WILLIAM’S BUSY DAY
William and the Outlaws strode along the road engaged in a lusty but
inharmonious outburst of Community singing. It was the first real
day of Spring. The buds were bursting, the birds were singing (more
harmoniously than the Outlaws) and there was a fresh invigorating
breeze. The Outlaws were going fishing. They held over their shoulders
their home-made rods and they carried jam-jars with string handles.
They were going to fish the stream in the valley. The jam-jars were to
receive the minnows and other small water creatures which they might
catch; but the Outlaws, despite all the lessons of experience, were
still hopeful of catching one day a trout or even a salmon in the
stream. They were quite certain, though they had never seen any, that
mighty water beasts haunted the place.
“Under the big stones,” said William, “why, I bet there’s all sorts of
things. There’s room for great big fish right under the stones.”
“Well, once we turned ’em over an’ there weren’t any,” Douglas the
literal reminded him.
William’s faith, however, was not to be lightly shaken.
“Oh, they sort of dart about,” he explained vaguely, “by the time
you’ve turned up one stone to see if they’re there they’ve darted off
to the next an’ when you turn over the next they’ve darted back to the
first without you seein’ ’em, but they’re there all the time really.
I bet they are. An’ I bet I catch a great big whopper--a salmon or
somethin’--this afternoon.”
“Huh!” said Ginger, “I’ll give you sixpence if you catch a salmon.”
“A’ right,” said William hopefully, “an’ don’t you forget. Don’t start
pretendin’ you said tuppence same as you did about me seein’ the water
rat.”
This started a heated argument which lasted till they reached what was
known locally as the cave.
The cave lay just outside the village and was believed by some people
to be natural and by others to be part of old excavations.
The Outlaws believed it to be the present haunt of smugglers. They
believed that smugglers held nightly meetings there. The fact of its
distance from the sea did not shake their faith in this theory. As
William said, “I bet they have their meetin’s here ’cause folk won’t
suspect ’em of bein’ here. Folks keep on the look out for ’em by the
sea an’ they trick ’em by comin’ out here an’ havin’ their meetin’s
here where nobody’s on the look out for ’em.”
For the hundredth time they explored the cave, hoping to find some
proofs of the smugglers’ visits in the shape of a forgotten bottle of
rum or one of the lurid handkerchiefs which they knew to be the correct
smuggler’s headgear, or even a piece of paper containing a note of the
smugglers’ latest exploit or a map of the district. For the hundredth
time they searched in vain and ended by gazing up at a small slit in
the rock just above their heads. They had noticed it before but had not
given it serious consideration. Now William gazed at it frowningly and
said, “I bet I could get through that and I bet that it leads down a
passage an’ that,” his imagination as ever running away with him, “an’
that at the end of a passage there’s a big place where they hold their
meetin’s an’ I bet they’re there now--_all_ of ’em--holdin’ a meetin’.”
He stood on tiptoe and put his ear to the aperture. “Yes,” he said, “I
b’lieve I can hear ’em talkin’.”
“Oh, come on,” said Douglas, who was not of an imaginative turn of
mind. “I want to catch some minnows an’ I bet there aren’t any
smugglers there, anyway.”
William was annoyed by this interruption, but arguing strenuously,
proving the presence of smugglers in the cave to his own entire
satisfaction, he led his band out of the cave and on to the high road
again.
The subject of smugglers soon languished. They were passing a large
barrack-like house which had been in the process of building for the
best part of a year. It was finished at last. Curtains now hung at the
windows and there were signs of habitation--a line of clothes flapping
in the breeze in the back garden and the fleeting glimpse of a woman at
one of the windows. A very high wall surrounded the garden.
“Wonder what it is,” said Henry speculatively, “looks to me like a
prison.”
“P’raps it’s a lunatic asylum,” said Ginger, “why’s it got a high wall
round it like that if it’s not a lunatic asylum?”
Discussing the matter animatedly they wandered on to the stream.
“Now catch your salmon,” challenged Ginger.
“All right. I bet I will,” said William doggedly.
For a short time they fished in silence.
Then William gave a cry of triumph. His hook had caught something
beneath one of the big stones.
“There!” he said, “I’ve got one. I _told_ you so.”
“Bet it’s not a salmon,” said Ginger but with a certain excitement in
his voice.
“I bet it is,” said William, “if it’s not a salmon I--I----” with a
sudden burst of inspiration, “I’ll go through that hole in the cave--so
there!”
He tugged harder.
His “catch” came out.
It was an old boot.
* * * * *
They escorted him back to the cave. The hole looked far too small
for one of William’s solid bulk. They stood below and stared at it
speculatively.
“You’ve _got_ to,” said Ginger, “you said you would.”
“Oh, all right,” said William with a swagger which was far from
expressing his real feelings, “I bet I can easy get through that little
hole an’ I bet I’ll find a big place full of smugglers or smuggled
stuff inside. Give me a shove ... that’s it.... _Oo_,” irritably,
“don’t shove so _hard_.... You nearly pushed my head off my neck....
Go on--go on.... Oo, I say, I’m getting through quite easy ... it’s
all dark ... it’s a sort of passage....” William had miraculously
scraped himself through the small aperture. Two large boots was all of
him which was now visible to the Outlaws. Those, too, disappeared, as
William began to crawl down the passage. It was mercifully a little
wider after the actual opening. His voice reached them faintly.
“It’s all dark ... it’s like a little tunnel.... I’m going right to the
end to see what’s there ... well, anyway if that wasn’t a salmon I bet
there _are_ salmons there and I bet I’ll catch one too one of these
days, and----”
His voice died away in the distance. They waited rather anxiously....
They heard nothing and saw nothing more. William seemed to have been
completely swallowed up by the rock.
* * * * *
William slowly and painfully (for the aperture was so small that
occasionally it grazed his back and head) travelled along what was
little more than a fissure in the rock. The spirit of adventure was
high in him. He was longing to come upon a cave full of swarthy men
with coloured handkerchiefs tied round their heads and gold ear-rings,
quaffing goblets of smuggled rum or unloading bales of smuggled silk.
Occasionally he stopped and listened for the sound of deep-throated
oaths or whispers or smugglers’ songs. Once or twice he was almost
sure he heard them. He crawled on and on and on and into a curtain of
undergrowth and out into a field. He stopped and looked around him. He
was in the field behind the cave. The curtain of undergrowth completely
concealed the little hole from which he had emerged. He was partly
relieved and partly disappointed. It was rather nice to be out in the
open air again (the tunnel had had a very earthy taste); on the other
hand he had hoped for more adventures than it had afforded. But he
consoled himself by telling himself that they might still exist. He’d
explore that passage more thoroughly some other time--there might be
a passage opening off it leading to the smugglers’ cave--and meantime
it had given him quite a satisfactory thrill. He’d never really
thought he could get through that little hole. And it had given him a
secret. The knowledge that that little tunnel led out into the field
was very thrilling. He looked around him again. Within a few yards
from him was the wall surrounding the house about which they had just
been making surmises. Was it a prison, or an asylum or--possibly--a
Bolshevist headquarters? William looked at it curiously. He longed
to know. He noticed a small door in the wall standing open. He went
up to it and peeped inside. It gave on to a paved yard which was
empty. The temptation was too strong for William. Very cautiously he
entered. Still he couldn’t see anyone about. A door--a kitchen door
apparently--stood open. Still very cautiously William approached. He
decided to say that he’d lost his way should anyone accost him. He was
dimly aware that his appearance after his passage through the bowels of
the earth was not such as to inspire confidence. Yet his curiosity and
the suggestion of adventure which their surmises had thrown over the
house was an irresistible magnet. Within the open door was a kitchen
where a boy, about William’s size and height and not unlike William,
stood at a table wearing blue overalls and polishing silver.
They stared at each other. Then William said, “Hello.”
The boy was evidently ready to be friendly. He replied “Hello.”
Again they stared at each other in silence. This time it was the boy
who broke the silence.
“What’ve you come for?” he said in a tone of weary boredom. “You the
butcher’s boy or the baker’s boy or somethin’? Only came in this
mornin’ so I don’ know who’s what yet. P’raps you’re the milk boy?”
“No, I’m not,” said William.
“Beggin’?” said the boy.
“No,” said William.
But the boy’s tone was friendly so William cautiously entered the
kitchen and began to watch him. The boy was cleaning silver with a
paste which he made by the highly interesting process of spitting into
a powder. William watched, absorbed. He longed to assist.
“You live here?” he said ingratiatingly to the boy.
“Naw,” said the boy laconically. “House boy. Only came to-day,” and
added dispassionately. “Rotten place.”
“Is it a prison?” said William with interest.
The boy seemed to resent the question.
“Prison yourself,” he said with spirit.
“A lunatic asylum, then?” said William.
This seemed to sting the boy yet further.
“Garn,” he said pugnaciously, “Oo’re yer callin’ a lunatic asylum?”
“I din’ mean _you_,” said William pacifically. “P’raps it’s a place
where they make plots.”
The boy relapsed into boredom. “I dunno what they make,” he said. “Only
came this mornin’. _They’ve_ gorn off to ’is _aunt_ but the other
one--_she’s_ still here, you bet, a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’
at her bell, an’ givin’ no one peace nowheres.” He warmed to his theme.
“I wouldn’ve come if I’d knowed. House-maid went off yesterday wivout
notice. _She’d_ ’ad as much as she wanted an’ only the ole cook--well
_I’m_, not used to places wiv only a ole cook ’sides meself an’ _her_
upstairs a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ at her bell an’ givin’ no one no peace
nowheres an’ the other two off to their aunt’s. No place fit to call a
place _I_ don’t call it.” He spat viciously into his powder. “Yus, an’
anyone can have my job.”
“Can I?” said William eagerly.
During the last few minutes a longing to make paste by spitting into
a powder and then to clean silver with it had grown in William’s soul
till it was a consuming passion.
The boy looked at him in surprise and suspicion, not sure whether the
question was intended as an insult.
“What _you_ doin’ an’ where _you_ come from?” he demanded aggressively.
“Been fishin’,” said William, “an’ I jolly nearly caught a salmon.”
The boy looked out of the window. It was still the first real day of
Spring.
“Crumbs!” he said enviously, “_fishin’_.” He gazed with distaste at his
work, “an me muckin’ about with this ’ere.”
“Well,” suggested William simply, “you go out an’ fish an’ I’ll go on
muckin’ about with that.”
The boy stared at him again first in pure amazement and finally with
speculation.
“Yus,” he said at last, “an’ you pinch my screw. Not _much_!”
“No, I won’t,” said William with great emphasis. “I won’t. Honest I
won’t. I’ll give it you. I don’t want it. I only want,” again he gazed
enviously at the boy’s engaging pastime, “I only want to clean silver
same as you’re doin’.”
“Then there’s the car to clean with the ’ose-pipe.”
William’s eyes gleamed.
“I bet I can do that,” he said, “an’ what after that?”
“Dunno,” said the boy, “that’s all they told me. The ole cook’ll tell
you what to do next. I specks,” optimistically, “she won’t notice you
not bein’ me with me only comin’ this mornin’ an’ her run off her feet
what with _her_ ringin’ her bell all the time an’ givin’ no one no
peace an’ _them_ bein’ away. Anyway,” he ended defiantly, “I don’t care
if she does. It ain’t the sort of place _I’ve_ bin used to an’ for two
pins I’d tell ’em so.”
He took a length of string from his pocket, a pin from a pincushion
which hung by the fire-place, a jam jar from a cupboard, then looked
uncertainly at William.
“I c’n find a stick down there by the stream,” he said, “an’ I won’t
stay long. I bet I’ll be back before that ole cook comes down from
_her_ an’--well, you put these here on an’ try’n look like me an’--I
won’t be long.”
He slipped off his overalls and disappeared into the sunshine. William
heard him run across the paved yard and close the door cautiously
behind him. Then evidently he felt safe. There came the sound of his
whistling as he ran across the field.
William put on the overalls and gave himself up to his enthralling
task. It was every bit as thrilling as he’d thought it would be. He
spat and mixed and rubbed and spat and mixed and rubbed in blissful
absorption.... He got the powder all over his face and hair and hands
and overalls. Then he heard the sound of someone coming downstairs. He
bent his head low over his work. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a
large hot-looking woman enter, wearing an apron and a print dress.
“Gosh!” she exclaimed as though in despair. “Gosh! of all the _places_!”
At that minute a bell rang loudly and with a groan she turned and went
from the room again. William went on with his task of cleaning the
silver. The novelty of the process was wearing off and he was beginning
to feel rather tired of it. He amused himself by tracing patterns upon
the surface of the silver with the paste he had manufactured. He took
a lot of trouble making a funny face upon the teapot which fortunately
had a plain surface.
Then the large woman came down again. She entered the kitchen groaning
and saying “Oh, lor!” and she was summoned upstairs again at once by an
imperious peal of the bell. After a few minutes she came down again,
still groaning and saying, “Oh, lor!... First she wants hot milk an’
then she wants cold milk an’ then she wants beef tea an’ then the Lord
only knows what she wants ... first one thing an’ then another.... I’ve
fair had enough of it an’ _them_ goin’ off to their aunt’s an’ that
Ellen ’oppin’ it an’ _you_ not much help to a body, are you?” she asked
sarcastically. Then she looked at his face and screamed. “My Gosh!...
What’s ’appened to you?”
“Me?” said William blankly.
“Yes. Your face as gone an’ changed since jus’ a few minutes ago.
What’s ’appened to it?”
“Nothin’,” said William.
“Well, it’s my nerves, then,” she said shrilly. “I’m startin’ seein’
things wrong. An’ no wonder.... Well, I’ve ’ad enough of it, I ’ave
an’ I’m goin’ ’ome ... _now_ ... first that Ellen ’oppin’ it an’ then
_them_ goin’ off an’ then _’er_ badgerin’ the life out of me. An’ then
your face changin’ before me very eyes. Me nervous system’s wore out,
that’s what it is, an’ I’ve ’ad enough of it. When people’s faces start
changin’ under me very eyes it shows I needs a change an’ I’m goin’ to
’ave one. That Ellen ain’t the only one what can ’op it. _’Er_ an’ ’er
bell-ringing--an’--an’ _you_ an’ your face-changin’! ’Taint no place
for a respectable woman. _You_ can ’ave a taste of waitin’ on ’er an’
you can tell _them_ I’ve gone an’ why--you an’ your face!”
During this tirade she had divested herself of her apron and clothed
herself in her coat and hat. She stood now and looked at William for a
minute in scornful silence. Then her glance wandered to his operations.
“Ugh!” she said in disgust, “you nasty little messer, you! Call
yourself a house boy--changin’ your face every minute. What d’you think
you are? A blinkin’ cornelian? An’ messin’ about like that. What d’you
think you’re doin’? Distemperin’ the silver or cleanin’ it?”
At this moment came another irascible peal at the bell.
“Listen!” said the fat woman. “’Ark at ’er! Well, I’m orf. I’m fair
finished, I am. An’ you can go or stay _has_ you please! Serve ’em
right to come ’ome an’ find us _hall_ gone. Serve _’er_ right if you
went up to _’er_ an’ did a bit of face changin’ at ’er just to scare
’er same as you did me. Do ’er good. Drat ’er--an’ all of you.”
She went out of the kitchen and slammed the back door. Then she went
out of the paved yard and slammed the door. Then she went across the
field and out of the field into the road and slammed the gate.
William stood and looked about him. A bell rang again with vicious
intensity and he realised with mingled excitement and apprehension that
he and the mysterious ringer were the only occupants of the house. The
ringing went on and on and on.
William stood beneath the bell-dial and watched the blue disc waggle
with dispassionate interest. The little blue disc was labelled “Miss
Pilliter.” Then he bethought himself of his next duty. It was cleaning
the car with the hose. His spirits rose at the prospect.
The bell was still ringing wildly, furiously, hysterically, but its
ringing did not trouble William. He went out into the yard to find the
car. It was in the garage and just near it was a hose pipe.
William, much thrilled by this discovery, began to experiment with
the hose pipe. He found a tap by which it could be turned off and
on, by which it could be made to play fiercely or languidly. William
experimented with this for some time. It was even more fascinating
than the silver cleaning. There was a small leak near the nozzle which
formed a little fountain. William cleaned the car by playing on to it
wildly and at random, making enthralling water snakes and serpents by
writhing the pipe to and fro. He deluged the car for about a quarter of
an hour in a state of pure ecstasy.... The bell could still be heard
ringing in the house, but William heeded it not. He was engrossed heart
and mind and soul in his manipulation of the hose pipe. At the end of
the quarter of the hour he laid down the pipe and went to examine the
car. He had performed his task rather too thoroughly. Not only was the
car dripping outside; it was also dripping inside. There were pools of
water on the floor at the back and on the front. There were pools on
all the seats. Too late William realised that he should have tempered
thoroughness with discretion. Still, he thought optimistically, it
would dry in time. His gaze wandered round. It might be a good plan to
clean the walls of the garage while he was about it. They looked pretty
dirty.
He turned the hose on to them. That was almost more fascinating
than cleaning the car. The water bounced back at you from the wall
unexpectedly and delightfully. He could sluice it round and round the
wall in patterns. He could make a mammoth fountain of it by pointing
it straight at the ceiling. After some minutes of this enthralling
occupation he turned his attention to the tap which regulated the
flow and began to experiment with that. Laying the hose pipe flat on
the floor he turned the tap in one direction till the flow was a mere
trickle, then turned it in the other till it was a torrent. The torrent
was more thrilling than the trickle but it was also more unmanageable.
So he tried to turn the tap down again and found that he couldn’t. It
had stuck. He wrestled with it, but in vain. The torrent continued to
discharge itself with unabated violence.
William was slightly dismayed by the discovery. He looked round for a
hammer or some other implement to apply to the recalcitrant tap, but
saw none. He decided to go back to the kitchen and look for one there.
He dripped his way across to the kitchen and there looked about him.
The bell was still ringing violently. The blue disc was still wobbling
hysterically. It occurred to William suddenly that as sole staff of the
house it was perhaps his duty to answer the bell. So he dripped his way
upstairs. The blue disc had been marked 6. Outside the door marked six
he stopped a minute, then opened the door and entered. A woman wearing
an expression of suffering and a very purple dress lay moaning on the
sofa. The continued ringing of the bell was explained by a large book
which she had propped up against it in such a way as to keep the button
pressed.
She opened her eyes and looked balefully at William.
“I’ve been ringing that bell,” she said viciously, “for a whole hour
without anyone coming to answer it. I’ve had three separate fits of
hysterics. I feel so ill that I can’t speak. I shall claim damages
from Dr. Morlan. Never, _never_, NEVER have I been treated like this
before. Here I come--a quivering victim of nerves, _riddled_ by
neurasthenia--come here to be nursed back to health and strength by
Dr. Morlan, and first of all off he goes to some aunt or other, then
off goes the housemaid. And I shall report that cook to Dr. Morlan the
minute he returns, the _minute_ he returns. I’ll sue her for damages.
I’ll sue the whole lot of you for damages; I’m going to have hysterics
again.”
She had them, and William watched with calm interest and enjoyment. It
was even more diverting than the silver cleaning and the hose pipe.
When she’d finished she sat up and wiped her eyes.
“Why don’t you _do_ something?” she said irritably to William.
“All right--what?” said William obligingly, but rather sorry that the
entertainment had come to an end.
“Fetch the cook,” snapped the lady, “ask her how she _dare_ ignore my
bell for hours and _hours_ and HOURS. Tell her I’m going to sue her for
damages. Tell her----”
“She’s gone,” said William.
“_Gone!_” screamed the lady. “Gone where?”
“Gone off,” said William; “she said she was fair finished an’ went off.”
“When’s she coming back? I’m in a most critical state of health. All
this neglect and confusion will be. the _death_ of my nervous system.
When’s she coming back?”
“Never,” said William. “She’s gone off for good. She said _her_ nervous
system was wore out an’ went off--for good.”
“Her nervous system indeed,” said the lady, stung by the cook’s
presumption in having a nervous system. “What’s anyone’s nervous system
compared with mine? Who’s in charge of the staff, then?”
“Me,” said William simply. “I’m all there is left of it.”
He was rewarded by an even finer display of hysterics than the one
before. He sat and watched this one, too, with critical enjoyment as
one might watch a firework display or an exhibition of conjuring. His
attitude seemed to irate her. She recovered suddenly and launched into
another tirade.
“Here I come,” she said, “as paying guest to be nursed back to health
and strength from a state of neurasthenic prostration, and find myself
left to the mercies of a common house-boy, a nasty, common, low, little
rapscallion like you--find myself literally _murdered_ by neglect, but
I’ll sue you for damages, the whole _lot_ of you--the doctor and the
housemaid and the cook and you--you nasty little--_monkey_ ... and I’ll
have you all hung for murder.”
She burst into tears again and William continued to watch her, not
at all stung by her reflections on his personal appearance and social
standing. He was hoping that the sobbing would lead to another fit of
hysterics. It didn’t, however. She dried her tears suddenly and sat up.
“It’s more than an hour and a half,” she said pathetically, “since I
had any nourishment at all. The effect on my nervous system will be
serious. My nerves are in such a condition that I must have nourishment
every hour, every hour at least. Go and get me a glass of milk at once,
boy.”
William obligingly went downstairs and looked for some milk. He
couldn’t find any. At last he came upon a bowl of some milky-looking
liquid. Much relieved he filled a glass with it and took it upstairs
to the golden-haired lady. She received it with a suffering expression
and closing her eyes took a dainty sip. Then her suffering expression
changed to one of fury and she flung the glass of liquid at William’s
head. It missed William’s head and emptied itself over a Venus de Milo
by the door, the glass, miraculously unbroken, encaging the beauty’s
head and shoulders. William watched this phenomenon with delight.
“You little fiend!” screamed the lady, “it’s _starch_!”
“Starch,” said William. “Fancy! An’ it looked jus’ like milk. But I
say, it’s funny about that glass stayin’ on the stachoo like that. I
bet you couldn’t have done that if you’d tried!”
The lady had returned to her expression of patient suffering. She spoke
with closed eyes and in a voice so faint that William could hardly hear
it.
“I must have some nourishment at once. I’ve had
nothing--_nothing_--since my breakfast at nine and now it’s nearly
eleven. And for my breakfast I only had a few eggs. Go and make me some
cocoa at once ... at once.”
William went downstairs again and looked for some cocoa. He found a
cupboard with various tins and in one tin he found a brown powder
which might quite well be cocoa, though there was no label on it.
Ever hopeful, he mixed some with water in a cup and took it up to the
lady. Again she assumed her suffering expression, closed her eyes and
sipped it daintily. Again her suffering expression changed to one of
fury, again she flung the cup at William and again she missed him. This
time the cup hit a bust of William Shakespeare. Though the impact broke
the cup the bottom of it rested hat-wise at a rakish angle upon the
immortal bard’s head, giving him a rather debauched appearance while
the dark liquid streamed down his smug countenance.
“It’s knife powder,” screamed the lady hysterically. “Oh, you murderous
little _brute_. It’s knife powder! This will be the death of me. I’ll
never get over this as long as I live--never, _never_, NEVER!”
William stood expectant awaiting the inevitable attack of hysterics.
But it did not come. The lady’s eyes had wandered to the window and
there they stayed, growing wider and wider and rounder and rounder and
wider, while her mouth slowly opened to its fullest extent. She pointed
with a trembling hand.
“Look!” she said. “The river’s flooding.”
William looked. The part of the garden which could be seen from the
window was completely under water. Then--and not till then--did William
remember the hose pipe which he had left playing at full force in the
back yard. He gazed in silent horror.
“I always _said_ so,” panted the lady hysterically, “I _said_ so. I
said so to Dr. Morlan. I said ‘I couldn’t live in a house in a valley.
There’d be floods and my nerves couldn’t stand them,’ and he said that
the river couldn’t possibly flood this house and it can and I might
have known he was lying and oh my poor nerves, what shall I do, what
_shall_ I do?”
William gazed around the room as if in search of inspiration. He met
the gaze of Venus de Milo soaked in starch and leering through her
enclosing glass; he met the gaze of William Shakespeare soaked in
water and knife powder and wearing his broken cup jauntily. Neither
afforded him inspiration.
“It rises as I watch it--inch by inch,” shrilled the lady, “_inch_ by
_inch_! It’s terrible ... we’re marooned.... Oh, it’s horrible. There
isn’t even a life belt in the house.”
William was conscious of a great relief at her explanation of the
spreading sheet of water. It would for the present at any rate divert
guilt from him.
“Yes,” he agreed looking out with her upon the water-covered garden.
“That’s what I bet it is--it’s the river rising.”
“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” she screamed, “you must have known. Why,
now I come to think of it, you were dripping wet when you first came
into the room.”
“Well,” said William with a burst of inspiration, “I din’ want to give
you a sudden shock--what I thought it might give you tellin’ you you
was macarooned----”
“Oh, don’t _talk_,” she said. “Go down at once and see if you can find
any hope of rescue.”
William went downstairs again. He waded out to the hose pipe and
wrestled again with the tap beneath the gushing water. In vain. He
waded into a neighbouring shed and found three of four panic-stricken
hens. He captured two and took them up to the lady’s room, flinging
them in carelessly.
“Rescued ’em,” he said with quiet pride, and then went down for the
others. The mingled sounds of the squeaking and terrified flight of
hens and the lady’s screams pursued him down the stairs. He caught the
other two hens and brought them up, too, carelessly flinging them in
to join the chaos. Then he went down for further investigations. In
another shed he found a puppy who had climbed into a box to escape the
water and there was engaged in trying to catch a spider on the wall.
William rescued the puppy, and took it upstairs to join the lady’s
menagerie.
“Rescued this, too,” he said as he deposited it inside.
It promptly began to chase the hens. There ensued a scene of wild
confusion as the hens, with piercing squawks, flew over chairs and
tables, pursued by the puppy.
Even the lady seemed to feel that hysterics would have no chance
of competing with this uproar, so she began to chase the puppy.
William returned to the deluge in which he was beginning to find an
irresistible fascination. He had read a story not long ago in which
a flood figured largely and in which the hero had rescued children
and animals from the passing torrent and had taken them to a place of
safety at the top of a house. In William’s mind the law of association
was a strong one. As he gazed upon the surging stream he became the
rescuer hero of the story and began to look round for something else
to rescue. There appeared to be no more live stock to be rescued from
the sheds. He waded down to the road, which also was now partially
under water, and looked up and down. A small pig had wandered out of a
neighbouring farm and was standing contemplating the flooded road with
interest and surprise. The hero rescuer of William’s story had rescued
a pig. Without a moment’s hesitation William waded up to the pig,
seized it firmly round the middle before it could escape, and staggered
through the deluge with it and into the house. Though small it showed
more resistance than William had expected. It wriggled and squeaked and
kicked in all directions. Panting, William staggered upstairs with it.
He flung open the door and deposited the pig on the threshold.
“Here’s somethin’ else I’ve rescued,” he said proudly.
The lady was showing unexpected capabilities in dealing with the
situation. She had taken the china out of the china cabinet and had put
the hens into it. They were staring through the glass doors in stupid
amazement and one of them had just complicated matters by laying an
egg.
The lady was just disputing the possession of a table runner with the
spirited puppy who thought she was having a game with it. The puppy
had already completely dismembered a hassock, a mat and two cushions.
Traces of them lay about the room. Venus and Shakespeare, still wearing
their rakish head adornments, were gazing at the scene through runnels
of starch and liquid knife-powder. Miss Polliter received the new
refugee in a business-like fashion. She had evidently finally decided
that this was no occasion for the display of nervous systems. She
seemed, in fact, exhilarated and stimulated.
[Illustration: “HERE’S SOMETHIN’ ELSE I’VE RESCUED,” SAID WILLIAM,
PROUDLY.]
“Put him down here,” she said. “That’s quite right, my boy. Go and
rescue anything else you can. This is a noble work, indeed.”
The puppy charged the pig and the pig charged the china cabinet. There
came the sound of the breaking of glass. The egg rolled out and the
puppy fell upon it with wild delight. The hens began to fly about the
room in panic again.
[Illustration: “PUT HIM DOWN HERE,” MISS POLLITER SAID. “THIS IS A
NOBLE WORK, INDEED.”]
William hastily shut the door and went downstairs to continue his work
of rescuing. He had by this time almost persuaded himself that the
flood was of natural origin and that he was performing heroic deeds
of valour in rescuing its victims. Again he looked up and down the
road. He felt that he had done his duty by the animal creation and
he would have welcomed a rescuable human being. Suddenly he saw two
infants from the Infant School coming hand in hand down the road. They
stared in amazement at the flood that barred their progress. Then
with a touching faith in their power over the forces of nature and an
innate love of paddling, they walked serenely into the midst of the
stream. When they reached the middle, however, panic overcame them. The
smaller one sat down and roared and the larger one stood on tip-toe
and screamed. William at once plunged into the stream and “rescued”
them. They were stalwart infants but he managed to get one tucked
under each arm and carried them roaring lustily and dripping copiously
up to Miss Polliter’s room. Again Miss Polliter had restored as if
by magic a certain amount of order. She had cooped up the hens by an
ingenious arrangement of the fireguard and she had put the pig in the
coal-scuttle, leaving him an air-hole through which he was determinedly
squeezing his snout as if in the hope of ultimately squeezing the rest
of him. The puppy had dealt thoroughly with the table runner while Miss
Polliter was engaged on the hens and pig, and was now seeing whether he
could pull down window curtains or not.
William deposited his dripping, roaring infants.
“Some more I’ve rescued,” he said succinctly.
Miss Polliter turned to him a face which was bright with interest and
enterprise.
“Splendid, dear boy,” she said happily, “splendid.... I’ll soon have
them warmed and dried--or wait--is the flood rising?”
William said it was.
“Well, then, the best thing would be to go to the very top of the house
where we shall be safer than here!”
Determinedly she picked up the infants, went out on to the landing
and mounted the attic stairs. William followed holding the puppy who
managed during the journey to tear off and (presumably--as they were
never seen again) swallow his pocket flap and three buttons from his
coat. Then Miss Polliter returned for the pig and William followed with
a hen. The pig was very recalcitrant and Miss Polliter said “Naughty,”
to him quite sternly once or twice. Then they returned for the other
hens. One hen escaped and in the intoxication of sudden liberty flew
squawking loudly out of a skylight.
In the attic bedroom where Miss Polliter now assembled her little
company of refugees she lit the gas fire and started her great task of
organisation.
“I’ll dry these dear children first,” she said. “Now go down, dear boy,
and see if there is anyone else in need of your aid.”
William went downstairs slowly. Something of his rapture and excitement
was leaving him. Cold reality was placing its icy grip upon his heart.
He began to wonder what would happen to him when they discovered the
nature and cause of his “flood,” and whether the state to which the
refugees were reducing the house would also be laid to his charge. He
waded out to the hose pipe and had another fruitless struggle with the
tap. Then he looked despondently up and down the road. The “flood” was
spreading visibly, but there was no one in sight. He returned slowly
and thoughtfully to Miss Polliter. Miss Polliter looked brisk and
happy. She had apparently forgotten both her nervous system and its
need of perpetual nourishment. She was having a game with the infants
who were now partially dried and crowing with delight. She had managed
to drive the hens into a corner of the room and had secured them there
by a chest of drawers. She had tied the pig by a piece of string to the
washhand-stand and it was now lying down quite placidly, engaged in
eating the carpet. One hen had escaped from its “coop” and was running
round a table pursued by or pursuing (it was impossible to say which)
the puppy. Miss Polliter was playing pat-a-cake with the drying infants
and seemed to be enjoying it as much as the infants. She greeted
William gaily.
“Don’t look so sad, dear boy,” she said. “I think that even though the
river continues to rise all night we shall be safe here--quite safe
here--and I daresay you can find something for these dear children to
eat when they get hungry. I don’t need anything. I’m quite all right.
I can easily go without anything till morning. Now do one more thing
for me, dear boy. Go down to my room on the lower floor and see the
time. Dr. Morlan said that he would be home by six.”
Still more slowly, still more thoughtfully, William descended to her
room on the lower floor and saw the time. It was five minutes to
six. Dr. Morlan might arrive then at any minute. William considered
the situation from every angle. To depart now as unostentatiously
as possible seemed to him a far, far better thing than to wait and
face Dr. Morlan’s wrath. The hose pipe was damaged, the garden was
flooded, Miss Polliter’s room was like a battlefield after a battle,
strange infants and a pig were disporting themselves about the house, a
destructive puppy had wreaked its will upon every cushion and curtain
and chair within reach (it had found that it could pull down window
curtains).
William very quietly slipped out of the front door and crept down the
drive. The flood seemed to be concentrating itself upon the back of the
house. The front was still more or less dry. William crept across the
field to the stile that led to the main road. Here his progress was
barred by a group of three who stood talking by the stile. There was a
tall pompous-looking man with a beard, a small woman and an elderly man.
“Oh, yes, we’ve quite settled in now,” the tall, pompous-looking man
was saying. “We’ve got a resident patient with us--a Miss Polliter who
is a chronic nervous case. We are rather uneasy at having to leave
her all to-day with only the cook and house-boy. Unfortunately our
housemaid left us suddenly yesterday but we trust that things will have
gone all right. An aunt of mine was reported to be seriously ill and
we had to hurry to her to be in time but unfortunately--ahem--I mean
fortunately--we found that she had taken a turn for the better so we
returned as soon as we could.”
“Of course,” said the woman, “we’d have been back _ever_ so much
earlier if it hadn’t been for that affair at the cave.”
“Oh, yes,” said the doctor, “very tragic affair, very tragic indeed.
Some poor boy ... there were a lot of people there trying to recover
the body and they wanted to have a doctor in the unlikely case of the
boy being alive when they got him out. I assured them that it was very
unlikely that he would be alive and that I had to get back to my own
patient ... and it would only be a matter of a few minutes to send for
me.... The poor mother was distraught.”
“What had happened?” said the other man.
“Some rash child had crawled into an opening in the rock and had not
come out. He must have been suffocated. His friends waited for over an
hour before they notified the parents and I am afraid that it is too
late now. They have repeatedly called to him but there is no response.
As I told them, there are frequently poisonous gases in the fissures
of the rock and the poor child must have succumbed to them. So far all
attempts to recover the body have been unsuccessful. They have just
sent for men with pickaxes.”
William’s heart was sinking lower and lower. Crumbs! He’d quite
forgotten the cave part of it. Crumbs! he’d quite forgotten that he’d
left the Outlaws in the cave waiting for him. The house-boy and the
cook and the silver cleaning and the hose-pipe and the flood and Miss
Polliter and the hens and the pig and the puppy and the infants had
completely driven the cave and the Outlaws out of his head. Crumbs,
wouldn’t everybody be mad!
For William had learnt by experience that with a strange perversity
parents who had mourned their children as lost or dead are generally
for some reason best known to themselves intensely irritated to find
that they have been alive and well and near them all the time. William
had little hopes of being received by his parents with the joy and
affection that should be given to one miraculously restored to them
from the fissures of the rock. And just as he stood pondering his next
step the doctor turned and saw him. He stared at him for a few minutes,
then said, “Do you want me, my boy? Anything wrong? You’re the new
house-boy, aren’t you?”
William realised that he was still wearing the overalls which the
house-boy had given him. He gaped at the doctor and blinked nervously,
wondering whether it wouldn’t be wiser to be the new house-boy as the
doctor evidently thought he was. The doctor turned to his wife.
“Er--it is the new house-boy, dear, isn’t it?” he said.
“I _think_ so,” said his wife doubtfully. “He only came this morning,
you know, and Cook engaged him, and I hardly had time to look at him,
but I think he is.... Yes, he’s wearing our overalls. What’s your name,
boy?”
William was on the point of saying “William Brown,” then stopped
himself. He mustn’t be William Brown. William Brown was presumably lost
in the bowels of the earth. And he didn’t know the house-boy’s name. So
he gaped again and said:
“I don’t know.”
There came a gleam into the doctor’s eye.
“What do you mean, my boy,” he said. “Do you mean that you’ve lost your
memory?”
“Yes,” said William, relieved at the simplicity of the explanation, and
the fact that it relieved him of all further responsibility. “Yes, I’ve
lost my memory.”
“Do you mean you don’t remember anything?” said the doctor sharply.
“Yes,” said William happily, “I don’ remember anythin’.”
“Not where you live or anything?”
“No,” said William very firmly, “not where I live nor anything.”
The other man, feeling evidently that he could contribute little
illumination to the problem, moved on, leaving the doctor and his wife
staring at William. They held a whispered consultation. Then the doctor
turned to William and said suddenly:
“Frank Simpkins ... does that suggest anything to you?”
“No,” said William with perfect truth.
“Doesn’t know his own name,” whispered the doctor, then again sharply:
“Acacia Cottage ... does that convey anything to you?”
“No,” said William again with perfect truth.
The doctor turned to his wife.
“No memory of his name or home,” he commented. “I’ve always wanted to
study a case of this sort at close quarters. Now, my good boy, come
back home with me.”
But William didn’t want to go back home with him. He didn’t want to
return to the house which still bore traces of his recent habitation
and where his “flood” presumably still raged. He was just contemplating
precipitate flight when a woman came hurrying along the road. The
doctor’s wife seemed to recognise her. She whispered to the doctor. The
doctor turned to William.
“You know this woman, my boy, don’t you?”
“No,” said William, “I’ve never seen her before.”
The doctor looked pleased. “Doesn’t remember his own mother,” he said
to his wife: “quite an interesting case.”
The woman approached them aggressively. The doctor stepped in front of
William.
“Come after my boy,” she said, “Sayin’ ’is hours ended at five an’ then
keepin’ ’im till now! I’ll ’ave the lor on you, I will. Where is ’e?”
“Prepare yourself, my good woman,” said the doctor, “for a slight
shock. Your son has temporarily--only temporarily, we trust--lost his
memory.”
She screamed.
[Illustration: “HERE IS YOUR SON,” SAID THE DOCTOR POMPOUSLY.]
[Illustration: “’IM?” SHRIEKED THE WOMAN. “NEVER SEED ’IM BEFORE.”]
“What’ve you bin doin’ of to ’im?” she said indignantly, “’e ’adn’t
lorst it when ’e left ’ome this mornin’. Where is ’e, anyway?”
Silently the doctor stepped on to one side, revealing William.
“Here he is,” he said pompously.
“’Im?” she shrilled. “Never seed ’im before.”
“She’s lost hers too,” said William without flinching.
They stared at each other for some seconds in silence. Then William
saw the real house boy coming along the road and spoke with the
hopelessness of one who surrenders himself to fate to do its worst with.
“Here he is.”
The real original house boy was stepping blithely down the road, an
extemporised rod over his shoulders, swinging precariously a jar full
of minnows. He was evidently ignorant of the flight of time. He saw
William first and called out cheerfully:
“I say, I’ve not been long, have I? Is it all right?”
Then he saw the others and the smile dropped from his face. His mother
darted to him protectively.
“Oh, my pore, blessed child,” she said, “what have they bin a-doin’ to
you--keepin’ you hours an’ hours after your time an’ losin’ your pore
memory an’ you your pore widowed mother’s only child.... Come home with
your mother, then, an’ she’ll take care of you and we’ll have the lor
on them, we will.”
The boy looked from one to another bewildered, then realising from his
mother’s tones that he had been badly treated he burst into tears and
was led away by his consoling parent.
The doctor and his wife turned to William for an explanation. Their
expressions showed considerably less friendliness than they had shown
before. William looked about him desperately. Even escape seemed
impossible. He felt that he would have welcomed any interruption. When,
however, he saw Miss Polliter running towards them down the field he
felt that he would have chosen some other interruption than that.
“Oh, there you are!” panted Miss Polliter. “Such _dreadful_ things have
happened. Oh, there’s the dear boy. I don’t know what we should have
done without him ... rescuing children and animals at the risk, I’m
sure, of his own dear life. I must give you just a little present.” She
handed him a half crown which William pocketed gratefully.
“But, my dear Miss Polliter,” said the doctor, deeply concerned, “you
should be resting in your room. You should never run like that in your
state of nervous exhaustion ... never.”
“Oh, I’m quite well now,” said Miss Polliter.
“Well?” said the doctor amazed and horrified at the idea.
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Polliter, “I feel ever so well. The flood’s cured
me.”
“The flood?” said the doctor still more amazed and still more horrified.
“Oh yes. The river’s risen and the whole place is flooded out,”
said Miss Polliter excitedly. “It’s a most stimulating experience
altogether. We’ve saved a lot of animals and two children.”
The doctor was holding his head.
“Good Heavens!” he said. “Good Heavens! Good Heavens!”
At that moment two more women descended upon the group. They were the
mothers of the infants. They had searched through the village for
their missing offspring and at last an eye-witness had described their
deliberate kidnapping and imprisonment in the doctor’s house. They were
demanding the return of their children. They were threatening legal
proceedings. They were calling the doctor a murderer and a kidnapper, a
vivisectioner, a Hun and a Bolshevist.
The doctor and the doctor’s wife and Miss Polliter and the two mothers
all began to talk at once. William, seizing his opportunity, crept
away. He crept down the road towards the cave.
At the bend in the road he turned. The doctor and the doctor’s wife
and the two mothers and Miss Polliter, still all talking excitedly
at the same time, began to make their way slowly up the hill to the
doctor’s house.
He looked in the other direction. There was just a large crowd
surrounding the cave; men were just coming along the road from the
other direction with pickaxes to dig his dead body from the rock.
He went forward very reluctantly and slowly.
He went forward because he had a horrible suspicion that the doctor
would soon have discovered the extent and the cause of the “flood” and
would soon be pursuing him lusting for vengeance.
He went forward reluctantly and slowly because he did not foresee an
enthusiastic welcome from his bereaved parents.
Ginger saw him first. Ginger gave a piercing yell and pointed down the
road towards William’s reluctant form.
“There--he _is_!” he shouted. “He’s not dead.”
They all turned and gaped at him open-mouthed.
William presented a strange figure. He seemed at first sight chiefly
compounded of the two elements, earth and water.
He turned as if to flee but the figure of the doctor could be seen
running down the road from his house after him; following the doctor
were the doctor’s wife, the infants’ mothers with the infants and Miss
Polliter. Even at that distance he could see that the doctor’s face was
purple with fury. Miss Polliter still looked bright and stimulated.
So William advanced slowly towards his gaping rescuers. “Here I am,” he
said. “I--I’ve got out all right.”
He fingered the half-crown in his pocket as if it were an amulet
against disaster.
He felt that he would soon need an amulet against disaster.
“Oh, where have you been?” sobbed his mother, “where _have_ you been?”
“I got in a flood,” said William, “an’ then I lost my memory.” He
looked round at the doctor who was running towards them and added with
a mixture of fatalistic resignation and bitterness, “Oh, well, he’ll
tell you about it. I bet you’ll b’lieve him sooner than me an’ I bet
he’ll make a different tale of it to what I would.”
And he did.
* * * * *
But Miss Polliter (who left the doctor’s charge, cured, to his great
disgust, the next day) persisted to her dying day that the river had
flooded and that the hose-pipe had nothing to do with it.
And she sent William a pound note the next week in an envelope marked
“For a brave boy.”
And, as William remarked bitterly, he jolly well deserved it....
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.