teaching other people to
give things up to other people and share things out more fairly. You
see, we must begin at home, and then we start fair. We’re all human
beings with equal rights.”
“You’re so very modest in your demands,” said Robert’s father. “Would
half be enough for you? Are you sure you wouldn’t like a little more?”
Robert waved the suggestion aside.
“No,” he said, “you see, you have the others to keep. But we’ve all
decided to ask our fathers to-day, then we can start fair and have some
funds to go on. A society without funds seems to be so handicapped.
And it would be an example to other fathers all over the world. You
see----”
At this moment Robert’s mother came in.
“What a mess your room’s in, Robert! I hope William hasn’t been
rummaging in it.”
Robert turned pale.
“William!” he gasped, and fled to investigate.
He returned in a few minutes, almost inarticulate with fury.
“My watch!” he said. “My purse! Both gone! I’m going after him.”
He seized his hat from the hall, and started to the door. His father
watched him, leaning easily against the doorpost of the library, and
smiling.
From the garden as he passed came a wail.
“My bicycle! Gone too. The shed’s empty!”
In the road he met Jameson Jameson.
“Burglars!” said Jameson Jameson. “All my money’s been taken. And my
camera! The wretches! I’m going to scour the country for them.”
Various other members of the Bolshevist Society appeared, filled with
wrath and lamenting vanished treasures.
“It can’t be burglars,” said Robert, “because why only us?”
“Do you think someone in the Government found out about us being
Bolshevists and is trying to intimidate us?”
Jameson Jameson thought this very likely, and they discussed it
excitedly in the middle of the road, some hatless, some hatted, all
talking breathlessly. Then at the other end of the road appeared a
group of boys. They were happy, rollicking boys. They all carried bags
of sweets which they ate lavishly and handed round to their friends
equally lavishly. One held a camera--or the remains of a camera--whose
mechanism the entire party had just been investigating. One more had
a large wrist-watch upon a small wrist. One walked (or rather leapt)
upon a silver-topped walking-stick. One, the quietest of the group, was
smoking a cigarette. At the side near the ditch about half a dozen rode
intermittently upon a bicycle. The descent of the bicycle and its cargo
into the ditch was greeted with roars of laughter. They were very happy
boys. They sang as they walked.
[Illustration: THEN AT THE OTHER END OF THE ROAD APPEARED A GROUP OF
BOYS. THEY WERE HAPPY, ROLLICKING BOYS.]
“We’ve been to the pictures.”
“In the best seats.”
“Bought lots of sweets and a mouth-organ.”
“We’ve got a bicycle, an’ a camera, an’ two watches, an’ a
fountain-pen, an’ a razor, an’ a football, an’ lots of things.”
White with fury, the Senior Bolshevists charged down upon them. The
Junior Bolshevists stood their ground firmly, with the exception of the
one who had been smoking a cigarette, and he, perforce a coward for
physical rather than moral reasons, crept quietly home, relinquishing
without reluctance his half-smoked cigarette. In the Homeric battle
that followed, accusations and justifications were hurled to and fro as
the struggle proceeded.
“You beastly little thieves!”
“You said to be equal, an’ why should some people have all the things!”
“You little wretches!”
“We’re ’uman beings an’ got to _take_ things to make equal. You _said_
so.”
“Give it back to me!”
“Why should you have it an’ not me? It was time for Action, you said.”
“You’ve _spoilt_ it.”
“Well, it’s as much mine as yours. We’ve got equal rights. We’re all
’uman beings.”
But the battle was one-sided, and the Junior Branch, having surrendered
their booty and received punishment, fled in confusion. The Senior
Branch, bending lovingly and sadly over battered treasures, walked
slowly and silently up the road.
* * * * *
“About your Society----” began Mr. Brown after dinner.
“No,” said Robert, “it’s all off. We’ve given it up, after all. We
don’t think there’s much in it, after all. None of us do, now. We feel
quite different.”
“But you were so enthusiastic about it this afternoon. Sharing fairly,
and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” said Robert. “That’s all very well. It’s all right when you can
get your share of other people’s things, but when other people try to
get their share of your things, then it’s different.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Brown, “that’s the weak spot. I’m glad you found it
out.”