William Again

by Richmal Crompton

  The signatures were the next difficulty. Leopold signed his with a scornful pride that was beginning to make him unpopular. William, feeling that his reputation as founder of the society was at stake, took out a battered penknife, made a slight incision with a dramatic gesture, and signed his name beneath Leopold’s. Albert said he wasn’t going to cut his finger, ’cause he was afraid of bleedin’ to death, an’ then he wouldn’t be able to support his poor ole mother when he was a man. He’d got some red paint at home and he was going to fetch that. He wouldn’t take a minute. He repeated that he wouldn’t mind cuttin’ off his head if it wasn’t for his poor ole mother. Leopold’s airs were becoming insufferable. He ejaculated, ‘Ho, yuss!’ at intervals during Albert’s speech, but the rest of the society seem to be agreed to ignore him for the present. Sam, with an exaggerated expression of agony, manfully endured, had been coaxing a two days’ old scratch, and had just completed his signature when Albert returned with the red paint.

  When the document was complete, William folded it up and put it in his pocket.

  ‘Now,’ he said, assuming a businesslike attitude, ‘we’ve gotter think of a secret password.’

  Leopold darkly suggested ‘ ’ell’, but it was felt that, though sinister, it was too indefinite. Albert, after deep thought, brought forward the proposal: ‘Hengland hex-pects’. This was felt to be, on the whole, too lofty, and finally Sam’s suggestion of ‘Down wiv tyrants!’ was accepted.

  William (proposed and seconded by himself) was elected President, and the others (also on his proposal and seconding) were elected secretaries.

  A whistle of penetrating and inharmonious tone was originated by William as a secret sign of danger, at which the whole society was to rally. Further, a member of the society, on meeting another member, was to cross the thumb and first finger and to utter darkly the words ‘Outlaw – Brother!’ Finally, each member raised his right hand, uttered slowly and solemnly the fatal words ‘Down wiv tyrants – till death!’ and the meeting dispersed.

  Mr French became thoughtful. The morning after he kept William in he found (with painful consequences) a hornet in his boot. The evening after he had showered on William his choicest sarcasms he found the back tyre of his bicycle punctured. After another conflict with William, he found various indispensable things missing from his bag when he arrived at school, though he could have sworn he had put them in. He found them later in the greenhouse.

  On another occasion he found that a little soot had been put in his hat and had reposed on his head as he paid a call and (all unconscious of his appearance) had tried to charm his headmaster’s daughter. It was incredible, but— He pondered deeply over the matter and always came to the same conclusion. It was incredible, but— He tried ignoring William, and the curious, inexplicable annoyances ceased. It was certainly incredible, but— He left it at that.

  The aims of the society widened. When Mr Beal, the squire of the villlage, chased William in person out of his orchard, with the help of dogs, sticks, and stones, he found the next morning in his orchard, in full view of the road, a scarecrow bearing a curious resemblance to himself and wearing a suit of his old clothes . . .

  When the Rev. Cuthbert Pugh called William ‘a nasty, dirty little boy, and, I am sure, a great trial to his dear mother’, he discovered, the next morning, horrid little gargoyle-like faces outlined in white paint on all his trees – most unpleasant – and conspicuous – and unclerical.

  It was altogether a successful secret society. It achieved its aims. It gave William back his self-respect, which Mr French had considerably impaired. The secretaries, Sam, Albert and Leopold, seemed to take delight in avenging the insults heaped by an unsympathetic world on their President. It was pure joy to William to meet any of them in the streets or lanes, cross his finger and thumb and utter darkly the words ‘Outlaw – Brother!’

  So far all was well . . .

  Then Ginger, Henry and Douglas, recovered from chicken-pox, came back to school. The peaceful and inoffensive Mr Cremer returned to his own form room, and Mr French retired to his own fifth form. Mr French was not sorry to go. He went with one last speculative look at William, and with the final thought that it was incredible, but—

  Life held once more games and walks and daring adventures with Ginger, Henry and Douglas. William lost his sense of grievance. He realised from his friends’ accounts of their illness that he had not missed much. Gradually the once thrilling thought of his secret society ceased to thrill him. At first he took delight in uttering the mysterious password when he was with Ginger, Henry or Douglas, but he became bored with it himself, even before it got on their nerves, and they took active physical measures to get it off their nerves.

  ‘All right,’ agreed William, picking himself out of the ditch and removing the dead leaves from his hair and mouth. ‘I won’t say it again, but I jolly well won’t tell you why I uster say it. It’s a deadly secret an’ I guess you can’t guess wot it means.’

  ‘Yes, an’ I guess we jolly well don’t want to,’ returned Ginger.

  It was the next week that William called a final meeting of the secret society to announce its dissolution. As the members appeared, he realised how intensely he disliked them, Leopold especially. He hated Leopold now. He hated his large cap and little eyes and projecting teeth. He looked at him coldly and critically as he made his speech.

  ‘The Serciety’s gotter stop now, ’cause I’ve gotter lot of other things to do an’ we’re making a bridge over the stream in the field, an’ I’ve not got time for secret sercieties, an’ I don’t want revenging any more ’cause he’s gone now, an’ so we’ll stop it.’

  ‘Wot about “till deth”?’ said Leopold, hoarsely.

  ‘Things is changed since then,’ said William.

  ‘Ho, yuss!’ said Leopold, scathingly.

  William’s dislike of Leopold increased.

  ‘Anyway I made it,’ he said aggressively, ‘so I can stop it.’

  ‘Orl right,’ said Sam. ‘You can pay us off an’ stop it.’

  ‘Pay you off?’ repeated William, aghast.

  ‘Yuss,’ agreed Albert. ‘You pay us off an’ we’ll stop it.’

  ‘Ho, yuss!’ said Leopold.

  ‘I’ve not got anything to pay you off with,’ said William, desperately. ‘You don’t be paid for bein’ in a secret serciety I told you you didn’t. You jus’ b’long.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sam, as if astounded by the depravity of human nature, ‘an’ us workin’ for you—’

  ‘Riskin’ our lives for you,’ put in Leopold, pathetically.

  ‘To be treated like this ’ere,’ ended Albert, sadly.

  ‘But – wot d’you want?’ said the President, wildly. ‘I’ve not got any money left this week, an’ next week’s an’ the week’s after’s goin’ to pay for an ole clock bein’ mended wot I was jus’ lookin’ at an’ I put it back all right, ’cept how was I to know there was too many wheels in it? An’ I tell you you don’t be paid for bein’ in a secret serciety – no one is – they jus’ – they jus’ b’long . . . I keep tellin’ you . . . you don’t understand.’

  ‘Wot about “till deth”?’ put in Leopold again in his sepulchral tones.

  ‘Orl right,’ said Sam, ‘we’ll jus’ go an’ tell ole Frenchy an’ Mr Beal an’ Mr Pugh an’ your father that we did all those things, but you put us up to them an’ made us do ’em.’ He gazed at William dispassionately. ‘I’m sorry for you. You’ll catch it.’

  William’s freckled countenance was full of horror and amazement. He passed a grimy hand through his already wild hair.

  ‘But – but it’s not right. You don’t understand. It’s a serciety. You did the things ’cause you b’longed. You can’t go an’ tell of them afterwards. You – you don’t understand.’

  ‘We won’t tell of them if you’ll pay us off,’ said Sam.

  ‘Wot about “till deth”?’ said Leopold triumphantly, with an air of bringing forward an irrefutable argument.
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  William took refuge in sarcasm.

  ‘I b’lieve I’ve told you,’ he said, with a passable imitation of Mr French’s manner, ‘that I’ve no money. I shall be very glad to make some money for you out of nothing if you’ll show me how. Oh, yes! If you can show someone wot’s not got any money how to make some money out of nothing, I’ll make some for you – as much as you like. Oh, yes! I hope,’ he ended, remembering one of Mr French’s favourite phrases, ‘that I make myself quite clear.’

  They gazed at him in unwilling admiration of his eloquence. Sam brought them back to the matter in hand.

  ‘It needn’t be money,’ he said. ‘All we say is we oughter get something for all the trouble an’ danger we’ve took for you. Something to eat would do – something nice an’ big.’

  ‘Yes, an’ how am I to get it?’ demanded William, indignantly. ‘D’you want me to starve? D’you think my folks would look on an’ watch me starve to death givin’ my food to you – jus’ ’cause you went an’ put an ole scarecrow in someone’s garden? D’you think that’s a good reason for one person to starve to death, ’cause another person put a scarecrow in another person’s garden?’

  They were aware that in rhetoric William soared far beyond them.

  ‘Well, we’ll go home with you,’ said Sam, ignoring the argument.

  ‘Either you jus’ give us something nice an’ big to eat or we’ll tell your father.’

  William, though rather pale, laughed scornfully.

  ‘Yes, you jus’ come home with me,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ve not seen our dog, have you? Nearly as big as a horse. I guess there won’t be much of you left when our dog sees you. Huh!’

  With what was meant to be a sinister laugh he turned on his heel and strolled off. With sinking heart he saw that they were accompanying him, Leopold and his projecting teeth walking by his side, Sam and Albert behind. With a slight swagger and humming airily to himself, but with apprehension at his heart, William slowly wended his homeward way.

  At the gate stood Jumble, his dog, small and friendly and rapturously glad to see them all. Jumble was no snob. Having assured William of his lifelong devotion and ecstatic joy at seeing him again, he went on to extend a tempestuous welcome to Sam, Albert and Leopold. William looked at him with affectionate sorrow. Though he adored Jumble, he thought he’d ask for a bloodhound for his next birthday present – a really savage one that would recognise his enemies at a glance. He walked, still with his careless swagger, but with his heart sinking lower at every step, round to the side door. Sam, Albert and Leopold still accompanied him.

  ‘Now,’ whispered Sam, ‘you go and get us something real slap-up to eat, or we’ll tell your father what you made us do.’

  William entered the side door and shut it firmly.

  He went first to the kitchen. Cook was lifting a large pie out of the oven. His gloomy expression lifted.

  ‘Wot’s that for, Cook?’ he enquired, politely.

  ‘For some people as is coming to supper tonight, an’ none of your business, Master William.’

  There was no love lost between William and Cook. William wandered casually over to the larder door and opened it gently. Cook wheeled sharply round.

  ‘Please come away from that door and go out of my kitchen, Master William. Your tea’s laid in the dining-room.’

  William uttered his famous scornful laugh.

  ‘Huh! If I wanted anything to eat, I wun’t come here for it. I wun’t care to eat anything out of this larder. My goodness! I’d sooner starve than eat stuff out of this larder, if I make myself quite clear.’

  Cheered by these crushing remarks, but still apprehensive of what the next few hours might bring him, he went into the dining-room. His spirits rose still further at the sight of a lavish meal, but dropped as he noticed the presence of his mother and grown-up sister, Ethel. He would have preferred a clear field for his operations.

  He uttered the mumbling sound with which he generally greeted his family.

  ‘You’re rather late, dear,’ said his mother. ‘Are your hands clean?’

  William replied by the same non-committal grunt, pushed back his untidy hair with his hands, then hastily sat down, keeping his hands beneath the tablecloth till public interest in their colour should have waned. Through the window he could plainly see the forms of Sam, Albert and Leopold standing outside, and his apprehension increased.

  ‘Mother,’ he said faintly, ‘it feels kind of stuffy in here. May I take my tea out into the garden? I think I could eat it better there.’

  Mrs Brown looked at him anxiously.

  ‘Do you feel ill, darling?’

  ‘Kind of,’ said William. ‘I feel kind of as if I’d like to have tea out of doors. I could eat quite a big tea, but only out of doors. It’s that kind of a feeling. Sort of as if I felt faint and not hungry indoors, but would be all right an’ wantin’ a big tea in the garden.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ remarked Ethel, coldly.

  ‘If you feel like that, darling,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I think you’d better lie down. I’ll bring you up a nice little tea on a tray.’

  William perceived that Sam was grimacing at him through the window and pointing meaningly to the table.

  ‘It’s not that sort of a feeling at all,’ said William. ‘It’s quite a different sort. I’d like jus’ cake – lots of cake – in the garden. I’d feel all right then, if I could jus’ take a lot of cake to eat outside.’

  ‘William!’ said Mrs Brown, who had moved over to the window. ‘Who are those boys in the garden?’

  William moistened his lips.

  ‘Which boys?’ he said, innocently, but with an expression of grim despair.

  ‘There! By the hedge. They’re pulling faces at you.’

  ‘Oh, those!’ said William, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Do you mean those?

  ‘Who are they, William?’

  ‘Those boys?’ said William slowly, to gain time. ‘Jus’ frens of mine. That’s all. Jus’ frens of mine that was interested in gardens an’ wanted to see—’

  ‘But they’re horrid, common, rough boys.’

  William gave a hollow laugh.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘They’re not really. They only look like horrid, common, rough boys. They’re dressed like horrid, common, rough boys. They—’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, William. Go and tell them to go away at once. Have you finished your tea?’

  William glared bitterly at the people who seemed bent on bringing about his doom.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve had all the tea I feel like having in here. I don’t know what’ll happen to me later on,’ he went on pathetically, ‘with not having been able to have my tea the way I felt like—’

  ‘Go and send those boys away at once, William, and never bring them here again.’

  William, whose opinion of life in general was, at this moment, unprintable, went slowly into the garden.

  ‘You’ve gotter go away,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘She says so.’

  ‘Orl right. We’ll go an’ tell your father—’

  ‘No,’ said William, ‘you wait by the gate an’ I’ll bring you something soon an’ – my goodness – it’ll be a long time before I go in for any more secret sercieties!’

  They went furtively down the garden drive, and William returned to the house.

  The guests were arriving. He caught sight of the Rev. Cuthbert Pugh and Mr Beal as they were ushered into the drawing-room. He hovered disconsolately round the kitchen. Cook was securely in possession. She watched his every movement suspiciously. The position was desperate. Something must be done.

  THROUGH THE WINDOW WILLIAM COULD PLAINLY SEE THE MENACING FACES OF SAM, ALBERT AND LEOPOLD.

  ‘WHO ARE THOSE BOYS?’ ASKED HIS MOTHER. ‘THOSE BOYS?’ SAID WILLIAM SLOWLY, TO GAIN TIME. ‘JUS’ FRENS OF MINE.’

  At any moment the story of his crimes might be laid before his father. As cook opened and shut the larder door, he caught
sight of a large pie, with brown, crisp-looking pastry, upon the top shelf. That surely would pay off the blackmailing ex-secretaries of the Secret Society of Vengeance.

  Quickly William formed his plans. To go to the larder by the kitchen door was impossible. But, somehow or other, he must get that pie. He went out of the front door and crept round the house to the larder window. It was unlatched. He opened it quietly and climbed in. Holding his breath in suspense, his fierce and scowling gaze fixed upon the door that led to the kitchen, he took the pie and silently climbed out again. There was exultation in his heart. The end was in sight. But he reckoned without Cæsar.

  Cæsar was a boarhound belonging to Mr Beal, who accompanied his master on all his social calls, and waited outside the front door for him. On this occasion he seemed to be labouring under the delusion that William was kindly bringing some refreshment for him to beguile his long evening.

  He advanced to meet William with tail wagging, and nose eagerly sniffing the delirious perfume of veal and ham pie. His whole being expressed anticipation and gratitude.

  William said ‘Down!’ in a fierce whisper, and held his precious pie high above his head. Cæsar pranced along by his side, his eyes uplifted towards the heavenly smell. William had planned to creep through a shrubbery to the side gate, but it is difficult to creep through a shrubbery holding a heavy pie above one’s head in close company with an enormous dog, whose energies are wholly concentrated on obtaining possession of the pie. William managed the situation for some time. He said ‘Down!’ often, and fiercely, and straggled on bravely, dragging the pie aloft through laurel and holly bushes. But Cæsar felt at last that he had been trifled with long enough.

  He rose on two legs, placed his paws on William’s shoulders, impelled him gently to the ground, and plunged his nose into his delicious supper. William sat up, nibbed a bruised elbow and looked around. Cæsar’s appetite and capacity were unlimited. Half the pie had disappeared already, and the rest was fast disappearing.