WILLIAM'S SECRET SOCIETY
WILLIAM considered that the microbe world was treating him unfairly.
Mild chicken-pox would be, on the whole, a welcome break in the
monotony of life. It would mean delicacies such as jelly and cream and
chicken. It would mean respite from the pressing claims of education.
It would afford an excuse for disinclination to work for months
afterwards. William was an expert in the tired look and deep sigh
that, for many months after an illness, would touch his mother's heart
and make her tell him to put his books away and go out for a walk. No
one could rival William in extracting the last ounce of profit from a
slight indisposition.
And now Henry, Douglas and Ginger, William's bosom friends and
companions in crime, had all succumbed to chicken-pox, and chicken-pox
had passed William by, leaving him aggrieved and lonely. William
himself spared no effort. He breathed in heavily the atmosphere of
Ginger's Latin Grammar, on which Ginger had been lately engaged, as
soon as he heard that Ginger had fallen a victim. It was no use.
William caught nothing.
So William was left alone, bereft of his faithful friends, gloomily
picturing their existence as one glorified holiday. But his troubles
did not end there. Mr. Cremer, William's peaceful and long-suffering
form master, became ill, and the next morning his place was taken by
Mr. French.
William's attitude to his schoolmasters was, as a rule, one of pitying
forbearance, but he was, on the whole, quite kindly disposed to them.
He indulged their whims, he smiled at their jokes, he endured their
sarcasm; but he refused to concentrate his mental powers on _x_'s and
_y_'s and dates like 1815 in the few precious hours that were at his
disposal in the evening. Instead of doing homework, he preferred to
play at Red Indians or Pirates, or to hunt for rats and rabbits with
Jumble, his mongrel dog.
Until the coming of Mr. French, William's relations with his
schoolmasters had been fairly amicable. Mr. Cremer was a pacifist. He
wanted peace at any price. He frankly avoided conflict with William. If
he saw William quietly engaged in drawing beetles during his lesson, he
did not expostulate. He thanked Heaven for it. He was not a proud man.
But Mr. French definitely disliked William. He kept him in till
unreasonable hours in the evening. Upon William's making a quiet and
unostentatious exit by way of the window when his back was turned,
he followed William to his home, appeared suddenly when William was
sitting down to a delayed but welcome meal, and led him ignominiously
back.
When William and his special friends, according to their time-honoured
custom, had bought a large pork-pie, to be passed surreptitiously round
for a bite each, in order to beguile the tedium of a geometry lesson,
Mr. French descended upon William as he was in the act of making
the first bite, and condemned him to consume the mountainous whole
before the assembled form. It was not that the pork-pie was really too
much for William's digestive capacity. It was that even William felt
the procedure to be lacking in dignity. Moreover, there was a stormy
meeting afterwards of shareholders in the pie, who demanded their money
back....
But it was when William had spent the whole of afternoon school
laboriously writing the first chapter of what was to be an epoch-making
story, and Mr. French had seized upon it, read it aloud to the form,
and then burnt it publicly and disdainfully, that William felt it was
time that something happened to Mr. French. He was proud of that story;
he thought it sounded a jolly good yarn, even when read by Mr. French,
who didn't seem to know how to pronounce half the words.
"The pleecemen rushed upon the outlor as he stood there so proud an'
manly.
"'Ho, ho!' he cried. 'Come on, varlets, an I'll jolly well show you.'
"With one sweep of his gorry blade three pleecemen's heads roled of
into a heep. He shot another through the brane, another fell strangled,
an another, wot had a week hart, fell down dead at the horrible site.
Only one was left.
"The outlor gave a snarling laugh through his clenshed teeth.
"'Come on varlets,' he said, waving his gorry blade in one hand an' his
gun in the other, an' holding a dagger in his clenshed teeth.
"But the pleeceman slank of.
"'Coward!' taunted the outlor through clenshed teeth."
William felt strongly that it was a very good story. He'd have to write
the whole thing out again now. It was certainly time something happened
to Mr. French. He went home planning vengeance.
He walked home slowly, his brow drawn into a stern frown, not leaping
in and out of the ditch, or hurling missiles at passing friends or
enemies, as was his usual custom. His thoughts were so entirely taken
up with schemes of vengeance that he walked past the turning that led
to his home and found himself in a road through which he did not often
pass.
Two boys stood outside the gate of a house. They were boys whom
William's mother would have designated as "common." William, whose
tastes were lamentably low, looked at them with interest. He felt
suddenly lonely and eager for the society of his kind. The opportunity
of an introduction soon occurred. The larger of the two boys looked up
to find William's scowling gaze fixed upon him.
"Ullo, Freckles!" he called, accompanying the insult with a grimace of
obviously hostile intent.
William, forgetting all thoughts of Mr. French in the exhilaration of
the moment, advanced threateningly.
"You jus' say that again," he said.
The red-haired boy obligingly said it again, and William closed with
him. They rolled across the road and into the ditch and out of it
again. William pulled the red-haired boy's nose and the red-haired
boy rubbed William's head in the dust. It was quite a friendly
fight--merely an excuse for the display of physical energy.
The second boy sat on the fence and watched. Every now and then he spat
in the dust with a certain conscious pride. At last, friendly relations
having been established by the bout, William and the red-haired boy sat
up in the dust and looked at each other.
"What's your name?" demanded William.
"Sam. Wot's yourn?"
"William. D'you go to school?"
The red-haired boy looked scornful.
"School? Me? Not much! I'm workin', I am. I works there, I does." He
cocked his thumb in the direction of the house. "'E ain't much catch,
though, 'e ain't. Stingy ole blighter--never so much as says 'Take an
apple or two,' or 'Take a bunch of grapes or two'--not 'e--an' me the
gardener's boy."
He relapsed into pensive gloom at this recital of his woes.
"So don't you never get none?" said William, sympathetically.
"_Don'_ I?" said Sam, with a wink. "Wot d'yer think? That's all I asks
yer. Wot d'yer think? But it 'ud be friendlier in 'im ter ask me ter
'ave one or two. Not," he admitted, "as it makes much difference. But
'e's a stingy bloke--allus 'as been. 'E's one of these 'ere school
teachers. Kinder disagreeable in 'is manner."
"What's his name?" said William, with sudden interest.
"Ole Frenchy we calls 'im," said Sam. "An' don' 'e think 'e's clever?
Not 'arf. Ho my!"
Into William's inscrutable countenance had come a gleam of light. For
a moment his thoughts worked silently and daringly.
"Would you like," he said at last, "to b'long to a secret serciety?"
Sam put his cap on one side and chewed a blade of grass ruminatively.
"Dunno," he said. "Never tried. Leastways, not as I can call to mind."
"Well," said William, persuasively, "you can try now. I want to
start one an' you can b'long. I want you to b'long 'cause you're his
gardener's boy an' can _do_ things--'cause he's awful mean an' made me
eat all the ole pie an' burnt my tale an' said lots of things an' I
want to make a secret serciety for payin' him out."
Sam seemed to grasp the situation.
"Orl right," he said, "an' wot do I get fer it?"
This slightly nonplussed William.
"Oh," he said vaguely, "it's a serciety--you jus'
b'long--you--er--well, you jus' _b'long_."
Sam was considering the idea.
"Let's 'ave 'im," he said, pointing at the boy who was still sitting on
the fence and spitting proudly at intervals. "'E's errand-boy at the
grocer's, he is, an' 'e's offen round 'ere. 'E's called Halbert, 'e is."
Albert was approached, and expressed himself willing to join.
"I don't mind b'longing," he said, with a sigh of deep feeling. "I
wouldn't mind _murderin'_ of 'im sometimes, when 'e tells me to get out
of 'is garding scornful like. I would 'a' murdered 'im long ago if it
'adn't been for my poor ole mother."
Even William was startled.
"You needn't _murder_ him," he said, hastily. "He's only gotter be paid
out."
The Secret Society of Vengeance met for the first time the next
afternoon, in an old barn on the hillside.
Albert had brought a friend of the name of Leopold to swell their
numbers. Leopold wore a tweed cap, many sizes too large for him, pulled
down over his eyes. It gave him a dare-devil air. He announced, in a
husky voice, that he "din' care nuffin fer no one, so there!"
William looked round at his small band with a proud heart. Though he
had not forgotten the aims of his secret society, it was the fact of
its existence that really thrilled him.
"Now we've gotter take a sacred an' solemn oath," he said, "an' sign it
in our blood, an' get a secret password an' a secret sign an' a secret
langwidge."
Leopold created a diversion by announcing, briefly and gruffly, that
no one was going to sign nothing in his blood. When threatened with
ejection by William, and taunted with cowardice by Sam, he flung
himself upon them in dramatic fury. They moved hastily aside in
opposite directions, and his outstretched fist came heavily in contact
with a nail in the barn door. As an adequate supply of blood seemed to
be promptly assured, he lost his anger and became unbearably conceited,
parading his bleeding fist and commenting on some people he knew who
would have made a fuss and no mistake over a little thing like that. He
didn't mind a little thing like that--he'd--well, anyway, hurry up with
that oath, or it would be drying up.
William had found in his pocket a grimy piece of paper and the stump of
a pencil, and was writing with a set, purposeful expression.
"Now listen," he said at last. "This is wot I've wrote: 'We, wot our
names are sined in blood under this riting, take an oath to revenge to
the deth any member of this serciety wot is treated unfair. This is a
Secret Serciety. The punishment for anyone wot does not revenge anyone
else, or wot tells about the Serciety, is not to be spoke to or played
with by any of the other people in the Serciety for ever till deth.'"
The signatures were the next difficulty. Leopold signed his with a
scornful pride that was beginning to make him unpopular. William,
feeling that his reputation as founder of the society was at stake,
took out a battered penknife, made a slight incision with a dramatic
gesture, and signed his name beneath Leopold's. Albert said he wasn't
going to cut his finger, 'cause he was afraid of bleedin' to death, an'
then he wouldn't be able to support his poor ole mother when he was
a man. He got some red paint at home and he was going to fetch that.
He wouldn't take a minute. He repeated that he wouldn't mind cuttin'
off his head if it wasn't for his poor ole mother. Leopold's airs
were becoming insufferable. He ejaculated, "Ho, yuss!" at intervals
during Albert's speech, but the rest of the society seem to be agreed
to ignore him for the present. Sam, with an exaggerated expression of
agony, manfully endured, had been coaxing a two days' old scratch, and
had just completed his signature when Albert returned with the red
paint.
When the document was complete, William folded it up and put it in his
pocket.
"Now," he said, assuming a businesslike attitude, "we've gotter think
of a secret password."
Leopold darkly suggested "'ell," but it was felt that, though sinister,
it was too indefinite. Albert, after deep thought, brought forward the
proposal: "Hengland hexpects." This was felt to be, on the whole, too
lofty, and finally Sam's suggestion of "Down wiv tyrants!" was accepted.
William (proposed and seconded by himself) was elected president,
and the others (also on his proposal and seconding) were elected
secretaries.
A whistle of penetrating and inharmonious tone was originated by
William as a secret sign of danger, at which the whole society was to
rally. Further, a member of the society, on meeting another member,
was to cross the thumb and first finger and to utter darkly the words
"Outlaw--Brother!" Finally, each member raised his right hand, uttered
slowly and solemnly the fatal words "Down wiv tyrants--till death!" and
the meeting dispersed.
* * * * *
Mr. French became thoughtful. The morning after he kept William in he
found (with painful consequences) a hornet in his boot. The evening
after he had showered on William his choicest sarcasms he found the
back tyre of his bicycle punctured. After another conflict with
William, he found various indispensable things missing from his bag
when he arrived at school, though he could have sworn he had put them
in. He found them later in the greenhouse.
On another occasion he found that a little soot had been put in his hat
and had reposed on his head as he paid a call and (all unconscious of
his appearance) had tried to charm his head-master's daughter. It was
incredible, but----. He pondered deeply over the matter and always came
to the same conclusion. It was incredible, but----. He tried ignoring
William, and the curious, inexplicable annoyances ceased. It was
certainly incredible, but----. He left it at that.
The aims of the society widened. When Mr. Beal, the squire of the
village, chased William in person out of his orchard, with the help of
dogs, sticks, and stones, he found the next morning in his orchard, in
full view of the road, a scarecrow bearing a curious resemblance to
himself and wearing a suit of his old clothes....
When the Rev. Cuthbert Pugh called William "a nasty, dirty little boy,
and, I am sure, a great trial to his dear mother," he discovered, the
next morning, horrid little gargoyle-like faces outlined in white paint
on all his trees--most unpleasant--and conspicuous--and unclerical.
It was altogether a successful secret society. It achieved its aims. It
gave William back his self-respect, which Mr. French had considerably
impaired. The secretaries, Sam, Albert and Leopold, seemed to take
delight in avenging the insults heaped by an unsympathetic world on
their president. It was pure joy to William to meet any of them in the
streets or lanes, cross his finger and thumb and utter darkly the words
"Outlaw--Brother!"
So far all was well....
* * * * *
Then Ginger, Henry and Douglas, recovered from chicken-pox, came back
to school. The peaceful and inoffensive Mr. Cremer returned to his own
form-room, and Mr. French retired to his own fifth form. Mr. French
was not sorry to go. He went with one last speculative look at William,
and with the final thought that it was incredible, but----.
Life held once more games and walks and daring adventures with Ginger,
Henry and Douglas. William lost his sense of grievance. He realised
from his friends' accounts of their illness that he had not missed
much. Gradually the once thrilling thought of his secret society ceased
to thrill him. At first he took delight in uttering the mysterious
password when he was with Ginger, Henry or Douglas, but he became bored
with it himself, even before it got on their nerves, and they took
active physical measures to get it off their nerves.
"All right," agreed William, picking himself out of the ditch and
removing the dead leaves from his hair and mouth. "I won't say it
again, but I jolly well won't tell you _why_ I uster say it. It's a
deadly secret an' I guess you can't guess wot it means."
"Yes, an' I guess we jolly well don't want to," returned Ginger.
It was the next week that William called a final meeting of the secret
society to announce its dissolution. As the members appeared, he
realised how intensely he disliked them, Leopold especially. He hated
Leopold now. He hated his large cap and little eyes and projecting
teeth. He looked at him coldly and critically as he made his speech.
"The Serciety's gotter stop now, 'cause I've gotter lot of other things
to do an' we're making a bridge over the stream in the field, an' I've
not got time for secret sercieties, an' I don't want revenging any more
'cause he's gone now, an' so we'll stop it."
"Wot about 'till deth'?" said Leopold, hoarsely.
"Things is changed since then," said William.
"Ho, yuss!" said Leopold, scathingly.
William's dislike of Leopold increased.
"Anyway, I made it," he said aggressively, "so I can stop it."
"Orl right," said Sam. "You can pay us off an' stop it."
"Pay you off?" repeated William, aghast.
"Yuss," agreed Albert. "You pay us off an' we'll stop it."
"Ho, yuss!" said Leopold.
"I've not got anything to pay you off with," said William, desperately.
"You don't be _paid_ for bein' in a secret serciety. I told you you
didn't. You jus' _b'long_."
"Well," said Sam, as if astounded by the depravity of human nature,
"an' us workin' for you----"
"Riskin' our lives for you," put in Leopold, pathetically.
"To be treated like this 'ere," ended Albert, sadly.
"But--wot d'you want?" said the president, wildly. "I've not _got_ any
money left this week, an' next week's an' the week's after's goin'
to pay for an ole clock bein' mended wot I was jus' lookin' at an'
I put it back all right, 'cept how was I to know there was too many
wheels in it? An' I tell you you don't be _paid_ for bein' in a secret
serciety--no one is--they jus'--they jus' _b'long_... I keep _tellin'_
you ... you don't _understand_."
"Wot about 'till deth'?" put in Leopold again in his sepulchral tones.
"Orl right," said Sam, "we'll jus' go an' tell ole Frenchy an' Mr.
Beal an' Mr. Pugh an' your father that we did all those things,
but you put us up to them an' made us do 'em." He gazed at William
dispassionately. "I'm sorry for _you_. _You'll_ catch it."
William's freckled countenance was full of horror and amazement. He
passed a grimy hand through his already wild hair.
"But--but it's not _right_. You don't understand. It's a serciety. You
did the things 'cause you _b'longed_. You can't go an' tell of them
afterwards. You--you don't _understand_."
"We won't tell of them if you'll pay us off," said Sam.
"Wot about 'till deth'?" said Leopold triumphantly, with an air of
bringing forward an irrefutable argument.
William took refuge in sarcasm.
"I _b'lieve_ I've told you," he said, with a passable imitation of Mr.
French's manner, "that I've no money. I shall be very glad to _make_
some money for you out of nothing if you'll show me how. Oh, yes! If
you can show someone wot's not got any money how to _make_ some money
out of nothing, I'll make some for you--as much as you like. Oh, yes!
I hope," he ended, remembering one of Mr. French's favourite phrases,
"that I make myself quite clear."
They gazed at him in unwilling admiration of his eloquence. Sam brought
them back to the matter in hand.
"It needn't be money," he said. "All we say is we oughter get something
for all the trouble an' danger we've took for you. Something to eat
would do--something nice an' big."
"Yes, an' how am I to _get_ it?" demanded William, indignantly. "D'you
want me to _starve?_ D'you think my folks would look on an' watch me
starve to death givin' my food to you?--jus' 'cause you went an' put an
ole scarecrow in someone's garden? D'you think that's a good reason for
one person to starve to death, 'cause another person put a scarecrow in
another person's garden?"
They were aware that in rhetoric William soared far beyond them.
"Well, we'll go home with you," said Sam, ignoring the argument.
"Either you jus' give us something nice an' big to eat or we'll tell
your father."
William, though rather pale, laughed scornfully.
"Yes, you jus' come home with me," he said. "I guess you've not seen
our dog, have you? Nearly as big as a horse. I guess there won't be
much of you left when our dog sees you. Huh!"
With what was meant to be a sinister laugh he turned on his heel and
strolled off. With sinking heart he saw that they were accompanying
him, Leopold and his projecting teeth walking by his side, Sam and
Albert behind. With a slight swagger and humming airily to himself, but
with apprehension at his heart, William slowly wended his homeward way.
At the gate stood Jumble, his dog, small and friendly and rapturously
glad to see them all. Jumble was no snob. Having assured William of his
lifelong devotion and ecstatic joy at seeing him again, he went on to
extend a tempestuous welcome to Sam, Albert and Leopold. William looked
at him with affectionate sorrow. Though he adored Jumble, he thought
he'd ask for a bloodhound for his next birthday present--a really
savage one that would recognise his enemies at a glance. He walked,
still with his careless swagger, but with his heart sinking lower at
every step, round to the side door. Sam, Albert and Leopold still
accompanied him.
"Now," whispered Sam. "You go and get us something real slap-up to eat,
or we'll tell your father what you made us do."
William entered the side door and shut it firmly.
He went first to the kitchen. Cook was lifting a large pie out of the
oven. His gloomy expression lifted.
"Wot's that for, cook?" he enquired, politely.
"For some people as is coming to supper to-night, an' none of your
business, Master William."
There was no love lost between William and cook. William wandered
casually over to the larder door and opened it gently. Cook wheeled
sharply round.
"Please come away from that door and go out of my kitchen, Master
William. Your tea's laid in the dining-room."
William uttered his famous scornful laugh.
"Huh! If I wanted anything to eat, I wun't come _here_ for it. I wun't
care to eat anything out of _this_ larder. My goodness! I'd sooner
starve than eat stuff out of _this_ larder, if I make myself quite
clear."
Cheered by these crushing remarks, but still apprehensive of what the
next few hours might bring him, he went into the dining-room. His
spirits rose still further at the sight of a lavish meal, but dropped
as he noticed the presence of his mother and grown-up sister, Ethel.
He would have preferred a clear field for his operations.
He uttered the mumbling sound with which he generally greeted his
family.
"You're rather late, dear," said his mother. "Are your hands clean?"
William replied by the same non-committal grunt, pushed back his untidy
hair with his hands, then hastily sat down, keeping his hands beneath
the tablecloth till public interest in their colour should have waned.
Through the window he could plainly see the forms of Sam, Albert and
Leopold standing outside, and his apprehension increased.
"Mother," he said faintly, "it feels kind of stuffy in here. May I take
my tea out into the garden? I think I could eat it better there."
Mrs. Brown looked at him anxiously.
"Do you feel ill, darling?"
"Kind of," said William. "I feel kind of as if I'd like to have tea out
of doors. I could eat quite a big tea, but only out of doors. It's that
kind of a feeling. Sort of as if I felt faint and not hungry indoors,
but would be all right an' wantin' a big tea in the garden."
"Fiddlesticks!" remarked Ethel, coldly.
"If you feel like that, darling," said Mrs. Brown, "I think you'd
better lie down. I'll bring you up a nice little tea on a tray."
William perceived that Sam was grimacing at him through the window and
pointing meaningly to the table.
"It's not that sort of a feeling at all," said William. "It's quite
a different sort. I'd like jus' cake--lots of cake--in the garden.
I'd feel all right then, if I could jus' take a lot of cake to eat
outside."
[Illustration: THROUGH THE WINDOW WILLIAM COULD PLAINLY SEE THE
MENACING FACES OF SAM, ALBERT AND LEOPOLD.]
[Illustration: "WHO ARE THOSE BOYS?" ASKED HIS MOTHER. "THOSE BOYS?"
SAID WILLIAM SLOWLY, TO GAIN TIME. "JUS' FRENS OF MINE."]
"William!" said Mrs. Brown, who had moved over to the window, "who are
those boys in the garden?"
William moistened his lips.
"Which boys?" he said, innocently, but with an expression of grim
despair.
"There! By the hedge. They're pulling faces at you."
"Oh, _those_!" said William, as if seeing them for the first time. "Do
you mean _those?_"
"Who are they, William?"
"Those boys?" said William slowly, to gain time. "Jus' frens of mine.
That's all. Jus' frens of mine that was interested in gardens an'
wanted to see----"
"But they're horrid, common, rough boys."
William gave a hollow laugh.
"Oh, no," he said. "They're not really. They only _look_ like horrid,
common, rough boys. They're _dressed_ like horrid, common, rough boys.
They----"
"Don't talk nonsense, William. Go and tell them to go away at once.
Have you finished your tea?"
William glared bitterly at the people who seemed bent on bringing about
his doom.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I've had all the tea I feel like having in here.
I don't know what'll happen to me later on," he went on pathetically,
"with not having been able to have my tea the way I felt like----"
"Go and send those boys away at once, William, and never bring them
here again."
William, whose opinion of life in general was, at this moment,
unprintable, went slowly into the garden.
"You've gotter go away," he said in a hoarse whisper. "_She_ says so."
"Orl right. We'll go an' tell your father----"
"No," said William, "you wait by the gate an' I'll bring you something
soon an'--my goodness!--it'll be a long time before I go in for any
more secret sercieties."
They went furtively down the garden drive, and William returned to the
house.
The guests were arriving. He caught sight of the Rev. Cuthbert Pugh
and Mr. Beal as they were ushered into the drawing-room. He hovered
disconsolately round the kitchen. Cook was securely in possession. She
watched his every movement suspiciously. The position was desperate.
Something must be done.
At any moment the story of his crimes might be laid before his father.
As cook opened and shut the larder door, he caught sight of a large
pie, with brown, crisp-looking pastry, upon the top shelf. That surely
would pay off the blackmailing ex-secretaries of the Secret Society of
Vengeance.
Quickly William formed his plans. To go to the larder by the kitchen
door was impossible. But, somehow, or other, he must get that pie. He
went out of the front door and crept round the house to the larder
window. It was unlatched. He opened it quietly and climbed in. Holding
his breath in suspense, his fierce and scowling gaze fixed upon the
door that led to the kitchen, he took the pie and silently climbed out
again. There was exultation in his heart. The end was in sight. But he
reckoned without Cæsar.
Cæsar was a boarhound belonging to Mr. Beal, who accompanied his master
on all his social calls, and waited outside the front door for him. On
this occasion he seemed to be labouring under the delusion that William
was kindly bringing some refreshment for him to beguile his long
evening.
He advanced to meet William with tail wagging, and nose eagerly
sniffing the delicious perfume of veal and ham pie. His whole bearing
expressed anticipation and gratitude.
William said "Down!" in a fierce whisper, and held his precious pie
high above his head. Cæsar pranced along by his side, his eyes uplifted
towards the heavenly smell. William had planned to creep through a
shrubbery to the side gate, but it is difficult to creep through a
shrubbery holding a heavy pie above one's head in close company with
an enormous dog, whose energies are wholly concentrated on obtaining
possession of the pie. William managed the situation for some time. He
said "Down!" often, and fiercely, and struggled on bravely, dragging
the pie aloft through laurel and holly bushes. But Cæsar felt at last
that he had been trifled with long enough.
He rose on two legs, placed his paws on William's shoulders, impelled
him gently to the ground, and plunged his nose into his delicious
supper. William sat up, rubbed a bruised elbow and looked around.
Cæsar's appetite and capacity were unlimited. Half the pie had
disappeared already, and the rest was fast disappearing.
"Crumbs!" said William, remembering the title of a book he had read
lately, "Talk about 'Dogged by Fate'!"
With that thought came the thought of the hero of the book, Dick the
Dauntless. _He'd_ have thought nothing of a thing like that. _He'd_
have thought nothing of taking on Sam and Albert and Leopold all
together and licking them. He'd have just walked up to them and let
them see that they'd jolly well better leave _him_ alone in future.
_He'd_ have just laughed at that dog eating up all the pie. William
promptly uttered a harsh sound and Cæsar cocked an ear and looked up
apologetically. William was not a romancist for nothing. He had ceased
to be William. Dick the Dauntless swaggered down the path to the gate
with a dark scowl on his face.
Sam peered through the dusk.
"Well," he said, eagerly. "What 'vyou got?"
Through the bushes Cæsar swallowed the last mouthful of veal and ham
pie and sat back with an expression of seraphic happiness, and Jumble
humbly came forward to lick the dish.
"Nothin', you--you ole varlets," cried Dick the Dauntless. "An' I jolly
well won't get anything, ever--till death--so there--an' you jus' clear
off from outside my house, or I'll--"
He flung himself upon Sam. Sam, who was taken by surprise, rolled into
the ditch. Albert and Leopold rushed upon William, Sam crawled out of
the ditch to join them, and the battle began.
* * * * *
"It's gone," said Mrs. Brown. "Simply gone." The three men looked at
her in bewilderment.
"The veal and ham pie," exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "The one we were going to
have for supper. Cook says she put it in the larder only two minutes
ago, and now it's gone--simply gone. No one's been through the kitchen.
Cook's been near the larder door all the time. Some tramp must have
seen it through the window and taken it and----"
"He can't have gone far," said Mr. Brown.
Mr. Beal sprang up.
"Let's catch him," he said. "He's probably eating it in the shrubbery
now."
The three men went out and gazed upon the darkening garden. A faint
cracking of twigs in the shrubbery reached them. In single file and on
tiptoe they set out. At last they discerned a dim figure in front of
them carrying something in its arms and accompanied by a dog.
"There he is!"
"Quietly! We'll get him!"
"He's made friends with Cæsar!"
"Quite a small man."
"Almost a boy."
There was a horrible suspicion at the heart of William's father, but he
followed with the rest. The figure disappeared behind a laurel bush.
They followed, still on tip-toe. Behind the bush they found only Cæsar
finishing the remains of the pie and Jumble watching him with wistful
envy.
"Catch the old villain before he makes off," said Mr. Beal, and they
hastened on to the hedge at the end of the garden and looked over it.
There a glorious sight met their eyes. Dick the Dauntless was fighting
for his life against hundreds of foes. He punched and butted and dodged
and closed. Thousands fell at each stroke. He was dimly aware of three
heads watching him over the hedge, but he had no time to look at them.
He heard vague sounds, such as:
"Go it, William!"
"Get one in now, old chap!"
"Jolly good! Jolly good!"
"Give it 'em strong!"
Albert, with a bewildered cry of "Oh, 'elp!" and a bleeding nose,
began to run off towards home. There was very little left of Dick the
Dauntless, but with a desperate effort he flung Leopold into the ditch,
whence Leopold crawled forth and followed Albert. Only Sam was left.
Sam was large and no coward, and, in spite of a bruised eye, would have
kept up the fight longer had not Cæsar appeared.
One glance at Cæsar was enough for Sam. Echoing Albert's cry of "Oh,
'elp!" he fled for dear life down the road. Then Dick the Dauntless
vanished, and William, his collar burst, his tie streaming, his coat
torn, his ear bleeding, turned to survey his audience of three from a
quickly-closing eye.
* * * * *
William, in his pyjamas, pondered for a moment over the mystery of
human life as he bestowed those few perfunctory brushes upon his shock
of hair that constituted its evening toilet. He had that day committed
almost every crime known to boyhood.
He had brought "common" boys home.
He had stolen a pie.
He had fought openly on the high road.
He had spoilt his collar and tie and coat, and acquired a thoroughly
disreputable black eye.
Finally, turning from these crimes, fully expecting to meet with
retribution at the hands of his family, he had been acclaimed as a
hero. He was bewildered. He did not understand it. He did not know why
he was a hero instead of a criminal. Anyway, it wasn't worth bothering
over, and, anyway, he was going to have a jolly fine black eye, he
thought proudly. He turned a somersault from his chair to his bed,
which was his normal manner of entering it, and drew the clothes up
to his chin. Before he finally surrendered to the power of sleep, he
summed up his chief impressions of the evening.
"They're jolly queer, grown-ups are," he said, sleepily. "Jolly queer!"