WILLIAM THE MONEY-MAKER
The rain poured ceaselessly upon the old barn where the Outlaws were
assembled. They had meant to spend the afternoon birds-nesting, and
they had continued to birds-nest in spite of the steady downpour
till Ginger had torn such a large hole in his knickers that as he
pathetically remarked, “S’all very well for you. ’S only rainin’ on
your clothes. But it’s rainin’ right on to _me_ through my hole an’
it’s jolly cold an’ I’m goin’ home.”
His threat of going home was hardly serious. It was not likely that any
of the Outlaws would waste the precious hours of a half-holiday in a
place so barren of any hope of adventure as home.
“All right,” said William the leader (upon whose stern and grimy
countenance the rain had traced little channels of cleanliness)
testily. “All right. My goodness, what a fuss you make about a bit of
rain on your bare skin. What would you do if you was a Red Indian an’
had to be out of doors all weathers and nearly all bare skin?”
“Well, it doesn’t rain in Red Indian climits,” said Ginger. “So there!
Don’t you be too clever. It doesn’t rain in Red Indian climits.”
William was nonplussed for a moment, then he summoned his fighting
spirit.
“How do you know?” he said. “You ever been there? You ever been to a
Red Indian climit? Well, I din’t know you’d ever been to a Red Indian
climit. But I’m very int’rested to hear it. It’s very int’restin’ an’
funny you din’t get killed an’ eat, I _mus’_ say.”
William’s weapon of heavy sarcasm always proved rather bewildering to
his friends.
“I don’ see that it matters whether I’ve been to a Red Indian climit or
not,” said Ginger stoutly, “’it wun’t stop me feelin’ wet now if I had,
would it?”
“Well, what would you do if you was a diver,” went on William, “’f
you’re so frightened of gettin’ a bit wet? P’raps what with knowin’ so
much about Red Indian climits you’ll say it’s not wet in the sea. Of
course ’f you say it’s not wet in the sea we’ll all b’lieve you. Oh
yes, we’ll all b’lieve you ’f you say it’s not wet in the sea. I s’pose
that’s wot you’ll be sayin’ next--that it’s not wet in the sea--with
knowin’ so much about Red Indian climits----”
At this moment there came a redoubled torrent of rain and turning up
their sodden collars the Outlaws all ran to the old barn which was the
scene of many of their activities.
“I’m s’prised to see _you_ run like that,” said Ginger to William. “I
should’ve thought you’d have liked gettin’ wet the way you talk about
divers an’ Red Indians.”
William shut the door of the barn and pushed his wet hair out of his
eyes.
“I thought it was _you_ wot knew all about Red Indian climits an’ the
sea not bein’ wet,” he said severely. “Seems to me you don’t know wot
you _are_ talkin’ about sometimes. One minute you say the sea’s not
wet----”
“I never said the sea wasn’t wet,” said Ginger. “You sim’ly don’t
listen to what I _do_ say.--You jus’ keep on talkin’ an’ talkin’
yourself an’ you don’ listen prop’ly to wot other folks say. You get
it all wrong. You go on talkin’ and talkin’ about Red Indians an’
divers----”
But Henry and Douglas, the other two Outlaws, were tired of the subject.
“Oh, do shut _up!_” said Henry irritably.
“_Who_ shut up?” said William aggressively.
“_Both_ of you,” said Douglas.
Ginger and William hurled themselves upon the other two and there
followed one of those scrimmages in which the Outlaws delighted. It
ended by Ginger sitting on Henry and William on Douglas, and all felt a
little warmer and dryer and less irritable. The subjects of Red Indians
and divers were by tacit consent dropped.
It was raining harder than ever. The water was pouring in through the
roof at the other end of the barn.
“What’ll we _do_?” said Ginger disconsolately rolling off his human
perch.
Their afternoon so far had not been encouraging. They had with
characteristic optimism aimed at collecting forty eggs before tea. They
had all sustained severe falls from trees, they were wet through, they
were scratched and torn and bruised, and the result was one cracked
thrush’s egg from a deserted nest, which Ginger subsequently dropped
and then inadvertently trod upon while climbing through a hedge. This
incident had made Ginger unpopular for a time. It had drawn forth the
rough diamonds of William’s sarcasm.
“’S very kind of you, I’m sure. Yes, we took all that trouble jus’ so’s
you could have the pleasure of treadin’ on it. Oh, yes, we feel quite
paid for all the trouble we took now you’ve been kind enough to tread
on it. Can we get you anythin’ else to tread on? I’m sure it’s very
nice for the poor bird to think it’s had all the trouble of layin’ that
egg jus’ for you to tread on----”
This rhetoric had resulted in a fight between William and Ginger, at
the end of which both had rolled into a ditch. The ditch was not a dry
ditch, but they were both so wet already that the immersion made little
difference.
“_Do?_” said Henry indignantly. “Jus’ tell us what there _is_ to do
shut up in this ole place. _Do?_ Huh!”
“I know what we can do,” said William suddenly, “we can make up a tale
turn an’ turn about.”
They were sitting on the two wooden packing cases with which they had
furnished their meeting place. A small rivulet ran between, having its
source just beneath the hole in the roof at the other end of the barn
and flowing out under the door. The Outlaws carelessly dabbled their
feet in it as it passed. Their drooping spirits revived at William’s
suggestion.
“A’ right,” said Henry, “you start.”
“A’ right,” said William modestly. “I don’ mind startin’. Once there
was a man wot got cast upon a desert island.”
“Why?” said Ginger, “why was he cast upon a desert island?”
“’F you’re goin’ to keep on int’ruptin’ askin’ silly questions----”
began William sternly.
“A’ right,” said Ginger pacifically. “A’ right. Go on.”
“He was cast upon a desert island,” repeated William, “an’ the desert
island was full of savage cannibals what chased him round an’ round the
island till he climbed a tree an’ they all s’rounded the tree utterin’
fierce yells----”
“What was they yellin’?” said Henry with interest.
“How could anyone tell what they was yelling without knowin’ the
langwidge?” said William impatiently. “Do you know the cannibal
langwidge? No, an’ the man din’t, so how could he tell wot they was
yellin’?”
“Well the one wot’s tellin’ the tale oughter know,” said Henry
doggedly, “_You_ oughter know. The one wot’s tellin’ the tale oughter
know everythin’ _in_ the tale----”
“Well, I do,” said William crushingly, “but I’m not goin’ to tell _you_
wot they was yellin’, so _there_. An’ when you’ve all kin’ly finished
int’ruptin’ I’ll kin’ly go on. They was all beneath the tree utterin’
fierce yells wot I know wot they meant but wot I’m not goin’ to tell
_you_, when he took a great big jump right off the tree, splash into
the sea again an’ caught hold of a whale wot was jus’ passing and got
on its back an’ held tight on by its fins----”
“I don’t think a whale’s got fins,” said Douglas dubiously.
“I don’ care whether other whales’ve got fins or not,” said William
firmly, “this one haddem anyway. An’ he kept rearin’ up an’ turnin’
over so’s to shake the man off but the man held tight and--now, Henry,
go on.”
“A’ right,” said Henry, “well he went on an’ on on the whale’s back
till he came to a ship an’ he jumped up on to it from the whale’s
back----”
“He couldn’t have done,” said Douglas firmly.
“What?” said Henry.
“Couldn’t have done. Couldn’t have jumped from a whale’s back to a
ship. A ship’s high.”
“Well, he _did_,” said Henry, “so it’s no use talkin’ about whether
he could or not. If he _did_ he _could_, I should think.” William’s
sarcasm was infectious. “Well, he found it was a pirate ship an’ they
put him in irons an’ made him walk the plank an’ just when he got to
the end of the plank--now Ginger, go on.”
“Well, you’ve gottim in a nice mess, I mus’ say,” said Ginger bitterly,
“an’ I s’pose you want me to gettim out of it--chased by cannibals an’
now walkin’ a plank! Well _you_ gottim into it an’ I’m not goin’ to
bother with him. I din’t start it an’ I don’t like it. I’d rather have
soldiers an’ fightin’ an’ that sort of a tale. An’ wot can I do with
him walkin’ the plank? I’m jus’ about tired of that man. An’ he’s not
even gotta name. Well, jus’ as he got to the end of the plank he fell
in an’ the whale ate him up an’ he died.”
“It isn’t fair,” said Douglas indignantly, “gettin’ him dead before
I’ve had my turn. What’m I goin’ to do?”
“You can tell about someone catchin’ the whale an’ findin’ his dead
body inside,” said Ginger calmly.
“Oh, can I?” said Douglas, “well I’m not goin’ to.”
“No, ’cause you can’t,” jeered Ginger. “You can’t finish it however we
left it.”
“Oh, couldn’t I?” said Douglas.
They closed in combat. William and Henry watched dispassionately.
Douglas’s collar had completely broken loose from its moorings and two
of the already existing tears in Ginger’s coat had been extended to
meet each other. They sat down again on the packing cases.
“Still raining,” said Henry morosely.
“I bet your mother’ll say _something_ about that tear,” said William to
Ginger severely.
“Well, you bet wrong then,” said Ginger, “’cause she’s gone to London
to see the Exhibition.”
“Fancy goin’ to London to see an ole exhibition,” said William
scornfully, “What she see there?”
“Oh, natives,” said Ginger, “black uns, you know, an’ native places an’
jugs an’ things made by natives.”
“That all?”
“Well, there’s amusements an’ things too, but that’s all really,” said
Ginger. “You pay money an’ jus’ see ’em’ an’ that’s all.”
“Crumbs!” said William. His face was set in deep scowling thought for
a minute, then a light broke over it. “I say,” he said, “let’s have
a nexhibition--let’s get a nexhibition up. Well, ’f Ginger’s mother
’ll go all the way to London to see a nexhibition it’d--well, it’d be
savin’ folks’ money to givvem a nexhibition here.”
“We’ve _done_ things like that,” said Henry morosely. “We’ve got up
shows an’ things an’ they’ve always turned out wrong.”
“We’ve never got up a nexhibition,” said William, “a nexhibition’s
quite diff’rent. It couldn’t go wrong an’ we’d make ever so much money.”
“I don’t b’lieve in your ways of makin’ money,” said Henry, “something
always goes wrong.”
“A’ right,” said William sternly, “don’t be _in_ it. Keep _out_ of it.”
“Oh, no,” said Henry hastily, “I’d rather be _in_ it even if it _goes_
wrong. I’d rather be in a thing that turns out wrong than not be in
anything at all.”
“Where’ll we get natives?” said Ginger.
“Oh, anyone can look like a native,” said William carelessly. “That’s
easy ’s easy.”
“What’ll we call it?” said Douglas.
“The London one’s called Wembley,” said Ginger with an air of pride in
his wide knowledge.
“What about ‘The Little Wembley’?” said Henry.
“Well _that’s_ a silly thing to do!” said William sternly, “_tellin’_
’em it’s littler than Wembley before they’ve come to it. Even if it is
littler than Wembley we needn’t _tellem_ so.”
“Let’s call it just Wembley,” suggested Douglas.
“No,” said William, “it would be muddlin’ havin’ ’em both called by the
same name. Folks wouldn’t know which they was talkin’ about.”
“When I stayed with my aunt,” said Ginger slowly, “there was a place
called a Picture Palace de lucks. Let’s call it Wembley de lucks.”
“What’s de lucks mean,” said William suspiciously.
“I ’spect it means sorter good luck,” said Ginger.
“All right,” said William graciously, “that’ll do all right for a name.
Now how’re we goin’ to let people know about it?”
“How did they let people know about the other Wembley?” said Henry.
“They put advertisements in the papers an’ things,” said Ginger who
was beginning to consider himself the greatest living authority on the
subject of the Wembley Exhibition.
“We can’t do that,” said Henry, “the papers sim’ly wouldn’t print ’em
if we wrote ’em. I know ’cause I once sent somethin’ to a paper an’
they sim’ly didn’t print it.”
“Well, then,” said William undaunted, “we’ll write letters to people.
They’ll have to read ’em. We’ll stick ’em through their letter boxes
an’ they’ll _have_ to read ’em case they was somethin’ important. An’
I say, it’s nearly stopped rainin’. Let’s see ’f we can find any more
eggs.”
II
A week later the Outlaws were sitting round the large wooden table of
the one-time nursery in Ginger’s house. In a strained silence they
wrote out the letter drafted by William, a copy of which was before
each of them. The table was covered with ink stains. Their hair, their
faces, their tongues, their collars, their fingers were covered with
ink. Most of them wrote slowly and laboriously with ink-stained tongues
protruding between ink-stained teeth.
“DEAR SIR or MADDAM (ran the copy),
On Satterdy we are going to have a Wembley not the one in London but
one here so as to save you fairs and other exspences there will be
natifs in natif coschume with natif potts and ammusments and other
things which are secrits till the day entranse will be one penny exsit
free ammusments are one penny hopping to have the pleshure of your
compny,
Yours truely,
THE WEMBLY COMITTY.
P.S. It is a secrit who we are.
P.P.S. It will probly be in the feeld next the barn but notises will
be put up latter.”
When the notes had been written the Outlaws were both physically and
mentally exhausted. They could run and wrestle and climb trees all day
without feeling any effects, but one page of writing always had the
peculiar effect of exhausting their strength and spirits. As William
said, “It’s havin’ to hold an uncomfortable pen an’ keep on thinkin’
an’ lookin’ at paper an’ sittin’ without a change. It’s--well I’d
rather be a Red Indian where there aren’t no schools.”
The notices were distributed by the Outlaws personally after dark
in order the better to conceal their identity. They did not deliver
notices to their own families or the friends of their families. Their
own families were apt to be suspicious and not very encouraging. The
Outlaws regarded their families as stumbling blocks placed in their
paths by a malicious Fate.
At last, spent and weary and ink-stained, they bade each other
good-night.
“Well, it _oughter_ turn out all right with all the trouble we’re
takin’ over it,” said Ginger rather bitterly. “I feel wore out with
writin’ an’ writin’ an’ walkin’ an’ walkin’ and stickin’ things through
the letter boxes. I feel sim’ly wore out.”
“I think I’m goin’ to be sick soon,” said Henry with a certain gentle
resignation, “swallerin’ all that ink.”
“Well, no one _asked_ you to swaller ink,” said William whose position
of responsibility was making him slightly irritable. “You talk ’s if
we’d _wanted_ you to swaller ink. It’s not done any good to _us_ you
swallerin’ ink. ’F you’ve been wastin’ Ginger’s ink swallerin’ it
then you don’ need to blame us. It’s not Ginger’s fault that you’ve
swallered his ink, is it?”
“Yes, an’ it is,” said Henry, “it got all up his pen an’ on to my
fingers an’ then I had to keep lickin’ ’em to get it off an’ that’s
wot’s made me feel sick. Well, ornery ink doesn’t do that. It’s
somethin’ wrong with Ginger’s ink _I_ should say. It----”
“_Henry!_” called an irate maternal voice through the dusk, “_when_ are
you coming in? It’s _hours_ past your bedtime.”
The Outlaws scattered hastily....
III
The Outlaws had decided to hold the exhibition in Farmer Jenks’ field
behind the barn. Farmer Jenks was the Outlaws’ most implacable foe.
He frequently chased the Outlaws from his fields with shouts and
imprecations and stones and dogs. He had once uttered the intriguing
threat to William that he would “cut his liver out.” This had deeply
impressed the Outlaws and William had felt proud of the fame it won
him. He could not resist haunting Farmer Jenks’ lands because the chase
that always ensued was so much more exciting than an ordinary chase.
“Well, he’s not cut it out _yet_,” he used to say proudly after each
escape.
But just now Farmer Jenks was away staying with a brother and Mrs.
Jenks was confined to bed, and the farm labourers quite wisely
preferred to leave the Outlaws as far as possible to their own devices.
So the Outlaws were coming more and more to regard that field of Farmer
Jenks’ as their private property.
The afternoon of the exhibition was unusually warm. The exhibition
opened at 2 o’clock. To the stile that led from the road was attached a
notice
THIS WAY T
O WEMBLY D
E LUCKS
and on the hole in the hedge by which spectators were to enter Farmers
Jenks’ field was pinned another notice.
THIS WAY T
O WEMBL
EY DE L
UCKS.
At 2.30 which was the time advertised for the opening a small and
suspicious-looking group of four school children had gathered at the
stile. William, his face and bare legs thickly covered with boot
blacking and tightly clutching an old sack across his chest, met them,
frowning sternly.
“One penny each _please!_” he said aggressively. “An’ I’m part of the
exhibition an’ I’m a native an’ come this way _please_ an’ hurry up.”
There was a certain amount of bargaining on the part of the tallest
boy who refused to give more than a halfpenny, saying that he could
black himself and look in the looking glass for nothing if that was
all there was ’n a nexhibition, and there was a small scene caused by
a little girl who refused to pay anything at all, and yet insisted
on accompanying them in spite of William’s stern remonstrances, and
finally followed in the wake of the party howling indignantly, “I’m
_not_ a cheat. _You’re_ a cheat--you narsy ole black boy an’ I _won’_
give you a penny an’ I _will_ come to your narsy old show, so there!
Boo-oo-oo-oo!”
William shepherded his small flock through the hole in the hedge. Then
he took his stand behind a little piece of wood on which were ranged
pieces of half-dry plasticine tortured into strange shapes. With a
dramatic gesture William flung aside his piece of sacking and stood
revealed in an old pale blue bathing costume that had belonged to his
sister Ethel in her childhood.
“Now you can look at me first,” he said in a deep unnatural voice. “I’m
a native of South Africa dressed in native coschume an’ this here is
native orn’ments made by me an’ you can buy the orn’ments for a penny
each,” he added not very hopefully.
“Yes,” said the tallest boy, “an’ we can do _without_ buyin’ ’em equ’ly
well.”
“Yes, an’ I’d jus’ as soon you _din’_ buy ’em,” said William proudly
but untruthfully, “’cause they’re worth more’n a penny an’ I’ll very
likely get a shillin’ each for ’em before the exhibition’s over.”
“Huh!” said the boy scornfully. “Well, wot’s next? ’S not worth a penny
_so_ far.”
“’F it’d been worth a penny _so_ far,” said William, “d’you think I’d’v
let you see it _all_ for a penny. Why don’ you try to talk _sense?_”
The small girl at the tail of the procession was still sobbing
indignantly.
“I’m _not_ a cheat. Boo-_hoo-hoo_ an’ I won’t give the narsy boy my
Sat’day penny. I _won’t_. I wanter buy sweeties wiv it an’ I’m _not_ a
cheat, boo-hoo-hoo!”
“A’ _right_,” said the goaded William. “You’re not then an’ don’t then
an’ shut up.”
“You’re being very _wude_ to me,” said the young pessimist with a fresh
wail.
Beyond William were three other sacking-shrouded figures, each behind a
piece of wood on which were displayed small objects.
[Illustration: “TALK AUSTRALIAN!” COMMANDED WILLIAM.
“MONKEY, FLUKY, TIM-TIM,” SAID GINGER.
“CALL THAT AUSTRALIAN?” SAID THE AUDIENCE INDIGNANTLY.]
“Now I’m a guide,” said William returning to his hoarse, unnatural
voice. “This way please ladies an’ gentlemen an’ we’d all be grateful
if the lady would kin’ly shut up.” This remark occasioned a fresh
outburst of angry sobs on the part of the aggrieved lady. “This,”
taking off the first sackcloth with a flourish and revealing Ginger
dressed in an old tapestry curtain, the exposed parts of his person
plentifully smeared with moist boot blacking, “this is a native of
Australia, and these are native wooden orn’ments made by him. Talk
Australian, Native.”
The confinement under the sacking had been an austere one and the day
was hot and streams of perspiration mingling with the blacking gave
Ginger’s countenance a mottled look. Before him were wooden objects
roughly cut into shapes that might have represented almost anything. As
examples of art they belonged decidedly to the primitive School.
“Go on, Ging--Native, I mean. Talk Australian,” commanded William.
“Monkey, donkey, fluky, tim-tim,” said Ginger, “an’ _crumbs_, isn’t it
hot?”
“Call that Australian?” said the audience indignantly.
“Well,” said William loftily, “he’s nat’rally learnt a bit of English
comin’ over here.” Then, taking up one of the unrecognisable wooden
shapes and handing it to the little girl: “Here, you can have that if
you’ll shut up an’ it’s worth ever so much, _I_ can tell you. It’s
valu’ble.”
She took it, beaming with smiles through her tears.
“I ’spect some of you’d like to _buy_ some?” said William.
His audience hastily and indignantly repudiated the suggestion.
“What do I do _now?_” said Ginger.
“You jus’ wait for the next lot,” said William covering him up with the
sacking. Ginger sat down again muttering disconsolately about the heat
beneath his sacking.
Henry was a Canadian and Douglas was an Egyptian. Both were pasted
with blacking and both shone with streaky moisture. Henry wore a large
cretonne cushion cover and Douglas wore a smock that had been made for
use in charades last Christmas. Both obligingly talked in their native
language. Douglas, who was learning Latin, said, “Bonus, bona, bonum,
bonum, bonam, bonum,” to the fury and indignation of his audience.
In front of Henry were balls of moist clay; in front of Douglas were
twigs tied together in curious shapes. The sightseers refused all
William’s blandishing persuasions to buy.
“Well, it’s _you_ I’m thinking of,” said William. “’F you go home
without takin’ these int’restin’ things made by natives you’ll be sorry
and then it’ll be too late. An’ you mayn’t ever again see ’em _to_
buy an’ you’ll be sorry. An’ if you bought ’em you could put ’em in a
museum an’--an’ they’d always be int’restin’.”
The smallest boy was moved by William’s eloquence to pay a penny for a
clay ball, then promptly regretted it and demanded his penny back.
It was while this argument was going on that Violet Elizabeth appeared.
“Wanter be a native like Ginger--all black,” she demanded loudly.
William, who was harassed by his argument with the repentant purchaser
of native ware, turned on her severely.
“You oughter pay a penny comin’ into this show,” he said.
“I came in a different hole, a hole of my own so I’m not going to,”
said Violet Elizabeth, “an’ I wanter be a native like Ginger an’ Henry
an’ Douglas--all lovely an’ black.”
“Well, you can’t be,” said William firmly.
Tears filled her eyes and she lifted up her voice.
“Wanterbean-a-a-tive,” she screamed.
“All right,” said William desperately. “_Be_ a native. I don’t care.
_Be_ a native. Get the blacking from Ginger. I don’t care. _Be_ one an’
don’t blame _me_. The next is the amusements, ladies _an’_ gentlemen.”
There were three amusements. The first consisted in climbing a tree and
lowering oneself from the first branch by a rope previously fastened
to it by William. The second consisted in being wheeled once round the
field in a wheelbarrow by William. The third consisted in standing on a
plank at the edge of the pond and being gently propelled into the pond
by William. The entrance fee to each was one penny.
“Yes,” said the tallest boy indignantly, “an’ s’pose we fall off the
plank into the water?”
“That’s part of the amusement,” said William wearily.
The smallest boy decided after much thought to have a penny ride in a
wheelbarrow....
IV
Mrs. Bott was walking proudly up the lane. She had in train, not
an earl exactly, but distantly related to an earl. At any rate he
was County--most certainly County. So far County had persistently
resisted the attempts of Mrs. Bott to “get in” with it. Mrs. Bott
had met him and captured him and was bringing him home to tea. She
had brushed aside all his excuses. He walked beside her miserably,
looking round for some way of escape. Already in her mind’s eye Mrs.
Bott was marrying Violet Elizabeth to one of his nephews (she came to
the reluctant conclusion that he himself would be rather too old when
Violet Elizabeth attained a marriageable age) and was killing off all
his relations in crowds by earthquakes or floods or wrecks or dread
diseases to make quite sure of the earldom. Ivory charmeuse for Violet
Elizabeth of course and the bridesmaids in pale blue georgette....
Suddenly they came to a paper notice pinned very crookedly on a stile
in the hedge:
* * * * *
The distant relation to the peer of the realm brightened. He stroked
his microscopic moustache.
“I say!” he said, “sounds rather jolly, what?”
Mrs. Bott who had assumed an expression of refined disgust hastily
exchanged it for one of democratic tolerance.
“Yars,” she said in her super-county-snaring accent, “doesn’t it? We
always trai to taike an interest in the activities of the village.”
“I say, I think I’ll just go in and see,” he said.
He hoped that it would throw her off but as a ruse it was a failure.
“Oh yars!” she said, “Let’s! I think it’s so good for the village to
feel the upper clarses take an interest in them.”
The hole in the hedge proved too small for Mrs. Bott’s corpulency, but
the depressed connection of the peerage found a larger one further up
which afforded quite a broad passage when the hedge was held back.
They entered the field.
William, his blacking and perspiration falling in drops on to his pale
blue native costume, had just finished the wheelbarrow ride. His hair
stood up round his face in matted clusters. He scowled at the newcomers.
“You come to the exhibition?” he said sternly, “’cause you’ve gotter
pay a penny ’f you have.”
The Honourable Marmaduke Morencey took out a sixpence and gave it to
William. William unbent.
“’F you come round with me,” he said, “I’ll guide you. I’m a guide--a
native guide. I’m a South African, I am.”
“Rahly?” said the Honourable Marmaduke.
“How very quaint!” sighed Mrs. Bott with a kindly smile. “I do wish my
little gurl was heah. She’d have loved it. But I don’t let her mix with
common children. She’s so carefully gorded. She’s in the gorden with
her nurse now. She’s a beautiful chehild, and gorded most careful from
chehildhood.”
[Illustration: THE LAST SHROUDED FIGURE THREW OFF ITS COVERING AND
JUMPED EXCITEDLY INTO THE AIR. “I’M A NINDIAN,” SQUEAKED VIOLET
ELIZABETH, “AND I’M GOING TO DO A DANCE.”]
[Illustration: “I DO WISH MY VIOLET ELIZABETH WAS HERE,” SAID MRS.
BOTT. “SHE’D BE _SO_ INTERESTED--BUT THERE, I’VE ALWAYS KEPT HER FROM
COMMON CHILDREN.”]
Henry’s canvas was removed and the Honourable Marmaduke smiled a
weary smile and Mrs. Bott imitated it carefully but not very exactly.
Ginger was shown and the Honourable Marmaduke’s smile became less weary.
Douglas was shown and the Honourable Marmaduke almost (not quite)
laughed. He certainly murmured. “I say.... By Jove, you know ...
isn’t it? What?” Even William realised that no higher praise could be
expected of him than that.
“I _do_ wish my Vahlet Elizabeth was here,” said Mrs. Bott. “She’d be
_sow_ int’rested--but, there, I’ve always kept her gorded from common
children.”
Then the last shrouded figure threw off its covering and jumped
excitedly into the air. It was dressed in stays and small frilled
knickers. Hair, face, arms and legs were covered with blacking (William
had “borrowed” a good supply from the store cupboard. He was never a
boy for half measures).
“I’m a Nindian,” squeaked Violet Elizabeth, leaping up and down
joyfully in her scanty attire. “I’m a native Indian in a native-Indian
coschume an’ I’m goin’ to do a native-Indian dance. I’m a Nindian. I’m
a Nindian!”
With a scream that rent the very heavens Mrs. Bott made a grab at her
erring child.
At that moment from the other end of the field came a bellow of rage
that drowned even the voice of Mrs. Bott. The Outlaws, paralysed with
terror, saw the dread form of their foe advancing upon them wrathfully
across the field. Farmer Jenks had returned home unexpectedly.
“Grr-r-r-r-r,” he roared as he ran. “I’ll--I’ll--I’ll--Gu-r-r-r-r-r ...
Ye young.... I’ll ... G-r-r-r-r-r ... At ’em, Rover! Kill ’em, Rover!
Eat ’em, Rover! Ye young ... I’ll.... Gr-r--r-r-r!”
The Outlaws awaited no explanation. Like so many flashes of lightning
they were through the hole in the hedge and already half way to the
stile.
After them with little gasps of “By Jove! I say, you know!” panted the
languid aristocrat. Seeing Rover behind him he shed his languidness
and sprinted as he had never sprinted in his aristocratic life before.
Rover pursued them to the stile then returned thoughtfully chewing a
piece of the aristocratic nether garments.
The native Indian at the maternal scream had taken to its heels, flying
swiftly round the field by the hedge, closely pursued by the irate
maternal person. Farmer Jenks, seeing the other victims had escaped,
turned to the pursuit of Mrs. Bott with a roar of fury. In a few
minutes the native Indian had found another hole in the hedge and was
well on its way to its home--a little flying black and white streaked
figure.
Mrs. Bott, discovering suddenly that she was being pursued by a
ferocious man, sat down in the middle of the field and began to have
hysterics....
V
The Outlaws reassembled in the lane. They had changed into their normal
clothes and (partially) removed the blacking. Washing it, as Ginger
remarked, only seemed to spread it. It retreated from the centres of
their faces to their hair and necks. They were extremely weary and
extremely hot.
The sun still beat down upon the world unmercifully.
They surveyed sadly the gains of the afternoon--one sixpence and two
pennies. They had lost the other penny and the halfpenny on their
flight from the field.
“Eightpence,” said Ginger bitterly, “sim’ly wore ourselves out over it
an’ it’s only made eightpence. What can we do with eightpence? Kin’ly
tell me that?”
It was William, his hair standing up like black smeared spikes around
his earnest red and black face, who told him.
“We can jolly well get a twopenny glass of lemonade each,” he said.
“Come on.”