THE NATIVE PROTÉGÉ
THE person who was ultimately to blame was the secretary of the
Dramatic Society of the school of which William was a humble member.
The Dramatic Society had given an historical play in which Christopher
Columbus was depicted among the aborigines of America. William was
too unimportant a member of the institution which served him out
his daily ration of education to figure on the stage, but he was a
delighted spectator in the back row. Christopher Columbus interested
him not at all. Christopher Columbus was white, and except for his
rather curious and violently anachronistic costume, looked exactly as
the postman or William's own father might look. But the aborigines!
William could not take his eyes from them. They were Jones Minor and
Pinchin Major and Goggles, and all that crew. Of course he knew that.
Yet how different--how rapturously different. Browned from head to
foot--a lovely walnut brown. It made their eyes look queer and their
teeth look queer. It set them in a world apart. It must feel ripping.
William decided then and there that his life's happiness could never
be complete till he had browned himself like that. He wondered whether
brown boot polish would do it. Knife polish might. Something must.
He went out with the stream of spectators at the end in a golden dream
of happiness. He saw himself, browned from head to foot, brandishing
some weapon and dancing on bare brown feet in a savage land. He was so
rapt in his day-dream that he collided with a tall lank VI. Form boy
who was coming along the passage carrying a box.
"Look out where you're going, can't you?" said that superior individual
coldly. "Do you want me to drop this stuff all over the place?"
He pointed with a languid hand to "this stuff." "This stuff" was sticks
of brown and red and black grease paint, pots of cold cream, and tins
of powder.
William's eyes brightened.
"Shall I carry it for you?" he said meekly. "So's to save you trouble?"
The VI. Form boy started. William's attitude towards his intellectual
superiors generally lacked that respect which is the due of
intellectual superiors.
"Er--all right," he said, handing the box to William and walking on
down the passage.
William walked meekly behind with the box in his arms. Very neatly as
he turned the corner he transferred two sticks of brown grease paint
from the tray to his own pocket. He sternly informed his conscience
(never a very active force with William and quite easily subdued)
as he did so that he'd helped to pay for the beastly things, hadn't
he, anyway, by paying (or getting his mother to pay) two shillings
for a rotten seat in the rotten back row, where he could only see by
squinting round the feather in Dawson's mother's hat, and anyway he'd
like to know whose business it was but his. His conscience retired,
completely crushed.
[Illustration: WILLIAM SURVEYED HIMSELF AGAIN IN THE GLASS, AND A
BLISSFUL SMILE STOLE OVER HIS COCOA-HUED FACE]
At the door of the VI. Form room he handed the box to the secretary of
the Dramatic Society.
The secretary of the Dramatic Society entered the holy sanctum.
"That young Brown's manners," he remarked patronisingly to his peers,
"seem to be improving."
* * * * *
William surveyed the effect in the looking-glass. It was perfect. He
had completely used up the two sticks of brown grease paint upon the
exposed parts of his person. He found the question of clothing rather
a difficulty. He possessed no garment of the type that the aborigines
had worn, but his ordinary suit was, of course, unthinkable. Football
shorts seemed better--and a green football shirt that had been
Robert's. They partook in some way of the nature of fancy dress. Robed
in them he surveyed himself again in the glass and a blissful smile
stole over his cocoa-hued face. He was a perfect aborigine. It only
remained to go out into the world to seek adventures.
Adventures came readily to William even when attired and coloured
simply as a boy. He hardly dared to think what might happen to him
as an aborigine--provided, of course, that he could get clear of the
parental abode. Otherwise his mahogany career might come to an abrupt
and untimely end. He looked cautiously out of the window. There was no
one in sight. He lowered himself to earth by means of a tree that grew
conveniently near his window.
"William!"
The voice came from the drawing-room.
William beat a hasty retreat into a clump of laurel and remained
motionless.
"I'm sure I heard that boy ... _William!_"
He decided to take the bull by the horns.
"Yes, mother!" he called obediently.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm jus' sittin' in the garden an' thinkin', mother," said William, in
a voice of honeyed wistfulness.
Mrs. Brown, deeply touched, sought out her husband.
"You know, dear," she said, "there's something awfully sweet about
William sometimes."
* * * * *
William, having gained the open field, felt a sensation of extreme
relief. For some time he crawled about in ditches tracking imaginary
wild animals and scalping imaginary white men. Then the occupation
began to pall, and he began to regret having carried off the _coup_
in solitude. A few more aborigines might have been jollier. However,
the brown was staying on all right, and that was a comfort. He left
the fields and went into the woods. There he ran and leapt and climbed
trees for a blissful half-hour. He also shot an entire menagerie of
animals and slaughtered innumerable hosts of white men unaided. He went
along the woods, then across three fields (by way of the ditches),
and then down the valley, and then close by the side of a garden with
which he was not previously acquainted. And it looked an interesting
garden--just the sort of garden for an aborigine intent upon enjoying
life to the full. He saw a shrubbery, an orchard, a stream, and some
very climbable trees. He scrambled through a hole in the hedge to
the detriment of the green football shirt and shorts. Then he ran
riot in the jungle and along the sides of the raging torrent. In a
fierce encounter caused by the joint attack of a lion and elephant
and a rhinoceros (William did things upon a large scale) he ran (in
pursuit, not in flight) to the further end of the shrubbery. There he
was surprised to find an open lawn and a large concourse of people. The
people sat in rows in chairs. There was something expectant in their
expression. A tall man in black was standing in front of them with a
watch in his hand. They were obviously waiting for something. When they
saw William they rose as one man.
"_There_ he is," they said.
Before the bewildered William could realise what was happening they
surrounded him on all sides and drew him on to the lawn. The clergyman
held him by the hand.
"Don't be frightened, little boy," he said kindly.
"I don't suppose he understands English," said a tall, thin lady in a
small sailor hat. "They don't, you know--out there."
A large motherly woman bore down upon him with a glass of milk and a
bun. William was hungry. In moments of uncertainty his rule was to lie
low and take the good things provided by the gods without question.
Moreover, it was perhaps safer in the circumstances not to understand
English--at any rate, not till he had consumed the bun and milk. They
led him to a table facing the audience and put the bun and milk before
him. People in the farther rows of chairs craned their necks to see
him. He gave them his inscrutable frown in the intervals of drinking
and consuming large mouthfuls of bun. The man stood up and addressed
the gathering in a high-pitched, drawling voice.
"I need not inform my friends that we--er--see before us
our--er--little _protégé_ from Borneo and--er--let me say that
he--er--does us credit." He placed his hand upon William's head and
looked down at William with a proud smile.
Meeting William's unflinching, unsmiling glare, his smile faded and he
quickly drew back his hand.
"Er--credit," he resumed, putting a hand to his collar as he moved
a step farther from William. "To--er--those who may be strangers
here this afternoon let me say that we--er--of this--er--parish
have--er--for the past two years--made ourselves responsible for
the--er--rearing and--er--education of a little native of Borneo."
He paused for applause, which was set going by the Vicar's wife, who
was the tall, thin lady in the small sailor hat.
"The Reverend Habbakuk Jones, who is--er--at the native mission
school, has come--er--over to see us--bringing--er--our little native
_protégé_." Again he smiled lovingly and drew near to William. William,
whose mouth was fuller of currant bun than European etiquette would
have sanctioned, raised his face, and, without interrupting the process
of mastication, gave Mr. Theophilus Mugg such a look as sent him
precipitately to the farther end of the table.
"Er--_protégé_," said Mr. Theophilus Mugg uncomfortably. "The Reverend
Habbakuk Jones wrote this--er--morning to say that he would call
with the--er--child"--he looked distrustfully at William--"and leave
him in our--er--loving care--while he--er--visited a relative in
the--er--vicinity. He--er--promised to be--er--with us--by half-past
three to--er--deliver his address. He--er--evidently dropped his
address. He--er--evidently dropped the--er--little boy--at the gate
and--er--will soon be--er--present himself."
[Illustration: WILLIAM ROSE TO THE OCCASION. "BLINKELY MEN ONG," HE
SAID CLEARLY.]
He sat down as far away from William's eye as possible and wiped his
brow. A crowd with a large preponderance of the feminine element
gathered round William as he drained the last drop of milk. A fat,
motherly woman handed him a piece of chocolate gingerly, as though he
were a strange sort of wild animal.
"I wonder if he'll speak," said someone wistfully.
"I expect he'll make some sort of thanks for the bun and milk and
chocolates," suggested someone else.
"Not in English, I expect," said a third hopefully.
William rose to the occasion.
"Blinkely men ong," he said clearly. There was a murmur of rapt
admiration.
"Hindustani, I believe," said the Vicar's wife doubtfully. "My father
was in India several years."
William soared to further heights.
"Clemmeny fal tog," he said.
"The darling!" said the old lady. "I'm sure he's saying something
beautiful." She held out a second slab of chocolate. "I _love_ those
Eastern languages, so--_musical_."
"It's certainly Hindustani," said the Vicar's wife. "It all comes back
to me."
"Oh, what was he saying?"
"He was saying," said the Vicar's wife, "'Thank you for your kindness
and food.'"
"How beautiful!" said the fat lady, handing him a third slab of
chocolate. "I was taking this home for my son," she explained, "but I'd
_much_ rather give it to our dear little native _protégé_. Isn't it a
beautiful thought that we reared and clothed him all this time?"
"I distinctly remember making that little green shirt," said the
Vicar's wife.
"Bluff iffn," said William, who was growing bold.
"The angel!" said the fat lady. "Doesn't it make you feel you'd do
_anything_ for him. What's his name?" she said to Mr. Theophilus Mugg.
"I'd love to call him by his name."
"I--er--am not sure of his name," said Mr. Theophilus Mugg with dignity.
"But wasn't it mentioned in the letter?"
"It was spelt," said Mr. Theophilus Mugg with increasing dignity.
"Needless to say, it was not pronounced. I have no wish to make myself
ridiculous in the boy's eyes."
"The mystery of these dark-skinned races," said the Vicar's wife. "The
beautiful inscrutable faces of them. The _knowledge_, the _wisdom_ they
seem to hold."
"Certainly it is not an English cast of countenance," said Mr.
Theophilus Mugg.
"Bunkum allis lippis," said William, feeling that something further was
expected of him.
"Most _certainly_ Hindustani," said the Vicar's wife.
It was here that a small voice piped from the back row, "It's William
Brown!"
William, who was enjoying himself intensely, glared fiercely in the
direction of the voice.
"Hush, hush, dear!" said the shocked voice of a parent. "Of course it
isn't William Brown. It's a poor little boy from a distant land over
the sea--or India's coral strand," she murmured vaguely.
"It _is_ William Brown," persisted the shrill voice.
"He may bear a resemblance to William Brown," said the parent, "but
William Brown is white, I suppose, and this little boy is black."
"Yes," said a small, half-convinced voice, "I s'pose so."
They approached the table.
"My little girl," said the parent pleasantly, "sees a resemblance in
the child to one of her schoolfellows."
"Would you like to talk to the little boy?"
The little boy put out his tongue at her.
"A native form of greeting, doubtless," said the Vicar's wife.
"Oo, it _is_ William Brown," persisted the little girl shrilly.
"If you say that again, dear," said the parent, "I shall have to take
you home. It isn't kind. It may hurt the little boy's feelings. He's
come a long, long way from a place where every prospect pleases and
only man is vile, and you ought to be kind to him. How would you like
to go to a strange far-away country and then have people say you were
William Brown?"
This seemed unanswerable. The small child subsided.
Mr. Theophilus Mugg looked anxiously towards the gate.
"He doesn't seem to be coming," he said. "Shall we--er--adjourn to the
drawing-room for tea and--er--hear Mr Habbakuk Jones's--er--address
afterwards?"
There was an animated murmur of acquiescence.
"The--er--child of the sun," went on Mr. Mugg, "can stay out and we
will--er--send his tea to him."
William's expression brightened.
"Swishy," he said.
"Thank you," translated the Vicar's wife to the rest of the audience.
The small child had wandered round to the wake of William.
"He's not black all the way down," she shrilled. "He is----" She
stopped abruptly, remembering the maternal threat. "Well, anyway, he
_is_," she ended decidedly.
"Of _course_ he must be black all the way down. Don't be silly," said
the parent.
"They _may_ not be," said an old lady with a kind face. "Of course, one
imagines they are, but, after all, one sees nothing but the exposed
portions."
At this point William, who was very hot, raised a hand to his brow to
wipe away the perspiration. The sun was certainly having some effect
upon his complexion. A pale patch followed the track of his hand. His
hand in its downward journey rubbed upon his green shirt. A black patch
followed its track. There was a sudden silence.
The vicar's wife voiced the general sentiments.
"Curious!" she said.
"Surely," said the old lady in a trembling voice, "we haven't been
imposed upon?"
"Impossible," said Mr. Mugg, pale but firm. "I have known Mr. Habbakuk
Jones from childhood. He is incapable of deception."
"Perhaps," said the old lady, "it's the effect of the sudden change of
climate acting upon the pigment of the skin."
There was a murmur of relief at the suggestion. William merely scowled
at them. He was wondering how soon and on what pretext he could escape
to the woods. He felt that he had exhausted the powers of entertainment
of the present position but he did not wish to miss the tea.
"We will not discuss the matter in the hearing of the child," said Mr.
Mugg.
"But he doesn't speak English," put in the old lady.
"He may _understand_ it," said Mr. Mugg with dignity. "Let
us--er--discuss the matter over the--er--cup that cheers but not
inebriates--ahem!"
Rather bewildered and looking back suspiciously at the inscrutable
William, the company moved indoors. The old lady soon appeared with a
heavily-laden tray which she placed in front of William. She seemed
about to make some kind remark, but meeting William's implacable frown,
retired hastily.
"He's certainly beginning to look very annoyed," she announced
excitedly in the drawing-room.
"It is----" began the small shrill voice, then stopped abruptly.
It was just as William was consuming the last of a large plate of cakes
that he noticed a couple of figures coming towards the house. One was a
clergyman. The other was a boy about William's age, rather more swarthy
than the average boy, and clad in an ordinary grey flannel suit. Nobody
knew exactly what happened then. Certainly on that occasion William
was _not_ the aggressor. The newcomer may have disliked the look of
William with his now streaky face and curious costume, he may have
been hungry and found the sight of William, devouring the last cake,
unbearable, he may simply have been feeling the heat. The fact remains
that he hurled himself upon William with the agility of a wild cat,
and William in sheer panic rushed through the open French window into
the drawing-room, followed by his antagonist. The two of them charged
through the crowded room. They left in their wake Mr. Theophilus Mugg
sitting upon a dish of cakes upon the floor, the Vicar's wife soaked
in hot tea, the old lady mixed up with the fragments of a Venetian
vase, and the parent of the child beneath the grand piano. Once outside
the front door William doubled, threw off his pursuer and made for the
woods.
[Illustration: IN SHEER PANIC WILLIAM RUSHED THROUGH THE OPEN FRENCH
WINDOW INTO THE DRAWING-ROOM, FOLLOWED BY HIS ANTAGONIST.]
He had made up his mind to go home and take the stuff off. It was
coming off, anyway. It was possible that he might be home for tea. It
was possible--he was rather doubtful about this, but determined to
be optimistic--that his father might not come to hear of the affair.
Anyway, it had been fun. It had been fun in the woods, and those old
loonies had been fun, and the cakes had been scrummy.
* * * * *
In the garden peace was restored. The audience sat once more in orderly
rows. At the table sat Mr. Theophilus Mugg, the Reverend Habbakuk Jones
and the native _protégé_, now cool and peaceful and replete with cakes
and milk. A name was being whispered from mouth to mouth among the
audience. The Reverend Habbakuk Jones rose to his feet.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began.
From the back now rose a shrill, excited voice. "I _said_ it was
William Brown."