NOT MUCH
WILLIAM walked down the village street singing lustily. His strident,
unmelodious young voice rang out harshly. His face was purple with
vocal effort.
"_Dare to be a Daniel,
Dare to stand alo--o--o--one,
Dare to have a purpose true--ue--ue,
Dare to make it know--ow--ow--own._"
Becoming tired of that subject and not knowing the next verse, he
abruptly changed his tune--
"_I'm longing for the dear ole home agai--ai--ai--ain,
That cottage in the little winding la--a--a--ne,
I can see the roses climbing, I can hear the sweet bells chiming,
And I'm longing for the dear ole home agai--ai-ai--ain._"
Inhabitants of the street along which William was passing hastily shut
their front windows or fled from their front rooms or uttered loud
objurgations of William according to their characters. William passed
along, singing and unmoved. A parrot, who had refused all invitations
to converse since its purchase, suddenly raised its voice with
William's in piercing screams. The quiet street had become a nightmare
uproar of inharmonious sound. A man threw a boot at William from an
upstairs window. It hit a hen in a neighbour's garden. The hen added
its voice to William's and the parrot's. William passed along, singing
and unmoved--
"_I've a girl in Navara,
I've a girl in Sahara,
I've got a few sweet girlies who--o--o--o I've
promised to--o--o be true--ue--ue--ue to--o--o--o._"
He turned off the main street. The hideous sound died gradually away in
the distance and quiet reigned once more in that vicinity. Windows were
opened, people returned to their front rooms, the parrot relapsed into
his customary silence.
William went on singing towards his home. At the gate of his garden he
changed his song for a toneless penetrating whistle. He whistled his
way blithely up the drive. His father flung up a window fiercely.
"Stop that noise!" he called.
William proceeded on his way.
"Stop--that--noise!"
William stopped.
"What noise?" he said.
"That--that foul noise you were making just now."
"Whistlin'? I din't know you meant whistlin' when you said noise,"
William went on, drawing near the window. "I din't know you was talking
to me at all jus' at first. I thought----" William was obviously
anxious to carry on a friendly conversation with a fellow-being. His
father hastily slammed the window and returned to his armchair.
William opened his mouth as for a burst of song. Then he seemed
suddenly to change his mind and pursed his lips as if for a whistle.
Then, after a breathless moment of silence, he unpursed them and
humming untunefully under his breath he entered by the side door.
The hall was empty. Through the open kitchen door he could see his
mother and Ethel, his grown-up sister, cutting sandwiches at one table
and the cook and housemaid at another. He went into the kitchen.
"Who're you makin' sandwiches for?" he demanded.
His mother surveyed him sadly.
"I do wish you could keep clean for more than two minutes together,
William," she said.
William smoothed back an obstreperous mop of hair with a grimy hand.
"Yes," he agreed mechanically, "but who're you makin' sandwiches for?"
Ethel paused with a butter-laden knife in mid-air.
"Don't for Heaven's sake tell him," she said, "and let's hope and pray
that he'll keep out of the way till it's over. It'll be enough trouble
without him hanging round."
William ejected the tip of his tongue in her direction behind his
mother's back.
"Yes--but--who're--you--makin'--sandwiches--for?" he said slowly and
emphatically, with an air of patience tried beyond endurance.
"I think he'd be rather a help than otherwise, you know," said his
mother, carefully arranging pieces of tongue on a slice of bread and
butter.
Ethel merely shrugged her shoulders.
"I s'pose," said William with heavy sarcasm, "you're makin' them jus'
for fun?"
"Clever!" said Ethel, cutting off the crusts of a sandwich.
William, whose appetite was a never-failing quality, fell upon the
crusts and began to eat them.
"Don't spoil your lunch, dear," murmured Mrs. Brown.
"No," promised William,
"but--all--I--want--to--know--is--who're--you--makin'--sandwiches--for?"
"Oh, do say something and stop him saying that awful sentence," groaned
Ethel.
"Well, dear," began his mother persuasively, "would you like a little
party this afternoon?"
"People coming to tea?" asked William guardedly.
"Yes, dear, you'd be such a help--and----"
William interrupted.
"I'll eat up all they leave afterwards for you," he said obligingly;
"but I think I won't come this time."
"Thank Heaven!" murmured Ethel.
"I'm not much good at parties," said William with perfect truth and
with a perfunctory grimace at his sister.
"But wouldn't you like to help to hand things round, darling?" asked
Mrs. Brown.
"No, thanks, but I'll eat up all they've left for you afterwards."
"How kind!" said Ethel.
William, goaded at last to verbal retaliation, turned on her.
"If you say much more to me," he said darkly, "I'll--I'll--I'll not
help _you_ at any of your parties."
He then echoed her derisive laughter in a piercing tenor.
"William, darling," sighed Mrs. Brown, "do go and wash your face."
William crammed a handful of crusts into his mouth, put the cushion
from the armchair on to the top of the cat, and went out into the hall.
Here he burst suddenly into a flood of raucous sound--
"_Oh, who will o'er the downs with me?
Oh, who will with me ri--i--i--i--ide?_"
Mr. Brown opened the library door.
"Will--you--stop--that--confounded--noise?" he demanded emphatically.
"I'm sorry," said William amicably. "I forgot you din't like musick."
* * * * *
After lunch William sallied forth once more into the world. He was
feeling slightly bored. Ginger and Douglas and Henry, his three sworn
allies, were all away on their holidays. William did not consider
holidays unmixed blessings. Anyway, he considered that there ought
to be a law that everyone should go on their holidays at the same
time. He walked again down the village street. He did not sing this
time. Instead he threw stones at the telegraph poles. He stood at one
telegraph pole and tried to hit the one across the road. Every pole
that was hit was to William a magnificent tiger, falling lifeless, shot
by William through the heart. The parrot, catching sight of him again,
gave an excited scream. This put William off his aim. He screamed back
at the parrot, missed the telegraph pole and hit a King Charles spaniel
in a garden. He then dropped the rest of his stones and fled from the
indignant owner of the dog. She pursued him down the street. "You cruel
boy--I'll tell your father--a poor dumb animal----" She gave up the
chase at the end of the road, and William went on his way whistling,
his hands in his pockets. At a bend in the road he stood suddenly
silent. A group of children were walking along in front of him. They
had evidently just come out of the station. At their head walked a
tall, thin man. The children--boys and girls--were about William's age.
They were clean and tidy, but badly dressed, and with pale cockney
faces. William hurried along the road. A little girl turned round.
"'Ullo," she said with a friendly grin, "did yer neerly git left
be'ind? Wot's yer nime!"
William liked the almost incredible frizziness of her over-crimped
hair. He liked the dirty feather in her hat and the violent blue of her
dress. He liked her white stockings and yellow boots. He thought her
altogether and entirely charming. He liked the way she talked. He found
her whole personality intriguing. His grim freckled features relaxed
into an ingratiating smile.
"William," he replied. "Wot's yours?"
"Heglantine," she said. "Noice nime, ain't it? Me sister's called
'Oratia. Loverly, comin' on the trine, weren't it?"
It was evident that she took him for one of her party. William grasped
at the opportunity of continuing the acquaintance. "Um," he said
non-committally.
"Din't see yer on the trine. Such a crawd, were't there? Some from
St. Luke's an' some from St. Mary's. Oi dunno 'arf of 'em, an' don't
think much o' some of 'em by their looks. Oi were jus' lookin' aht fer
someone ter pal up wif."
William's heart swelled with delight at this implied superiority. A boy
in front turned round. He was pale and undersized and wore a loud check
cap that would have fitted a grown man.
"'Ullo, Freckles!" he said to William.
William glared at him fiercely.
"You jus' mind wot you say to me," he began darkly.
Eglantine quickly interposed.
"Nah then, Elbert 'Olmes," she said sharply, tossing her tight curls
and feathered hat. "None of your fice 'ere! You mind wot yer syes ter
me an' my frens."
The boy grinned and dropped behind with them.
"Wot we goin' ter do, anywyes," he said in a mollifying tone of
friendship. "Not much ter do in the country, is there? No pishers, no
nuffin'."
"There's gimes," said William, deliberately adopting the accent of
his new friends. He decided to adopt it permanently. He considered it
infinitely more interesting than that used by his own circle.
"Gimes!" said the boy in the check cap with infinite scorn. "Runnin'
rices an' suchlike. An' lookin' at cows an' pickin' flowers. Thanks!
_Not much!_"
William stored up this expression for future use.
"Well, yer needn't of come, Elbert 'Olmes," said Eglantine sharply, "if
yer din't of wanted to."
"They said," said Elbert grimly, "as 'ow there'd be a tea, an' oi'm not
one ter miss a tea--a proper tea wif cike an' all--_not much!_"
William was watching the large check cap with fascinating eyes.
"Where'd you get that cap?" he said at last.
"Dunno," said the boy. He took it off and looked at William's.
"Loike ter swop?"
William nodded. The boy whipped off the cap without a word and handed
it to William, taking William's school cap in return. William, with a
sigh of bliss, put it on. It enveloped his whole head and forehead, the
large peak standing out over his nose. He pulled it firmly down. It was
the cap of his dreams--the cap of a brigand chief.
"We hare smart, ain't we?" said Eglantine with a little high-pitched
laugh.
William felt blissfully happy walking along beside her.
"Wot does yer farver do?" demanded Elbert of William suddenly.
"Wot does yours?" replied William guardedly.
"'E goes rahnd wiv a barrer sellin' things," said Elbert.
"Moine sweeps chimeneys," said Eglantine shrilly, "'e gets that black."
They both turned on William.
"Wot does yours do?"
William bowed his head in shame. He could not bear to confess that his
father neither sold things nor swept chimneys, but merely caught a
train to London and his office every morning.
"Ain't got no father," he said doggedly.
"You're a horphin, then," said Eglantine, with an air of wide knowledge
of the world.
"Umph," grunted William.
[Illustration: WILLIAM FELT BLISSFULLY HAPPY WALKING ALONG BESIDE HER.]
At this point the tall, thin man in front stopped and collected his
flock around him. He wore a harassed and anxious expression.
"Now," he said, "are we all here? One--two--three--four," he counted to
himself, wagging a thin forefinger round the group as he spoke.
"Plears, sir, William's a horphin," said Eglantine excitedly.
"Yes, yes," said the tall man. "Let me see--I seem to make you one too
many, but no matter----William an orphan? How sad! Poor little fellow!
Come along. We're going to play in the woods first, children, and then
go to a kind friend's to tea. The vicar rang her up this morning and
she very kindly offered to give you tea. Very kind! Very kind! Yes,
yes. This way, I think."
Again the little procession moved on its way.
"Softie!" commented Eglantine scornfully. "'E's one of the swanks, 'e
is! 'E's a friend of the vicar's, 'cause the vicar couldn't come. Ain't
got no patience wiv 'em myself. Whoi carn't they talk like other folks?"
William redoubled his efforts to acquire his friend's intonation.
"Yes, whoi-oi'd loike ter know," he said aggressively, pulling his
large and loud tweed cap yet farther over his eyes. The tall, thin man
at the head of the procession stopped again.
"I'll just go into this house, children," he said, "and ask the way to
the woods."
He went up the pathway and knocked at the door. The group of children
clustered round the gate and watched him. The door was opened by a
housemaid. The thin man disappeared inside. The door was shut.
"Are we going to hang round _him_ all the time?" asked William
discontentedly. "Won't be any fun--_not much_," he added proudly, after
a slight pause.
"Well, 'e knows the wye an' we don't," said Elbert.
"I do," said William. "You come with me--quick--afore he comes out."
They followed William silently round the back of the house and across a
field. From the other end of the field they had a glimpse of the tall
man coming out of the house, taking off his hat with a polite bow, then
standing at the gate and looking round in bewildered amazement. Then
they disappeared over a stile into another road. Here a small person at
the rear of the procession set up a plaintive cry.
"Oo--oo--oo," she sobbed, "I'm tahred of the country. Oo--oo--oo, I
want to gow 'owm."
Eglantine came to the rescue.
"If you don't shut up makin' that noise, Christine 'Awkins," she said,
"a cow or sumphin 'll eat you up. Yer never knows in the country."
The sound ceased as by magic. William led his friends along the road.
At a pair of iron gates leading past a lodge into a winding drive,
Eglantine stopped.
"I'm tahred of walkin' along this 'ere road," she announced. "Let's go
in here."
Even William was aghast.
"It's someone's garden," he explained.
"Fought yer could go anywheres yer loiked in the country," said
Eglantine aggrievedly. "That's wot they said, anyway. They said yer
could go anywheres yer loiked in the country. Dunno whoi we cime," she
ended wearily.
The shrill wail rose again from the back of the crowd.
"Oo--oo--oo--oo, I'm tahred of the country. I want to gow 'owm."
Eglantine entered the gate determinedly.
"Come orn!" she said.
"They'll turn us out," said William.
Eglantine squared her thin shoulders.
"Let 'em jes' troi turnin' _me_ aht," she said.
"_Not much_," murmured William proudly.
They passed with no opposition up the first part of the drive. Then
Eglantine saw a hedge with a gate in it and marshalled her party
through that. Within they saw a lawn, some gardens, and a fountain.
"Looks orl roight," commented Eglantine loftily.
A young man rose languidly from a hammock in the trees.
"I beg your pardon?" he said politely.
"Grarnted," said Eglantine, not to be outdone in politeness.
"Can I do anything for you?" said the young man.
"We're St. Luke's and St. Mary's," explained Eglantine importantly.
"I see," said the young man. "You, I presume are a St. Mary, and he of
the horsey headgear is a St. Luke."
"'Im?" said Eglantine, pointing at William, "'e's a horphin."
The young man adjusted a monocle.
"Really," he said, "how intensely interesting!"
"We've come into the country fer a 'oliday," went on Eglantine, "an' we
jes' cime in 'ere ter see wot it was loike in 'ere."
"How extremely kind of you!" said the young man, "I hope you like it."
Eglantine surveyed the scene distantly.
"Wiv a band an' some swings an' a hice cream cart, it'd be orl roight,"
she admitted.
The young man sighed.
"I suppose so," he said.
Most of the children were already making the best of their
opportunities. Some were chasing butterflies, some picking flowers,
some had taken off shoes and stockings and were paddling in the
ornamental pond. The young man watched them rather despondently.
"If I'd known that you were coming," he said, "I'd have procured
something in the way of a band and ice-cream cart."
Eglantine again was not to be outdone in politeness. She stood, a
curious picture, in her blue dress, white stockings, yellow boots, with
her over-frizzed hair standing out around her sharp little face beneath
her feathered hat, and nodded slightly.
"Hits of no consequence," she said graciously.
She had the situation entirely in hand. Even William, born leader as
he was, was overshadowed by her, and was content that it should be so.
Just as two small boys had climbed the pedestal in the middle of the
ornamental pond and were endeavouring to stop up the fountain, a butler
came down the path with an expression of horror on his face. The young
man waved him away.
"It's all right, Thomson," he said.
"Yes, sir," said the man, "but her ladyship has arrived, sir. Her
ladyship has had her boxes sent upstairs. I thought I'd better warn
you, sir."
The young man groaned.
"Is there time for me to be summoned to town?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not," replied the butler. "She's coming to find you now,
sir. Here she is, sir."
A large woman bore down upon them. She wore a large cloak and a large
hat, and several Pomeranians trotted at her heels.
The young man rose to receive her.
"Here you are, Bertram," she said, "you didn't invite me, but I've
come."
"How awfully good of you," said the young man dispiritedly.
The lady put up her lorgnettes and surveyed the children.
"Who--are--these--ragamuffins?" she said slowly and distinctly.
"Oh, just a nice little party of mine," said the young man pleasantly.
"St. Luke's and St. Mary's. You'll get awfully fond of them. They're
very lovable."
The lady's face became stony.
"Are you aware," she said, "that they're trampling on the flowers and
splashing in the pond and sitting on the sundial?"
"Oh, yes," he smiled. "Just jolly childish pranks, you know."
"And that one in the awful tweed cap----"
"He's an orphan," said the young man. "I'm going to give you the room
next his. He's got quite a jolly voice. I heard him humming to himself
a moment ago."
At this point four things happened.
One--William, who had wandered over the flower beds, was suddenly
impelled by the general brightness of the day to give vent to his
feelings by a burst of song--
"_One more river, an' that's the river of Jor--or--or--ordan,
One more river, there's one more river to cross...._"
He yelled the words happily in his strident young voice.
Two--The small pessimist again lifted up her voice in a wail.
"Oo--oo--oo--oo. I'm tahred of the country. I want to gow 'owm.
Oo--oo--oo."
Three--Eglantine, who had surveyed the visitor in outraged silence for
a few moments, at last burst forth. She set her thin hands on her thin
hips and began.
"An' oo're you ter talk abaht ragamuffins? Queen of Hengland, are yer?
An' wot abaht yer own 'at? A-hinsultin' of hother people in hother
people's gardings."
Four--The five Poms, excited by the uproar, burst into simultaneous
yapping.
Above the horrible sounds of William's song, the pessimist's wails,
Eglantine's recriminations, the Poms' yapping, the lady screamed to her
nephew.
"I'm going straight home, Bertram. When you have a Christian house to
invite me to, perhaps you'll let me know."
"Yes, aunt," he screamed back. "Shall I see you to your car?"
He left them for a few minutes and returned, mopping his brow, in time
to rescue three boys from an early death from drowning in the pond.
William and a few other daring spirits were balancing themselves at a
dizzy height on the top of the wall. The young man was beginning to
look pale, when once more the butler appeared.
[Illustration: WILLIAM YELLED THE WORDS IN HIS STRIDENT YOUNG VOICE.]
"There's a gentleman at the front door, sir," he said respectfully,
"who seems in a great state, sir, and he says that he's lost some slum
children----"
The young man's face brightened.
"Ah," he said, "tell him I've found some, and ask him to come and see
whether they happen to be his. They've done me a very good turn, but I
shouldn't mind being relieved of them now."
* * * * *
"'E was one of the swanks an' no mistake," said Eglantine to William.
"Oi'd no patience wiv 'im an' 'is wye of talkin'. Oi can plye the toff
as well as anyone when oi loikes--oi did wiv 'im, din't oi? But oi
despises 'em."
William was looking anxiously down the road where the tall man was
taking them.
"Where we goin'?" he said distrustfully.
"To the kind lady's who invited us to tea," said the tall man,
overhearing him.
William walked along in silence. Eglantine began to expatiate again.
"Look at all them 'ouses," she said, with a contemptuous glance at
the houses between which they were passing. "Wot they want wiv such
big 'ouses? Swank! That's all it is. Swank! Livin' in big 'ouses an'
talkin' so soft. Oi've no patience wiv 'em. Oi wouldn't be one of
'em--not fer nuffin'."
But William was growing more and more uneasy.
"What we're goin' along here for?" he muttered truculently.
The tall man turned in at a gate. William moistened his lips.
"He's making a _mistake_," he murmured, pulling his check cap still
farther over his eyes.
At the door stood Mrs. Brown and Ethel. Their glance fell first on
Eglantine.
"What a dreadful child," whispered Mrs. Brown.
Next it fell on all that could be seen of Eglantine's companion.
"What an appalling cap!" whispered Ethel.
Then they advanced to welcome them.
"Here we are," said the tall man, with a note of relief in his voice.
"Here we are ... we've had a delightful time--er--quite a delightful
time--er--on the whole--er--just a little misunderstanding at one
point--a--temporary separation, but all's well that ends well. It's too
kind of you. This is--er--Eglantine, and--er--this little boy is an
orphan, poor little chap!"
Mrs. Brown laid her hand tenderly on the tweed cap. "Poor little boy,"
she began. "Poor little----" then she met the eyes beneath the tweed
cap. "_William!_" she said sharply, "take off that horrible cap and go
and wash your face."
* * * * *
William, clean and brushed and frowning, sat and glared across the
table at his late friends. He felt himself disgraced for ever. He
was a pariah, outside the pale, one of the "swanks" who lived in big
houses and talked soft. His mother's and Ethel's intonation and accent
seemed at that moment a public humiliation to him. He did not dare to
meet Eglantine's eyes. Fiercely he munched a currant bun. Into his
unoccupied hand stole a small grimy one.
"Never moind," whispered Eglantine, "yer carn't 'elp it."
And William whispered gratefully, "_Not much_."