William The Conqueror

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Please come at once,’ panted the fat man. ‘The boys are all fighting and I can’t do anything with them!’

  The curate looked at him coldly for a minute, then said, ‘I’ll come in a minute,’ and turned back to Ethel.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘What were you saying just now when he interrupted?’

  The fat man wrung his hands hopelessly and ran off to try and find someone else.

  The fight was brought to an end by the victory of William’s side, and the consequent flight of Hubert Lane’s. William’s side pursued the other through the gate and some way down the road, then returned black-eyed and dishevelled, arm-in-arm, chanting discordant pæons of victory.

  Some of them demanded races, but the fat man had gone home, and after ringing his bell in turn for some time for the sheer love of the noise it made, they scattered among the other parts of the ‘treat’, combining again with a rush to blockade the entrance gate at any attempt on the part of the routed army to return to the festal ground.

  The Vicar, who hated boys, had taken refuge in the tea tent and was pretending not to see or hear anything of what was going on.

  The Outlaws went to the coconut shies. Fate was favouring William. Not only had he routed his enemy, but by a lucky shot he knocked down a coconut. He swaggered off whistling shrilly, his coconut under his arm, his admiring Outlaws around him.

  They sat down in a secluded part of the ground, then after a few minutes rose and swaggered on again, leaving only the empty shell behind them. Near the toffee-stall they met the curate and Ethel.

  Ethel was smiling sweetly upon the curate, and the curate, delirious with happiness, and seeing her little brother through a roseate haze of sentiment, slipped a shilling into William’s hand as he passed.

  He regretted it instantly, because he did not like William, and he knew that generosity to William was no magic pass into Ethel’s good graces, and a shilling is a shilling; but William took no chances and had hastily converted the shilling into a large and sticky-looking mixture of treacle toffee plentifully mingled with desiccated coconut at the nearest stall, before the curate had time to explain that he’d given him a shilling by mistake for a threepenny piece, and would he please give it back?

  The Outlaws retired to the hedge with their booty, and again in a few minutes walked on, their faces freely ornamented with coconut and toffee, leaving a large empty paper bag behind them.

  The roundabout was next to the coffee-stall, and the Outlaws, still sucking, climbed upon the horses and held on to the poles. The man in charge looked at them rather suspiciously as he started the machine.

  His suspicions were justified. He had no sooner started it than, challenged by William, the Outlaws all began to climb their poles in an attempt to gain the roof. The man in charge, however, was equal to the occasion. He had boys of his own. He stopped the machine, ordered them down, boxed their ears, and sent them off. Still sucking, they wandered on. The grown-ups who were to help with the tea were now coming on to the ground.

  Suddenly three of these bore down upon the Outlaws with cries of horror. They were Ginger’s mother, Henry’s mother, and Douglas’s mother. Ginger, Henry and Douglas turned to flee, but too late. Each mother had her offspring firmly by the arm and was gazing down with honor into countenances upon which the battle and the coconut toffee had left their copious traces.

  ‘Go home at once and wash,’ they said.

  William slunk away hastily in the opposite direction, feeling grateful that his mother had been prevented by a previous engagement from helping with the tea.

  Once clear of danger (for he had been afraid that Ginger’s mother or Henry’s mother or Douglas’s mother, with the grown-up’s usual gift of officious interference in other people’s business, might order him home to wash, too!), and seeing that Ethel was still at the other end of the field concerned only with the curate, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and, uttering again his nerve-racking whistle, strolled on through the grounds. He met no friends or enemies and nothing happened.

  William began to feel rather dull. He was conscious, too, of a heavy sensation of sleepiness, caused probably by the combined effects of the battle, the roundabout, the heat, and a surfeit of coconut toffee.

  In the hedge, at the end of the ground, was an inviting hole, and William, who never could resist inviting holes, crawled through into the next field and lay down on the grass by the roadside, and, surrendering himself to his sensation of drowsiness, went to sleep.

  He awoke to hear people talking just near him. He looked around cautiously. Two men sat on the seat by the river.

  ‘I’ve decided to kill Ethel,’ one of them was saying.

  William sat up with a start of horror and indignation. He had often imagined himself wreaking terrible and dramatic vengeances on his sister after some more than usually unwarranted piece of interference on her part, but he’d never gone so far as to kill her – even in his imagination.

  Besides, he decided, it would be one thing for him to think of killing her, but quite another thing for a perfect stranger to think of it. William’s indignation increased. It was little short of impertinence for a complete stranger to contemplate killing his sister. Cautiously he peered over the long grass that evidently concealed his recumbent form from the speakers.

  The man who had just spoken was a good-looking young man, with brown, curly hair. His companion was middle-aged and bald.

  ‘How are you going to do it?’ said the older man.

  ‘Push her into the river, I think,’ said the young man.

  William turned and crept cautiously through the hole and back into the treat ground. He felt that he must warn Ethel at once of this dastardly plot against her life. He hurried up to her, still agog with horrified excitement, where she stood talking to the curate. She was looking rather peevish. The curate always bored her after half an hour, and she was beginning to wish she hadn’t come.

  ‘I say,’ gasped William, as he joined them.

  ‘Do go and wash your face or do something to yourself,’ said Ethel with disgust.

  William ignored her and spoke to the curate.

  ‘I’ve just heard two men plottin’ to push Ethel into the river.’

  ‘What?’ said the curate. Two hours in Ethel’s company had gone to the curate’s head. In his own mind he had been rescuing her from far more dramatic dangers than this. This seemed quite credible, almost contemptible.

  ‘Push her into the river, did you say?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, his imagination getting the better of him; ‘they were planning to wait till she came out of the field an’ then spring out an’ push her into the river an’ drown her.’

  ‘What cheek!’ said Ethel indignantly.

  The curate put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Leave this all to me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Keep quite calm.’

  Ethel shook off his hand.

  ‘I am keeping calm,’ she said irritably; ‘keep calm yourself.’

  ‘I’m quite calm,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I’m only thinking what is the best measure to adopt. My instinct is, of course, to attack them in person, but the law being what it is I think that it would perhaps be better policy to approach the policeman. Where did you say these men are, William?’

  ‘On the seat by the river,’ said William, ‘an they were plottin’ to get Ethel by herself an’ tie her arms up so’s she couldn’t swim an’ then throw her into the river.’

  ‘But – why?’ said the curate.

  ‘’Cause they don’t like ’er, I s’pose,’ said William. ‘Well, I can understand that, but I don’t see it’s any reason for throwin’ her into the river.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to say that,’ said the curate reproach fully. ‘You—’

  But Ethel interrupted, stamping her foot.

  ‘Isn’t anyone going to do anything?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said the curate with dignity. ‘I’m going to consult the p
olice.’

  The policeman was standing just inside the entrance gate leaning against the fence and engaged in the occupation of looking bored. He was new to the job and inclined to be rather punctilious. He took out a new clean notebook and a new clean pencil and interviewed William in an official manner and with an official frown. William, who was beginning to feel that his story sounded a bit thin and needed embellishing, duly embellished it.

  ‘They were talking about Ethel, my sister, an’ they said they were goin’ to kill her, an’ one of them wanted to shoot her, but the other said no, it would make too much noise, an’ the best thing would be to get her an’ gag her an’ tie her up an’ throw her in the river, an’ I came back to tell someone ’cause I know she’s maddenin’ sometimes, but I think killin’ her’s a bit thick, an’—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Ethel, stamping her foot again.

  The policeman put his hand on William’s neck and ordered him to lead him to the spot where he had overheard the men. The policeman was secretly worried because he couldn’t think of the exact name of the offence. ‘Murder’ seemed rather a premature name for it. ‘Attempted murder’ wasn’t much better, and he couldn’t think of anything else.

  Behind him walked Ethel and the curate, and behind them the participants in the Sunday-school treat. Seeing the policeman leading William off the field by the neck they imagined that a long overdue Nemesis had overtaken that young scoundrel at last, and followed gleefully.

  ‘There they are!’ said William, pointing to the two men, who were still on the seat.

  The policeman marched forward with massive dignity and laid a hand on their shoulders.

  ‘I arrest you,’ he said dramatically, ‘on a charge of—’ the word suddenly occurred to him, and he brought it out impressively: ‘Conspiracy.’ In order that the word might not elude him again he took out his nice new notebook and wrote the word ‘Conspiracy’ on the first page.

  ‘B – but—’ gasped the young man.

  ‘Anything you say,’ said the policeman majestically, ‘may be used as evidence against you.’

  ‘I protest,’ said the young man.

  But the curate, brought face to face with the would-be murderer, could not restrain himself.

  ‘You scoundrel!’ he said. ‘I learn that you have just been planning to throw this – this young lady,’ pointing to Ethel, ‘into the river.’

  ‘YOU SCOUNDREL!’ SAID THE CURATE. ‘I LEARN THAT YOU HAVE BEEN PLANNING TO THROW THIS YOUNG LADY INTO THE RIVER.’

  The young man’s eyes rested upon Ethel. Amazement and admiration succeeded each other in his face.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen this young lady before.’

  ‘CERTAINLY NOT,’ SAID THE YOUNG MAN. ‘I’VE NEVER SEEN THIS YOUNG LADY BEFORE.’

  The policeman took out his notebook to enter this statement, then thought that he might as well make quite certain of it.

  ‘Are you quite sure of that?’ he said.

  A smile – boyish and disarming – came into the nice young man’s face.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I should hardly be likely to forget, should I?’

  Ethel blushed and lowered thick curling lashes over her blue, blue eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ broke in William indignantly, ‘but I was sittin’ here an’ I heard you talkin’ about Ethel and you was sayin’—’

  The middle-aged man broke in.

  ‘I think I see a light,’ he said. ‘My friend here is a writer of serial stories and we have taken a cottage near for a short holiday. We were discussing one of his plots in which there seemed to be an over-abundance of characters, and in which another mysterious disappearance more or less would make no difference. We were deciding that Ethel might go. Perhaps this young lady’s name is Ethel?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ethel, with another glorious blush.

  The policeman made a sound expressive of annoyance, took out an indiarubber and erased the word ‘Conspiracy’ from his nice new book, turned on his heel scornfully, and went moodily back to his post. Silly mess-up! He’d never had any real luck since he joined the force just over a month ago – not even a burglary!

  The participants in the Sunday-school treat, seeing that nothing was happening, trailed back to the ground, and someone sent an urgent message to the curate to come and give away the competition prizes, as the Vicar had a headache and had gone home. The curate gave a sardonic laugh as a tribute to the Vicar’s headache, and a dark, threatening scowl at the man whom he still looked upon as Ethel’s murderer. He half contemplated throwing him into the river, even now; then decided that it would be an anti-climax, and followed the policeman gloomily back to the ground.

  ‘What’s happening up there?’ said the curly haired young man, his eyes still fixed ardently upon Ethel.

  ‘A Sunday-school treat,’ said Ethel.

  ‘What are you doing at it?’

  ‘I’m just helping,’ said Ethel.

  ‘Could I come and help, too?’ said the young man.

  Ethel gave him her shattering smile.

  ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ she said.

  The middle-aged man sighed, and set off by himself down the road.

  The young man went back with Ethel to the scene of the treat.

  William stood and watched them. ‘Huh!’ he said scornfully, when they had finally disappeared from his view.

  Then he went down the road towards his own house. On the road he met Ginger, Douglas and Henry, looking clean and depressed.

  ‘Hello!’ they greeted him. ‘You been sent home to wash, too?’

  William ignored the question.

  ‘I’ve jus’ been saving Ethel’s life,’ he said, ‘and how much d’you think she’s give me for it?’

  ‘Dunno!’ said the Outlaws.

  ‘Nothin’,’ said William bitterly. ‘Let’s go and play Red Indians.’

  CHAPTER 9

  WILLIAM THE PHILANTHROPIST

  WILLIAM tramped loudly down the stairs singing lustily: ‘I want – to bee – happy, but I – can’t bee – happy—’

  ‘Neither can anyone else while you’re making that foul row,’ said Robert, his elder brother, coming out of the morning-room and slamming the door behind him.

  ‘D’you think,’ said William sternly, ‘that no one c’sing in the house but you? D’you think—’

  ‘Shut up,’ interrupted Robert, furiously, going into the dining-room and slamming the door behind him.

  William went into the garden, continuing his interrupted song:

  ‘’Till I’ve made you – happy too-hoo.’

  His ‘too-hoo’ ranged from E flat to F sharp.

  The dining-room window was thrown open and a book whizzed past William’s ear, narrowly missing him.

  Robert’s infuriated voice followed the book.

  ‘Will you shut up?’ he said. ‘You’re driving me mad.’

  ‘I’m not driving you mad, Robert,’ said William, meekly. ‘That’s nothin’ to do with me, Robert.’

  Robert leaped over the window-sill and started in pursuit.

  William was prepared for this, and fled down the drive, Robert returned to the dining-room. At the gate William hesitated, then raised his untuneful voice in a challenging: ‘I want – to bee – happy—’ He looked expectantly towards the house, but Robert had slammed both window and door and had taken up his novel. William, slightly disappointed, continued his raucous progress down the street.

  Here he met the other Outlaws. They joined him and his song. Their ideas of key and actual notes varied. No one, even though he were familiar with the immortal ditty, would have recognised it as rendered by the Outlaws. It had become merely an inferno of untuneful sound.

  They made their way to the old barn where they always held their meetings. Their exuberance died away somewhat when they entered the barn and found Violet Elizabeth awaiting them. Violet Elizabeth was the daughter of Mr Bott (of Bott’s Digestive Sauce), who lived at the Hall.
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br />   Violet Elizabeth was six years old. She possessed bobbing curls, blue eyes, a lisp, and an imperious temper, and she had, without invitation, or even encouragement, attached herself to the Outlaws. The Outlaws had tried to shake her off by every means in their power, but she possessed weapons (chiefly weapons of tears, and pertinacity) against which they were defenceless. Violet Elizabeth, following them wherever they went, weeping tears of rage and screaming screams of rage whenever they attempted to send her away, had broken their nerve. They now accepted her presence as an inevitable evil. They let her into all their plans and counsels simply because they had tried every means (except physical violence) to keep her out and all had failed. She accepted their lack of cordiality as part of their charm, and was inordinately proud of her position. She greeted them cheerfully now from her seat on the floor.

  ‘Hello!’

  They ignored her and gathered round in a circle which Violet Elizabeth promptly joined. She was no whit abashed.

  ‘Your fathe ith dirty,’ she said scornfully to Ginger; and to William: ‘D’you call that noith you wath making down the road thinging?’

  William felt that the dignity of his position as leader of the Outlaws must be upheld. He looked at her sternly.

  ‘If you don’t shut up speakin’ without bein’ spoke to,’ he said, ‘we’ll – we’ll chuck you out.’

  ‘If you do,’ said Violet Elizabeth serenely, ‘I’ll thcream an’ thcream an’ thcream till I’m thick,’ and added with pride, ‘I can!’

  ‘Well,’ said William, hastily turning to the others, ‘what we goin’ to do?’

  A thin drizzle was falling, and the countryside was unusually uninviting.

  ‘Let’s go on readin’ the book,’ said Douglas.

  It was found that in anticipation of this demand Ginger had brought the book and William had brought a bottle of liquorice water. The act of reading was in the Outlaws’ eyes inseparable from the act of imbibing liquid refreshment. They read aloud in turns, and those who were listening passed from hand to hand the bottle of liquorice water. It was an indispensable rite.