William

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Now,’ he demanded sternly again, ‘what’s all this ’ere?’

  ‘Thieves,’ sputtered old Scraggy, ‘thieves, that’s what they are.’

  The policeman took his note-book from his pocket. Henry, not to be at a disadvantage, took his out too.

  ‘D’you wish to prosecute?’ said the policeman in his most official manner.

  The householder hesitated. He could imagine this minion of the law repeating his report of four powerful-looking men – one elderly. He looked just the sort of man to do that . . .

  ‘No,’ he said irritably. ‘No, no, no. The whole affair’s most exasperating. Box their ears and let them go.’

  The policeman replaced his note-book in his pocket. Henry replaced his.

  ‘’Tain’t none of my business, boxin’ ears,’ said the policeman. ‘I’d see ’em boxed with pleasure but it ain’t none of my business doin’ it . . .’

  William at last found his voice. ‘He’s not him at all,’ he said, pointing dramatically at the old man; ‘they’ve murdered him an’ he’s a thief tryin’ to get his money. He’s dressed up like him but he’s not him. They’ve murdered him an’—’

  The outburst seemed to draw the policeman’s attention to him more closely. He looked at him, then at Ginger, then at Henry, then at Douglas.

  Then a gleam came into his eye and he took out his note-book again.

  ‘Look ’ere,’ he said, ‘aren’t you the four nippers what Farmer Jenks said—’

  But the Outlaws were merely four dots on the horizon.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE NEW GAME

  ‘What shall we do today?’ said Ginger. There was in his voice a certain touching confidence in fate as a never-failing provider of thrills.

  They looked at William. William was generally fate’s instrument in the providing of thrills.

  ‘I think,’ said William with a rather self-conscious nonchalance as if pretending – only pretending, of course – to be unaware of the originality of his suggestion, ‘I think we’ll try greyhound racin’ for a change.’

  ‘Greyhound racin’?’ repeated the Outlaws in surprise.

  They had expected William to say pirates or Red Indians or perhaps smugglers, but greyhound racing was so novel, so unexpected, so daring and up-to-date, that they could only repeat the words and stare at William helplessly.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, still with his exaggerated nonchalance, ‘I – I heard Robert an’ some other people talkin’ about it last night. It seemed – sort of simple. It seemed jus’ the sort of thing we could do.’

  It was Douglas who voiced the first objection.

  ‘But – we haven’t got any greyhounds.’

  ‘We’ve got Jumble,’ said William with spirit.

  Jumble was William’s dog, though some people thought that dog was too definite a term for Jumble.

  Ginger laid his finger at once upon the weak spot in William’s argument.

  ‘Jumble isn’t a greyhound,’ he said.

  William looked at him coldly.

  ‘No one’s ever found out exactly what sort of a dog Jumble is,’ he said distantly, ‘an’ I bet he’s as likely to be a greyhound as anythin’.’

  The Outlaws forbore to touch further upon the delicate subject. William was apt to resent as an outrage upon his personal honour any reflections upon Jumble’s pedigree.

  They turned hastily to another aspect of the matter.

  ‘There can’t be racin’ with only one dog,’ objected Henry.

  ‘We can easily find another dog,’ said William carelessly. ‘This country’s simply overrun with dogs. I heard my father say so yesterday. One had jus’ bit him.’

  ‘An’ how d’you make ’em race?’ demanded Ginger. ‘Seems to me they’d only start playin’ or fightin’. Dogs don’t race nacherally.’

  ‘They have a mechanical hare for them,’ said William kindly and with a superior air of knowledge, ‘that makes ’em race.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t got a mechanical hare,’ said Ginger, as if that settled the matter.

  ‘No,’ retorted William as if it didn’t, ‘but I’ve got a clockwork mouse an’ that’s jus’ the same.’

  They were nonplussed for the minute and then, as usually happened, they became infected with William’s optimism.

  ‘Well,’ said Ginger, ‘it oughter be all right. It’ll be fun anyway.’

  Preparations for the race began at once and it seemed likely to grow into quite an elaborate affair.

  ‘Let’s have refreshments,’ said William, ‘an’ bettin’ an’ all.’

  ‘Bettin’s wrong,’ objected Henry piously.

  ‘Only when it’s horses,’ said William hastily; ‘it’s all right when it’s greyhounds.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Ginger, as if exculpating them still further in the matter, ‘Jumble’s not exactly a greyhound either so it’s prob’ly quite all right.’

  The first difficulty was to find a race track. They finally decided on an open space in the wood near William’s home.

  ‘We’ll let ’em out at this tree,’ said William with a business-like air, ‘an’ let ’em run to that tree. That’ll be the winnin’ post an’ Ginger’ll stand there with a note-book puttin’ down which comes first.’

  ‘S’pose they catch the mouse before they get to this tree,’ objected Ginger.

  ‘The hare?’ said William coldly. ‘They never do that, I don’t think. Anyway,’ optimistically, ‘we won’t let ’em do that. And Henry will see to the bettin’.’

  ‘I don’t know how to,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve never done it. How do you do it?’

  Henry’s helplessness and lack of initiative seemed to irritate William.

  ‘It’s quite easy,’ he said. ‘You – you sort of stand with a note-book an’ say “bet you a penny Jumble wins” or “bet you a penny that the other one wins” to everyone, and if they take it on put down their names in the note-book.’

  ‘An’ if Jumble wins the ones that said he wouldn’t give me a penny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An’ if he doesn’t I give ’em a penny?’

  ‘I s’pose so.’

  ‘Where do I get it from?’

  ‘You get it from the pennies that the people who don’t win the bets give you.’

  Henry considered this for some minutes in silence, then said:

  ‘Let Douglas do that part an’ I do somethin’ else.’

  ‘All right,’ said William coldly. ‘It’s ever so easy, Douglas.’

  ‘An’ who’ll come to the race?’ demanded Ginger.

  ‘Anyone,’ said William, ‘but they’ll have to pay money to come in.’

  ‘No one’ll come if they have to pay money to come,’ said Ginger with simple conviction.

  William could not help admitting the truth of this. ‘Then we’ll jus’ invite the people we like an’ not let any of the others come,’ said William.

  ‘Not Hubert Lane nor any of the rest of them,’ said Ginger.

  The Outlaws carried that by acclamation. Between the Outlaws and the Hubert Laneites had existed, since any of them remembered, a deadly feud, which sometimes merely smouldered and sometimes burst into open warfare.

  ‘Crumbs, no!’ said William. ‘None of them.’ A smile of satisfaction broke over his face. ‘But we’ll let ’em know we’re having it. They’ll be mad at not bein’ able to come.’

  Preparations continued during the next few days. To tell the truth the Outlaws concentrated most of their attention upon the refreshments. They did many small services at home – consisting mostly of sawing wood – on a strictly cash basis. They sold sundry of their less precious possessions to their friends. They affected suddenly perfect manners when in the neighbourhood of elderly and prosperous relatives. The net result was one and elevenpence farthing (the farthing had been found by Henry in his coal shed). The Outlaws were delighted by it. With it they provided a magnificent feast – eight bottles of liquorice water, two bottles of ginger ale an
d an array of the cheapest and most indigestible cakes that the Outlaws after a long and patient search (which drove several confectioners to the verge of madness) could find.

  The next thing to do was to find a second greyhound to race with Jumble. William still seemed inclined to think that Jumble alone would do. He liked to think of cheering Jumble as victor past the winning post and with a second competitor there was always the chance that Jumble might not arrive as victor at the winning post, but he admitted the logic of the argument that with only one greyhound it could not strictly be called a ‘race’.

  With Ginger he roamed the fields and roads in search of stray dogs and found none. It was amazing, as he frequently remarked, where all the stray dogs had got to just now. Why, ordinary days they were all over the place. They must be all hiding away somewhere. Extraordinary, he said, how animals seemed sometimes almost human in the way they do things just to spite you.

  The day of the race arrived and still no rival to Jumble had been found. William had laboriously written out a notice:

  grahound racing got up by mister william brown ennywon may bring dogs to run aganst jumble the grate racing grahound belonging to mister william brown.

  He had meant to pin it on to his side gate, but the other Outlaws, though admiring it as a literary production, pointed out that its public appearance would only give an opportunity to the Hubert Laneites to turn up at the race. Suppose Hubert himself arrived with his mother’s Pom? It was a horrible idea. William promptly destroyed his notice and went out again to look for a stray dog. He came upon a young pig that seemed to have wandered from its native haunts, gazed at it doubtfully, decided that by no stretch of imagination could it be referred to as a greyhound nor by any human means could it be made to resemble a greyhound and returned to the Outlaws again empty-handed. However, he was in an optimistic mood.

  ‘We’ll prob’ly find something on the way,’ he said.

  They had decided to have the refreshments in a small clearing a very short distance from the racecourse, and thither they bore the provisions – packed precariously in school satchels – about half an hour before the race was timed to begin.

  Jumble accompanied them, leaping exuberantly and running on in front, little dreaming that he was a greyhound and about to take part in a race. Had he known it, his deportment would have been sadly altered. Jumble disliked on principle all the varied rôles that his master thrust upon him. The only time he had ever bitten William was once when he was impersonating a viking in a play written by William. He found the stage directions confusing and ran amok.

  Ginger had his little note-book for writing down the winner’s name and a piece of string to tie to the winning post. Douglas carried his betting note-book and looked rather gloomy. The more he thought over the system of greyhound betting as expounded by William the more gloomy he became.

  ‘S’pose they all bet right an’ want pennies an’ none of ’em bet wrong an’ give me pennies,’ he said, ‘what happens then?’

  But the others, feeling that he was trying to make out his part in the proceedings to be unduly important, only said: ‘Oh, shut up.’

  William had the clockwork mouse in his pocket. He was frowning abstractedly, his thoughts still taken up with Jumble’s – as yet – undiscovered rival.

  ‘We may find one lost in the wood jus’ where we’re goin’ to have the race,’ he said.

  ‘Look!’ said Ginger suddenly. They were passing the back gate of a house. It was open. On it was inscribed ‘Beware of the Dog’, and just inside it was a kennel and chained to the kennel was a very friendly-looking fox-terrier, who wagged his tail propitiatingly when he saw that the Outlaws had stopped to look at him.

  ‘I know him,’ said Ginger importantly, ‘I’m a friend of his. I’ve often gone in to play with him there, when there was no one about.’

  There was silence. The Outlaws stood gazing at the dog and then at each other, while the great idea took shape. Ginger at last broke the silence and voiced it.

  ‘I votes we jus’ – jus’ borrow him for the race. I think they’re all out. We can have him back again before they come back.’

  Without waiting for their answer Ginger went up to the dog and unchained it. It joined the party with jubilation, leaping down the road with them and fraternising exultantly with its fellow greyhound.

  They had finished all their preparations. The feast was spread out in the space reserved for ‘refreshments’. The Outlaws had determined to charge their patrons a penny per head and then let them fight for what they could get.

  The patrons were now beginning to arrive. Douglas with his little note-book was doing brisk business.

  He had reduced the ceremonial of betting to its simplest possible form. He had written on one page of his little note-book ‘For Jumble’, and on the opposite page ‘Against Jumble’. The news spread like wildfire among the patrons of the race.

  ‘I say, if you go up to Douglas an’ say, “I bet you a penny Jumble doesn’t win,” they’ll give you a penny if he doesn’t.’

  The patrons all did this. It was not that they did not admire Jumble, but a stranger at first sight often commands more respect than someone we have known all our lives, and there was something vaguely sporting-looking about the fox-terrier.

  ‘I ’spect he’s a real racin’ dog they’ve got in,’ murmured one of the patrons with awe.

  William caught the competitors and tied them to the starting tree, and then, looking very important, blew a blast on his whistle.

  WILLIAM BLEW A BLAST ON HIS WHISTLE. HE RELEASED HIS CLOCKWORK MOUSE. IT WENT FORWARD TWO INCHES AND STOPPED.

  Henry cleared the track.

  William wound up his clockwork mouse.

  ‘One to be ready – two to be steady,’ shouted William, ‘and three—’

  He blew another blast on his whistle.

  He released his clockwork mouse.

  Henry unleashed the greyhounds.

  The clockwork mouse went forward two inches, then came to a slight irregularity in the ground and stopped. The greyhounds danced off playfully into the wood in the opposite direction, ignoring track and patrons and mechanical hare alike. The patrons began to grumble. This wasn’t what they’d come to see.

  ‘We’ll have another try,’ said William in his most official manner.

  They had another try.

  The two greyhounds were recalled to the starting tree, were shown the clockwork mouse and told once more what was demanded of them. Both of them wagged their tails in cheerful understanding and compliance.

  Again Henry cleared the track. Again William wound up his clockwork mouse and blew his whistle.

  But something had gone wrong with the clockwork mouse and it now refused to function at all. The fox-terrier leapt upon it, seized it by its tail, flung it into the air, fell upon it again, chewed it up and then scampered off in the opposite direction after his new friend.

  THE DOGS DANCED OFF PLAYFULLY INTO THE WOOD IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION. THE PATRONS BEGAN TO GRUMBLE. THIS WASN’T WHAT THEY’D COME TO SEE!

  ‘What do they do at the real races when they carry on like this?’ demanded Ginger in a frenzied aside to William.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said William irritably. ‘They don’t carry on like this. It’s these dogs’ fault. They don’t seem to know what racin’ means.’

  ‘It was your idea,’ said Ginger bitterly.

  The patrons were crowding round Douglas, insisting that Jumble had lost whatever race there was, and demanding their pennies. Certainly it was not Jumble who had caught the mechanical hare.

  A hunted look was coming over Douglas’s face.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he was saying. ‘I haven’t got any. Well, it’s your own faults. You shouldn’t have all betted on the same dog. If half of you’d betted on one and half on the other then I’d have had money to give half of you from the other half. I don’t care. It’s not my fault. I can’t help it, I tell you. I haven’t got any.’

&nb
sp; ‘You promised us a penny if he won,’ growled the patrons.

  ‘Well, he di’n’t win. Neither of them won.’

  ‘He did win. He got hold of the mouse, anyway, an’ that’s winnin’.’

  ‘We want our pennies.’

  ‘You promised us pennies.’

  They grew more and more turbulent till finally Douglas, like so many others of his profession before and since, took to his heels, pursued by an indignant crowd.

  William stood looking down at the ruins of his mechanical hare. The greyhounds still sported joyously about in and out of the trees.

  ‘Well,’ said William disgustedly, ‘it’s all been a rotten sort of show, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It was all your idea,’ Ginger reminded him once more.

  ‘It was a jolly good idea,’ said William indignantly. ‘Fancy blamin’ me because these two dogs haven’t any sense! Where’s Douglas?’

  ‘He’s running away,’ explained Henry morosely. ‘They’re all after him for their pennies.’ He turned to William. ‘That’s all your fault, too. I don’t believe you know anythin’ about bettin’.’

  ‘It’s them what don’t know anythin’ about bettin’,’ said William, defending himself spiritedly. ‘Fancy them all bettin’ on the same dog. Stands to reason there’s no money for ’em if they all bet on the same dog. Well, anyway, let’s go ’n’ eat up the food.’

  They went slowly through the trees to the place where they had left the refreshments. It was empty of refreshments. Every cake, every bottle had disappeared. In their place was a piece of paper bearing the words:

  ‘Thank you very much from us all for a good tea.

  ‘HUBERT LANE.’

  ‘Hope it poisons ’em,’ said Henry viciously.

  But William’s blood was up. It was a relief to be able to concentrate his bitterness upon a concrete enemy.

  ‘Come on,’ he said tersely, ‘let’s catch ’em up. Prob’ly they’re still somewhere in the wood.’