THE STOLEN WHISTLE
William had been to watch the sheep dog trials at a neighbouring
Agricultural Show and had been much thrilled by the spectacle. It
had seemed, moreover, perfectly simple. Just a dog and some sheep
and anyone could do it. He had a dog, of course--Jumble, his beloved
mongrel who had filled many and various rôles since he had joined
William’s _ménage_. He had been a walking dog and a dancing dog and
a talking dog. He had even on one occasion represented a crowd in a
play organised by William. It cannot be claimed that Jumble brought
any great brilliance to bear on the fulfilment of these rôles. He
was essentially passive, rather than active, in his representation
of them. He walked and danced perforce, because William on these
occasions held his front paws and he could do nothing else. His
“talking” was his natural reaction of excitement to William’s softly
whispered “rats!” It did not really represent that almost superhuman
intelligence that William claimed for it. Jumble himself took no pride
in his accomplishments. When he heard the word “trick” he slunk off as
quickly as he could, but if escape were impossible he yielded to the
inevitable, and suffered the humiliation of walking or dancing with an
air of supercilious boredom.
After breakfast on the morning after the sheep trials, William
walked slowly and thoughtfully into the garden. There he was greeted
effusively by Jumble who tried to convey to him by barks and leaps
and whirlwind rushes that it was just the morning for a walk in the
wood, where perhaps--perhaps--with luck one might meet a rabbit or two.
But William was not in a rabbit mood. He was in a sheep dog mood. He
had definitely decided to train Jumble to be a sheep dog. It might be
objected that with truth Jumble was not a sheep dog, to which objection
it might with equal truth be replied that Jumble was as much a sheep
dog as he was any other sort of dog. The sorts of dog in Jumble were so
thoroughly mixed that there was no sort of dog you could definitely say
he wasn’t. William had decided to use a whistle for giving his signals
to Jumble chiefly because his newest and dearest treasure happened to
be a whistle. It had been sent to him for his last birthday, by an
uncle who, as William’s father bitterly remarked, ought to have known
better. It was not an ordinary whistle. It was the Platonic ideal of a
whistle. It was very large and very ornate and emitted a sound rivalled
only by a factory siren. William to the relief and surprise of his
family had made little use of this since his reception of it. He had
kept it in a box in a drawer in his bedroom. His family fondly imagined
that he had forgotten about it and never allowed the conversation even
remotely to approach the subject of musical instruments in general or
whistles in particular, lest it should remind him of it. They could
not know, of course, that William’s whistle was his secret pride and
joy and dearest treasure and that he did not use it simply because he
considered it too precious to use till some great and worthy occasion
presented itself. And here the great and worthy occasion had presented
itself--the training of Jumble to be a sheep dog. With Jumble bounding
about in innocent glee and all unaware of his coming ordeal, he entered
his bedroom and reverently took the whistle from its bed of cotton wool
in the box in which he had received it. Then he placed it in his pocket
and with Jumble still leaping exuberantly about him went out into the
road. He had now a dog and a whistle. The only thing that remained
was to find some sheep. He swung down the road, one hand fingering
lovingly the whistle that reposed in his pocket, his eyes fixed proudly
on Jumble. Jumble, who fondly imagined that his hint about the walk
in a rabbity wood had been taken, leapt ecstatically into the air at
every passing fly or butterfly and as often as not overbalanced in the
process. The very word “trick” would have sent him slinking homeward,
his tail between his legs, but no one uttered the fateful word so
Jumble leapt and bounded in light-hearted glee with no thought in his
mind but of scurrying white-tailed rabbits.
William was now walking along without paying much attention to his pet.
His mind was set on other things. He was looking for sheep. Suddenly he
saw them--a whole fieldful of sheep with no guardian or owner in sight.
He brightened. The training of Jumble as a sheep dog could begin. With
Jumble still at his heels he entered the field.
“Now, Jumble,” he said sternly, “when I blow one blow on this whistle
you drive ’em to the end of the field an’ when I blow two you drive
’em back again.” Jumble gave a short sharp bark, which William, ever
optimistic, took to be one of complete understanding.
William drew in his breath then blew a piercing blast on his whistle.
The nightmare sound rent the air. A sheep who was cropping grass
turned and gazed at him reproachfully. The others took no notice.
Jumble continued to chase butterflies. William sighed and repeated his
instructions.
“When I blow once on this whistle, Jumble, you drive ’em over there
and when I blow twice you drive ’em back.” Jumble wagged his tail and
William thought he’d really tumbled to it at last.
He blew again--a mighty piercing blast. The sheep who had looked at
him reproachfully turned and looked at him still more reproachfully.
Jumble, upon whose mind the conviction was slowly forcing itself that
something was being expected of him, sat up and begged.
William sighed.
“No, Jumble,” he said, “jus’ listen--when I blow _once_----”
He stopped. Jumble was off after another butterfly. It was simply no
use talking to Jumble with all those butterflies about. He must make
him understand by some other means. He pointed to the sheep.
“Hi, Jumble!” he urged, “at ’em! Rats!”
Jumble looked from William to the sheep, head on one side, ears cocked.
His master evidently wanted him to attack those big white things that
inhabited the field. But why? They were doing no harm and there was a
vein of caution in Jumble that objected to the unnecessary attacking of
things three times his size. Still, he didn’t mind showing willing and
he needn’t go too near.
With elaborate ostentation of ferocity he began to bark at the nearest
sheep, making little leaps and rushes as if to attack it--but keeping
all the time a respectful distance.
“Good old Jumble!” encouraged William, “go on at them. Rats!” Jumble,
glad to learn from the tone of William’s voice that he was doing the
right thing, redoubled his pretence of fury and attack. The nearest
sheep with a scared look on its face rose and moved farther away.
Jumble’s delight knew no bounds. He had frightened the thing. That
big white animal three times his size was afraid of him. Some of his
caution deserted him. He advanced again upon the sheep, his sound
and fury redoubled. The sheep began to run. In a state of frenzied
intoxication Jumble flung himself to the pursuit. Panic broke out among
the flock. They rushed hither and thither bleating wildly, with Jumble,
who imagined himself a Great Dane at least, pursuing them, barking
loudly. William felt gratified. Things were getting a move on at last.
Jumble was turning out a really fine sheep dog. Then he blew twice on
his whistle.
“Now bring ’em back, Jumble,” he ordered.
But Jumble was deaf and blind to everything but the ecstasy of chasing
these large foolish white creatures who did not seem to realise their
size who--joy of joys, miracle of miracles!--were afraid of him--of
_him_! The field was a medley of scurrying bleating sheep and leaping,
barking, exulting, pursuing, ecstatic Jumble.
“Hi, Jumble!” called William again, “stop it--bring ’em back now.”
But the sheep had found a way of escape and were streaming in a
jostling panic-stricken crowd through the gate inadvertently left open
by William on to the road where some streamed off in one direction,
some in another, still bleating wildly.
Jumble surveyed the empty field. He’d cleared them out, which was
evidently what William meant him to do. The place belonged to him and
William now. He swaggered up to William and sat down sideways head in
the air, mouth open panting.
He fairly radiated conceit. He couldn’t get over it--hundreds and
hundreds of big white things each three times as big as himself flying
in panic before him--before _him_--what a dog! _What_ a dog! He gave
William a glance that said:
“Well, what do you think of me, _now_?”
William could have told him quite adequately and eloquently what he
thought of him but already sounds of commotion and shouting came from
the direction of the farm whence the errant sheep had been sighted.
Already men were running down the road to deal with the crisis.
William, not wishing to be dealt with as part of the crisis, hastily
picked up Jumble, scrambled through the hedge into a further field and
thence by devious routes to the road and back to his home.
His first lesson to Jumble on sheep dogging had not been altogether
successful but William was not a boy lightly to abandon anything he
had undertaken. Only he thought that perhaps it had been a mistake
to begin on sheep. It would be best probably to work up to sheep
gradually. Sitting on an upturned plant pot in his back yard, his
chin on his hands, he frowningly considered the situation, while
Jumble sat by him, leaning against the plant pot wearing a complacent
simper, still seeing himself, alone and unaided, putting to flight vast
hordes of large white animals. Yes, thought William, that had been the
mistake--beginning with sheep instead of working up to them gradually.
If he could begin on something small they could work up to sheep by
degrees. His white mice--the very thing! He turned and gave Jumble a
long and patient detailed account of what he wanted him to do.
“When I blow once, Jumble,” he said, “you run ’em over to the end of
the lawn and when I blow twice run ’em back to me again an’ mind you
don’t let any of them escape.”
Jumble looked at him foolishly, obviously not even trying to understand
and taking for granted that William was singing his praises, telling
him that he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw him scattering
them far and near. William went to fetch his white mice, leaving Jumble
still simpering. He returned and knelt down with the box.
“Now run ’em _gentle_, Jumble,” he ordered as he released the flock.
But Jumble was in no mood for gentleness. Either he considered it an
insult to try to make him a mouse dog instead of a sheep dog or he
wished to show William that this was mere child’s play after his late
exploit. He’d killed two before William could rescue them. He listened
to William’s remarks with polite boredom and watched the subsequent
obsequies with alert interest as though marking the spot for future
investigation. He then watched the remnants of the flock being carried
indoors with an air of wistfulness. He’d have quite liked to have
gone on with them. William was not really disheartened. He was sorry
of course to lose two of his white mice, but his white mice themselves
were capable of filling any gaps in their numbers with such speed and
thoroughness that the shortage would not be of long duration. And he
was still determined to teach Jumble to be a sheep dog. He ignored
Jumble’s attempts to suggest to him again the walk in the rabbity
wood (Jumble felt that he’d have simply loved to have a go at rabbits
now--he was just in the mood) and sat down again on the upturned plant
pot to consider the matter. Perhaps the best thing to do was to train
Jumble to be a sheep dog by himself without anything to represent the
sheep, and then when Jumble was an expert sheep dog gradually introduce
sheep for him to work upon. He’d teach Jumble to go to the other end of
the lawn when he blew once and return when he blew twice.
He did this by throwing a stone to the other end of the lawn for Jumble
to fetch and blowing once when he threw it and twice when Jumble was
ready to bring it back. He hoped that if he did this often enough,
Jumble would begin to associate his departure and return with the
whistle instead of the stone. When he’d been doing it for about half
an hour his father came out wearing an expression of mingled agony and
fury.
“If I hear one more sound from that beastly instrument of torture,” he
said, “I’ll take it from you and throw it into the fire. Do you know
I’ve been trying to sleep this last half hour? What the dickens are you
doing sitting there and blowing the thing like that, to all eternity?
Are you trying to play a tune?”
William did not explain that he was trying to teach Jumble to be a
sheep dog. He withdrew himself and Jumble and the whistle out of harm’s
way as quickly as possible.
He knew that it would be useless to continue the training of Jumble
within earshot of his father. It would be safer to withdraw to the
other end of the village where there was no possibility of his father
hearing it. It was particularly annoying because he’d thought that just
before his father came out Jumble really had begun to understand what
he wanted him to do. He slipped the whistle into his pocket and set off
down the road, Jumble following merrily at his heels. Jumble evidently
thought that the walk through the rabbity wood was going to come off at
last.
Right at the end of the village was a large brown house with a field
behind it. The field was empty and well hidden from the road. Here
William decided to complete the training of Jumble. Armed with a little
pile of stones and his whistle he patiently threw stones and whistled
his one blast then his two as Jumble departed and returned. Jumble was
fetching the stones in a perfunctory fashion as one who does it merely
to oblige. His considered opinion was that as a game it was going on a
bit too long. It was in any case rather a puerile amusement for a dog
who alone and unaided could put to flight great hordes of large white
animals. And he wanted to have a go at those rabbits.
William really thought that Jumble knew what was expected of him at
last. He decided to try without the stones. It was a great moment. He
blew a single blast on his whistle and then waited to see if Jumble
would fly at the note of command to the other end of the field. William
never knew whether Jumble would have flown at the note of command to
the other end of the field; it is a question that must remain to all
eternity unanswered. For no sooner had William emitted the note of
command than a furious tornado dressed in a mauve suit tore down upon
him, resolving itself as it became calmer into an elderly gentleman who
lived in the brown house.
“You wretched little mongrel,” he said addressing William not Jumble,
“you inhuman young torturer--you--you infant Nero! Do you know, I ask
you, sir, that I’ve been trying to rest--to _rest_ with this infernal
row going on? What do you mean by it, you young scoundrel? What do you
think you’re doing with it?--blowing it on and on and on like that. Are
you trying to drive me _mad_?”
Before William could resist he had snatched the precious whistle from
William and thrust it into his pocket. “Now I’ve got it, my boy, and
I’ll _keep_ it. And I’ll take any other infernal instrument of torture
you come around here with--and get out!”
Jumble growled and made ineffective darts toward the old gentleman but
finding that the old gentleman did not obligingly turn and flee with
bleats of terror like the sheep, he changed his tactics and wagged his
tail propitiatingly. William, aghast and infuriated, tried to gather
breath for a reply but before it came the old gentleman’s roseate hue
deepened to purple and he roared again:
“Get--OUT!”
William with one glance at the purple face threw dignity to the winds
and got out, closely followed by the incipient sheep dog. He was ablaze
with righteous indignation. He felt that he’d rather have had anything
stolen from him than the precious whistle, his glorious insignia as
sheep dog trainer. Stolen--yes, that was it, stolen--_his_ whistle
_stolen_. The man in the mauve suit ought to be in prison--a robber,
that was what he was--just an ordinary robber. He--he’d go and tell
someone about it so that the man in the mauve suit could be put in
prison.
He told his father first and his father said: “Thank Heaven!”
Then he told the village policeman and the village policeman slapped
his thigh and uttered a guffaw that sent Jumble flying down the road in
panic.
After much silent cogitation William decided to approach the robber
himself. He waylaid him on the road later in the day and said
unctuously:
“Please, can I have my whistle back?”
The robber uttered a loud “ha!” and then said very firmly, “No! you
can_not_ have your whistle back! On _no_ account can you have your
whistle back. You can _never_ have your whistle back. Wild horses
couldn’t make me give your whistle back. You may look upon that
whistle, my boy, as lost to you for ever and likewise every other
fiendish contrivance you use to drive away my sleep. Ha!”
With that he passed on still snorting.
William stood motionless in the road gazing after him. Well, he’d tried
every lawful means. He’d appealed to his father who ought to have
protected his own son from these outrages. He’d appealed to the strong
arm of the law who should have taken drastic steps against such lawless
extortion of property, he’d appealed to the criminal’s own better
feelings--all to no avail.
The only thing that remained was to take matters into his own hands.
For William felt that never could he hold up his head again while this
blot upon his honour remained unavenged.
* * * * *
With no very clear plan of action in his mind, William progressed
furtively up the drive of the big brown house. He had seen the old
gentleman in the mauve suit drive down towards the station that morning
in a cab with a suit-case, so that bold advance into the enemy’s
country was less heroic than at first it sounds.
For safety’s sake William had left Jumble at home. Jumble was well
meaning but could never understand the need for secrecy. Idly William
thought that he’d train Jumble to be a police dog when he’d finished
training him to be a sheep dog. He’d train him to hunt down robbers and
bite them hard.
But he couldn’t continue the sheep dog training till he’d recovered
his whistle--_his_ whistle. Had you offered William then a hundred
golden whistles set with gems in exchange for _his_ whistle, he would
have refused them with scorn. It was _his_ whistle and he was going
to have it or know the reason why. He wandered round the front of the
house with an elaborate display of secrecy that would have attracted
anyone’s attention from miles away had anyone been there to see. The
front downstairs rooms were all empty with windows securely locked. The
front and side doors also were locked. William dared not go round to
the kitchen regions. He had a wholesome awe of inhabitants of kitchen
regions. They had such effective weapons to hand in the way of rolling
pins and saucepans. Even had the doors and windows been open it would
have been difficult to know where to begin looking for his whistle.
There was moreover a horrible possibility that the man in the mauve
suit might have taken it with him. His voyage of investigation round
the house, though fruitless, gave him a certain amount of satisfaction
by its vague element of heroism and danger. Having finished it he
decided to go home and think out some more definite plan of campaign.
He set off still with a melodramatically conspiratorial air down the
drive and suddenly when he’d almost reached the gates he heard the
sound of a motor car in the road outside. It was coming in. He looked
about wildly for some place of hiding. There was none. With admirable
presence of mind he stretched himself out by the edge of the drive and
lay there with closed eyes. The car turned in at the gate--passed him,
stopped, backed.
“Good heavens!” said a girl’s voice, “it’s a boy.”
“Is he dead?” said another.
Without opening his eyes William perceived that four people were
getting out of the car. He remained motionless with closed eyes. He
felt that as long as he remained in that position no one could call
upon him to account for his presence in their private ground.
“See if he’s breathing,” said someone.
A firm hand was laid on his chest. William was very ticklish and it
needed all his self-control not to wriggle. But he remained stark and
motionless.
“Yes, he’s alive,” said the voice with a note of relief in it, “he’s
breathing.”
“Let’s take him into the house,” said someone else, “and Freddie can
see what’s the matter with him.”
A youth’s voice spoke.
“Well,” it said rather uncertainly, “I’ve only been doing medicine a
month, you know.”
“But, my dear, surely you can diagnose a little thing like this when
you’ve been doing it a whole _month_,” said the voice.
“Oh yes,” said Freddie, “I--I daresay I can. It’s--it’s probably
something quite simple.”
William, who was beginning to enjoy the situation, felt himself lifted
up and placed in a car, taken up to the front door of the brown house,
lifted out, carried in and laid upon a sofa.
“What is it, Freddie?” said a girl’s voice, “what’s the matter with
him? Perhaps he’s been run over. He’s breathing. See--put your hand
over his heart, you’ll feel its beating.”
But at this point, partly because he could contain his curiosity no
longer and partly because his ticklishness could not endure the thought
of a hand being placed again upon his chest, William opened his eyes
and sat up. He saw three girls, one with red hair, one with black hair,
one with fair hair and a very young man. The very young man looked
relieved by William’s return to consciousness.
“Better, dear?” said the girl with red hair.
“Yes, thank you,” said William.
“What do you think it was, Freddie?” said the girl with dark hair.
“Oh--er--just a slight--er--vertigo,” said Freddie.
“Well, you’d better stay there and rest a little, dear, hadn’t you?”
said the girl, “just till you feel well enough to go home.”
[Illustration: WILLIAM OPENED HIS EYES AND SAT UP. “BETTER, DEAR?” SAID
THE GIRL WITH RED HAIR.]
“Yes,” said William speaking faintly and trying to assume the
expression of one suffering from vertigo, whatever vertigo might be.
He was much interested by his present position and did not want to
abandon it. Moreover, he was within the building that presumably held
his precious whistle and he hoped that Fate might yet deliver it into
his hands. The girl with fair hair put a cushion under his head and
the girl with dark hair went to fetch the motor rug and spread it over
him, and Freddie held his wrist and took out his watch hoping that
the action would add to his medical prestige and that no one would
notice that the watch was not going. The others gazed at him in an awed
silence.
“Is he--all right now?” said one of them.
“Oh yes,” said Freddie putting away his watch, “he ought to rest a
little before he goes out, though.”
“Shut your eyes, dear,” said the girl with the red hair, “and try to
get a little sleep before you go home. Count sheep going through a
gate.” William closed his eyes obediently, forbearing to remark that
he’d had quite enough of sheep going through gates.
Then they all sat down in the window alcove and began to talk.
“It’s really quite a jolly place, isn’t it?” said the girl with the
dark hair. “Awfully decent of Uncle Charles to say we could come out
here to picnic whenever we like.”
“Only while he’s away,” said the girl with fair hair.
“I know. He’s not exactly sociable but we can have some quite jolly
times driving down here from town while he’s away. I think it would
be an awfully good plan to have the dress rehearsal here on Thursday,
don’t you? All come down in cars and picnic and then have dinner here.
He’s got an angelic cook and he said we could feed here whenever we
like and then drive back to Town by moonlight.”
“Don’t you think we ought to mention it to him--the rehearsal, I mean?”
“Well, we might if it were anyone else but you know what he is. If
it were any other play, too, we might, but a play about the Russian
Revolution--well, it’s like a red rag to a bull to him. He’s scared
stiff of a revolution, you know. It’s a regular bee in his bonnet.”
“He said to me only last week that he never went away from home without
being quite prepared to find the communists in possession of his home
when he returned. So the poor old thing wouldn’t be able to sleep o’
nights if he thought we were rehearsing a play like that in his house.
He won’t be back till the day after so he won’t know. In any case he
doesn’t know any of the people who’re acting except us so it’s just as
well the old boy shouldn’t know anything about it.”
“Right! And it would be fun to come down here and make a real excursion
of it. This room is a bit too small, isn’t it? Freddie, go and see
whether the library would be better.”
Freddie departed and they turned to William again.
“Better, dear?” they said again.
“Yes, thank you,” said William.
“What is this vert whatever it is that Freddie says he’s got?” said the
dark-haired girl to the red-haired girl.
“Something to do with the backbone, I think,” said the red-haired girl
vaguely. “You know they call things that haven’t any backbone invert
something or other.”
“I suppose,” said the fair-haired girl to William, “that you were
walking down the road and the attack came on suddenly and you came in
here for help and succumbed before you could get help.”
“Well,” said William with a burst of inspiration, “I was coming in here
for my whistle when this vert thing came over me sudden and I fell
down.”
“For your whistle, dear?” said the fair-haired girl in a puzzled voice.
“Yes,” said William brazenly, “Mr. what’s his name? The man what lives
here?”
“Oh, Uncle Charles, Mr. Morgan.”
“Yes--well, this Mr. Morgan came out to me the other day to borrow my
whistle an’ he said he’d give it me back if I called for it to-day. He
asked if I’d just lend it him till to-day and said that it would be
all ready for me to take back to-day if I called for it.”
“But--why did he want to borrow your whistle?” said the fair-haired
girl, still puzzled.
“Jus’ to blow on. He liked it,” said William casually.
They looked at each other meaningly.
“Poor Uncle Charles,” said the dark-haired girl, “I’m afraid
he’s--well, it _sounds_ as if he were getting a little childish.”
“An’ please,” said William firmly, “I’d like to take it home now.”
“But, where is it? Did he say where it would be?”
“No, he didn’t,” said William and added hopefully, “but I s’peck it’s
somewhere about.”
“Well, we’ll try to find it for you,” said the dark-haired girl
doubtfully, “but--don’t lend him anything else, will you?”
“No,” said William fervently.
Making a complete and rapid recovery from his recent attack of vertigo,
William arose from his couch and joined in the search. They looked
round drawing-room, dining-room and library without finding the whistle.
“Well, we’ll remind him the very first time we see him,” said the
red-haired girl obligingly.
“Thanks,” said William without enthusiasm.
“And now you feel well enough to go home, don’t you? This gentleman who
is a doctor--well, _almost_ a doctor, will drive you home in the car
and explain to your mother exactly what’s wrong with you.”
But William and Freddie seemed equally anxious to avoid this
anti-climax so they finally yielded to William’s assertion that he
felt _quite_ all right now and would _much_ rather walk home, and to
Freddie’s assertion that probably the family already had a doctor,
and it would be against medical etiquette for him to go butting into
someone else’s patient and it would do the kid good to walk--get the
circulation going again after the vertigo. So Freddie returned to the
library and the three girls walked down to the gate with William and
watched him depart down the road.
“Poor little child,” said the fair-haired girl with a sigh.
“He doesn’t _look_ as if he had a diseased backbone,” said the
red-haired girl.
“No,” said the dark-haired girl, “but some of these internal things
don’t show.”
William walked jauntily. He hadn’t got his whistle, but he’d had quite
an interesting morning.
* * * * *
It was Thursday evening. William crept up the drive again and walked
round to the brown house.
The windows of library and drawing-room were lit up. The drawing-room
was apparently being used as a green room. Actors in various stages
sat on chairs or sofa, or “made up” in front of the Venetian mirror.
In the library the play was just beginning. An inhuman-looking bearded
gentleman of obviously Communist persuasions, his face deeply--perhaps
too deeply--scored by lines of cruelty and ill-temper, was sitting on
the armchair, his boots on the table. A large red flag was planted
beside him and the table was covered with a red flag. Brutal-looking
soldiers held a shrinking prisoner in front of him. Other
brutal-looking soldiers lounged about the room. The play was evidently
just beginning. Neither Freddie nor any of the three girls were in this
scene. William who had only a faint hope of recovering his whistle,
but a very real curiosity as to the dress rehearsal, stood outside in
the darkness, flattening his nose against the window. The brutal man
in the chair was overacting--banging the table and shaking his fist
and snarling and shouting--but this made it all the more thrilling
to William. Then suddenly he heard the sound of wheels coming up the
drive. Still impelled by curiosity, he crept round the house to see who
it was. Then he stood amazed. It was the man in the mauve suit. He was
descending from a taxi with his suit-case, and preparing to enter his
front door. Then a glorious inspiration came to William. The taxi drove
off but, before the owner of the house could enter his door, a small
boy whom he could not see distinctly in the darkness darted forward and
seized his arm.
“Don’t go in,” he whispered, “there’s danger.”
Mr. Morgan’s jaw dropped.
“What?” he gasped.
“I say there’s _danger_,” said the boy again rather irritably, “if you
go in that house you’ll never come out alive.”
“B--but it’s _my_ house,” said Mr. Morgan, “I’ve _often_ been in and
come out alive.”
“Come here and I’ll show you,” whispered William. “Come round here.”
[Illustration: “THERE!” SAID WILLIAM. “LOOK AT THAT!” MR. MORGAN LOOKED
AT IT, WHILE HIS MOUTH AND EYES SLOWLY OPENED AND HIS CHEEKS GREW PALE.]
He led the amazed but unprotesting householder round to the lighted
window of the library.
“There!” he said, “look at that.”
[Illustration: THERE IN MR. MORGAN’S LIBRARY, WITH HIS FEET ON THE
WRITING TABLE, SAT A BRUTAL COMMUNIST COMMANDER, WITH A PRISONER
TREMBLING BEFORE HIM IN THE HANDS OF BRUTAL COMMUNIST SOLDIERS.]
Mr. Morgan looked at it while his mouth and eyes slowly opened to an
almost incredible extent and his cheeks grew paler and paler. There in
his library, with feet on his writing table, sat a brutal communist
commander beneath the red flag. Brutal communist soldiers lounged in
all his best chairs and some poor unhappy prisoner stood trembling
before the brutal communist commander.
“W--what is it?” he gasped.
“It’s broke out,” said William succinctly, “the revolution--it’s broke
out.”
“B--but I heard nothing on the way,” gasped the poor man again, drops
of perspiration standing out on his brow.
“No, it’s been very sudden,” explained William unabashed, “quite a lot
of people don’t know anything about it yet.”
“What I always said would happen,” groaned Mr. Morgan. “On us before
we know where we are! The first blaze kindled in this very village and
my home--my _own_ house--taken for headquarters. I’ve always feared
it--always.”
“They’re having the people from the village in one by one,” said
William cheerfully. “They’ve got ’em all locked in the cellars. They’re
killin’ most of them.”
“And--and all my valuables there,” groaned Mr. Morgan, “all my money
and everything. If only I could collect some of it I could make good my
escape.”
He shuddered as the brutal communist commander within shook his fist
with a particularly brutal gesture in the shrinking prisoner’s face.
“Well,” said William slowly. “When first I started watchin’ through
this window it was open an’ they were alone--it was before they started
havin’ in the prisoner--an’ I heard them saying that they were afraid
the reg’lar army’d soon be upon them an’ the signal that the reg’lar
army was comin’ upon ’em was three blows on a whistle from the road
so as soon as they heard three blows on a whistle from the road it’d
mean that the reg’lar army was comin’ upon ’em an’ they’d have to clear
out quick--so if we could give three blows on a whistle from the road
they’d clear out jolly quick an’ you could nip in an’ get your stuff
before they come back. But--but, I’ve not got a whistle, have you?”
There was a tense silence during which William held his breath.
“I have, as it happens,” said the old gentleman excitedly, “by a
curious chance, one came into my possession the other day--but it’s in
my bedroom. How am I to get at it?”
“Where’s your bedroom?” said William shortly.
“Just above us. The window, I see, is open.”
“Where’s the whistle?” said William trying not to sound too eager.
“In the right-hand small drawer in my dressing-table. What are you
doing?”
For William with a speed and agility worthy of one of his remotest
forbears was shinning up the tree, and swinging himself from the tree
to the window sill of the room just above. He disappeared into the
room. Soon he reappeared, swung himself on to the tree and came back as
quickly as he had gone.
In his hand he held his beloved long-lost whistle.
“Brave boy!” said the old gentleman fervently, “now go down to the road
and blow three times.”
William crept away into the darkness with the whistle. He could not
refrain from chuckling as he reached the road. The old gentleman waited
and waited, but no blast came from the darkness into which William had
disappeared.
William was creeping back. He knew that it was a dangerous proceeding,
but curiosity triumphed over caution. He wanted to know what had
happened to the old gentleman and the brutal communist commander
and--everyone. Cautiously he approached the library window. The old
gentleman was sitting in his chair and the brutal communist, the
prisoner and a lot more people were sitting on other chairs and on the
floor drinking lemonade and eating sandwiches. Some one had opened the
window and William could hear what they were saying. The three girls
and Freddie were there.
“You gave me quite a fright, uncle,” the red-haired girl was saying,
“when I saw you out there in the dark. Whatever were you doing?”
“Oh--er--nothing much,” said Mr. Morgan, who had evidently not given
himself away, “just having a look round,--er--just having a look round
at the garden before I came in.”
“We thought you weren’t coming back till to-morrow.”
“I hadn’t meant to.”
“You don’t mind us having had the rehearsal here, do you?”
“Not a bit, my dear. Not a bit.”
“The real reason we didn’t tell you was that we knew you were just a
bit nervous of communists and things like that. I told the others so
that day we arranged it--the day that boy was here.”
“What boy?” said Mr. Morgan sharply.
“Oh, a poor boy we picked up on the road unconscious and nearly dead,
and Freddie examined him and found that he was suffering from some
terrible disease of the spine.”
Mr. Morgan’s sniff expressed no great respect for Freddie’s diagnosis.
“The poor child had come for his whistle.”
“What whistle?” said Mr. Morgan still more sharply.
“He said you’d borrowed a whistle from him and promised to give it back
that day. We looked all over the place for it, but couldn’t find it so
he had to go away without.... What’s the matter, Uncle?”
Mr. Morgan was staring into space, his complexion changing from pink to
a dull red. He’d _thought_ there was something familiar about that boy
though he hadn’t been able to see him plainly in the darkness. There
came to him memories of that curious snigger he’d heard as the boy
disappeared in the darkness with the whistle. The red deepened to an
apoplectic purple.
He gave a sudden furious bellow of rage.
William, chuckling to himself, crept away again through the night....