WILLIAM AND THE WHITE ELEPHANTS
“William,” said Mrs. Brown to her younger son, “as Robert will be away,
I think it would be rather nice if you helped me at my stall at the
Fête.”
William’s father at the head of the table groaned aloud.
“_Another_ Fête,” he said.
“My dear, it’s _centuries_ ... _weeks_ since we had one last,” said his
wife, “and this is the Conservative Fête--and quite different from all
the others.”
“What sort ’f a stall you goin’ to have?” said William, who had
received her invitation to help without enthusiasm.
“A White Elephant stall,” said Mrs. Brown.
William showed signs of animation.
“And where you goin’ to gettem?” he said with interest.
“Oh, people will give them,” said Mrs. Brown vaguely.
“_Crumbs!_” said William, impressed.
“You must be very careful with them, William,” said his father gravely,
“they’re delicate animals and must be given only the very best buns.
Don’t allow the people to feed them indiscriminately.”
“Oh, no,” said William with a swagger, “I bet I’ll stop ’em doin’ it
that way if _I’m_ lookin’ after em.”
“And be very careful when you’re in charge of them. They’re difficult
beasts to handle.”
“Oh, I’m not scared of any ole elephant,” boasted William, then
wonderingly after a minute’s deep thought, “_white_ uns’ did you say?”
“Don’t tease him, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, to her husband, and to
William, “white elephants, dear, are things you don’t need.”
“I know,” said William, “I know I don’t need ’em but I s’pose some
people do or you wun’t be sellin’ ’em.”
With that he left the room.
* * * * *
He joined his friends the Outlaws in the old barn.
“There’s goin’ to be white elephants at the Fête,” he announced
carelessly, “an’ I’m goin’ to be lookin’ after them.”
“_White elephants!_” said Ginger, impressed, “an’ what they goin’ to
do?”
“Oh, walk about an’ give people rides same as in the Zoo an’ eat buns
an’ that sort of thing. I’ve gotter feed ’em.”
“Never seen _white_ ’uns before,” said Henry.
“Haven’t you,” said William airily, “they’re--they’re same as black
uns’ cept that they’re white. They come from cold places--same as polar
bears. That’s what turns ’em white--roamin’ about in snow an’ ice same
as polar bears.”
The Outlaws were impressed.
“When are they comin’?” they demanded.
William hesitated. His pride would not allow him to admit that he did
not know.
“Oh ... comin’ by train jus’ a bit before the Sale of Work begins. I’m
goin’ to meet ’em an’ bring ’em to the Sale of Work. They’re s’posed to
be savage but I bet they won’t try on bein’ savage with _me_,” he added
meaningly. “I bet I c’n manage any ole _elephant_.”
They gazed at him with a deep respect.
“You’ll let me _help_ with ’em a bit, won’t you?”
“William, can I help _feed_ ’em?”
“William, can I have a ride free?”
“Well, I’ll see,” promised William largely, and with odious imitation
of grown-up phraseology, “I’ll see when the time comes.”
The subsequent discovery of the real meaning of the term White Elephant
filled William with such disgust that he announced that nothing would
now induce him to attend the Fête in any capacity whatsoever. The
unconcern with which this announcement was received by his family
further increased his disgust. The disappointment of the Outlaws at
the disappearance of that glorious vision of William and themselves in
sole charge of a herd of snowy mammals caused them to sympathise with
William rather than jeer at him.
“If there isn’t no white elephants,” said William bitterly, “then why
did they say there was goin’ to be some?”
Ginger kindly attempted to explain.
“You see that’s the point, William--there _isn’t_ white elephants.”
“Then why did they say there was?” persisted William. “Fancy callin’
_rubbish_ white elephants. If you’re going to have a stall of rubbish
why don’t they _say_ they’re goin’ to have a stall of rubbish ’stead of
callin’ it White Elephants? Where’s the _sense_ of it? White elephants!
An’ all the time it’s broken old pots an’ dull ole books an’ stuff like
that. What’s the _sense_ of it ... callin’ it white elephants!”
Ginger still tried to explain.
“You see there _isn’t_ any white elephants, William,” he said.
“Well, why do they say there is?” said William finally. “Well I’m jus’
payin’ ’em out by _not_ helpin’--that’s all.”
But when the day of the Fête arrived William had relented. After all
there was something thrilling about serving at a stall. He could
pretend that it was his shop. He could feel gloriously important for
the time being at any rate, taking in money and handing out change....
“I don’t _mind_ helpin’ you a bit this afternoon, mother,” he said at
breakfast with the air of one who confers a great favour.
His mother considered.
“I almost think we have enough helpers, thank you, William,” she said,
“we don’t want too many.”
“Oh, do let William feed the white elephants and take them out for a
walk,” pleaded his father.
William glowered at him furiously.
“Of course,” said his mother, “it’s always useful to have someone to
send on messages, so if you’ll just _be_ there, William, in case I need
you ... I daresay there’ll be a few little odd jobs you could do.”
“I’ll sell the things for you if you like,” said William graciously.
“Oh no,” said his mother hastily, “I--I don’t think you need do _that_,
William, thank you.”
William emitted a meaning “Huh!”--a mixture of contempt and mystery and
superiority and sardonic amusement.
His father rose and folded up his newspaper.
“Take plenty of buns, William, and mind they don’t bite you,” he said
kindly.
* * * * *
The White Elephant stall contained the usual medley of battered
household goods, unwanted Christmas presents, old clothes and derelict
sports apparatus.
Mrs. Brown stood, placid and serene, behind it. William stood at the
side of it surveying it scornfully.
The other Outlaws who had no official positions were watching him from
a distance. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that they were jeering at
him, that they were comparing his insignificant and servile position as
potential errand-goer at the corner of a stall of uninspiring oddments
with his glorious dream of tending a flock of snow-white elephants.
Pretending not to notice them he moved more to the centre of the stall,
and placing one hand on his hip assumed an attitude of proprietorship
and importance.... They came nearer. Still pretending not to notice
them he began to make a pretence of arranging the things on the
stall....
His mother turned to him and said, “I won’t be a second away, William,
just keep an eye on things,” and departed.
That was splendid. Beneath the (he hoped) admiring gaze of his friends
he moved right to the centre of the stall and seemed almost visibly to
swell to larger proportions.
A woman came up to the stall and examined a black coat lying across the
corner of it.
“You can have that for a shilling,” said William generously.
He looked at the Outlaws from the corner of his eye hoping that they
noticed him left thus in sole charge, fixing prices, selling goods
and generally directing affairs. The woman handed him a shilling and
disappeared with the coat into the crowd.
William again struck the attitude of sole proprietor of the White
Elephant stall.
Soon his mother returned and he moved to the side of the stall shedding
something of his air of importance.
Then the Vicar’s wife came up. She looked about the stall anxiously,
then said to William’s mother:
“I thought I’d put my coat down just here for a few minutes, dear. You
haven’t seen it, have you? I put it just here.”
William’s mother joined in the search.
Over William’s face stole a look of blank horror.
“It----it can’t have been _sold_, dear, can it?” said the Vicar’s wife
with a nervous laugh.
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Brown, “we’ve sold nothing. The sale’s not really
been opened yet.... What sort of a coat was it?”
“A black one.”
“Perhaps someone’s just carried it in for you.”
“I’ll go and see,” said the Vicar’s wife.
William very quietly joined Ginger, Henry and Douglas who had watched
the _dénouement_ open-mouthed.
“Well!” said Ginger, “_now_ you’ve been an’ gone an’ done it.”
“Sellin’ her _coat_,” said Henry in a tone of shocked horror.
“An’ she’ll probab’ly wear it to church on Sunday an’ she’ll see it,”
said Douglas.
“Oh, shut up about it,” said William who was feeling uneasy.
“Well I should think you oughter _do_ something about it,” said Henry
virtuously.
“Well, what c’n I do?” said William irritably.
“You won’t half catch it,” contributed Douglas cheerfully, “they’ll be
sure to find out who did it. You won’t half catch it.”
“Tell you what,” said Ginger, “let’s go an’ get it back.” William
brightened.
[Illustration: “IT--IT CAN’T HAVE BEEN SOLD, CAN IT?” SAID THE VICAR’S
WIFE.]
“How?” he said.
“Oh ... sort of find out where she’s took it an’ get it back,”
said Ginger vaguely, his spirits rising at the thought of possible
adventure; “ought to be quite easy ... heaps more fun than hangin’
round here anyway.”
[Illustration: “OH, NO,” SAID MRS. BROWN. “THE SALE’S NOT REALLY OPENED
YET. WHAT SORT OF A COAT WAS IT?”]
A cursory examination of the crowd who thronged the Vicarage garden
revealed no black coat to the anxious Outlaws. William had been so
intent upon asserting his own importance and upon impressing his
watching friends that he had not noticed his customer at all. She had
merely been a woman and he had an uneasy feeling that he would not
recognise her again even if he were to meet her.
“I bet she’s not here,” said Ginger, “course she’s not here. She’ll’ve
taken her coat home jolly quick I bet. She’d be afraid of someone
comin’ an’ sayin’ it was a mistake. I bet she’ll be clearin’ off home
pretty quick now--coat an’ all.”
The Outlaws went to the gate and looked up and down the road. The rest
of the company were clustered round the lawn where the member, who was
opening the Fête, had just got to the point where he was congratulating
the stall holders on the beautiful and artistic appearance of the
stalls, and wincing involuntarily whenever his gaze fell upon the
bilious expanse of green and mauve bunting.
“_There_ she is,” said Ginger suddenly, “_there_ she is--walkin’ down
the road in it--_cheek_!”
The figure of a woman wearing a black coat could be seen a few hundred
yards down the road. The Outlaws wasted no further time in conversation
but set off in pursuit. It was only when they were practically upon her
that they realised the difficulty of confronting her and demanding the
return of the coat which she had, after all, acquired by the right of
purchase.
They slowed down.
“We--we’d better think out a plan,” said William.
“We can watch where she lives anyway,” said Ginger.
They followed their quarry more cautiously.
She went in at the gate of a small house.
The Outlaws clustered round the gate gazing at the front door as it
closed behind her.
“Well, we’ve got to get it back _some_ way,” said William with an air
of fierce determination.
“Let’s jus’ try askin’ for it,” said Ginger hopefully.
“All right,” agreed William and added generously, “_you_ can do it.”
“No,” said Ginger firmly, “I’ve done my part _s’gestin’_ it. Someone
else’s gotter _do_ it.”
“Henry can do it,” said William, still with his air of lavish
generosity.
“No,” said that young gentleman firmly, even pugnaciously, “I’m jolly
well _not_ goin’ to do it. You went an’ sold it an’ you can jolly well
go an’ ask for it back.”
William considered this in silence. They seemed quite firm on the
point. He foresaw that argument with them would be useless.
He gave a scornful laugh.
“Huh!” he said, “Afraid! _That’s_ what you are. _Afraid._ Huh.... Well,
I c’n tell you _one_ person what’s not afraid of an’ ole woman in an
ole black coat an’ that’s me.”
With that he swaggered up the path to the front door and rang the bell
violently. After that his courage failed, and but for the critical and
admiring audience clustered round the gate he would certainly have
turned to flee while yet there was time.... A maid opened the door.
William cleared his throat nervously and tried to express by his back
and shoulders (visible to the Outlaws) a proud and imperious defiance
and by his face (visible to the maid) an ingratiating humility.
“Scuse me,” he said with a politeness that was rather over done, “Scuse
me ... if it’s not troublin’ you too much----”
“Now, then,” said the girl sharply, “none of your sauce.”
William in his nervousness redoubled his already exaggerated courtesy.
He bared his teeth in a smile.
“Scuse me,” he said, “but a lady’s jus’ come into this house wearin’ a
white elephant----”
He was outraged to receive a sudden box on the ear accompanied by a
“Get out, you saucy little ’ound,” and the slamming of the front door
in his face.
William rejoined his giggling friends, nursing his boxed ear. He felt
an annoyance which was divided impartially between the girl who had
boxed his ears and the Outlaws who had giggled at it.
“Oh yes,” he said aggrievedly, “S’easy to laugh, in’t it. S’nice an’
easy to _laugh_ ... an’ all of you afraid to go an’ then _laughin’_
at the only one what’s brave enough. You’d laugh if it was _you_,
wun’t you? Oh yes?” He uttered his famous snort of bitter sarcasm and
contempt. “Oh yes ... you’d laugh _then_, wun’t you? You’d laugh if
it was _your_ ear what she’d nearly knocked off, _wun’t_ you? Lots of
people ’ve _died_ for less than that an’ then I bet you’d get hung
for murderers. Your brain’s in the middle of your head joined on to
your ear, an’ she’s nearly killed me shakin’ my brain up like what she
did.... Oh yes, s’easy to _laugh_ an’ me nearly dead an’ my brains all
shook up.”
“Did she hurt you _awful_, William?” said Ginger.
The sympathy in Ginger’s voice mollified William.
“I sh’d jus’ _think_ so,” he said. “Not that I _minded_,” he added
hastily, “I don’t mind a little pain like that ... I mean, I c’n stand
any _amount_ of pain--pain what would _kill_ most folks ... but,” he
looked again towards the house and uttered again his short sarcastic
laugh, “p’raps she thinks she’s got rid of me. Huh! P’raps she thinks
they can go on stickin’ to the ole black coat what they’ve stole. Well,
they’re not ... let me kin’ly tell them ... they’re jolly well _not_
... I--I bet I’m goin’ right into the house to get it off them, so
_there_!”
The physical attack perpetrated on William by the housemaid had
stirred his blood and inspired him with a lust for revenge. He glared
ferociously at the closed front door.
“I’ll go’n have a try, shall I?” said Ginger, who shared with William a
love of danger and a dislike of any sort of monotony.
“All right,” said William, torn by a desire to see Ginger also fiercely
assailed by the housemaid and a reluctance to having his glory as
martyr shared by anyone else. “What’ll you say to ’em?”
“Oh, I’ve got an idea,” said Ginger with what William considered undue
optimism and self-assurance, “well, if she bought it for a shillin’ I
bet she’ll be glad to sell if for _more’n_ a shillin’ won’t she? Stands
to reason, dun’t it?”
Ginger, imitating William’s swagger (for Ginger, despite almost daily
conflicts with him, secretly admired William immensely), walked up to
the front door and knocked with an imperious bravado, also copied from
William. The haughty housemaid opened the door.
“G’d afternoon,” said Ginger with a courteous smile, “Scuse me, but
will you kin’ly tell the lady what’s jus’ come in here wearin’ a black
coat that I’ll give her one an’ six for it an’----”
Ginger also received a box on the ear that sent him rolling half way
down the drive, and the door was slammed in his face. It was opened
again immediately and the red angry face of the housemaid again glared
out.
“Any more of it, you saucy little ’ounds,” she said, “an’ I’ll send for
the police.”
Ginger rejoined the others nursing his ear and making what William
thought was an altogether ridiculous fuss about it.
“She didn’t hit you _half_’s hard’s what she hit me,” said William.
“She did,” said the aggrieved Ginger, “she hit harder ... a jolly sight
harder. She’d nachurally hit harder the second time. She’d be more in
practice.”
“No, she wun’t,” argued William, “she’d be more tired the second time.
She’d used up all her strength on me.”
“Well, anyway I saw yours an’ I felt mine an’ could _tell_ that mine
was harder. Well, gettem to look at our ears. I bet mine’s redder than
what yours is.”
“P’raps it is,” said William, “it nachurally would be because of mine
bein’ done first an’ havin’ time to get wore off. I bet mine’s redder
now than what yours will be when yours had had the same time to get
wore off in as what mine has ... an’ let me kin’ly tell you I saw yours
an’ I felt mine an’ I know that mine was a _jolly_ sight harder ’n
yours.”
After a spirited quarrel which culminated in a scuffle which culminated
in an involuntary descent of both of them into the ditch, the matter
was allowed to rest. Ginger had in secret been somewhat relieved at the
housemaid’s reception of his offer as he did not possess one-and-six
and would have been at a loss had it been accepted.
An informal meeting was then held to consider their next step.
“I votes,” said Douglas who was the one of the Outlaws least addicted
to dangerous exploits, “I votes that we jus’ go back to the Fête. We’ve
done our best,” he added unctuously, “an’ if the ole coat’s sold, well,
it’s just sold. P’raps she’ll be able to get it back by goin’ to a
lawyer or to Parliament or somethin’ like that.”
But William, having once formed a purpose, did not lightly relinquish
it.
“_You_ can go back,” he said scornfully. “I’m jolly well not goin’ back
without that ole coat.”
“All right,” said Douglas in a resigned tone of voice, “I’ll stay an’
help.”
To Douglas’ credit be it said that having uttered his exhortation to
caution he was always content to follow the other Outlaws on their
paths of lawlessness and hazard.
“Tell you what I’m goin’ to do,” said William suddenly, “I’ve _asked_
for it polite an’ if they won’t give it me then it’s _their_ fault,
in’t it? Well I’ve _asked_ for it polite an’ they wun’t give it me so
now I’m jolly well goin’ to _take_ it.”
“I’ll go with you, William,” volunteered Ginger.
“I think,” said William frowning and assuming his Commander-in-Chief
air, “I’d better go on alone. But you jus’ stay near an’ then if I’m
in _reel_ danger--sort of danger of life or death--I’ll shout an’ you
come in an’ rescue me.”
This was such a situation as the Outlaws loved. They had by this time
quite lost sight of what they were rescuing and why they were rescuing
it. The thrill of the rescue itself filled their entire horizon....
They went round to the side gate where they crouched in the bushes
watching the redoubtable William as he crept Indian fashion with
elaborate “registration” of cunning and secrecy across a small lawn up
to a small open window. Breathlessly they watched him hoist himself up
and swing his legs over the window sill. They saw his freckled face
still wearing its frown of determination as he disappeared inside the
room.
He had meant to make his way through the room to the hall where he
hoped to find the black coat hanging and to be able to abstract it
without interference and return at once to his waiting comrades. But
things are seldom as simple as we hope they are going to be. No sooner
had he found himself in the room than he heard voices approaching the
door and with admirable presence of mind dived beneath the round table
in the middle of the room, whose cloth just--but only just--concealed
him from view.
The lady whom the Outlaws had followed down the road--now divested of
the fateful black coat--entered the room followed by another gayer and
more highly-coloured lady.
“A _black_ coat, did you say?” said the first lady.
William, beneath the table, pricked up his ears.
“Yes, if you _can_, dear,” said the highly-coloured lady, “if you’d be
so good, dear. I only want it for to-morrow for the funeral. I think
I told you, didn’t I, dear? A removed cousin whom I hardly knew--a
_very_ removed cousin--but they’ve invited me and one likes to show
oneself appreciative of these little attentions--not that I think he’ll
have left me a penny in his will and it certainly isn’t worth while
_buying_ black but I _have_ a black dress and if you _wouldn’t_ mind
lending me a black coat.”
“Certainly,” said the first lady. “I can let you have one with
pleasure. It’s in the hall. It’s one I’ve only just bought....”
William ground his teeth.... So it _was_ in the hall! If he’d only been
a few minutes earlier....
They went into the hall and William gathered that the black coat was
being displayed.
“Quite a bargain, wasn’t it?” he heard the first lady say.
It was all he could do to repress a bitter and scornful “Huh!”
They returned--evidently with the coat.
“Thank you so much, dear,” said the highly-coloured lady, “it’s just
what I wanted and _so_ smart. What was it like at the Fête...?” she was
trying on the coat and examining herself smilingly in the overmantel
mirror. “I must say it _does_ suit me.”
“Oh, very dull,” said the first lady. “I really came away before it
was actually opened. Just got what I wanted and then came away. It all
looked as if it was going to be _most_ dull.”
The highly-coloured lady sniffed and her complacency gave way to
aggrievement. “I must say that I was a bit _hurt_ that they didn’t ask
me to give an entertainment. I can’t help feeling that it was a bit of
a _slight_. People have so often told me that no function about here
is complete without one of my entertainments and then not to ask me
to entertain at the Conservative fête ... well, I call it _pointed_,
and it points to one thing and one thing only in my eyes. It points
to jealousy, and intrigue, and spitefulness, and underhandedness, and
cunning, and deceit on the part of some person or persons unknown--but,
believe _me_, Mrs. Bute, quite easily guessed at!”
The highly-coloured lady was evidently in the state known as “working
herself up.” Suddenly William knew who she was. She must be Miss
Poll. He remembered now hearing his mother say only yesterday, “That
dreadful Poll woman wants to give an entertainment at the Fête and
we’re _determined_ not to have her. She’s so _vulgar_. She’d cheapen
the whole thing....”
He peeped at her anxiously from behind his concealing table-cloth, then
hastily withdrew.
“Of course,” said Mrs Bute, who sounded bored and as if she’d heard it
many times before, “of course, dear, but ... the coat will do, will it
?”
“Very nicely, thank you,” said Miss Poll rather stiffly because she
thought that Mrs. Bute really ought to have been more sympathetic.
“_Good_ afternoon, dear.”
“I’ll wrap it up for you,” said Mrs. Bute.
There was silence while she wrapped it up, then Miss Poll said, “_Good_
afternoon, dear,” again and went into the hall and there followed the
sound of the closing of the front door, then sounds as of the mistress
of the house going upstairs. William retreated through his open window
and rejoined Douglas and Henry at the gate. Ginger had vanished.
“Quick,” he said, “_she’s_ got it.”
The figure of Miss Poll carrying a large paper parcel could be seen
walking down the road. “We’ve gotter follow _her_. She’s got it now.”
At this minute Ginger reappeared.
“She’s got it,” William explained to him.
“Yes, but there’s another,” said Ginger, pointing, “there’s _another_
black coat hangin’ up in the hall. I’ve been round an’ looked through a
little window an’ _seen_ it ... it’s _there_.”
William was for a moment nonplussed. Then he said: “Well, I bet the one
she’s took’s the one, ’cause I heard her say wasn’t it a bargain, an it
_was_ a bargain too. Huh! I’m goin’ after her.”
“Well, I’m _not_,” said Ginger. “I’m goin’ to stop here an’ get the
other one.”
“All right,” said William, “you an’ Douglas stay here an’ Henry ’n
me’ll go after the other an’ I _bet_ you ours is the right one.”
So quite amicably the Outlaws divided forces. Ginger and Douglas
remained concealed in the bushes by the gate of Mrs. Bute’s house,
warily eyeing the windows, while William and Henry set off down the
road after Miss Poll’s rapidly vanishing figure.
* * * * *
William and Henry stood at Miss Poll’s gate and held a hasty
consultation. Their previous experience did not encourage them to go
boldly to the front door and demand the black coat.
“Let’s jus’ go in an’ steal it,” said Henry cheerfully. “’S not hers
really.”
But William seemed averse to this.
“No,” he said, “I bet that it wouldn’t come off. I bet she’s the sort
of woman that’s always poppin’ up jus’ when you don’ want her. No, I
guess we’ve gotter think out a _plan_.”
He thought deeply for a few minutes, then his face cleared and over it
broke a light that betokened inspiration.
“I _know_ what we’ll do. It’s a _jolly_ good idea. I bet ... well,
anyway, you come in with me an’ see.”
Boldly William walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
Apprehensively Henry followed him.
Miss Poll, wearing the black coat (for she had been trying it on and
fancied herself in it so much that she had not been able to bring
herself to take it off to answer the bell), opened the door.
William, his face devoid of any expression whatever, repeated
monotonously as though it were a lesson:
“G’afternoon, Miss Poll, please will you come to the Fête to give an
entertainment.”
Miss Poll went rather red and for one terrible minute William thought
that she was going to attack him as the maid had done--but the moment
passed. Miss Poll was simpering coyly.
“You--you’ve been sent on a message, I suppose, little boy?” then,
relieving William’s conscience of the difficult task of answering this
question, she went on, “I _thought_ there must be some mistake.... Of
course,” she simpered again, then pouted, “_really_ I’d be quite within
my rights to refuse to go. It’s most discourteous of them to send for
me like this at such short notice but,” she gave a triumphant little
giggle, “I _knew_ that _really_ they couldn’t get on without me. They
didn’t send a note by you, I suppose?”
“No,” said William quite truthfully.
She pouted again.
“Well, _that_ I think is rather rude, don’t you? However,” the pout
merged again into the simper, “I wouldn’t be so _cruel_ as to punish
them for that by staying away. I _knew_ they’d want me in the end. But
these things are always so shamefully organised, don’t you think so?”
William cleared his throat and said that he did. Henry, in response to
a violent nudge from William, cleared his throat and said that he did
too. Miss Poll encouraged by their sympathy, warmed to her subject.
“Instead of writing to engage me _months_ ago they send a message like
this at the last minute.... What would they have done if I’d been out?”
Again William said he didn’t know and again Henry, in response to a
nudge from William, said he didn’t know either.
“Well, I mustn’t keep the poor dears waiting,” said Miss Poll brightly.
“I’ll be ready in a second I’ve only to put my hat on.”
Then Miss Poll underwent a short inward struggle which William watched
breathlessly. Would she keep on the black coat or would she change
it for another? Wild plans floated through William’s head. He’d say
would she please go in something black because the Vicar had died
quite suddenly that morning or--or the Member had just been murdered
or something like that.... It was obvious that Miss Poll was torn
between the joy of wearing a coat in which she considered herself to
look “smarter” than in anything else she possessed and the impropriety
of wearing for a festal occasion a garment borrowed for the obsequies
of the very removed cousin. To William’s relief the coat won the day
and after buttoning up the collar to give it an even smarter appearance
than it had before and putting on a smart hat with a very red feather,
she joined them at the door.
“Now I’m ready, children,” she said, at which William scowled
ferociously and Henry winced, “they didn’t say which of my repertoire”
(Miss Poll pronounced it reppertwaw) “I was to bring with me, did they?”
And again William said “no” with a face devoid of expression and with
perfect truth. And Henry said “No,” too.
“As it’s such short notice,” she went on, “they really can’t expect
_anything_ in the way of--well, of make-up or dress, can they?”
William said that they couldn’t and Henry, being nudged again by
William, confirmed the opinion....
“Though I wish you children could see me in my charwoman skit. I’m an
artist in make-up.... Now, can you imagine me looking _really_ old and
ugly?”
Henry quite innocently said “Yes,” and on being nudged by William,
changed it to “yes, please.” Miss Poll looked at Henry as if she quite
definitely disliked him and turned her attentions to William.
“You know, dear ... I can make myself to look _really_ old. You’d never
believe it, would you? Now guess how old I am, really?”
Henry, not wishing to be left out of it, said with perfect good faith,
“fifty” and William, with a vague idea of being tactful, said “forty.”
Miss Poll who looked, as a matter of fact, about forty-five, laughed
shrilly.
“You children _will_ have your joke,” she said, “now I wonder what I’d
better do for them to start with? You know, what makes me so _unique_
as an entertainer, children--and if I’d wanted to be I’d be _famous_
now on the London stage--is that I’m _entirely_ independent of such
artificial aids as mechanical musical instruments and books of words
and such things. I depend upon the unaided efforts of my voice--and
I’ve a perfect voice for humorous songs, you know, children--and my
facial expression. Of course I’ve a _magnetic_ personality ... that’s
the secret of the whole thing....”
William was tense and stern and scowling. He wasn’t thinking of Miss
Poll’s magnetic personality. He was thinking of Miss Poll’s coat. The
first step had been to lure Miss Poll to the Fête; the second and,
he began to think, the harder, would be to detach the coat from Miss
Poll’s person.
“It’s--it’s sort of gettin’ hot, i’n’t it?” he said huskily.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Miss Poll pleasantly.
William’s heart lightened. “Wun’t you like to take your coat off?” he
said persuasively. “I’ll carry it for you.”
But Miss Poll who considered, quite erroneously, that the coat made her
look startlingly youthful and pretty, shook her head and clutched the
coat tightly at her neck.
“No, certainly not,” she said firmly.
William pondered his next line of argument.
“I thought,” he suggested at last meekly, “I thought p’raps you _sing_
better without your coat.”
Henry, who felt that he was supporting William rather inadequately,
said: “Yes, you sort of look as if you’d sing better without a coat.”
“What nonsense!” said Miss Poll rather sharply, “I sing _perfectly_
well in a coat.”
Then William had an idea. He remembered an incident which had taken
place about a month ago which had completely mystified him at the time,
but which he had stored up for possible future use. Ethel had come
home from a garden party in a state bordering on hysterics and had
passionately destroyed a perfectly good hat which she had been wearing.
The reason she gave for this extraordinary behaviour had been that Miss
Weston had been wearing a hat _exactly_ like it at the garden party
(“_exactly_ like it ... I could have killed her and myself,” Ethel had
said hysterically). The reason had seemed to William wholly inadequate.
He met boys every day of his life wearing headgear which was exactly
identical with his and the sight failed to rouse him to hysterical
fury. It was one of the many mysteries in which the behaviour of
grown-up sisters was shrouded--not to be understood but possible to be
utilised. Now he looked Miss Poll up and down and said ruminatingly,
“Funny!”
“What’s funny?” said Miss Poll sharply.
“Oh, nothin’,” said William apologetically, knowing full well that Miss
Poll would now know no peace till she’d discovered the reason for his
ejaculation and steady contemplation of her.
“Nonsense!” she said sharply, “you wouldn’t say ‘funny’ like that
unless there was some reason for it, I suppose. If I’ve got a smut on
my nose or my hat’s on crooked _say_ so and don’t stand there _looking_
at me.”
William’s steady gaze was evidently getting upon Miss Poll’s nerves.
“Nothin’,” said William again vaguely, “only I’ve just remembered
somethin’.”
“_What_ have you remembered?” snapped Miss Poll.
“Nothin’ much,” said William, “only I’ve jus’ remembered that I saw
someone at the Fête jus’ before I came out to you, in a coat _exactly_
like that one what you’ve got on.”
There was a long silence, and finally Miss Poll said: “It is a little
hot, dear. You were quite right. If you would be so kind as to carry my
coat----”
[Illustration: “I’VE JUS’ REMEMBERED,” SAID WILLIAM, “THAT I SAW
SOMEONE AT THE FÊTE IN A COAT EXACTLY LIKE THAT ONE WHAT YOU’VE GOT
ON.”]
She took it off, revealing a dress that was very short and very
diaphanous and very, very pink, folded up the coat so as to show only
the lining and handed it to William. William, though retaining his
sphinx-like expression, heaved a sigh of relief, and Henry dropped
behind Miss Poll to turn a cart wheel expressive of triumph in the
middle of the road. They had reached the gate of the Vicarage now. They
were only just in time....
William meant to thrust the coat into the arms of the Vicar’s wife
and escape as quickly as he could, leaving Miss Poll (for whom he had
already conceived a deep dislike) to her fate.
It had happened that the Member’s agent had with difficulty and with
the help of great persuasive power and a megaphone, collected the
majority of the attendants at the Fête into a large tent where the
Member was to “say a few words” on the political situation. Many of
those who had had experience of the Member’s “few words” on other
occasions had tried to escape but the agent was a very determined
young man with an Oxford manner and an eagle eye, and in the end he
had hounded them all in. The Member was just buying a raffle ticket
for a nightdress case and being particularly nice to the raffle ticket
seller partly because she was pretty and partly because she might have
a vote (one could never tell what age girls were nowadays). The agent
was hovering in the background ready to tell him that his audience
was awaiting him as soon as he’d finished being nice to the pretty
girl, and at the same time keeping a wary eye on the door of the tent
to see that no one escaped.... And then the _contretemps_ happened.
Miss Poll tripped airily up to the door of the tent in her pink, pink
frock, peeped in, saw the serried ranks of an audience with a vacant
place in front of them, presumably for the entertainer, and skipping
lightly in with a “_So_ sorry to have kept you all waiting,” leapt at
once into her first item--an imitation of a tipsy landlady, an item
that Miss Poll herself considered the cream of her repertoire. The
audience (a very heavy and respectable audience) gaped at her, dismayed
and astounded. And when a few minutes later the Member, calm and
dignified and full to overflowing of eloquence and statistics, having
exchanged the smile he had assumed while being nice to the pretty
raffle ticket seller for a look of responsibility and capability, and
having exchanged his raffle ticket for a neat little sheaf of notes
(typed and clipped together by the ubiquitous agent), appeared at the
door of the tent he found Miss Gertie Poll prancing to and fro before
his amazed audience, her pink, pink skirts held very high, announcing
that she was Gilbert the filbert, the colonel of the nuts. The agent,
looking over his shoulder, grew pale and loose-jawed. The Member turned
to him with dignity and a certain amount of restraint.
“What’s all this?” he demanded sternly.
The agent mopped his brow with an orange silk handkerchief.
“I--I--I’ve no idea, sir,” he gasped weakly.
“Please put a stop to it,” said the Member and added hastily,
remembering that the tent was packed full of votes, “without any
unpleasantness, of course.”
I have said that the agent was a capable young man with an Oxford
manner, but it would have taken more than a dozen capable young
men with Oxford manners to stop Miss Gertie Poll in the full flow
of her repertoire. She went on for over an hour. She merely smiled
bewitchingly at the agent whenever he tried to stop her without any
unpleasantness, and when the Member himself appeared like a _deux ex
machina_ to take command of the situation, she blew him a kiss and he
hastily retired.
Meanwhile William, triumphantly bearing the black coat, made his way up
to the Vicar’s wife. He met Ginger and Douglas, also carrying a black
coat and on the same mission.
“Bet you tuppence mine’s the one,” said Ginger.
“Bet you tuppence mine is,” said William; “where’d you get yours?”
“We got it out of her hall,” said Douglas cheerfully, “we jus’ walked
in an’ got it an’ no one saw us.... I bet _ours_ is the one.”
“Well, come on an’ see,” said William, pushing his way up to the stall
presided over by the Vicar’s wife.
“Here’s your coat, Mrs. Marks,” he said handing it to her, “it was sold
by mistake off the rubbish stall but we’ve got it back for you--me an’
Henry.”
Before the Vicar’s wife could answer, a frantic messenger came up to
her.
“What _shall_ we do?” she moaned. “Miss Poll’s entertaining the tent
and the Member can’t speak.”
“Miss _Poll_!” gasped the Vicar’s wife, “we never asked her.”
“No, but she’s _come_ and she’s singing all her _awful_ songs and no
one can stop her and the Member can’t speak.”
The Vicar’s wife, still absently nursing the coat that William had
thrust into her arm, stared in front of her.
“But--but how awful!” she murmured, “how _awful_?”
Then Ginger came up and thrust the second coat into her protesting arms.
“Your coat, Mrs. Marks,” he said politely, “what we sold by mistake off
the rubbish stall. Me an’ Douglas ’v got it back for you.”
He made a grimace at William which William returned with interest.
They waited breathlessly to see which coat the Vicar’s wife should
claim as her own.
She looked down at her armful of coats as if she saw them for the first
time.
“B-but,” she said faintly, “I got that coat back. The woman who bought
it thought there must be some mistake and brought it to me. These
aren’t my coats.... I don’t know anything about these coats.”
Shrill strains of some strident music hall ditty came from the tent. A
second messenger came up.
“She won’t stop,” she sobbed, “and the Member’s foaming at the mouth.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Vicar’s wife, clutching her bundle of coats still
more tightly to her. “Oh, dear, oh, _dear_!”
At that moment a woman pushed her way through the crowds up to the
Vicar’s wife. It was Mrs. Bute.
“Brought it here, they did,” she panted. “Where is it? _Thieves!_ Came
into my hall bold as brass an’ _took_ it!... _There_ it is!” she glared
suspiciously at the Vicar’s wife, “what’ve _you_ got it for ... _my_
coat ... I’d like to know. I’d----” She tore it out of her arms and the
other coat too fell to the ground. “My _other_ coat!” she screamed,
“_both_ my coats! _Thieves_--that’s what you all are! _Thieves!_”
“Where are those boys?” said the Vicar’s wife very faintly. But “those
boys” had gone. William, resisting the strong temptation to go and
enjoy the spectacle of the Member foaming at the mouth, had hastily
withdrawn his little band to a safe distance.
* * * * *
They were found, of course, and brought back. They were forced to give
explanations. They were forced to apologise to all concerned, even
to Miss Poll (who forgave them because she’d had such a perfectly
_ripping_ afternoon and her little show gone off so _sweetly_ and
everyone been so _adorable_). They were sent home in disgrace....
William was despatched to bed on dry bread and water, but being quite
tired by the day’s events and the bread happening to be new and
unlimited in quantity, William’s manly spirit survived the indignity.
And William’s mother said the next day: “I _knew_ what would happen.”
(William’s mother always said that she knew it would happen after it
had safely--or dangerously--happened.) “I _knew_ that if I let William
come and help everything would go wrong. It always does. Selling
people’s coats and stealing people’s coats and getting that awful
woman to come that we’d _sworn_ we’d never have again and stopping
the Member speaking when he’d taken _ages_ over preparing his speech,
and upsetting the whole thing--well, if anyone had told me beforehand
that one boy William’s size could upset a whole afternoon like that I
simply shouldn’t have believed them.”
And William’s father said: “Well, I warned you, William. I told you
they were difficult beasts to manage. Of course, if you lose control
of a whole herd of white elephants like that they’re bound to do some
damage.”
And William said disgustedly: “I’m just _sick_ of white elephants and
black coats. I’m going out to play Red Indians.”