Lolling against the gate post, his hands in the little pockets of his saxe blue suit, he was devising various dramatic means of freeing himself from his ignominious position. In his imagination strange and wonderful things were happening.
A band of robbers descended upon the house and were going to kill his aunt, and he told her that he would save her if she would let him go to school, give him a proper boy’s suit and call him John. She promised, and he killed all the robbers. His aunt, despite her many failings, always kept her promise.
The house was surrounded by Indians who were going to burn it down. He told his aunt that he would drive them off if she would promise to let him go to school, give him a proper boy’s suit and call him John. She promised, and he went out and drove off the Indians.
He and his aunt were going through a wood and a pack of wolves surrounded them. They were just going to spring upon his aunt and he told her that he would save her if she would promise to let him go to school, give him a proper suit and call him John. She promised, and he killed the wolves.
Cannibals had captured them and—
He awoke from his dreams with a start.
Four boys were coming down the road—four dirty, untidy boys, in battered tweed school suits, the sort of boys with whom his aunt would not let him play. He watched them in wistful envy. They were talking to each other. They glanced at him as they passed and went on talking to each other. It was that glance that stung Clarence into action. It seemed to say that he was unworthy even of their scorn. He pulled his face at them. They swung round and stared at him with sudden interest. William accepted the challenge and pulled his face back. Clarence, still leaning nonchalantly against the gate, replied by pulling his face again.
‘How d’you do it?’ said William. Clarence did it once more.
‘Mine’s a better one,’ said William, with an inner conviction that it wasn’t, for though a masterpiece in its way he realised that it lacked the finish of Clarence’s. The butcher boy, who had taught Clarence, was an artist in faces.
Without answering Clarence turned a somersault and then walked across the road on his hands.
William could stand on his hands, but he could never walk on them without overbalancing.
‘I c’n do that too,’ said William, but in a tone of voice that betrayed that he couldn’t.
Clarence walked back across the road on his hands, reversed himself lightly and leant nonchalantly against the gate post again. William, feeling that he was not showing up well in this competition of accomplishments, put a finger into each comer of his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. Immediately Clarence did the same. The horrible echoes died away. William, listening, had an uncomfortable suspicion that Clarence’s were the more horrible of the two.
The Outlaws had gathered round Clarence and were looking at him with interest.
‘How old are you?’ said William at last.
‘Eight,’ said Clarence, mentally adding a month or two on to his age.
‘Why does your mother dress you like that?’
‘Not got no mother,’ said Clarence with a swagger.
He had early learnt that his lack of parents conferred distinction upon him.
‘Why does your father, then?’
‘Not got a father either,’ said Clarence, with an exaggeration of the swagger.
William stared at him open-mouthed, open-eyed.
‘Not got—You’re a norphan?’ he shouted excitedly.
‘Yes,’ said Clarence gratified by the sensation his news had caused. ‘I’m a norphan.’
For a moment William’s emotion was too strong for speech. Then he turned to the others, and, pointing to Clarence, said still more excitedly: ‘D’you hear that? He’s a norphan.’
They all stared at Clarence.
‘Well,’ said Clarence rather distrustfully, feeling that their surprise was a little overdone, and suspecting ridicule behind it. ‘Why shun’t I be?’
‘B-b-but we’re lookin’ for a norphan,’ said William, still breathless with excitement.
‘Why?’ said Clarence.
‘’Cause we want to adopt one.’
‘What’s that?’ said Clarence.
‘We want to take one to live with us.’
‘Take me to live with you?’ said Clarence eagerly.
‘Yes,’ said William.
‘An’—an’ give me clothes like what you’re wearing, an’ let me play with you?’
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘We’d fetch one of our Sunday suits for you, ’an’ you could wear one of our weekday suits on Sundays. Will you?’
Clarence looked at them. Four dirty, rough, untidy, scuffling boys—four boys after his own heart. His face was shining.
‘I should jus’ think I will,’ he said.
‘All right,’ said William. ‘Come on then.’
They escorted him in proud proprietorship down the road.
‘What’s your name?’ said William.
‘John,’ said Clarence happily.
At the bend of the road William plunged suddenly into the grass and brought out a frog.
He glanced affectionately at his orphan.
‘I knew he’d bring us luck,’ he said.
They were in the old barn. The afternoon had been a busy one. William had gone home at once to fetch his Sunday suit, and Ginger had gone home to fetch a pair of scissors as the orphan had peremptorily insisted on having his hair cut and being dressed in a school suit before any further proceedings took place. William had done the thing properly, bringing his best boots and stockings, and collar and tie as well as his Sunday suit.
‘You can let me have them on Saturday night ready for Sunday,’ he explained carelessly, ‘an’ I’ll let you have my weekday ones then, so it’ll be all right. I bet they won’t find out they’re gone.’
The outfit was far too large for Clarence, and Ginger’s cropping of his curls was as unscientific as it was thorough, but words cannot convey the pride that swelled at Clarence’s heart, as he swaggered about the barn, passing his hand every now and then with a complacent smile over his unevenly cropped head.
The Outlaws looked at him with some misgivings. He certainly didn’t look as they’d meant him to look.
‘He’s all right, I think,’ said William doubtfully, ‘don’t you?’
‘Yes, I think he looks all right,’ said Ginger with unconvinced optimism, ‘anyway, whatever he looks like he looks better than he did in the other things.’
‘You won’t mind stayin’ here while we’re at school, will you?’ said William to Clarence.
‘I should jolly well think not,’ said Clarence enthusiastically.
‘You see you’ll sleep with us in turns an’ get under the bed in the morning when they come to call us so’s no one’ll know, an’ then go out when no one’s lookin’. An’ you can stay here while we’re in school an’ play games by yourself, an’ we’ll bring you food an’ things, an’ you can play with us when we’re not in school an’ wear our clothes in turn. See?’
He looked at Clarence anxiously, hoping that this ménage would meet with his approval. It was evident that it did. It was evident that Clarence accepted the prospect of this strange existence, not only with equanimity, but with exultation.
‘Can I really!’ he said gratefully.
He was certainly an orphan after the Outlaws’ own hearts. But it was after tea-time, and reluctantly they took their leave of him.
‘We’ll come back soon,’ William assured him, ‘and bring you some tea. We’ll all get a bit from our homes. You don’ mind us goin’ just for a bit to get tea, do you?’
‘No,’ his orphan assured him cheerfully, and glancing down at his person, added with pride, ‘it fits me jolly well, doesn’t it?’
When they had gone the orphan amused himself by practising the accomplishments that had won him this proud position. He whistled, pulled his face, and walked round the barn on his hands, and when he was tired of doing that, stroked his une
venly-cropped head and admired his suit, the sleeves of which had to be rolled up almost to their elbows.
The Outlaws returned long before he had exhausted his resources of self-amusement.
They brought with them a large if somewhat varied meal. Ginger had managed to abstract a pot of jam from the larder, Henry had brought a tin of sardines that he had obtained in the same way, Douglas had brought an orange, and William a carton of cream. The orphan hailed the meal with delight and consumed it zestfully.
‘It’s the nicest tea I’ve ever had,’ he announced blissfully as he scraped out the last spoonful of jam and put the last sardine into his mouth.
They watched him with wistful envy. It was certainly a more exciting meal than the ones they’d had at home. And they’d not only brought him the tea. They’d put together what money they had, and been into the village to buy him sweets and toys. They’d bought him a bag of bulls’ eyes, a whistle, a pistol and a stick of liquorice. They’d spent their last penny on him. They took their duty as his guardians and protectors very seriously.
‘Then there’s supper to think of,’ said William slowly, as they stood round their orphan watching him consume the remnants of his tea.
There was a shade of anxiety over his face. He realised that their orphan was going to be a drain on their slender resources.
‘There’s his pocket money, too,’ he went on still more slowly. ‘I vote we each give him a penny out of ours every week in turns.’
‘I don’t think he’ll need pocket money,’ said Douglas tentatively, but he was over-ruled by the others. When the Outlaws did anything they did it properly.
‘Have you ever heard of anyone adoptin’ a norphan an’ not givin’ him pocket money?’ said William indignantly.
As Douglas had never heard of anyone adopting an orphan at all till that morning he retired from the argument. There was no doubt at all that the orphan appreciated their attentions. He was happily engaged in sucking his stick of liquorice and playing with his pistol. He had handed round his bulls’ eyes and lent Ginger his whistle.
He looked up suddenly and said anxiously: ‘I am goin’ to stay here with you always, aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said William firmly.
The way of adopters of orphans might be beset by unexpected difficulties, but William was of the stuff that having adopted an orphan holds him against the world.
‘Sure?’ said the orphan.
‘Yes,’ said William.
‘Golly!’ murmured the orphan, ecstatically putting another bulls’ eye into his mouth. ‘Golly . . . Jus’ think of it.’
‘Well, he’s had his tea,’ said Ginger restively, ‘let’s go out an’ play till bedtime.’
So they went out to play. They played Red Indians. The orphan climbed trees and fences, scrambled through hedges and dived into ditches with the best of them. He took falls and knocks without a murmur. William watched him with delight.
‘He’s a jolly fine orphan, isn’t he?’ he said to Ginger proudly.
His delight in his protégé was, however, tempered by a slight anxiety about his Sunday suit, that increased as the evening wore on, and the passage of hedges and ditches and the bark of trees left their marks more and more thickly upon it.
To Clarence it was like a wonderful dream—the tweed suit, the stockings, the boots (all many sizes too big for him, but he didn’t mind that), the shouting and running and scuffling and scrambling over the countryside with these heroic beings who treated him with such flattering consideration. It seemed far too good to be true. Once or twice indeed he wondered if he’d died and gone to Heaven.
They ended their game at a house that was being built just outside the village. The Outlaws always paid it a visit in the evening when the workmen had gone home. It was, as it were, the Mecca of their day. Its attractions included scaffolding, planks, ladders, half-built walls, perilous chasms and dizzy heights, shavings, sawdust, cement, bricks, and various builders’ tools.
An added zest was imparted to the proceedings by the fact that occasionally an irate householder from the neighbourhood, who was to be the inhabitant of the house, would descend upon them in fury to drive them away.
Clarence enjoyed it even more than he’d enjoyed the game of Red Indians. He climbed the scaffolding, walked along the top of half-built walls, slid down planks and joined in a sawdust battle with a zest and fearlessness that made William’s heart swell with pride.
‘He’s a jolly fine orphan,’ he said again to Ginger, ‘we couldn’t’ve got a better one however long we’d looked for one.’
They were standing on the top of a half-built wall. Opposite it was another half-built wall at a distance of about two yards. They were of equal height, and the space between them was spanned by a narrow plank.
‘I bet I could walk across there on my hands,’ said Clarence, whose orgy of emancipation was going to his head.
‘I bet you couldn’t,’ said William.
‘I bet I could,’ persisted Clarence.
‘All right,’ said William. ‘Go on. Do it.’
Without a moment’s hesitation Clarence sprang upon his hands, and in a breathless silence began to walk the plank. He got half-way, then overbalanced and fell into the yawning chasm beneath. The Outlaws peered down anxiously.
‘Hello,’ called William. ‘Are you all right?’
A heap of cement at the bottom stirred, convulsed, and finally gave forth what seemed to be the plaster cast of a boy miraculously imbued with life.
‘Yes,’ said a muffled voice, ‘I’m all right. I fell into the stuff an’ din’ hurt myself at all. It tastes funny, though.’
The Outlaws scrambled down from the wall to meet their protégé on the ground. He was completely encased in cement from head to foot.
William looked anxiously at the point where, according to the rules of anatomy, his Sunday suit must be, then his unfailing optimism came to his aid.
‘I ’spect it’ll brush off,’ he said.
‘We can’t take him home like that,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ it’s getting too dark to see. So it must be bedtime.’
Again the responsibilities of their position cast a cloud over their spirits. Only Clarence had no misgivings. He gazed at them happily, trustingly, through his covering of cement.
‘I got half-way, anyway, din’ I?’ he said cheerfully. ‘It was a jolly fine sort of feeling, falling into that stuff.’
‘We can’t take him home like that,’ said Ginger again.
‘Tell you what,’ said William, ‘let him go’n’ rub himself on the grass on the side of the ditch. I bet that’ll take it off.’
‘A’ right,’ said Clarence, and trotted out in the gathering dusk to the road.
Almost immediately he returned.
‘I say!’ he gasped, ‘Annie—she’s my aunt’s maid—was jus’ passing. She saw me. I say, let me hide! Quick!’
He leapt into the kitchen floor and disappeared into the bowels of the earth. The Outlaws quickly sought similar hiding places. But after a few minutes it was evident that no one was looking for them and they emerged.
William went cautiously into the road to reconnoitre. He could dimly see a figure fleeing down the road in the distance. Faint moans reached him.
He returned.
‘’S all right,’ he said. ‘No one’s there ’cept some ole luny a long way off. Come on.’
They walked home rather thoughtfully. The cement-clad figure was the only really cheerful one. It walked jauntily. It had no thought for the morrow. It trusted its adopters entirely.
‘It’s your night to have him first, isn’t it, William?’ said Ginger.
‘Yes,’ said William without enthusiasm.
They had reached William’s home.
‘Well, good night,’ said the other Outlaws.
‘I say,’ said William pleadingly, but they were already disappearing.
They felt that after all it was at William’s suggestion that they had saddled themselves with
this lifelong responsibility, and that it was only fair that he should bear the first brunt of it.
William, left alone with his white-clad protégé in the gathering dusk at his garden gate, gazed about him with a sinking heart.
‘Isn’t it fun?’ said Clarence enthusiastically. ‘What shall we do now?’
‘I’ve gotter get you up to bed now,’ said William.
This proved easier than William had thought, for Clarence scaled the pear tree by which William always entered his bedroom in emergencies almost as easily as William himself. He stood in William’s bedroom, cement dropping all around him, and said placidly: ‘And now do I go to bed?’
‘Yes,’ said William with a harassed glance at the carpet. ‘I’d better give that suit a bit of a brush. An’ we’ll have to try and get it off the carpet somehow, too.’
‘I say,’ said his orphan, as if making a sudden discovery. ‘I’m hungry.’
William’s expression grew yet more harassed.
‘I’ll see if I c’n get anything,’ he said, ‘you be gettin’ undressed. You’ll find pyjamas in that drawer. An’ get under the bed if you hear anyone coming.’
‘All right,’ said the orphan happily. ‘I’m jolly sleepy. I’ve had a lovely day. What’re we goin’ to do to-morrow?’
‘Dunno,’ said William rather shortly, as he descended to the garden by way of the pear tree, and then entered the house noisily by the side door.
Voices from the drawing-room told him that his mother had a visitor. That reassured him, and he went into the dining-room where his supper was laid. Having eaten it, he looked about for something for his orphan. All he could find was a pot of jam in the sideboard cupboard and half a pine-apple that was on the sideboard. He would, of course, be called to account for the disappearance of the pine-apple, but he had no thought just then for anything but his orphan, who must be fed at all costs. He took both upstairs, hoping that his Sunday suit and bedroom carpet weren’t really as bad as he’d thought.
He opened the bedroom door to find that they were far, far worse. The situation was in fact beginning to assume the proportions of a nightmare.
William the Bad Page 13