WILLIAM ENTERS POLITICS
When William at the Charity Fair was asked to join a sixpenny raffle
for a picture, and shown the prize--a dingy oil painting in an oval
gilt frame, his expression registered outrage and disgust.
It was only when his friend Ginger whispered excitedly: “I say,
William, las’ week my aunt read in the paper about someone what scraped
off an ole picture like that an’ found a real valuable ole master
paintin’ underneath an’ sold it for more’n a thousand pounds,” that he
hesitated. An inscrutable expression came upon his freckled face as he
stared at the vague head and shoulders of a lightly clad female against
a background of vague trees and elaborate columns.
“All right,” he said, suddenly holding out the sixpence that
represented his sole worldly assets, and receiving Ticket number 33.
“Don’t forget it was me what suggested it,” said Ginger.
“Yes, an’ don’t forget it was my sixpence,” said William sternly.
William was not usually lucky, but on this occasion the number 33
was drawn, and William, purple with embarrassment, bore off his
gloomy-looking trophy. Accompanied by Ginger he took it to the old barn.
They scraped off the head and shoulders of the mournful and
inadequately clothed female, and they scraped off the gloomy trees,
and they scraped off the elaborate columns. To their surprise and
indignation no priceless old master stood revealed. Being thorough in
all they did, they finally scraped away the entire canvas and the back.
“Well,” said William, raising himself sternly from the task when
nothing scrapable seemed to remain, “an’ will you kin’ly tell me where
this valu’ble ole master is?”
“Who said definite there _was_ a valu’ble ole master?” said Ginger
in explanation. “’F you kin’ly remember right p’raps you’ll kin’ly
remember that I said that an aunt of mine _said_ that she _saw_ in the
paper that _someone’d_ scraped away an ole picture an’ found a valu’ble
ole master. I never said----”
William was arranging the empty oval frame round his neck.
“P’raps now,” he interrupted ironically, “you’d like to start
scratchin’ away the frame, case you find a valu’ble ole master frame
underneath.”
“Will it hoop?” said Ginger with interest, dropping hostilities for the
moment.
They tried to “hoop” it, but found that it was too oval. William tried
to wear it as a shield but it would not fit his arm. They tried to make
a harp of it by nailing strands of wire across it, but gave up the
attempt when William had cut his finger and Ginger had hammered his
thumb three times.
William carried it about with him, his disappointment slightly assuaged
by the pride of possession, but its size and shape were hampering to
a boy of William’s active habits, so in the end he carefully hid it
behind the door of the old barn which he and his friends generally
made their headquarters, and then completely forgot it.
* * * * *
The village was agog with the excitement of the election. The village
did not have a Member of Parliament all to itself--it joined with the
neighbouring country town--but one of the two candidates, Mr. Cheytor,
the Conservative, lived in the village, so feeling ran high.
William’s father took no interest in politics, but William’s uncle did.
William’s uncle supported the Liberal candidate, Mr. Morrisse. He
threw himself whole-heartedly into the cause. He distributed bills, he
harangued complete strangers, he addressed imaginary audiences as he
walked along the road, he frequently brought one hand down heavily upon
the other with the mystic words: “Gentlemen, in the sacred cause of
Liberalism----”
William was tremendously interested in him. He listened enraptured to
his monologues, quite unabashed by his uncle’s irritable refusals to
explain them to him. Politically the uncle took no interest in William.
William had no vote.
William’s uncle was busily preparing to hold a meeting of canvassers
for the cause of the great Mr. Morrisse in his dining-room. Mr.
Morrisse, a tall, thin gentleman, for some obscure reason very proud
of his name, who went through life saying plaintively, “double S E,
please,” was not going to be there. William’s uncle was going to tell
the canvassers the main features of the programme with which to dazzle
the electors of the neighbourhood.
“I s’pose,” said William carelessly, “you don’t mind me comin’?”
“You suppose wrong then,” said William’s uncle. “I most emphatically
mind your coming.”
“But why?” said William earnestly. “I’m _int’rested_. I’d like to go
canvassing too. I know a lot ’bout the rackshunaries--you know, the ole
Conservies--I’d like to go callin’ ’em names, too. I’d like----”
“You may _not_ attend the Liberal canvassers’ meeting, William,” said
William’s uncle firmly.
From that moment William’s sole aim in life was to attend the Liberal
canvassers’ meeting. He and Ginger discussed ways and means. They
made an honest and determined effort to impart to William an adult
appearance, making a frown with burnt cork, and adding whiskers of
matting which adhered to his cheeks by means of glue. Optimists
though they were, they were both agreed that the chances of William’s
admittance, thus disguised, into the meeting of the Liberal canvassers
was but a faint one.
So William evolved another plan.
* * * * *
The dining-room in which William’s uncle was to hold his meeting was an
old-fashioned room. A hatch, never used, opened from it on to an old
stone passage.
The meeting began.
William’s uncle arrived and took his seat at the head of the table
with his back to the hatch. William’s uncle was rather short-sighted
and rather deaf. The other Liberal canvassers filed in and took their
places round the table.
William’s uncle bent over his papers. The other Liberal canvassers were
gazing with widening eyes at the wall behind William’s uncle. The hatch
slowly opened. A dirty oval gilt frame appeared, and was by no means
soundlessly attached to the top of the open hatch. Through the aperture
of the frame appeared a snub-nosed, freckled, rough-haired boy with a
dirty face and a forbidding expression.
William didn’t read sensational fiction for nothing. In “The Sign of
Death,” which he had finished by the light of a candle at 11.30 the
previous evening, Rupert the Sinister, the international spy, had
watched a meeting of masked secret service agents by the means of
concealing himself in a hidden chamber in the wall, cutting out the
eye of a portrait and applying his own eye to the hole. William had
determined to make the best of slightly less favourable circumstances.
There was no hidden chamber, but there was a hatch; there was no
portrait, but there was the useless frame for which William had
bartered his precious sixpence. He still felt bitter at the thought.
William felt, not unreasonably, that the sudden appearance in the
dining-room of a new and mysterious portrait of a boy might cause his
uncle to make closer investigations, so he waited till his uncle had
taken his seat before he hung himself.
Ever optimistic, he thought that the other Liberal canvassers would be
too busy arranging their places to notice his gradual and unobtrusive
appearance in his frame. With vivid memories of the illustration in
“The Sign of Death” he was firmly convinced that to the casual observer
he looked like a portrait of a boy hanging on the wall.
In this he was entirely deceived. He looked merely what he was--a
snub-nosed, freckled, rough-haired boy hanging up an old empty frame
in the hatch and then crouching on the hatch and glaring morosely
through the frame.
[Illustration: MR. MOFFAT MET WILLIAM’S STONY STARE. THE OTHER HELPERS
WERE STARING BLANKLY AT THE WALL.]
[Illustration: “DON’T YOU THINK THAT POINT IS VERY IMPORTANT!” ASKED
WILLIAM’S UNCLE.]
William’s uncle opened the meeting:
“... and we must emphasise the consequent drop in the price of bread.
Don’t you think that point is very important, Mr. Moffat?”
Mr. Moffat, a thin, pale youth with a large nose and a naturally
startled expression, answered as in a trance, his mouth open, his
strained eyes fixed upon William.
“Er--very important.”
“Very--we can’t over-emphasise it,” said William’s uncle.
Mr. Moffat put up a trembling hand as if to loosen his collar. He
wondered if the others saw it too.
“Over-emphasise it,” he repeated, in a trembling voice.
Then he met William’s stony stare and looked away hastily, drawing his
handkerchief across his brow.
“I think we can safely say,” said William’s uncle, “that if the
Government we desire is returned the average loaf will be
three-halfpence cheaper.”
He looked round at his helpers. Not one was taking notes. Not one was
making a suggestion. All were staring blankly at the wall behind him.
Extraordinary what stupid fellows seemed to take up this work--that
chap with the large nose looked nothing more or less than tipsy!
“Here are some pamphlets that we should take round with us....”
He spread them out on the table. William was interested. He could not
see them properly from where he was. He leant forward through his
frame. He could just see the words, “Peace and Prosperity....” He
leant forward further. He leant forward too far. Accidentally attaching
his frame round his neck on his way he descended heavily from the
hatch. There was only one thing to do to soften his fall. He did it.
He clutched at his uncle’s neck as he descended. A confused medley
consisting of William, his uncle, the frame and his uncle’s chair
rolled to the floor where they continued to struggle wildly.
“Oh, my _goodness_,” squealed the young man with the large nose
hysterically.
Somehow in the mêlée that ensued William managed to preserve his
frame. He arrived home breathless and dishevelled but still carrying
his frame. He was beginning to experience a feeling almost akin to
affection for this companion in adversity.
“What’s the matter?” said William’s father sternly. “What have you been
doing?”
“Me?” said William in a voice of astonishment. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” said his father. “You come in here like a tornado, half
dressed, with your hair like a neglected lawn----”
William hastily smoothed back his halo of stubby hair and fastened his
collar.
“Oh, _that_,” he said lightly. “I’ve only jus’ been out--walking an’
things.”
Mrs. Brown looked up from her darning.
“I think you’d better go and brush your hair and wash your face and put
on a clean collar, William,” she suggested mildly.
“Yes, Mother,” agreed William without enthusiasm. “Father, did you
know that the Libr’als are goin’ to make bread an’ everything cheaper
an’--an’ prosperity an’ all that?”
“I did not,” said Mr. Brown dryly from behind his paper.
“I’d give it a good brushing,” said his wife.
“If there weren’t no ole rackshunary Conservy here,” said William, “I
s’pose there wouldn’t be no reason why the Lib’ral shouldn’t get in?”
“As far as I can disentangle your negatives,” said Mr. Brown, “your
supposition is correct.”
“I simply can’t _think_ why it always stands up so straight,” said Mrs.
Brown plaintively.
“Well, then, why don’t they _stop_ ’em?” said William indignantly. “Why
do they _let_ the ole Conservies come in an’ spoil things an’ keep
bread up--why don’t they _stop_ ’em--why----”
Mr. Brown uttered a hollow groan.
“William,” said he grimly. “Go--and--brush--your--hair.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m jus’ goin’.”
* * * * *
Mr. Cheytor, the Conservative candidate, had addressed a crowded
meeting and was returning wearily to his home.
He opened the door with his latchkey and put out the hall light. The
maids had gone to bed. Then he went upstairs to his bedroom. He opened
the door. From behind the door rushed a small whirlwind. A rough
bullet-like head charged him in the region of his abdomen. Mr. Cheytor
sat down suddenly. A strange figure dressed in pyjamas, and over those
a dressing-gown, and over that an overcoat, stood sternly in front of
him.
“You’ve gotter _stop_ it,” said an indignant voice. “You’ve gotter
stop it an’ let the Lib’rals get in--you’ve gotter stop----”
Mr. Cheytor stood up and squared at William. William, who fancied
himself as a boxer, flew to the attack. The Conservative candidate
was evidently a boxer of no mean ability, but he lowered his form to
suit William’s. He parried William’s wild onsets, he occasionally got
a very gentle one in on William. They moved rapidly about the room, in
a silence broken only by William’s snortings. Finally Mr. Cheytor fell
over the hearthrug and William fell over Mr. Cheytor. They sat up on
the floor in front of the fire and looked at each other.
“Now,” said Mr. Cheytor soothingly. “Let’s talk about it. What’s it all
about?”
“They’re goin’ to make bread cheaper--the Lib’rals are,” panted
William, “an’ you’re tryin’ to stoppem an’ you----”
“Ah,” said Mr. Cheytor, “but we’re going to make it cheaper, too.”
William gasped.
“You?” he said. “The Rackshunaries? But--if you’re both tryin’ to make
bread cheaper why’re you fightin’ each other?”
“You know,” said Mr. Cheytor, “I wouldn’t bother about politics if I
were you. They’re very confusing mentally. Suppose you tell me how you
got here.”
“I got out of my window and climbed along our wall to the road,” said
William simply, “and then I got on to your wall and climbed along it
into your window.”
“Now you’re here,” said Mr. Cheytor, “we may as well celebrate. Do you
like roasted chestnuts?”
“Um-m-m-m-m-m,” said William.
“Well, I’ve got a bag of chestnuts downstairs--we can roast them at the
fire. I’ll get them. By the way, suppose your people find you’ve gone?”
“My uncle may’ve come to see my father by now, so I don’t mind not
being at home jus’ now.”
Mr. Cheytor accepted this explanation.
“I’ll go down for the chestnuts then,” he said.
* * * * *
Fortune was kind to William. His uncle was very busy and thought he
would put off the laying of his complaint before William’s father till
the next week. The next week he was still more busy. Encountering
William unexpectedly in the street he was struck by William’s (hastily
assumed) expression of wistful sadness, and decided that the whole
thing may have been a misunderstanding. So the complaint was never laid.
Moreover, no one had discovered William’s absence from his bedroom.
William came down to breakfast the next day with a distinct feeling
of fear, but one glance at his preoccupied family relieved him. He
sat down at his place with that air of meekness which in him always
betrayed an uneasy conscience. His father looked up.
“Good morning, William,” he said. “Care to see the paper this morning?
I suppose with your new zeal for politics----”
“Oh, politics!” said William contemptuously. “I’ve given ’em up.
They’re so--so,” frowning he searched in his memory for the phrase,
“They’re so--confusing ment’ly.”
His father looked at him.
“Your vocabulary is improving,” he said.
“You mean my hair?” said William with a gloomy smile. “Mother’s been
scrubbin’ it back with water same as what she said.”
William walked along the village street with Ginger. Their progress
was slow. They stopped in front of each shop window and subjected the
contents to a long and careful scrutiny.
“There’s nothin’ _there_ I’d buy ’f I’d got a thousand pounds.”
“Oh, _isn’t_ there? Well, I jus’ wonder. How much ’ve you got, anyway?”
“Nothin’. How much have you?”
“Nothin’.”
“Well,” said William, continuing a discussion which their inspection of
the General Stores had interrupted, “I’d rather be a Pirate than a Red
Indian--sailin’ the seas an’ finding hidden treasure----”
“I don’t quite see,” said Ginger with heavy sarcasm, “what’s to prevent
a Red Indian finding hidden treasure if there’s any to find.”
“Well,” said William heatedly, “you show me a single tale where a Red
Indian finds a hidden treasure. That’s all I ask you to do. Jus’ show
me a _single_ tale where a----”
“We’re not talkin’ about tales. There’s things that happen outside
tales. I suppose everything in the world that can happen isn’t in
tales. ’Sides, think of the war-whoops. A Pirate’s not got a war-whoop.”
“Well, if you think----”
They stopped to examine the contents of the next shop window. It was a
second-hand shop. In the window was a medley of old iron, old books,
broken photograph frames and dirty china.
“An’ there’s nothin’ _there_ I’d wanter buy if I’d got a thousand
pounds,” said William sternly. “It makes me almost glad I’ve _got_
no money. It mus’ be mad’ning to have a lot of money an’ never see
anything in a shop window you’d want to buy.”
Suddenly Ginger pointed excitedly to a small card propped up in a
corner of the window, “Objects purchased for Cash.”
“William,” gasped Ginger. “The frame!”
A look of set purpose came into William’s freckled face. “You stay
here,” he whispered quickly, “an’ see they don’t take that card out of
the window, an’ I’ll fetch the frame.”
Panting, he reappeared with the frame a few minutes later. Ginger’s
presence had evidently prevented the disappearance of the card. An old
man with a bald head and two pairs of spectacles examined the frame in
silence, and in silence handed William half a crown. William and Ginger
staggered out of the shop.
“Half a crown!” gasped William excitedly. “Crumbs!”
“I hope,” said Ginger, “you’ll remember who _suggested_ you buying that
frame.”
“An’ I _hope_,” said William, “that you’ll remember whose sixpence
bought it.”
This verbal fencing was merely a form. It was a matter of course that
William should share his half a crown with Ginger. The next shop was a
pastry-cook’s. It was the type of pastry-cook’s that William’s mother
would have designated as “common.” On a large dish in the middle
of the window was a pile of sickly-looking yellow pastries full of
sickly-looking yellow butter cream. William pressed his nose against
the glass and his eyes widened.
“I say,” he said, “only a penny each. Come on in.”
They sat at a small marble-topped table, between them a heaped plate
of the nightmare pastries, and ate in silent enjoyment. The plate
slowly emptied. William ordered more. As he finished his sixth he
looked up. His uncle was passing the window talking excitedly to Mr.
Morrisse’s agent. Across the street a man was pasting up a poster,
“Vote for Cheytor.” William regarded both with equal contempt. He took
up his seventh penny horror and bit it rapturously.
“Fancy,” he said scornfully, “fancy people worryin’ about what _bread_
costs.”