WILLIAM TURNS OVER A NEW LEAF
William had often been told how much happier he would be if he would
follow the straight and narrow path of virtue, but so far the thought
of that happiness had left him cold. He preferred the happiness that
he knew by experience to be the result of his normal wicked life to
that mythical happiness that was prophesied as the result of a quite
unalluring life of righteousness. Suddenly, however, he was stirred.
An “old boy” had come to visit the school and had given an inspiring
address to the boys in which he spoke of the beauty and usefulness of
a life of Self-denial and Service. William, for the first time, began
to consider the question seriously. He realised that his life so far
had not been, strictly speaking, a life of Self-denial and Service.
The “old boy” said many things that impressed William. He pictured the
liver of the life of Self-denial and Service surrounded by a happy,
grateful and admiring family circle. He said that everyone would love
such a character. William tried to imagine his own family circle as a
happy, grateful and admiring family circle. It was not an easy task
even to such a vivid imagination as William’s but it was not altogether
impossible. After all, nothing was altogether impossible....
While the headmaster was proposing a vote of thanks to the eloquent
and perspiring “old boy,” William was deciding that there might be
something in the idea after all. When the bell rang for the end of
school, William had decided that it was worth trying at any rate. He
decided to start first thing next morning--not before. William was a
good organiser. He liked things cut and dried. A new day for a new
life. It was no use beginning to be self-denying and self-sacrificing
in the middle of a day that had started quite differently. If you
were going to have a beautiful character and a grateful family circle
you might as well start the day fresh with it, not drag it over from
the day before. It would be jolly nice to have a happy, grateful and
admiring family circle, and William only hoped that if he took the
trouble to be self-denying and self-sacrificing his family circle would
take the trouble to be happy and grateful and admiring. There were
dark doubts about this in William’s mind. His family circle rarely did
anything that was expected of them. Still, William was an optimist
and--anything might happen. And to-morrow was a whole holiday. He could
give all his attention to it all day....
He looked forward to the new experience with feelings of pleasant
anticipation. It would be interesting and jolly--meantime there was
a whole half of to-day left and it was no use beginning the life of
self-denial and service before the scheduled time.
He joined his friends, Ginger, Henry and Douglas after school and
together they trespassed on the lands of the most irascible farmer
they knew in the hopes of a pleasant chase. The farmer happened to be
in the market town so their hopes were disappointed as far as he was
concerned. They paddled in his pond and climbed his trees and uttered
defiant shouts to his infuriated dog, and were finally chased away by
his wife with a fire of hard and knobbly potatoes. One got William very
nicely on the side of his head but, his head being as hard and knobbly
as the potato, little damage was done. Next they “scouted” each other
through the village and finally went into Ginger’s house and performed
military manœuvres in Ginger’s bedroom, till Ginger’s mother sent them
away because the room just below happened to be the drawing-room and
the force of the military manœuvres was disintegrating the ceiling and
sending it down in picturesque white flakes into Ginger’s mother’s hair.
They went next to Henry’s garden and there with much labour made a
bonfire. Ginger and Douglas plied the fire with fuel; and William
and Henry, with a wheelbarrow and the garden hose, wearing old tins
on their heads, impersonated the fire brigade. During the exciting
scuffles that followed, the garden hose became slightly involved and
finally four dripping boys fled from the scene and from possible
detection, leaving only the now swimming bonfire, the wheelbarrow
and hose to mark the scene of action. A long rest in a neighbouring
field in the still blazing sunshine soon partially dried them. While
reclining at ease they discussed the latest Red Indian stories which
they had read, and the possibility of there being any wild animals left
in England.
“I bet there _is_,” said Ginger earnestly, “they hide in the day time
so’s no one’ll see ’em, an’ they come out at nights. No one goes into
the woods at night so no one knows if there is or if there isn’t, an’
I bet there _is_. Anyway let’s get up some night ’n take our bows ’n
arrows an’ _look_ for ’em. I bet we’d find some.”
“Let’s to-night,” said Douglas eagerly.
William remembered suddenly the life of virtue to which he had mentally
devoted himself. He felt that the nocturnal hunting for wild animals
was incompatible with it.
“I can’t to-night,” he said with an air of virtue.
“Yah--you’re _’fraid!_” taunted Henry, not because he had the least
doubt of William’s courage but simply to introduce an element of
excitement into the proceedings.
He succeeded.
When finally Henry and William arose breathless and bruised from the
ditch where the fight had ended, Douglas and Ginger surveyed them with
dispassionate interest.
“William won an’ you’re both in a _jolly_ old mess!”
Henry removed some leaves and bits of grass from his mouth.
“All right, you’re _not_ afraid,” he said pacifically to William, “when
will you come huntin’ wild animals?”
William considered. He was going to give the life of virtue, of
self-denial and service a fair day’s trial, but there was just the
possibility that from William’s point of view it might not be a
success. It would be as well to leave the door to the old life open.
“I’ll tell you to-morrow,” he said guardedly.
“All right. I say, let’s race to the end of the field on only one leg
... Come on! Ready?... One, two, _three_ ... GO!”
II
William awoke. It was morning. It was the morning on which he was to
begin his life of self-denial and service. He raised his voice in one
of his penetrating and tuneless morning songs, then stopped abruptly,
“case I disturb anyone” he remarked virtuously to his brush and
comb.... His father frequently remarked that William’s early morning
songs were enough to drive a man to drink.... He brushed his hair
with unusual vigour and descended to breakfast looking (for William)
unusually sleek and virtuous. His father was reading the paper in front
of the fire.
“Good mornin’, Father,” said William in a voice of suave politeness.
His father grunted.
“Did you hear me not singin’ this mornin’, Father?” said William
pleasantly. It was as well that his self-denials should not be missed
by the family circle.
His father did not answer. William sighed. Some family circles were
different from others. It was hard to imagine his father happy and
grateful and admiring. But still, he was going to have a jolly good
try....
His mother and sister and brother came down. William said “Good
mornin’!” to them all with unctuous affability. His brother looked at
him suspiciously.
“What mischief are _you_ up to?” he said ungraciously.
William merely gave him a long silent and reproachful glance.
“What are you going to do this morning, William dear?” said his mother.
“I don’ mind what I do,” said William. “I jus’ want to _help_ you. I’ll
do anything you like, Mother.”
She looked at him anxiously.
“Are you feeling quite well, dear?” she said with concern.
“If you want to _help_,” said his sister sternly, “you might dig
up that piece of my garden you and those other boys trampled down
yesterday.”
William decided that a life of self-denial and service need not
include fagging for sisters who spoke to one in that tone of voice. He
pretended not to hear.
“Can I do anything at all for you this morning, Mother dear,” he said
earnestly.
His mother looked too taken aback to reply. His father rose and folded
up his newspaper.
“Take my advice,” he said, “and beware of that boy this morning. He’s
up to something!”
William sighed again. Some family circles simply didn’t seem able to
recognise a life of self-denial and service when they met it....
After breakfast he wandered into the garden. Before long Ginger,
Douglas and Henry came down the road.
“Come on, William!” they called over the gate.
For a moment William was tempted. Somehow it seemed a terrible waste of
a holiday to spend it in self-denial and service instead of in search
of adventures with Ginger, Douglas and Henry. But he put the temptation
away. When he made up his mind to do a thing he did it....
“Can’t come to-day,” he said sternly, “I’m busy.”
“Oh, go _on!_”
“Well, I am an’ I’m just not comin’ an’ kin’ly stop throwin’ stones at
our cat.”
“Call it a cat! Thought it was an ole fur glove what someone’d thrown
away!”
In furious defence of his household’s cat (whose life William in
private made a misery) William leapt to the gate. The trio fled down
the road. William returned to his meditations. His father had gone to
business and Ethel and Robert had gone to golf. His mother drew up the
morning-room window.
“William, darling, aren’t you going to play with your friends this
morning?”
William turned to her with an expression of solemnity and earnestness.
“I want to _help_ you, Mother. I don’t wanter play with my friends.”
He felt a great satisfaction with this speech. It breathed the very
spirit of self-denial and service.
“I’ll try to find that bottle of tonic you didn’t finish after whooping
cough,” said his mother helplessly as she drew down the window.
[Illustration: “GOOD HEAVENS!” SAID MISS DEXTER. “DOES HE KNOW YOU’VE
COME TO ASK ME?”]
[Illustration: “ROBERT’S DEEP IN LOVE WITH YOU,” SAID WILLIAM, “HE’S
WRITIN’ PO’TRY AN’ NOT SLEEPIN’ AN’ NOT EATIN’ AND CARVING YOUR
INITIALS ALL OVER THE HOUSE.”]
William stared around him disconsolately. It was hard to be full of
self-sacrifices and service and to find no outlet for it ... nobody
seemed to want his help. Then a brilliant idea occurred to him. He
would _do_ something for each of his family--something that would be a
pleasant surprise when they found out....
He went up to his bedroom. There in a drawer was a poem that he had
found in Robert’s blotter the week before. It began:
“O Marion
So young and fair
With silken hair....”
It must be Marion Dexter. She was fair and, well, more or less young,
William supposed. William didn’t know about her hair being silken. It
looked just like ordinary hair to him. But you never knew with girls.
He had kept the poem in order to use it as a weapon of offence against
Robert when occasion demanded. But that episode belonged to his old
evil past. In his new life of self-denial and service he wanted to
_help_ Robert. The poem ended:
“I should be happy, I aver
If thou my suit wouldst but prefer.”
That meant that Robert wanted to be engaged to her. Poor Robert!
Perhaps he was too shy to ask her, or perhaps he’d asked her and she’d
refused ... well, it was here that Robert needed some _help_. William,
with a determined expression, set off down the road.
III
He knocked loudly at the door. By a lucky chance Marion Dexter came to
the door herself.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
“Good afternoon,” said William in a business-like fashion. “Has Robert
ever asked you to marry him?”
“No. What a peculiar question to ask on the front doorstep. Do come in.”
William followed her into the drawing-room. She shut the door. They
both sat down. William’s face was set and frowning.
“He’s deep in love with you,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Marion’s eyes danced.
“Did he send you to tell me?”
William ignored the question.
“He’s deep in love with you and wants you to marry him.”
Marion dimpled.
“Why can’t he ask me then?”
“He’s shy,” said William earnestly, “he’s always shy when he’s in love.
He’s always awful shy with the people what he’s in love with. But he
wants most _awful_ bad to marry you. _Do_ marry him, _please_. Jus’ for
kindness. I’m tryin’ to be kind. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see,” she said. “Are you sure he’s in love with me?”
“Deep in love. Writin’ potry an’ carryin’ on--not sleepin’ and not
eatin’ an’ murmurin’ your name an’ puttin’ his hand on his heart an’
carvin’ your initials all over the house an’ sendin’ you flowers an’
things,” said William drawing freely on his imagination.
“I’ve never had any flowers from him.”
“No. They all get lost in the post,” said William without turning a
hair. “But he’s dyin’ slow of love for you. He’s gettin’ thinner an’
thinner. ’F you don’t be engaged to him soon he’ll be stone dead. He’ll
die of love like what they do in tales an’ then you’ll probably get
hung for murder.”
“Good heavens!” said Miss Dexter.
“Well, I _hope_ you won’t,” said William kindly, “an’ I’ll do all I can
to save you if you are but ’f you kill Robert with not gettin’ engaged
to him prob’ly you will be.”
“Does he know you’ve come to ask me?” said Miss Dexter.
“No. I want it to be a s’prise to him,” said William.
“It will be that,” murmured Miss Dexter.
“You will marry him, then?” said William hopefully.
“Certainly--if he wants me to.”
“P’raps,” said William after a slight pause, “you’d better write it in
a letter ’cause he’d like as not, not b’lieve me.”
With eyes dancing and lips quivering with suppressed laughter Miss
Dexter sat down at her writing table.
DEAR ROBERT (she wrote),
At William’s earnest request I promise to be engaged to you and to
marry you whenever you like.
Yours sincerely, MARION DEXTER.
She handed it to William. William read it gravely and put it in his
pocket.
“Thanks ever so much,” he said fervently.
“Don’t mention it,” said Miss Dexter demurely. “Quite a pleasure.”
He walked down the road in a rosy glow of virtue. Well, he’d done
something for Robert that ought to make Robert grateful to him for the
rest of his life. He’d _helped_ Robert all right. He’d like to know
what _service_ was if it wasn’t that--getting people engaged to people
they wanted to be engaged to. Jolly hard work too. Now there remained
his mother and Ethel. He must go home and try to find some way of
_helping_ them....
IV
When he reached home Ethel was showing out Mrs. Helm, a tall,
stern-looking lady whom William knew by sight.
“I’m so _frightfully_ disappointed not to be able to come,” Ethel was
saying regretfully, “but I’m afraid I _must_ go to the Morrisons.
I promised over a week ago. Thank you so much for asking me. Good
morning.”
William followed her into the dining-room where his mother was.
“What did she want, dear?” said Mrs. Brown. “Go and wash your hands,
William.”
“She wanted me to go in this evening but I told her I couldn’t because
I was going to the Morrisons. Thank Heaven I had an excuse!”
William unfortunately missed the last sentence, as, still inspired by
high ideals of virtue, he had gone at once upstairs to wash his hands.
While he splashed about at the handbasin an idea suddenly occurred to
him. _That_ was how he’d help Ethel. He’d give her a happy evening.
She should spend it with the Helms and not with the Morrisons. She’d
sounded so sorry that she had to go to the Morrisons and couldn’t go to
the Helms. He’d fix it all up for her this afternoon. He’d _help_ her
like he’d helped Robert.
He had hoped to be able to give Robert Miss Dexter’s note at lunch, but
it turned out that Robert was lunching at the golf club with a friend.
Directly after lunch William set off to Mrs. Morrison’s house. He
was shown into the drawing-room. Mrs. Morrison, large and fat and
comfortable-looking, entered. She looked rather bewildered as she met
William’s stern frowning gaze.
“I’ve come from Ethel,” said William aggressively. “She’s sorry she
can’t come to-night.”
Mrs. Morrison’s cheerful countenance fell.
“The girls will be disappointed,” she said, “they saw her this morning
and she said she was looking forward to it.”
Some explanation seemed necessary. William was never one to stick at
half measures.
“She’s been took ill since then,” he said.
“Oh _dear_,” said Mrs. Morrison with concern, “nothing serious, I hope?”
William considered. If it wasn’t serious she might expect Ethel to
recover by the evening. She’d better have something serious.
“I’m ’fraid it is,” he said gloomily.
“Dear, _dear!_” said Mrs. Morrison. “Tch! tch! What is it?”
William thought over all the complaints he knew. None of them seemed
quite serious enough. She might as well have something _really_ serious
while he was about it. Then he suddenly remembered hearing the gardener
talking to the housemaid the day before. He’d been talking about his
brother who’d got--what was it? Epi--epi----
“Epilepsy!” said William suddenly.
“_What?_” screamed Mrs. Morrison.
William, having committed himself to epilepsy meant to stick to it.
“Epilepsy, the doctor says,” he said firmly.
“Good heavens!” said Mrs. Morrison. “When did you find out? Will he be
able to cure it? Is the poor girl in bed? How does it affect her? What
a dreadful thing!”
William was flattered at the impression he seemed to have made. He
wondered whether it were possible to increase it.
“The doctor thinks she’s got a bit of consumption too,” he said
casually, “but he’s not quite sure.”
Mrs. Morrison screamed again. “_Heavens!_ And she always looked so
_healthy_. The girls will be so _distressed_. William, do tell me--when
did your mother realise there was something wrong?”
William foresaw that the conversation was becoming complicated. He
did not wish to display his ignorance of the symptoms of epilepsy and
consumption.
“Jus’ soon after lunch,” he said with rising cheerfulness. “Now I’d
better be goin’, I think. Good afternoon.”
He left Mrs. Morrison still gasping upon the sofa and in the act of
ringing for her maid to fetch her smelling salts.
William walked down the road with a swagger. He was managing _jolly_
well.... The next visit was easier. He simply told Mrs. Helm’s maid
at the front door to tell Mrs. Helm that Ethel would be able to come
to-night after all, thank you very much.
Then he swung off to the woods with Jumble, his faithful dog. In
accordance with his new life of virtue he walked straight along the
road without burrowing in the ditches or throwing stones at telegraph
posts. His exhilaration slowly vanished. He wondered where Ginger and
Henry and Douglas were and what they were doing. It was _jolly_ dull
all alone ... but still the happiness and gratitude and admiration of
his family circle when they found out all he had done for them would
repay him for everything. At least he hoped it would. His mother ... he
had done nothing for his mother yet. He must try to do something for
his mother....
V
When he returned home it was almost dinner time. His mother and Ethel
and Robert were still out. The Cook met him with a lugubrious face.
“Now, Master William,” she said, “can I trust you to give a message to
your Ma.”
“Yes, Cook,” said William virtuously.
“Me cold in me ’ead’s that bad I can’t stand on me feet no longer. That
’ussy Ellen wouldn’t give up ’er night hout to ’elp me--not she, and
yer Ma said if I’d leave things orl ready to dish hup I might go and
rest afore dinner ’f I felt bad. Well, she’ll be hin hany minute now
and just tell ’er it’s hall ready to dish up. Tell ’er I ’aven’t made
no pudd’n but I’ve hopened a bottle of stewed pears.”
“All right, Cook,” said William.
Cook took the paper-backed copy of “A Mill Girl’s Romance” from the
kitchen dresser and slowly sneezed her way up the back stairs.
William was to all intents and purposes alone in the house. He wandered
into the kitchen. There was a pleasant smell of cooking. Several
saucepans simmered on the gas stove. On the table was a glass dish
containing the stewed pears. His father hated cold stewed fruit. He
often said so. Suddenly William had yet another brilliant idea. He’d
make a proper pudding for his father. It wouldn’t take long. The
cookery book was on the dresser. You just did what the book told you.
It was quite easy.
[Illustration: WILLIAM WENT ON BREAKING EGGS TILL NOT ANOTHER EGG
REMAINED TO BE BROKEN.]
He went over to the gas stove. All the gas rings were being used. He’d
better get one clear for his pudding. He supposed his pudding would
need a gas ring same as all the other things. There were two small
saucepans each containing dark brown stuff. They might as well be
together, thought William, with a business-like frown. He poured the
contents of one of the saucepans into the other. He had a moment’s
misgiving as the mingled smell of gravy and coffee arose from the
mixture. Then he turned to his pudding. He opened the book at random at
the puddings. Any would do. “Beat three eggs together.” He fetched a
bowl of eggs from the larder and got down a clean basin from the shelf.
He’d seen Cook doing it, just cracking the eggs, and the egg slithered
into the basin and she threw the shells away. It looked quite easy.
He broke an egg. The shell fell neatly on to the table and the egg
slithered down William on to the floor. He tried another and the same
thing happened. William was not easily baulked. He was of a persevering
nature. He went on breaking eggs till not another egg remained to be
broken, and then and then only did he relinquish his hopes of making
a pudding. Then and then only did he step out of the pool of a dozen
broken eggs in which he was standing and, literally soaked in egg from
the waist downward, go to replace the basin on the shelf.
His thirst for practical virtue was not yet sated. Surely there was
_something_ he could do, even if he couldn’t make a pudding. Yes, he
could carry the things into the dining-room so that they could have
dinner as soon as they came in. He opened the oven door. A chicken on a
large dish was there. Good! Burning his fingers severely in the process
William took it out. He’d put it on the dining-room table all ready for
them to begin. Just as he stood with the dish in his hands he heard his
mother and Robert come in. He’d go and give Robert Miss Dexter’s letter
first. He looked round for somewhere to put the chicken. The table
seemed to be full. He put the dish and the chicken on to the floor and
went into the hall closing the door behind him. Robert and his mother
had gone into the drawing-room. William followed.
“Well, William,” said Mrs. Brown pleasantly, “had a nice day?”
Without a word William handed the note to Robert.
Robert read it.
He went first red, then pale, then a wild look came into his eyes.
“Marion _Dexter!_” he said.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” said William. “You’ve been
writing pomes to her.”
“Not to Marion _Dexter_,” screamed Robert. “She’s an old woman. She’s
nearly twenty-five.... It’s--it’s Marion Hatherley I----”
“Well, how was I to _know_,” said William in a voice of irritation.
“You should put their surnames in the pomes. I thought you wanted to be
engaged to her. I’ve took a lot of trouble over it gettin’ her to write
that.”
Robert was reading and re-reading the note.
“My God!” he said in a hushed voice of horror. “I’m engaged to Marion
Dexter!”
“Robert,” said Mrs. Brown. “I don’t think you ought to use expressions
like that before your little brother, whoever you’re engaged to.”
“I’m engaged to Marion Dexter,” repeated Robert in a tone of frenzy,
“_Me!_ ... chained to her for life when I love another....”
“Robert dear,” said Mrs. Brown, “if there’s been any mistake I’m sure
that all you have to do is go to Miss Dexter and explain.”
“_Explain!_” said Robert wildly. “How can I explain. She’s _accepted_
me ... how can any man of chivalry refuse to marry a woman who.... Oh,
it’s too much.” He sat down on the sofa and held his head in his hands.
“It’s the ruin of all my hopes ... he’s simply spoilt my life ... he’s
always spoiling my life ... I shall _have_ to marry her now ... and
she’s an old woman ... she was twenty-four last birthday, I know.”
“Well, I was trying to _help_,” said William.
“I’ll teach you to help,” said Robert darkly, advancing upon him.
William dodged and fled towards the door. There he collided with
Ethel--Ethel with a pale, distraught face.
“It’s all over the village, mother,” she said angrily as she entered.
“William’s told everyone in the village that I’ve got epilepsy and
consumption.”
“I _didn’t_,” said William indignantly. “I only told Mrs. Morrison.”
“But William,” said his mother, sitting down weakly on the nearest
chair, “why on earth----?”
“Well, Ethel didn’t want to go to the Morrisons to-night. She wanted to
go to the Helms’----”
“I did _not_,” said Ethel. “I was glad to get out of going to the
Helms’.”
“Well, how was I to _know?_” said William desperately. “I had to go by
what you _said_ and I had to go by what Robert _wrote_. I wanted to
_help_. I’ve took no end of trouble--livin’ a life of self-sacrifice
and service all day without stoppin’ once, and ’stead of being grateful
an’ happy an’ admirin’----”
“But William,” said Mrs. Brown, “how did you think it was going to help
_anyone_ to say that Ethel had epilepsy and consumption?”
“I’d rather have epilepsy and consumption,” said Robert who had
returned to the sofa and was sitting with his head between his hands,
“than be engaged to Marion Dexter.”
“I must say I simply can’t understand why you’ve been doing all this,
William,” said Mrs. Brown. “We must just wait till your father comes in
and see what he makes of it. And I can’t think why dinner’s so late.”
“She’s gone to bed,” said William gloomily.
“I’d better see to things then,” said Mrs. Brown going into the hall.
“_Epilepsy!_” groaned Ethel.
“Twenty-four--twenty-four if she’s a day--and the sort of hair I’ve
always disliked,” groaned Robert.
William followed his mother to the kitchen rather than be left to
the tender mercies of Ethel and Robert. He began to feel distinctly
apprehensive about the kitchen ... that pool of eggs ... those brown
liquids he’d mixed....
Mrs. Brown opened the kitchen door. On the empty chicken dish on
the floor sat Jumble surrounded by chicken bones, the wishing bone
protruding from his mouth, looking blissfully happy....
VI
In his bedroom whither he had perforce retired supperless, William
hung up the Outlaws’ signal of distress (a scull and crossbones in
black and the word “Help” in red) at his window in case Ginger or Henry
or Douglas came down the road, and then surveyed the events of the
day. Well, he’d done his best. He’d lived a life of self-denial and
service all right. It was his family who were wrong. They hadn’t been
happy or grateful or admiring. They simply weren’t worthy of a life of
self-denial and service. And anyway how could he have _known_ that it
was another Marion and that Ethel couldn’t say what she meant and that
Jumble was going to get in through the kitchen window?
A tiny pebble hit his window. He threw it open. There down below in the
garden path were Douglas, Henry and Ginger.
“Ho! my trusty mates,” said William in a penetrating whisper. “I am
pent in durance vile--sent to bed, you know--an’ I’m jolly hungry. Wilt
kill some deer or venison or something for me?”
“Righto,” said Ginger, and “Yes, gallant captain,” said Douglas and
Henry as they crept off through the bushes.
William returned to his survey of his present position. That old boy
simply didn’t know what he was talking about. He couldn’t ever have
tried it himself. Anyway he (William) had tried it and he knew all
there was to know about lives of self-denial and service and he’d
_done_ with lives of self-denial and service, thank you very much. He
was going back to his ordinary kind of life first thing to-morrow....
A tiny pebble at the window. William leant out. Below were Ginger,
Henry and Douglas with a small basket.
“Oh, crumbs!” said William joyfully.
He lowered a string and they tied the little basket on to it. William
drew it up fairly successfully. It contained a half-eaten apple, a bar
of toffee that had spent several days unwrapped in Henry’s pocket,
which was covered with bits of fluff, a very stale bun purloined from
Ginger’s mother’s larder, and a packet of monkey nuts bought with
Ginger’s last twopence.
William’s eyes shone.
“Oh, I _say_,” he said gratefully, “thanks _awfully_. And, I say, you’d
better go now ’case they see you, and I _say_, I’ll come huntin’ wild
animals with you to-morrow night.”
“Right-o,” said the Outlaws creeping away through the bushes.
* * * * *
Downstairs William’s family circle consumed a meal consisting of
sardines and stewed pears. They consumed it in gloomy silence, broken
only by Mr. Brown’s dry, “I suppose there must be quite a heavy vein
of insanity somewhere in the family for it to come out so strong in
William.” And by Ethel’s indignant, “And _epilepsy!_ Why on earth did
he fix on _epilepsy?_” And by Robert’s gloomy, “Engaged to be married
to her ... _twenty-four_ ... _chained_ to her for life.”
Upstairs the cause of all their troubles sat on the floor in the middle
of his bedroom with his little pile of eatables before him.
“Come on, my gallant braves,” he said addressing an imaginary band of
fellow captives. “Let us eat well and then devise some way of escape or
ere dawn our bleached bones may dangle from yon gallows.”
Then quite happily and contentedly he began to eat the fluffy stick of
toffee....