WILLIAM'S HELPING HAND
WILLIAM was on his way to visit his new friend. He whistled as he
went, his lips pursed determinedly, his brows drawn into a scowl of
absorption, his untidy hair standing, like a somewhat unsaintly halo,
round his head. When William whistled, he could be heard a long way
off. It was an affair of great effort and concentration. It was a sound
before which strong men quailed.
William's new friend heard the sound long before William had turned the
corner that led to his house. He put his hand to his head and groaned.
William's new friend was Vivian Strange, the distinguished poet and
journalist. Vivian Strange had taken a furnished house in the village
in order to enjoy the calm and quiet which were so essential to his
literary calling. Instead of calm and quiet he had found William. That
is, William had adopted him.
William was attracted to Vivian Strange because, although Vivian
Strange belonged to the tyrant race of the "grown-ups," he had never
yet told William to wipe his boots or go home at once or not to speak
till he was spoken to. This touched William deeply. He was not used
to it. He imagined that it must hide a lasting affection for him on
the part of Strange. As a matter of fact it did no such thing. The
attitude of Vivian Strange to William may be compared to that of a
timid fawn before a lion, or a rabbit before a snake. He was not used
to the human boy. He had never known one before at close quarters. When
he gently hinted to William that he must be missed at home, William
kindly intimated that they didn't mind a bit and he could stay a good
long time yet.
Such mild sarcasm as Strange could produce had the same effect on
William as water on the back of the proverbial duck. William was not
used to hints. William was not used either to houses where he could
sit in the best chairs and talk to his heart's content and eat cake
unrestrained. He made the most of it. He liked Vivian Strange.
And Vivian told himself bitterly every night that his genius was
being ruined, his naturally sweet temper embittered, his constitution
undermined by a creature less than half his own size whom he might
almost kill with one hand. He often dreamed of William. He often
recalled hard things he had read or heard about the human boy, and
decided that they were all true. Yet, when he met William's mother,
and William's mother said, "I do hope that William isn't a nuisance to
you," he flushed and said hastily, "Oh, no, not at all. I like it."
And William's mother went placidly on her way and remarked later to an
incredulous family circle, "There must be _something_ about William
for a brilliant literary man like Mr. Strange to take pleasure in his
company." Thereupon the family raised incredulous eyebrows.
On the previous day William had paid three visits to his new friend.
The first visit had nipped in the bud a very promising poem written in
an uncommon metre.
William entered playing on his mouth-organ a tune that he had learnt
(not quite correctly, he admitted) that morning. During the third
repetition of the tune, Vivian Strange began to see red, but his curse
of politeness still clung to him.
"Hadn't you better let them hear that at home?" he said desperately.
William wiped his mouth politely.
"Oh, no," he said. "I don't mind goin' on a bit longer. 'Sides my
family's not as fond of musick as wot you are."
When William had gone, Strange returned to the poem, but inspiration
had fled.
After lunch he began a strikingly original essay on "Nature the
Divine." Then William called again. This time he proudly brought a
live mouse and a dead hedgehog to show his friend. He also carried
(with difficulty) a jar full of muddy water containing squirming water
creatures of repellent appearance and sinister expressions.
Vivian Strange pricked his finger on the dead hedgehog and was bitten
by the mouse. On retiring precipitately from the mouse he knocked over
the jar of water which William had thoughtfully placed on the edge of
his bureau. Holding his bitten finger in his mouth, he watched the
water as it dripped partly on to the carpet, partly upon a new satin
cushion. He also watched his blotting-paper and pens and stamps and
literary masterpieces floating in mud amongst wriggling, nightmare
creatures. He raised his hand to his head.
"This," he said, "is the last straw."
William, who was on his knees, rescuing as many of the creatures as he
could, raised a face purple with effort.
"'S all right," he said pleasantly. "Don't you worry about it. I don't
mind. Honest, I don't. I can get some more. Honest, I can ... an'
anyway, some's not dead. You didn't reely get a proper look at 'em, did
you? I'll get some more to-morrow an' you can have 'em to keep. But
don't you worry about droppin' 'em. I don't mind."
Half an hour later, his face pale and set, Vivian took up his
half-written essay, "Nature the Divine." There was a muddy pool through
the middle of it, and a tadpole's corpse reposed peacefully in one
corner. With averted eyes Vivian dropped it into the fire.
As he lay wakeful through the night, he searched in his mind for some
form of literature that could resist the blighting effects of his young
friend's frequent and devastating visits. With a lightning flash of
inspiration came the answer--a sensational story. Vivian had never
before lowered his genius to writing a sensational story, but he felt
that the time had come. Some story that would carry itself along of its
own momentum, that even a visit from William would not be able to turn
from its course.
He was deep in the throes of it the next afternoon when the shrill
sound of William's distant whistle reached him.
William entered cheerfully.
"Hello," he said. "You writin'?"
The victim raised his face from his hands.
"I _was_," he said pointedly.
"I thought you was," said William. "I saw you through the window with
your head in your hands, like as if you couldn't think wot to write
nex'. So I knew you'd be glad to see me."
As he spoke, his rare smile overspread his freckled face.
The young man was dumb.
"I used to write a bit myself," went on William modestly, "an' often I
can't think wot to write nex'. I remember once I wrote an orfully good
tale about a man wot was a pirate an' he was run after by a dastardly
cannibal round an' round a desert island an' then the dastardly
cannibal caught him an' was jus' goin' to cook him when some frens of
the dastardly cannibal came up, an' while the dastardly cannibal was
saying 'good afternoon' to them the pirate got up a tree an' waved his
pocket handkerchief to another pirate wot was on the sea as a sign that
he was in deadly danger."
William stopped. "Yes?" said his unfortunate hearer in a dull voice.
William plunged on.
"An' the dastardly cannibal sawed down the tree but the other pirate
came an' they escaped an' the proud an' beautiful daughter of the
dastardly cannibal escaped with them. She wasn't dastardly like wot her
father was. She didn't like eatin' human folks. She didn't like the
taste, so she was glad to get to a country where they didn't do it an'
they was married an' she was the queen of the pirates an' he was the
king of the pirates, an' she was proud an' beautiful an' said 'Avaunt!'
when anyone tried to cheek her jus' like a reel queen. Is your tale
anything like that?"
"No," groaned Mr. Strange.
"Well," said William, comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, "now I've
told you my tale, you oughter tell me yours. I say, is there any of
that cake left wot you so kin'ly gave me some of yesterday?"
The young man waved a limp hand towards the sideboard cupboard.
William took a large slice of plum cake and returned to his chair.
"I always get so's I mus' have something to eat about this time, don't
you?" he said pleasantly. "I _can_ eat mos' times but sometimes I feel
so's I _mus'_ eat.... Well, go on an' tell me about your tale, now.
I've told you about mine an' I'll help you, you know, about wot to
write nex'."
"I don't want you to," said the young man desperately.
"Oh, it's no bother," said William kindly. "Don't you think about that.
I wanter help you. You gave me big bits of cake to-day an' yesterday
an' I wanter help you an' I've wrote tales myself an' I know wot it's
like. An' don't worry about knockin' over my water things. I've gotter
fren' who's promised to catch some more to-morrow an' we'll bring them
along soon's we've gottem. That was jolly good cake." The young man
automatically waved a hand towards the cupboard again. "Thanks. I don't
mind a bit more. It's _jolly_ good cake.... Now tell me about your tale
so's I can help. Wot's it about?"
"It's--it's just about a man," said Mr. Strange feebly.
"Wot sort of a man?" said William with his mouth full of cake.
"Just a man--he's going home one night----"
"Goin' home, where from?" demanded William.
"That doesn't come into the story," said the young man irritably. "He
was just going home."
"All right," said William soothingly. "Only, if he was goin' home he
must 'a' been somewhere, an' I jus' wondered where he'd been to be
coming home from."
"Well, as he's coming home he gets a message that a girl--a girl----"
the young man hesitated.
"The girl wot he's in love with?" supplied William earnestly.
"Er--yes," said the young man. "He gets a message that she's in danger
and he must go to her at once, so he follows the man, you see----"
"Which follows which?" said William judicially.
"The man the story begins with----"
"The one wot you didn't know where he was goin' home from?"
"Yes. That. Well, he follows the man that tells him the girl's in
danger and really the man----"
"If you don't call 'em names," said William, "I can't tell which
is which. Let's call the man wot you don't know where he was goin'
home from Alberto (that's a good tale name), and the one wot says
that the girl wot Alberto's in love with's in deadly danger Rudolpho
(they all end with -o in a book I've been readin'; it sounded fine).
Well then, Rudolpho tells Alberto that the girl wot Alberto's in
love with's in deadly danger. I think that's a jolly good tale, but
I think that Alberto oughter have a secret treasure somewhere, an'
let's have another man in called Archibaldo (I've gotter nuncle called
Archibald) wot wants the secret treasure an' he's gotter trail of
dynamite laid to right under Alberto's bed to blow him up in the night
when's he's asleep, an' let's have another girl in called Rosabellina
wot Rudolpho's in love with--a proud an' beautiful maiden, you know,
an' Rudolpho gets hold of her an' she yells out, 'Avaunt! Unhand me,
varlet!'... Well, you finish yours first an' we'll put in my bits
afterwards. You'd jus' got to Alberto comin' home from somewhere you
din't know where an' followin' Rudolpho.... Wot comes next?"
Vivian Strange stared in front of him. He was once more the rabbit
and William the snake. Some power in William's earnest, freckled
countenance compelled him to proceed.
"The--er--the second man was really a secret service agent----"
"Wot's that?" inquired William disapprovingly.
"Oh, it's--er--it's a kind of glorified policeman, I suppose."
"Much better have him a pirate or a red injun," said William, "but
never mind. Go on."
"Well, he wants to got hold of some letters that--er--Alberto has, and
leads him to a lonely house and locks him up there, and says he'll keep
him there till he gives them up."
"Hurlin' vile threats?" said William, his face alight with earnestness.
"Let him say it hurlin' vile threats an' precations an' insults in his
teeth. Wot happens nex'?"
"I don't know," said the young man. "That's as far as I got. I can't
get on with it. I can't think what he'd say or do next."
William drew his brows together in deep thought.
"I should think Alberto oughter say 'Ha! villain! Never shalt thou
worst me'--or something like that."
"People don't talk like that in real life."
"Oh, reel life!" said William scornfully. "I thought we was talkin'
about books."
"Don't you think your friends want you to play with them?" said Mr.
Strange with emphasis. "Don't you think you've left them for quite long
enough?"
William arose and brushed the cake crumbs from his coat to the carpet.
"P'raps I'd better be goin'," he agreed. "But I'll be thinkin' over
wot comes nex'. You say you want it real life an' not books. I think
you oughter have more people in it. Can't you have them all on a
desert island an' make Rudolpho get eaten by cannibals in mistake for
Alberto.... Oh, well, jus' as you like, of course. I'll bring you my
tales to read one day an' I'll bring you some water things to-morrow.
Did you know tadpoles ate tadpoles? Talk about cannibals!... I say,
that's a jolly fine penknife."
Vivian Strange, whose proud spirit was broken, handed him the knife
with a despairing gesture.
"Take it!" he moaned. "Take it and go!"
William was touched.
"Oh, no," he said. "I'd better not take such a jolly fine penknife as
that. You're sure to be wantin' it again. But--but I'll borrow it for
a bit if you don't mind. I'll bring it back when I bring the water
animals. I say, it's jolly kind of you. Well, good-bye."
William closed the door behind him. The sudden peace and silence of the
room seemed to Strange too blissful to be real. But the door opened and
William's tousled head and earnest face appeared again.
"I say," he said. "How about having a burglar in an' a detective after
him, you know, an' mysterious signs an' clues an' blood hounds--as
well as the other people?... Not?... Well, it's your tale, so you jus'
do it how you like. I'll see you again soon. Well, good-bye."
William disappeared and the front-door opened and shut. With anxious
eyes Vivian Strange watched through the window for William's youthful
form to appear in the drive loading to the gate. It did not do so.
Instead, the familiar untidy head appeared once more round the door.
"I say!" he said. "I was jus' tryin' to remember--did I have three
pieces of cake in here, or only two?... Oh, thanks.... I say, it's
jolly kind of you."
"Take it all," said Mr. Strange, "and go!"
William was still more touched.
"Oh, no!" he said as he opened the cupboard. "I won't take it all--not
jus' now. I'll take one more piece now an' I'll come round for another
piece later on. It gets so messed up carryin' it about in your pocket,
cake does. I've tried it. Gets all mixed up with marbles an' bits of
clay an' string an' things. It doesn't spoil the taste but it wastes
it--gettin' it all crumby.... Well, good-bye."
Once more the front-door opened and shut. Once more there was silence
and peace. Vivian Strange, with a deep sigh, stretched out for his
pen. Then an expression of wild despair came over his face.... The
well-known footsteps sounded in the hall again and the door opened.
"I nearly went away," said William affectionately, "without showin' you
my new whistle. I've been practisin' an' practisin' so's to show it you
this afternoon. An' I nearly forgot an' I'd have had to come all the
way back. This is it."
He placed two fingers in the corners of his mouth and emitted a
siren-like sound that caused his friend to leap suddenly into the air
in terror and surprise. William smiled with pride and friendliness.
"I knew you'd like it," he said. "My family doesn't care for it at
home, but they don't care for any whistles. They don't reelly like
musick--not like you do. Well, good-bye."
William walked along the road, humming happily to himself. His humming
was, if possible, more dreadful than his whistling. William only hummed
when he was happy. He enjoyed the sound of his humming. In this he was
absolutely unique....
He was extremely happy to-day. His heart warmed at the thought of his
friend's kindness ... the confidential literary chat ... the cake ...
the penknife.... He took out the knife and looked at it. His heart
swelled with pride and pleasure ... a knife like that ... and he'd
been ready to give it ... _give_ it ... it was jolly decent of him....
William had no other friend in the whole world who would have thought
of _lending_ him a knife like that, much less _giving_ it.
William's sense of gratitude was not easily stirred, but it was stirred
this afternoon. When stirred, it demanded immediate and practical
expression.... He must _do_ something for his friend ... now ... at
once.... But what?... He could get him the water things, of course, but
that wasn't enough. What did Mr. Strange really _want?_... Suddenly
William's sombre countenance lit up.... He'd wanted to know what
Alberto would have said and done in real life.... He should know.
Mr. Porter was walking home. Mr. Porter was an eminently reliable
gentleman who lived a quiet, hard-working life divided between an
eminently respectable office and an eminently respectable home. Mr.
Porter was on his way home from the station, carrying his attaché case
in his hand as he had done for the last thirty years.
In his mind was a pleasurable anticipation of a warm fire, comfortable
bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of good wine, an
excellent cigar, and the evening paper. Mr. Porter had walked home with
this pleasurable anticipation in his mind for the last thirty years,
and it had always been fulfilled. There was a rosy glow over all his
thoughts. He hardly noticed the small boy with the freckled, scowling
countenance till he actually addressed him.
"The lady wot you're in love with," said the boy to him suddenly in an
expressionless tone, "is in deadly danger, an' says you're to go to her
at once."
Mr. Porter stopped short and peered through the dusk. He felt a little
frightened. "The lady wot----" he repeated. Then, "Would you mind
saying it again?"
William didn't mind.
[Illustration: "THE LADY WOT YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH," SAID WILLIAM, "IS IN
DEADLY DANGER AN' SAYS YOU'RE TO GO TO HER AT ONCE."]
"The lady wot you're in love with," he said clearly and distinctly, "is
in deadly danger an' says you're to go to her at once."
"The lady wot----" began Mr. Porter again. "What a curious expression!
Do you--er--do you mean my wife?"
"I s'pose so," said William guardedly.
"Er--did she tell you to say that?"
"Yes."
"Was she a tall lady?"
"Yes," said William, taking the line of least resistance.
"With a mole on her left cheek?"
"Yes."
"Grey hair?"
"Yes."
"Most curious!" said Mr. Porter. "That's certainly my wife. What did
you say she said?"
"The lady wot you're in love with," said William monotonously, "is in
deadly danger, an' says you're to go to her at once."
"But--where is she?"
"She said you was to follow me."
"Most curious!" said Mr. Porter uncertainly. "_Most_ curious!
Well--er--I suppose I'd better--er--one never knows--is it far?"
William's eye gleamed with victory.
"Oh, no," he said soothingly, "not far."
But Mr. Porter's heart had sunk. The rosy vision of the warm fire, the
comfortable bedroom slippers, well-cooked dinner, glass of wine, cigar,
evening paper seemed to have retreated to an incalculable distance.
"Be as quick as you can," he said irritably. "I can't stand here
all night catching my death of cold. How do I know it's not some
cock-and-bull story? Hurry up! Hurry up!"
Silently and happily William led the way. Silently and miserably Mr.
Porter followed. Mr. Porter disliked above all things departing a
hair's breadth from his usual routine. What _was_ it all about, anyway?
What was Mary thinking of, sending that curious message? Who was this
strange boy? His self-pity and righteous indignation increased at every
step. Down the street ... round a corner ... in at a side-gate ...
down a side-path past a house ... into a back garden.... What the----?
The strange boy was holding open the door of a kind of outhouse.
"She said particular you was to go in here," said the boy simply.
"What the----?" blazed Mr. Porter. "What the----?" he sputtered again.
The boy looked at him dispassionately.
"She said particular you was to go in here."
"Into a----? Into a dirty, empty coal-shed? What----?"
Mr. Porter stepped into the outhouse and flashed his electric torch
around it. In that second he satisfied himself that the shed was empty.
In that second also the door banged to behind him and a key was turned
in the lock.
"Here!" cried Mr. Porter angrily. "Where the----?"
There was no answer.
Mr. Porter banged ferociously at the door.
"Open the door, you young villain!" he shouted.
There was no answer.
Mr. Porter kicked the door, and shook the door, and rattled the door,
and cursed the door. The door remained immovable, and only the silence
answered him. Having recourse once more to his electric torch, he
discovered a small window high up at the back of the shed and beneath
it a pile of coal. Mr. Porter determined to reach the window over the
coal. He climbed the coal, and slipped in the coal, and waded in the
coal, and rolled in the coal, and wallowed in the coal, and lost his
collar in the coal.
Finally he let fly a torrent of language whose eloquence, and variety,
and emphasis, and richness surprised even himself. Mr. Porter, an hour
ago, would have believed himself incapable of such language. Then,
panting, covered with coal-dust, his collar gone, his coat torn, he
surveyed the scene of his imprisonment, and there came to him a vision
of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a
glass of wine, a good cigar and the evening paper.... In sudden frenzy
he flung himself bodily upon the door.
* * * * *
Vivian Strange had given up all attempt to write. He was sitting in
the arm-chair by the fire reading poetry to soothe his nerves. His
nerves were very much upset. He kept imagining that he heard strange
noises--bangs and shouts, and once he shuddered, imagining that he
heard William's whistle. He decided to go back to town as soon as
possible. The much-vaunted peace of the countryside was a fiction. The
country was not peaceful. It contained William, and William's whistle,
and William's water creatures, and William's conversations. There was
more peace in the middle of Piccadilly--without William--than there was
in the country with William.
The door opened suddenly and William appeared. There was on his face a
look of conscious pride as of one who has something attempted something
done, but is prepared to be quite modest about it.
"You can go an' hear wot he says an' does in reel life," he said. "He's
sayin' an' doin' it now in the coal-shed. I've been listenin' for ever
so long."
Mr. Strange rose wildly.
"But----" he began.
The curious sounds increased. They were real, not a delusion of his
overwrought nerves, as he had supposed. William was real too.
"Where----?" he said still more wildly.
"In the coal-shed," said William impatiently. "Hurry up or he'll be
gettin' tired an' stoppin'. Take some paper an' then you can copy down
some of the things he says in reel life. I told you I was right."
There came a sudden crashing and rending of wood, the sound of angry
steps on the gravel, and in front of the house appeared a nightmare
figure, black, gesticulating, ragged, collarless, hatless. It was
the eminently respectable Mr. Porter. "Police," and "pay for this,"
and "scoundrel," were among the words that reached the bewildered
Mr. Strange through the window. Then, shaking its fist, the figure
disappeared into the dusk.
"There," said William. "You're too late. He's got out. He's broke
the door down an' got out. Anyway, you know now wot he does in reel
life. He breaks the door down an' gets out. An' I can remember lots of
the things he said. I listened quite a long time. I'll take another
piece of that cake now, if you don't mind. You said I could. Thanks
awfully. I took a lot of trouble gettin' that reel life thing for you.
Could--could I keep that penknife jus' for another day? I've got some
frens I'd like to show it to. An' if there's anything else you'd like
me to find out in reel life, I'll try. I don't bother with reel life
myself when I do tales, but if you.... Oh, I say, are you goin' on with
the tale now?"
Mr. Strange was not. He was writing a telegram form. It ran:
"Secure berth on any boat sailing anywhere. Complete nervous
prostration. Change and rest urgent."
"I 'speck I'd better go," said William regretfully. "It's after my
supper time. You don't mind, do you?"
"No," said the young man wildly. "No, I don't mind. I'm going away
myself to-morrow, going away for good."
"Oh, are you?" said William sadly. "I'm sorry. I shall miss you quite a
lot an' I 'speck you'll miss me."
"Oh, yes," answered Mr. Strange. "I shall miss you. I hope I shall miss
you."
"Well, don't worry about it," said William kindly. "I 'speck you'll
be comin' back soon. Good-bye, an' you can get on with your tale now,
can't you, now you know wot he says an' does in reel life? Well,
good-bye."
He went briskly out of the front door.
Mr. Strange drew a deep, quivering breath of relief. But not for long.
Two apparitions appeared before the window, coming up the drive, one
the blackened and battered remains of Mr. Porter and the other a
stalwart arm of the law, carrying a note-book.
There was a gleam in Mr. Porter's eye. He was going to execute justice
but, justice executed, there lay before him the warm fire, and
comfortable bedroom slippers, and well-cooked dinner, and glass of
wine, and excellent cigar, and evening paper of his dreams.
But Vivian's horrified gaze was drawn from them by the near vision of
William's face pressed against the glass.
"I say," called William. "You _did_ say I could keep that knife for a
bit, didn't you?"
Vivian Strange made a wild gesture that might have been assent or
dissent or mere frenzy.
"Thanks awfully," shouted William. "Well, good-bye."
* * * * *
William strolled home through the dusk. He was sorry his friend was
going, but, after all, he would be able to keep all the water creatures
himself. Giving away water creatures was always a great sacrifice to
William. Anyway, he'd had quite a decent day ... all about that tale
had been interesting and exciting, and that was a jolly good cake and a
_jolly_ good penknife and--his thoughts flew off to that thrilling five
minutes spent in rapt silence outside the coal house--he'd learnt a lot
of new words.