William The Outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Prob’ly Smith heard us sayin’ it,’ said Ginger. ‘Well, it’s a nice set-out, isn’t it? What we goin’ to do? Fight him?’

  Even William’s proud spirit quailed at the thought of doing that.

  ‘If – if only—’ he began.

  Then his speech died on his lips. His mouth dropped open again. His eyes dilated with horror and amazement. Behind the figure of the headmaster and second master came other figures – the mathematical master, the gym master, three or four prefects.

  ‘They’re all comin’!’ gasped William, ‘they’re comin’ to take us by force. They – they’re goin’ to surround the hill and take us by force.’

  ‘Crumbs!’ said Ginger again. ‘Crumbs!’

  ‘What’ll we do?’ gasped Douglas.

  They looked at William and into William’s freckled face came a set look of purpose.

  ‘Well, we’ve gotter do something,’ he said. He scowled ferociously, then a light flashed over his face. ‘I know what we’ll do. Smith must jus’ simply have told ’em “Ringers’ Hill”. That’s what we told him, “Ringers’ Hill”. Well, you remember the signpost thing at the bottom of the hill with “Ringers’ Hill” on it?’

  Yes, they remembered it – a wobbly, decrepit affair at the bottom of the hill.

  William’s face was now fairly gleaming with his idea.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you remember it was all loose in its hole? I bet if we pushed hard we could push it right round so’s the ‘Ringers’ Hill’ pointed right on up the other hill. An’ I bet they don’ know this part ’cause they don’t live here an’ they never come here so I bet – well, let’s try anyway, an’ we’d better be jolly quick.’

  Behind their leader they scrambled down the hillside to the signpost.

  ‘Now push!’ directed William.

  The Outlaws pushed.

  The signpost rocked in its hole and – joy! – slowly pivoted round in obedience to the Outlaws’ straining weight. The solitary arm bearing the legend ‘Ringers’ Hill’ now pointed to the hill in the opposite direction.

  The Outlaws’ spirits rose.

  They gave a cautious muffled cheer.

  ‘Now quick, back again to the top!’ said William and they scrambled once more to the hilltop.

  The procession led by the headmaster was approaching.

  ‘Lie down under the bushes,’ hissed William, ‘so’s they won’t see you. An’ watch what they do.’

  Breathless with apprehension the Outlaws crouched under the bushes and watched. They could see the procession come up the road – nearer, nearer. Then – the headmaster paused under the signpost. The Outlaws held their breath. Did he know the lie of the land or would he be deceived? Evidently he didn’t know the lie of the land.

  ‘Here we are,’ he called out. ‘Here’s the signpost – Ringers’ Hill – up there.’

  Slowly the procession passed on up the other hillside.

  The Outlaws climbed out of their bushes. They still looked rather pale. ‘That was a jolly narrow shave,’ said Ginger.

  ‘What we’d better do now,’ said William grimly, ‘is to look for a proper hidin’ place case they find out an’ come back.’

  So intent had they been on looking down at the side of the hill where the dread procession was wending its way that they had not noticed an enormous man with bushy eyebrows and a generally ferocious aspect who was climbing up the hill from the other side. They did not in fact notice him until he had come up behind them and his gruff voice boomed:

  ‘Well, is this all there is of you?’

  The Outlaws turned round with a start.

  There was a tense silence.

  The Outlaws, having, as they thought, narrowly saved themselves from destruction on one side of the hill, were quite unprepared for this attack from the other. It unnerved them. It paralysed them. They had no reserve of ingenuity and aplomb with which to meet it.

  BREATHLESS WITH APPREHENSION THE OUTLAWS CROUCHED UNDER THE BUSHES AND WATCHED. THEY COULD SEE THE PROCESSION COME UP THE ROAD – NEARER, NEARER.

  William gulped and blinked and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘All?’ boomed the ferocious man, ‘well, all I can say is that it’s hardly worth my while to come all this way for you. I’d understood that it was quite a different sort of affair altogether. Do you mean to say that there are only four of you?’

  THEN – THE HEADMASTER PAUSED UNDER THE SIGNPOST. ‘HERE WE ARE,’ HE CALLED OUT. ‘HERE’S THE SIGNPOST – RINGERS’ HILL – UP THERE.’

  William felt that he had done all that could be expected of him and nudged Ginger.

  ‘Er – yes,’ quaked Ginger.

  ‘Only four of you,’ said the ferocious man ferociously, ‘and how old?’

  Douglas and Henry had slunk behind William and Ginger. Ginger nudged William to intimate that it was his turn.

  William swallowed and said feebly, ‘Eleven – eleven and nearly three-quarters.’

  ‘Pish!’ said the man in a tone of fierce disgust. ‘Eleven! As I say I’d never have agreed to come if I’d known it was this sort of an affair. I naturally imagined – however, now I’m here – and it’s late to start with –’ He looked at them and seemed to relent somewhat, ‘I gathered that you know a fair amount about the subject and you must be keen. I suppose one should be thankful for four keen students even though they seem so very – however,’ his irritability seemed to get the better of him again, ‘let’s get to business. We’ll start over here . . . quickly please,’ he snapped, ‘or we’ll never get through this afternoon—’

  Dazedly, as if in a dream, the Outlaws went to where he pointed. They didn’t know what else to do. The situation seemed to have got entirely out of hand. It seemed best to follow the line of least resistance and to give themselves away as little as possible. They stood in a dejected group in front of the ferocious man and the ferocious man began to talk. He talked about such things as strata and igneous rock and neolithic and eolithic and palaeolithic and stratigraphical and Pithecanthropus erectus and other things of which the Outlaws had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. He asked them questions and got angry because they didn’t know the answers. He asked them what he’d said about things and got angry because they’d forgotten. He strode about the hilltop pointing out rocks with his stick and talking about them in a loud, ferocious voice. He made them follow him wherever he went, and got angry because they didn’t follow nimbly enough. So terrifying was he that they daren’t even try to run away. It was like a nightmare. It was far worse than Geometry. And it seemed to last for hours and hours and hours. Actually it lasted an hour. At the end the man became more angry than ever, said that it was an insult to have asked him to come over to address four half-witted guttersnipes and muttering ferociously stalked off again down the hillside.

  The Outlaws sat down weakly on the ground around the little heap of black twigs and dead leaves which marked the scene of William’s failure as a fire-maker and held their heads.

  ‘Crumbs!’ moaned William, and Ginger mournfully echoed, ‘Crumbs!’

  ‘Well, anyway, he’s gone,’ said Henry trying to look on the bright side.

  But it wasn’t really easy to look on the bright side. The Outlaws were feeling very hungry and there wasn’t anything to eat. Ringers’ Hill had lost its charm. They’d had a rotten time there – not a bit the sort of time they’d always imagined Outlaws having. And the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud. It was cold and dark. They were hungry and fed up.

  ‘Wonder what time it is,’ said Henry casually.

  As if in answer the clock of the village church struck in the valley, One – Two – Three – Four – Five. Five o’clock. Tea-time. Into each mind flashed a picture of a cheerful dining-room with a table laid for tea.

  ‘Well,’ said William with an unconvincing attempt at cheerfulness, ‘we’d better be getting something to eat. We might have had a rabbit if Henry’d caught one. Let’s have a go at the blackberries.’

&nb
sp; ‘There aren’t any ripe ones,’ said Douglas, ‘and the others make you feel awful inside after you’ve eaten a few.’

  Then suddenly to their secret relief Henry rose and said bluntly, ‘I want my tea and I’m sick of being an Outlaw. I’m going home.’

  On the road they met Brown and Smith. Brown and Smith were swinging happily along the road carrying fishing-rods and jars of minnows.

  ‘I say, we’ve had a topping time,’ they called. ‘Have you? But you were rotters not to have told us.’

  ‘Told you what?’ said the Outlaws.

  ‘That there was going to be a half-holiday.’

  ‘What?’ said the Outlaws.

  ‘They sent us all away as soon as we got there. Said they’d forgotten to give it out in the morning. We were jolly surprised to meet you going away from school, but when we got there we knew why but we thought you jolly well might have told us.’

  ‘Why was there a half-holiday?’ gasped William.

  ‘Oh, some old josser or something coming to give some old jaw or other to some old society or other,’ said Smith vaguely, ‘but we’ve had a topping afternoon, have you?’

  In bitter silence the Outlaws walked on. They hadn’t had a topping afternoon. At the end of the road a prefect was putting a letter into a pillar-box. Another prefect stood by.

  ‘What was it like?’ said the one who stood by.

  ‘He never turned up,’ said the one who’d just posted the letter. The Outlaws slowed their pace to listen.

  ‘We’d arranged to meet him on Ringers’ Hill. The Head and everyone was there. We’d never been to Ringers’ Hill before but there was a signpost up so we couldn’t have gone wrong. We waited three-quarters of an hour and he never turned up. It’s sickening. I’ve just posted a letter from the Head telling him that we went there and waited three-quarters of an hour. I suppose he was kept somewhere. He might have let us know, but some of those professors are beastly absent-minded. We were looking forward to it awfully, because it was Professor Fremlin, one of the greatest geologists in England, you know. Ringers’ Hill’s supposed to be an old volcano crater. It would have been awfully interesting. He was going to lecture on its formation and show us the strata and fossils there. We’d been reading it up for weeks so as to know something about it. A shame when we’ve got such a decent Geologist Society for the star turn show of the year to fall flat. Perhaps he was taken ill on the way.’ He turned to the Outlaws. ‘Now then, you kids, what are you hanging about for? Clear off.’

  Blinking dazedly, walking very, very slowly, very, very thoughtfully, the Outlaws cleared off.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE TERRIBLE MAGICIAN

  THE advent of Mr Galileo Simpkins to the village would in normal times have roused little interest in William and his friends. But the summer holidays had already lasted six weeks and though the Outlaws were not tired of holidays (it was against the laws of nature for the Outlaws ever to tire of holidays), still they had run the gamut of almost every conceivable occupation both lawful and unlawful, and they were ready for a fresh sensation. They had been Pirates and Smugglers and Red Indians and Highwaymen ad nauseam. They had trespassed till every farmer in the neighbourhood saw red at the mere sight of them. They had made with much trouble a motor boat and an aeroplane, both of which had insisted on obeying the laws of gravity rather than fulfilling the functions of motor boats and aeroplanes. They had made a fire in Ginger’s backyard and cooked over it a mixture of water from the stream and blackberries and Worcester Sauce and Turkish delight and sardines (these being all the edibles they could jointly produce), had pronounced the resultant concoction to be excellent and had spent the next day in bed. They had taken Jumble (William’s mongrel) ‘hunting’ and had watched the ignominious spectacle of Jumble’s being attacked by a cat half his size and pursued in a state of abject terror all the length of the village with a bleeding nose. They had discovered a wasps’ nest and almost simultaneously its inhabitants had discovered them. They were only just leaving off their bandages. They had essayed tightrope walking on Henry’s mother’s clothes line, but Henry’s mother’s clothes line had proved unexpectedly brittle and William still limped slightly. They had tried to teach tricks to Etheldrida, Douglas’s aunt’s parrot, and Douglas still bore the marks of her beak in several places on his face. Altogether they were, as I said, ripe for any fresh sensation when Mr Galileo Simpkins dawned upon their horizon.

  Mr Galileo Simpkins had been thus christened by his parents in the hope that he would take to science. And Mr Galileo Simpkins, being by nature ready to follow the line of least resistance, had obligingly taken to science at their suggestion. Moreover, he quite enjoyed taking to science. He enjoyed pottering about with test tubes and he disliked being sociable. A scientist, as everyone knows, is immune from sociability. A scientist can retire to his lab as to a fortress and, if he likes, read detective novels there to his heart’s content without being disturbed by anyone. Not that Mr Galileo Simpkins only read detective novels. He was genuinely interested in Science as Science (he put it that way) and though as yet he had made no startling contribution to Science as Science, still he enjoyed reading in his textbooks of experiments that other men had made and then doing the experiments to see if the same thing happened in his case. It didn’t always . . . Fortunately he was not dependent for his living on his scientific efforts. He had a nice little income of his own which enabled him to stage himself as a Scientist to his complete satisfaction. He took a great interest in the staging of himself as a Scientist. He liked to have an imposing array of test tubes and bottles and appliances of every sort – even those whose use he did not quite understand. He was very proud too of a skeleton which he had bought third-hand from a medical student and which he thought conferred great éclat on his position as a Scientist from its stronghold in the darkest corner. As you will gather from all this, Mr Galileo Simpkins was a very simple and inoffensive and well-meaning little man and before he came to the village where William lived, had not caused a moment’s uneasiness to anyone since the time at three years old he had inadvertently fallen into the rain tub and been fished out half drowned by his nurse.

  He had come to the village because the lease of the house where he had lived previously had run out and the original owners were returning to it and he had seen the house in William’s village advertised in the paper, and it seemed just what he wanted. He liked to live in the country because he was rather a nervous little man and was afraid of traffic.

  The first sight of Mr Galileo Simpkins on his way from the station had not interested the Outlaws much except that as a stranger to the village he was naturally to be kept under observation and his possibilities in every direction explored at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘He dun’t look very int’restin’,’ said Ginger scornfully as, sitting in a row on a gate, the Outlaws stared in an unblinking manner quite incompatible with Good Manners at little Mr Galileo Simpkins driving by on his way from the station in the village cab. The driver of the village cab, who knew the Outlaws well, kept a wary eye upon them as he passed, and had his whip ready. The ancient quadruped who drew the village cab seemed to know them too, and turned his head to leer at them sardonically from behind his blinkers. But the attention of the Outlaws was all for the occupant of the village cab, who alone was quite unaware of them as the ancient equipage passed on its way. He was merely thinking what a fine day it was for his arrival at his new home and hoping that his skeleton (which he had packed most carefully) had travelled well.

  William considered Ginger’s comment for a moment in silence. Then he said meditatively: ‘Oh . . . dunno. He looks sort of soft and ’s if he couldn’t run very fast. We c’n try playin’ in his garden sometime. I bet he couldn’t catch us.’

  They then had a stone-throwing competition which lasted till one of William’s stones went through General Moult’s cucumber-frame.

  When General Moult had finally given up the chase, the Outlaws threw themselves breathl
essly (for General Moult, despite his size, was quite a good runner) on to the grass at the top of the hill and reviewed the further possibilities of amusement which the world held for them. They decided after a short discussion not to teach Etheldrida any more tricks, not so much because they were tired of teaching Etheldrida tricks as because Etheldrida seemed to be tired of learning them.

  Douglas stroked his scars thoughtfully and said:

  ‘Not that I’m frightened of her, but – but, well, let’s try ’n think of somethin’ a bit more int’restin’.’

  No one had anything very original to suggest (they seemed to have exhausted the possibilities of the whole universe in those six weeks of holidays), so they made new bows and arrows and held a match which William won in that he made the finest long distance shot. He shot his arrow into the air and unfortunately it came to earth by way of Miss Miggs’ scullery window. Miss Miggs happened to be in the scullery at the time and again the Outlaws, bitterly meditating on the overpopulation of the countryside, had to flee from the avenging wrath of an outraged householder. In the shelter of the woods they again drew breath.

  ‘I say,’ said Ginger, ‘wun’t it be nice to live in the middle of Central Africa or the North Pole or somewhere where there isn’t any houses for miles an’ miles an’ miles’

  ‘She runs,’ commented Douglas patronisingly, ‘faster’n what you’d think to look at her.’

  ‘What’ll we do now? said Henry.

  Dusk was falling, and ahead of them loomed the evil hour of bedtime which they were ever ready to postpone.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said William, his freckled face suddenly alight, ‘let’s go ’n see how he’s gettin’ on – you know, him what we saw ridin’ up in the cab. We c’n go an’ watch him through his window. It’s quite dark.’

  They watched him in petrified amazement. They watched him as, dressed in a black dressing-gown and a black skull-cap, he pottered about, laying out test tubes and pestles and mortars and crucibles and curious-looking instruments and bottles of strangely coloured liquids. Eyes and mouths opened still further when little Mr Galileo Simpkins brought in his skeleton and set it up with tender care and pride in its corner.