Yet such was the power of his white suit, his clean face, his sweet smile, his beautiful manners that Georgie was always referred to by the grown-ups of the neighbourhood as ‘Such a dear little boy.’
The Outlaws bore it as long as they could, and then they held a meeting to decide what could be done about it. It was not on the whole a very successful meeting. William kept muttering, ‘We’ve gotter do something . . . him and his white suits.’
But not one of the Outlaws, usually so prolific in ideas of every sort, could think of any sort of plan to meet the case.
‘’S no good doin’ anythin’ to him,’ said Ginger bitterly, ‘’f you just touch him he goes an’ tells your mother.’
‘Oh, you naughty boys!’ mimicked Henry shrilly. ‘What will your mothers say? I told him not to, I said you wouldn’t like it.’
As an imitation it was rather good, but the Outlaws were not in a mood to be entertained by imitations of Georgie.
‘Oh, shut up!’ said William. ‘’S bad enough hearin’ him sayin’ it.’
‘Well, let’s think of something to do,’ said Ginger again.
‘I wish you wun’t keep sayin’ that,’ said William irritably.
‘Well, I’ll stop when you’ve thought of something,’ said Ginger.
‘Think of somethin’ yourself,’ snapped William.
As you will gather from this conversation the perfect little gentleman was having a wearing effect upon the Outlaws’ nerves. Henry, with a sudden gleam of inspiration, suggested haunting the Murdoch homestead by night, robed in a sheet, till the Murdochs should depart in terror to some other part of England, taking the perfect little gentleman with them, but it was decided, after a brief and acrimonious discussion, that this was not feasible. It was more than likely that the Murdochs would investigate the alleged ghost and discover the concealed Outlaw, and also it might prove difficult to gain egress from the parental home and ingress into the Murdoch home at the rather awkward hours suitable for ‘haunting’.
The only other suggestion came from Douglas who had got full marks for Scripture the week before.
‘I think Joseph must have been a bit like Georgie,’ he said. ‘I – I s’pose we couldn’t take him right away somewhere and leave him in a pit same as what they did – an’ take his coat home an’ say a wild animal ate him?’
The Outlaws considered this alluring suggestion, but feared that it would be impracticable.
‘There aren’t any pits or wild animals like that in England in these days,’ said William mournfully.
The Outlaws sighed, thinking – not for the first time – that the vaunted benefits of civilisation were more than nullified by its hampering elements.
‘Well, we aren’t any nearer doin’ anythin’,’ said Ginger.
‘There dun’t seem anythin’ to do,’ said William, whose gloom had been deepened by the thought of the simplicity of Joseph’s brethren’s problem compared with theirs.
‘An’ he’s gettin’ worse an’ worse,’ groaned Douglas.
‘They’re havin’ a garden party next week,’ contributed Henry, ‘an’ we’ll all have to go.’
‘An’ watch him in his white suit,’ put in William bitterly.
‘Handin’ cakes an’ tellin’ tales,’ put in Ginger to complete the picture.
‘What do they want goin’ havin’ garden parties for?’ said William fiercely.
Henry, who was rather ‘up’ in the Murdoch news owing to the fact that Mrs Murdoch had been to tea with his mother the day before, answered him.
‘Well, they’ve got a sort of cousin what’s famous comin’ to stay with them an’ they want to sort of show him off,’ he said, translating freely from the conversation he had overheard the day before, ‘so they’re goin’ to ask everyone to meet him at a garden party.’
‘How’d he get famous?’ said William with mournful interest.
‘Writin’ plays,’ said Henry.
William groaned.
‘He’ll be worse than ever,’ he said, referring not to the writer of plays but to the perfect little gentleman.
The meeting broke up without having arrived at any satisfactory plan, though Henry still cherished the haunting idea and Douglas still considered that something might be done in the pit and wild beast line.
The next day the famous cousin arrived at the Murdochs’ and was proudly paraded through the village by Georgie resplendent in a new white suit and a smile that was more smug and complacent than ever. Close observers might have noticed that the famous cousin looked bored.
The next few days, however, were – outside their homes – days of respite for the Outlaws. For Georgie was too busy with the famous cousin to be able to spare any time for the Outlaws, and the Outlaws could wallow in the mud, climb trees, and turn somersaults in the road to their hearts’ content without hearing the shrill little refrain, ‘Oh, you naughty boys! what will your mothers say . . . I told them not to do it . . . I said you wouldn’t like it.’
I said ‘outside their homes’. For inside their homes things were if possible worse. For the interest of the whole village was, thanks to the visit of the famous cousin, now concentrated upon the Murdochs.
‘I met little Georgie Murdoch out with his cousin today. He introduced me so nicely. I only wish that I thought you’d ever be half so polite,’ or, ‘I met little Georgie Murdoch in the village this morning. He’d gone to post a letter for his cousin. He looked so nice and clean. How I wish you could keep like that.’
As the day of the garden party approached the gloom of the Outlaws deepened.
But they knew that no excuses would avail them. They would have to go there and watch Georgie being ‘more sick’nin’ than ever’, as Henry put it, parading his famous cousin, showing off his beautiful manners and basking in the admiration of all the guests – And after that he’d be more unbearable even than he had been before.
Fate seemed to be on the side of the Murdochs. The day of the garden party was warm and sunny and cloudless so that the garden party (contrary to its English custom) really could be a garden party and little Georgie could wear one of his white suits.
William set off to the festivity with his mother, engulfed in gloom and his Sunday suit and looking more as if bound for a funeral than a garden party.
They found a large crowd already assembled and in the middle of it was Georgie wearing his newest and whitest suit and smiling his smuggest smile, and with his golden curls glinting in the sunshine. . . .
‘Isn’t he a dear little boy?’ heard William on all sides, and ‘He’s such a little gentleman,’ and then from his mother the inevitable, ‘I wish you could behave like that, William.’
William looked about him and soon picked out Ginger and Henry and Douglas all in similar plight. Their mothers too were gazing rapturously at Georgie and telling their sons how they wished that they could ever behave like that or ever look like that or ever speak like that or ever keep as clean and tidy as that. And the Outlaws (who were quite used to it by this time) bore it in scornful silence.
Then William noticed the famous cousin. He was standing in the background watching Georgie, not with the radiant pleasure with which the mothers watched him, but with an expression more akin to that with which the Outlaws watched him. This caused William a passing interest which however he soon forgot in his deep passionate loathing of the perfect little gentleman.
Gradually the Outlaws eluded the maternal escorts and foregathered on the outskirts of the throng.
‘Let’s get out of this,’ said Ginger gloomily.
They wandered down a small path that led off from the lawn and finally reached the rather muddy pond which the Murdochs dignified by the name of ‘lake’. The Outlaws gazed at it gloomily. In ordinary circumstances it would have suggested a dozen enthralling games, but the Outlaws, encased in Sunday suits, and more or less clean and tidy, felt that any straying from the paths of strict decorum upon this occasion would be simply playing into the hands of the e
nemy. They wandered morosely into a small summer-house that stood near the banks of the pond, and there they held a further consultation. Feeling against William was running high. What after all was the use of a leader who could not cope with an emergency like this . . . ?
‘’Straordinary,’ said Ginger aloofly, ‘’Straordinary that you can’t think of anythin’ to do.’
William glared at Ginger. He couldn’t for the moment even fight old Ginger, which would have been something of a relief to his feelings. So he merely retorted coldly, ‘’Straordinary you can’t think of anythin’ to do yourself.’
And Henry said gloomily, ‘And he gets sickniner an’ sickniner.’
‘He certainly does,’ said a strange voice.
The Outlaws looked up to see the famous cousin lolling negligently against the side of the doorway of the summer-house.
‘You are referring, I presume,’ he said, ‘to our little host, Georgie the Terrible.’
‘Yes, we are,’ said William belligerently, ‘an’ – an’ I don’t care if you tellem.’
‘Oh, I shan’t tell them,’ said the famous cousin carelessly. ‘I’ve thought far worse things about Georgie than you could ever put into words.’
‘Uh?’ said William, surprised.
‘You only see him occasionally. For this week I’ve seen him every day.’
‘Oh?’ said William again.
‘I’ve suffered,’ went on the famous cousin, ‘more deeply than you can ever have suffered. Georgie is, as it were, branded into my very soul. I have often wondered why – My hands, of course, are tied. I am the guest of Georgie’s parents. Battery and assault upon Georgie would therefore ill become me. But you—’ he looked at them scornfully – ‘that one – two – three – four boys your size can continue to allow Georgie to exist as he is passes my comprehension.’
‘’S all very well talkin’ like that,’ said William indignantly, ‘but he’s such a little sneak! We can’t do anythin’ to him that he doesn’t go an’ tell our mothers an’ then we get into trouble an’ he gets more sickenin’ than ever.’
‘Sickniner an’ sickniner,’ murmured Henry again dejectedly.
‘I see,’ said the stranger judicially, ‘I fully appreciate the difficulty. . . . Er – may I join the conference?’
He entered the summer-house and sat down next to William.
‘Have you,’ he said, ‘discussed any plan of action?’
‘Lots,’ said William. ‘Douglas wanted to put him in a pit an’ say wild beasts had eaten him.’
‘Same as they did Joseph in the Bible,’ explained Douglas.
‘Ingenious,’ commented the stranger, ‘but impracticable. . . . Now we want to approach the matter in a scientific frame of mind. Before fixing on a plan of action you should always study the enemy’s weaknesses. Has the egregious Georgie any weaknesses?’
‘Has he?’ said William bitterly, ‘he tells tales an’ won’t play games an’—’
The famous cousin raised his hand.
‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘those are vices, not weaknesses. In my sojourn with Georgie I have noticed two weaknesses. He will never own to ignorance even on the most abstruse subjects, and he is passionately fond of chocolate creams. Did you know that?’
‘Y-yes. S’pose so,’ said William, ‘but I don’t see how it will help.’
‘Ah . . . you must somehow make it help. A good general always utilises his enemy’s weak points. . . . I can’t of course suggest or connive at any plan of action, but I’ll help you. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll offer a two pound box of chocolate creams as a prize for some competition. That brings in one weakness. I leave it to your ingenuity to make good use of the other. Georgie would, I believe, do anything for chocolate creams – I wish you good luck. Good day.’
The famous cousin disappeared leaving the Outlaws gaping and mystified. But his visit had heartened them. The knowledge that one grown-up at least saw Georgie the Perfect Little Gentleman as he really was gave them a fresh confidence in the righteousness of their cause. Their despondency dropped from them.
‘Let’s go back to the others,’ said William briskly, ‘an’ see what he’s goin’ to say about the chocolate creams.’
They emerged on the lawn and made their way to the group around Mrs Murdoch. Beside Mrs Murdoch stood Georgie still immaculately clean and smugly smiling, with curls that glinted in the sun.
‘Isn’t it too kind of my cousin,’ Mrs Murdoch was saying. ‘Yes, he loves children. He’s passionately attached to Georgie. He wants the children to do a little scene – he’s passionately interested in literature, of course, being one himself – a little scene from English history – any part of English history – my cousin’s passionately fond of English history – and he’s offered a two pound box of chocolate creams as a prize to the child who acts the best. . . . Collect your little friends, Georgie, darling.’ Georgie’s eyes were still gleaming from the mention of chocolate creams, ‘and you might go down to the summer-house to talk things over and then come back and act your little scene to us here.’
THE OUTLAWS EMERGED ON THE LAWN AND MADE THEIR WAY DISGUSTEDLY TOWARDS THE GROUP AROUND MRS MURDOCH
‘MY COUSIN’S OFFERED A BOX OF CHOCOLATE CREAMS AS A PRIZE TO THE ONE WHO ACTS BEST,’ MRS MURDOCH WAS SAYING. GEORGIE’S EYES GLEAMED.
Georgie, the Outlaws and a few odds and ends of children who do not really come into the story, drifted down to the summer-house. The Outlaws looked at Georgie. Georgie’s eyes still gleamed. Then they looked at William, and with a great relief at their hearts they read in William’s sphinx-like face that at last he was justifying his position as leader.
He had a plan.
First of all William kindly but firmly gathered together the odds and ends and despatched them to the kitchen garden.
‘There’s too many of us for one scene,’ he explained, ‘so we’ll do one scene and you do another scene. An’ we’d better get right away from each other so’s not to disturb each other . . . so you just go ’n make up your scene in the kitchen garden where nobody’ll disturb you an’ we’ll stay an’ make up ours here. Georgie’ll show you the way to the kitchen garden.’
And while Georgie was showing them the way to the kitchen garden William unfolded his plan to the Outlaws. The odds and ends had fully intended to discuss the scenes from English history in the kitchen garden, but they discovered a bed of ripe strawberries, and considering a strawberry in the hand worth two scenes from English history in the bush, decided to leave the Past to its peaceful sleep and concentrate wholly upon the Present. . . . So they don’t come into the story any more.
Georgie returned to the Outlaws in the summer-house. Upon his face was a resolute determination to win that box of chocolate creams at all costs.
‘What’ll we act?’ he said eagerly.
‘Well,’ said William thoughtfully, ‘he was down here talkin’ to us a few minutes ago an’ he said that his favourite period in English history was King John.’
‘We’ll do King John then,’ said Georgie firmly.
‘He said that his favourite part of King John was where he came back from losing his things in the Wash.’
‘We’ll do that then,’ said Georgie hastily.
‘Who’ll be King John?’ said William.
‘I’ll be King John,’ said Georgie.
‘All right,’ said William with unexpected amenity, ‘an’ shall Ginger an’ me be your two heralds an’ Douglas and Henry your servants or somethin’?’
‘Yes,’ said Georgie, and added, ‘You needn’t do anythin’ but jus’ stand there – any of you. I’ll do the actin’.’
‘All right,’ agreed William, still with disarming humility. ‘You know all about the story, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘About how King John went into the Wash tryin’ to find his things—’
‘Yes, I know all that.’
‘An’ the Wash was a kind of a bog—’
/> ‘Yes, I know.’
‘An’ he came out all muddy but couldn’t find his things ’cause they’d sunk in the mud.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘An’ he came to his two servants called Dam an’ Blarst—’
‘Called—?’
‘Fancy you not knowin’ about King John’s servants bein’ called Dam an’ Blarst!’
‘I did know,’ said Georgie, ‘I’ve known it for ever so long . . . What did you say they were called?’
‘Dam and Blarst.’
‘Dam and Blarst. Of course I knew.’
‘Well, let’s get you ready for bein’ King John . . . ’S no good goin’ on as King John lookin’ like that when you’re s’posed to’ve just come out of a bog looking for your things . . . no one’d give anyone a prize for that.’
‘I’m not going to get myself all muddy, so there!’
‘All right,’ said William, ‘I’ll be King John. I don’t care.’
‘No, I’m going to be King John,’ persisted Georgie.
‘Well, you can’t be King John,’ said William firmly, ‘if you don’t get yourself a bit muddy like what he was when he come back from losin’ his things in the Wash. It’ll easy come off afterwards. Jus’ take off your shoes an’ stockings an’ paddle about a bit at the edge of the pond. You needn’t mess up anythin’ but jus’ your feet.’
There was a silence in which Georgie’s love of chocolate creams fought with his instincts of cleanliness and put them to flight.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind muddying my feet just a bit.’
He took off his shoes and stockings. William and Ginger took off theirs too.
‘Just to help you, Georgie,’ they said, ‘and to stop you fallin’ in or anythin’.’
William The Outlaw Page 6