William

by Richmal Crompton

  Henry, however, had made the sum of twopence. His brother had – somewhat foolishly – paid him in advance for taking a note to the present object of his affection. Henry had faithfully taken the note, but on the way he had met an errand-boy who had rashly mimicked his gait and expression. Henry had resented this and after a spirited exchange of verbal insults a contest had ensued in the course of which Henry had received a black eye and the errand-boy a burst nose. The note which Henry had dropped in the thrill of battle had received the first evidence of the errand-boy’s burst nose. It was that that brought Henry’s spirit down from the proud height to which it had soared. He picked up his note, the errand-boy picked up his basket and they parted amicably, the errand-boy as proud of his burst nose as Henry would have been of his black eye if it hadn’t been for the note. For Henry knew that it was no fit note to present to anyone’s ladye love – trampled underfoot by muddy boots and dyed in an errand-boy’s gore. He handed it to the housemaid with a muttered apology and the evident horror with which she received it did nothing to lessen his misgivings. He was sure that the appointment suggested in the note would not be kept by the lady and that his brother would find out the reason and lay the blame on him. He was already engaged in composing as an explanation the story of a gigantic man who had leapt upon him from behind a wall and cruelly assaulted him, trampling him in the dust and blacking his eye. He hastened, however, to put his twopence into William’s charge before his brother could demand its return.

  William regarded it with perhaps over-optimistic cheerfulness.

  ‘Well, it’s a beginnin’,’ he said, and added in a challenging tone, ‘no one can say it isn’t a beginnin’ .’

  ‘Not much of a beginnin’ to ten pounds,’ said Douglas mournfully.

  ‘It’s as much a beginnin’ to ten pounds as it would be to anything,’ said William spiritedly and with truth.

  ‘Why did you say ten pounds?’ said Douglas, again mournfully.

  ‘Doesn’t matter what he said,’ said Ginger, ‘we’d still be as far off it, whatever he’d said. We’d be as far off it if he’d said a shilling.’

  ‘No, we’d only be tenpence off it if he’d said a shilling,’ said Henry the literal. ‘With him sayin’ ten pounds we’re nine pounds nineteen shillings an’ tenpence off.’

  ‘An’ we’ve only two days left,’ said Ginger.

  Their hunting for employment from reluctant employers had taken some time and they all realised with surprise and dismay that the fortnight had almost elapsed.

  ‘They’ve got their five pounds,’ said Douglas mournfully. ‘Ole Hubert Lane yelled out to me that they had this morning. That and a lot more cheek. An’ I felt so – sort of fed up that I can’t even run after ’em.’

  ‘Fancy!’ said Henry wistfully. ‘They’ve got their five pounds!’

  ‘Well, we’ll get our ten pounds,’ said William. ‘I bet there’s lots of people that have got ten pounds in two days.’

  ‘How?’ said Ginger simply.

  ‘Oh, there’s lots of ways of gettin’ money,’ said William vaguely and irritably. William always disliked having his soaring optimism brought down to earth by such questions. ‘Look how rich all grown-up people are. Well, they mus’ get their money somehow.’

  ‘They pass exams, an’ then start off bein’ doctors an’ clergymen an’ things like that an’ people pay ’em money for it, an’ we can’t do that because we haven’t passed any exams,’ said Douglas.

  ‘I nearly passed one once,’ murmured Ginger modestly. ‘If I’d’ve got ten more marks I’d’ve passed in Arithmetic last term.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said William, ‘an’ let’s try ’n’ think of a way of gettin’ money. All grown-ups haven’t passed exams. I bet there’s lots of rich grown-ups that haven’t passed exams. What about shopkeepers? There isn’t any exam for shopkeepers. People can jus’ set up a shop an’ get money without passin’ exams. That’s the best way of makin’ money, too. You buy a thing for, say, a halfpenny an’ you sell it in your shop for a penny. You sell everythin’ for double what you pay for it an’ so you get richer an’ richer till you’re a millionaire.’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t do that,’ said Henry gloomily; ‘you gotter have some money to start with to buy the shop an’ the stuff to sell in it. An’, anyway, it’d take more’n two days settin’ up a shop an’ makin’ ten pounds in it.’

  ‘They don’t always buy a shop before they start sellin’ things,’ said William. ‘Sometimes they jus’ have a stall in the road. I’ve often seen people havin’ a stall in the road an’ sellin’ things. I bet that they’re much richer than the ones who buy a shop ’cause a shop mus’ cost an awful lot of money.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve often seen ’em,’ said Ginger. ‘I’ve seen ’em havin’ refreshment stalls sellin’ buns an’ lemonade, an’ such-like.’

  ‘That’s what we’ll do,’ said William, his freckled face illuminated by a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘We’ll have a refreshment stall.’

  The refreshment stall stood by the roadside awaiting patrons. It consisted of a large packing-case turned up on end sideways and covered by a newspaper. Upon this chaste covering reposed four buns, a jug of lemonade and a tin mug together with a notice unevenly printed in ink, ‘buns a penny lemonade a penny’. Behind it, gazing with eager, expectant faces down the empty road, stood the four Outlaws. The lemonade had been made from a tin of lemonade powder that William had found in his mother’s larder. The jug and mug were Ginger’s contribution. The buns were four halfpenny buns that had been honestly purchased with Henry’s twopence.

  The system upon which the refreshment stall was to be run had been fully explained by William.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘as soon as anyone buys a bun one of you run down to the village with the penny an’ buy two more halfpenny ones with the penny. An’ so on. It’s ever so easy. We’ll be rich in no time.’

  Their spirits rose . . . They waited, their eyes fixed on the bend in the road.

  ‘S’pose no one buys anythin’,’ said Douglas dejectedly. Douglas was always rather inclined to look on the black side.

  At that moment a cyclist appeared. He dismounted by the stall and read the notice gravely. Then he took twopence out of his pocket and asked for a mug of lemonade and a bun. Eight eager and none-too-clean hands flashed out to serve him.

  Just as this was happening Bertie Franks passed. He gazed with goggle-eyed amazement and interest at the scene. Bertie Franks was Hubert Lane’s chief supporter.

  ‘How’s business?’ said the cyclist.

  ‘Fine,’ said William exuberantly.

  The cyclist mounted and rode off again.

  ‘Bertie saw us,’ said William with satisfaction. ‘He’ll begin to feel a bit small at their mingy ole five pounds now.’

  ‘We’ve only got twopence yet,’ put in Henry mildly.

  THE CYCLIST BOUGHT A MUG OF LEMONADE AND A BUN, BERTIE FRANKS GAZED WITH GOGGLE-EYED AMAZEMENT AT THE SCENE.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, ‘but it only took about a second gettin’ it. An’ there’s all the rest of the day. Hours an’ hours. About a second gettin’ twopence. An’ there’s sixty seconds in an hour. That’s sixty twopences. That’s—’ William wrestled for a moment with the mighty sum and finally gave it up. ‘That’s ever so much money. We’ll soon have the ten pounds.’

  Henry and Douglas had run down to the village with the twopence and now returned with four more halfpenny buns, which they placed upon the packing-case. ‘It’s a jolly easy way of makin’ money,’ said William thoughtfully. ‘I wonder more people don’t go in for bein’ shopkeepers. You’d get rich this way ever so much quicker than any other . . .’

  He stopped. An old lady was coming down the road. Alas! The Outlaws should have been prepared for treachery once Bertie Franks had seen their wayside stall with all its evidences of prosperity. But they had not been invited to Bertie Franks’s Fancy Dress dance in the winter when Hubert Lane had won the first prize as an
old lady. Hubert’s podgy little figure even normally suggested that of an old lady. He wore a long full skirt and a cape. His bonnet was tied under his ears. A veil hid his face, showing only rosy cheeks (his usually pasty cheeks were heavily rouged), and grey side curls. He spoke in an assumed high-pitched voice.

  ‘I’ve been watching you, my dear boys, from my house up the road. I’m sure that you’re both tired and hungry, and I’d be so pleased if you’d go up to my house and have something to eat. I’ve left a nice tea for you on the verandah. I’ll look after your stall for you and you needn’t be away a minute, need you?’

  Alas for the Outlaws! They didn’t know that this was Hubert Lane. They didn’t know that the Hubert Laneites surrounded them, crawling slowly along the dry ditch on either side of the road. They hesitated, they weakened, they fell.

  ‘Thanks awfully,’ said William. ‘Yes – we wouldn’t mind havin’ tea. We’ve been so busy that we forgot all about tea. No, we needn’t stay away more’n a minute an’ if you’d kindly look after our stall for us—’

  ‘Cert’nly, dear boys,’ said the old lady, ‘mine’s the first house on the right an’ you’ll find a nice tea laid for you on the verandah.’

  Hubert’s plan was a deep and cunning one. At first he had meant to decoy William from his post by the description of a non-existent tea, but on the way down the road he had noticed a tea laid for four on the verandah of a house down the lane. There were no signs of hosts or guests. It occurred to him that it would be fun to involve the Outlaws in the terrible complications that would ensue from an unauthorised consumption of this inviting and evidently carefully prepared meal.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said William politely and set off with his Outlaws down the road.

  Only Douglas felt slight misgivings. ‘I dunno as we ought to’ve gone,’ he said anxiously.

  William defended their action with spirit.

  ‘Well, we’ve gotter eat, haven’t we? We’d die if we went on an’ on without food, an’ it wouldn’t be much good gettin’ ten pounds an’ then dyin’ of starvation gettin’ it an’ not bein’ able to see old Hubert’s face when it’s read out.’

  It was well for their peace of mind that they could not see old Hubert’s face at that moment as, still wearing the semblance of a venerable old lady, he stood with his followers around the Outlaws’ refreshment stall, drinking the lemonade and eating the buns with gloating haste.

  The Outlaws hesitated for a second at the gate of the house the old lady had mentioned, ‘first on the right,’ then summoned up their courage and entered. After all they were invited guests . . . They walked round to the side of the home and there they found a tea laid for four on the verandah, just as the old lady had said. It was a most sumptuous tea, spread upon a dainty lace tablecloth – cups and plates of eggshell china, tea in a silver tea-pot, cream in a silver cream jug, wafer-like bread and butter, buttered tea-cake, iced cakes, chocolate biscuits and a big currant cake all arranged tastefully upon lace d’oyleys. They sat down weakly upon the four wicker chairs that were ranged round the table and gazed at it open-mouthed.

  ‘I say,’ gasped William in a faint voice. ‘How – how jolly decent of her! You – you don’t find many ole ladies as decent as this nowadays.’

  They all looked at the feast eagerly and yet with compunction.

  ‘She needn’t have took so much trouble,’ said Ginger, his voice throbbing with gratitude. ‘We wouldn’t’ve minded a bit havin’ it plainer, would we?’

  At that moment they heard voices. Four people were coming round the house to the verandah. And in a flash some sixth sense informed the Outlaws that these were the four people for whom the feast was intended. Like four rabbits making for their burrow they dived into the only refuge available – through the open French window just behind them into a small but – mercifully – over-furnished drawing-room. There with looks of frozen horror upon their faces they cowered in the only corner that was invisible from the window.

  Their suspicions were only too correct. The four newcomers sat down at the table. Apparently the hostess after preparing the meal had gone to the post and had there met her three visitors on their way to her house. One of them was talking in a thin, plaintive wail:

  ‘I nearly didn’t come, my dear. I’m so wretched that I simply don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t think that anyone’s ever gone through what I’m going through today.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ said one of the others.

  ‘It’s Toto . . . Hadn’t you heard, dear? He’s lost. He got lost last night. I haven’t seen him.’ The voice quavered into tears. ‘I haven’t seen him since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. I’ve lived an eternity since then. Every second as long as an hour. You don’t know what he is to me. To you, of course, he’s just a dog, but to me he’s – he’s everything.’ The bereaved one was abandoning herself luxuriously to her grief – ‘everything in the world. He’s really valuable, of course, but that’s not what upsets me so much. It’s he himself. He’s my little friend and comrade, you know. I always call him that – my little friend and comrade. And he’s go-o-o-o-o-one!’

  Apparently Toto’s mistress here abandoned herself yet more luxuriously to her grief. William peeped out cautiously. She was a small woman with red hair, a ludicrously grief-stricken expression and a green hat that was too small for her. Her hostess had evidently heard her tale before and was making strenuous efforts to divert the stream.

  ‘Yes, it is terribly sad, Mrs Hoskins, and we all sympathise with you. Now we want to tell Mrs Peters all about our little society.’

  But Mrs Hoskins was not to be diverted thus from her elegy of grief.

  ‘I keep ringing up the police station. Hardly a minute goes by but what I ring up the police station to see if they’ve heard anything yet. They aren’t a bit sympathetic. I’d always heard that the police were such nice men, but they aren’t a bit. They’re most unsympathetic about my poor little Toto. I’ve just sent notices round to all the newspapers with descriptions of him . . . He’s so appealing, I expect that someone met him and simply couldn’t resist him. He is like that – irresistible. I keep thinking about him. He must miss me so terribly . . . I do so hope that he’s not been stolen by anyone cru-u-u-u-uel!’

  Again the bereaved one buried her face in her handkerchief. Her hostess seized the opportunity to change the subject –

  ‘Now let us tell Mrs Peters about our little society.’

  William craned forward again.

  Mrs Peters had earnest eyes and an earnest mouth and an earnest nose. She quivered with earnestness from head to foot. Every word she uttered thrilled with earnestness. ‘Oh do!’ she said, ‘I’m so interested. I’m so honoured to be chosen.’

  ‘He was so beautiful,’ moaned Toto’s mistress. ‘I wouldn’t have come out of course if I hadn’t felt that I’d go mad if I’d stayed at home alone thinking of Toto any longer.’

  Her hostess ignored her and continued talking to the earnest lady.

  ‘I’m sorry none of the other members could come to tea to meet you, but Tarkers down at Breenside are selling off their stock half price so most of them have gone down there. They say that there are some quite good silk stockings to be got for three and eleven three.’

  ‘How marvellous,’ said the earnest lady earnestly. ‘How too marvellous, but do go on and tell me about the society.’

  ‘Well,’ said the hostess hastily, with an anxious eye upon Toto’s mistress, who was waiting open-mouthed for an opportunity to re-enter the conversation, ‘it’s a sort of society for discussing things. We meet for tea and discuss things once a week. We discuss the burning things of the day such as Communism and Vivisection and the Longer Skirt and things like that. Then when we’ve finished we give the rest of the time to tea and ordinary conversation. Of course an intellectual discussion oughtn’t to last too long because it’s so exhausting to the intellect. Sometimes we get a book out of the library to read it up beforehand, but we’
ve discussed most of the subjects there are books about in the library now so we have to rely upon the light of Nature.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ breathed the earnest lady earnestly.

  ‘Toto’s always—’ began the lady in the red hat determinedly but her hostess unceremoniously broke in.

  ‘They are always intellectual discussions, of course. Most intellectual. We discussed the drama last week. Some of us had been up to see that sweet new musical comedy at the Gaiety, so we felt quite au courant. It’s too sweet for words, you know. Such smart dresses and the sweetest tunes. Have you seen it?’

  ‘No,’ said the earnest lady earnestly, ‘but how marvellous.’

  ‘Toto’s always—’ began the lady in the red hat, but no one took any notice of her and her hostess broke in again:

  ‘We give tea in turns after the discussions, and we all pay a small subscription which goes to social work. We do social work locally, you know. Last year we presented the Cottage Hospital with an Encyclopædia. So useful, you know, for convalescents doing crossword puzzles—’

  ‘How wonderful!’

  ‘Toto’s always—’

  ‘—and this year we sent one or two of the village boys down to the seaside for a day. So educational for them, you know. Fishes and the sea and that sort of thing. We gave them a little money each to spend on some little souvenir of their visit and they bought rock and were sick on the way home. We didn’t go with them, of course, you know, but we provided the funds. We’re having another meeting next week at which we hope to discuss Art. It’s always such a wonderful subject to discuss, I think, don’t you?’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said the earnest lady earnestly.

  ‘Totosalwaysbeensosweetandcompanionable,’ said Toto’s mistress all in one breath in a determined tone of voice.

  The Outlaws, deeply interested in the party, had drawn gradually nearer and nearer the window and now suddenly met the eye of the fourth guest – a large, stout woman who had as yet contributed little to the conversation and who was the only one in their range of vision. In silence they gazed at each other for a few minutes, then she turned to her hostess and said dispassionately: