William in Trouble

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Yours truely,

  ‘WILLIAM BROWN and others.’

  Mr Lane (whose good temper still continued) was delighted with this. ‘Ha, ha!’ he said, ‘a most unconventional answer to a challenge, to be sure. Our good William’s composition and orthography are no great credit to him. I must speak to his schoolmaster about them when I meet him.’

  But Mrs Lane was getting quite worked up about it.

  ‘You shall have a lovely tea afterwards, Huby, darling, like they do after real matches. I’ll give you a lovely tea for both teams – for both your team and Willie’s in the shed. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

  Hubert mumbled ungraciously that it would be ‘all right.’ It always broke Hubert’s heart to have to give of his larder’s treasures, of his cakes with glorious icing and cream insides, to any but his very boonest of companions, and the thought of the Outlaws consuming these treasured delicacies was gall and wormwood to him.

  The Outlaws practised hard for the match. They decided to make the best of the brief hour of contest and to ignore entirely the presence of Mr Lane. He might, they decided, write to their fathers as much as he liked afterwards. They were going to make the most of it while it lasted. They were going to jolly well lick the Hubert Laneites to a fizzle.

  Rumours, too, of the glorious tea to be provided by Mrs Lane had reached them and still further exalted their spirits. The Outlaws were not proud. They would not refuse iced cakes because they came from the (metaphorically) gilded larder of the opulent Lanes. Rather would they consume them with might and main in order that fewer might fall to the Laneites’ share.

  And now Henry’s sister’s walking toy monkey comes into the story again.

  Henry’s sister loved the monkey very dearly (out of pure contrariness, Henry considered), and wept bitterly whenever she was deprived of it. And she had been deprived of it last week, when, without asking her or anyone’s permission, Henry had taken Monk to form part of a circus organised by William. Henry had been sternly reprimanded by his father for this offence, and on the very day before the hockey match he committed it again.

  William was giving a repeat performance of his circus, and Monk as one of the star turns simply had to be present, so Henry had taken Monk again, hoping that his small and tyrannical sister would not notice its absence. But the small and tyrannical sister had noticed Monk’s absence and had sobbed bitterly all the afternoon. . . .

  Henry’s mother’s tender heart had been touched by the small sister’s grief and hardened against Henry. Henry’s mother was really very nice, but she took her duty as Henry’s mother rather too seriously. She had read that afternoon an article on the upbringing of children which said that the punishment should fit the crime. The writer said: ‘If a child has taken some article which he has been forbidden to take, then he must be made to carry the article about with him for a whole day, or more, whatever he is doing and however embarrassing its presence may prove.’

  Henry’s mother wasn’t quite sure that it was a rule that would work, but she thought that perhaps it was worth trying, especially as the small sister had transferred her affections to a teddy bear, and Monk, owing to his desertion, was temporarily out of favour.

  ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘you’ve taken Monk again when you were told not to, so you must carry him about with you all day – or, if you’d rather, I’ll tell your father when he comes home tonight and he can deal with it.’

  Henry wouldn’t rather. Henry didn’t like his father’s methods of ‘dealing’ with things at all.

  ‘All right,’ he said obligingly. ‘I’ll take Monk round with me tomorrow.’

  Henry thought that he could easily conceal Monk beneath his coat, and that, even were Monk’s presence discovered, Monk’s accomplishmeats would prove an asset rather than a liability. And so it came about that Henry set off for the great hockey match with Monk buttoned up under his coat. He was feeling now more apprehensive about Monk than he had done at first because halfway through the morning Monk’s works had suddenly refused to function. Monk would not walk now, however much you wound him up. Monk was therefore no longer a performing animal. He was openly and unashamedly a toy monkey, and as such derogatory to Henry’s dignity.

  Henry was aware that should the Laneites spy Monk they would make the most of him. They would use him as a handle against Henry and the other Outlaws. They would jeer at him openly and unmercifully. They would make themselves a nuisance about it for weeks.

  But Henry was a sportsman. Having undertaken to carry Monk about with him for the whole day, he was going to do it.

  The Outlaws met together very early before the match. They had been considerably cheered that morning by the information that both Mr and Mrs Lane would be away from home. Mr Lane had tired of the whole idea and gone off to play golf and Mrs Lane had gone to visit a sick friend.

  All the Outlaws carried walking-sticks, and Henry carried Monk buttoned closely under his coat. The Outlaws, who knew the story of Monk, tactfully refrained from any allusion to it. The Hubert Laneites had not yet appeared.

  ‘I say,’ said Ginger, slashing carelessly on all sides with his stick, ‘they say she’s giving a scrummy tea.’

  ‘I saw ’em,’ corroborated Douglas eagerly, ‘carryin’ trays of things down to the shed from the house. It looked jolly fine, I can tell you.’

  ‘What’ll we do till they come?’ said Henry, trying to compress the excrescence that was Monk into a less noticeable shape beneath his coat.

  ‘Practise,’ said Ginger, still slashing wildly and with evident enjoyment.

  ‘We’ve not got a ball,’ said Douglas, ‘they’re bringing the ball.’

  ‘Well, I tell you what I’m goin’ to do,’ said William. ‘I’m goin’ to go down to their shed an’ have a look at what they’ve got for tea.’

  ‘An’ we’ll all come, too,’ sang Ginger with a joyous slash.

  ‘No, you’d better not,’ said William, ‘they’d see us if a lot of us went. An’ you’d better stay here ’case they come.’

  The Outlaws accepted William’s decision as final. Douglas found a suitably-sized stone, and he and Ginger fell upon it with their sticks and an engrossing game of hockey for two ensued. Henry was still wrestling with Monk.

  William cautiously approached the wall which surrounded the Lane back garden.

  He hoisted himself up, dropped silently into the garden and remained for a moment crouching behind a bush. Then he raised his head and looked around him. The coast was clear. The garden was empty. The shed stood only a few yards from him. There was a small window high up in the back of it. He cautiously advanced, hoisted himself up into a tree and looked through the window.

  It was a fairly large shed. A table had been laid in the middle of it. The sight of the table made William’s mouth water. Cakes – sugar cakes, cream cakes, meringues, eclairs, glorious cakes, the very poetry of cakes, plate upon plate of them. Hubert’s mother had, indeed, provided with a generous hand. She evidently gauged everyone’s appetite by Hubert’s.

  HE HOISTED HIMSELF UP INTO A TREE AND LOOKED DOWN THROUGH THE WINDOW. THE SIGHT MADE WILLIAM’S MOUTH WATER.

  There were plates of plainer cakes, too, of wholesome-looking buns and scones, but they were ordinary cakes, cakes one can have at home any day, the very prose of cakes. They failed to thrill. William guessed that the majority of them would be left after the feast. At one end of the table stood glasses and innumerable bottles of ginger-beer – a noble profusion of bottles. There were a few old packing-cases in one corner of the shed and some old plant pots at the other. Otherwise the shed was empty of furniture. But it was not empty of human beings.

  Hubert Lane himself, rather paler than ever, stood by the table and with him his faithful friend and lieutenant Bertie Franks. Like Hubert, Bertie Franks ate too much and cried when hurt and was very careful of his clothes and told his father whenever anyone annoyed him. They were looking greedily and gloatingly at the plates of cake. A corner of the w
indow frame was broken and through it William could hear what they said.

  ‘An’ they’ll gobble ’em all up,’ Hubert was saying plaintively, ‘an’ there’ll be nothin’ left afterwards.’

  ‘Greedy pigs!’ agreed Bertie mournfully, ‘jus’ think of them eating up all our nice cakes—’ then he brightened, ‘I say, Huby, your father an’ mother’s not coming after all, are they?’

  ‘No,’ said Hubert.

  ‘Well – well, I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘What?’ said Hubert still gloomily.

  ‘Well, let’s hide ’em – all the nice ones. Let’s jus’ leave the buns an’ scones. There’ll be enough an’ they’ll never know an’ we can have them afterwards.’

  A light broke over Hubert’s mournful face. He beamed. He smiled from ear to ear.

  ‘I say, what a jolly good idea, Bertie. Where shall we put ’em? We can’t carry ’em back to the house.’

  ‘No.’ Bertie frowned and looked about him. His eye fell upon the packing-case.

  ‘In here,’ he said, ‘we can turn ’em over sideways an’ put the stuff in an’ no one’ll know and then afterwards,’ his little eyes gleamed, ‘we can have a jolly good tuck in – jus’ you an’ me.’

  They carried the platefuls of cakes from the table to the packing-case, putting the top of the packing-case to the side and finally moving it close to the wall of the shed. Upon the table was left only a few plates of plain buns and scones. ‘Quite enough for ’em, too,’ said Hubert scornfully.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Bertie. Then his glance fell upon the bottles of ginger-beer. ‘An’ jus’ think of ’em guzzlin’ down those too.’ Then once more he brightened. ‘I say, we can hide those, too – you’re sure your mother an’ father won’t be here, Huby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we’ll jus’ go an’ fetch some water for them from the house an’ that’ll do all right for ’em. Then we’ll hide the bottles in the other packing-case an’ have ’em with the cakes – jus’ you an’ me – when all the others’ve gone home.’

  Again Hubert’s small eyes gleamed.

  ‘Jolly good idea, Bertie,’ he said. ‘Let’s move ’em quick.’

  They put the bottles into the other packing-case, and moved it too against the wall. Then Hubert went to the house and returned with a large jug of water which he put upon the table. The feast had now assumed a Spartan appearance. Then William suddenly noticed two small objects in the middle of the table upon a piece of paper. Bertie and Hubert also were gazing at these. By craning his neck, William discovered that they were a penknife of an exceptionally magnificent kind and a magnifying glass, and that upon the paper was written: ‘For the Captain of the Winning Team.’

  ‘Did your mother put that there?’ said Bertie.

  Hubert nodded gloomily, then said bitterly, ‘Can’t think what she wants with givin’ two presents for, anyway. Nice thing if they get ’em, won’t it be?’

  ‘An’ they prob’ly will get ’em,’ said Bertie still more gloomily, ‘they’re so rough.’

  Then a light dawned through the gloom of his expression.

  ‘Well, look here, they won’t know. None of ’em knows. Slip the penknife into your pocket, Huby, and I’ll have the glass thing. See? Much better than them gettin’ ’em, isn’t it, and your mother’ll never know.’

  He seized the paper and tore it into tiny pieces and Hubert obediently slipped the penknife into his pocket while Bertie slipped the glass into his. There was a smile, fatuous and admiring, upon Hubert’s face.

  ‘I say, Bertie,’ he said, ‘you are clever – shall we tell the others what we’ve done – our side, I mean?’

  ‘Gosh, no,’ said Bertie, ‘don’t tell anyone – all the more for us two.’ Then he looked round at the table with its plain and wholesome fare and began to chuckle. ‘I say,’ he gasped, ‘if they knew – if they only knew.’

  The joke of this appealed to Hubert. He began to chuckle. It grew on them more and more as they looked round the table with its plain buns and water. They stood laughing helplessly, holding their sides.

  William slipped down silently from his hiding place, crept back to the wall, climbed it, and ran quickly back to the field.

  Most of the Hubert Laneites and Outlaws had now assembled and were employed in carrying on unofficial preliminary contests. Several sticks had already been broken, and the only ball had been accidentally hit into the pond at the end of the field where it had sunk. A salvage party surrounded the pond, standing with the water well over their boots, fishing vainly for the vanished ball. The player who was responsible for its loss stood by, torn between compunction at having thus lost the most necessary part of the whole proceedings, and pride at the length of the shot which had caused its disappearance.

  Cheers were raised by the Hubert Laneites at the sight of Hubert Lane and Bertie Franks coming on to the field arm-in-arm. The question of the missing ball was discussed at some length. One small boy’s offer to go home and fetch a coconut (which he said he’d bought yesterday and hadn’t opened and would do just ripping for a ball) was refused.

  The problem was solved by William, who filled his handkerchief with grass and stones and tied it firmly together to form a ball. The next question was the choice of the side of field. No one had brought a coin, so William decided that the two captains should throw stones and the one who could throw the farther should be said to have won the toss. William’s throw easily outdistanced Hubert’s. Hubert’s stone quite by accident hit one of his own supporters, who burst into tears and went home roaring with pain and anger to tell his father.

  The actual game does not come into the story. As a matter of fact the actual game demands a story of itself (only it can’t have one). It was a glorious game. It was a game famous in the annals of the village. Bits of broken walking-sticks remained to mark the field for months afterwards. The only important fact as regards this story was the fact that the Outlaws won gloriously by twenty goals to nil.

  The match was over.

  They stood panting, purple-faced, black as to the eyes and bruised as to the shins and wild as to the hair, covered with mud, and put on their coats again. Henry had managed unostentatiously to slip Monk off with his coat. Now he was trying equally unostentatiously to slip Monk on with his coat. William was standing in front of him to hide his movements from the Hubert Laneites.

  Hubert Lane and Bertie Franks came up to them. Hubert Lane still pale and noticeably thinner since his exertion of the afternoon (as a matter of fact he’d kept well away from the ball and out of the danger zone) approached with an oily smile.

  ‘Will you all come to our shed an’ have some tea?’ he said. He winked at Bertie Franks as he spoke and Bertie Franks sniggered.

  The whole party moved off in the direction of the Lanes’ garden. When they entered the shed and beheld the table of plain buns and water, some faces which had expected a far, far better sight might have been observed to drop. But not William’s. William, standing loyally by the Monk-encumbered Henry, wore his most sphinx-like expression. They all gathered round the table. Buns were passed. Water was poured out. Bertie Franks and Hubert Lane were sniggering together in a corner.

  Suddenly at an unguarded movement of Henry’s, his coat burst open and Monk fell out. The Hubert Laneites (sore both in mind and body as a result of the match) burst into a triumphant outburst of jeering. ‘Oh, look at Henry’s toy monkey.’ ‘Yah! he’s brought his toy monkey.’ ‘Oh, Baby.’ ‘Diddums have to bring his ickle monkey, then?’

  For a minute the Outlaws were at a loss. Dimly they felt that an onslaught upon the Hubert Laneites over a table full of food (however disappointing in quality) provided by Hubert’s mother would be a proceeding lacking in seemliness. And the Hubert Laneites, seeing their predicament, grew more bold and insulting every minute.

  ‘Yah, Baby.’ ‘Where’s his milk bottle?’

  The Outlaws looked to William for guidance and even as they looked there flickered over Willi
am’s heated, mud-speckled countenance that light which betokened to those who knew him that inspiration had visited him once again. It passed almost at once, leaving it sombre and inscrutable as ever. He took Monk from Henry, and holding it up addressed the Hubert Laneites.

  ‘If you knew what this was,’ he said very slowly, ‘you’d be jolly careful how you carried on talkin’ about it.’

  Despite themselves the Hubert Laneites were impressed. William’s tone, William’s eyes, William’s scowl, impressed them. William, they knew, was not a boy to be taken lightly.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ said Bertie Franks, jeeringly.

  ‘It’s magic,’ said William, in a deep voice, ignoring Bertie Franks and addressing the others. They tried to jeer again, but the fixity of William’s eye and the earnestness of William’s voice had its effect upon them. Although outwardly they scoffed at magic, still they were not far removed from the age when the idea of magic was as natural to them as nursery fairy tales could make it, and not a few of them still believed in it secretly. William uttered a short, mirthless laugh.

  ‘If only you knew—’ he said, and then was silent, as if afraid of betraying secrets.

  ‘All right,’ challenged Hubert Lane, ‘if it’s magic let it do some magic then.’

  ‘Cert’nly,’ said William. He addressed the others. ‘You see that ole packing-case standin’ by the wall there?’

  All eyes turned towards the packing-case.

  ‘That’s jus’ an ole empty packing-case, isn’t it, Hubert?’ said William.

  Hubert paled slightly and blinked his small eyes.

  ‘Er – yes,’ he stammered. ‘Yes – ’course it is.’

  William made Monk describe a circle with its arm. They all watched with interest, eyes staring, mouths still mechanically masticating bun.

  ‘Well,’ said William, ‘now Monk’s bewitched it so’s it’s full of lovely cakes. Jus’ you look and see.’