PARROTS FOR ETHEL
The Outlaws were depressed. Ordinary pursuits had lost their charms.
They neither ran nor leapt nor played Red Indians nor ranged the
countryside nor carried on guerrilla warfare with the neighbouring
farmers. Instead they held meetings in each other’s back gardens, in
each other’s shrubberies and summer-houses and tool-sheds, eloquently
discoursing on the gravity of the situation, but finding no remedy for
it.
The cause of the whole trouble was the fatal attractiveness of
William’s sister Ethel. Not that William or any of his friends actually
admitted the fatal attractiveness. Ethel was to them an ordinary
disagreeable “grown up” with a haughty manner and impossible standards
of cleanliness, who happened also to possess a combination of red
hair and blue eyes that had a strange and unaccountable effect upon
adult members of the opposite sex. They cherished always a stern and
bitter contempt for Ethel’s admirers. And now Douglas’s brother George
and Ginger’s brother Hector had joined the number. It is impossible
to describe the shame and horror the Outlaws felt at this. That any
member of any family of theirs should stoop to the supreme indignity
of admiring Ethel.... William felt as deeply outraged as any of them.
He felt that the infatuation of Douglas’s brother and Ginger’s brother
for his sister exposed the whole body of Outlaws to the scorn of their
friends and the laughter of their foes.
The possibility of it had hitherto never even occurred to them.
Douglas’s brother George and Ginger’s brother Hector, though
objectionable in every other way as only elder brothers can be, had
at least been satisfactory in that, almost as much as the Outlaws
themselves, they held the female sex in scorn. It was Ethel’s
influenza that seemed to have made the difference. Ethel had withdrawn
from public life for a term of fourteen days or so with the high
temperature, the streaming eyes and the settled pessimism which, taken
together, constitute Influenza. Evidently the sudden absence of Ethel’s
familiar figure from the lanes and roads of her native village awoke
strange feelings in the breast of George and Hector, and the emergence
of Ethel from her sick room at the end of the fortnight with, as it
seemed by contrast with her absence, redoubled beauty, completed their
enslavement. They abandoned their old manner of cold indifference to
her. They smiled at her ingratiatingly, they bought new ties and new
socks, they waited at spots that it was probable that Ethel would
pass. Their old friendship with each other cooled. When waiting at
the same spot for a word or a glance from Ethel they affected not to
see each other. They passed each other in the village street with no
other recognition than a scornful curl of the lip. They no longer
discussed the football results with each other. They no longer borrowed
each other’s bicycle pumps. In the privacy of their home circle they
naturally vented all the bitterness of the pangs of love upon their
younger brothers.
* * * * *
The Outlaws had met in the summer-house of William’s garden. Henry
was away staying with an aunt and only the three deeply involved
parties--William, Douglas and Ginger--were present.
“People _laughin’_ at ’em,” said Douglas bitterly. “I know they are
from somethin’ someone said to me yesterday. S’nice for _me_,” he
added with an air of impersonal bitterness, “s’nice for _me_ havin’ a
brother what everyone’s laughin’ at.”
“’S jus’ as bad for me,” retorted Ginger. “An’ ’s not only that. It’s
makin’ Hector crabbier an’ crabbier at home.”
This reminded Douglas of his latest grievance.
“Took it off me,” he said fiercely, “took it off me and threw it away.
An’ it was new too. ’S no good at all now. Threw it into the ditch an’
it’s full of mud now an’ won’t play anyway whatever I do. It’s ru’ned.
An’ it was the best mouth-organ I’ve ever had. It made a noise you
could hear for miles and miles. And he took it off me ’n’ threw it
away. An’ I wasn’t makin’ much noise. I was only practisin’--practisin’
jus’ outside his room. Well, _I_ din’ know he was makin’ up po’try
about Ethel. He needn’t’ve come out roarin’ mad at me like that. I bet
I’ve got ’s much right to practise my mouth-organ as he’s got writin’
po’try to Ethel.”
“Jus’ _’xactly_ what Hector did to me ’n my trumpet last night,” said
Ginger, torn between impersonal interest in the coincidence and a
personal sense of grievance at the memory of his wrongs. “Came out
ravin’ mad at me jus’ ’cause I was sittin’ on the top of the stairs
practisin’ a trumpet. Came ravin’ mad out of his room an’ took it off
me an’ broke it. _D’lib’rately_ broke it. I bet _he_ was writin’ po’try
’bout Ethel too.” He threw William a cold glance. “Seems to me,” he
said, “a pity some people can’t stop their sisters goin’ about the
world makin’ all this mis’ry. Breakin’ people’s trumpets an’ throwin’
people’s mouth-organs away.”
“_Ethel_ din’t break your trumpets an’ throw your mouth-organs away,”
said William with spirit. “Pity some people can’t stop their brothers
actin’ so stupid whenever they see a girl.”
“They don’t,” retorted Ginger, “they’ve never done it before. They’ve
always acted to girls same as we do--till this set-out with Ethel,” he
ended gloomily.
“Well,” said William with odious complacency, “that only proves that
Ethel’s nicer ’n all the other girls.”
Their attitude seemed to be inexplicably deteriorating from a common,
lofty scorn of the work of the blind god to a partisanship each of his
particular family.
“Oh, it does, does it?” said Ginger aggressively. But William was
not to be drawn into personal combat on behalf of Ethel. He was,
as a matter of fact, a little bored with the whole proceedings. He
disapproved of the situation no less than he had always disapproved
of it, but meeting in summer-houses and tool-sheds and discoursing on
it did not seem to make it any better and meanwhile the days of the
holidays were slipping by wasted. Moreover, the day before an uncle of
William’s had taken him up to London, and so William was taking for the
time being a broader perspective of life than his friends.
“Never mind,” he said pacifically. “There’s other things to do than
keep talkin’ about it an’ there’s other people in the world ’sides
Ethel an’ your ole George an’ Hector.”
“Yes,” said Douglas bitterly, “you’d say that if it was _your_
mouth-organ, wun’t you?”
“An’ you’d say that if it was _your_ trumpet,” said Ginger. “Huh! I bet
I’ve not got other things to do than forget about that trumpet.”
“Come to that,” said William, “Ethel took my bow an’ arrer off me
yesterday ’cause it accident’ly came through her window and broke an
ole vase, but I don’ keep talkin’ about it.”
But Ginger refused to be drawn from his grievance.
“He oughter be made to give me a new one,” he said, and added with a
melancholy sigh, “An’ jus’ to think that wherever there’s grown-up
brothers there’s things like this hap’nin’ all over the country
what never get into the newspaper an’ England supposed to be a free
country--people’s trumpets bein’ took off them an’ _broke_ for no
reason at all. What’s that if it’s not tyranny what the history books
talk about? All I c’n say is,” he added darkly, “that all those Magna
Charter an’ things what the history books say brought Lib’ty to England
don’ seem to’ve done _me_ much good.”
But Douglas had at last, like William, tired of the subject.
“What did your uncle take you to see yesterday, William?” he said.
“He took me to a place with a lot of dead animals--stuffed mostly--but
some skeletons--an’ a man givin’ lectures on ’em--tellin’ us about them
an’ what they were like an’ what they did.”
“Was he int’restin’?” said Ginger temporarily relinquishing his
grievance, as no one would listen to it any longer.
“Yes,” said William simply, “he’d got a loose tooth what you could
see movin’ when he talked, an’ there was a boy there what thought he
could make faces better’n me, but he found out in the end he jolly well
couldn’t.”
The atmosphere was certainly lightened by this breath from the outside
world. The Outlaws began to think that perhaps they had discussed the
Ethel-George-Hector affair to satiety and the description of William’s
excursion of yesterday might afford a little more interest.
“Did he give you a nice dinner, William?” said Douglas.
“Crumbs, yes!” said William, “he let me choose what I’d have for dinner
an’ I had six ices an’ then there were some things like cakes with
heaps ’n’ heaps of cream on an’ I had twelve of them an’ then I had a
bottle of orange squash an’ then I had two plates of trifle.”
“No meat nor potatoes?” said Ginger.
“No,” said William, and added in simple explanation, “I c’n get meat
an’ potatoes at home.”
There was a silence during which the Outlaws wistfully contemplated the
mental vision of William’s dinner. Then Ginger said bitterly: “That’s
the best of uncles. You’d never catch an aunt letting you have a dinner
like that,” and he added plaintively, “all mine seem to be aunts.”
“What sort of animals were they, William?” asked Douglas.
“All sorts,” said William, “an’”--slowly--“I’ve been thinkin’. It’d
be quite easy to get up a show like that but with live animals ’stead
of stuffed ones. I know,” he said quickly, forestalling possible
objection, “that we’ve often tried shows _somethin’_ like that but not
_quite_ like. We’ve never tried _lecturin’_ on ’em. We’ve tried havin’
’em for a circus and we’ve tried sellin’ ’em but we’ve never tried
lecturin’ on ’em.”
“Well, who can lecture on ’em?” said Douglas.
“I can,” said William promptly. “I heard that man doin’ it an’ so I bet
I know how to do it now.”
“Can you woggle your teeth?” said Douglas.
“It’s not _ne’ssary_ to woggle your teeth lecturin’ on animals,” said
William coldly. “’Sides, I bet I could if I wanted to.”
“I could bring my dormouse,” said Ginger.
“An’ there’s my insecks,” said William, “an’ Jumble an’--all our cats.”
“That’s not _much_,” said Douglas. “How do they get animals for the big
places like the Zoo?”
“People lend ’em,” said Ginger, “or give ’em. I’ve often heard of
people givin’ ’em. When the Roy’l Fam’ly goes abroad for its holiday
people give ’em animals an’ they bring ’em home and give ’em to the
Zoo.”
“Seems a funny sort of thing to do,” said Douglas incredulously.
“Well, I’ve read about it in newspapers so it mus’ be true.”
“’F what my father says about newspapers is true,” objected Ginger,
“nothin’ in any of ’em’s true.”
“_Somethin’_ in _some_ of ’em _must_ be,” objected Douglas, “’cause----”
William determinedly dragged the conversation back from the possible
truth or untruth of newspapers to the matter in hand.
“Well, ’bout these animals,” he said. “We’ll have it in our
summer-house an’ I’ll lecture on ’em an’ we’ll have all our cats an’
Jumble an’ we’ll c’leck some more insecks an’ we’ll have Ginger’s
dormouse an’ we’ll get people to lend us other animals or p’raps give
us ’em.”
“Who?” said Douglas gloomily.
“Who what?”
“Who you think’ll give us _anythin’_, much less an animal.”
“Oh, do shut up,” said William irritably, “carryin’ on jus’ as if
nothin’ ever turned out right.”
“Well, nothin’ ever does,” said Douglas, hotly defending his pessimism.
“Look at the time you----”
“Oh, both of you shut up,” said Ginger, “an’ let’s go an’ fetch the
dormouse.”
They passed the drawing-room where Ethel sat with George on one side of
her and Hector on the other. To be quite frank Ethel was a minx who,
while remaining always provokingly heart-whole, liked to have as many
admirers as possible around her.
Silence and a certain depression fell on the group as the younger
brothers of it passed the window.
“He drove me half mad with a beastly mouth-organ yesterday,” groaned
George, “till I took it from him and chucked it into the pond.”
“Same here with a trumpet,” said Hector, and added severely, “seems to
me extraordinary what boys are like nowadays. I’m quite sure _we_ were
never like that.”
“Well, I’m sure no boy ever anywhere was half as bad as William,”
said Ethel with a sigh. “He broke a vase that was one of my greatest
treasures yesterday with his bow and arrow. He really _is_ the worst of
the lot.”
Both Hector and George made an inarticulate murmur that might either
have been half-hearted protest or deep sympathy, but neither of them
seriously disputed the statement.
“Ginger’s pretty bad, though,” said Hector with a judicial air; “last
week he had one of those awful things that are supposed to sound like a
dog barking.”
“William had a thing,” said Ethel dreamily, “that was supposed to sound
like a bird chirping only it didn’t. It sounded like--well, I don’t
know what it sounded like, but it went through and _through_ my head.”
“What a _shame_,” said Hector and George simultaneously in passionate
indignation. Their tone implied that they were lusting for William’s
blood.
“After all,” continued Ethel happily, burbling on in the serene
consciousness that it didn’t really matter what she said because
every single word of it would be heavenly wisdom in the ears of the
infatuated youths, “after all a bird’s chirp is quite a nice soft
sound. I’m very fond of birds.”
“What sort do you like best?” said George and Hector simultaneously.
They glared at each other suspiciously as they spoke. Each had decided
to give Ethel a present of her favourite bird in as ornamental a cage
as his means would allow on her next birthday, and each had a horrible
suspicion that the other had the same project in mind.
“I think that parrots are rather sweet,” said Ethel. “Don’t you?”
Neither spoke, because neither did consider parrots rather sweet and
both were having sudden misgivings about the price of parrots....
Didn’t parrots cost an awful lot of money--a matter of pounds, unless,
of course, one could meet a sailor just returned from foreign parts
with one, and probably even he would demand its market price. A canary
now ... both had hoped she’d say a canary. Both had had pleasing
visions of themselves presenting Ethel with a very yellow canary in a
very ornate cage adorned with a very blue bow ... the vision included
Ethel’s delight, her cries of rapture, her sudden realisation that
nowhere else would she meet with such tenderness, such understanding,
such undying devotion as in this hero who remembered even what sort of
bird she liked best, who--anyway, it was all very romantic and there
was a beautiful wedding and they lived happily ever after. When the
canary was dead, of course, she had it stuffed and it was always one
of her dearest treasures. But a parrot ... no, one could never wax
sentimental over a parrot. A parrot would never surely inaugurate a
romance.
“You can teach it such jolly things to say,” went on Ethel. “I
remember once a friend of mine had to go into quarantine for measles
or something like that and a friend of hers gave her a parrot to be
company for her. He gave it her in rather a nice way, too. He put it
on the garden seat on the lawn and sent in a letter to say that if she
would look out of her window she would see a little friend who had come
to keep her company. Or something like that. She was always devoted to
that parrot.”
Both George and Hector checked an impulse to ask whether she married
him. Each would have asked it had the other not been present, but there
are certain questions which are more effective when asked without an
audience. George and Hector walked home together but in silence. The
only thing they wanted to talk about was Ethel, but they didn’t want
to talk about Ethel to each other. Hector decided that if George won
her he would go out to Africa to shoot big game. George, being of a
less subtle nature, had decided that if Hector won her he would drown
himself in the village pond. But neither was really uneasy because
neither thought that the other would win her. After all, thought
George, she hadn’t looked at Hector in that meaning way she’d looked at
him when she said good-bye, and, after all, thought Hector, she hadn’t
pressed George’s hand as she’d pressed his on parting....
They met the Outlaws on their way to William’s house reverently
carrying among them what was to be the star turn of the lecture,
Ginger’s dormouse.
The Outlaws and Ethel’s suitors looked at each other coldly and without
recognition as they passed, but really the Outlaws had the best of the
encounter because they could turn round and make grimaces expressive
of scorn and derision at the back of their foes, and because they knew
that their foes had an uneasy suspicion that they were doing this but
considered it inconsistent with their dignity to look back to make sure.
* * * * *
It was the next morning. Ethel was staring wildly at a letter she held
in her hand.
“Daphne’s got measles and I was with her last night. What shall I do?”
“You’ll have to go into quarantine, I’m afraid, dear,” said her mother
placidly.
“My goodness!” said Ethel in a tone of horror and despair, and feeling
the exclamation inadequate, changed it to “Great Heavens!”
After a pause indicative of deep feeling she continued: “Why, only
yesterday I was telling George and Hector about the time Lucy Foxe
had it and what’s-his-name sent her a parrot. It seems as if just
mentioning the thing had brought it on me. Well, I shall die of
boredom, that’s all. Do you mean to say that I’ve got to stay in the
room _all_ the time.”
“Yes, dear,” said her mother and added placidly, “there’s quite a nice
view.”
Ethel went to the window. From it she could see Ginger, Douglas and
William clustered round the dormouse’s cage by the side of the lawn.
“_That’s_ a lovely view, isn’t it?” she said bitterly.
William had received the news that Ethel would have to be in quarantine
for measles without emotion or indeed without interest of any sort. He
had no time or thought or sympathy to spare for Ethel. A more terrible
tragedy had happened than Ethel’s quarantine. The dormouse had died in
the night. There was no sign to show how it had died. It was certainly
not starvation. It had died in the midst of plenty. There were no marks
of violence on the body. Douglas had a theory that some of the berries
picked promiscuously in the garden for its nourishment yesterday by
Ginger from any tree or bush that provided berries of any sort had not
agreed with it. Ginger hotly contested this theory.
“That’s what berries are _for_,” he said indignantly. “That’s what
Nachur provides berries on trees for--to feed animals with.”
William interrupted the discussion to suggest that as long as hygiene
should allow, the dead body of the dormouse should be exhibited as
a stuffed one. “No one’ll know it isn’t,” he added hopefully, “not
without cuttin’ it open and we won’t let ’em do that. We’ll jus’ say
it’s a stuffed dormouse an’ I’ll talk about it a bit, tellin’ about its
habits--sleepin’ an’ such like, an’ p’r’aps it won’t be so bad.”
His optimism was unconvinced and unconvincing. He knew that no stuffed
dormouse could compensate for the sight of Ginger’s dormouse going
round and round on its little wheel. They took the dead body to the
summer-house, leaving William alone on the lawn gloomily considering
the prospects of his lecture thus deprived of its star turn.
He did not at first see Ginger’s brother Hector who had come round to
the side of the house looking pale and distraught.
“This is terrible news,” began Hector.
William was touched. Somehow he hadn’t expected this kindness, this
understanding, from Hector.
“Yes, isn’t it,” he acquiesced despondently, “terrible.”
“She seemed all right yesterday,” continued Hector.
“She was,” affirmed William, “she was quite all right yesterday. I
think it was eatin’ those berries.”
“What berries?” said the young man.
“Those berries Ginger gave her.”
“D--did Ginger give her some berries?” stammered Hector aghast.
“Yes--all sorts of different coloured kinds of berries what he found
about the garden. And she ate them all.”
The horror of the young man is indescribable. That _his_ young
brother--_his_ young brother should be the cause of it....
“B-but,” he stammered, “I--I heard in the village it was measles.”
“No,” said William, “it’s worse than measles. She’s dead. She died in
the night.”
“_What?_” screamed the young man.
“She’s dead,” said William, somewhat flattered if a little surprised
by the deep emotion shown by the visitor. “When Ginger ’n’ me came to
clean out her cage this mornin’ we found her dead.”
“Clean out her c----! What the dickens are you talking about?”
“Our mouse,” said William simply; “weren’t you?”
The visitor obviously controlled himself with an effort.
“No,” he said with venomous coldness, “I was talking about your sister
Ethel.”
“Oh, Ethel----” said William carelessly. “Oh no, it’s not measles. It’s
somethin’ else. I’ve forgotten its name.”
Again anxiety clouded the young man’s brow.
“N-nothing serious, I hope?” he said.
“Dunno,” said William, “might be, I suppose. I simply can’t understand
it dyin’ like that. I mean I’ve always thought that if berries were
pois’nous, an’mals din’ eat them. I always thought that an’mals had
some special way of tellin’ pois’nous stuff.”
Again the young man restrained himself with difficulty from inflicting
actual physical injury upon William.
“Is your sister allowed visitors?” he asked.
“Ethel?” said William as if bringing his mind with an effort from an
affair of vital and universal importance to one of no significance at
all. “No. She’s got the sort of illness that she’s not ill with, but
she’s not got to see people. It’s got a name but I’ve forgot it. It
looked all right last night. It ate Ginger’s berries about six o’clock
an’ it looked all right when we left it. If you want to know what _I_
think, I think that someone’s poisoned it. I think----”
“You mean she’s in quarantine?” interrupted Ginger’s brother Hector.
“No,” said William irritably, “I keep tellin’ you--she’s dead.”
“Shut up about your beastly mouse,” commanded Ginger’s brother Hector
fiercely. “I don’t care two pins for your beastly mouse----”
“Oh, you don’t, don’t you?” muttered William darkly.
“No, I don’t. It’s your sister I’m talking about. You mean that she’s
in quarantine.”
“Yes,” said William, “that’s the name of what she’s got. Dun’t seem to
have made much difference to her ’cept makin’ her temper a bit worse
than usual and that’s sayin’ _somethin’_.”
Hector turned on his heel contemptuously and strode away, his brow
drawn into a thoughtful frown. He’d remembered suddenly what Ethel had
said about the parrot. He’d get a parrot. He’d write a note such as
she said her friend’s friend had written about a little friend to keep
her company, and leave the parrot in the garden as her friend’s friend
had done. She had seemed to think it was a beautiful thought. He’d do
it ... it would, he was sure, touch her deeply. If only that wretched
fellow George didn’t think of it too. He’d hurry home and do it quickly
before George thought of it. He met George on the road, acknowledged
him with distant hauteur and passed on his way.
William remained upon the garden bench plunged in gloom. The death of
the dormouse had imperilled all his plans. He felt that he could have
lectured indefinitely upon the dormouse as it went round and round on
its little wheel or even as it blinked at them or ate its food, but a
stiff, dead dormouse even camouflaged as a “stuffed” exhibit was quite
a different affair. It would, he was afraid, fall very flat indeed.
But William was never the boy to own himself beaten. He was searching
about in his mind for some other exhibit to take the place of the live
dormouse when the shadow of George fell upon him and the voice of
George broke upon his meditations.
“Well, I’m very sorry to hear this,” began George.
William’s heart warmed to him. Here, at any rate, was sympathy....
“Yes,” he said, “it was an awful shock to us all to find her dead this
mornin’.”
“_What?_” screamed George.
Explanation followed. It appeared that George also did not care two
pins about the beastly mouse, and they parted coldly. George walked
quickly down the road. He’d suddenly remembered what Ethel had said
about the parrot yesterday. He’d get her one.... He’d give it her in
the same way as she said that her friend’s friend had given one to her.
She’d seemed to think that there was something very graceful about it.
It would please her. He’d hurry home now so as to do it before Hector
thought of it....
William rejoined the others in the summer-house.
“Takin’ your mouth-organs an’ trumpets off you,” he said bitterly, “an’
carin’ more about someone bein’ ill than someone _dyin’_. An’ she’s not
even reely ill, either. If I get a chance,” he added darkly, “I’ll make
’em buy you _new_ mouth-organs an’ trumpets, an’ make her give me back
my bow an’ arrer.”
“Well, you aren’t likely to get a chance,” said the victims without
much gratitude, “an’ the thing to do now is to try’n find a few more
animals for lecturin’ on. A dead dormouse an’ a few insecks isn’t much.”
William considered this a minute in silence, then he said:
“Tell you what. We’ll put up a notice askin’ people to lend us an’mals
or give us an’mals like what they do to the Zoo.”
This suggestion seemed to infuse new life into them. Their gloom
departed.
“Who’ll write it an’ where’ll we put it?” said Ginger.
“I’ll write it,” said William, “an’ we’ll put it on the side gate-post.
Quite a lot of people go along the lane by the side gate. We’ll put it
up an’ then we’ll go out’n look for some more int’restin’ insecks.”
“If we all go out,” objected Ginger, “there’ll be no one to take the
an’mals when they bring them.”
The Outlaws tried to visualise a queue of people waiting by the side
gate each in charge of a rare and interesting animal, but even to their
optimism the vision lacked reality.
“Of course,” admitted William, “it’s jus’ _possible_ that no one’ll
see it--at least no one what’s got an an’mal or at least no one what’s
got an an’mal what they want to lend us. It doesn’t hardly seem worth
while any of us stayin’ behind jus’ on the chance when we might be out
catchin’ int’restin’ insecks.”
“Let’s put somethin’ on the notice,” suggested Ginger, “tellin’ ’em to
take ’em to the summer-house an’ leave ’em there.”
“Yes,” said William sarcastically, “an’ havin’ ’em eatin’ up or
fightin’ our insecks. You don’ know what sort of wild creatures they
may bring--all fightin’ each other an’ eatin’ each other up in the
summer-house. ’Sides, you can see the summer-house from the road an’
we’ll be gettin’ ’em all stolen by thieves what see them as they
pass. No, I vote we shut up the summer-house while we’re away an’ put
somethin’ on the notice tellin’ ’em where to leave them. They can leave
’em somewhere where they can’t be seen from the road.” He pondered the
problem in silence for a few seconds, frowning thoughtfully, then his
face cleared. “I know ... we’ll tell ’em to put ’em on the seat in
the back garden, ’cause no one can see that from the road an’ if it’s
somethin’ wild they can tie it up.”
This seemed to the Outlaws an excellent solution of the problem, and
William went indoors to write out the notice. Soon he emerged carrying
it and wearing the complacent smile of successful authorship.
“Here it is,” he said with modest pride. “All right, isn’t it?”
They gathered round to look. It read as follows:
“mister william brown is going to lekcher on anmals and will be
gratful to anyone who will give or lend him anmals to be lekchered
on mister william brown will take grate care of them mister william
brown is out now lookin for valubul insex but will be back before
dinner mister william brown will be glad if people givin him anmals
to be lekchered on will put them on the seat in the back garden an
tie them up if they are savvidge anmals cause of doin damidge an
eatin things reely wild anmals should have cages as mister william
browns father will be mad with him if dammidge is done to the
garden by wild anmals lent or given him for his lekcher if anmals
are lent him will they kinly have a label with the address of their
home so as mister william brown the lekcherer on anmals may bring
them home after they have been lekchered on things like hedgehogs
or porkquipines must be fetched mister william brown is a very
interestin lekcherer an anyone may kinly come an listen to him who
likes if the summer-house is full peple may come an look at him thru
the window.”
The other Outlaws were less impressed by this than was its author.
Ginger voiced their feelings.
“Good deal about you in it,” he commented, “an’ not much about us.”
“Well, who’s the lecturer?” demanded William with spirit, “me or you?”
“Yes,” said Ginger, “an’ who works jus’ as hard as you _or_ harder
gettin’ things ready?”
William soothed their feelings by adding a footnote to his notice:
“mister william browns vallubal assistunts are ginger and douglas.”
Conciliated by this they helped William to pin the notice on the side
gate and sallied forth with him in search of insects.
[Illustration: “WHO’S THE LECTURER?” DEMANDED WILLIAM WITH SPIRIT. “ME
OR YOU?”]
A short time before their return, Hector appeared looking very hot and
breathless. He held a parrot in a cage. He had cycled frenziedly into
the nearest town for it and he had spent practically his last penny
on it. He came round to the back of the house. Ethel’s window was,
he believed, at the back of the house. There he found a garden seat
conveniently situated. He put the parrot upon that and tiptoed to the
side door. He had decided to do the whole graceful action as Ethel’s
friend’s friend had done it. If Ethel was touched at second hand, as it
were, by the action as performed by her friend’s friend, how much more
would she be touched when it was actually done to her.
He slipped a letter quietly through the letter-box. In the letter he
said that if she would look out of the window she would see upon the
garden seat a little friend who had come to keep her company. Then,
still hot and breathless, but smiling fatuously to himself, he tiptoed
away.
Hardly had he disappeared when the Outlaws returned. The expedition
had not been, upon the whole, a great success. They had only found
one species of caterpillar that William did not already possess. They
carried it carefully in a little tin which contained also a large
amount of greenery for its nourishment.
“Well, we’ve not found _much_,” said Douglas despondently.
“No,” said William, “but--but someone might’ve brought an animal for us
while we’ve been away.”
“Yes, an’ they mightn’t,” said Douglas. “I bet you anythin’ that we
find that ole garden seat as empty as we left it.”
“An’ I bet we find somethin’ put on it,” said William with gallant but
unconvinced optimism.
They turned the corner of the house and stood there transfixed for a
moment with rapture and amazement.
There upon the garden seat was a parrot in a cage.
Recovering from their paralysis they rushed to it and bore it off in
triumph to the summer-house.
“_Well_,” said William deeply touched and with his faith in human
nature entirely restored. “I do call that decent of _somebody_.”
“An’ no label on,” said Ginger, “that means we can keep it. They’ve
_given_ it.”
They crowded round their acquisition, still half incredulous of their
amazing good fortune.
“Someone must’ve come down the lane an’ seen the notice,” said William,
“an’ then gone home to fetch their parrot to give us. P’raps it’d
belonged to some relation what’d died an’ they din’t know what to do
with it or p’raps”--hopefully--“it uses such bad language that they
din’t like to have it in the house.”
As if intensely amused by the idea the parrot uttered a shrill scream
of laughter and when its paroxysm of mirth was over said with deep
feeling: “Go away. I hate you.”
This so delighted the Outlaws that they crowded round it again hoping
it would repeat it, but though it would whistle and make the sound of
a cork coming out of a bottle and utter a most offensive snigger, it
refused to oblige the Outlaws by telling them again that it hated them.
“Wonder what they eat,” said Ginger still gazing enraptured at their
new pet.
“Well, don’t you start givin’ it any of your berries,” said William
sternly. Then looking round: “I say, where’s that tin with my
caterpillar in? Who’s took it?”
“You left it on the garden seat when we fetched the parrot in,” said
Douglas, “I saw you.”
They hurried out to the garden seat.
It was empty.
“Well, of all the _cheek_,” said William indignantly, “someone’s
pinched it.”
“Never mind it,” said Ginger, “we’ve got a parrot. What’s a caterpillar
when we’ve got a parrot?”
“I _want_ that caterpillar,” said William doggedly, “I’d thought of a
lot of things to say about it an’ I’m goin’ to get another. Come on.
Let’s shut up the parrot in the summer-house where no one can steal it
an’ all go out to look for another caterpillar.”
Without much enthusiasm they agreed.
“An’ what I’d like to know,” said William darkly, “is where that
caterpillar _is_.”
That caterpillar was as a matter of fact in Ethel’s bedroom, being
flung, tin box and all, into the fireplace in a fit of temper. A
housemaid had found Hector’s note on the mat and taken it up to Ethel’s
room. Ethel’s room did not happen to overlook the garden. She read the
note with a smile almost as fatuous as Hector’s. She remembered what
she had told them about the parrot. Suppose he’d remembered the story
and brought her a parrot. “A little friend to keep you company.” ... It
might, of course, be a kitten or a puppy.... Anyway, it was very, very
sweet of him. She opened her door and, still smiling, called to the
housemaid who was sweeping the stairs.
“Emma, will you go out and bring me something that you’ll find upon the
garden seat.”
Emma went out and returned with a small tin. Ethel’s smile faded.
“Was this all that there was upon the garden seat?” she asked.
“Yes, miss. There was nothing else.”
Ethel returned to her room and opened the tin. Inside were several
leaves and a big furry caterpillar. There was nothing else.
“Oh, _that’s_ his idea of being funny, is it?” said Ethel viciously.
“Well, it’s not _mine_.”
And it was then that she flung the tin furiously into the fireplace.
At that very moment had she but known it, the faithful George was
tiptoeing softly round the house bearing a parrot in a cage. He too was
hot and breathless. He too had cycled into the neighbouring market
town for the parrot. He too had spent practically his last penny on
it. He too had decided to leave it on the garden seat and drop into
the letter-box a note about a “little friend to keep her company.”
He entered the back garden. There was a convenient garden seat. He
put down the cage upon it, slipped his note into the letter-box and
went home smiling to himself. How pleased she’d be about it.... It
would give him a pull over that ass Hector. Near the gate he met the
Outlaws carrying a tin. They passed each other as usual without any
sign of recognition. Both Ginger and Hector and Douglas and George,
whatever stage of cordiality or the reverse their relations might have
attained at home, made it a point of honour to pass each other on the
public highway as if they had never seen each other before. At present
relations at home were not cordial.
“Smilin’,” muttered Douglas bitterly when he had passed. “Yes, ’s all
right for _him_ to go about smilin’--takin’ people’s mouth-organs off
them an’ ru’nin’ them.”
“Funny we only caught one of those caterpillars again,” said William
meditatively.
“Well, one’s enough to lecture on, I suppose,” said Douglas rather
irritably. The sight of the fatuously smiling George had reminded him
of his grievances. “I’d like to see someone take somethin’ of _his_
away,” he went on, little knowing how literally his wish was to be
fulfilled.
“An’ I’d saved up for that trumpet,” said Ginger. “I don’t s’pose I’ll
ever--what’s the matter?”
William, who was walking in front, had stopped suddenly on turning the
corner of the house and was staring in blank amazement, eyes and mouth
wide open.
“There--there’s another parrot on the seat,” he said faintly.
“Seems--seems sort of impossible but--look!”
They looked. Like William’s, their eyes and mouths opened wide in blank
amazement.
“It is, isn’t it?” said William still faintly as if he couldn’t quite
believe his eyes. “It _is_ another parrot, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Ginger also rather faintly, “it cert’nly is. Someone else
must’ve passed the notice. Seems sort of funny they should _all_ be
givin’ us parrots, dun’t it?”
With a certain dazed bewilderment beneath their ecstasy the Outlaws
approached this new “gift.”
“Let’s take it in the summer-house an’ see if it talks to the other,”
said William.
They took it into the summer-house and the other parrot greeted it with
a sardonic laugh. The latest comer gazed round the summer-house with a
supercilious air and finally ejaculated “Great Scott!”
Ginger drew a breath of delight but William, in whom familiarity with
parrots was breeding contempt and who was becoming over critical,
merely said, “If that’s the worst bad language it knows it’s not goin’
to be very int’restin’.” Then he looked about him. “Where’s that tin
with the caterpillar in?”
“You left it on the bench again, William;” said Douglas.
They went out and stood around the empty bench.
“_Well_,” said William “it’s--it’s mos’ _mysterious_. Someone’s pinched
_this_ one too.”
Upstairs Ethel was hurling the second caterpillar and tin furiously
into the fireplace.
“Very funny, aren’t they?” she was saying. “‘A little friend to keep
you company.’ And two caterpillars. Oh, yes, it’s a _great_ joke, isn’t
it. All _right_, my young friends, all _right_.”
“Well, all I can say _is_,” William was saying, “that it’s one of the
mos’ _mysterious_ things what’ve ever happened to me in all my life.
Two parrots give me an’ two tins of caterpillars stole off me in the
same mornin’ ... but ’s no good goin’ out to find another now. There’s
not time. We’ll jus’ have to have the lecture without it.”
* * * * *
It was late afternoon. Hector, still wearing his fatuous smile, came
round the corner of the house. He’d expected a note of thanks before
now. He felt that he couldn’t wait a minute longer without hearing an
account of Ethel’s rapturous glee on the receipt of his present. He
could imagine it, of course, but he wanted to hear someone telling
him about it. “She was delighted” ... “So kind of you” ... “She was
_deeply_ touched” ... “She’s writing to you now” ... “She’s longing for
the time when her quarantine will be over and she can see you and thank
you properly,” ... were a few of the phrases that occurred to him....
A housemaid opened the door.
“I just--er--called to see if the parrot was settling down all right,”
said Hector in an ingratiating manner.
“The parrot?” said the housemaid in surprise.
“Yes, the parrot that arrived this morning.”
“No parrot arrived this morning, sir,” said the housemaid.
It was Hector’s turn to be surprised.
“W-what?” he said, “are--are you sure.”
“Quite sure, sir,” said the housemaid. “There’s no parrot in the house
at all.”
“Not--er--not in Miss Brown’s room,” said Hector desperately.
“No, sir, I’ve just been there.”
Dazedly Hector walked away. Of course the thing was as plain as
daylight. What a fool he’d been to leave the thing out there on the
seat. Some tramp had come back to the back door and run off with
it. And he’d spent all the money he’d got on it.... Wasn’t it the
_rottenest_---- He stopped and stared. He’d wandered disconsolately
round to the other side of the house and there, just outside the closed
door of the summer-house, stood William with a parrot in a cage.
* * * * *
The lecture was over. The Outlaws had collected a small and unruly
audience of children who’d nothing else to do but no one had enjoyed
it except William, who had lectured to his own entire satisfaction and
was now feeling tired and hoarse. He was, moreover, beginning to find
his parrots more of a liability than an asset. All attempts at closer
acquaintance with them had been resisted so promptly that both Ginger
and Douglas had had to improvise bandages for bleeding fingers from
very grimy handkerchiefs, and William’s nose had been bitten almost in
two while he was gazing fondly at his new possessions through the bars.
Also there was the economic side of the question to consider. William
had been down to the village to ascertain the price of parrot food and
had come back aghast at the result.
“We simply can’t afford to keep ’em,” he said.
“Well, I know I can’t. I’d have nothin’ left for myself at all out of
the bit of pocket money they give me.”
“Can’t they live on scraps an’ things?” said Ginger.
“Oh, yes,” said William, “I guess you’d like to try feedin’ ’em on
pois’nous berries same as what you did the dormouse.”
“Well, it was mine, wasn’t it?” said Ginger with spirit.
“Yes, but _this_ isn’t,” said William, “this was given me to lecture on
an’ I’m not goin’ to have it killed with pois’nous berries by you.”
“What are you goin’ to do with it, then?” said Ginger, “if you say you
can’t buy it proper food?”
“I don’t know yet,” said William irritably.
Like most other lecturers he was suffering the reaction from his
expenditure of eloquence.
At this point the two parrots began to hold a screaming contest till
William was forced to take George’s outside and close the door,
whereupon the clamour died down. It was at this moment that Hector came
round the corner of the house. His first impulse was to hurl himself
upon William and accuse him of stealing his parrot. But on approaching
nearer he saw that it was not his parrot. It was not his parrot and it
was not his cage. His expression changed. He approached William in a
manner that can only be described as ingratiating.
“Whose is that parrot, William?” he asked pleasantly.
“Mine,” said William shortly.
“W-where did you get it?” said Hector still more pleasantly.
“Someone gave it to me,” said William.
There was a short silence, then Hector said slowly:
“I was just wanting a parrot like that.”
“Were you?” said William.
Hector cleared his throat and then said in a manner that was more
ingratiating than ever:
“They’re rather dangerous, you know, and very expensive to feed.”
William secretly agreed with both these statements, but he gave no sign
of having even heard them. A shade of nervousness crept into Hector’s
ingratiating manner.
“I--I’m willing to buy that parrot from you, William,” he offered.
William turned a steady eye upon him.
“How much for?” he said sternly.
Hector hesitated. He hadn’t any money to speak of. With a different
type of child, of course, one might---- He’d always disliked William
far more than the other Outlaws.
“They’re not expensive things, of course,” he said carelessly, hoping
that William did not know their value, “and they’re a lot of trouble.
One must take into account that they’re delicate birds and one has
to----”
William interrupted. A sudden gleam had come into William’s eye.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” he said, “I’ll swop it with you.”
“What for?” said Hector hopefully.
The gleam in William’s eye became brighter, more steely.
“I want to give Ginger a present,” he said carelessly. “I want to give
him one of those nice trumpets. The _very_ nice ones. You can get ’em
at Foley’s in the village. They cost six shillings. I’ll swop it with
you for one of those trumpets to give to Ginger.”
William’s freckled face was absolutely expressionless as he made this
offer. For a minute there was murder in Hector’s eye. He went purple,
controlled himself with an effort, then after a minute’s silence full
of unspoken words, gulped and said:
“Very well. You wait here.”
Soon he was back with the trumpet. He hurled it at William with a
gesture of anger and contempt, seized the parrot cage and disappeared.
He was going to take it home, write a beautiful little note, fasten
it to the ring, and deliver it in person at the front door. He wasn’t
going to repeat his mistake of leaving it anywhere where it could be
stolen before it reached the beloved’s hands.
Inside the summer-house the Outlaws were dancing a dance of exultation
and triumph around Ginger who was producing loud but discordant strains
from his magnificent new trumpet.
This festive gathering was, however, broken by the sudden advent of
George who, like Hector, had not been able to resist the temptation of
coming round to receive a detailed description of Ethel’s delight. Like
Hector he had been informed that no parrot had entered the house that
day. He had then caught a glimpse of the Outlaws in the summer-house
leaping wildly about a parrot in a cage to the mingled strains of some
devilish musical instrument and the shrill sardonic chuckles of a
parrot. He hurled himself in upon them in fury.
“You little _thieves_,” he panted, seizing William by both ears. “What
do you _mean_ by taking my parrot?”
William firmly but with great dignity freed his ears, then as firmly
and with as much dignity replied:
“’S not your parrot. ’S ours.”
George looked at the parrot and his jaw dropped. William was right. It
wasn’t his parrot. It wasn’t his cage.
He gulped. His anger departed. A certain propitiatory note came into
his voice as he began to make tentative enquiries as to the exact value
William set upon his parrot. It appeared that though William valued
his parrot very highly indeed, still in order to oblige George he was
willing to exchange it for a mouth-organ, one of the six-shilling ones
from Foley’s, because he happened to want to give one to Douglas as
a present. George, after displaying all the symptoms of an imminent
apoplectic fit, went off to buy the mouth-organ, returned with it,
flung it furiously at the Outlaws and stalked off with his parrot.
William turned to the other Outlaws.
“I mus’ say,” he admitted, “that a lot of extraordinary things seem to
be hap’nin’ to us to-day. People givin’ away parrots an’ other people
wantin’ ’em an’--let’s go’n’ see what he’s goin’ to do with it.”
At a discreet distance they followed George round and out of the side
gate. George was going to take the parrot in at the front door, ring
the bell, and deliver it in person. He wasn’t going to run the risk of
having it stolen a second time.... And then, to his amazement, he saw
Hector blithely approaching from the opposite direction also carrying
a parrot in a cage. Hector had been home, had written a graceful little
note, attached it to the ring of the cage, and was now coming to
present it to Ethel. They met at the gate. Their mouths slowly opened.
Their eyes bulged in fury and amazement as each recognised his own
parrot and cage in the hand of the other. Simultaneously they shouted
“So _you_ stole my parrot.”
The Outlaws watched in mystified delight. A shabby-looking man who
happened to be passing also stopped to form an interested audience.
“It’s not your parrot ... I say _you_ stole mine.”
“I did _not_ ... _that’s_ my parrot you’re holding.”
“You heard her say she’d like a parrot and you----”
“You couldn’t afford one yourself so you pinched mine and----”
“A jolly good thing I’ve caught you----”
“I did _not_----”
“You _did_----”
“You’re a liar and a thief.”
“I’m not. You are.”
“I’m what?”
“A liar and a thief.”
“Say that again.”
“A liar and a thief.”
“Are you referring to me or to you?”
“To you.”
“Well, say it again.”
“You’re a liar and a thief.”
Feeling words inadequate, but finding the cage he was carrying an
impediment to threatening gestures, George turned round, thrust it
into William’s arms with a curt “take that,” and began to roll up his
sleeves. Hector turned to the shabby-looking man, who stood just behind
him, thrust his cage into his arms, and began to roll up his sleeves.
The next minute George and Hector, who attended the same boxing class
and knew each other’s style by heart, were giving a splendid display
upon the high road, with bare fists. From the _mélange_ came at regular
intervals the words “thief” and “liar,” “you did,” “I didn’t.”
It was clear that in the shabby-looking man’s breast there raged a
struggle between duty and pleasure--the pleasure of watching the fight
and the duty of providing for himself the necessities of life. Duty
won, and he crept softly away with his parrot and cage, and was never
seen or heard of in that locality again.
William stood for a minute deep in thought, then went quietly indoors
with his parrot and cage, leaving Hector and George still deaf and
blind to everything but the joy of fighting.
William, still very thoughtful, carried his cage up to Ethel’s room.
“I won’t come in, Ethel,” he said softly, “’cause of catching your
quarantine illness, but I’ve brought you a little present. I heard
you’d said you’d like a parrot an’ I’ve brought you one.”
Ethel and his mother came to the door and stared at him in amazement.
Freckled, stern, inscrutable, he handed the cage to Ethel.
“B-but wherever did you get it, William?” said Mrs. Brown.
“A man gave it me,” said William.
“A _man_ gave it you?” gasped Mrs. Brown.
“Yes,” said William, his face and voice entirely devoid of any
expression. “A man in the road gave it me. He just put it in my arms
an’ said: ‘Take that.’ He gave it me.”
“_Well!_” gasped Mrs. Brown, “isn’t that _extraordinary_! But there
_are_ a lot of eccentric people about and”--vaguely--“one’s always
reading of queer things in the newspapers.”
Ethel was deeply touched. That William should bring his present
straight to her. That it should be William who remembered her lightly
expressed wish for a parrot which those two--well, there weren’t any
words strong enough for them--had only ridiculed.... She felt drawn to
William as never before.
“How--how _very_ kind of you, William,” she said. “I--you can have your
bow and arrow back. I’m sorry I took it from you. It’s--it’s _very_
kind of you to bring me the parrot.”
William received his bow and arrow with perfunctory thanks. Just at
that moment the housemaid came up with a note. Ethel tore it open.
“Why, it’s all right,” she said. “Daphne hasn’t got measles after all.
The rash has all gone, and the doctor says she’s not got it at all,
and they want me to go to tea, and they’ve got that artist coming--you
know, the one that said that I was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in
his life, and---- Oh, how jolly. I’ll start at once.”
“May Douglas and Ginger and me walk with you just as far as there,
Ethel?” said William.
“Certainly, William,” said Ethel in her melted mood.
A few minutes later Ethel, accompanied by William, Ginger and Douglas,
set out from the front door. William carried his bow and arrow,
Ginger his magnificent new trumpet, and Douglas his magnificent new
mouth-organ. They walked very jauntily.
At the gate Hector and George came forward to greet them. The fight was
just over. It had been indecisive. They were equally matched and knew
each other’s style of boxing too well ever to be taken by surprise,
so the fight had finally been abandoned by mutual consent. At the
unexpected sight of Ethel emerging from the front door escorted by the
Outlaws, they pulled themselves together and hastened forward with
smiles of greeting. Ethel passed them head in air without any sign of
recognition. They stood gaping after her in helpless bewilderment. The
Outlaws turned back to look at them, Ginger and Douglas raised trumpet
and mouth-organ to their lips and uttered defiant strains, William
waved his bow and arrow in careless greeting, then they turned back and
went on their way accompanying Ethel, an indescribable swagger in their
walk.
[Illustration: ETHEL PASSED THE TWO YOUNG MEN, HEAD IN AIR, WITHOUT
ANY SIGN OF RECOGNITION. WILLIAM WAVED HIS BOW AND ARROW IN IRONIC
FAREWELL.]
George and Hector picked up their hats from the dust and walked slowly
away in the opposite direction.
* * * * *
Ethel wasn’t in quarantine after all. And she was going out to tea to
meet the artist who said she was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in
his life. She was tired to death of those two boys but--but it was all
right now.
[Illustration: GEORGE AND HECTOR STOOD GAZING IN HELPLESS BEWILDERMENT.]
She was perfectly happy.
* * * * *
The Outlaws had got back their confiscated property, and then some,
as they say across the Atlantic. They had scored most gloriously off
their enemies. They had had a most successful day. There had been,
it is true, certain mysterious elements in it that they could not
understand, but that did not matter. It had been a most successful day.
They were perfectly happy.
* * * * *
George and Hector walked down the road arm in arm. Their conflict had
stimulated them and roused again all their old friendship. They were
confiding in each other that women were unreliable and incalculable and
that it was best to give them a wide berth. They were congratulating
each other on the narrow escape from the lifelong unhappiness that
marriage with Ethel would have meant to them.
Then they went on to discuss the latest football results.
They were perfectly happy....