He put it in an envelope, addressed it to Miss Peggy Barlow (he knew the address because Robert’s envelope addressed to her lay every day in the letter basket), and went to his mother’s writing-table to get a stamp. Having stamped it, he was just taking it to the front door, meaning to waste no time before he posted it, when Robert emerged suddenly from the morning-room and they collided violently in the hall. Both William and Robert were in a hurry. Robert, while engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with the murderer upon the highest peak of the Alps in Switzerland, had suddenly remembered that he had promised to call for the beloved and take her out that afternoon, and that if he meant to be in time he’d better hurry. If he weren’t in time, of course, he knew that it was the last appointment the beloved would make with him, for she was a damsel of spirit who wouldn’t brook being kept waiting. So he leapt to his feet, flung himself out of the room and into William, who also felt that his present business was urgent and was hurrying accordingly. When they raised themselves from the sitting postures into which the impact had driven them, the envelope that William had been carrying lay on the floor between them, address side up. Robert gazed at it wildly, seized it and tore it open. Then all was chaos. Robert raved and stormed and executed immediate personal retribution upon William. He accused William of deliberately trying to ruin his life. He said that no girl would look at him again after receiving a thing like that and what on earth would she have thought, and that there would have been nothing left for him, Robert, to do but drown himself, but that he’d have jolly well drowned him, William, first.
Mrs. Brown, roused from her midday slumbers by the uproar, came down to see what it was all about. Robert had to go through it all again. He said that William had nearly ruined his life and that no girl would have looked at him again after getting a thing like that, and that there would have been nothing left for him, Robert, to do but drown himself, but that he’d jolly well have drowned him, William, first. He demanded wildly of his mother why William had not been strangled at birth, but had been allowed instead to grow up to ruin people’s lives for them like this. He added with considerable bathos that William jolly well wouldn’t get that shilling now. Mrs. Brown found her spectacles and read the offending poem.
‘How naughty of you, William!’ she said at last.
‘But I was trying to help him,’ protested William. ‘He wants to marry her, doesn’t he? He carries on as if he did, anyway.’
‘Shut up,’ said Robert fiercely.
‘Well, it’ll be a long time before I try to help anyone again,’ said William.
‘If you want to help someone, William,’ said his mother, ‘you can go and weed the rose-beds.’
‘Will you give me a shilling if I do?’ said William.
‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs. Brown.
‘Well, I’m no good at weeding,’ said William. ‘Why don’t you get some of this weed-killer there’s always such a lot about in the papers?’
‘I jolly well know who I’d use it on if we had any,’ said Robert darkly, and added: ‘Good thing for you it didn’t go. Wouldn’t have been very nice for you to have to go through life with the knowledge that you’d ruined your brother’s only hope of happiness.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said William. ‘I wasn’t ruining your only hope of happiness. I was helping you. Well, if you don’t want to marry her why do you carry on as if you did and— ‘
‘Shut up,’ said Robert again.
Then he looked at the clock and discovered again that he’d have to fly if he wasn’t going to keep the beloved waiting, which would indeed be the culminating ruin of his life, so he flew, leaving William to face the black void that this afternoon had suddenly become.
‘I earned that shilling,’ he said darkly to his mother. ‘People get put in prison for doing things like that. It’d jolly well serve him right to get put in prison, too.’
‘It was very naughty of you to write that silly poem,’ said Mrs. Brown. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to send it, but it was naughty of you to pretend you were going to.’
‘It was a jolly fine poem,’ said William. ‘I thought he wanted to marry her. I was only trying to help.’
‘Well, it doesn’t help anyone to write silly poems like that,’ said Mrs. Brown mildly.
William sighed, despairing of the possibility of ever making anyone understand anything, then turned his attention to the black void.
‘Well, what’m I goin’ to do this afternoon without that shilling?’ he demanded.
‘What were you going to do?’ said his mother.
‘I was going to the fair,’ said William.
‘Well, you can still go to the fair, can’t you?’ demanded Mrs. Brown.
‘Go to the fair? With no money?’ said William bitterly. ‘S’no use goin’ to a fair without money.’
‘Well, dear, you shouldn’t have teased Robert like that,’ said Mrs. Brown. ‘He’s older than you and it’s very wrong to make fun of him. Especially about a thing like that.’
‘I wasn’t makin’ fun of him,’ persisted William in a frenzy of despair and exasperation. ‘I keep tellin’ you. I was tryin’ to help him. I thought he wanted to marry her. It was a jolly good pome too, an’ I took a lot of trouble over it an’ if he’d had any sense he’d’ve been grateful to me. Well, he needn’t blame me if no one’ll marry him. I’ve done my best for him. He doesn’t deserve anyone to marry him an’ I’m sure I’m jolly sorry for anyone who does.’
But Mrs. Brown had gone upstairs to continue her interrupted nap and William was left fulminating in the empty hall at a couple of mackintoshes that hung on the stand. He glared at them for a moment in silent scorn, ejaculated a bitter ‘huh!’ at them, then flung out of the house, slamming the door.
The other Outlaws were waiting for him by the old barn. Their faces wore the care-free expectant expressions of those whose afternoon’s enjoyment is secured.
‘Got the shilling?’ they called blithely to William as soon as he appeared. They asked the question not because they had any doubts about his having the shilling, but merely as an expression of their happy confidence.
Then they caught sight of his face and their glow faded.
‘I say!’ gasped Ginger. ‘He’s not—’
‘He promised it you,’ expostulated Henry faintly.
‘Yes,’ said William bitterly. ‘He promised it me all right, an’ then jus’ because I tried to help him he took it off me.’
‘Din’ he give you any of it,’ said Ginger.
‘No,’ said William dramatically.
‘But why’d he take it off you?’ demanded Douglas.
‘I’ve told you, haven’t I?’ said William impatiently. ‘’Cause I tried to help him. He wanted to get married to a girl an’ I tried to help him. Well, if he’d’ve let me help him he’d’ve been almost married by now. Well, an’ jus’ ’cause I tried to help him get married to this girl he wanted to get married to, takin’ a lot of trouble an’ Brown’s a jolly hard name to find anything that rhymes with, an’ I bet a real pote, the sort that’s famous and gets paid, couldn’t’ve done it any better—well, jus’ ’cause I took a lot of trouble to get him married to the girl he wanted to get married to—he got mad at me an’ wouldn’t give me the shilling.’
‘Well, I call that jolly mean,’ said Ginger emphatically.
‘I call it more’n mean,’ said Douglas. ‘I call it stealin’.’
‘I call it more’n that,’ said William. ‘Well, seems to me anyone that’d do that wouldn’t mind what they’d do. They’d murder anyone soon as look at ’em.’
‘Or worse than murder,’ said Ginger with sinister vagueness.
‘It makes one want to go off an’ be a robber,’ continued William whose feelings of bitterness had been deepened and enriched by this hymn of hate. ‘I’ve often thought I’d like to do something like that.’
‘Well, it’s not much use goin’ to the fair now,’ said Ginger, ‘without any money
to spend.’
‘The nex’ time Robert wants to marry anyone,’ said William, ‘he can jolly well fix it up himself. I’m not going to help him anyway. If he comes to me nex’ time beggin’ me to help him, I won’t. An’ no one’ll have him without a pome an’ bet he won’t be able to write a pome. It’s not so easy as mos’ people think it is. ’Specially with a name like Brown.’
‘IT MAKES ONE WANT TO GO OFF AN’ BE A ROBBER,’ CONTINUED WILLIAM.
‘I’ve often thought it would be fun to run away to sea same as people do in books,’ said Ginger, expressing the general feeling of reckless despair to which the situation had driven them.
‘I used to think that,’ said William, ‘till I went on the sea. You ever been on the sea?’
Ginger admitted that he hadn’t.
‘Well, it’s not a bit like what you’d think it is from books,’ said William. ‘It gives you a sort of feelin’ that you don’t find anythin’ about in books. After I’d been on the sea I made up my mind that if I ran away I’d sooner set up as a robber than go to sea. I bet robbers never have that sort of feeling that sailors mus’ have all the time. You only get it when you’re on the sea an’ I’d jolly well rather stay at home all my life than go away to sea an’ have that sort of feelin’ all the time same as what sailors mus’ have.’
‘Well, we won’t go away to sea then,’ said Douglas finally, ‘an’ we can’t start bein’ a robber band an’ terrorisin’ the country-side till we’re grown up so I don’t see we can do anythin’.’
‘Well, I don’ see why we shun’t start bein’ robbers an’ terrorisin’ the country-side now. I know I’ve had enough of tryin’ to help people. So I’d jolly well like to have a go at terrorisin’ them instead for a change. They’re always terrorisin’ me anyway an’ takin’ money off me an’ I’d jolly well like to try it on them. If we got a place somewhere on the top of a hill where we could roll down stones an’ boilin’ pitch an’ things onto people, I bet no one’d be able to take us. An’ other people’ll join us—criminals an’ fugitives from justice an’ such-like. I shun’t be surprised if we get to rule the country in the end. That happens in foreign countries an’ I don’t see why it shun’t happen here. Anyway, I’m jolly well sick of livin’ an’ ordin’ry life an’ havin’ all my money took off me. Yes,’ he added darkly, ‘an’ I bet Robert’ll wish he’d given me that shilling when I’m a robber chief an’ he’s on his bended knees to me beggin’ for his life.’
‘All right,’ said Ginger, simply, ‘when’ll we start?’
William, who hadn’t realised that he was committing himself quite so definitely to his new career, was silent for a minute.
Then through the silence came mingled sounds of merriment from the distant fair-ground—the blare of the merry-go-rounds, the shouts of the showmen, the excited screams from the swings and helter-skelters. He thought of the shilling that should have been his and he steeled himself against softer feelings.
‘We’ll jolly well start this afternoon,’ he said firmly.
With unexpected good luck they found an empty house on the top of a hill.
‘This’ll be our fortress,’ said William, ‘an’ if anyone comes to try’n’ take it we’ll pour down boilin’ pitch on them’n’drive ’em off.’
‘Where’ll we get boilin’ pitch from?’ demanded Douglas.
‘Oh, do shut up always makin’ objections,’ said William. ‘How d’you think we’ll ever get to be bandits terrorisin’ the country-side if you start makin’ objections to everythin’ anyone says? Anyone can get boilin’ pitch. They mend the roads with it. It’s all over the place. An’ we’ll roll stones from the house down onto ’em an’ throw slates an’ hundreds of more people’ll join us an’ then when we’ve got enough for an army we’ll conquer England an’ then—’
‘Yes, but what’re we goin’ to do now?’ demanded Douglas. ‘I mean this afternoon.’
William, brought down abruptly again from his flights of fancy, looked about him vaguely. They were sitting outside the empty house that was to be their fortress, gazing down into the valley. The irritating, enchanting sounds of the fair floated across to them from the meadow. Once more it stiffened William’s resolve.
‘We’ll jolly well start at once,’ he said grimly, ‘an’ in time to come there’ll be books wrote about us with pictures an’ such-like same as there is about history. The first thing is to get into the house an’ fortify it an’ then get wood for a fire. An’ while you’re doin’ that I’m goin’ to start off as a bandit. I’m goin’ down to the village an’ I bet I come back with some money. I bet I jolly well scare it out of someone. I’m goin’ to get a mask same as they have in books. So that’s one of the first things I’ve gotter do—after gettin’ into the house.’
Getting into the house proved less difficult than they had thought it would. The windows were sash windows and William slid back the catch with his penknife and opened one easily. The inside of the house proved to be in a fascinating state of disrepair, with traces of rat inhabitants that delighted the explorers. William, however, resisted the temptation to dally in this paradise.
‘I’m goin’ to start off bein’ a bandit,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a look round for rats an’ things afterwards.’
Bidding farewell to his gallant band he set off down the hill. Under their eyes he felt himself a superhuman figure, a mighty giant of a bandit endowed with miraculous strength. It was not till he’d reached the road in the valley that he shrunk to human stature. He encountered a farm labourer of sturdy physique, who, in passing, playfully pushed him into the ditch, and the rencontre brought William up sharply against the facts of life. Not thus were the bandits of his imagination treated by passers by. Then he consoled himself by the reflection that after all the smallest men were really the most terrible because, as William put it to himself, all their strength went to their brains. And, of course, he’d soon grow as big as anyone—or rather bigger. And after all it was cunning that told in a bandit, not strength, and he was jolly well as cunning as anyone. And, of course, there was the mask. He must get a mask. There was something terrifying about a mask. No one would push you into a ditch if you were wearing a mask. In all the stories he’d ever read a mask inspired terror in the beholder. But he was again brought up against the hard facts of life. He hadn’t any money to buy a mask. Then—he looked down suddenly and saw his knees covered with black slime from the involuntary descent into the ditch. It was as good as a mask any day. Without stopping to think further, William leapt again into the ditch and took up a handful of the glutinous mud. Smeared across the top of his face, it would, he decided, make as good a mask as you could buy anywhere. He worked with silent concentration for some moments and the result, as he imagined it, was highly satisfactory. His imagination erred, however, on the side of optimism. He did not look a sinister figure with a cruel mouth and eyes that glared malevolently through a black mask. He looked what he was, a mud-bedaubed schoolboy. The mud had refused to confine itself to the upper part of his face. It had spread itself and splashed itself in joyous abandon over the whole of his head, face and collar. But William was happily unaware of this. He walked with a sinister gait and a threatening expression. He held a small twig in his hand as though it were a revolver.
On the opposite side of the road from the ditch was the bank that sloped down to the river. It was from here that William suddenly heard voices. He stopped to consider the situation. There were obviously two people there at least, and, despite the terrifying picture of himself that he carried in his mind’s eye, he thought it rather imprudent to make his first attack upon more than one antagonist. Moreover, though he carried his twig with as great an air as if it had been a revolver of the latest and most dangerous type, and had, in fact, almost persuaded himself that it was, he was aware in his inmost mind that it was only a twig. He stood in the road irresolute for a few minutes considering the situation, a deep frown upon his mud-bedaubed countenance. Then the frown cleared. A tr
ee grew on the roadside whose branches stretched over the bank to the river. He could climb this, make his way along the branches till he was exactly over the owners of the voices, then, hidden in the leafage, accost them in his most terrible voice, telling them that he had ten men up in the tree with him who all held loaded revolvers pointed at them and ordering them to deposit all their valuables upon the ground and go away without looking back. Otherwise they would be dead men. Then when they’d gone he’d slip down and collect the booty. Perhaps the girl (one of the voices was a girl’s) would be wearing diamonds or pearls that he’d be able to sell for hundreds of pounds. It would be a jolly good beginning.
He climbed the tree and made his way along the branch till he was just over the speakers and then—a strange chill crept over him. One of the voices was horribly familiar. Cautiously he peeped through the branches. Below him on the grass on the river bank sat Robert and a girl.
Robert had been barely in time for the meeting with the beloved. So barely, in fact, that he arrived to it hot and panting and for the first five minutes, at any rate, could not do himself justice. Even when his breath and normal colour returned, he was distrait and absent in his manner. He couldn’t help thinking about that little wretch. He kept going hot and cold at the thought of what might have happened if the note had actually been sent. She’d never have looked at him again. And the most beautiful girl in the world. His whole life would have been completely ruined. The little wretch . . . the little wretch. Someone ought to have wrung his neck.
‘Well, where shall we go?’ said the beloved.
‘Wherever you like,’ said Robert. He tried to make his voice soulful and adoring, but succeeded only in sounding hoarse.
‘Have you got a sore throat?’ said the beloved.
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