E-text prepared by David Clarke, Geetu Melwani, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 17125-h.htm or 17125-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/1/2/17125/17125-h/17125-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/1/2/17125/17125-h.zip)
MORE WILLIAM
by
RICHMAL CROMPTON
Illustrated by Thomas Henry
London
George Newnes, Limited
Southampton St., Strand, W.C.
[Illustration: "WOT YOU DRESSED UP LIKE THAT FOR?" SAID THE
APPARITION, WITH A TOUCH OF SCORN IN HIS VOICE.
(See Chapter IX: The Revenge.)]
First Edition December 1922
Second Impression January 1923
Third Impression February 1923
Fourth Impression July 1923
Fifth Impression September 1923
Sixth Impression December 1923
Seventh Impression February 1924
Eighth Impression July 1924
Ninth Impression November 1924
Made and Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Son, Ltd., London,
Fakenham and Reading.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Busy Day 11
II. Rice-Mould 31
III. William's Burglar 49
IV. The Knight at Arms 67
V. William's Hobby 78
VI. The Rivals 89
VII. The Ghost 110
VIII. The May King 125
IX. The Revenge 144
X. The Helper 157
XI. William and the Smuggler 174
XII. The Reform of William 197
XIII. William and the Ancient Souls 213
XIV. William's Christmas Eve 228
CHAPTER I
A BUSY DAY
William awoke and rubbed his eyes. It was Christmas Day--the day to
which he had looked forward with mingled feelings for twelve months.
It was a jolly day, of course--presents and turkey and crackers and
staying up late. On the other hand, there were generally too many
relations about, too much was often expected of one, the curious taste
displayed by people who gave one presents often marred one's pleasure.
He looked round his bedroom expectantly. On the wall, just opposite
his bed, was a large illuminated card hanging by a string from a
nail--"A Busy Day is a Happy Day." That had not been there the day
before. Brightly-coloured roses and forget-me-nots and honeysuckle
twined round all the words. William hastily thought over the three
aunts staying in the house, and put it down to Aunt Lucy. He looked at
it with a doubtful frown. He distrusted the sentiment.
A copy of "Portraits of our Kings and Queens" he put aside as beneath
contempt. "Things a Boy Can Do" was more promising. _Much_ more
promising. After inspecting a penknife, a pocket-compass, and a
pencil-box (which shared the fate of "Portraits of our Kings and
Queens"), William returned to "Things a Boy Can Do." As he turned the
pages, his face lit up.
He leapt lightly out of bed and dressed. Then he began to arrange his
own gifts to his family. For his father he had bought a bottle of
highly-coloured sweets, for his elder brother Robert (aged nineteen)
he had expended a vast sum of money on a copy of "The Pirates of the
Bloody Hand." These gifts had cost him much thought. The knowledge
that his father never touched sweets, and that Robert professed scorn
of pirate stories, had led him to hope that the recipients of his
gifts would make no objection to the unobtrusive theft of them by
their recent donor in the course of the next few days. For his
grown-up sister Ethel he had bought a box of coloured chalks. That
also might come in useful later. Funds now had been running low, but
for his mother he had bought a small cream-jug which, after fierce
bargaining, the man had let him have at half-price because it was
cracked.
Singing "Christians Awake!" at the top of his lusty young voice, he
went along the landing, putting his gifts outside the doors of his
family, and pausing to yell "Happy Christmas" as he did so. From
within he was greeted in each case by muffled groans.
He went downstairs into the hall, still singing. It was earlier than
he thought--just five o'clock. The maids were not down yet. He
switched on lights recklessly, and discovered that he was not the only
person in the hall. His four-year-old cousin Jimmy was sitting on the
bottom step in an attitude of despondency, holding an empty tin.
Jimmy's mother had influenza at home, and Jimmy and his small sister
Barbara were in the happy position of spending Christmas with
relations, but immune from parental or maternal interference.
"They've gotten out," said Jimmy, sadly. "I got 'em for presents
yesterday, an' they've gotten out. I've been feeling for 'em in the
dark, but I can't find 'em."
"What?" said William.
"Snails. Great big suge ones wiv great big suge shells. I put 'em in a
tin for presents an' they've gotten out an' I've gotten no presents
for nobody."
He relapsed into despondency.
William surveyed the hall.
"They've got out right enough!" he said, sternly. "They've got out
right _enough_. Jus' look at our hall! Jus' look at our clothes!
They've got out _right_ enough."
Innumerable slimy iridescent trails shone over hats, and coats, and
umbrellas, and wall-paper.
"Huh!" grunted William, who was apt to overwork his phrases. "They've
got _out_ right enough."
He looked at the tracks again and brightened. Jimmy was frankly
delighted.
"Oo! Look!" he cried, "Oo _funny_!"
William's thoughts flew back to his bedroom wall--"A Busy Day is a
Happy Day."
"Let's clean it up!" he said. "Let's have it all nice an' clean for
when they come down. We'll be busy. You tell me if you feel happy when
we've done. It might be true wot it says, but I don't like the flowers
messin' all over it."
Investigation in the kitchen provided them with a large pail of water
and a scrubbing-brush each.
For a long time they worked in silence. They used plenty of water.
When they had finished the trails were all gone. Each soaked garment
on the hat-stand was sending a steady drip on to the already flooded
floor. The wall-paper was sodden. With a feeling of blankness they
realised that there was nothing else to clean.
It was Jimmy who conceived the exquisite idea of dipping his brush in
the bucket and sprinkling William with water. A scrubbing-brush is in
many ways almost as good as a hose. Each had a pail of ammunition.
Each had a good-sized brush. During the next few minutes they
experienced purest joy. Then William heard threatening movements
above, and decided hastily that the battle must cease.
"Backstairs," he said shortly. "Come on."
Marking their track by a running stream of water, they crept up the
backstairs.
But two small boys soaked to the skin could not disclaim all
knowledge of a flooded hall.
William was calm and collected when confronted with a distracted
mother.
"We was tryin' to clean up," he said. "We found all snail marks an' we
was tryin' to clean up. We was tryin' to help. You said so last night,
you know, when you was talkin' to me. You said to _help_. Well, I
thought it was helpin' to try an' clean up. You can't clean up with
water an' not get wet--not if you do it prop'ly. You said to try an'
make Christmas Day happy for other folks and then I'd be happy. Well,
I don't know as I'm very happy," he said, bitterly, "but I've been
workin' hard enough since early this mornin'. I've been workin'," he
went on pathetically. His eye wandered to the notice on his wall.
"I've been _busy_ all right, but it doesn't make me _happy_--not jus'
now," he added, with memories of the rapture of the fight. That
certainly must be repeated some time. Buckets of water and
scrubbing-brushes. He wondered he'd never thought of that before.
William's mother looked down at his dripping form.
"Did you get all that water with just cleaning up the snail marks?"
she said.
William coughed and cleared his throat. "Well," he said,
deprecatingly, "most of it. I think I got most of it."
"If it wasn't Christmas Day ..." she went on darkly.
William's spirits rose. There was certainly something to be said for
Christmas Day.
It was decided to hide the traces of the crime as far as possible from
William's father. It was felt--and not without reason--that William's
father's feelings of respect for the sanctity of Christmas Day might
be overcome by his feelings of paternal ire.
Half-an-hour later William, dried, dressed, brushed, and chastened,
descended the stairs as the gong sounded in a hall which was bare of
hats and coats, and whose floor shone with cleanliness.
"And jus' to think," said William, despondently, "that it's only jus'
got to brekfust time."
William's father was at the bottom of the stairs. William's father
frankly disliked Christmas Day.
"Good-morning, William," he said, "and a happy Christmas, and I hope
it's not too much to ask of you that on this relation-infested day
one's feelings may be harrowed by you as little as possible. And why
the deu--dickens they think it necessary to wash the hall floor before
breakfast, Heaven only knows!"
William coughed, a cough meant to be a polite mixture of greeting and
deference. William's face was a study in holy innocence. His father
glanced at him suspiciously. There were certain expressions of
William's that he distrusted.
William entered the dining-room morosely. Jimmy's sister Barbara--a
small bundle of curls and white frills--was already beginning her
porridge.
"Goo' mornin'," she said, politely, "did you hear me cleanin' my
teef?"
He crushed her with a glance.
He sat eating in silence till everyone had come down, and Aunts Jane,
Evangeline, and Lucy were consuming porridge with that mixture of
festivity and solemnity that they felt the occasion demanded.
Then Jimmy entered, radiant, with a tin in his hand.
"Got presents," he said, proudly. "Got presents, lots of presents."
He deposited on Barbara's plate a worm which Barbara promptly threw at
his face. Jimmy looked at her reproachfully and proceeded to Aunt
Evangeline. Aunt Evangeline's gift was a centipede--a live centipede
that ran gaily off the tablecloth on to Aunt Evangeline's lap before
anyone could stop it. With a yell that sent William's father to the
library with his hands to his ears, Aunt Evangeline leapt to her chair
and stood with her skirts held to her knees.
"Help! Help!" she cried. "The horrible boy! Catch it! Kill it!"
Jimmy gazed at her in amazement, and Barbara looked with interest at
Aunt Evangeline's long expanse of shin.
"_My_ legs isn't like _your_ legs," she said pleasantly and
conversationally. "My legs is knees."
It was some time before order was restored, the centipede killed, and
Jimmy's remaining gifts thrown out of the window. William looked
across the table at Jimmy with respect in his eye. Jimmy, in spite of
his youth, was an acquaintance worth cultivating. Jimmy was eating
porridge unconcernedly.
Aunt Evangeline had rushed from the room when the slaughter of the
centipede had left the coast clear, and refused to return. She carried
on a conversation from the top of the stairs.
"When that horrible child has gone, I'll come. He may have insects
concealed on his person. And someone's been dropping water all over
these stairs. They're _damp_!"
"Dear, dear!" murmured Aunt Jane, sadly.
Jimmy looked up from his porridge.
"How was I to know she didn't like insecks?" he said, aggrievedly.
"_I_ like 'em."
William's mother's despair was only tempered by the fact that this
time William was not the culprit. To William also it was a novel
sensation. He realised the advantages of a fellow criminal.
After breakfast peace reigned. William's father went out for a walk
with Robert. The aunts sat round the drawing-room fire talking and
doing crochet-work. In this consists the whole art and duty of
aunthood. _All_ aunts do crochet-work.
They had made careful inquiries about the time of the service.
"You needn't worry," had said William's mother. "It's at 10.30, and
if you go to get ready when the clock in the library strikes ten it
will give you heaps of time."
[Illustration: AROUND THEM LAY, MOST INDECENTLY EXPOSED, THE INTERNAL
ARRANGEMENTS OF THE LIBRARY CLOCK.]
Peace ... calm ... quiet. Mrs. Brown and Ethel in the kitchen
supervising the arrangements for the day. The aunts in the
drawing-room discussing over their crochet-work the terrible way in
which their sisters had brought up their children. That, also, is a
necessary part of aunthood.
Time slipped by happily and peacefully. Then William's mother came
into the drawing-room.
"I thought you were going to church," she said.
"We are. The clock hasn't struck."
"But--it's eleven o'clock!"
There was a gasp of dismay.
"The clock never struck!"
Indignantly they set off to the library. Peace and quiet reigned also
in the library. On the floor sat William and Jimmy gazing with frowns
of concentration at an open page of "Things a Boy Can Do." Around them
lay most indecently exposed the internal arrangements of the library
clock.
"William! You _wicked_ boy!"
William raised a frowning face.
"It's not put together right," he said, "it's not been put together
right all this time. We're makin' it right now. It must have wanted
mendin' for ever so long. _I_ dunno how it's been goin' at all. It's
lucky we found it out. It's put together wrong. I guess it's _made_
wrong. It's goin' to be a lot of trouble to us to put it right, an' we
can't do much when you're all standin' in the light. We're very
busy--workin' at tryin' to mend this ole clock for you all."
"Clever," said Jimmy, admiringly. "Mendin' the clock. _Clever!_"
"William!" groaned his mother, "you've ruined the clock. What _will_
your father say?"
"Well, the cog-wheels was wrong," said William doggedly. "See? An'
this ratchet-wheel isn't on the pawl prop'ly--not like what this book
says it ought to be. Seems we've got to take it all to pieces to get
it right. Seems to me the person wot made this clock didn't know much
about clock-making. Seems to me----"
"Be _quiet_, William!"
"We was be quietin' 'fore you came in," said Jimmy, severely. "You
'sturbed us."
"Leave it just as it is, William," said his mother.
"You don't _unnerstand_," said William with the excitement of the
fanatic. "The cog-wheel an' the ratchet ought to be put on the arbor
different. See, this is the cog-wheel. Well, it oughtn't to be like
wot it was. It was put on all _wrong_. Well, we was mendin' it. An' we
was doin' it for _you_," he ended, bitterly, "jus' to help an'--to--to
make other folks happy. It makes folks happy havin' clocks goin'
right, anyone would _think_. But if you _want_ your clocks put
together wrong, _I_ don't care."
He picked up his book and walked proudly from the room followed by the
admiring Jimmy.
"William," said Aunt Lucy patiently, as he passed, "I don't want to
say anything unkind, and I hope you won't remember all your life that
you have completely spoilt this Christmas Day for me."
"Oh, dear!" murmured Aunt Jane, sadly.
William, with a look before which she should have sunk into the earth,
answered shortly that he didn't think he would.
During the midday dinner the grown-ups, as is the foolish fashion of
grown-ups, wasted much valuable time in the discussion of such
futilities as the weather and the political state of the nation. Aunt
Lucy was still suffering and aggrieved.
"I can go this evening, of course," she said, "but it's not quite the
same. The morning service is different. Yes, please, dear--_and_
stuffing. Yes, I'll have a little more turkey, too. And, of course,
the vicar may not preach to-night. That makes such a difference. The
gravy on the potatoes, please. It's almost the first Christmas I've
not been in the morning. It seems quite to have spoilt the day for
me."
She bent on William a glance of gentle reproach. William was quite
capable of meeting adequately that or any other glance, but at present
he was too busy for minor hostilities. He was _extremely_ busy. He was
doing his utmost to do full justice to a meal that only happens once a
year.
"William," said Barbara pleasantly, "I can _dweam_. Can you?"
He made no answer.
"Answer your cousin, William," said his mother.
He swallowed, then spoke plaintively, "You always say not to talk with
my mouth full," he said.
"You could speak when you've finished the mouthful."
"No. 'Cause I want to fill it again then," said William, firmly.
"Dear, _dear_!" murmured Aunt Jane.
This was Aunt Jane's usual contribution to any conversation.
He looked coldly at the three pairs of horrified aunts' eyes around
him, then placidly continued his meal.
Mrs. Brown hastily changed the subject of conversation. The art of
combining the duties of mother and hostess is sometimes a difficult
one.
Christmas afternoon is a time of rest. The three aunts withdrew from
public life. Aunt Lucy found a book of sermons in the library and
retired to her bedroom with it.
"It's the next best thing, I think," she said with a sad glance at
William.
William was beginning definitely to dislike Aunt Lucy.
"Please'm," said the cook an hour later, "the mincing machine's
disappeared."
"Disappeared?" said William's mother, raising her hand to her head.
"Clean gone'm. 'Ow'm I to get the supper'm? You said as 'ow I could
get it done this afternoon so as to go to church this evening. I can't
do nuffink with the mincing machine gone."
"I'll come and look."
They searched every corner of the kitchen, then William's mother had
an idea. William's mother had not been William's mother for eleven
years without learning many things. She went wearily up to William's
bedroom.
William was sitting on the floor. Open beside him was "Things a Boy
Can Do." Around him lay various parts of the mincing machine. His face
was set and strained in mental and physical effort. He looked up as
she entered.
"It's a funny kind of mincing machine," he said, crushingly. "It's not
got enough parts. It's _made_ wrong----"
"Do you know," she said, slowly, "that we've all been looking for that
mincin' machine for the last half-hour?"
"No," he said without much interest, "I di'n't. I'd have told you I
was mendin' it if you'd told me you was lookin' for it. It's _wrong_,"
he went on aggrievedly. "I can't make anything with it. Look! It says
in my book 'How to make a model railway signal with parts of a mincing
machine.' Listen! It says, 'Borrow a mincing machine from your
mother----"
"Did you borrow it?" said Mrs. Brown.
"Yes. Well, I've got it, haven't I? I went all the way down to the
kitchen for it."
"Who lent it to you?"
"No one _lent_ it me. I _borrowed_ it. I thought you'd like to see a
model railway signal. I thought you'd be interested. Anyone would
think anyone would be interested in seein' a railway signal made out
of a mincin' machine."
His tone implied that the dullness of people in general was simply
beyond him. "An' you haven't got a right sort of mincin' machine. It's
wrong. Its parts are the wrong shape. I've been hammerin' them, tryin'
to make them right, but they're _made_ wrong."
Mrs. Brown was past expostulating. "Take them all down to the kitchen
to cook," she said. "She's waiting for them."
On the stairs William met Aunt Lucy carrying her volume of sermons.
"It's not quite the same as the spoken word, William, dear," she said.
"It hasn't the _force_. The written word doesn't reach the _heart_ as
the spoken word does, but I don't want you to worry about it."
William walked on as if he had not heard her.
It was Aunt Jane who insisted on the little entertainment after tea.
"I _love_ to hear the dear children recite," she said. "I'm sure they
all have some little recitation they can say."
Barbara arose with shy delight to say her piece.
"Lickle bwown seed, lickle bwown bwother,
And what, pway, are you goin' to be?
I'll be a poppy as white as my mother,
Oh, DO be a poppy like me!
What, you'll be a sunflower? Oh, how I shall miss you
When you are golden and high!
But I'll send all the bees up to tiss you.
Lickle bwown bwother, good-bye!"
She sat down blushing, amid rapturous applause.
Next Jimmy was dragged from his corner. He stood up as one prepared
for the worst, shut his eyes, and--
"Licklaxokindness lickledeedsolove--
make--thisearfanedenliketheeav'nabovethasalliknow."
he gasped all in one breath, and sat down panting.
This was greeted with slightly milder applause.
"Now, William!"
"I don't know any," he said.
"Oh, you _do_," said his mother. "Say the one you learnt at school
last term. Stand up, dear, and speak clearly."
Slowly William rose to his feet.
"_It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea_,"
he began.
Here he stopped, coughed, cleared his throat, and began again.
"_It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea._"
"Oh, get _on_!" muttered his brother, irritably.
[Illustration: "IT WAS THE HESPER SCHOONERUS THAT SAILED THE WINTRY
SEA AN' I'M NOT GOIN' ON IF ETHEL'S GOIN' TO KEEP GIGGLIN'."]
"I can't get on if you keep talkin' to me," said William, sternly.
"How can I get on if you keep takin' all the time up _sayin'_ get on?
I can't get on if you're talkin', can I?"
"It was the Hesper Schoonerus that sailed the wintry sea an' I'm not
goin' on if Ethel's goin' to keep gigglin'. It's not a funny piece,
an' if she's goin' on gigglin' like that I'm not sayin' any more of
it."
"Ethel, dear!" murmured Mrs. Brown, reproachfully. Ethel turned her
chair completely round and left her back only exposed to William's
view. He glared at it suspiciously.
"Now, William dear," continued his mother, "begin again and no one
shall interrupt you."
William again went through the preliminaries of coughing and clearing
his throat.
"_It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry seas._"
He stopped again, and slowly and carefully straightened his collar and
smoothed back the lock of hair which was dangling over his brow.
"_The skipper had brought----_" prompted Aunt Jane, kindly.
William turned on her.
"I was _goin'_ to say that if you'd left me alone," he said. "I was
jus' thinkin'. I've got to think sometimes. I can't say off a great
long pome like that without stoppin' to think sometimes, can I?
I'll--I'll do a conjuring trick for you instead," he burst out,
desperately. "I've learnt one from my book. I'll go an' get it ready."
He went out of the room. Mr. Brown took out his handkerchief and
mopped his brow.
"May I ask," he said patiently, "how long this exhibition is to be
allowed to continue?"
Here William returned, his pockets bulging. He held a large
handkerchief in his hand.
"This is a handkerchief," he announced. "If anyone'd like to feel it
to see if it's a real one, they can. Now I want a shilling," he looked
round expectantly, but no one moved, "or a penny would do," he said,
with a slightly disgusted air. Robert threw one across the room.
"Well, I put the penny into the handkerchief. You can see me do it,
can't you? If anyone wants to come an' feel the penny is in the
handkerchief, they can. Well," he turned his back on them and took
something out of his pocket. After a few contortions he turned round
again, holding the handkerchief tightly. "Now, you look close,"--he
went over to them--"an' you'll see the shil--I mean, penny," he looked
scornfully at Robert, "has changed to an egg. It's a real egg. If
anyone thinks it isn't a real egg----"
But it _was_ a real egg. It confirmed his statement by giving a
resounding crack and sending a shining stream partly on to the carpet
and partly on to Aunt Evangeline's black silk knee. A storm of
reproaches burst out.
"First that horrible insect," almost wept Aunt Evangeline, "and then
this messy stuff all over me. It's a good thing I don't live here. One
day a year is enough.... My nerves!..."
"Dear, dear!" said Aunt Jane.
"Fancy taking a new-laid _egg_ for that," said Ethel severely.
William was pale and indignant.
"Well, I did jus' what the book said to do. Look at it. It says: 'Take
an egg. Conceal it in the pocket.' Well, I took an egg an' I concealed
it in the pocket. Seems to me," he said bitterly, "seems to me this
book isn't 'Things a Boy Can Do.' It's 'Things a Boy Can't Do.'"
Mr. Brown rose slowly from his chair.
"You're just about right there, my son. Thank _you_," he said with
elaborate politeness, as he took the book from William's reluctant
hands and went over with it to a small cupboard in the wall. In this
cupboard reposed an airgun, a bugle, a catapult, and a mouth-organ. As
he unlocked it to put the book inside, the fleeting glimpse of his
confiscated treasures added to the bitterness of William's soul.
"On Christmas Day, too!"
While he was still afire with silent indignation Aunt Lucy returned
from church.
"The vicar _didn't_ preach," she said. "They say that this morning's
sermon was beautiful. As I say, I don't want William to reproach
himself, but I feel that he has deprived me of a very great treat."
"_Nice_ Willum!" murmured Jimmy sleepily from his corner.
As William undressed that night his gaze fell upon the flower-bedecked
motto: "A Busy Day is a Happy Day."
"It's a story," he said, indignantly. "It's jus' a wicked ole story."