THE TERRIBLE MAGICIAN
The advent of Mr. Galileo Simpkins to the village would in normal
times have roused little interest in William and his friends. But the
summer holidays had already lasted six weeks and though the Outlaws
were not tired of holidays (it was against the laws of nature for the
Outlaws ever to tire of holidays), still they had run the gamut of
almost every conceivable occupation both lawful and unlawful, and they
were ready for a fresh sensation. They had been Pirates and Smugglers
and Red Indians and Highwaymen _ad nauseam_. They had trespassed till
every farmer in the neighbourhood saw red at the mere sight of them.
They had made with much trouble a motor boat and an aeroplane, both of
which had insisted on obeying the law of gravity rather than fulfilling
the functions of motor boats and aeroplanes. They had made a fire
in Ginger’s backyard and cooked over it a mixture of water from the
stream and blackberries and Worcester Sauce and Turkish delight and
sardines (these being all the edibles they could jointly produce), had
pronounced the resultant concoction to be excellent and had spent the
next day in bed. They had taken Jumble (William’s mongrel) “hunting”
and had watched the ignominious spectacle of Jumble’s being attacked
by a cat half his size and pursued in a state of abject terror all
the length of the village with a bleeding nose. They had discovered a
wasps’ nest and almost simultaneously its inhabitants had discovered
them. They were only just leaving off their bandages. They had essayed
tight-rope walking on Henry’s mother’s clothes line, but Henry’s
mother’s clothes line had proved unexpectedly brittle and William still
limped slightly. They had tried to teach tricks to Etheldrida, Douglas’
aunt’s parrot, and Douglas still bore the marks of her beak in several
places on his face. Altogether they were, as I said, ripe for any fresh
sensation when Mr. Galileo Simpkins dawned upon their horizon.
Mr. Galileo Simpkins had been thus christened by his parents in
the hope that he would take to science. And Mr. Galileo Simpkins,
being by nature ready to follow the line of least resistance, had
obligingly taken to science at their suggestion. Moreover, he quite
enjoyed taking to science. He enjoyed pottering about with test tubes
and he disliked being sociable. A scientist, as everyone knows, is
immune from sociability. A scientist can retire to his lab. as to a
fortress and, if he likes, read detective novels there to his heart’s
content without being disturbed by anyone. Not that Mr. Galileo
Simpkins only read detective novels. He was genuinely interested in
Science as Science (he put it that way) and though as yet he had made
no startling contribution to Science as Science, still he enjoyed
reading in his text-books of experiments that other men had made and
then doing the experiments to see if the same thing happened in his
case. It didn’t always.... Fortunately he was not dependent for his
living on his scientific efforts. He had a nice little income of his
own which enabled him to stage himself as a Scientist to his complete
satisfaction. He took a great interest in the staging of himself as a
Scientist. He liked to have an imposing array of test tubes and bottles
and appliances of every sort--even those whose use he did not quite
understand. He was very proud too of a skeleton which he had bought
third-hand from a medical student and which he thought conferred great
_éclat_ on his position as a Scientist from its stronghold in the
darkest corner. As you will gather from all this, Mr. Galileo Simpkins
was a very simple and inoffensive and well-meaning little man and
before he came to the village where William lived, had not caused a
moment’s uneasiness to anyone since the time when at three years old
he had inadvertently fallen into the rain tub and been fished out half
drowned by his nurse.
He had come to the village because the lease of the house where he had
lived previously had run out and the original owners were returning
to it and he had seen the house in William’s village advertised in
the paper, and it seemed just what he wanted. He liked to live in the
country because he was rather a nervous little man and was afraid of
traffic.
The first sight of Mr. Galileo Simpkins on his way from the station
had not interested the Outlaws much except that as a stranger to
the village he was naturally to be kept under observation and his
possibilities in every direction explored at the earliest opportunity.
“He dun’t look very _int_’restin’,” said Ginger scornfully as, sitting
in a row on a gate, the Outlaws stared in an unblinking manner quite
incompatible with Good Manners at little Mr. Galileo Simpkins driving
by on his way from the station in the village cab. The driver of the
village cab, who knew the Outlaws well, kept a wary eye upon them as
he passed, and had his whip ready. The ancient quadruped who drew the
village cab seemed to know them too, and turned his head to leer at
them sardonically from behind his blinkers. But the attention of the
Outlaws was all for the occupant of the village cab, who alone was
quite unaware of them as the ancient equipage passed on its way. He was
merely thinking what a fine day it was for his arrival at his new home
and hoping that his skeleton (which he had packed most carefully) had
travelled well.
William considered Ginger’s comment for a moment in silence. Then he
said meditatively: “Oh ... dunno. He looks sort of soft and ’s if he
couldn’t run very fast. We c’n try playin’ in his garden sometime. I
bet he couldn’t catch us.”
They then had a stone-throwing competition which lasted till one of
William’s stones went through General Moult’s cucumber-frame.
When General Moult had finally given up the chase, the Outlaws threw
themselves breathlessly (for General Moult, despite his size, was quite
a good runner) on to the grass at the top of the hill and reviewed
the further possibilities of amusement which the world held for them.
They decided after a short discussion not to teach Etheldrida any more
tricks, not so much because they were tired of teaching Etheldrida
tricks as because Etheldrida seemed to be tired of learning them.
Douglas stroked his scars thoughtfully and said:
“Not that I’m _frightened_ of her, but--but, well, let’s try’n think of
somethin’ a bit more _int’restin’_.”
No one had anything very original to suggest (they seemed to have
exhausted the possibilities of the whole universe in those six weeks
of holidays), so they made new bows and arrows and held a match
which William won in that he made the finest long distance shot. He
shot his arrow into the air and unfortunately it came to earth by
way of Miss Miggs’ scullery window. Miss Miggs happened to be in the
scullery at the time and again the Outlaws, bitterly meditating on the
over-population of the countryside, had to flee from the avenging wrath
of an outraged householder. In the shelter of the woods they again drew
breath.
“I say,” said Ginger, “wun’t it be nice to live in the middle of
Central Africa or the North Pole or somewhere where there isn’t any
houses for miles an’ miles an’ _miles_.”
“She runs,” commented Douglas patronisingly, “faster’n what you’d think
to look at her.”
“What’ll we do _now_?” said Henry.
Dusk was falling, and ahead of them loomed the evil hour of bedtime
which they were ever ready to postpone.
“I tell you what,” said William, his freckled face suddenly alight,
“let’s go ’n see how _he’s_ gettin’ on--you know, him what we saw
ridin’ up in the cab. We c’n go an’ watch him through his window. It’s
quite dark.”
* * * * *
They watched him in petrified amazement. They watched him as, dressed
in a black dressing-gown and a black skull-cap, he pottered about,
laying out test tubes and pestles and mortars and crucibles and
curious-looking instruments and bottles of strangely coloured liquids.
Eyes and mouths opened still further when little Mr. Galileo Simpkins
brought in his skeleton and set it up with tender care and pride in its
corner.
They crept away through the darkness in a stricken silence and did not
speak till they reached the road. Then: “_Crumbs!_” said William in a
hoarse whisper. “What _is_ he? What’s he _doin’_?”
“I think he’s a sort of Bolsh’vist goin’ to blow up all the world,”
said Douglas with a burst of inspiration.
“An’ a dead body an’ all,” said Ginger, deeply awed by the memory of
what they had seen.
“P’raps he’s just doin’ ordinary chemistry,” suggested Henry mildly.
This suggestion was indignantly scouted by the Outlaws.
“_Course_ it’s not jus’ ordin’ry chemistry,” said William, “not with
all that set-out.”
“Dead bodies an’ all,” murmured Ginger again in a sepulchral voice.
“An’ dressed all funny,” said William, “an’ queer sorts of things all
over the place. ’Sides, what’d he be doin’ ordin’ry chemistry _for_,
anyway? He’s too old to be goin’ in for exams.”
This was felt to be unanswerable.
“What I think _is_----” began William, but he never got as far as what
he thought.
A plaintive voice came through the dusk--the voice of William’s sister
Ethel.
“William! Mother says it’s long past your bedtime and _will_ you come
in and she says----”
The Outlaws crept off through the dusk.
* * * * *
The next day Joan came back from a visit to an aunt.
Joan was the only female member of the Outlaws. Though she did not
accompany them on their more dangerous and manly exploits she was their
unfailing confidante and sympathiser and could be always counted on to
side with them against a hostile and unsympathetic world. She was small
and dark and very pretty and she considered William the greatest hero
the world has ever known.
She joined them the first morning of their return and they told her
without any undue modesty of their exploits during her absence--of
their heroic flights from irate farmers, of their miraculous creation
of motor boats and aeroplanes (they omitted any reference to the
over-officious law of gravity), of their glorious culinary operations
(they omitted the sequel), their Herculean contest with the wasps,
their tight-rope walking performance, their (partial) mastery over the
brute creation as represented by Etheldrida, their glorious feats of
stone throwing and arrow shooting.
“An’ no one what’s run after us has caught us--not once,” ended William
proudly and added: “I bet we c’n run faster ’n anybody else in the
world.”
Joan smiled upon him fondly. She firmly believed that William could do
anything in the world better than any one else in it.
“And what are you going to do to-day?” she said with interest.
_That_, the expressions of the Outlaws gave her to understand, was the
question. The Outlaws had no idea what they were going to do to-day.
They were obviously ready for any suggestions from the gentleman who,
moralists inform us, specialises in providing occupation for the
unoccupied.
“Let’s make another motor boat,” said Henry feebly, but this suggestion
was treated with well-deserved contempt. The Outlaws were not in the
habit of repeating their efforts. Moreover, the motor boat experiment
had not been so successful as to warrant its repetition.
Suddenly Ginger’s face lit up.
“I know!” he said, “let’s show Joan _him_ ... you know, him what we saw
last night--with the dead body----”
Joan’s eyes grew round with horror.
“It _wasn’t_ a dead body,” said Douglas impatiently, “it was a
skeleton.”
“That’s the same as a dead body,” said Ginger pugnaciously, “it was a
_body_, wasn’t it? an’ now it’s dead.”
“Yes, but it’s _bones_,” protested Douglas.
“Well, a body’s bones, isn’t it?” said Ginger.
But here Joan interrupted. “Oh, what _is_ it, _where_ is it?” she said,
clasping her hands, “it sounds _awful_.”
Her horror satisfied them completely. With Joan you could always be so
pleasantly sure that your effects would come off.
“Come on,” said William briskly assuming his air of Master of the
Ceremonies, “we’ll show him you. We c’n get through the hole in the
hedge ’n creep up to the window through the bushes without him seein’
us at all.”
* * * * *
They got through the hole in the hedge and crept up to the window
through the bushes. William, as Master of the Ceremonies, had an uneasy
suspicion that in the cold morning light both man and room might look
perfectly normal, that the ghostly effect of the night before might
have banished completely. But the suspicions proved to be groundless.
The room looked, if possible, even more uncanny than it had done. And
Mr. Galileo Simpkins still pottered about it happily in his black
dressing gown and skull cap (it was a costume in which he rather
fancied himself). Mr. Galileo Simpkins liked his nice large downstairs
lab. and felt very happy in it. As he stirred an experiment in a little
crucible he sang softly to himself from sheer good spirits. He was
quite unaware of the Outlaws watching his every movement with eager
interest from the bushes outside the window. It was Ginger who saw and
pointed out to the others the shelf at the back of the room on which
stood a row of bottles containing wizened frogs in some sort of liquid.
Aghast, they crept away.
“Well, I’m _cert’n_ that’s what he’s goin’ to do,” said Douglas as soon
as they reached the road, “he’s goin’ to blow up all the world. He’s
jus’ mixin’ up the stuff to do it with.”
“Well, I _still_ think he might be jus’ an ornery sort of man doin’
ornery chemistry,” said Henry.
“What about the dead body, then?” said Ginger.
“An’ what about frogs an’ things shut up in bottles an’ things?” said
William.
Then Joan spoke.
“He’s a wizard,” she said, “of _course_ he’s a wizard.”
William treated this suggestion with derision.
“A wizard,” he said contemptuously, “Soppy fairy-tale stuff! _Course_
he’s not. There _aren’t_ any!”
But Joan was not crushed.
“There _are_, William,” she said solemnly, “I _know_ there are.”
“_How_ d’you know there are!” said William incredulously.
“And what about the dead body?” said Ginger with the air of one
bringing forward an unanswerable objection.
“The skeleton,” corrected Douglas.
“It’s someone he’s _turned_ into a skeleton, of course,” said Joan
firmly.
“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” commented William again with scorn.
Joan bore his reproof meekly but clung to her point with feminine
pertinacity.
“It’s _not_, William. It’s _true_. I _know_ it’s true.”
There was certainly something convincing about her earnestness though
the Outlaws were determined not to be convinced by it.
“No,” said Douglas very firmly. “He’s a blower up, that’s what he is.
He’s goin’ to blow up all the world.”
“What about the frogs in bottles?” said Henry.
“They’re people he’s _turned_ into frogs,” said Joan.
The frogs certainly seemed to fit into Joan’s theory better than they
fitted into Douglas’s. Joan pursued her advantage. “And didn’t you hear
him sort of singing as he mixed the things? He was making spells over
them.”
The Outlaws were, outwardly, at least, still sceptical.
“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” said William once more with masculine
superiority. “I tell you there _aren’t_ any.”
But there was a fascination about the sight and they were loth to go
far from it.
“Let’s go back an’ see what he’s doin’ now,” said Ginger, and eagerly
they accepted the proposal. The hole in the hedge was conveniently
large, the bushes by the window afforded a convenient shelter and all
would have gone well had not Mr. Galileo Simpkins been engaged on the
simple task of washing out some test tubes in a cupboard just outside
the Outlaws’ line of vision. This was more than they could endure.
“What’s he _doin’_?” said William in a voice of agonised suspense.
But none of them could see what he was doing.
“I’ll go out,” said Ginger with a heroic air. “I bet he won’t see me.”
So Ginger crept out of the shelter of the bushes and advanced boldly
to the window. Too boldly--for Mr. Galileo Simpkins, turning suddenly,
saw, to his great surprise and indignation, a small boy with an
exceedingly impertinent face standing in his garden and staring rudely
at him through his window. Mr. Galileo Simpkins hated small boys,
especially small boys with impertinent faces. With unexpected agility
he leapt to the window and threw it open. Ginger fled in terror to the
gate. Mr. Galileo Simpkins shook his fist after him.
“All right, you _wait_, my boy, you _wait_!” he called.
By this time he wanted the boy with the impertinent face to understand
that he was going to find out who he was and tell his father. He was
going to put a stop to that sort of thing once and for all. He wasn’t
going to have boys with impertinent faces wandering about his garden
and looking through his windows. He’d frighten them off now--at once.
“You _wait_!” he shouted again with vague but terrible menace in his
voice.
Then he returned to his lab. well pleased with himself.
The Outlaws crept back through the hole in the hedge and met Ginger in
the road. They looked at Ginger as one might look at someone who has
returned from the jaws of death. Ginger, now that the danger was over,
rather enjoyed his position.
“_Well_,” he said with satisfaction, “did you _see_ him an’ _hear_ him.
I bet he’d’ve _killed_ me if he’d caught me.”
“Blown you up,” said Douglas.
“Turned you into something,” said Joan.
“Wonder what he meant by saying ‘Wait’ like that?” said William
meditatively.
“He meant that he was goin’ to put a spell on you,” said Joan
composedly.
Ginger went rather pale.
“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” said William.
“All right,” said Joan, “just you wait and see.”
So they waited and they saw.
It was, of course, a coincidence that that night Ginger’s mother’s
cook had made trifle for supper and that Ginger ate of this not wisely,
but too well, and was the next morning confined to bed with what the
doctor called “slight gastric trouble.”
The Outlaws called for him the next morning and were curtly informed
by the housemaid (who, like Mr. Galileo Simpkins, hated all boys on
principle) that Ginger was ill in bed and would not be getting up that
day.
They walked away in silence.
“_Well_,” said Joan in triumph, “what do you think about him being a
magician _now_?”
This time William did not say “Soppy fairy-tale stuff.”
* * * * *
Ginger returned to them, somewhat pale and wobbly, the next day. Like
them he preferred to lay the blame of his enforced retirement on to Mr.
Galileo Simpkins rather than upon the trifle.
“Yes, that’s what he said,” agreed Ginger earnestly. “He said ‘you
wait,’ an’ then jus’ about an hour after that I began to feel orful
pains. An’ I hadn’t had hardly any of that ole trifle ... well, not
much, anyway; well, not _too_ much ... well, not as much as I often
have of things ... an’ I had most _orful_ pains an’----”
“He must have made a little image of you in wax, Ginger,” said Joan
with an air of deep wisdom, “and stuck pins into it. That’s what they
do.... I expect he thinks you’re dead now. That’s why he said ‘You
wait’!”
They did not scoff at her any longer.
“Well, I was nearly dead yesterday all right,” said Ginger. “I’ve never
had such _orful_ pains. Jus’ _like_ pins running into me.”
“They _were_ pins running into you, Ginger,” said Joan simply. “We’d
better keep _right_ away from him now or he’ll be turning us into
something.”
“Like to turn _him_ into something,” said Ginger who was still feeling
vindictive towards the supposed author of his gastric trouble.
But Joan shook her head. “No,” said Joan, “we must keep _right_ out of
his way. You don’t know what they can do--magicians and people like
that.”
“_I_ do,” groaned Ginger.
So they went for a walk and held races and played Red Indians and
sailed boats on the pond and climbed trees--but there was little zest
in any of these pursuits. Their thoughts were with Mr. Galileo Simpkins
the magician as he stirred his concoctions and uttered his spells and
gazed upon his bottle victims and stuck pins into the waxen images of
his foes.
“Let’s jus’ go’n look at him again,” said William, when they met in the
afternoon. “We won’t go near enough for him to _see_ us but--but let’s
jus’ go’n see what he’s _doin’_!”
“_You_ can,” said Ginger bitterly. “He’s not stuck pins into you an’
given you _orful_ pains. Why, I’m _still_ feelin’ ill with it. We had
trifle again for lunch an’ I can’t eat more’n three helpin’s of it.”
“No, we’d better not go near him again,” said Joan shaking her head,
her eyes wide.
But William did not agree with them.
“I only want jus’ to look at him again an’ see what he’s _doin’_. _I’m_
goin’, anyway.”
So they all went.
* * * * *
They had decided to creep down through the field behind the Red House
to the road and thence through the hole in the hedge to the sheltering
cluster of bushes that commanded the magician’s room, but they had
not so far to go before they saw him. It was a fine afternoon and Mr.
Galileo Simpkins had taken his detective novel and gone into the field
just behind his house. And there he was when the Outlaws stopped at
the gate of the field, lying on the bank in the shade, reading. He was
feeling at peace with all the world. He did not see the five faces that
gazed at him over the gate of the field and then disappeared. He went
on dozing happily over his novel. He’d had a very happy morning. Though
none of his experiments had come out still he’d much enjoyed doing
them. He’d thought once of that boy with the impertinent face and felt
glad that he’d frightened him away so successfully. He’d seen no signs
of him since. That was what you had to do with boys--scare them off,
or you got no peace at all.... Very nice warm sun ... very exciting
novel....
Meanwhile the Outlaws crept past the field and were standing talking
excitedly in the road.
“Did you _see_?” gasped Ginger, “jus’ sittin’ an’ readin’ ornery jus’
as if he hadn’t been stickin’ pins into me all last night.”
“Let’s go home,” pleaded Joan. “You--you don’t know _what_ he’ll do.”
“No,” said William, “now he’s all right readin’ in that field let’s go
into his room an’ look at his things.”
There was a murmur of dissent.
“All right,” said William, “you needn’t. _I’m_ jolly well goin’.”
So they all went.
* * * * *
It was certainly thrilling to creep through the window and stand in the
terrible room with the knowledge that at any minute the Magician might
return, change them into frogs and cork them up in bottles.
“Wonder if I can find the wax thing of me he was sticking pins into
last night,” said Ginger looking round the bench.
“Let’s make a wax thing of _him_ ’n stick pins into it,” suggested
Henry.
“No, let’s _turn_ him into something,” said Douglas.
Joan clapped her hands.
“Oh _yes_,” she said, “_let’s_! That _would_ be fun! His spells and
things must be all over the place.”
Ginger took up a pestle and mortar.
“This is what he was stirring to-day,” he said, “Wonder what this
changes folks into.”
“Prob’ly depends what sort of a spell you say when you stir it,” said
Joan.
“Well, let’s try it,” said William.
“What’ll we turn him into?” said Ginger.
“A donkey,” suggested William.
“Well, who’ll do it?”
“Let me try,” said Joan who had a certain prestige as originator of the
now generally accepted magician theory.
Ginger handed her the crucible. “I think,” said Joan importantly, “that
I ought to have a circle of chalk drawn round me.”
They couldn’t find any chalk so they made a little circle of test tubes
around her and watched her with interest. Joan shut her eyes, stirred
up the mixture in the crucible and chanted:
“Turn into a donkey,
Turn into a donkey,
Turn into a donkey,
Mr. Magician.”
Then she opened her eyes.
“It _may_ be all wrong,” she admitted, “I’m only guessing how to do it.
But if it’s a very good spell it _may_ be all right.”
“Well, let’s go and have a look at him,” said William, “and if he’s
still there we’ll come back and try again.”
So they went.
* * * * *
And now comes one of those coincidences without which both life and the
art of the novelist would be so barren. Five minutes after the Outlaws
had left Mr. Galileo Simpkins peacefully reading his novel on a bank in
the shade in the field, a boy crossed the field carrying a telegram.
He came from the post office and the telegram was for Mr. Galileo
Simpkins, so, on seeing Mr. Galileo Simpkins in the field, the boy
took it up to him. Mr. Simpkins opened it. It summoned him to the sick
bed of a great-aunt from whom he had expectations. There was a train to
town in ten minutes. Mr. Simpkins had his hat and coat and plenty of
money on him. He decided not to risk missing the train by going back to
the house. He set off at once for the station, meaning to telegraph to
his housekeeper from town (which he quite forgot to do). He left his
book on the bank where he had laid it down on taking the telegram from
the boy’s hand.
Five minutes after he had gone Farmer Jenks, to whom the field
belonged, brought to it a young donkey which he had just purchased, and
departed. The young donkey had been christened “Maria” by Mrs. Jenks.
Maria kicked her heels happily in the field for a few minutes, then
realised that it was rather a hot afternoon. There was only one bit of
shade in the field and that was the bank where but lately Mr. Galileo
Simpkins had reposed and where even now his book lay. Maria went over
to this and lay down in it just by the book. In fact her attitude
suggested that she was engaged in reading the book.
And so when five minutes later the Outlaws cautiously and fearfully
peeped over the hedge, they saw what was apparently Mr. Galileo
Simpkins metamorphosed by their spell into a donkey lying where they
had last seen him still reading his book. No words in the English
language could quite describe the Outlaws’ feelings. Not one of them
had really expected Joan’s spell to take effect. And here was the
incredible spectacle before them--Mr. Galileo Simpkins turned into a
donkey before their very eyes by one of his own spells. They all went
rather pale. William blinked. Ginger’s jaw dropped open. Henry’s eyes
seemed on the point of falling out of his head. Douglas swallowed and
held on to the gate for support and Joan gave a little scream. At the
sound of the scream Maria turned her head and gave them a reproachful
glance.
“_Well!_” said Joan.
“_Crumbs!_” said William.
“_Gosh!_” said Douglas.
“_Crikey!_” said Henry.
And “_Now_ we’ve done it!” said Ginger.
Maria turned away her head and surveyed the distant landscape,
drowsily. “I wonder if he _knows_,” said William awefully, “or if he
thinks he’s still a man.”
[Illustration: “_WELL!_” SAID JOAN. “_NOW_ WE’VE DONE IT!” SAID GINGER.]
“He _must_ know,” said Ginger. “He’s got eyes. He c’n see his legs ’n
tail an’ things.”
“An’ he was reading his book when we first came along,” said Douglas.
“P’raps,” suggested Henry, “he’s forgotten all about bein’ a man an’
only feels like a donkey now.”
“Well, he won’t try stickin’ pins into _me_ again, _anyway_,” said
Ginger.
But a new aspect of the affair had come to William.
“This is Farmer Jenks’ field,” he said; “he’ll be mad findin’ a donkey
in it. He won’t know it’s reely Mr. Simpkins.”
[Illustration: HERE WAS THE INCREDIBLE BEFORE THEM--MR. SIMPKINS,
TURNED INTO A DONKEY BY ONE OF HIS OWN SPELLS!]
“Well, it won’t matter,” said Ginger.
“Yes, I bet it will,” said William. “P’raps it can talk still--the
donkey, I mean--p’raps it’ll tell people about us an’ get us into
trouble. I specks there’s a law against turnin’ people into things like
what there is against murder--an’ he’s got a nasty look in his eye.
Look at him now. I bet he c’n still talk an’ he’ll go tellin’ people
an’ we’ll be put in prison or hanged or somethin’.”
“It’s _your_ fault,” said Ginger, “why did you say a big thing like
a donkey? If you’d said a little thing like a frog or somethin’ we
could’ve put him in a bottle, same as he did other folks, but what can
you do with a big thing like a _donkey_?”
“Well, I never thought he’d _really_ turn into one,” said William with
spirit.
“Well, he _has_ done,” said Ginger, “an’ we’ve gotter _do_ something
about it ’fore anyone comes along and he starts tellin’ them about us.”
At this point Maria uttered a loud “Hee-haw!”
“There, you see,” said Henry relieved, “he can only talk donkey talk.”
“I don’t believe it,” said William doggedly. “He’s jus’ pretendin’. He
was readin’ his book when we came along an’ I bet he can talk. He only
wants to wait till someone comes along an’ then get us into trouble....
Look at him now eatin’ grass.... Well,” virtuously, “he’s got no
_right_ eatin’ that grass. It’s Farmer Jenks’ grass ... an’ what’re we
goin’ to do when they find out that the man’s disappeared an’ there’s
only a donkey left an’--they’ll blame _us_ ... they always blame _us_
for everything.”
“Let’s turn him back now,” said Joan, “we’ve prob’ly taught him a
lesson. Now he knows what it feels like to be turned into something
perhaps he’ll stop turning other people into things.”
“And running pins into ’em,” said Ginger feelingly.
“Well, we’d better get him to his house, anyway,” said William, “then
he can turn himself back with his own things.”
Maria had arisen from the bank and was now munching grass a few yards
away. Somewhat cautiously they approached her. William addressed her
sternly.
“Now,” he said, “we know that you’re a magician an’ that you turned
people into frogs an’ bones an’ run pins into people so we turned you
into a donkey, but we’re goin’ to let you turn yourself back if you
_promise_ never to be a magician any more?”
Maria opened her mouth to its fullest extent and emitted a “hee-haw”
that took William’s breath away.
The Outlaws withdrew and held a hasty conclave.
“I think he meant to promise, William,” said Joan.
“Well, I don’t,” said William, “I don’t. I think he meant he wun’t
promise.”
“Well, let’s get him home, anyway,” said Douglas. “Someone’ll only be
comin’ along and findin’ out all about it if we leave him here.”
Again William approached Maria and fixed her with a stern eye.
“You can come home an’ turn yourself back now,” he said magnanimously,
“if you want to.”
For answer Maria turned her back on them, kicked her heels into the
air, then leapt skittishly away.
It would take too long to describe in detail the struggle by which the
Outlaws finally brought the recalcitrant Maria from the field into
Mr. Simpkins’ garden and from Mr. Simpkins’ garden through the French
window into Mr. Simpkins’ laboratory. Henry retired early from the
contest after a kick on the shin.
“_Now_ you know what he’s like,” said Ginger bitterly, still obsessed
by memories of his gastric trouble.
It was William who had the bright idea of running home for a bunch
of carrots and by means of this they led the frisky Maria into the
garden of Mr. Simpkins’ home. There Maria for a time ran amok. She
broke a pane of glass in the greenhouse, she pranced about the well
rolled lawn, leaving innumerable hoof holes to mark her progress. She
trampled down a bed of heliotrope. She completely demolished a bed of
roses. She bit William. She was finally brought through the French
window into the lab. at the cost of all the glass in the French window.
The housekeeper, as it happened, was lying down and was a very sound
sleeper. A small child belonging to the jobbing gardener, pressing
its nose through the front gate, was the amazed spectator of these
proceedings.
Inside the lab. Maria grew more frisky still. She broke and ground into
the carpet the test tubes that had formed Joan’s magic circle. She
wrecked the bench and everything upon it. She kicked over an entire
shelf of bottles.
“He’s mad,” said William, “he’s mad at bein’ a donkey an’ he doesn’t
know how to turn himself back.”
“Say somethin’ to him,” urged Ginger.
William said something to him.
“If you can’t turn yourself back,” said William, “you’ll have to stay
like you are. We can’t do anything more for you.”
In answer to this Maria kicked over a small cupboard and then put her
head through a large glass beaker.
“Let’s go,” said Ginger, “let’s go home. We’ve brought him back to his
own home. We can’t do anything more. And, anyway, it serves him right,
him and his dead bodies an’ sticking pins into people.”
The Outlaws were just going to take his advice and return home as
unostentatiously as possible, when they discovered that their line of
retreat was cut off. A small band of women headed by the Vicar’s wife
was coming up the drive towards the front door. Like five streaks of
lightning the Outlaws disappeared behind a screen which Maria amid the
general chaos had considerately left standing.
The small band of women headed by the Vicar’s wife were the members of
a local Anti-vivisection Society which had been formed in the village
by the Vicar’s wife a year ago. Up to now there had been little scope
in the village for their activities, though they had all much enjoyed
the monthly meetings at which they had had tea and cakes and discussed
the various village scandals. But now, as the Vicar’s wife said, was
the Time to Act. They had heard of Mr. Galileo Simpkins’ skeleton and
bottled frogs and they thought that the Local Anti-vivisection Society
should approach him and demand from him a guarantee that he would not
in his researches touch the hair of the head of any living animal. Also
they wanted an opportunity of inspecting the mysterious lab. of which
they had heard so much. Things in the village had been rather dull
lately and like the Outlaws they welcomed any fresh diversion....
[Illustration: “HE’S MAD AT BEIN’ A DONKEY,” SAID WILLIAM, “AN’ HE
DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO TURN HIMSELF BACK.”]
They were approaching the front door, meaning to ring and ask to
see Mr. Simpkins in the normal fashion of callers. But to reach the
front door they had to pass the window of the lab. and it proved far
too thrilling to be passed. The Outlaws, neatly hidden behind the
screen, were invisible. Maria stood in the middle of the room, her
head drooping in an utterly deceptive attitude of patient meekness.
All around was wreckage. The visitors stood and gazed at the scene
open-mouthed. Tacitly they abandoned their intention of knocking at the
front door and being admitted as callers. Led by the Vicar’s wife, they
entered by the French windows.
“A _donkey_!” said Mrs. Hopkins, Treasurer of the Anti-vivisection
Society (that is to say, she collected their sixpences and bought the
cakes for tea). “I thought they used monkeys or rabbits.”
“They use different animals for different experiments,” said the
Vicar’s wife with an air of deep knowledge. “I expect that a donkey is
the most suitable animal for some experiments.”
“How _terrible_!” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, covering her face with
her hands. “How truly terrible.... Poor, patient, suffering, dumb
beast.”
Maria laid back her ears and rolled her wicked eyes at them.
Mrs. Hopkins and the Vicar’s wife began to wander about the room.
They stopped simultaneously before the row of bottled frogs.
“Poor creatures!” said Mrs. Hopkins unsteadily. “Poor, patient,
suffering creatures--once so beautiful and lovable and free.”
(It was only the week before that Mrs. Hopkins had screamed for help on
meeting a frog in her larder.)
Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald had by this time discovered the skeleton. She
adjusted her glasses and looked slowly and closely up and down it
several times. Then she pronounced in a sepulchral whisper: “Human
remains!”
The Outlaws held their breath in their retreat, but a resonant
“Hee-haw!” from Maria drew the members of the local Anti-vivisection
Society from any further exploring.
“The patient creature,” said the Vicar’s wife brokenly, “seems to be
asking our help.”
Maria assumed again her attitude of deceptive meekness.
“We certainly must _do_ something,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, “we
can’t leave our dear dumb friend to torture. Look at the signs of
struggle all around us. Look at its air of suffering. The foul work has
evidently already begun. Let’s--let’s take it away with us.”
“On the other hand,” said the Vicar’s wife slowly, “there are the laws
of private property to be considered. Mr. Simpkins doubtless purchased
this creature and the law will hold it to belong to him.”
“We can _buy_ it from him then,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald brightly.
“That would be a noble work indeed. How much money have we in hand,
Mrs. Hopkins?”
“Only threepence-halfpenny,” said Mrs. Hopkins gloomily, “we’ve been
having iced cakes lately, you know. They’re more expensive.”
“They cost more than that,” said the Vicar’s wife, “donkeys, I mean.
But,” with a flash of inspiration, “we can get up a bazaar for it or a
concert for it.”
Their spirits rose at the prospect.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hopkins. “Why, it’s nearly a month since we had a
bazaar. And _such_ a good cause. Rescuing the poor dumb suffering
creature from the hands of the torturer.... How sad it looks and yet
grateful as though it understood all that we were going to do for it.”
Maria rolled her eyes again and drooped her head still further.
“I’m going to take it _straight_ home,” said the Vicar’s wife, “and
give it a good meal and nurse it back to health and strength. I’ll go
to the police station and tell them that I have taken it and why. I’ll
just fix up something to lead it home by.”
She took down a picture and divested it of its picture cord, which she
then tied round the neck of the still meekly unprotesting Maria. The
others gazed at her in silent admiration. There was really no one like
the Vicar’s wife in a crisis.
Then, with the air of a general who has now marshalled her forces,
she led out Maria, followed by her faithful band. The Outlaws, weakly
wondering what was going to happen, crept out of their hiding place and
followed at a distance.
“They don’t know it’s _him_,” said Joan in a thrilled whisper.
Maria behaved quite well till they got to the hill. Then her familiar
devil returned to her. She did not kick or bite. She ran. She ran at
top speed up the steep hill, dragging the panting, gasping Vicar’s
wife after her at the end of the cord. Maria’s neck seemed to be made
of iron. The weight of the Vicar’s wife did not seem to trouble it at
all. The picture cord, too, must have been pretty strong. The Vicar’s
wife did not let go. With dogged British determination she clung to her
end of the cord. She lost her footing, her hat came off, she gasped
and panted and gurgled and choked and sputtered. She dropped her bag.
But she did not let go her end of the picture cord. Behind her--far
behind her--ran her little crowd of followers, clucking in dismayed
horror. Mrs. Hopkins picked up the Vicar’s wife’s hat and Mrs. Gerald
Fitzgerald her bag.
At the top of the hill Maria stopped abruptly and reassumed her air
of weary patience. The Vicar’s wife sat down in the dust by her side,
gasping but still undaunted, holding on to the end of the cord. The
others arrived and the Vicar’s wife, still sitting in the road, put on
her hat and wiped the dust out of her eyes.
“What happened?” panted Mrs. Hopkins. “Did it--bolt or something?”
But the Vicar’s wife was past speech.
“Poor creature!” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald in an effort to restore
the atmosphere, “poor dumb creature.”
She put out her hand to stroke Maria and Maria very neatly bit her
elbow.
The Vicar’s wife arose from the dust and wearily but determinedly
led Maria through the gate on to the Vicarage lawn. The Outlaws came
cautiously up the hill and watched proceedings through the Vicarage
gate.
The members of the local Anti-vivisection Society stood round Maria and
gazed at her. A close observer might have noticed that their glances
held less affection and pity than they had held a short time before.
“It doesn’t seem at all--er--_cowed_,” said Mrs. Hopkins at last. “It
seems quite--er as--_fresh_.... And it hasn’t any _wounds_ or anything.”
“Sometimes,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, “they just use them for
diseases. They just inject disease germs into them.”
“Do you mean,” said Mrs. Hopkins, turning pale, “that it may be
infected with a deadly disease?”
“_Quite_ possibly,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald.
They looked at the Vicar’s wife for advice and help. And again the
Vicar’s wife showed her capacities for dealing with a crisis. Though
still dusty and shaken from her inglorious career up the hill at
Maria’s heels she took command of affairs once more.
“One minute,” she said, and disappeared into the house.
The members of the Anti-vivisection Society stood timorously in the
porch, eyes fixed apprehensively upon Maria who stood motionless in the
middle of the lawn looking as if butter would not melt in her mouth.
And the Outlaws still watched proceedings with interest through the
Vicarage gate.
Then the Vicar’s wife came out staggering beneath the weight of a large
pail.
“Disinfectant,” she explained shortly to her audience.
She approached Maria who was still standing in maiden meditation
fancy free on the lawn, and with a sudden swift movement threw over
her the entire pail of carbolic solution, soaking her from head to
foot. Then Maria went mad. She leapt, she kicked, she reared. Dripping
with carbolic she dashed round the lawn. She trampled over the flower
beds. She broke two dozen flower pots and destroyed their contents.
She kicked the greenhouse door in. She put her back hoof through the
Vicar’s study window. She tried to climb an apple tree. She wrecked the
summer-house....
The members of the local Anti-vivisection Society withdrew into the
Vicarage and bolted all the doors. Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, after
explaining that she wasn’t used to this sort of thing, went into
hysterics that rivalled Maria’s outburst in intensity.
And still the Outlaws watched spellbound through the gate.
It was the Outlaws who first saw Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper coming up
the hill. She entered the Vicarage gate without looking at them. To
her they were merely four inoffensive small boys and one inoffensive
small girl looking through a gate. She little knew that they held the
key to a situation that was becoming more complicated every minute.
Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper looked upset. She rang at the Vicarage
front door and demanded to see the Vicar. The Vicar was out, but the
Vicar’s wife, looking very pale and keeping well within the doorway and
casting apprehensive glances round the garden, where Maria, temporarily
breathless and exhausted, was standing motionless--the picture of mute
patience--on the lawn, interviewed her. From within the house came
the unmelodious strains of Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald’s hysterics. Mr.
Simpkins’ housekeeper said that Mr. Simpkins had vanished. He was
nowhere to be found. The book he had been reading had been discovered
in the field near the garden and his lab. was in such a state as to
suggest a violent struggle, and Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper suspected
foul play of which Mr. Simpkins was the victim.
The Vicar’s wife, who was a woman of one idea, only pointed sternly to
Maria and said:
“What do you know about _that_, my good woman?”
Her good woman looked, saw a mournful-looking and very wet donkey and
shook her head.
“Nothing ’m,” she said primly. “But what I want to know is, where is
Mr. Simpkins? I thought the Vicar might advise me what to do, but as
he’s not in, ’m, p’raps I’d better go to the police straight.”
The Outlaws, who felt that with the advent of Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper
the plot was thickening, and who were consumed with curiosity as to why
Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper had followed the metamorphosed Mr. Simpkins,
crept up to the Vicarage door and listened. The mention of “police”
made them rather uncomfortable. The Vicar’s wife saw them and frowned.
The Vicar’s wife was a good Christian woman, but she could never learn
to like the Outlaws.
“Go away, little boys,” she said tartly, “how dare you come up to the
door listening to conversation that is not meant for you? Go away at
once. Or, wait one minute.... Have any of you seen Mr. Simpkins this
afternoon?”
It was Joan who answered. She pointed across the lawn to Maria who was
now placidly nibbling the Vicar’s hedge and said:
“That’s Mr. Simpkins.”
* * * * *
There was a moment’s tense silence. Then the Vicar’s wife said sternly:
“Do you imagine that to be funny, you impertinent little girl?”
“No,” said Joan.
[Illustration: “PERHAPS,” SAID THE VICAR’S WIFE, “YOU ARE
SHORT-SIGHTED, LITTLE GIRL. THAT IS A DONKEY.”
“IT’S MR. SIMPKINS, REALLY,” SAID JOAN EARNESTLY.]
There was an innocence in Joan’s face that convinced even the Vicar’s
wife.
“Perhaps,” she said more kindly, “you are short-sighted, little girl.
That,” pointing to Maria, “is a donkey.”
“It’s Mr. Simpkins really,” said Joan earnestly, “we turned him into a
donkey and we can’t turn him back.”
The Vicar’s wife gasped, Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper gasped, the other
members of the Anti-vivisection Society came out to see what it was
all about and all gasped. Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald for the time being
abandoned her hysterics to gasp with them.
“_What?_” said the Vicar’s wife.
“_What?_” said all the rest of them.
“It’s true,” affirmed William, “we’ve turned him into a donkey and we
can’t turn him back again.”
At that moment there was a sound of great commotion outside and in at
the gate rushed Mr. Simpkins, followed by Farmer Jenks.
* * * * *
Farmer Jenks was not pursuing Mr. Simpkins. Farmer Jenks and Mr.
Simpkins were coming on independent missions. Farmer Jenks had come
to his field for Maria and found Maria gone. The jobbing gardener’s
youngest child had told him that four boys and a girl had taken the
donkey out of the field. It took only few words to make Farmer Jenks
recognise his old enemies, the Outlaws, as the invaders of his domain
and thieves of his donkey, and Farmer Jenks saw red. He had traced the
donkey to the Vicarage garden. He didn’t know how it had got there, but
he knew how it had got out of his field, and he was out for his donkey
and vengeance on the Outlaws....
Mr. Simpkins had reached town, to be met at the station by a telegram
telling him that his great-aunt was better, so with feelings of deep
disgust with life in general and great-aunts in particular, he had
returned to his rural retreat--to find his housekeeper vanished and his
laboratory wrecked. Again the jobbing gardener’s youngest child had
brightly come forward with all the information it could produce. It
had seen four boys and a girl turn a donkey into his lab. through the
window and then let the donkey break things. Then more people had come
and then they’d all gone up to the Vicarage. So Mr. Galileo Simpkins
had gone up to the Vicarage in search of more light on the situation,
and in search of the Outlaws.
* * * * *
He and Farmer Jenks caught sight of the Outlaws simultaneously
and neither could resist the temptation to make the most of the
opportunity. Both flung themselves upon the Outlaws. The Outlaws fled
round the lawn, pursued by Farmer Jenks and Mr. Galileo Simpkins.
Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald went back to the drawing-room to have a few
more hysterics, the Vicar’s wife dashed into the hall for the fire
extinguisher and Maria watched proceedings with interest as she
meditatively chewed the Vicar’s hedge.
Farmer Jenks caught hold of William, lost his balance and fell with him
to the ground. Mr. Galileo Simpkins fell over Farmer Jenks and caught
hold of Maria’s tail as he fell. Maria, annoyed at this familiarity,
went mad again. The Vicar’s wife, with vague ideas of pouring oil
on troubled waters, turned the fire extinguisher on to them all.
Mrs. Hopkins ran into the road shouting “Murder” and Mr. Simpkins’
housekeeper went to fetch the police.
* * * * *
“I’ve got to draw the line somewhere,” said William’s father to
William’s mother the next evening. “I suppose I’ve got to pay my share
for all the damage the quadruped did in the laboratory, but I don’t see
that I need re-stock the vicar’s garden. As far as I can make out his
own wife took the creature there. Well, I’ve taken everything I can
think of from William and done everything I can think of to him--it’s
against the law to drown him or I’d do that and be done with it----”
“Poor William,” murmured his wife, “he _means_ well--and such a lot of
people say he’s like you.”
“He _isn’t_,” said his father indignantly, “I’m more or less sane, and
he’s a raving lunatic. He can’t possibly be like me. Do I go about
turning donkeys into labs. and for no reason at all? Do I--Nonsense!”
“Never mind, dear. He goes to school to-morrow,” said his wife
soothingly.
“Thank heaven!” said Mr. Brown quite reverently.
* * * * *
Outside in the summer-house sat the Outlaws.
“It’s simply no _use_ explainin’ to them,” William was saying. “They
sort of won’t listen to you. They go on as if we’d _meant_ to break all
of his ole glass things. Well, how were we to _know_ his aunt was ill?
I said that to them but they wun’t take any notice. ’S almost funny,”
he ended bitterly, “the way they blame us for _everything_--took my bow
an’ arrow an’ airgun an’ money an’ _everythin’_ off me just as if we
hadn’t been tryin’ to do _good_ all the time. An’ no one does anythin’
to that old _donkey_. Oh, no! It was all its fault but no one does
anything to it. Oh, no.”
“An’ we go to school to-morrow,” added Ginger, gloomily.
“Never mind,” said William with rising spirits, “we’ve done all the
sorts of things you can do in holidays an’--an’ after all, there’s
quite a lot of excitin’ things you can do in school.”