WILLIAM MAKES A NIGHT OF IT
William had disliked Mr. Bennison from the moment he appeared, although
Mr. Bennison treated him with most conscientious kindness. William
disliked the way Mr. Bennison’s hair grew and the way his teeth grew
and the way his ears grew, and he disliked most of all his agreeable
manner to William himself. He was not used to agreeable manners from
adults, and he distrusted them.
Mr. Bennison was a bachelor and wrote books on the training of
children. He believed that children should be led, not driven, that
their little hearts should be won by kindness, that their innocent
curiosity should always be promptly satisfied. He believed that
children trailed clouds of glory. He knew very few. He certainly did
not know William.
Mr. Bennison had met Ethel, William’s sister, while she was staying
with an aunt. Ethel possessed blue eyes and a riot of auburn hair
of which William was ashamed. He considered that red hair was quite
inconsistent with beauty. He found that most young men who met Ethel
did not share that opinion.
Although Mr. Bennison had reached the mature age of forty without
having found any passion to supersede his passion for educational
theories, he experienced a distinct quickening of his middle-aged
heart at the sight of Ethel with her forget-me-not eyes and copper
locks. William never could understand what men “saw in” Ethel. William
considered her interfering and bad-tempered and stingy, and everything
that an ideal sister should not be. Yet there was no doubt that adult
males “saw something” in her.
And William had the wisdom to make capital out of this distorted idea
of beauty whenever he could.
William was in that state of bankruptcy which occurred regularly in the
middle of each week. He was never given enough pocket money to last
from Saturday to Saturday. That was one of his great grievances against
life. And just now there were some pressing calls on his purse.
It was Ginger, William’s boon companion, who had seen the tops in the
shop window and realised suddenly that the top season was upon them
once more. The next day, almost the whole school was equipped with tops.
Only William and Ginger seemed topless. To William, a born leader, the
position was intolerable. It was Wednesday. The thought of waiting till
Saturday was not for one moment to be entertained. Money must somehow
or other be raised in the interval.
Tops of a kind could be bought for sixpence, but the really superior
tops--the tops which befitted the age and dignity of William and
Ginger--cost one shilling, and William and Ginger, never daunted by
difficulties, determined to raise the sum by the next day.
“We mus’ get a shilling each,” said William, with his expression of
grim and fixed determination, “an’ we’ll buy ’em to-morrow.”
“Well, you know what my folks are like,” said Ginger despondently.
“You know what it’s like tryin’ to get money out of ’em. ‘_Save_ your
pocket money,’ they say. If they’d _give_ me enough I’d be able to
save. What’s sixpence? Could anyone save sixpence? It’s gone in a
day--sixpence is. An’ they say ‘save,’” he ended bitterly.
[Illustration]
“Well,” said William, “all I can say is that no one’s folks can be
stingier than mine, and that if I can get a shilling----”
“Yes, but you’ve not got it yet, have you?” taunted Ginger.
“No,” said William confidently, “but you wait till to-morrow!”
* * * * *
William had spoken confidently, but he felt far from confident. He knew
by experience the difficulty of extorting money from his family. He had
tried pathos, resentment, indignation, pleading, and all had failed on
every occasion. He was generally obliged to have recourse to finesse.
He only hoped that on this occasion Fate would provide circumstances on
which he could exercise his finesse.
He entered the drawing-room, and it was then that he first saw Mr.
Bennison. It was then that he took a violent and definite dislike to
Mr. Bennison, yet he had a wild hope that he might be a profitable
source of tips. With a mental vision of the tops before his eyes he
assumed an expression of virtue and innocence.
“So this,” said Mr. Bennison, with a genial smile, “is the little
brother.”
William’s expression of virtue melted into a scowl. William was eleven
years old. He objected to being called a “little” anything.
“I heard there was a little brother,” went on the visitor, perpetrating
the supreme mistake of laying his hand upon William’s tousled head.
“‘Will’ is the name, is it not? ‘Willie’ for short, I presume? Ha! Ha!”
Mrs. Brown, noting fearfully the expression upon her son’s face,
interposed.
“We call him William,” she said rather hastily.
“I call him ‘Willie’--for short,” smiled Mr. Bennison, patting
William’s unruly locks.
Mr. Bennison laboured under the delusion that he “got on with”
children. It was well for his peace of mind that William’s face was at
that moment hidden from him. It was only the thoughts of the top which
might be the outcome of all that made William endure the indignity.
“And I have brought a present for Willie-for-short,” went on Mr.
Bennison humorously.
William’s heart rose. It might be a top. It might be something he could
exchange for a top. Best of all, it might be money.
But Mr. Bennison took a book out of his pocket and handed it to William.
The book was called “A Child’s Encyclopædia of Knowledge.”
Mrs. Brown, who could see William’s face, went rather pale.
“Say ‘Thank you,’ William dear,” she said nervously, then, hastily
covering William’s murmured thanks, “How very kind of you, Mr.
Bennison. How very kind. He’ll be most interested. I’m sure he will,
won’t you, William, dear? Er--I’m sure he will.”
William freed himself from Mr. Bennison’s hand, and went towards the
door.
“You will remember,” went on Mr. Bennison, pleasantly, “that in my
‘Early Training of the Young’ I lay down the rule that every present
given to a child should tend to his or her mental development. I do
not believe in giving a child presents of money before he or she is
sixteen. No really wise faculty of choice is developed before then. I
expect you remember that in my ‘Parents’ Help,’ I said----”
William crept quietly from the room.
* * * * *
He went first of all to Ethel’s bedroom.
She was reading a novel in an arm-chair.
“Go away!” she said to William.
In the midst of his preoccupation William found time to wonder again
what people “saw in” her. Well, if they only _knew_ her as well as he
did.... But the all-important question was the question of tops.
“Ethel,” he said in a tone of brotherly sweetness and Christian
forgiveness, “have you got any tops left? You must have had tops when
you were young. I wonder if you’d like to give ’em to me ’f you’ve got
any left, an’ I’ll use ’em up for you.”
“Well, I’ve not,” snapped Ethel, “so go away.”
William turned to the door, then turned back as if struck by a sudden
thought.
“D’you remember, Ethel,” he said, “that I took a spider out of your
hair for you las’ summer? I wondered ’f you’d care to lend me a
shilling jus’ till my next pocket money----”
“You _put_ it in my hair first,” said Ethel indignantly, “and I jolly
well won’t, and I wish you’d go away.”
William looked at her coldly.
“_How_ people can say you’re ’tractive----” he said. “Well, all I can
say is wait till they _know_ you, an’ that man downstairs coming jus’
’cause of you an’ worryin’ folks’ lives out an’ strokin’ their heads
an’ givin’ ’em books--well, you’d think he’d be ashamed, an’ you’d
think you’d be ashamed, too!”
Ethel had flushed.
“You needn’t think I want him,” she said. “I should think I’m the only
person who can grumble about _him_ being here. I have to stay up here
all the afternoon just because I can’t bear the nonsense he talks when
I’m down.”
“How long’s he staying?” said William.
“Oh, a week,” said Ethel viciously. “He said he was motoring in the
neighbourhood, and mother asked him to stay a week. She likes him. He’s
got three cars and a lot of money, and he can talk the hind leg off a
donkey, and she likes him. All I can say,” bitterly, “is that I’m going
to have a nice week!”
“What about a shilling?” said William, returning to the more important
subject. “Look here, ’f you lend me a shilling now I’ll give you a
shilling _an’_ a penny when I get my pocket money on Saturday. I’ll not
forget. A shilling _an’_ a penny for a shilling. I should think you’d
call it a bargain.”
“Well, I wouldn’t,” said Ethel, “and I wish you’d go--_away_.”
“I don’t call you very gen’rous, Ethel,” said William loftily.
[Illustration]
“No, and I’m not likely to be generous or feel generous with that man
in the house,” said Ethel.
William was silent. He was silent for quite a long time. William’s
silences generally meant something.
“S’pose,” he said at last, “s’pose he went to-morrow, would you feel
generous then?”
“I would,” said Ethel recklessly. “I’d feel it quite up to two
shillings in that case. But he won’t go. Don’t you think it!
And-will-you-_go away?_”
William went, rather to her surprise, without demur.
He walked very slowly downstairs. His brow was knit in thought.
Mr. Bennison was still talking to Mrs. Brown in the drawing-room.
“Oh, yes, that is one of my very firmest tenets. I have laid stress on
that in all my books. The child’s curiosity must always be appeased. No
matter at what awkward time the child propounds the question, he or she
must be answered courteously and fully. Curiosity must be appeased the
moment it appears. If a child came to me in the middle of the night for
knowledge,” he laughed uproariously at his joke, “I trust I should give
it to the best of my ability, fully, and--er--as I said.... Ah, here,
is our little Willie-for-short.”
Still holding his “Child’s Encyclopædia of Knowledge,” William turned
and quickly left the room.
* * * * *
Mr. Bennison had had a good dinner and a pleasant talk with Ethel
before he came to bed.
The talk had been chiefly on his side, but he preferred it that way.
He was thinking how pleasant would be a life in which he could talk
continuously to Ethel, while he looked at her blue eyes and auburn hair.
He wrote a chapter of his new book, heading it “Common Mistakes in the
Treatment of Children.”
He insisted in that chapter that children should be treated with
reverence and respect. He laid down his favourite rule: “A child’s
curiosity must be immediately satisfied when and where it appears,
irrespective of inconvenience to the adult.”
Then he got into bed.
The bed was warm and comfortable and he was drifting blissfully into a
dreamless sleep when the door opened and William, clad in pyjamas and
carrying the “Child’s Encyclopædia of Knowledge,” appeared.
[Illustration]
“’Scuse me disturbin’ you,” said William politely, “but it says in
this book what you kindly gave me somethin’ about Socrates” (William
pronounced it in two syllables ‘So-crates’) “an’ I thought p’raps you
wun’t mind explaining to me what they are. I dunno what So-crates are.”
Mr. Bennison was on the whole rather pleased. In all his books he had
insisted that if the child came for knowledge at midnight the child’s
curiosity must be satisfied then and there, and he was glad of an
opportunity of living up to his ideals. He dragged his mind back from
the rosy mists of sleep and endeavoured to satisfy William’s thirst for
knowledge.
He talked long and earnestly about Socrates, his life and teaching and
his place in history. William listened with an expressionless face.
Whenever the other seemed inclined to draw his remarks to a close
William would gently interpose a question which would set his eloquence
going again at full flow. But Mr. Bennison’s eyes began to droop and
his eloquence began to languish. He looked at his watch. It was 12.30.
“I think that’s all, my boy,” he said with quite a passable attempt at
bluff, hearty kindness in his voice.
“You haven’t quite ’splained to me----” began William.
“I’ve told you all I know,” said Mr. Bennison irritably.
William, still clasping his book, went quietly from the room.
Mr. Bennison turned over and began to go to sleep. It took a little
time to get over the interruption, but soon a delicious drowsiness
began to steal over him.
Going--going----
William entered the room again, still carrying his “Child’s
Encyclopædia of Knowledge.”
“It says in this book what you kindly gave me,” he said earnestly, “all
about Compound Interest, but I don’t quite understand----”
William was very clever at not understanding Compound Interest. He
had an excellent repertoire of intelligent questions about Compound
Interest. At school he could, for a consideration, “play” the
Mathematics master on Compound Interest for an entire lesson while his
friends amused themselves in their own way in the desks behind.
Mr. Bennison’s eloquence was somewhat lacking in lucidity and
inspiration this time, but he struggled gallantly to clear the mists of
William’s ignorance. At times the earnestness of William’s expression
touched him. At times he distrusted it. At no time did it suggest those
clouds of glory that he liked to associate with children. By 1.30 he
had talked about Compound Interest till he was hoarse.
“I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you,” he said with an
air of irritation which he vainly endeavoured to hide. “Er--shut the
door after you. It’s very draughty when you leave it open--er--dear
boy.”
William, with the utmost docility, went out of the room.
* * * * *
Mr. Bennison turned over and tried to go to sleep. It did not seem so
easy to go to sleep this time. There is something about explaining
Compound Interest to the young and ignorant that is very stimulating to
the brain.
He tried to count sheep going through a stile and they persisted in
turning into the figures of a Compound Interest sum. He tried to
call back the picture of domestic happiness with which the sight of
William’s sister had inspired him earlier in the evening, and always
the vision of William’s earnest, inscrutable countenance rose to spoil
it.
Sheep--one--two--three--four--five----
[Illustration: THE DOOR OPENED AND WILLIAM APPEARED FOR THE THIRD TIME.
“IN THIS BOOK WHAT YOU KINDLY GAVE ME,” HE BEGAN, “IT TELLS ABOUT THE
STARS.”]
The door opened, and William appeared with the open book once more in
his hand.
“In this book what you kindly gave me,” he began, “it tells about the
stars an’ the Lion an’ that, an’ I can’t find the Lion from the window,
though the stars are out. I wondered ’f you’d kindly let me look
through yours.”
Sheep and stile vanished abruptly. After a short silence pregnant with
unspoken words, Mr. Bennison sat up in bed. He looked very weary as
he stared at William, but he was doggedly determined to act up to his
ideals.
“I don’t think you can see the Lion from this side of the house, my
boy,” he said, in what he imagined was a kind tone of voice, “it must
be right on the opposite side of the house.”
“Then we could see it from my window,” said William brightly and
guilelessly, “if you’d kin’ly come an’ help me find it.”
[Illustration: MR. BENNISON SAT UP IN BED. HE LOOKED VERY WEARY AS HE
STARED AT WILLIAM.]
Mr. Bennison said nothing for a few seconds. He was counting forty to
himself. It was a proceeding to ensure self-control taught him by his
mother in early youth. It had never failed him yet, though it nearly
did on this occasion. Then he followed William across the landing to
his room.
William was not content with the Lion. He insisted on finding all
the other constellations mentioned in the book. At 2.30 Mr. Bennison
staggered back to his bedroom. He did not go to bed at once. He took
out the chapter he had written early in the evening and crossed out the
words, “A child’s curiosity must be immediately satisfied when and
where it appears, irrespective of inconvenience to the adult.”
He decided to cut out all similar sentiments in the next editions of
all his books.
Then he got into bed. Sleep at last--blissful, drowsy, soul-satisfying
sleep.
“Mr. Bennison--_Mr. Bennison_--in this book what you kindly gave me
there’s some kind of puzzles--‘’telligence tests’ it calls ’em, an’ I
can’t do ’em. I wondered if you’d kindly help me----”
“Well, I won’t,” said Mr. Bennison. “Go away. Go away, I tell you.”
“There’s only a page of ’em,” said William.
“Go _away_,” roared Mr. Bennison, drawing the clothes over his head. “I
tell you I won’t--_I won’t_----”
William quietly went away.
Now Mr. Bennison was a conscientious man. Left alone in the silence of
the night all desire for sleep deserted him. He was horrified at his
own depravity. He had deliberately broken his own rule. He had been
false to his ideals.
He had refused to satisfy the curiosity of the young when and where it
appeared. A child had come to him for help in the middle of the night
and he had refused him or her. The child, moreover, might repeat the
story. It might get about. People might hold it up against him.
After wrestling with his conscience for half an hour he arose and
sought William in his room. At four o’clock he was still trying to
solve the intelligence tests for William. William stood by wearing that
expression that Mr. Bennison was beginning to dislike intensely.
At 4:15 Mr. Bennison, looking wild and dishevelled, returned to his
room. But he was a broken man. He struggled no longer against Fate.
Five o’clock found him explaining to William exactly why Charles I had
been put to death.
Six o’clock found him trying to fathom the meaning of “plunger” and
“inductance” and “slider” and various other words that occurred in the
chapter on Wireless. It fortunately never occurred to him that they
were all terms with which William was perfectly familiar.
As he held his head and tried to think from what Greek or Latin
words the terms might have been derived, he missed the flicker that
occasionally upset the perfect repose of William’s features.
At seven o’clock he felt really ill and went downstairs to try to find
a whisky-and-soda. It was not William’s fault that he fell over the
knitting on which Mrs. Brown had been engaged the evening before, and
which had slipped from her chair on to the floor. His frenzied efforts
to disentangle his feet entangled them still further.
At last, with teeth bared in rage and wearing the air of a Samson
throwing off his enemies, he tore wildly at the wool, and scattering
bits of this material and unravelled socks about him, he strode forward
to the sideboard. He could not find a whisky-and-soda. After upsetting
a cruet in the sideboard cupboard he went guiltily back to his bedroom.
His bed looked tidier than he imagined he had left it, and very
inviting. Perhaps he might get just half an hour’s sleep before he got
up.... He flung himself on to the bed. His feet met with an unexpected
resistance half-way down the bed, bringing his knees sharp up to his
chin. The bed was wrong. The bed was all wrong. The bed was all very
wrong.
For a few seconds Mr. Bennison forgot the traditions of self-restraint
and moderation of language on which he had been reared. William,
standing in the doorway, listened with interest.
“I hope you don’t mind me tryin’ ’f I could do it,” he said. “I dunno
why it’s called an apple-pie bed, do you? It doesn’t say nothing about
it in this book what you kindly gave me.”
Mr. Bennison flung himself upon William with a roar. William dodged
lightly on to the landing. Mr. Bennison followed and collided heavily
with a housemaid who was carrying a tray of early morning tea.
* * * * *
William came down to breakfast. He entered the dining-room slowly and
cautiously. Only his father and mother were there. His mother was
talking to his father.
“He wouldn’t even stay for breakfast,” she was saying. “He said his
letter called him back to town on most urgent business. I didn’t like
his manner at all.”
“Oh?” said her husband from behind his paper, without much interest.
“No, I thought it rather ungracious, and he looked queer.”
“Oh?” said her husband, turning to the financial columns.
“Yes--wild and hollow-eyed and that sort of thing. I’ve wondered since
whether perhaps he takes drugs. One reads of such things, you know, and
he certainly looked queer. I’m glad he’s gone.”
William went up to Ethel’s bedroom. Ethel was gloomily putting the
finishing touches to her auburn hair.
“He’s gone, Ethel,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “gone for
good.”
Ethel’s countenance brightened.
“Sure?” she said.
“Sure,” he said. “Now what ’bout that two shillings?”
She looked at him with sudden suspicion.
“Have you----?” she began.
“Me?” broke in William indignantly. “Why, I din’ know he’d gone till I
got down to breakfast.”
“All right,” said Ethel carelessly. “If he’s really and truly gone,
I’ll give you half a crown.”
* * * * *
William, on his way to school, met Ginger at the end of the lane.
“I’ve tried ’em all,” said Ginger despondently, “an’ none of ’em’ll
give me a penny.”
William with a flourish brought out his half a crown.
“This’ll do for both of us,” he said with a lordly air.
“Crumbs!” said Ginger, with respect and admiration in his voice. “Who
d’you get that out of?”
“Well, a man came to stay at our house----” began William.
Ginger’s respect and admiration vanished.
“Oh, a _visitor!_” he said disparagingly. “’S easy enough to get money
out of a visitor.”
“’F you think _this_ was easy,” began William with deep feeling, then
stopped.
It was a long story and already retreating into the limbo of the past.
He could not sully the golden present by a lengthy repetition of it. It
had been jolly hard work while it lasted, but now it was over and done
with. It belonged to the past. The present included a breathless run
into the village, leaping backwards and forwards across the ditches,
a race down the village streets and TOPS--glorious tops--superior
shilling-each tops with sixpence over.
He uttered his shrill, discordant war-whoop.
“Come on,” he shouted, “’fore they’re all sold out. Race you to the end
of the road!”