STILL--WILLIAM
[Illustration: “NOW YOU MUTH PLAY WITH ME,” LISPED VIOLET ELIZABETH,
SWEETLY.
“I DON’T PLAY LITTLE GIRL’S GAMES,” ANSWERED THE DISGUSTED WILLIAM.]
STILL--WILLIAM
BY
RICHMAL CROMPTON
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY
THOMAS HENRY
LONDON
GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED
SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, W.C.
_First published_ _April 1925_
_Reprinted_ _October 1925_
_Reprinted_ _February 1926_
_Reprinted_ _August 1926_
_Reprinted_ _December 1926_
_Reprinted_ _May 1927_
_Reprinted_ _December 1927_
_Reprinted_ _June 1928_
_Reprinted_ _April 1929_
_Reprinted_ _November 1929_
_Reprinted_ _October 1930_
_Made and Printed in Great Britain by
Wyman & Sons, Ltd., London, Fakenham and Reading._
TO
COLONEL R. E. CROMPTON, C.B., R.E.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BISHOP’S HANDKERCHIEF 13
II. HENRI LEARNS THE LANGUAGE 28
III. THE SWEET LITTLE GIRL IN WHITE 43
IV. WILLIAM TURNS OVER A NEW LEAF 64
V. A BIT OF BLACKMAIL 85
VI. WILLIAM THE MONEY-MAKER 97
VII. “THE HAUNTED HOUSE” 118
VIII. WILLIAM THE MATCH-MAKER 133
IX. WILLIAM’S TRUTHFUL CHRISTMAS 157
X. AN AFTERNOON WITH WILLIAM 177
XI. WILLIAM SPOILS THE PARTY 186
XII. THE CAT AND THE MOUSE 208
XIII. WILLIAM AND UNCLE GEORGE 217
XIV. WILLIAM AND SAINT VALENTINE 234
CHAPTER I
THE BISHOP’S HANDKERCHIEF
Until now William had taken no interest in his handkerchiefs as toilet
accessories. They were greyish (once white) squares useful for blotting
ink or carrying frogs or making lifelike rats to divert the long hours
of afternoon school, but otherwise he had had no pride or interest in
them.
But last week, Ginger (a member of the circle known to themselves
as the Outlaws of which William was the leader) had received a
handkerchief as a birthday present from an aunt in London. William, on
hearing the news, had jeered, but the sight of the handkerchief had
silenced him.
It was a large handkerchief, larger than William had conceived it
possible for handkerchiefs to be. It was made of silk, and contained
all the colours of the rainbow. Round the edge green dragons sported
upon a red ground. Ginger displayed it at first deprecatingly, fully
prepared for scorn and merriment, and for some moments the fate of the
handkerchief hung in the balance. But there was something about the
handkerchief that impressed them.
“Kinder--funny,” said Henry critically.
“Jolly big, isn’t it?” said Douglas uncertainly.
“’S more like a _sheet_,” said William, wavering between scorn and
admiration.
Ginger was relieved. At any rate they had taken it seriously. They had
not wept tears of mirth over it. That afternoon he drew it out of his
pocket with a flourish and airily wiped his nose with it. The next
morning Henry appeared with a handkerchief almost exactly like it, and
the day after that Douglas had one. William felt his prestige lowered.
He--the born leader--was the only one of the select circle who did not
possess a coloured silk handkerchief.
That evening he approached his mother.
“I don’t think white ones is much use,” he said.
“Don’t scrape your feet on the carpet, William,” said his mother
placidly. “I thought white ones were the only tame kind--not that I
think your father will let you have any more. You know what he said
when they got all over the floor and bit his finger.”
“I’m not talkin’ about _rats_,” said William. “I’m talkin’ about
handkerchiefs.”
“Oh--handkerchiefs! White ones are far the best. They launder properly.
They come out a good colour--at least yours don’t, but that’s because
you get them so black--but there’s nothing better than white linen.”
“Pers’nally,” said William with a judicial air, “I think silk’s better
than linen an’ white’s so tirin’ to look at. I think a kind of colour’s
better for your eyes. My eyes do ache a bit sometimes. I think it’s
prob’ly with keep lookin’ at white handkerchiefs.”
“Don’t be silly, William. I’m not going to buy you silk handkerchiefs
to get covered with mud and ink and coal as yours do.”
Mrs. Brown calmly cut off her darning wool as she spoke, and took
another sock from the pile by her chair. William sighed.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do those things with a _silk_ one,” he said earnestly.
“It’s only because they’re _cotton_ ones I do those things.”
“Linen,” corrected Mrs. Brown.
“Linen an’ cotton’s the same,” said William, “it’s not _silk_. I
jus’ want a _silk_ one with colours an’ so on, that’s all. That’s
all I want. It’s not much. Just a _silk_ handkerchief with colours.
Surely----”
“I’m _not_ going to buy you another _thing_, William,” said Mrs. Brown
firmly. “I had to get you a new suit and new collars only last month,
and your overcoat’s dreadful, because you _will_ crawl through the
ditch in it----”
William resented this cowardly change of attack.
“I’m not talkin’ about suits an’ collars an’ overcoats an’ so on----”
he said; “I’m talkin’ about _handkerchiefs_. I simply ask you if----”
“If you want a silk handkerchief, William,” said Mrs. Brown decisively,
“you’ll have to buy one.”
“Well!” said William, aghast at the unfairness of the remark--“Well,
jus’ fancy you sayin’ that to me when you know I’ve not got any money,
when you _know_ I’m not even _going_ to have any money for years an’
years an’ years.”
“You shouldn’t have broken the landing-window,” said Mrs. Brown.
William was pained and disappointed. He had no illusions about his
father and elder brother, but he had expected more feeling and sympathy
from his mother.
Determinedly, but not very hopefully, he went to his father, who was
reading a newspaper in the library.
“You know, father,” said William confidingly, taking his seat upon the
newspaper rack, “I think white ones is all right for children--and
so on. Wot I mean to say is that when you get older coloured ones is
better.”
“Really?” said his father politely.
“Yes,” said William, encouraged. “They wouldn’t show dirt so,
either--not like white ones do. An’ they’re bigger, too. They’d be
cheaper in the end. They wouldn’t cost so much for laundry--an’ so on.”
“Exactly,” murmured his father, turning over to the next page.
“Well,” said William boldly, “if you’d very kin’ly buy me some, or one
would do, or I could buy them or it if you’d jus’ give me----”
“As I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about,” said his
father, “I don’t see how I can. Would you be so very kind as to remove
yourself from the newspaper rack for a minute and let me get the
evening paper? I’m so sorry to trouble you. Thank you so much.”
“Handkerchiefs!” said William impatiently. “I keep telling you. It’s
_handkerchiefs_. I jus’ want a nice silk-coloured one, ’cause I think
it would last longer and be cheaper in the wash. That’s all. I think
the ones I have makes such a lot of trouble for the laundry. I jus’----”
“Though deeply moved by your consideration for other people,” said Mr.
Brown, as he ran his eye down the financial column, “I may as well save
you any further waste of your valuable time and eloquence by informing
you at once that you won’t get a halfpenny out of me if you talk till
midnight.”
William went with silent disgust and slow dignity from the room.
Next he investigated Robert’s bedroom. He opened Robert’s
dressing-table drawer and turned over his handkerchiefs. He caught his
breath with surprise and pleasure. There it was beneath all Robert’s
other handkerchiefs--larger, silkier, more multi-coloured than Ginger’s
or Douglas’s or Henry’s. He gazed at it in ecstatic joy. He slipped it
into his pocket and, standing before the looking-glass, took it out
with a flourish, shaking its lustrous folds. He was absorbed in this
occupation when Robert entered. Robert looked at him with elder-brother
disapproval.
“I told you that if I caught you playing monkey tricks in my room
again----” he began threateningly, glancing suspiciously at the bed, in
the “apple-pie” arrangements of which William was an expert.
“I’m not, Robert,” said William with disarming innocence. “Honest I’m
not. I jus’ wanted to borrow a handkerchief. I thought you wun’t mind
lendin’ me a handkerchief.”
“Well, I would,” said Robert shortly, “so you can jolly well clear out.”
“It was this one I thought you wun’t mind lendin’ me,” said William. “I
wun’t take one of your nice white ones, but I thought you wun’t mind me
having this ole coloured dirty-looking one.”
“Did you? Well, give it back to me.”
Reluctantly William handed it back to Robert.
“How much’ll you give it me for?” he said shortly.
“Well, how much have you?” said Robert ruthlessly.
“Nothin’--not jus’ at present,” admitted William. “But I’d _do_
something for you for it. I’d do anythin’ you want done for it. You
just tell me what to do for it, an’ I’ll _do_ it.”
“Well, you can--you can get the Bishop’s handkerchief for me, and then
I’ll give mine to you.”
The trouble with Robert was that he imagined himself a wit.
The trouble with William was that he took things literally.
* * * * *
The Bishop was expected in the village the next day. It was the great
event of the summer. He was a distant relation of the Vicar’s. He was
to open the Sale of Work, address a large meeting on temperance, spend
the night at the vicarage, and depart the next morning.
The Bishop was a fatherly, simple-minded old man of seventy. He enjoyed
the Sale of Work except for one thing. Wherever he looked he met the
gaze of a freckled untidy frowning small boy. He could not understand
it. The boy seemed to be everywhere. The boy seemed to follow him
about. He came to the conclusion that it must be his imagination, but
it made him feel vaguely uneasy.
Then he addressed the meeting on Temperance, his audience consisting
chiefly of adults. But, in the very front seat, the same earnest
frowning boy fixed him with a determined gaze. When the Bishop first
encountered this gaze he became slightly disconcerted, and lost his
place in his notes. Then he tried to forget the disturbing presence
and address his remarks to the middle of the hall. But there was
something hypnotic in the small boy’s gaze. In the end the Bishop
yielded to it. He fixed his eyes obediently upon William. He harangued
William earnestly and forcibly upon the necessity of self-control and
the effect of alcohol upon the liver. And William returned his gaze
unblinkingly.
After the meeting William wandered down the road to the Vicarage. He
pondered gloomily over his wasted afternoon. Fate had not thrown the
Bishop’s handkerchief in his path. But he did not yet despair.
On the way he met Ginger. Ginger drew out his interminable coloured
handkerchief and shook it proudly.
“D’ye mean to _say_,” he said to William, “that you still use those old
_white_ ones?”
William looked at him with cold scorn.
“I’m too busy to bother with you jus’ now,” he said.
Ginger went on.
William looked cautiously through the Vicarage hedge. Nothing was to be
seen. He crawled inside the garden and round to the back of the house,
which was invisible from the road. The Bishop was tired after his
address. He lay outstretched upon a deck-chair beneath a tree.
Over the head and face of His Lordship was stretched a large superfine
linen handkerchief. William’s set stern expression brightened. On hands
and knees he began to crawl through the grass towards the portly form,
his tongue protruding from his pursed lips.
Crouching behind the chair, he braced himself for the crime; he
measured the distance between the chair and the garden gate.
One, two, three--then suddenly the portly form stirred, the
handkerchief was firmly withdrawn by a podgy hand, and a dignified
voice yawned and said: “Heigh-ho!”
At the same moment the Bishop sat up. William, from his refuge behind
the chair, looked wildly round. The door of the house was opening.
There was only one thing to do. William was as nimble as a monkey. Like
a flash of lightning he disappeared up the tree. It was a very leafy
tree. It completely concealed William, but William had a good bird’s
eye view of the world beneath him. The Vicar came out rubbing his hands.
“You rested, my Lord?” he said.
“I’m afraid I’ve had forty winks,” said His Lordship pleasantly. “Just
dropped off, you know. I dreamt about that boy who was at the meeting
this afternoon.”
“What boy, my Lord?” asked the Vicar.
“I noticed him at the Sale of Work and the meeting--he looked--he
looked a soulful boy. I daresay you know him.”
The Vicar considered.
“I can’t think of any boy round here like that,” he said.
The Bishop sighed.
“He may have been a stranger, of course,” he said meditatively.
“It seemed an earnest _questing_ face--as if the boy wanted
something--_needed_ something. I hope my little talk helped him.”
“Without doubt it did, my Lord,” said the Vicar politely. “I thought we
might dine out here--the days draw out so pleasantly now.”
Up in his tree, William with smirks and hand-rubbing and mincing
(though soundless) movements of his lips kept up a running imitation
of the Vicar’s speech, for the edification apparently of a caterpillar
which was watching him intently.
[Illustration: THE BENT PIN CAUGHT THE BISHOP’S EAR, AND THE BISHOP SAT
UP WITH A LITTLE SCREAM.]
The Vicar went in to order dinner in the garden. The Bishop drew the
delicate handkerchief once more over his rubicund features. In the tree
William abandoned his airy pastime, and his face took on again the
expression of soulful earnestness that had pleased the Bishop.
The breast of the Bishop on the lawn began to rise and sink. The figure
of the Vicar was visible at the study window as he gazed with fond
pride upon the slumbers of his distinguished guest. William dared not
descend in view of that watching figure. Finally it sat down in a chair
by the window and began to read a book.
[Illustration: FROM THE TREE WILLIAM MADE A LAST DESPERATE EFFORT.]
Then William began to act. He took from his pocket a bent pin attached
to a piece of string. This apparatus lived permanently in his pocket,
because he had not given up hope of catching a trout in the village
stream. He lowered this cautiously and drew the bent pin carefully on
to the white linen expanse.
It caught--joy!
“Phut!” said the Bishop, bringing down his hand heavily, not on the
pin, but near it.
The pin was loosened--William drew it back cautiously up into the tree,
and the Bishop settled himself once more to his slumbers.
Again the pin descended--again it caught.
“Phut!” said the Bishop, testily shaking the handkerchief, and again
loosening the pin.
Leaning down from his leafy retreat William made one last desperate
effort. He drew the bent pin sharply across. It missed the handkerchief
and it caught the Bishop’s ear. The Bishop sat up with a scream.
William, pin and string, withdrew into the shade of the branches.
“Crumbs!” said William desperately to the caterpillar, “talk about bad
_luck!_”
The Vicar ran out from the house, full of concern at the sound of the
Bishop’s scream.
“I’ve been badly stung in the ear by some insect,” said the Bishop in a
voice that was pained and dignified. “Some virulent tropical insect, I
should think--very painful. Very painful indeed----”
“My Lord,” said the Vicar, “I am so sorry--so very sorry--a thousand
pardons--can I procure some remedy for you--vaseline, ammonia--er--cold
cream----?” Up in the tree the pantomimic imitation of him went on much
to William’s satisfaction.
“No, no, no, no,” snapped the Bishop. “This must be a bad place for
insects, that’s all. Even before that some heavy creatures came banging
against my handkerchief. I put my handkerchief over my face for a
protection. If I had failed to do that I should have been badly stung.”
“Shall we dine indoors, then, my Lord?” said the Vicar.
“Oh, no, no, NO!” said the Bishop impatiently.
The Vicar sat down upon his chair. William collected a handful of
acorns and began to drop them one by one upon the Vicar’s bald head. He
did this simply because he could not help it. The sight of the Vicar’s
bald head was irresistible. Each time an acorn struck the Vicar’s bald
head it bounced up into the air, and the Vicar put up his hand and
rubbed his head. At first he tried to continue his conversation on the
state of the parish finances with the Bishop, but his replies became
distrait and incoherent. He moved his chair slightly. William moved the
position of his arm and continued to drop acorns.
At last the Bishop noticed it.
“The acorns seem to be falling,” he said.
The Vicar rubbed his head again.
“Don’t they?” he said.
“Rather early,” commented the Bishop.
“Isn’t it?” he said as another acorn bounced upon his head.
The Bishop began to take quite an interest in the unusual phenomenon.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of blight in that
tree,” he said. “It would account for the premature dropping of the
acorns and for the insects that attacked me.”
“Exactly,” said the Vicar irritably, as yet another acorn hit him.
William’s aim was unerring.
Here a diversion was caused by the maid who came out to lay the
table. They watched her in silence. The Vicar moved his chair again,
and William, after pocketing his friend the caterpillar, shifted his
position in the tree again to get a better aim.
“Do you know,” said the Bishop, “I believe that there is a cat in the
tree. Several times I have heard a slight rustling.”
It would have been better for William to remain silent, but
William’s genius occasionally misled him. He was anxious to prevent
investigation; to prove once for all his identity as a cat.
He leant forward and uttered a re-echoing “Mi-_aw-aw-aw!_”
As imitations go it was rather good.
There was a slight silence. Then:
“It _is_ a cat,” said the Bishop in triumph.
“Excuse me, my Lord,” said the Vicar.
He went softly into the house and returned holding a shoe.
“This will settle his feline majesty,” he smiled.
Then he hurled the shoe violently into the tree.
“Sh! Scoot!” he said as he did it.
William was annoyed. The shoe narrowly missed his face. He secured it
and waited.
“I hope you haven’t lost the shoe,” said the Bishop anxiously.
“Oh, no. The gardener’s boy or someone will get it for me. It’s the
best thing to do with cats. It’s probably scared it on to the roof.”
He settled himself in his chair comfortably with a smile.
William leant down, held the shoe deliberately over the bald head, then
dropped it.
“_Damn!_” said the Vicar. “Excuse me, my Lord.”
“H’m,” said the Bishop. “Er--yes--most annoying. It lodged in a branch
for a time probably, and then obeyed the force of gravity.”
The Vicar was rubbing his head. William wanted to enjoy the sight of
the Vicar rubbing his head. He moved a little further up the branch. He
forgot all caution. He forgot that the branch on which he was was not a
very secure branch, and that the further up he moved the less secure it
became.
There was the sound of a rending and a crashing, and on to the table
between the amazed Vicar and Bishop descended William’s branch and
William.
The Bishop gazed at him. “Why, that’s the boy,” he said.
William sat up among the debris of broken glasses and crockery. He
discovered that he was bruised and that his hand was cut by one of the
broken glasses. He extricated himself from the branch and the table,
and stood rubbing his bruises and sucking his hand.
“Crumbs!” was all he said.
The Vicar was gazing at him speechlessly.
“You know, my boy,” said the Bishop in mild reproach, “that’s a very
curious thing to do--to hide up there for the purpose of eavesdropping.
I know that you are an earnest, well-meaning little boy, and that you
were interested in my address this afternoon, and I daresay you were
hoping to listen to me again, but this is my time for relaxation, you
know. Suppose the Vicar and I had been talking about something we
didn’t want you to hear? I’m sure you wouldn’t like to listen to things
people didn’t want you to hear, would you?”
William stared at him in unconcealed amazement. The Vicar, with growing
memories of acorns and shoes and “damns” and with murder in his heart,
was picking up twigs and broken glass. He knew that he could not, in
the Bishop’s presence, say the things to William and do the things to
William that he wanted to do and say. He contented himself with saying:
“You’d better go home now. Tell your father I’ll be coming to see him
to-morrow.”
“A well-meaning little boy, I’m sure,” said the Bishop kindly,
“well-meaning, but unwise--er--unwise--but your attentiveness during
the meeting did you credit, my boy--did you credit.”
William, for all his ingenuity, could think of no remark suitable to
the occasion.
“Hurry up,” said the Vicar.
William turned to go. He knew when he was beaten. He had spent
a lot of time and trouble and had not even secured the episcopal
handkerchief. He had bruised himself and cut himself. He understood
the Vicar’s veiled threat. He saw his already distant chances of
pocket-money vanish into nothingness when the cost of the Vicar’s
glasses and plates was added to the landing window. He wouldn’t have
minded if he’d got the handkerchief. He wouldn’t have minded anything
if----
“Don’t suck your hand, my boy,” said the Bishop. “An open cut like that
is most dangerous. Poison works into the system by it. You remember
I told you how the poison of alcohol works into the system--well,
any kind of poison can work into it by a cut--don’t suck it; keep it
covered up--haven’t you a handkerchief?--here, take mine. You needn’t
trouble to return it. It’s an old one.”
The Bishop was deeply touched by what he called the “bright
spirituality” of the smile with which William thanked him.
* * * * *
William, limping slightly, his hand covered by a grimy rag, came out
into the garden, drawing from his pocket with a triumphant flourish an
enormous violently-coloured silk handkerchief. Robert, who was weeding
the rose-bed, looked up. “Here,” he called, “you can jolly well go and
put that handkerchief of mine back.”
William continued his limping but proud advance.
“’S’ all right,” he called airily, “the Bishop’s is on your
dressing-table.”
Robert dropped the trowel.
“Gosh!” he gasped, and hastened indoors to investigate.
William went down to the gate, smiling very slightly to himself.
“The days are drawing out so pleasantly,” he was saying to himself in
a mincing accent. “Vaseline--ammonia--er--or cold cream----Damn!”
He leant over the gate, took out his caterpillar, satisfied himself
that it was still alive, put it back and looked up and down the road.
In the distance he caught sight of the figure of his friend.
“Gin--_ger_,” he yelled in hideous shrillness.
He waved his coloured handkerchief carelessly in greeting as he called.
Then he swaggered out into the road....