WILLIAM AND THE SMUGGLER
William's family were going to the seaside for February. It was not an
ideal month for the seaside, but William's father's doctor had ordered
him a complete rest and change.
"We shall have to take William with us, you know," his wife had said
as they discussed plans.
"Good heavens!" groaned Mr. Brown. "I thought it was to be a _rest_
cure."
"Yes, but you know what he is," his wife urged. "I daren't leave him
with anyone. Certainly not with Ethel. We shall have to take them
both. Ethel will help with him."
Ethel was William's grown-up sister.
"All right," agreed her husband finally. "You can take all
responsibility. I formally disown him from now till we get back. I
don't care _what_ trouble he lands you in. You know what he is and you
deliberately take him away with me on a rest cure!"
"It can't be helped dear," said his wife mildly.
William was thrilled by the news. It was several years since he had
been at the seaside.
"Will I be able to go swimmin'?"
"It _won't_ be too cold! Well, if I wrap up warm, will I be able to go
swimmin'?"
"Can I catch fishes?"
"Are there lots of smugglers smugglin' there?"
"Well, I'm only _askin'_, you needn't get mad!"
One afternoon Mrs. Brown missed her best silver tray and searched the
house high and low for it wildly, while dark suspicions of each
servant in turn arose in her usually unsuspicious breast.
It was finally discovered in the garden. William had dug a large hole
in one of the garden beds. Into the bottom of this he had fitted the
tray and had lined the sides with bricks. He had then filled it with
water, and taking off his shoes and stockings stepped up and down his
narrow pool. He was distinctly aggrieved by Mrs. Brown's reproaches.
"Well, I was practisin' paddlin', ready for goin' to the seaside. I
didn't _mean_ to rune your tray. You talk as if I _meant_ to rune your
tray. I was only practisin' paddlin'."
At last the day of departure arrived. William was instructed to put
his things ready on his bed, and his mother would then come and pack
for him. He summoned her proudly over the balusters after about twenty
minutes.
"I've got everythin' ready, Mother."
Mrs. Brown ascended to his room.
Upon his bed was a large pop-gun, a football, a dormouse in a cage, a
punchball on a stand, a large box of "curios," and a buckskin which
was his dearest possession and had been presented to him by an uncle
from South Africa.
Mrs. Brown sat down weakly on a chair.
"You can't possibly take any of these things," she said faintly but
firmly.
"Well, you _said_ put my things on the bed for you to pack an' I've
put them on the bed, an' now you say----"
"I meant clothes."
"Oh, _clothes_!" scornfully. "I never thought of _clothes_."
"Well, you can't take any of these things, anyway."
William hastily began to defend his collection of treasures.
"I _mus'_ have the pop-gun 'cause you never know. There may be pirates
an' smugglers down there, an' you can _kill_ a man with a pop-gun if
you get near enough and know the right place, an' I might need it. An'
I _must_ have the football to play on the sands with, an' the
punchball to practise boxin' on, an' I _must_ have the dormouse,
'cause--'cause to feed him, an' I _must_ have this box of things and
this skin to show to folks I meet down at the seaside, 'cause they're
int'restin'."
But Mrs. Brown was firm, and William reluctantly yielded.
In a moment of weakness, finding that his trunk was only three-quarter
filled by his things, she slipped in his beloved buckskin, while
William himself put the pop-gun inside when no one was looking.
They had been unable to obtain a furnished house, so had to be content
with a boarding house. Mr. Brown was eloquent on the subject.
"If you're deliberately turning that child loose into a boarding-house
full, presumably, of quiet, inoffensive people, you deserve all you
get. It's nothing to do with me. I'm going to have a rest cure. I've
disowned him. He can do as he likes."
"It can't be helped, dear," said Mrs. Brown mildly.
Mr. Brown had engaged one of the huts on the beach chiefly for
William's use, and William proudly furnished its floor with the
buckskin.
"It was killed by my uncle," he announced to the small crowd of
children at the door who had watched with interest his painstaking
measuring of the floor in order to place his treasure in the exact
centre. "He killed it dead--jus' like this."
William had never heard the story of the death of the buck, and
therefore had invented one in which he had gradually come to confuse
himself with his uncle in the rôle of hero.
"It was walkin' about an' I--he--met it. I hadn't got no gun, and it
sprung at me an' I caught hold of its neck with one hand an' I broke
off its horns with the other, an' I knocked it over. An' it got up an'
ran at me--him--again, an' I jus' tripped it up with my foot an' it
fell over again, an' then I jus' give it one big hit with my fist
right on its head, an' it killed it an' it died!"
There was an incredulous gasp.
Then there came a clear, high voice from behind the crowd.
"Little boy, you are not telling the truth."
William looked up into a thin, spectacled face.
"I wasn't tellin' it to you," he remarked, wholly unabashed.
A little girl with dark curls took up the cudgels quite needlessly in
William's defence.
"He's a very _brave_ boy to do all that," she said indignantly. "So
don't you go _saying_ things to him."
"Well," said William, flattered but modest, "I didn't say I did it,
did I? I said my uncle--well, partly my uncle."
Mr. Percival Jones looked down at him in righteous wrath.
"You're a very wicked little boy. I'll tell your father--er--I'll tell
your sister."
For Ethel was approaching in the distance and Mr. Percival Jones was
in no way loth to converse with her.
[Illustration: "YOU'RE A VERY WICKED LITTLE BOY!" SAID MR. PERCIVAL
JONES.]
Mr. Percival Jones was a thin, pale, æsthetic would-be poet who lived
and thrived on the admiration of the elderly ladies of his
boarding-house, and had done so for the past ten years. Once he had
published a volume of poems at his own expense. He lived at the same
boarding-house as the Browns, and had seen Ethel in the distance to
meals. He had admired the red lights in her dark hair and the blue
of her eyes, and had even gone so far as to wonder whether she
possessed the solid and enduring qualities which he would require of
one whom in his mind he referred to as his "future spouse."
He began to walk down the beach with her.
"I should like to speak to you--er--about your brother, Miss Brown,"
he began, "if you can spare me the time, of course. I trust I do not
er--intrude or presume. He is a charming little man but--er--I
fear--not veracious. May I accompany you a little on your way? I
am--er--much attracted to your--er--family. I--er--should like to know
you all better. I am--er--deeply attached to your--er--little brother,
but grieved to find that he does not--er--adhere to the truth in his
statements. I--er----"
Miss Brown's blue eyes were dancing with merriment.
"Oh, don't you worry about William," she said. "He's _awful_. It's
much best just to leave him alone. Isn't the sea gorgeous to-day?"
They walked along the sands.
Meanwhile William had invited his small defender into his hut.
"You can look round," he said graciously. "You've seen my skin what
I--he--killed, haven't you? This is my gun. You put a cork in there
and it comes out hard when you shoot it. It would kill anyone,"
impressively, "if you did it near enough to them and at the right
place. An' I've got a dormouse, an' a punchball, an' a box of things,
an' a football, but they wouldn't let me bring them," bitterly.
"It's a _lovely_ skin," said the little girl. "What's your name?"
"William. What's yours?"
"Peggy."
"Well, let's be on a desert island, shall we? An' nothin' to eat nor
anything, shall we? Come on."
She nodded eagerly.
"How _lovely_!"
They wandered out on to the promenade, and among a large crowd of
passers-by bemoaned the lonely emptiness of the island and scanned the
horizon for a sail. In the far distance on the cliffs could be seen
the figures of Mr. Percival Jones and William's sister, walking slowly
away from the town.
At last they turned towards the hut.
"We must find somethin' to eat," said William firmly. "We can't let
ourselves starve to death."
"Shrimps?" suggested Peggy cheerfully.
"We haven't got nets," said William. "We couldn't save them from the
wreck."
"Periwinkles?"
"There aren't any on this island. I know! Seaweed! An' we'll cook it."
"Oh, how _lovely_!"
He gathered up a handful of seaweed and they entered the hut, leaving
a white handkerchief tied on to the door to attract the attention of
any passing ship. The hut was provided with a gas ring and William,
disregarding his family's express injunction, lit this and put on a
saucepan filled with water and seaweed.
"We'll pretend it's a wood fire," he said. "We couldn't make a real
wood fire out on the prom. They'd stop us. So we'll pretend this is.
An' we'll pretend we saved a saucepan from the wreck."
After a few minutes he took off the pan and drew out a long green
strand.
"You eat it first," he said politely.
The smell of it was not pleasant. Peggy drew back.
"Oh, no, you first!"
"No, you," said William nobly. "You look hungrier than me."
She bit off a piece, chewed it, shut her eyes and swallowed.
"Now you," she said with a shade of vindictiveness in her voice.
"You're not going to not have any."
William took a mouthful and shivered.
"I think it's gone bad," he said critically.
Peggy's rosy face had paled.
"I'm going home," she said suddenly.
"You can't go home on a desert island," said William severely.
"Well, I'm going to be rescued then," she said.
"I think I am, too," said William.
It was lunch time when William arrived at the boarding-house. Mr.
Percival Jones had moved his place so as to be nearer Ethel. He was
now convinced that she was possessed of every virtue his future
"spouse" could need. He conversed brightly and incessantly during the
meal. Mr. Brown grew restive.
"The man will drive me mad," he said afterwards. "Bleating away!
What's he bleating about anyway? Can't you stop him bleating, Ethel?
You seem to have influence. Bleat! Bleat! Bleat! Good Lord! And me
here for a _rest_ cure!"
At this point he was summoned to the telephone and returned
distraught.
"It's an unknown female," he said. "She says that a boy of the name of
William from this boarding-house has made her little girl sick by
forcing her to eat seaweed. She says it's brutal. Does anyone _know_
I'm here for a rest cure? Where is the boy? Good heavens! Where is the
boy?"
But William, like Peggy, had retired from the world for a space. He
returned later on in the afternoon, looking pale and chastened. He
bore the reproaches of his family in stately silence.
Mr. Percival Jones was in great evidence in the drawing-room.
"And soon--er--soon the--er--Spring will be with us once more," he was
saying in his high-pitched voice as he leant back in his chair and
joined the tips of his fingers together. "The Spring--ah--the Spring!
I have a--er--little effort I--er--composed on--er--the Coming of
Spring--I--er--will read to you some time if you will--ah--be kind
enough to--er--criticise--ah--impartially."
"_Criticise_!" they chorused. "It will be above criticism. Oh, do read
it to us, Mr. Jones."
"I will--er--this evening." His eyes wandered to the door, hoping and
longing for his beloved's entrance. But Ethel was with her father at a
matinée at the Winter Gardens and he looked and longed in vain. In
spite of this, however, the springs of his eloquence did not run dry,
and he held forth ceaselessly to his little circle of admirers.
"The simple--ah--pleasures of nature. How few of us--alas!--have
the--er--gift of appreciating them rightly. This--er--little seaside
hamlet with its--er--sea, its--er--promenade, its--er--Winter Gardens!
How beautiful it is! How few appreciate it rightly."
Here William entered and Mr. Percival Jones broke off abruptly. He
disliked William.
"Ah! here comes our little friend. He looks pale. Remorse, my young
friend? Ah, beware of untruthfulness. Beware of the beginnings of a
life of lies and deception." He laid a hand on William's head and cold
shivers ran down William's spine. "'Be good, sweet child, and let who
will be clever,' as the poet says." There was murder in William's
heart.
At that minute Ethel entered.
"No," she snapped. "I sat next a man who smelt of bad tobacco. I
_hate_ men who smoke bad tobacco."
Mr. Jones assumed an expression of intense piety.
"I may boast," he said sanctimoniously, "that I have never thus soiled
my lips with drink or smoke ..."
There was an approving murmur from the occupants of the drawing-room.
William had met his father in the passage outside the drawing-room.
Mr. Brown was wearing a hunted expression.
"Can I go into the drawing-room?" he said bitterly, "or is he bleating
away in there?"
They listened. From the drawing-room came the sound of a high-pitched
voice.
Mr. Brown groaned.
"Good Lord!" he moaned. "And I'm here for a _rest_ cure and he comes
bleating into every room in the house. Is the smoking-room safe? Does
he smoke?"
Mr. Percival Jones was feeling slightly troubled in his usually
peaceful conscience. He could honestly say that he had never smoked.
He could honestly say that he had never drank. But in his bedroom
reposed two bottles of brandy, purchased at the advice of an aunt "in
case of emergencies." In his bedroom also was a box of cigars that he
had bought for a cousin's birthday gift, but which his conscience had
finally forbidden to present. He decided to consign these two emblems
of vice to the waves that very evening.
Meanwhile William had returned to the hut and was composing a tale of
smugglers by the light of a candle. He was much intrigued by his
subject. He wrote fast in an illegible hand in great sloping lines,
his brows frowning, his tongue protruding from his mouth as it always
did in moments of mental strain.
His sympathies wavered between the smugglers and the representatives
of law and order. His orthography was the despair of his teachers.
_"'Ho,' sez Dick Savage,"_ he wrote. _"Ho! Gadzooks! Rol in the
bottles of beer up the beech. Fill your pockets with the baccy from
the bote. Quick, now! Gadzooks! Methinks we are observed!" He glared
round in the darkness. In less time than wot it takes to rite this he
was srounded by pleese-men and stood, proud and defiant, in the light
of there electrick torches wot they had wiped quick as litening from
their busums._
_"'Surrender!' cried one, holding a gun at his brain and a drorn sord
at his hart, 'Surrender or die!'_
_"'Never,' said Dick Savage, throwing back his head, proud and
defiant, 'Never. Do to me wot you will, you dirty dogs, I will never
surrender. Soner will I die.'_
_"One crule brute hit him a blo on the lips and he sprang back,
snarling with rage. In less time than wot it takes to rite this he had
sprang at his torturer's throte and his teeth met in one mighty bite.
His torturer dropped ded and lifless at his feet._
_"'Ho!' cried Dick Savage, throwing back his head, proud and defiant
again, 'So dies any of you wot insults my proud manhood. I will meet
my teeth in your throtes.'_
_"For a minit they stood trembling, then one, bolder than the rest,
lept forward and tide Dick Savage's hands with rope behind his back.
Another took from his pockets bottles of beer and tobacco in large
quantities._
_"'Ho!' they cried exulting. 'Ho! Dick Savage the smugler caught at
last!'_
_"Dick Savage gave one proud and defiant laugh, and, bringing his tide
hands over his hed he bit the rope with one mighty bite._
_"'Ho! ho!' he cried, throwing back his proud hed, 'Ho, ho! You dirty
dogs!'_
_"Then, draining to the dregs a large bottle of poison he had
concealed in his busum he fell ded and lifless at there feet.'"_
* * * * *
There was a timid knock at the door and William, scowling impatiently,
rose to open it.
"What d'you want?" he said curtly.
A little voice answered from the dusk.
"It's me--Peggy. I've come to see how you are, William. They don't
know I've come. I was awful sick after that seaweed this morning,
William."
William looked at her with a superior frown.
"Go away," he said, "I'm busy."
"What you doing?" she said, poking her little curly head into the
doorway.
"I'm writin' a tale."
She clasped her hands.
"Oh, how lovely! Oh, William, do read it to me. I'd _love_ it!"
Mollified, he opened the door and she took her seat on his buckskin on
the floor, and William sat by the candle, clearing his throat for a
minute before he began. During the reading she never took her eyes off
him. At the end she drew a deep breath.
"Oh, William, it's beautiful. William, are there smugglers now?"
"Oh, yes. Millions," he said carelessly.
"_Here_?"
"Of course there are!"
She went to the door and looked out at the dusk.
"I'd love to see one. What do they smuggle, William?"
He came and joined her at the door, walking with a slight swagger as
became a man of literary fame.
"Oh, beer an' cigars an' things. _Millions_ of them."
A furtive figure was passing the door, casting suspicious glances to
left and right. He held his coat tightly round him, clasping something
inside it.
"I expect that's one," said William casually.
They watched the figure out of sight.
Suddenly William's eyes shone.
"Let's stalk him an' catch him," he said excitedly. "Come on. Let's
take some weapons." He seized his pop-gun from a corner. "You take--"
he looked round the room--"You take the wastepaper basket to put over
his head an'--an' pin down his arms an' somethin' to tie him up!--I
know--the skin I--he--shot in Africa. You can tie its paws in front of
him. Come on! Let's catch him smugglin'."
He stepped out boldly into the dusk with his pop-gun, followed by the
blindly obedient Peggy carrying the wastepaper basket in one hand and
the skin in the other.
Mr. Percival Jones was making quite a little ceremony of consigning
his brandy and cigars to the waves. He had composed "a little effort"
upon it which began,
"O deeps, receive these objects vile,
Which nevermore mine eyes shall soil."
He went down to the edge of the sea and, taking a bottle in each hand,
held them out at arms' length, while he began in his high-pitched
voice,
"O deeps, receive these----"
He stopped. A small boy stood beside him, holding out at him the point
of what in the semi-darkness Mr. Jones took to be a loaded rifle.
William mistook his action in holding out the bottles.
"It's no good tryin' to drink it up," he said severely. "We've caught
you smugglin'."
Mr. Percival Jones laughed nervously.
"My little man!" he said, "that's a very dangerous--er--thing for you
to have! Suppose you hand it over to me, now, like a good little
chap."
William recognised his voice.
[Illustration: "WE'VE CAUGHT YOU SMUGGLING!" WILLIAM SAID SEVERELY.]
"Fancy you bein' a smuggler all the time!" he said with righteous
indignation in his voice.
"Take away that--er--nasty gun, little boy," pleaded his captive
plaintively.
"You--ah--don't understand it. It--er--might go off."
William was not a boy to indulge in half measures. He meant to carry
the matter off with a high hand.
"I'll shoot you dead," he said dramatically, "if you don't do jus'
what I tell you."
Mr. Percival Jones wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Where did you get that rifle, little boy?" he asked in a voice he
strove to make playful. "Is it--ah--is it loaded? It's--ah--unwise,
little boy. Most unwise. Er--give it to me to--er--take care of.
It--er--might go off, you know."
William moved the muzzle of his weapon, and Mr. Percival Jones
shuddered from head to foot. William was a brave boy, but he had
experienced a moment of cold terror when first he had approached his
captive. The first note of the quavering high-pitched voice had,
however, reassured him. He instantly knew himself to be the better
man. His captive's obvious terror of his pop-gun almost persuaded him
that he held in his hand some formidable death-dealing instrument. As
a matter of fact Mr. Percival Jones was temperamentally an abject
coward.
"You walk up to the seats," commanded William. "I've took you prisoner
for smugglin' an'--an'--jus' walk up to the seats."
Mr. Percival Jones obeyed with alacrity.
"Don't--er--_press_ anything, little boy," he pleaded as he went.
"It--ah--might go off by accident. You might do--ah--untold damage."
Peggy, armed with the wastepaper basket and the skin, followed
open-mouthed.
At the seat William paused.
"Peggy, you put the basket over his head an' pin his arms down--case
he struggles, an' tie the skin wot I shot round him, case he
struggles."
Peggy stood upon the seat and obeyed. Their victim made no protest. He
seemed to himself to be in some horrible dream. The only thing of
which he was conscious was the dimly descried weapon that William held
out at him in the darkness. He was hardly aware of the wastepaper
basket thrust over his head. He watched William anxiously through the
basket-work.
"Be careful," he murmured. "Be careful, boy!"
He hardly felt the skin which was fastened tightly round his
unresisting form by Peggy, the tail tied to one front paw.
Unconsciously he still clasped a bottle of brandy in each arm.
Then came the irate summons of Peggy's nurse through the dusk.
"Oh, William," she said panting with excitement, "I don't want to
leave you. Oh, William, he might _kill_ you!"
"You go on. I'm all right," he said with conscious valour. "He can't
do nothin' 'cause I've got a gun an' I can shoot him dead,"--Mr.
Percival Jones shuddered afresh,--"an' he's all tied up an' I've took
him prisoner an' I'm goin' to take him home."
"Oh, William, you are brave!" she whispered in the darkness as she
flitted away to her nurse.
William blushed with pride and embarrassment.
Mr. Percival Jones was convinced that he had to deal with a youthful
lunatic, armed with a dangerous weapon, and was anxious only to humour
him till the time of danger was over and he could be placed under
proper restraint.
Unconscious of his peculiar appearance, he walked before his captor,
casting propitiatory glances behind him.
"It's all right, little boy," he said soothingly, "quite all right.
I'm--er--your friend. Don't--ah--get annoyed, little boy.
Don't--ah--get annoyed. Won't you put your gun down, little man? Won't
you let me carry it for you?"
William walked behind, still pointing his pop-gun.
"I've took you prisoner for smugglin'," he repeated doggedly. "I'm
takin' you home. You're my prisoner. I've took you."
They met no one on the road, though Mr. Percival Jones threw longing
glances around, ready to appeal to any passer-by for rescue. He was
afraid to raise his voice in case it should rouse his youthful captor
to murder. He saw with joy the gate of his boarding-house and hastened
up the walk and up the stairs. The drawing-room door was open. There
was help and assistance, there was protection against this strange
persecution. He entered, followed closely by William. It was about the
time he had promised to read his "little effort" on the Coming of
Spring to his circle of admirers. A group of elderly ladies sat round
the fire awaiting him. Ethel was writing. They turned as he entered
and a gasp of horror and incredulous dismay went up. It was that gasp
that called him to a realisation of the fact that he was wearing a
wastepaper basket over his head and shoulders, and that a mangy fur
rug was tied round his arms.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they gasped.
He gave a wrench to his shoulders and the rug fell to the floor,
revealing a bottle of brandy clasped in either arm.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they repeated.
"I caught him smugglin'" said William proudly. "I caught him smugglin'
beer by the sea an' he was drinking those two bottles he'd smuggled
an' he had thousands an' _thousands_ of cigars all over him, an' I
caught him, an' he's a smuggler an' I brought him up here with my gun.
He's a smuggler an' I took him prisoner."
Mr. Jones, red, and angry, his hair awry, glared through the
wickerwork of his basket. He moistened his lips. "This is an outrage,"
he spluttered.
Horrified elderly eyes stared at the incriminating bottles.
"He was drinkin' 'em by the sea," said William.
"Mr. _Jones_!" they chorused again.
He flung off his wastepaper basket and turned upon the proprietress of
the establishment who stood by the door.
"I will not brook such treatment," he stammered in fury. "I leave your
roof to-night. I am outraged--humiliated. I--I disdain to explain.
I--leave your roof to-night."
"Mr. _Jones_!" they said once more.
[Illustration: "I CAUGHT HIM SMUGGLING," WILLIAM EXPLAINED PROUDLY.
"HE HAD THOUSANDS AN' THOUSANDS OF CIGARS AND THAT BEER!"]
Mr. Jones, still clasping his bottles, withdrew, pausing to glare at
William on his way.
"You _wicked_ boy! You wicked little, _untruthful_ boy," he said.
William looked after him. "He's my prisoner an' they've let him go,"
he said aggrievedly.
Ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking room. Mr. Brown sat
miserably in a chair by a dying fire beneath a poor light.
"Is he still bleating there?" he said. "Is this still the only corner
where I can be sure of keeping my sanity? Is he reading his beastly
poetry upstairs? Is he----"
"He's goin'," said William moodily. "He's goin' before dinner. They've
sent for his cab. He's mad 'cause I said he was a smuggler. He was a
smuggler 'cause I saw him doin' it, an' I took him prisoner an' he got
mad an' he's goin'. An' they're mad at me 'cause I took him prisoner.
You'd think they'd be glad at me catchin' smugglers, but they're not,"
bitterly. "An' Mother says she'll tell you an' you'll be mad too
an'----"
Mr. Brown raised his hand.
"One minute, my son," he said. "Your story is confused. Do I
understand that Mr. Jones is going and that you are the cause of his
departure?"
"Yes, 'cause he got mad 'cause I said he was a smuggler an' he was a
smuggler an' they're mad at me now, an'----"
Mr. Brown laid a hand on his son's shoulder.
"There are moments, William," he said, "when I feel almost
affectionate towards you."