William the Bad

‘I think,’ said William, ‘that when I grow up I’m prob’ly goin’ to turn into one of those people that talk.’

‘But I don’t get paid for it,’ objected William. ‘Grown-ups get paid for it.’

‘I bet they don’t,’ said Ginger indignantly. ‘Why, my father talks all day nearly, an’ no one pays him. I bet they’d pay him to stop if it would be any good.’

‘Well, that’s jus’ ’cause he doesn’t do it in the right way,’ protested William. ‘If he did it in the right way he’d get paid for it. You’re gotter be on a platform in a big room an’ then folks come an’ sit in rows an’ pay money to listen to you talk. They don’ interrupt or argue or anythin’ like that. They jus’ sit an’ listen to you. An’ pay money.’

‘Oh, leckcherers,’ said Henry, who was generally agreed to be the best informed of the Outlaws.

‘Yes, them,’ said William, ‘I’m goin’ to be one of them. I bet I can talk as well as anyone.’

‘Well, I bet I could go on for hours,’ said William. ‘I’ve never had a chance. People always start int’ruptin’ me or arguin’ with me or tellin’ me to shut up as soon as I begin. I bet I could go on as long as anyone if they’d let me. If they started carryin’ on like that with a real leckcherer they’d get chucked out. They always have a policeman there to chuck people out that start arguin’ before the leckcherer’s finished, I bet it would be more fun bein’ a leckcherer than a robber or a chimney-sweep after all.’

There was a slight regret in William’s voice as he thus relinquished two of his favourite careers. Then his voice hardened again into determination as he said, ‘Yes, it would be more fun. Lots more fun. Rows an’ rows of ’em all havin’ to listen to you for hours an’ gettin’ chucked out if they started arguin’.’ Again his resolution seemed to waver. ‘I don’ know that it wouldn’t be better fun bein’ the policeman that chucks ’em out, though. But still,’ his determination returned, ‘it’d be jolly dull bein’ the policeman if no one started arguin’. An’ I ’speck that you could come an’ help a bit if you were the leckcherer. I bet I could chuck people that started arguin’ out an’ go on talkin’ at the same time. I bet I won’t have a policeman at all in my leckchers. I’ll talk an’ chuck ’em out. Yes. That’s what I’m goin’ to be. I’m goin’ to be a leckcherer.’

The Outlaws were accustomed to the frequent changes of William’s future career, but they took each one quite seriously.

‘How d’you start?’ said Ginger. ‘D’you have to pass examinations or anythin’ for it?’

‘No,’ said William, ‘you jus’ start talkin’ an’ shuttin’ up everyone that starts arguin’ with you an’ then after a few years you find that you’ve turned into a leckcherer an’ folks pay money to come an’ listen to you talkin’ an’ watch other folks get chucked out.’

‘When do you start?’ said Douglas, with rising interest. ‘You can’t start before you leave school, can you?’

‘You can start practisin’,’ said William, ‘you can start talkin’ an’ shuttin’ up people that int’rupt. That’s how they all start. You can start ’s young as you like. You’ve only gotter have a strong voice. I’ve gotter jolly strong voice. An’ you’ve gotter be able to shut up folks that keep int’ruptin’. That depends on how big they are, of course. You’ve gotter be careful who you start practisin’ on. When you’ve grown up, of course, it’s all right. An’, anyway, there’s the policeman to help. I bet mine’s about the worst family anyone could have what’s goin’ to be a leckcherer. I bet that not many leckcherers had families like mine when they were young. They never even let me finish a sentence hardly. They start shuttin’ me up before I’ve started to speak. But I bet I’ll turn out a better leckcherer with havin’ had to work so hard to get started. I bet by the time I’ve finished, I’ll have a voice you can hear miles off (you can hear it a good way off now), and I’ll be able to shut anyone that starts arguin’ up without any policeman at all.’

William was so carried away by his own eloquence that he saw himself standing on a platform, filling a crowded hall with his stentorian voice, desisting only to indulge in occasional hand-to-hand struggles with interrupters. Ginger broke into this pleasant picture by saying:

‘What’ll you talk about? You’ve gotter have somethin’ to talk about, haven’t you?’

‘You can talk about anythin’,’ said William, rather irritably, for William always disliked being brought down to earth, ‘it doesn’t matter what you talk about so long as you keep on talkin’ an’ chuckin’ people that start arguin’ out. I know ’cause I went to one once with an aunt. There wasn’t a single word in it that anyone could understand, but nobody seemed to mind. No one even started arguin’ or int’ruptin’. An’ they all paid money to listen. Well, it seems to me a jolly easy way of gettin’ money.’

‘’Cause everyone can’t talk,’ said William firmly. ‘It’s a sort of gift, same as bein’ able to do sums an’ Latin an’ such-like. Everyone’s not got it. Some people can do one thing an’ other people can do other things. I can’t do sums an’ Latin an’ such-like, but I can talk. I expect that the ones who can do sums an’ Latin can’t talk, so they’d be the ones that’d pay to come and listen.’

‘But you must talk about somethin’,’ persisted Ginger. ‘If you talk at all you’ve gotter talk about somethin’. You can’t help it.’

‘You talk about anythin’,’ said William. ‘Anythin’ at all. I can talk about anythin’. That’s why I’d make such a good leckcherer. You give me somethin’ to talk about an’ see if I can’t go on talkin’ about it for hours and hours.’

The Outlaws were on their way home from school and Henry, struck by a sudden idea, stopped and slung his school satchel from his shoulders.

‘I’ve got my diction’ry here,’ he said. ‘I’ll open it jus’ anywhere an’ give you the first word I see to talk about.’

‘Well, and I jolly well bet I’ll be able to talk about it too,’ said William challengingly, ‘unless it’s in a foreign langwidge.’

‘That’s a foreign langwidge,’ said William very firmly and without hesitation.

‘There’s lots of foreign words in the English diction’ry,’ said William; ‘they get put in by mistake.’

‘There!’ said William, triumphantly. ‘I told you so. They’re all foreign words! They’re French. Or else Latin.’

‘I know what that means,’ said William. ‘It means bein’ different from savidges.’

‘That’s what I’m jus’ goin’ to tell you. It is wrong. School an’ lessons an’ such-like. Savidges didn’t have them.’

‘’Cause there wasn’t anythin’ for them to learn. Euclid and Algebra hadn’t been born in those days.’

‘Well, they had to learn to tell the time by the sun an’ to scout each other.’

‘I wish you’d shut up int’ruptin’. They were born knowin’ those ’cause their fathers knew them.’

William claimed that he had succeeded in ejecting the interrupter because at the end of the struggle Henry was in the ditch, but, as the effort of precipitating Henry into the ditch had precipitated William into it as well, the result was considered by the majority to be indecisive. But the battle had invigorated them and they continued scuffling in and out of the ditch purely in a spirit of goodwill till they came to William’s house—quite forgetting William’s incipient lecture.

But William remembered it as soon as he entered his bedroom to perform his toilet before lunch. There he placed a glass of water upon his chair, and took up his position behind it. Then, flourishing his hair-brush in one hand the better to emphasise his points, he began with vehement facial contortions and wild gestures of both arms to lecture in dumb show. No words issued from his eloquently moving lips, but occasionally he stopped and raised the glass to them, then, reassuming his expressive grimaces and gestures, he continued his silent lecture. He moved his eyes about the room as he spoke, addressing now the towel-rail, now the window curtains, now the wardrobe, and finally his eyes rested upon his reflection in the dressing-table looking-glass. An interrupter. William addressed it sternly. It replied defiantly. William pointed a finger at it accusingly. It replied insolently by pointing a finger at William. With terrible determination written on his brow, William advanced upon it. A fierce battle took place in which it was evident from William’s actions that he first wrestled with his adversary, then got him on to the ground, then pummelled him mercilessly, and finally took him by the ear and led him unresisting from the room. He held the imaginary ear at first about the level of his own, and then suddenly reconstructing the scene, held up his hand as high as it would go, clearly indicating that his vanquished enemy was six feet or more in height. He flung him ruthlessly upon the landing, closed the door, returned to the space behind his chair that represented the platform, took a draught of water, and, after bowing acknowledgements to the applause with a deprecating smile, continued the lecture till again he caught sight of that aggressive interrupter in the dressing-table looking-glass, and stepped forth sternly to deal with him. Before the battle was half-way through, however, the lunch-bell rang and William, abandoning his rôle as lecturer, brushed his hair and washed his hands with perfunctory haste, and descended to the hall by way of the balusters. His elder brother greeted him as he entered the dining-room.

‘What on earth have you been doing upstairs? I thought you were coming through the ceiling.’

‘Me?’ said William blankly. ‘I’ve not been doin’ nothin’ but washin’ and brushin’ my hair.’

‘Well, you made enough noise about it, and not much to show for it, I must say.’

William contented himself with a mental vision of himself lecturing in a large hall and descending from the platform to eject Robert from the front row for interrupting.

On his way to afternoon school he met the other Outlaws as usual at the end of the road and they enlivened the journey by continuing the morning’s game. Henry opened his dictionary at random and gave William a subject to discourse upon. William, never at a loss (except in the case where he rejected words as foreign), discoursed and the others challenged his views till they were attacked by William as interrupters, and a series of lively scuffles ensued. It was an exciting and enjoyable game and might have continued indefinitely if, at the corner of the road that led to school, they hadn’t met—the little girl. She was a stranger to the neighbourhood. None of the Outlaws had ever seen her before. She was small and dainty, with dark eyes and a round, dimpled face. She was rather like Joan, the little girl next door, to whom William’s proud spirit had unbent as far as to enrol her as the only female member of the Outlaws, but who had now gone to boarding-school. William was not, on the whole, susceptible to feminine charm. Passing this little girl, he was conscious only of an overwhelming desire to talk to her. He wanted to talk to her about civilisation, and pianos and ostriches and sacks (a few of the subjects that Henry had found for him). He wanted to begin to talk to her now and to go on talking to her all afternoon. But she passed him with a look of cold disdain (his recent scuffles and frequent descents into the ditch had added nothing to his personal attractions), and at the same time Henry (the only one of the Outlaws who possessed a watch) informed them that they’d be late if they didn’t hurry, and they all began to run down the road to the school, trying to push each other into the ditch as they ran. But William’s thoughts were elsewhere, though he pushed and was pushed into the ditch with the others automatically as he ran. They were elsewhere all afternoon while he did sums about hours, days and weeks, and gave in the answers (wrong in any case) in pounds, shillings and pence. They were with the little girl. He wanted to talk to her about civilisation and pianos and ostriches and sacks. He wanted to say to her all the things (about civilisation and pianos and ostriches and sacks) that the others hadn’t let him say. He wanted to talk to her for hours and hours and hours. The memory of that look of cold disdain intrigued him. It was to William incredible and monstrous that anyone at all, much more SHE, should look on him like that. He longed to perform some striking deed of valour before her. In imagination he slew dragons for her, leapt from aeroplanes to trains for her, fought whole battalions of villains for her, climbed church steeples, and dived into shark-infested waters for her, while in reality he morosely added up six and four and three and two and made it come to forty-five . . .

He was still thinking of the little girl when he reached home, after having been kept in to finish his sums.

Before he performed his inadequate toilet preparatory to descending to the dining-room for tea, he again stood upon his imaginary platform behind his glass of water and addressed a hall full of people who listened to him spellbound. The little girl was in the front row. Interrupters as large as mountains rose to defy him. He wrestled with them and flung them out one after the other like ninepins. The whole room rose to applaud him. The little girl gazed up at him in rapt admiration. He bowed his acknowledgments, took a deep draught of water, and proceeded with the lecture till the tea-bell rang. Again his elder brother greeted him disapprovingly as he entered the dining-room.

‘Good Lord! What on earth have you been doing upstairs again? You’ve brought a great lump of plaster down from the ceiling. Are you keeping an elephant up there, or what?’

William gave him a dark look as in imagination he ejected him again from his lecture, sending him flying through the door and half-way down the flight of stairs that was just outside the lecture-room. Having thus disposed of Robert, he turned to his mother, prepared aggressively to defend at great length the state of his hair, face, hands, suit and boots. But instead of attacking these very assailable points his mother said:

William’s heart leapt. He was sure that it was the little girl. But without relaxing an atom of the severity of his expression he said:

‘Oh, she’s got a little boy staying with her too, the son of an old school-friend, who’s convalescing after measles. He’s just about your age, I believe.’

‘Huh,’ said William shortly. The monosyllable expressed equal contempt for the boy, the girl, the tea-party, measles, and the world in general. Dreamily, mechanically, he stretched out for a bun. Dreamily, mechanically, he took a Gargantuan bite. In reality he was alone with the little girl. They were walking along a country lane. He was talking to her on every subject from beginning to end of Henry’s dictionary. She listened enraptured.

But when he went to tea with her it was quite different. The boy was such a boy as William had never even imagined. He was tall and languorous. He spoke with an exaggeratedly refined accent and he talked of his travels in Italy and Switzerland and the South of France, of the theatres he had visited lately and the latest dances. And the little girl admired him. There was no doubt at all that the little girl admired him. She listened to him as in William’s dreams she had listened to William. In reality she ignored William completely after one disdainful glance that took in his shock of wiry hair, his unprepossessing features, and his stocky, unkempt-looking (even after an hour of Mrs. Brown’s ministrations) figure. William wasn’t used to being ignored and set to work at once to dispel any impression of nonentity that his appearance might have given her. He realised, of course, that physical means of asserting his supremacy would defeat their own purpose. He could have felled the languid youth to the ground with one stroke, but he was sufficiently versed in feminine psychology to realise that this would only have concentrated the little girl’s affection and concern still further upon the languid youth. He must attract her attention by other and more subtle means. If only she could hear him lecture . . .

‘Civilisation’s all wrong,’ he began firmly, ‘savidges didn’t go to school or learn Latin an’ they—’

But she wasn’t listening to him. She was listening to Claude who was talking about Nice.

‘There’s topping bathing there,’ he was saying languidly, ‘and some jolly drives over the hills behind the town. Plenty going on in the town itself too.’

‘They din’t wear collars neither, nor have to keep themselves clean, nor go to church on Sundays. They did jus’ what they liked on Sundays. They din’t even have Sunday School. An’ they could go jus’ where they wanted without people chasin’ ’em out of woods and fields an’ such-like. An’ they could fight each other whenever they wanted to an’ it din’t matter if they got their clothes all messed up ’cause they din’t wear any an’ ’—

But she wasn’t listening. His famous lecture on civilisation was falling on deaf ears.

‘The Charleston’s not a bit difficult,’ the languorous youth was saying, ‘but it’s getting a bit old-fashioned now.’

And still the little girl was gazing at him with adoring eyes and listening to him enraptured.

William was silent for a minute. It was quite evident that his lecture on civilisation was not striking enough to arrest her attention. He must lead up to it with more care. He must arrest her attention by some more dramatic means and then when he was sure of it, introduce his lecture on civilisation. He was certain that no one who heard his lecture on civilisation could fail to be impressed by it.

‘I’m a leckcherer,’ announced William with startling abruptness, ‘I give leckchers to people. Roomfuls of ’em. Chuck ’em out when they start arguin’.’

‘They say,’ the languorous youth was saying, ‘that the polka’s coming back. I hope not. Ghastly affair.’

William summoned his faculties again with an effort. There was evidently need for some yet more startling conversational opening.

‘The waltz,’ said the languorous youth, ‘is the only one of those old dances that’s any use and even it’s jolly rotten the way they used to dance it.’

‘Shot a whole crowd of elephants with one bullet once,’ went on William. ‘They were standing in a row an’ the bullet went straight through ’em one after the other an’ they all fell down on the top of each other.’

William, determined to be heard, had raised his voice and the little girl became aware, apparently for the first time, that he was speaking. She turned to him and the look of adoration with which she had regarded the languorous youth changed to one of distaste.

So amazed was William at this treatment that he hardly spoke again till it was time to go home. Yet, so perverse is human nature, the plainly evinced dislike of the little girl had only increased her desirability in his eyes. He felt that his soul would know no rest till the little girl had looked at him as she now looked at the languorous youth and till he had expounded to her at full length the lecture on civilisation that was the star of his repertoire.

As William was going home Mrs. Stacey asked him if he would come the next afternoon (a half-holiday), and take her two little visitors for a walk as he knew the country and they didn’t. William, with a show of reluctance that was merely formal, agreed and departed, leaving the languorous youth teaching the little girl a new and complicated step that he had lately learnt at his London dancing class.

Most people would have regarded the situation as hopeless, but not William. William was of the stuff that never regards anything as hopeless.

He was very thoughtful that evening and the next morning sought out Ginger. A long and confidential conversation took place between them. Ginger was at first too amazed and indignant for words. When he found words they were in the nature of firm and unqualified rejections of William’s plan.

‘If you want someone to do that you can jolly well get someone else, not me.’

It was only after a ball, a lump of putty, a set of cigarette cards and a treasured whistle had passed from William’s possession to Ginger’s that Ginger began to waver.

‘It’ll get me into an awful mess an’ I’ll get into an awful row as well,’ he still protested.

‘Well that whistle’s worth a shillin’,’ said William, ‘it’s the finest whistle I’ve ever had, I can jolly well tell you, and I wouldn’t give it to you ’cept for this.’

Ginger considered the situation for a moment in silence. He had certainly coveted that whistle for a long time. He realised that the situation had its possibilities. With the air of one who comes to a momentous decision, he said:

‘All right. If you’ll give me your glass marble—the big one—and your catapult too—I will.’

The next afternoon William called for the little girl and Claude to conduct them over the neighbouring countryside. The conversation followed pretty much the lines it had followed the day before except that Claude was now discussing the latest jazz music and that it was to his feats in life-saving that William vainly essayed to attract their attention.

‘I’ve got a saxophone,’ said Claude carelessly. ‘They cost a lot of money.’

But it was useless. They refused to take any notice of him. Raising his voice still higher, he said:

‘There’s a very deep pond jus’ round this corner. It’s quite shallow round the edges but in the middle it’d drown hundreds of people all standing on the top of each other.’

They turned the corner and at once came upon a very shallow pond in the middle of which lay Ginger, reposing at full length, his head emerging at an uncomfortable angle from the surface of the water.

‘Why,’ said William as if surprised, ‘there’s a boy drownin’ in it now!’

With a heroic gesture he flung off his coat and plunged into the pond, descending upon his hands and knees and making much play of battling against waves as he neared the middle where Ginger was reclining. Having reached Ginger, he began with much realism to rescue him. There was in fact more realism than Ginger liked.

‘That’s the way you have to rescue people,’ panted William. ‘You stay still an’ let me rescue you. I din’t give you that marble and catapult an’ all those other things to carry on like this.’

But clawing the air and spluttering wildly, Ginger arose to his full height (showing that the water came well below his knees) and hurled himself furiously upon his rescuer. His rescuer, equally wet and furious, joined battle and for a few minutes they wrestled in the middle of the pond forgetful of onlookers. It was William who remembered the onlookers first. The swaying fortunes of the battle had brought them to the water’s edge and William, remembering suddenly the business in which he was supposed to be engaged, disentangled himself from Ginger and splashed, dripping, out of the pond and up to the two startled watchers.

There he sputtered for a few minutes, rubbed the water out of his eyes, stroked it out of his hair and, still sputtering though less violently, said:

‘Looked as if we were standin’ up in the water, din’t it?’ went on William with a careless, though still rather waterlogged laugh. ‘I got him onto a narrer bridge that runs across the water jus’ under where you can see an’ then he started to struggle same as drownin’ people always do. It was jolly hard to keep him on that narrer bridge. I bet most people ’d’ve let him go an’ then he’d’ve been drowned.’

She had been so much engrossed in Claude’s conversation that she had seen nothing till she suddenly noticed the terrible boy who was supposed to be taking them for a walk fighting with another boy as terrible as himself in the middle of the pond.

WILLIAM SPLASHED OUT OF THE POND AND FACED THE TWO STARTLED WATCHERS. ‘SAW ME RESCUE HIM, DIN’T YOU?’ HE ASKED

THEY STARED AT HIM IN AMAZEMENT. ‘YOU LOOK AWFUL,’ SAID THE LITTLE GIRL.

‘Well, I’m certainly not going anywhere with him now,’ said the little girl. ‘He looks too awful for words. Let’s go home, Claude. He ought to go home too and change his clothes. He’s got himself into an awful mess. I expect his mother will be very cross with him. I should be if I was his mother. I’m not going home the way he goes home, either. I wouldn’t be seen with him anywhere.’

Her glance of scorn only increased William’s admiration for her, made him long all the more to talk to her about civilisation and pianos, and ostriches, and sacks. He opened his mouth passionately to defend himself, but a fit of choking came over him (he’d swallowed several quarts of pond water), and by the time he’d recovered from it Claude and the little girl had disappeared.

In his heart was a furious hatred of all mankind, except the little girl, and a fierce regret at having given Ginger the glass marble and the catapult.

He was still without a plan when his mother announced that Mrs. Stacey had asked him to tea again.

‘It’s little Cynthia’s last day with her,’ she said, ‘and so she wants to have someone to tea and she said that you behaved so nicely the last time you went that she thought she’d like to have you again. I want you to go, too, because at least if you’re there to tea I shall know that you aren’t wandering over the countryside falling into ponds.’

William groaned. But he was secretly much elated by the invitation. He felt that Fate was giving him another opportunity of cutting out the obnoxious Claude and winning the admiration of the little girl. He saw himself walking alone with her along a country road talking. He still wanted to talk to her . . .

He was told the exciting news by a friend who passed him as he was on his way to Mrs. Stacey’s. A lunatic had escaped from the asylum just beyond Croombe Woods. The keepers were out searching the woods for him. William hastened to announce this thrilling piece of information to his hostess and her household. The result fulfilled his highest expectations. The little girl lost all interest in the attractions of Nice and the composition of a jazz band. Her only interest—and that a consuming one—was the escaped lunatic. She could talk of nothing but the escaped lunatic. She insisted on going to the edge of the wood in order to peer fearfully through the railings.

‘They murder people,’ she said impressively. ‘All escaped lunatics murder people.’

‘They’re very cunning too,’ said Claude, ‘it’s very hard to catch them when once they’ve escaped.’

Claude spoke as one having a long and exhaustive familiarity with escaped lunatics.

William as bringer of the news had achieved a distinct but very passing fame. It had been quickly eclipsed by Claude’s assumption of knowledge of the subject in all its branches. There was evidently nothing about escaped lunatics that Claude did not know. Every time that William tried to speak, Claude interrupted him. The little girl hung on to Claude’s words. The whole situation was suddenly more than William could bear. He took out his penknife with a flourish and examined it ostentatiously. They stared at him. Casually he remarked:

‘Seems sharp enough. I may not need it anyway. He may come quiet once I catch him.’

With that cryptic remark he leapt over the railing and swaggered off through the trees into the wood.

When, however, he had advanced so far into the wood as to be no longer visible to them, something of the ardour with which he had set out upon his quest faded. He was alone in a wood with a dangerous lunatic. There might, of course, be a few keepers about too, but they’d probably be at the other end of the wood when he met the lunatic. His heart began to fail him. It is one thing to set out upon a daredevil exploit before admiring eyes, and quite another to pursue it unencouraged and alone, as many people besides William have discovered. But after a brief inward struggle he resisted the temptation to creep back to another part of the road by a devious route. After all, he played the part of Chief of a Thousand Braves almost daily. Almost daily in that character he put to flight scores of hostile tribes, and slew in a series of mighty single combats the ferocious fauna that infested the district near his camp. Was he to be turned back by one lunatic? No, he informed himself with a scornful ‘Huh,’ and strode forward into the wood, still with an indescribable swagger in his walk. He was, however, more than a little discomfited on turning a bend in the tiny track among the trees to run into a tall red-haired bare-headed man wearing leggings and carrying a stick. For a minute his heart quailed, and he was on the point of turning to flee when the man said:

‘No,’ said William, and added with relief, ‘you’re lookin’ for the lunatic?’

He felt unspeakably grateful for the protection that the presence of this large red-headed man would afford if they met the lunatic.

‘I’ve got a penknife,’ he added, ‘for if he starts carryin’ on any way.’

‘But it’d scare him if he saw it,’ protested William eagerly. ‘Look. Here’s a thing for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof. I bet that’d scare him.’

‘I should just think he is,’ said the red-headed man; ‘he’d make mincemeat of you soon as look at you.’

William scornfully ejaculated ‘Huh!’ and added, ‘It’d take more’n him to make mincemeat of me’; then after a slight pause: ‘Are there many of you looking for him?’

‘There’s one or two more but he likes me. He thinks I’m his aunt. I can do what I like with him.’

‘He’s not a bad chap,’ went on the red-headed man, ‘not as bad as some of them. He’s closely related to the Emperor of China.’

‘Yes. It makes him difficult to deal with sometimes. He has to have birds’ nests and bamboo to eat.’

‘Yes. You should see him in spring and summer sitting in trees in the grounds holding a bird’s nest in his hand and taking great mouthfuls out of it same as you would a bun.’

‘Yes, and as for bamboo! The first night he came we put him in a room with a bamboo suite in it, and, believe me, in the morning there wasn’t a stick of furniture left in the room. Dressing-table, wardrobe, washstand, chairs—he’d eaten ’em all up in the night.’

‘Golly!’ said William faintly, feeling the inadequacy of that and every other ejaculation at his command.

‘Yes,’ said the man calmly, ‘it’s all along of him being related to the Emperor of China.’

‘There he is,’ he whispered, ‘look at him. He’s got hungry an’ he’s looking for birds’ nests.’

William peered through the wood in the direction of the man’s finger. Another man could be seen some distance away stooping down and looking among the bushes.

‘That’s him,’ whispered the red-headed man, and repeated, ‘he’s got hungry an’ he’s looking for birds’ nests.’

‘We’ve got to go very careful,’ he said, ‘he’s a bad-tempered man, an’ he’ll be mad at havin’ found no birds’ nests. Sometimes he thinks he’s found a bamboo tree, and of course, it isn’t ’cause bamboo trees don’t grow here. Then he eats other sorts of trees and they don’t agree with him. He ate a young beech tree once, and he was in bed for a week after it.’

‘How’re you going to get him?’ said William, breathless with excitement. He was drawing out from his penknife the thing to get stones from a horse’s hoof so as to be ready for any emergency.

‘We’ve got to use cunning,’ said the red-headed man. ‘It’s no use attacking him straight off. He’s got the strength of ten men, especially when he’s not been overeating on birds’ nests and bamboo. Tell you what. I’ve got a plan.’ He sank his voice and William bent to listen. ‘You see he knows me and he doesn’t know you. Now he’s the sort of man what believes everything you tell him. If you go up to him and say that he’s a keeper he’ll believe he is a keeper, and you can tell him that I’m the one what escaped an’ you’ve found me and he’ll come over here to catch me, an’ then I’ll catch him. See?’

The idea appealed to William. He chuckled and set off to the man who could just be seen through the trees.

‘You’re the attendant at the asylum lookin’ for the lunatic, aren’t you?’ said William persuasively.

The simple success of this deep-laid plot delighted William so much that he could hardly keep his face straight.

The man followed William to where his new friend stood waiting. He laid a hand on William’s new friend’s shoulder, and blew a whistle.

‘Now come on, Charlie,’ he said kindly to the red-headed man, ‘come along back with me. You know it’s far nicer at home than out here. It’s cold out here and it’s going to rain in a minute.’

‘Did you find any birds’ nests to eat?’ said the red-headed man with interest.

‘Yes, lots,’ said the other man, ‘you come back with me and I’ll tell you all about it.’

William looked from one to the other, and for the first time a doubt came to him. There was something terribly sane-looking about the man who had just come up.

‘No, I’m not coming,’ said the red-headed man. ‘I’m looking for escaped lunatics. They’re all over the wood. All eatin’ birds’ nests,’ he turned and cocked a careless thumb at William. ‘He’s one of them.’

Other keepers were coming up in answer to the whistle. One of them approached the red-headed man, and said:

‘I say, Charlie, the Emperor of China’s giving a party. He wants to know if you’re coming to it.’

The red-headed man considered for a moment, and finally bowed graciously and said:

The keeper prepared to lead the way when the red-headed man wheeled suddenly round and pointed at William.

‘He’s my page,’ he said, ‘but I dismiss him. He’s utterly incompetent. Utt-er-ly.’

They went off arm in arm. The red-headed man seemed quite friendly with the keeper. He was pointing up into the trees as they went and talking about birds’ nests.

The other keepers were surrounding William and congratulating him. Someone gave him five shillings.

William having got over the first shock of surprise was carrying the situation off rather well.

‘Oh, I jus’ thought I’d have a shot at tryin’ to find him,’ he said carelessly. ‘I found him almost at once, and then I jus’ walked on with him, hum’ring him till we met a keeper. I knew that we’d be meetin’ a keeper soon, so I jus’ walked on with him, hum’ring him till we saw one. Then I left him for a minute while I went to tell the keeper that I’d found him, I jus’ kept on hum’ring him. I knew he was a lunatic all right.’

One of them escorted him back to the road and to Mrs. Stacey’s, and handed him over to his hostess with an account of his exploit.

They found the little girl sobbing. It appeared that she had been sobbing ever since William had gone into the wood. She had refused all comfort.

‘I wasn’t a b-bit n-nice to him,’ she had sobbed. ‘I was h-horrid to him. And now he’s g-gone and got k-killed. I know he’s g-got k-killed. He’s g-got k-killed by a l-lunatic.’

She listened open-mouthed and open-eyed to the story of William’s capture. All through tea she gazed at him in mute admiration. William, in the intervals of making a very adequate meal, enlarged upon his adventure.

‘The minute I saw him I knew he was a lunatic, of course,’ he said, speaking indistinctly through a mouthful of currant bun. ‘He’d got red hair and he—he sort of looked like a lunatic. They’ve gotter sort of look, lunatics have. You can tell ’em at once. Well, I told this one at once. I saw he was a lunatic from the look of him, the minute I saw him, so I got my penknife out. It’s got a sort of thing that’s meant for taking things out of a horse’s hoof, but it’d go right into a man’s head if you stuck it in hard enough. I let him see I’d got it so’s he wouldn’t start struggling or anythin’, and then I started hum’ring him. Yes, I’ll have another bun, thank you . . . Well,’ still more indistinctly, ‘I started hum’ring this lunatic. I knew he was a lunatic all right. It’s quite easy hum’ring lunatics. You talk to ’em about birds’ nests and bamboo an’ things like that. Well, I kept walkin’ with him an’ hum’ring him talkin’ about birds’ nests and bamboo and things like that same as you do to lunatics—thanks, yes, the sort with sugar on, over there—thanks—till we came to where we saw a keeper. Of course, I knew that if we went on walkin’ long enough we’d meet a keeper, ’cause they were out in the wood lookin’ for him, so as soon as we met this keeper, I thought of a very cunning plan—yes, thanks very much. I’d like a piece of that currant cake, thank you very much—I thought of a very cunnin’ plan. I sort of made him think that he was the keeper and the other the lunatic. I daresay he wun’t’ve believed it if anyone’d told him so, but I’m good at hum’ring lunatics so he believed it an’ so I sort of got ’em together an’ the real keeper got him. They gave me,’ he added modestly, ‘a lot of money for it. They thought it was a jolly clever thing to do. But it din’t seem very clever to me . . . Yes, thank you very much, I’ll have one of those biscuits . . . I mean there doesn’t seem much in jus’ catchin’ a lunatic to me.’

‘Oh, William,’ sighed the little girl, ‘I think you’re wonderful!’

‘I remember when we were staying in Nice,’ began Claude in his languorous high-pitched drawl, but the little girl said impatiently, without even looking at him:

‘Oh, Claude, do be quiet,’—then sinking her voice to tenderness again—‘do tell us all about it again, William.’

And William, nothing loth, stretched out his hand for a jam tart and told them all about it again.

When William set off at the appointed hour to go home it appeared that the little girl had decided to accompany him. She wanted a last glimpse of William’s home and family and person, all of which were now invested with a dazzling glamour in her eyes. Claude, who had not been allowed to finish a sentence since William had returned from his heroic exploit, did not even offer to accompany them, but retired sulkily to listen to the wireless.

‘I’m so sorry I’m going home to-morrow, William,’ said the little girl regretfully.

He was alone with the little girl. There was a whole mile of country road before them. He could talk to his heart’s content about civilisation, pianos, ostriches, sacks—anything. She’d listen with awe and reverence. She wouldn’t interrupt. And quite suddenly all his desire to talk to her had faded. He realised that without interruption it wouldn’t be any fun at all. He looked down at the little girl’s face. It was raised to his, alight with adoration. And quite suddenly he discovered that her charm for him had completely vanished. It was her disdain of him that had made her so desirable in his eyes.

‘OH, WILLIAM,’ SIGHED THE LITTLE GIRL, ‘I THINK YOU’RE WONDERFUL!’

His hand closed over the two half-crowns in his pocket. They at any rate were real and desirable enough. They were just passing Mr. Moss’s sweet shop. With a murmured excuse he disappeared inside to reappear a few minutes later with a paper bag.

‘Bulls eyes,’ he explained tersely. ‘Big ’uns. They last for miles.’ He handed her one. It was gigantic. He took one himself. Their lips could not quite close over them. Conversation for some minutes at any rate was quite impossible. William walked on in enforced, but quite enjoyable silence. A rosy haze of content was upon his spirit. He’d soon be at home. Ginger would be waiting for him. They’d have time for a game before bed-time. He was already forgetting the past except as food for the future. Lunatics and keepers . . . it would make a jolly fine game. It held endless possibilities. A change from Red Indians and smugglers and the other games.

William considered the question in silence for a minute. He didn’t want to be a lecturer after all. He was tired of it already. He wasn’t really sure that he wanted to be a robber or a chimney sweep either. It was a jolly good bulls eye, the best he’d ever tasted. Bottles and bottles of bulls eyes all your own. He made up his mind suddenly.

CHAPTER 2

WILLIAM AND THE LITTLE GIRL