Henry stepped forward and performed the bow that he had learnt at the dancing-class (Henry was the only one of the Outlaws who attended a dancing-class). This was greeted with enthusiastic applause.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ began Henry, much encouraged by his reception, ‘I’m goin’ to make a speech to you about Socialism ’cause I want you all to vote for Socialism. Socialism means takin’ other people’s money off ’em. Well, think how much richer we’d be if we’d got other people’s money as well as our own.’
‘It’s wrong to steal,’ said a small but earnest boy who had won the Sunday School Junior prize last quarter.
‘Yes, but it’s not stealin’ when you do it by lor,’ said Henry, ‘we’d do it by lor.’
‘You’d get put in prison,’ said the Sunday School prodigy; ‘that’s what happens to people who take other people’s money. They get put in prison. And serve ’em jolly well right too.’
‘You shut up,’ said Henry. ‘I keep tellin’ you that it doesn’t count if you do it by lor. We’re goin’ to do it by lor.’
‘Whose money are you goin’ to take?’ said another member of the audience, emboldened by the success of the hecklers so far.
‘Everyone’s money that isn’t a Socialist.’
‘An’ s’pose everyone turns Socialist so’s to get other people’s money, what’re you goin’ to do then?’
‘They couldn’t.’
‘Why couldn’t they?’
‘ ’Cause there’s gotter be four sorts of people same as what we are. Well, there couldn’t be four sorts of people if everyone was a Socialist, could there? Stands to reason. If you’d got any sense you’d see there couldn’t.’
‘I’ve got a jolly sight more sense than what you have.’
‘Oh, you have, have you?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘All right. Come on, then—’
But William hastily interposed.
‘They don’t fight,’ he said, ‘they only talk same as you’ve been talkin’. It’s called hecklin’, like what I told you. They don’t start fightin’.’ He pushed the still recalcitrant Henry into the seat and addressed the audience.
‘Now you’ve heard all about Socialism from Henry. Now you c’n hear about Communism from Ginger.’ He turned and pointed out Ginger to the audience. ‘This is Ginger, goin’ to make a speech to you about Communism.’
Ginger rose and cleared his throat importantly.
‘Ladies an’ Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Communism means havin’ a war against all the people that aren’t Communists an’ conquerin’ ’em an’ killin’ ’em.’
‘Killin’ people’s wrong,’ interposed the hope of the Sunday School. ‘People who kill people get hung. And serve them jolly well right too.’
‘Not if it’s in a war,’ said Ginger, ‘this is goin’ to be a war. Jus’ like what we read about in history books, with battles an’ camps an’ noble deeds an’ such-like. Well, when we’ve won the war—’
‘S’pose you don’t win it,’ said the boy with red hair.
‘What?’ said Ginger irritably.
‘I say, s’pose you don’t win it.’
‘Course we’re goin’ to win it.’
‘Oh, you’ll win it all right if you run away as fast as you do when Farmer Jenks is after you. Oh! yes! you’ll win it then all right.’
‘Well, so do you run away when he’s after you.’
‘Yes, but I don’t say I’m goin’ to conquer the world. If you’re afraid of Farmer Jenks—’
‘I’m not afraid of Farmer Jenks. I’m not afraid of anybody.’
‘Oo, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not. So there!’
‘All right, then. Jus’ you—’
‘That’s enough hecklin’ about Communists,’ interrupted William. ‘Now I’m goin’ to make a speech about Conservatism to try’n’ get you all to vote Conservative.’
He stood up and looked around him. Silence fell.
They gazed at William expectantly.
‘Ladies an’ Gentlemen,’ said William, ‘There was a man stayin’ with my father last month. He only stayed two days but p’raps some of you saw him.’
‘I did,’ said a small child excitedly from the back of the barn.
‘Well, that proves I’m not makin’ it up,’ said William. ‘Well, this man had been in Africa. He’d been shootin’ there—jus’ livin’ in a sort of forest they call the felt an’ pitchin’ his camp in it by night an’ shootin’ by day. An’ he shot lions an’ elephants and about twenty other sorts of wild animals. An’ once he went into a sort of tunnel that a buffalo makes in the bushes an’ this buffalo came chargin’ out at him down the tunnel an’ he shot it there in the dark tunnel. Shot it dead. Didn’t turn to run away or anythin’ same as you or me would have done. An’ another time he met a lion an’ he hadn’t got a gun an’ he jus’ walked past this lion without runnin’ away or anythin’ an’ it wasn’t hungry so it didn’t eat him but it’d’ve eat him if he’d run away, because they do. You an’ me would have run away without stoppin’ to think, but this man I’m tellin’ you about, this friend of my father’s, didn’t. An’ one of them elephants he killed was cornin’ chargin’ down at him too. It hadn’t any tusks an’ they’re always speshully savidge when they haven’t any tusks. But he never got scared. He jus’ shot it clean dead. An’ when he’d put up his tent an’ lit his fire at night, he used to hear the lions roarin’ in the darkness an’ hippopotamusses used to come out of the river to sniff round it an’ once he heard somethin’ sniffin’ about an’ in the mornin’ he saw a leopard’s foot marks round his tent an’ it had come just inside the open doorway to look at him. But this man I’m tellin’ you about, this friend of my father’s, wasn’t any more scared than if it had been a mouse.’ He stopped for a minute. His audience was listening in breathless silence. Slowly he brought out his climax. ‘An’ this man is a Conservative. He votes Conservatism at gen’ral elections.’
The audience heaved a deep sigh, waking slowly from its dreams of camp fires, roaring lions and buffalo tunnels.
‘Anyone want to do any hecklin’ about Conservatism?’ said William, surveying his audience.
‘Yes I do,’ said a boy in the second row, ‘how do you tell whether a lion’s hungry?’
‘Only by whether it eats you or not,’ said William, ‘if it isn’t hungry it doesn’t eat you an’ if it is it does. That’s the only way you can tell.’
‘Oh,’ said the boy in an awestruck voice. ‘Well, I bet I’d run away every time to be on the safe side.’
‘Then he’d eat you every time,’ said William. ‘Any more hecklin’?’
The hope of the Sunday School, feeling that he had been hiding his light under a bushel too long, said:
‘I think it’s cruel killin’ wild animals.’
‘Oh, do you?’ said William. ‘I s’pose you’d rather they killed you?’
‘Yes, I would,’ said the young humanitarian unctuously.
He was attacked by his neighbours on either side and subsided temporarily, rubbing his bruises, his face wearing an expression of smug satisfaction as of one who has suffered for his faith.
‘Well, if there’s no more hecklin’ about Conservatism,’ said William, ‘we’ll have the votin’. Have you all brought pencils and paper.’ It turned out that no one had, so William proceeded.
‘All right, then, hands up those who want to vote Lib’ral.’ The audience remained motionless. ‘Hands up those who want to vote Socialist.’ The audience remained motionless. ‘Hands up those who want to vote Communist.’ The audience remained motionless. ‘Hands up those who want to vote Conservative.’ Every member of the audience immediately raised a hand.
‘That’s me,’ said William complacently. ‘I’m Prime Min’ster now. I’m same as the ones they call the duck an’ the dog. I’m goin’ to rule the country.’
‘What are you goin’ to do for us first?’ said the boy with red hair.
; ‘Do for you?’ repeated William indignantly. ‘I’m not goin’ to do anythin’ for you. I’m goin’ to rule.’
‘But that means doin’ things for us,’ persisted the boy with red hair. ‘I know it does. We learnt it at school. It’s somethin’ called civics. An’ I vote you get back the tadpole pond for us.’
‘HANDS UP THOSE WHO WANT TO VOTE CONSERVATIVE,’ SAID WILLIAM, AND EVERY MEMBER OF THE AUDIENCE RAISED A HAND.
‘THAT’S ME,’ SAID WILLIAM. ‘I’M PRIME MINISTER NOW. I’M GOING TO RULE THE COUNTRY.’
The tadpole pond was a small pond that till lately had stood by the roadside just outside the garden of a Miss Felicia Dalrymple. It had been the favourite resort of the juvenile population of the village in the tadpole season. But a month or two ago Miss Felicia Dalrymple had discovered that the pond had originally formed part of her garden and had reclaimed it, putting a hurdle fence around it and keeping a gardener near the spot to inflict punishment on any youthful invaders. Feeling on the subject ran high among those who had previously spent all their leisure moments at the pond, and the suggestion of the red-headed boy was greeted by a deafening cheer.
William was for a moment too taken aback to reply, then he repeated:
‘I’m jolly well not goin’ to do anythin’ for you. I’m Prime Minister. I’m one of them like the duck an’ the dog. I’m jus’ goin’ to rule.’
But the red-headed boy was not to be put off in this way.
‘Well, I’ve learnt it in history. It’s in the chapter called civics, an’ we did it last week, an’ I know ’cause I was kept in to learn it again. It says that the Prime Min’ster an’ such like’s the servants of the people an’ does things for them.’
‘Well, I’m jolly well not goin’ to be that sort,’ said William with spirit. ‘I’m goin’ to rule . . . same as the ones they call the duck an’ the dog.’
‘You’re afraid of ole Miss Dallypots.’
‘I’m not. I’m not afraid of anyone.’
‘You are. You’re afraid of ole Miss Dallypots.’
‘I’m not. You say that again an’ I’ll—’
‘All right, then. Prove you’re not afraid. Get our pond back off her again.’
‘I’m jolly well not goin’ to.’
‘’Cause you couldn’t.’
‘I could.’
‘You couldn’t.’
‘I could.’
‘All right, do it, then.’
‘All right, I will.’
At this hasty unthinking announcement deafening cheering broke out again. William was torn between gratification at the reception of his rash promise and apprehension at the magnitude of the task he had undertaken. He struck a careless attitude of aloof omnipotence.
‘I’ll do that for you,’ he said. ‘It seemed such a little thing to do that it didn’t hardly seem worth while at first, but if you really want it—’
From the cheering it appeared that they really did want it.
‘All right,’ said William casually, ‘I’ll try’n’ get it for you by Saturday afternoon.’
It seemed best to begin operations by approaching Miss Felicia Dalrymple direct. He had not high hopes of this, but it seemed the obvious first step. He refused the help of Ginger, Douglas and Henry. He had by inquiries at home been extending his political knowledge.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re the other side. You’re against everything I do. You ought to try’n’ stop me gettin’ back the pond.’
‘But we want the pond,’ objected Ginger.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said William. ‘You’re the other side, so you oughter try’n’ stop me doin’ it even if you want it. They do in pol’tics. You’ve gotter be against me. It’s one of the rules.’
‘Where’s the sense in it?’ demanded Douglas.
‘Oh, it jus’ makes it more fun,’ said William vaguely. ‘Anyway, I’m goin’ off to Miss Dalrymple now to ask her. I’m goin’ to plead with her.’
‘Well, if you need us, you’ll let us help?’ said Ginger anxiously. They didn’t like being debarred from participation in William’s adventures.
‘Oh yes,’ said William, ‘if I’m in any deadly peril I’ll give the deadly peril whistle an’ you come an’ help.’
They had to be satisfied with that.
With a certain amount of misgiving at his heart, William raised the brass knocker of Miss Dalrymple’s green-painted door and let it fall again heavily. It was rather a fascinating knocker. It represented a lion’s head with its tongue out. When you raised the knocker the tongue went in, and when you dropped it, it came out again. When you went on knocking, the lion put its tongue in and out continually. William, deeply absorbed in this phenomenon, went on knocking. An indignant housemaid opened the door.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ she said.
William reluctantly dragged his attention from the lion’s tongue.
‘I want to see Miss Dalrymple,’ he said.
‘Well, you needn’t knock the house down for that,’ said the housemaid angrily.
‘I wasn’t knocking the house down,’ said William in his most distant manner.
‘Come in then,’ she said sharply, ‘and wipe your boots.’
‘Does it ever get stuck?’ asked William.
‘What?’
‘The tongue.’
‘None of your impudence,’ said the housemaid, as she showed him into the morning-room.
William, who was used to hostility from housemaids, and accepted it as part of the natural order of things, entered the morning-room dreamily, wishing that he lived in a house with a knocker like that. So absorbed was he in dreams of himself making the tongue go in and out, in and out, all day long, that when Miss Dalrymple entered, it took him a few moments to remember what he’d come for.
Miss Dalrymple was a lady of about fifty with an earnest expression and a dignified manner.
‘Yes, my boy,’ she said to William, ‘what is it you wish to see me about?’
William tore his mind from the knocker.
‘It’s about our pond,’ he said.
‘Your pond?’
‘Yes. Our pond what you’ve put fences round.’
‘But, my dear boy, it’s my pond. Until comparatively recently it was part of this garden, and now it’s going to be part of this garden again. It belongs to me.’
‘Well, we want it for tadpoles an’ things,’ said William, remembering that he was a Prime Minister and trying to speak firmly.
‘I can’t help that, my dear boy,’ said the lady, smiling condescendingly. ‘The fact remains that it’s my pond. I can prove that it’s my pond. I have a map of the garden as it was in my grandfather’s time and various letters to prove it.’
‘P’raps the government bought it off your grandfather after that map and letters was wrote,’ suggested William. She smiled again.
‘WELL, WE WANT THE POND FOR TADPOLES AN’ THINGS,’ SAID WILLIAM.
‘Nonsense, my dear boy.’
‘But if anyone could prove that they had, you’d let us have it again?’
‘Naturally, my dear boy, naturally.’ William still sat there, gazing stolidly into space. Something of the lady’s geniality began to wane.
‘I’m rather busy this morning, my boy, so I’m afraid I must ask you to go now.’
‘All right,’ said William, rising slowly.
The lady saw him to the door, and closed it on him firmly. He stood looking at it dreamily. The tongue was out now, it would go in and come out again when you lifted the knocker and dropped it. He lifted the knocker and dropped it several times. It was a fascinating spectacle. Then he set off to the gate.
The housemaid had rushed to the door again, and the lady had hurried breathlessly into the hall.
‘What on earth is it?’ she said.
‘It’s that boy again,’ said the housemaid.
William was just closing the gate. He was quite unaware that he had roused the entire household.
That
night William sat up in his bedroom laboriously drawing a map of Miss Dalrymple’s garden that did not include the pond. As a map it was not particularly successful, but there was no doubt at all as to the position of the pond. William had drawn a fence as large as the house, and by the side of the pond he had put a cross and the words: ‘This pond is rite outsid the garden.’ He had then, after innumerable attempts, drafted a letter supposed to be written to Miss Dalrymple’s father by the government. It ran as follows:
Dear Mister Dalrimpul,
Thank you very much for selling us the pond at the end of your garden. We want it to be rite outsid your garden so that the boys can studdy tadpols and things in it. We want it to be a fre pond for everyone who liks to go and fish in. Thank you for putting the fens on the other sid of the pond so as to make it a fre pond and rite outsid your garden.
We hop that your dorter Miss Felisher Dalrimpul is quit wel,
Yours cinserely,
The Government.
Having finished this letter William regarded it with deep satisfaction.
It seemed to him a masterly and Machiavelli-like achievement, proving irrefutably that even if the pond had belonged to Miss Dalrymple’s grandfather, her father had since sold it to the government, and so it belonged to her no longer. The subtle touch of the introduction of Miss Felicia Dalrymple’s name caused him many chuckles.
‘I bet not many people would’ve thought of that,’ he said complacently.
The next thing to decide was how to bring the map and letter to Miss Dalrymple’s notice. To take them to her in person of course would be to invite suspicion that they were forgeries. She must come upon them as if by accident just as people did in books. But how could he put them anywhere where she would come upon them by accident? Dearly as he would have liked to return to her house and knock at her fascinating knocker, he knew that he would not be a welcome visitor, and in all probability would not even be admitted this time. Even if he were, how could he put the papers in a place where they might be supposed to have lain unnoticed ever since the time of Miss Dalrymple’s father? Then—quite suddenly—the inspiration came to him. The Pond! Miss Dalrymple was going to have the pond drained and lined with concrete in order to make a water garden of it. When they drained the pond they should find a bottle with the letter and the map inside.
William the Bad Page 6