‘Doesn’t he look well this morning? I don’t know when I remember him looking so well. A good long night does him no end of good. I’m so glad I persuaded him to go to bed directly after tea.’
William’s eyes and Grandfather Moore’s eyes met for a second across the table.
CHAPTER 12
WILLIAM SELLS THE TWINS
William and Ginger, William’s faithful friend and ally, were in a state of bankruptcy. They lacked even the paltry twopence necessary to buy sweets in these days of inflated prices, and life was unendurable. They had approached the adult members of their respective families, only to meet that callousness and indifference so characteristic of adults in their dealings with the young . . .
They sat in the open space of ground behind Ginger’s house, and solemnly considered their assets.
Asset 1. – An India-rubber ball with a hole in it, which they had offered to the boy next door for sixpence and which he had refused.
Asset 2. – A pansy root surreptitiously taken from William’s father’s garden. They had taken this to the local nursery gardener and offered it to him for fivepence-halfpenny. They had afterwards retrieved it from the gutter whither that irascible man had flung it in indignant fury.
Asset 3. – The twins.
The twins really belonged to Ginger. That is to say, they were Ginger’s cousins and were paying a visit to Ginger’s family. They had been there a week now, and to Ginger it had been a very long week. On their arrival, he had found to his horror that he was expected to take an interest in them, even to the extent of taking them about with him wherever he went.
He had almost become accustomed, by now, to their continual presence, but still he disliked them intensely. In all his daring adventures and escapades and games he was to be hampered by the two of them, George and John, both placid, both plump, both three and a half years old. He had to listen to William’s comments on their appearance and mental powers, comments with which he privately agreed, but which, for the sake of the honour of his family, he was obliged to resent and avenge . . .
Today, to add insult to injury, his mother had told him to ‘see that they kept clean’, as their mother was coming to take them home that afternoon. That, at any rate, was a blessing. It would be the last day of his persecution. But the ignominy . . . that a desperate bravado should have to spend his noble energy keeping children clean . . .
George and John were sitting now on the ground, pulling up bits of grass and eating them. William and Ginger watched them scornfully.
‘Pity we can’t make a bit of money out of them,’ said William.
‘Umph,’ agreed Ginger. ‘They’ve been enough trouble.’
A speculative look came into William’s eye.
‘ ’F we’d lived in historical times,’ he said, ‘we might have sold them as slaves like wot Miss Jones told us about.’
Ginger gasped at the daring idea. Then his eye fell upon them gloomily.
‘No one would have bought ’em,’ he said. ‘No one wot knew them ’s well as I do.’
‘You silly!’ said William. ‘They wouldn’t know them. They’d just see them in a kind of particular place and think they looked nice—’
‘Well, they don’t!’
‘– or cheap and jus’ buy them.’
‘Well, wot for? Fancy anyone payin’ money for them! . . . For those!’
‘You’re so silly,’ said William patiently. ‘They’d jus’ buy ’em once when they were quite little an’ jus pay once for ’em and then have ’em all the rest of their lives to do work for ’em an’ they’d never pay any more after they’d jus’ paid for ’em once – see?’
Ginger brightened.
‘D’you think anyone would? he said.
William replied with superior scorn.
‘ ’F you’d been listening in history today you’d know that people don’t do it now. Someone or other stopped ’em.’
Ginger considered this deeply.
‘You never know,’ he said; ‘it might be comin’ in fashion again. Things do. We might try it. You never know. Someone might jus’ like the look of ’em or think ’em cheap or—’
Even William was horrified.
‘Yes,’ he broke in, ‘an’ then when you’ve sold ’em, what’ll you say to their mother? . . . Jus’ you tell me that! What’ll you say to their mother when you’ve sold ’em?’
Ginger had been considering deeply. Suddenly his brow cleared.
‘I know. We could watch where they took ’em to – the ones that bought ’em – an’ rescue ’em ’fore anyone knows anything about it.’
‘Sounds all right,’ said William guardedly.
Ginger turned to his charges.
‘You’d like to be slaves, wun’t you?’ he asked brightly and persuasively.
‘Yiss!’ chorused George and John.
‘You see?’ said Ginger triumphantly to William. ‘I’ll go an’ fix things up. ’S worth tryin’ anyway.’
‘Sounds all right,’ said William again doubtfully; and added gloomily out of the vast store of his experience, ‘but you never know where things ends.’
A few minutes later Ginger brought two large luggage labels, each inscribed:
and on the back of each label was printed:
He fastened a label to each twin’s neck, to their riotous delight. Then they sat on the open space by the roadside awaiting customers. But it seemed to be a slack time for the slave trade. Only three people passed, and they did not even look at the patient group of four eager small boys.
The procedure had been explained to George and John, as far as their infant intelligences could absorb it, and they expressed themselves willing and anxious to be sold and rescued.
At last, when they were tired of waiting, a fourth passer-by appeared, an old man, walking very slowly William, taking his courage in both hands, approached him.
‘Do you want a slave?’ he asked.
‘Eh?’ said the old man.
‘Do you want a slave?’
‘What?’ said the old man.
‘Do – you – want – a – slave?’ repeated William slowly.
‘Speak up! Speak up!’ said the old man irritably. ‘Can’t you see I’m deaf? What do you want? What do you want?’
William, whose nerves were suffering from the repetition of the question, cleared his throat and shouted again hoarsely:
‘Do – you – want – a – slave?’
The old man snorted.
‘Want a shave? Want a shave?’ he said angrily. ‘No, I don’t want a shave. You impudent little boy! You little rascal!’
He made a feint at William with his stick, then went off, muttering to himself.
William, slightly shaken by the encounter, returned to his friends.
‘It’s no good doin’ it this way,’ he said despondently. ‘We shall have to take ’em round to people’s houses, like wot they do brushes an’ things.’
The twins gave a scream of delight at the suggestion. Then they trotted off happily – George holding Ginger’s hand and John William’s, both wearing their labels.
‘Let’s go a good way off,’ said Ginger; ‘somewhere where they won’t know us.’
They walked down a few streets, till William said: ‘We’ll go into the first house round the corner.’ William was looking pale, but resolved. Having embarked upon the dangerous venture, he was determined to carry it through. They came to the next house round the corner, and walked up an overshadowed, neglected drive. They slackened speed considerably as they neared the door.
‘You’d better do the talkin’,’ said Ginger faintly, with a propitiatory air. ‘You’re better at talkin’ than wot I am.’
‘Oh, I am, am I?’ said William irritably. ‘Yes, you think so, don’t you? Oh, yes, you think so when it’s a kind of talkin’ you don’t want to do! Oh, yes! Huh!’
They stood apprehensively on the front doorstep and gazed at the milk jug that was standing there.
‘Lo
oks as if they was out,’ said Ginger.
‘Oh, yes,’ said William, scathing but relieved. ‘You don’t mind doin’ the talkin’ now, do you? You don’t think I’m better at talkin’ than wot you are now, do you? You don’t mind talkin’ to a milk jug. Oh, no!’
‘You think you’re so clever,’ said Ginger bitterly. ‘Who thought of makin’ ’em slaves first of all, anyway? Jus’ tell me that.’
‘Well, wot good’s it done?’ retorted William. ‘Nobody’ll buy ’em. Takin’ ’em to an ole empty house, wot good’s that done? You tell me that!’
The argument would have pursued its normal course to physical violence had not George raised his voice plaintively.
‘Wanner be a save,’ he pleaded.
With a heroic gesture and lips firmly shut, William raised his hand to the bell and pulled hard. ‘That’ll show ’em!’ he said, darkly. The echoes of the bell died slowly away within the house. No sound of human habitation broke the tense silence on the front doorstep.
‘Well,’ said William weakly, ‘that’s shown ’em, anyway!’
Then he peered suddenly into the milk jug.
‘Crumbs!’ he exclaimed. ‘A bob!’
Slowly he withdrew the coin, and turned his eyes towards the twins.
‘It’ll jus’ pay for ’em,’ he said. ‘They’re cheap today.’
Ginger was taken aback.
‘But – but you don’t know they want ’em.’
‘Want ’em! Of course they want ’em,’ said William scornfully. ‘Anyone’d want ’em. Two slaves – cheap at that! I bet they’d have fetched pounds and pounds in historical times. ’S only ’cause they’re a bit out of fashion that they’ve bin sold at sixpence halfpenny.’
At this moment a milk-boy appeared, staggering up the drive, and William hastily put the coin into his pocket.
‘ ’Ello, kids!’ said the milk-boy
At other moments William might have made a practical protest against the appellation. But he felt his present position to be too precarious for active aggression. He merely replied coldly:
‘ ’Ello, Milky!’
‘If you belong ’ere,’ went on the milk-boy cheerfully, having filled the jug, ‘tell ’em they’ve forgot the money. So long! Be good!’
With a certain relief they watched his figure disappear round the gateway. John at once raised his voice.
‘Wanner be a save,’ he demanded tearfully.
‘Wanner be a save,’ joined in George.
William looked round desperately.
‘Here, have a drink of nice milk,’ he said.
They obeyed. They fought for the milk jug, and spilt some upon their labels and some upon their coats, but they both managed to drink a fair amount. Finally, they put down the empty jug between them and beamed complacently upon the world again.
‘THERE, HAVE A DRINK OF NICE MILK,’ SAID WILLIAM. THE TWINS OBEYED. THEY FOUGHT FOR THE MILK JUG, BUT BOTH MANAGED TO DRINK A FAIR AMOUNT.
‘Let’s leave ’em and go an’ spend the shilling,’ said William. ‘An’ then come back an’ rescue them.’
‘Oh, yiss!’ said the twins.
William and Ginger went slowly down the drive. At the end they turned round. The twins were sitting side by side on the doorstep, smiling and waving fat hands. Their labels were milky and slightly awry, but still they adhered to their persons. William and Ginger turned into the road. William took out the shilling.
‘I say,’ said Ginger, ‘I – I suppose it’s honest?’
‘Honest!’ said William scornfully. ‘ ’S more than honest. We’ve give them a penny. The slaves was sixpence halfpenny each – proper price – an’ we’ve only took a shilling.’
The shilling was successful. It provided them with liquorice, bull’s-eyes, two surprise packets, and an India-rubber ball. In their bliss they forgot the flight of time. It was Ginger who remembered it first.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘we’d better be doin’ that rescuin’ quick. Their mother’ll be here soon.’
They set off down the road. Both walked jauntily, as though to hide some secret apprehension.
‘Hope we’ll be able to rescue them,’ said William, with an attempt at lightness.
‘Oh, that’ll be all right,’ said Ginger, with an unconvincing carelessness of tone.
In both their minds was a horrible vision in which the twins’ mother played the part of avenging fury.
They walked up the drive. The twins were not on the doorstep. A broken milk jug alone marked the scene of their parting from the twins. Their hearts sank yet farther as they surveyed it.
‘Well,’ said Ginger, moistening his lips, ‘we’d better start rescuin’.’
Drawing a deep breath, he rang the bell. Again the echoes died away in distant regions. Again there came no sounds of human habitation. There was horror on William’s freckled face. His naturally wild hair was at its wildest. The vision of the outraged parent of the twins seemed to fill the whole world.
‘They’re sure to be somewhere,’ said Ginger, still with his gallant but ineffectual attempt at lightness.
‘Oh, yes!’ agreed William gloomily. ‘You can tell her that!’
They searched the garden. They threw stones at the windows. They called: ‘Georgie!’ and ‘Johnnie!’ hoarsely, and with a pathetic appeal they had never used to those infants before. Then they turned very slowly towards the gate.
‘What can we do now?’ said Ginger.
‘Nothin’,’ said William shortly.
Very, very slowly they began to walk down the road.
‘You can do the talkin’ to their mother,’ said William.
‘I was goin’ to do the talkin’ before, wasn’t I? Well, you can do it now.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Ginger, with weary sarcasm. ‘A lot of talkin’ you did, didn’t you? Anyway, there won’t need to be much talkin’ – not from us! She’ll do the talkin’ all right!’
After a short silence, Ginger spoke again:
Anyway,’ he said in a feeble voice, ‘we got a jolly lot of things for that bob!’
It was a feeble remark, and was treated by William with the contemptuous silence it deserved.
As they turned the corner of the road, a lady wearing a tall toque came into sight, walking hurriedly towards them.
‘It’s her!’ said Ginger, with a groan.
‘Where are the twins?’ she demanded sternly.
To William it seemed as if his heart descended through his boots into the centre of the earth.
‘Where are the twins?’ she said again.
It was William who answered.
‘We don’t know,’ he said desperately. ‘We’ve sold ’em. We’ve sold ’em as slaves.’
The twins, left to themselves on the doorstep, replete with excitement and milk, fell happily asleep upon each other’s shoulders . . . The minutes passed by
They awoke to find a young man looking at them in bewilderment. With him were two ladies, one tall and thin, one short and fat.
‘Where do you live, little boys?’ said the tall lady
George smiled at her.
‘Here,’ he said brightly. ‘We’re saves.’
The young man raised a hand to his brow.
‘Good Lord!’ he groaned. ‘Surely they don’t go with the house – fixtures or something.’
The tall lady was looking at them with a dark frown.
‘It’s strange,’ she said; ‘there must be some meaning in it.’
The young man took out a latchkey, stumbled over the milk jug, and entered the hall, followed by the tall lady, the short lady, John and George.
‘They can’t go with the house,’ said the young man plaintively. ‘I took it furnished – but, good heavens, furniture can’t include – these!’
‘Did you know the man you took it from?’ said the short one.
‘No; we fixed everything up by letter, and he cleared out this morning.’
‘There’s some meaning in it if only we knew,’ sa
id the tall one again, mysteriously.
‘We’re saves,’ said John. ‘Willum comin’ soon.’
‘Good Lord! Another!’ groaned the young man.
‘“Slaves 61⁄2d”,’ she read out. ‘It must be a code. They may be a – er – plant, don’t you call it? A confidence trick . . . burglar’s trap. I think we ought to take them straight to Dr Barnardo’s Homes.’
‘But perhaps they aren’t waifs,’ said the stout one. ‘Are you waifs, darlings?’
‘No; saves,’ said George. An’ William comin’ soon.’
‘I see it all,’ said the stout one suddenly, ‘it’s as clear as daylight. William’s the burglar. He’s sent them to help him effect an entrance.’
‘Oo, I’m hungry,’ said John.
His plaint broke suddenly into a loud howl, in which George joined. Their united efforts produced a noise that made the tall lady lean back against the wall with eyes closed and a hand on her head, and sent the young man flying into the kitchen.
‘Where’s the larder?’ he cried desperately. ‘Food! Food at any price! He said he’d get in necessities. Do something . . . anything . . . They’ll have fits or something!’
‘Oh, I can’t bear it,’ moaned the tall lady faintly.
The young man came running back with a pot of honey and a pot of jam. He handed one to each of the twins, and the yells subsided. The tall lady opened her eyes, and the young man mopped his brow.
‘I can’t stand any more of this,’ he said. ‘I’ve come here to work quietly. If they go with the house, I shan’t be able to work any way at all.’
‘Dear nephew,’ said the tall lady, ‘we will never desert you.’
‘It’s awfully good of you, Aunt,’ he said hastily. ‘But I shouldn’t dream of presuming on your kindness. You were only coming to settle me in, you know.’
‘Before I go,’ she said with firmness, ‘I must solve the mystery of these dear children.’
She took up their labels again, and studied them with knitted brows.
‘I’ve come to the definite conclusion,’ she said at last, ‘that it’s a code . . . It’s some kind of message.’
‘But who from?’ said the other.
William Again Page 15