‘An’ you’d say that if it was your trumpet,’ said Ginger. ‘Huh! I bet I’ve not got other things to do than forget about that trumpet.’
‘Come to that,’ said William, ‘Ethel took my bow an’ arrer off me yesterday ’cause it accident’ly came through her window and broke an ole vase, but I don’ keep talkin’ about it.’
But Ginger refused to be drawn from his grievance.
‘He oughter be made to give me a new one,’ he said, and added with a melancholy sigh, ‘An’ jus’ to think that wherever there’s grown-up brothers there’s things like this hap’nin’ all over the country what never get into the newspaper an’ England supposed to be a free country – people’s trumpets bein’ took off them an’ broke for no reason at all. What’s that if it’s not tyranny what the history books talk about? All I c’n say is,’ he added darkly, ‘that all those Magna Charter an’ things what the history books say brought lib’ty to England don’ seem to’ve done me much good.’
But Douglas had at last, like William, tired of the subject.
‘What did your uncle take you to see yesterday, William?’ he said.
‘He took me to a place with a lot of dead animals – stuffed mostly – but some skeletons – an’ a man givin’ lectures on ’em – tellin’ us about them an’ what they were like an’ what they did.’
‘Was he int’restin’?’ said Ginger temporarily relinquishing his grievance, as no one would listen to it any longer.
‘Yes,’ said William simply, ‘he’d got a loose tooth what you could see movin’ when he talked, an’ there was a boy there what thought he could make faces better’n me, but he found out in the end he jolly well couldn’t.’
The atmosphere was certainly lightened by this breath from the outside world. The Outlaws began to think that perhaps they had discussed the Ethel-George-Hector affair to satiety and the description of William’s excursion of yesterday might afford a little more interest.
‘Did he give you a nice dinner, William?’ said Douglas.
‘Crumbs, yes!’ said William. ‘He let me choose what I’d have for dinner an’ I had six ices an’ then there were some things like cakes with heaps ’n’ heaps of cream on an’ I had twelve of them an’ then I had a bottle of orange squash an’ then I had two plates of trifle.’
‘No meat nor potatoes?’ said Ginger.
‘No,’ said William, and added in simple explanation, ‘I c’n get meat an’ potatoes at home.’
There was a silence during which the Outlaws wistfully contemplated the mental vision of William’s dinner. Then Ginger said bitterly: ‘That’s the best of uncles. You’d never catch an aunt letting you have a dinner like that,’ and he added plaintively, ‘all mine seem to be aunts.’
‘What sort of animals were they, William?’ asked Douglas.
‘All sorts,’ said William, ‘an’’ – slowly – ‘I’ve been thinkin’. It’d be quite easy to get up a show like that but with live animals ’stead of stuffed ones. I know,’ he said quickly, forestalling possible objection, ‘that we’ve often tried shows somethin’ like that but not quite like. We’ve never tried lecturin’ on ’em. We’ve tried havin’ ’em for a circus and we’ve tried sellin’ ’em but we’ve never tried lecturin’ on ’em.’
‘Well, who can lecture on ’em?’ said Douglas.
‘I can,’ said William promptly. ‘I heard that man doin’ it an’ so I bet I know how to do it now.’
‘Can you woggle your teeth?’ said Douglas
‘It’s not ne’ssary to woggle your teeth lecturin’ on animals,’ said William coldly. ‘’Sides, I bet I could if I wanted to.’
‘I could bring my dormouse,’ said Ginger.
‘An’ there’s my insecks,’ said William, ‘an’ Jumble an’ – all our cats.’
‘That’s not much,’ said Douglas. ‘How do they get animals for the big places like the zoo?’
‘People lend ’em,’ said Ginger, ‘or give ’em. I’ve often heard of people givin’ ’em. When the Roy’l Fam’ly goes abroad for its holiday people give ’em animals an’ they bring ’em home and give ’em to the Zoo.’
‘Seems a funny sort of thing to do,’ said Douglas incredulously.
‘Well, I’ve read about it in newspapers so it mus’ be true.’
‘’F what my father says about newspapers is true,’ objected Ginger, ‘nothin’ in any of ’em’s true.’
‘Somethin’ in some of ’em must be,’ objected Douglas, ‘’cause—’
William determinedly dragged the conversation back from the possible truth or untruth of newspapers to the matter in hand.
‘Well, ’bout these animals,’ he said. ‘We’ll have it in our summer-house an’ I’ll lecture on ’em an’ we’ll have all our cats an’ Jumble an’ we’ll c’leck some more insecks an’ we’ll have Ginger’s dormouse an’ we’ll get people to lend us other animals or p’raps give us ’em.’
‘Who?’ said Douglas gloomily.
‘Who what?’
‘Who you think’ll give us anythin’, much less an animal.’
‘Oh, do shut up,’ said William irritably, ‘carryin’ on jus’ as if nothin’ ever turned out right.’
‘Well, nothin’ ever does,’ said Douglas, hotly defending his pessimism. ‘Look at the time you—’
‘Oh, both of you shut up,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ let’s go an’ fetch the dormouse.’
They passed the drawing-room where Ethel sat with George on one side of her and Hector on the other. To be quite frank Ethel was a minx who, while remaining always provokingly heart-whole, liked to have as many admirers as possible around her.
Silence and a certain depression fell on the group as the younger brothers of it passed the window.
‘He drove me half mad with a beastly mouth-organ yesterday,’ groaned George, ‘till I took it from him and chucked it into the pond.’
‘Same here with a trumpet,’ said Hector, and added severely, ‘seems to me extraordinary what boys are like nowadays. I’m quite sure we were never like that.’
‘Well, I’m sure no boy ever anywhere was half as bad as William,’ said Ethel with a sigh. ‘He broke a vase that was one of my greatest treasures yesterday with his bow and arrow. He really is the worst of the lot.’
Both Hector and George made an inarticulate murmur that might either have been half-hearted protest or deep sympathy, but neither of them seriously disputed the statement.
‘Ginger’s pretty bad, though,’ said Hector with a judicial air; ‘last week he had one of those awful things that are supposed to sound like a dog barking.’
‘William had a thing,’ said Ethel dreamily, ‘that was supposed to sound like a bird chirping only it didn’t. It sounded like – well, I don’t know what it sounded like, but it went through and through my head.’
‘What a shame,’ said Hector and George simultaneously in passionate indignation. Their tone implied that they were lusting for William’s blood.
‘After all,’ continued Ethel happily, burbling on in the serene consciousness that it didn’t really matter what she said because every single word of it would be heavenly wisdom in the ears of the infatuated youths, ‘after all a bird’s chirp is quite a nice soft sound. I’m very fond of birds.’
‘What sort do you like best?’ said George and Hector simultaneously. They glared at each other suspiciously as they spoke. Each had decided to give Ethel a present of her favourite bird in as ornamental a cage as his means would allow on her next birthday, and each had a horrible suspicion that the other had the same project in mind.
‘I think that parrots are rather sweet,’ said Ethel. ‘Don’t you?’
Neither spoke, because neither did consider parrots rather sweet and both were having sudden misgivings about the price of parrots. . . . Didn’t parrots cost an awful lot of money – a matter of pounds, unless, of course, one could meet a sailor just returned from foreign parts with one, and probably even he would demand its market price. A canary
now . . . both had hoped she’d say a canary. Both had had pleasing visions of themselves presenting Ethel with a very yellow canary in a very ornate cage adorned with a very blue bow . . . the vision included Ethel’s delight, her cries of rapture, her sudden realisation that nowhere else would she meet with such tenderness, such understanding, such undying devotion as in this hero who remembered even what sort of bird she liked best, who – anyway, it was all very romantic and there was a beautiful wedding and they lived happily ever after. When the canary was dead, of course, she had it stuffed and it was always one of her dearest treasures. But a parrot. . . no, one could never wax sentimental over a parrot. A parrot would never surely inaugurate a romance.
‘You can teach it such jolly things to say,’ went on Ethel. ‘I remember once a friend of mine had to go into quarantine for measles or something like that and a friend of hers gave her a parrot to be company for her. He gave it her in rather a nice way, too. He put it on the garden seat on the lawn and sent in a letter to say that if she would look out of her window she would see a little friend who had come to keep her company. Or something like that. She was always devoted to that parrot.’
Both George and Hector checked an impulse to ask whether she married him. Each would have asked it had the other not been present, but there are certain questions which are more effective when asked without an audience. George and Hector walked home together but in silence. The only thing they wanted to talk about was Ethel, but they didn’t want to talk about Ethel to each other. Hector decided that if George won her he would go out to Africa to shoot big game. George, being of a less subtle nature, had decided that if Hector won her he would drown himself in the village pond. But neither was really uneasy because neither thought that the other would win her. After all, thought George, she hadn’t looked at Hector in that meaning way she’d looked at him when she said goodbye, and, after all, thought Hector, she hadn’t pressed George’s hand as she’d pressed his on parting. . . .
They met the Outlaws on their way to William’s house reverently carrying among them what was to be the star turn of the lecture, Ginger’s dormouse.
The Outlaws and Ethel’s suitors looked at each other coldly and without recognition as they passed, but really the Outlaws had the best of the encounter because they could turn round and make grimaces expressive of scorn and derision at the back of their foes, and because they knew that their foes had an uneasy suspicion that they were doing this but considered it inconsistent with their dignity to look back to make sure.
It was the next morning. Ethel was staring wildly at a letter she held in her hand.
‘Daphne’s got measles and I was with her last night. What shall I do?’
‘You’ll have to go into quarantine, I’m afraid, dear,’ said her mother placidly.
‘My goodness!’ said Ethel in a tone of horror and despair, and feeling the exclamation inadequate, changed it to, ‘Great Heavens!’
After a pause indicative of deep feeling she continued: ‘Why, only yesterday I was telling George and Hector about the time Luxy Foxe had it and what’s-his-name sent her a parrot. It seems as if just mentioning the thing had brought it on me. Well, I shall die of boredom, that’s all. Do you mean to say that I’ve got to stay in the room all the time.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said her mother and added placidly, ‘there’s quite a nice view.’
Ethel went to the window. From it she could see Ginger, Douglas and William clustered round the dormouse’s cage by the side of the lawn.
‘That’s a lovely view, isn’t it?’ she said bitterly.
William had received the news that Ethel would have to be in quarantine for measles without emotion or indeed without interest of any sort. He had no time or thought or sympathy to spare for Ethel. A more terrible tragedy had happened than Ethel’s quarantine. The dormouse had died in the night. There was no sign to show how it had died. It was certainly not starvation. It had died in the midst of plenty. There were no marks of violence on the body. Douglas had a theory that some of the berries picked promiscuously in the garden for its nourishment yesterday by Ginger from any tree or bush that provided berries of any sort had not agreed with it. Ginger hotly contested this theory.
‘That’s what berries are for,’ he said indignantly. ‘That’s what Nachur provides berries on trees for – to feed animals with.’
William interrupted the discussion to suggest that as long as hygiene should allow, the dead body of the dormouse should be exhibited as a stuffed one. ‘No one’ll know it isn’t,’ he added hopefully, ‘not without cuttin’ it open and we won’t let ’em do that. We’ll jus’ say it’s a stuffed dormouse an’ I’ll talk about it a bit, tellin’ about its habits – sleepin’ an’ such like, an’ p’r’aps it won’t be so bad.’
His optimism was unconvinced and unconvincing. He knew that no stuffed dormouse could compensate for the sight of Ginger’s dormouse going round and round on its little wheel. They took the dead body to the summer-house, leaving William alone on the lawn gloomily considering the prospects of his lecture thus deprived of its star turn.
He did not at first see Ginger’s brother Hector who had come round to the side of the house looking pale and distraught.
‘This is terrible news,’ began Hector.
William was touched. Somehow he hadn’t expected this kindness, this understanding, from Hector.
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ he acquiesced despondently, ‘terrible.’
‘She seemed all right yesterday,’ continued Hector.
‘She was,’ affirmed William, ‘she was quite all right yesterday. I think it was eatin’ those berries.’
‘What berries?’ said the young man.
‘Those berries Ginger gave her.’
‘D – did Ginger give her some berries?’ stammered Hector aghast.
‘Yes – all sorts of different coloured kinds of berries what he found about the garden. And she ate them all.’
The horror of the young man is indescribable. That his young brother – his young brother should be the cause of it. . . .
‘B-but,’ he stammered, ‘I – I heard in the village it was measles.’
‘No,’ said William, ‘it’s worse than measles. She’s dead. She died in the night.’
‘What?’ screamed the young man.
‘She’s dead,’ said William, somewhat flattered if a little surprised by the deep emotion shown by the visitor. ‘When Ginger ’n’ me came to clean out her cage this mornin’ we found her dead.’
‘Clean out her c—! What the dickens are you talking about?’
‘Our mouse,’ said William simply; ‘weren’t you?’
The visitor obviously controlled himself with an effort.
‘No,’ he said with venomous coldness, ‘I was talking about your sister Ethel.’
‘Oh, Ethel,’ said William carelessly. ‘Oh no, it’s not measles. It’s somethin’ else. I’ve forgotten its name.’
Again anxiety clouded the young man’s brow.
‘N-nothing serious, I hope?’ he said.
‘Dunno,’ said William, ‘might be, I suppose. I simply can’t understand it dyin’ like that. I mean I’ve always thought that if berries were pois’nous, an’mals din’ eat them. I always thought that an’mals had some special way of tellin’ pois’nous stuff.’
Again the young man restrained himself with difficulty from inflicting actual physical injury upon William.
‘Is your sister allowed visitors?’ he asked.
‘Ethel?’ said William as if bringing his mind with an effort from an affair of vital and universal importance to one of no significance at all. ‘No. She’s got the sort of illness that she’s not ill with, but she’s not got to see people. It’s got a name but I’ve forgot it. It looked all right last night. It ate Ginger’s berries about six o’clock an’ it looked all right when we left it. If you want to know what I think, I think that someone’s poisoned it. I think—’
‘You mean she’s in quarantine?�
�� interrupted Ginger’s brother Hector.
‘No,’ said William irritably, ‘I keep tellin’ you – she’s dead.’
‘Shut up about your beastly mouse,’ commanded Ginger’s brother Hector fiercely. ‘I don’t care two pins for your beastly mouse—’
‘Oh, you don’t, don’t you?’ muttered William darkly.
‘No, I don’t. It’s your sister I’m talking about. You mean that she’s in quarantine.’
‘Yes,’ said William, ‘that’s the name of what she’s got. Dun’t seem to have made much difference to her ’cept makin’ her temper a bit worse than usual and that’s sayin’ somethin’.’
Hector turned on his heel contemptuously and strode away, his brow drawn into a thoughtful frown. He’d remembered suddenly what Ethel had said about the parrot. He’d get a parrot. He’d write a note such as she said her friend’s friend had written about a little friend to keep her company, and leave the parrot in the garden as her friend’s friend had done. She had seemed to think it was a beautiful thought. He’d do it . . . it would, he was sure, touch her deeply. If only that wretched fellow George didn’t think of it too. He’d hurry home and do it quickly before George thought of it. He met George on the road, acknowledged him with distant hauteur and passed on his way.
William remained upon the garden bench plunged in gloom. The death of the dormouse had imperilled all his plans. He felt that he could have lectured indefinitely upon the dormouse as it went round and round on its little wheel or even as it blinked at them or ate its food, but a stiff, dead dormouse even camouflaged as a ‘stuffed’ exhibit was quite a different affair. It would, he was afraid, fall very flat indeed. But William was never the boy to own himself beaten. He was searching about in his mind for some other exhibit to take the place of the live dormouse when the shadow of George fell upon him and the voice of George broke upon his meditations.
‘Well, I’m very sorry to hear this,’ began George.
William’s heart warmed to him. Here, at any rate, was sympathy. . . .
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it was an awful shock to us all to find her dead this mornin’.’
William the Good Page 13