A DRESS REHEARSAL
It was Saturday, but despite that glorious fact, William, standing at
the dining-room window and surveying the world at large, could not for
the moment think of anything to do.
From the window he saw the figure of his father, who sat peacefully on
the lawn reading a newspaper. William was not fond of his own society.
He liked company of any sort. He went out to the lawn and stood by his
father’s chair.
“You’ve not got much hair right on the top of your head, father,” he
said pleasantly and conversationally.
There was no answer.
“I said you’d not got much hair on the top of your head,” repeated
William in a louder tone.
“I heard you,” said his father coldly.
“Oh,” said William, sitting down on the ground. There was silence for a
minute, then William said in friendly tones:
“I only said it again ’cause I thought you didn’t hear the first time.
I thought you’d have said, ‘Oh,’ or ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ or something if
you’d heard.”
There was no answer, and again after a long silence, William spoke.
“I didn’t mind you not sayin’ ‘Oh,’ or ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’” he said, “only
that was what made me say it again, ’cause with you not sayin’ it I
thought you’d not heard.”
Mr. Brown arose and moved his chair several feet away. William, on whom
hints were wasted, followed.
“I was readin’ a tale yesterday,” he said, “about a man wot’s legs got
bit off by sharks----”
Mr. Brown groaned.
“William,” he said politely, “pray don’t let me keep you from your
friends.”
“Oh, no, that’s quite all right,” said William. “Well--p’raps Ginger is
lookin’ for me. Well, I’ll finish about the man an’ the sharks after
tea. You’ll be here then, won’t you?”
“Please, don’t trouble,” said Mr. Brown with sarcasm that was entirely
lost on his son.
“Oh, it’s not a trouble,” said William as he strolled off, “I like
talkin’ to people.”
* * * * *
Ginger was strolling disconsolately down the road looking for William.
His face brightened when he saw William in the distance.
“Hello, William.”
“Hello, Ginger.”
In accordance with their usual ceremonial greeting, they punched each
other and wrestled with each other till they rolled on to the ground.
Then they began to walk along the road together.
“I’ve not got to stop with you long,” said Ginger gloomily; “my
mother’s got an ole Sale of Work in her garden, an’ she wants me to
help.”
“Huh!” said William scornfully, “_you_ helpin’ at a Sale of Work!
_You._ Huh!”
“She’s goin’ to give me five shillings,” went on Ginger coldly.
William slightly modified his tone. “Well, I never said you can’t help,
did I?” he said in a more friendly voice.
“She said I needn’t go for about half an hour. Wot’ll we do? Dig for
hidden treasure?”
Two months ago William and his friends had been fired with the idea of
digging for hidden treasure. From various books they had read (“Ralph
the Reckless,” “Hunted to Death,” “The Quest of Captain Terrible,”
etc.), they had gathered that the earth is chockful of buried treasure
if only one takes the trouble to dig deep enough.
They had resolved to dig every inch of their native village, collect
all the treasure they found, and with it buy a desert island on which
they proposed to spend the rest of their lives unhampered by parents
and schoolmasters.
They had decided to begin with the uncultivated part of Ginger’s back
garden, and to buy further land for excavation with the treasure they
found in the back garden.
Their schemes were not narrow. They had decided to purchase and to pull
down all the houses in the village as their treasure grew and more and
more land was required for digging.
But they had dug unsuccessfully for two months in Ginger’s back garden
and were beginning to lose heart. They had not realised that digging
was such hard work, or that ten feet square of perfectly good land
would yield so little treasure. Conscientiously they carried on the
search, but it had lost its first fine careless rapture, and they were
glad of any excuse for avoiding it.
“Dig in your back garden with all those Sale of Work people messin’
about interruptin’ and gettin’ in the way?” said William sternly. “Not
much!”
“All right,” said Ginger relieved. “I only _s’gested_ it. Well, shall
we hunt for smugglers?”
* * * * *
There was a cave in the hillside just beneath the road, and though the
village in which William and Ginger lived was more than a hundred
miles inland, William and Ginger were ever hopeful of finding a
smuggler or, at any rate, traces of a smuggler, in the cave. They
searched it carefully every day.
As William said, “’S’only likely the reely cunnin’ ones wouldn’t stay
sittin’ in their caves by the sea all the time. They’d know folks’d be
on the look out for ’em there. They’d bring their things here where no
one’d expect ’em. Why, with a fine cave like this there’s _sure_ to be
smugglers.”
When tired of hunting for smugglers, or traces of smugglers, they
adopted the characters of smugglers themselves, and carried their
treasure (consisting of stones) up the hillside to conceal it in the
cave, or fled for their lives to the cave with imaginary soldiers in
pursuit. From the cover of the cave, Bill, the smuggler, often covered
the entire hillside with the dead bodies of soldiers. In these frays
the gallant smugglers never received even the slightest scratch.
With ever fresh hope they searched the cave again. Ginger found a stone
that he said had not been there yesterday, and must have been left as
a kind of signal, but William said that he distinctly recognised it as
having been there yesterday, and the matter dropped.
After a brief and indecisive discussion as to how they should spend the
five shillings that Ginger’s mother had said she would give him, they
occupied themselves in crawling laboriously on their stomachs in and
out of the cave so as to be unperceived by the soldiers who were on the
watch above and below.
At last, Ginger, moved not so much by his conscience as by fears of
forfeiting his five shillings, set off sadly homewards, and William set
off along the road in the opposite direction.
He walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, dragging his shoes in the
dust in a manner which his mother frequently informed him brought the
toes through in no time.
* * * * *
When he came to the school he stopped, attracted by the noise that came
through the open window of the schoolroom. They were preparing for a
dress rehearsal of the “Pageant of Ancient Britain,” which was to be
performed the next month. William, who was not in the caste, looked
with interest through the window. Ancient Britons in various stages of
skins and woad and grease paint stood about the room or leap-frogged
over each other’s backs or wrestled with each other in corners. William
espied a particular enemy at the other end of the room. He put his head
through the window.
“Hello, Monkey Brand,” he called in his strident, devastating voice.
Miss Carter, mistress of the Second Form, raised herself wearily from
arranging the skin of an infant Ancient Briton.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she began testily, then, her voice sinking into
hopelessness, “Oh, it’s William Brown.”
William, ignoring her, put his fingers to his lips and, still gazing
belligerently at his enemy, emitted a deafening whistle. Miss Carter
put her hands to her ears.
“_William!_” she said irritably.
William wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Beg pardon,” he said mechanically and without feeling, as he withdrew
his head and prepared to retire.
“Oh, one minute, William. What are you doing just now?”
William inserted his untidy head in the window again.
“Me?” he said. “Nothin’. Jus’ nothin’.”
“Well, I wish you’d come and be an Ancient Briton just for the dress
rehearsal--it won’t be long, but so many of them can’t come this
afternoon, and it’s so difficult to arrange how they’re to stand with
only three-quarters of them there. You needn’t be made up, but just put
this skin on.”
She held up a small skin carelessly in her hand. William looked round
the room with his sternest and most disapproving scowl.
“Have I gotter come in with all those boys all over the place an’
change with all those boys botherin’ me all the time so’s I don’t know
wot I’m doin’ an’----”
Miss Carter was in a bad temper. She threw the skin irritably at
William through the window.
“Oh, change where you like,” she snapped, “if you’ll be back here in
five minutes.”
William took the skin eagerly.
“Oh, yes, I will,” he promised.
Then he rolled up the skin and stuffed it under his arm. It instantly
changed into a bale of precious but vague contraband material.
Glancing sternly round for soldiers, William crept cautiously and
silently down to his cave. There he drew a sigh of relief, placed his
gun in a corner and changed into the skin. Once clad in the skin, his
ordinary clothes became the precious but vague contraband material.
He crept to the entrance, glanced furtively around, then wrapped his
clothes into a bundle and looked around for some place of concealment.
On the ground at the further end of the cave was a large piece of paper
in which he and Ginger had once brought their lunch.
Still with many furtive glances around, he wrapped up his clothes and
concealed the bundle on a shelf of rock in the corner of the cave. Then
he took up his gun, shot two soldiers who were just creeping towards
the entrance of the cave, walked to the doorway, shot again at a crowd
of soldiers who fled in panic terror at his approach. Then, resplendent
in his skin and drunk with heroism and triumph, he swaggered up the
hillside and into the school.
* * * * *
As an Ancient Briton, he was not an unqualified success, and more than
once Miss Carter regretted her casual invitation. William considered
the rehearsal as disappointing as the rehearsal considered him--just
standin’ about an’ singin’ an’ talkin’--no fightin’ nor shoutin’ nor
nothin’. He was glad he _wasn’t_ a Nanshunt Briton, if that’s all the
poor things could do.
However, at last it was over, and he crept again furtively down the
hillside to his private dressing-room. Ginger was standing near the
cave entrance.
“What’ve you been _doing_ all this time?” he began; then, as his gaze
took in William’s costume, his mouth opened.
“Crumbs!” he said.
“I’m a Nanshunt Briton,” said William, airily. “They jus’ wanted me to
go an’ be a Nanshunt Briton up at the school an’----”
“Well,” interrupted Ginger excitedly, “while you’ve been away I’ve
_found_ ’em at last.”
“What?” said William.
“Smugglers!” said Ginger excitedly. “Smugglers’ things.”
“Golly!” said William, equally thrilled. “Where?”
“In the cave--when I came to look for you, an’ I cun’t find you, an’ I
looked round the cave again, an’ I found ’em.”
A sudden fear chilled William’s enthusiasm.
“What were they?”
“Clothes an’ things. I thought I wun’t look at ’em prop’ly till you
came. They was wrapped up in that ole paper we brought our food in last
week.”
The Ancient Briton looked at him sternly and accusingly.
“Yes--well, they were my clothes wot I’d changed out of, that’s what
they were. You’re jus’ a bit too clever takin’ people’s clothes for
smugglers’ things. Anyway, I’m jus’ gettin’ cold with only a skin on,
so jus’ please give me those smugglers’ things, so’s I can put ’em on.”
Ginger’s jaw dropped.
“I--I took ’em home. I didn’t want to leave ’em about here case someone
else found ’em. I hid ’em behind a tree in our garden.”
The Ancient Briton’s gaze became still more stern.
“Well, p’raps you’d kin’ly gettem for me out of your garden ’fore I die
of cold, dressed in only a skin. I should think the Anshunt Britons
all died of cold if they felt like wot I feel like. You’re jus’ a bit
too clever with other people’s smugglers’ things; an’ s’pose Miss
Carter comes down for her skin an’ wot d’you think I’ll look like then,
dressed in nothin’?”
“All right,” said Ginger. “I’ll gettem. I won’t be a minute. If you
will leave your clothes all about the cave lookin’ _exactly_ like
smugglers’ things----”
He was gone, and William sat shivering in a corner of the cave, dressed
in his Ancient Briton costume. The glamour of the cave was gone.
William felt that he definitely disliked smugglers. The only people he
disliked more than he disliked smugglers were Ancient Britons, for whom
he now felt a profound scorn and loathing.
In about ten minutes’ time Ginger returned. He was empty handed, and
there was a look of consternation on his face.
“William,” he said meekly, “I’m awfully sorry. It’s been sold. They
thought it was meant for the rummage stall, an’ they’ve took it an’
sold it.”
William was speechless with indignation.
“Well,” he said at last, “you’ve gone an’ sold all my clothes--an’
_now_ what do you think’s goin’ to happen to me? That’s jus’ wot I’d
like to know, ’f you don’ mind tellin’ me. Wot’s goin’ to happen to
me? P’raps as you’ve sold all my clothes, you’ll kin’ly tell me wot’s
goin’ to happen to me, gettin’ colder an’ colder. P’raps you’d like
me to freeze to death. How’m I goin’ to get home, an’ if I don’t get
home how’m I goin’ to get anythin’ to eat, and if I don’t get anythin’
to eat, how’m I goin’ to live? I’m dyin’ of cold now. Well, I only
hope you’ll be sorry then--then, when prob’ly you’ll be bein’ hung for
murderin’ me.” William returned to earth from his flights of fancy.
“Well, now, p’raps you’ll kin’ly get my clothes back.”
[Illustration: “WELL,” SAID WILLIAM STERNLY, “YOU’VE GONE AND SOLD ALL
MY CLOTHES--AN’ NOW WHAT DO YOU THINK’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME? HOW’M I
GOIN’ TO GET HOME?”]
[Illustration]
“How can I?” said Ginger, with the air of one goaded beyond endurance.
“Well, you can go an’ find out who bought ’em, I suppose--only you
needn’t tell ’em whose they was.”
Again Ginger departed, and again the Ancient Briton sat shivering and
gazing sternly and accusingly around the cave.
After a short interval Ginger appeared again, breathless with running.
“Mr. Groves bought it, William, from Wayside Cottage. I dunno how I’m
to get ’em back, though, William.”
William sighed.
“I’d better come with you,” he said wearily. “’Sides, I shall prob’ly
get froze into a glacier or something if I stay in here any more.”
The Ancient Briton gazed furtively around from the cave door, without
that bravado and swagger generally displayed by Bill the Smuggler. The
coast was clear. The two boys crept out.
“When I get to the road, I’ll crawl on my stomach in the ditch like as
if I were a smuggler, then no one’ll see me.”
Ginger walked dejectedly along the road, while the Ancient Briton
made a slow and very conspicuous progress in the ditch beside
him--ejaculating irascibly as he went:
“Well, I’ve jus’ _done_ with smugglers _an’_ with Anshunt Britons.
I’ll never look at another smuggler _or_ a Nanshunt Briton while I
live--’n if you hadn’t been so jolly _clever_ runnin’ off with other
people’s clothes, an’ _sellin’_ ’em, I shouldn’t be crawlin’ along
_an’_ scratchin’ myself, _an’_ cuttin’ myself, _an’_ eatin’ mud. Now,”
in a voice of pure wonder, “how did Anshunt Britons get about? I don’t
know--all shiverin’ with cold an’ scratchin’ themselves _an’_ cuttin’
themselves----”
Wayside Cottage was, fortunately for the Ancient Briton, on the
outskirts of the village. The front door was conveniently open. There
was a small garden in front, and a longer garden behind, with a little
corrugated iron building at the end.
“Come on,” said William. “Let’s go an’ get ’em back.”
“Are you goin’ to ask him for ’em?” said Ginger.
“No, I’m _not_. I don’t want everyone in this village talking about
it,” said William sternly. “I jus’ want to get ’em back quietly an’ put
’em on an’ no one know anything about it. I don’t want anyone _talkin’_
about it.”
No one was about. They gazed at the stairs from the open doorway.
“They’ll be upstairs,” said William in a hoarse whisper; “clothes are
always upstairs. Now, come _very_ quietly. _Creep_ upstairs.”
Ginger followed him loyally, fearfully, reluctantly, and they went
upstairs. Every time Ginger hit a stair rod, or made a stair creak,
William turned round with a stern and resonant “Sh!” At last they
reached the landing. William cautiously opened the door and peeped
within. It was a bedroom, and it was empty.
“Come on,” whispered William, with the cheerfulness of the born
optimist. “They’re sure to be here.”
They entered and closed the door.
“Now,” said William, “we’ll look in all the drawers and then we’ll look
in the wardrobe.”
They began to open the drawers one by one. Suddenly Ginger said “Hush!”
There was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. They drew nearer
the door.
“Crumbs!” gasped William. “Under the bed--quick!”
As they disappeared under the bed the door opened and a little old
gentleman came in. He looked round at the open drawers and frowned.
“How curious!” he said as he shut them; “how very curious!”
Then he hummed to himself, straightened his collar at the glass, took a
few little dancing steps round the room, and then stood irresolute, his
hand on his chin.
“Now what did I come up for?” he said. “What did I come up for? Ah! A
handkerchief.”
All might have been well had not the Ancient Briton at this moment
succumbed to the united effects of cold and dust, and emitted a
resounding sneeze.
“Bless my soul!” said the old gentleman. “Bless my----”
He dived beneath the bed, and, seizing hold of William’s bare and
muddy foot, he pulled. But William had firm hold of the further leg
of the bed, and the old gentleman, exerting his utmost strength, only
succeeded in pulling the bed across the room with William still firmly
attached to it. But this treatment infuriated William.
“’F you’d kin’ly stop draggin’ me about on my stomach----” he began,
then emerged, stern and dusty, and arranging his skimpy and dishevelled
skin.
“You--you--you _thief!_” said the old man.
“I’m not a thief,” said William, “I’m a Nanshunt----”
But the old man made a dash at him and William dodged and fled out
of the doorway. Ginger was already half-way downstairs. The old man
was delayed, first by the door, which William banged in his face, and
secondly by the fact that he slipped on the top stair and rolled down
to the bottom.
[Illustration: WILLIAM DASHED FOR THE DOORWAY, UPSETTING THE OLD
GENTLEMAN ON HIS WAY.]
There he sat up, looked for his spectacles, found them, adjusted them
and gazed round the hall, still seated on the hall mat. The two boys
were nowhere to be seen. Muttering “Dear! Dear!” and “Bless my soul!
Let me see, what was it I wanted?--Ah, a handkerchief!” the old man
began to ascend the stairs.
* * * * *
But William and Ginger had not gone out of the front door. A group of
Ginger’s mother’s friends could be plainly seen passing the little
gateway, and in panic William and Ginger had dashed out of the back
door into the little garden, and into the corrugated iron building. A
lady, dressed in an artist’s smock, a paint brush in her hand, looked
up from an easel.
[Illustration: THE OLD GENTLEMAN LANDED ON TOP OF THE CANVAS AND SAT
THERE MURMURING, “OH, DEAR! OH, DEAR!”]
“Please don’t come in quite so roughly,” she said disapprovingly.
“I don’t like rough little boys.” She looked William up and down,
and her disapproval seemed to deepen. “Well,” she said stiffly, “it
doesn’t seem to me _quite_ the costume. I should have thought the
Vicar---- However, you’d better stay now you’ve come. Is the other
little boy your friend? He must sit down quite quietly and not disturb
us. You may just look at the picture first for a treat.” Bewildered,
but ready to oblige her, William wandered round and looked at it. It
seemed to consist of a chaos of snow and polar bears.
“It’s to be called The Frozen North,” she said proudly. “Now you must
stand in the attitude of one drawing a sleigh--so--no, the expression
more _gentle_, please. I must say I do _not_ care for the costume, but
the Vicar must know----”
“I’m a Nanshunt----” began William, then decided to take the line of
least resistance and be the Frozen North. The lady painted in silence
for some time, occasionally looking at William’s rather mangy skin, and
saying disapprovingly: “No, I must _say_--I do _not_--but, of course,
the Vicar----”
Just as the charm of novelty was disappearing from the procedure, and
he was devising means of escape, another lady came in.
“Busy, dear?” she said, then she adjusted her lorgnettes, and she, too,
looked disapprovingly at William.
“My dear!” she said. “Isn’t that rather---- Well, of course, I know you
artists are--well, Bohemian and all that, but----”
The artist looked worried.
“My dear,” she said, “I showed the Vicar the picture yesterday, and he
said that he had a child’s Esquimo costume, and he’d find a boy to fit
in and send it round for a model. But--I’d an idea that the esquimos
dressed more--er--more _completely_ than that, hadn’t you?”
“I’m a Nanshunt----” began William, and stopped again.
“You remember Mrs. Parks asking for money to buy clothes for her boy?”
went on the artist as she painted. “Well, I got John to go to that
Sale of Work this afternoon and get a suit from the rummage stall,
and he got quite a good suit, and I’ve just sent it round to her. Do
stand _still_, little boy--You know, dear, I wish I felt happier about
this--er--costume. Yet I feel I ought not to criticise and even in my
mind, anything the dear Vicar----”
“Well, I’ll be quite frank,” said the visitor. “I don’t care for
it--and I do think that artists can’t be too careful--any suggestion of
the nude is so--well, don’t you agree with me? I’m _surprised_ at the
Vicar.”
The artist held out half a crown to William.
“You may go,” she said coldly. “Take the costume back to the Vicar, and
I _don’t_ think I shall require you again.”
At that moment the little old man came in. He started as his eye fell
on William and Ginger.
“The _thief!_” he said excitedly. “The _thief!_ Catch him, catch him,
_catch_ him!”
William dashed to the doorway, upsetting the old man and a wet canvas
on his way. The old man landed on top of the canvas and sat there
murmuring, “Oh, dear, oh dear, what a day!” and looking for his glasses.
The visitor pursued the two of them half-heartedly to the gate, and
then returned to help in the work of separating the old gentleman from
the wet canvas.
* * * * *
William and Ginger sat in a neighbouring ditch and looked at each other
breathlessly.
“Parks,” said Ginger, “that’s the shop at the end of the village.”
“Yes,” said William, “an’ I’m jus’ about sick of crawlin’ in ditches,
an’ what’s wrong with it I’d like to know,” he went on, looking down
indignantly at his limp skin, “it’s all right--not as clothes--but as
a kind of dress-up thing it’s all right--as good as that ole pinnyfore
_she_ was wearing, an’ I jolly nearly said so--an’ ‘thief,’ too. Well,
I wun’t go inside that house again, not if--not if--not if they _asked_
me--Anyway,” his expression softened, “anyway, I got half a crown,” his
expression grew bitter once more, “half a crown, an’ not even a pocket
to put it in. Come on to Parks’.”
William returned to the ditch. They only passed a little girl and her
small brother.
“Look, Algy,” said the little girl, “look at ’im. ’E’s a loony an’ the
other’s ’is keeper. ’E thinks ’e’s a frog, prob’ly, an’ that’s why ’e
goes in ditches, an’ doesn’t wear no clothes.”
William straightened himself.
“I’m a Nanshunt----” he began, but at sight of his red and muddy face,
surmounted by its crest of muddy hair, the little girl fled screaming.
“Come on, Algy, ’e’ll get yer an’ eat yer if yer don’t----”
Algy’s screams reinforced hers, and William disconsolately returned to
the ditch as the screams, still lusty, faded into the distance.
“I’m jus’ getting a bit sick of this,” muttered the Ancient Briton.
* * * * *
They reached Parks’. William lay concealed behind the hedge, and Ginger
wandered round the shop, reconnoitring.
“Go in!” goaded William, in a hoarse whisper from the hedge. “Go in an’
gettem. Say you’ll fetch a policeman--_make_ ’em give ’em you--_fight_
’em--_take_ ’em--_you_ lettem go--I can’t stand this much longer. I’m
cold an’ I’m wet. I feel as if I’d been a Nanshunt Briton for years an’
years--hurry up--Are-you-goin’-to-get-me-my-_clothes?_”
“Oh, shut _up!_” said Ginger miserably. “I’m doin’ all I can.”
“Doin’ all you can, are you? Well, you’re not doin’ much but walkin’
round an’ round the shop. D’you think ’f you go on walkin’ round and
round the shop my clothes’ll come out of themselves--come _walkin’_ out
to you? ’Cause if you think that----”
“Shut _up_.”
At this moment a small boy walked out of the shop.
“Hallo!” said Ginger, with a fatuous smile of friendship.
“Hallo!” said the boy, ungraciously.
Ginger moistened his lips and repeated the fatuous smile.
“Have you got any new clothes to-day?”
The boy gave a fairly good imitation of the fatuous smile.
“No,” he said, “have you? Don’t go spoilin’ your fice for me. It’s
bee-utiful, but don’t waste it on me.”
Then, whistling, he prepared to walk away from Ginger down the road.
Desperately Ginger stopped him.
“I’ll--I’ll--I’ll give you,” he swallowed, then, with an effort, made
the nobler offer. “I’ll give you five shillings if----”
“Yus?” said the boy suddenly, “if----?”
“If you’ll give me those clothes the lady wot paints sent you to-day.”
“Gimme the five shillings then.”
“I won’t give you the money till you give me the clothes.”
“Oh, won’t you? Well, I won’t give you the clothes till you give me the
money.”
They stared hostilely at each other.
“Get my clothes,” said the irate voice from the ditch. “Punch him--do
anythin’ to him. Get--my--clothes.”
The boy looked round with interest into the ditch.
“Look at ’im!” he shrieked mirthfully. “Look at ’im. _Na_kid--jus’
dressed in a muff--Oh! look at ’im.”
William arose with murder in his face. Ginger hastily pressed the five
shillings into the boy’s hand.
“Gettem quick,” he said.
The boy retreated to the shop and closed the door except for a small
crack. Through that crack he shouted, “We din’ want no narsty, mangy,
mouldy, cast-off clothes from no one. We gived ’em to Johnsons up the
village.”
Then he banged the door.
William, in fury, kicked the door, and a crowd of small boys collected.
William, perceiving them, fled through the hedge and into the field.
The small boys followed, uttering derisive cries.
“_Look_ at ’im--_Look_ at ’im--’e’s a cannibal--he’s got no
clothes--’e’s out of a circus--’e’s balmy--’e’s wearin’ ’is mother’s
fur.”
William turned on them in fury.
“I’m a Nanshunt----” he began, rushing upon them; and they fled in
panic.
William and Ginger sat down behind a haystack.
“Well, you’re very clever at gettin’ back my clothes, aren’t you?” said
William with heavy sarcasm.
“I’m gettin’ jus’ about sick of your clothes,” said Ginger gloomily.
“Sick of ’em?” echoed William. “I only wish I’d gottem to be sick of.
I’m jus’ about sick of not havin’ ’em an’ walkin’ about on prickles
an’ stones and scratchin’ myself an’ shiverin’ with cold. That boy’d
jus’ better wait till I _get_ my clothes an’ then----” His eyes gleamed
darkly with visions of future vengeance.
“Well,” he turned to Ginger, “an’ wot we goin’ to do now?”
“Dunno,” said Ginger despondently.
“Well, where’s Johnsons?”
“Mrs. Johnson’s my aunt’s charwoman,” said Ginger, wearily. “I know
where she lives.”
William rose with a determined air.
“Come on,” he said.
“If we don’t gettem this time,” said Ginger, as they started on their
furtive journey, “I’m going home.”
“Oh, are you,” said William sternly. “Well, then, you’re goin’ in this
Anshunt Briton thing an’ I’m goin’ in your clothes. You lost my clothes
an’ if you can’t gettem back you can give me yours, that’s fair, isn’t
it?”
“Oh, shut _up_,” said Ginger, in the tone of one who has suffered
all that it is possible to suffer and can suffer no more. “It’s that
five shillings that I keep thinkin’ of--_five shillin’s_--an’ all for
nothin’.”
“An’ callin’ my clothes mouldy,” said William, with equal indignation.
“_My_ clothes mouldy.”
“She lives here,” said Ginger.
From the shelter of a hedge they watched the house.
“You’d better go an’ gettem then,” said William unfeelingly.
“_How?_” said Ginger.
“Well, you sold ’em.”
“I _didn’t_ sell ’em.”
“Sh! Look!”
The door of the Johnson’s home was opening. A small boy came out.
“He’s dressed in my clothes,” said William excitedly.
“_Gettem_--_Gettim_--my clothes.” His eye brightened, and into his face
came a radiant look as of one beholding some dear friend after a long
absence. “My clothes.”
Ginger advanced to the small boy and smiled his anxious, fatuous,
mirthless smile.
“Like to come an’ play with me?” he said.
“Yeth, pleath,” said the boy, returning the friendly smile.
“Well, you can come with me,” said Ginger, ingratiatingly.
He followed Ginger through the stile, and gave a shout of derision when
he saw William crouching behind the hedge. “Oh! _Look_ at ’im,” he
said, “dressed up funny.”
A masterly plan had come into William’s head. He led the party to the
next field, to the disused barn which, in their normal happy life that
now seemed to him so far away, served as castle or pirate ship.
“Now,” he said, “we’re goin’ to play at soldiers, an’ you come an’ say
you wanter join the army----”
“But I don’t,” said the small boy solemnly. “That would be a thtory.”
“Never mind,” said William patiently. “You must pretend you want to
join the army. Then you must take off your clothes and leave ’em with
me, and this boy will pretend to be the doctor, an’ he’ll tell you if
you’re strong enough, you know; he’ll look at your lungs and things and
then--and then--well, that’s all. Now I’ll give you the half-crown jus’
for a present if you play it prop’ly.”
“All right,” said the boy brightly, beginning to take off his coat.
“You’ve got bad lungs, an’ a bad heart, an’ bad legs, an’ bad arms, an’
bad ears, an’ a bad head,” said the doctor, “an’ I’m _afraid_ you can’t
be a soldier.”
“All right,” said the boy brightly. “Don’ wanter be. Now I’ll put on my
clothes.”
He came out to the back of the barn, where he had left his clothes, and
burst into a howl.
“Oo--oo--oo--’e’s tooken my clothes--tooken my clothes--’e’s tooken my
clothes. Ma! _Ma!_ _Ma!_ ’E’s tooken my clothes.”
His shirt fluttering in the wind, he went howling down the road.
Ginger went to the ditch whence William’s gesticulating arms could be
seen.
“Quick! William, quick!” gasped Ginger.
William arose, holding his Ancient Briton costume in his hand. He was
clothed in a tweed suit--a very, very small tweed suit--the waistcoat
would not button across him and the sleeve came only a little way
below his elbow.
“William!” gasped Ginger. “It’s not yours.”
William’s face was pale with horror.
“It looked like mine,” he said in a sepulchral voice, “but it’s not
mine.”
A babel of voices arose.
“Where are they, lovey?”
“Boo--hoo--they’ve tooken my clothes.”
“Wait till I gettem, that’s all.”
“Never mind, darlin’. Ma’ll learn ’em.”
With grim despair they saw what seemed to them an army of women running
up the hill, and with them a howling boy in a fluttering shirt. One of
the women carried a broom.
“_Run_, William!” gasped Ginger.
William flung his skin into the ditch and ran. Though his suit was
so tight that he could only progress in little leaps and bounds, he
progressed with remarkable speed.
* * * * *
At last, exhausted and breathless, he walked round to the side entrance
of his home and stood in the hall. He could hear his mother’s voice
from the drawing room.
“Miss Carter’s been ringing up all the afternoon,” she was saying, “she
seems to think that William took away one of the costumes after the
rehearsal. I told her that I was sure William wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“My dear,” in his father’s voice, “you do make the most rash
statements.”
William entered slowly. His father and mother and sister turned and
stared at him in silence.
“William!” gasped his mother. “What _are_ you wearing?”
William made a desperate effort to carry off the situation.
“You know--everyone says how fast I’m growin’--I keep growin’ out of my
things----”
“Mother!” screamed Ethel, from the window, “there’s a lot of awful
women coming through the gate and an awful little boy in a shirt!”
* * * * *
William was brushed and combed and dressed in his best suit. His
week-day suit had been, with great trouble and at great expense,
brought back from Mrs. Johnson, and taken from the person of her eldest
son, and was now being disinfected from any possible germ which might
have infested the person of her eldest son.
Mrs. Johnson and her indignant younger son had been, with great
difficulty and also at great expense, soothed and appeased.
William had eaten the bread and water considered, in the circumstances,
a suitable meal for the prodigal son, with that inward fury, but with
that outward appearance of intense enjoyment that he always fondly
imagined made his family feel foolish.
He was not to leave the garden again that day. He was to go to bed
an hour before his usual time, but that left him now half an hour to
dispose of in the garden. Through the window William could see his
father reclining in a deck-chair and reading the evening paper. William
considered that his father had that evening shown himself conspicuously
lacking in tact and sympathy and generosity, but William did not bear
malice, and he knew that such qualities are not to be expected in
grown-ups. Moreover, his father was the only human being within sight,
and William felt disinclined for active pursuits. He went out to his
father and sat down on the grass in front of him.
“Oh, about that man wot had his legs bit off by a shark, father, wot I
promised to tell you about--well, it begins when he starts out in the
Ship of Mystery----”
William’s father tried to continue to read his paper. Finding it
impossible, he folded it up.
“One minute, William, how long is there before you go to bed?”
“Only about half an hour,” said William reproachfully. “But I can tell
you quite a lot in that time, an’ I can go on to-morrow if I don’t
finish it. You’ll _like_ it--Ginger’n me liked it awfully. Well, he
starts off in the Ship of Mystery, an’ why it’s called the Ship of
Mystery is because every night there’s ghostly moanin’s an’ rattlin’s
of chains, an’ one day the man wot the tale’s about went down to get
something he’d forgot in the middle of the night, an’ he saw a norful
figure dressed in a long black cloak, with gleamin’ eyes, and jus’ as
he was runnin’ away it put out a norful skinny hand, an’ said in a
norful voice----”
William’s father looked wildly round for escape, and saw none.
Nemesis had overtaken him. With a groan he gave himself up for lost,
and William, already thrilled to his very soul by his story, the
memories of his exciting day already dim, pursued his ruthless recital.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Small capitals have been capitalised.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Punctuation has been retained as published.