William The Outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

  They held him firmly on either side, and walked him down to the pond. ‘Jus’ because we wun’t like you to fall an’ mess up your suit,’ said William.

  ‘Be careful, Georgie,’ said Ginger, ‘don’ go too far.’

  ‘Be careful, Georgie,’ said William, ‘mind you don’t fall.’

  At last they returned to the bank.

  ‘Nice sort of help you were,’ said Georgie indignantly, ‘why, you made me go in lots further than I meant to and, look, you’ve got mud all over my trousers.’

  ‘Sorry, Georgie,’ said William meekly, ‘that was where I splashed you by mistake, wasn’t it? Shall I be King John if you don’t like it?’

  ‘No, I’m goin’ to be King John,’ said Georgie. ‘Well, shall we go and do it now?’

  William looked at him doubtfully. Georgie was gloriously muddy as far as his lower regions were concerned but his face and blouse were still spotlessly clean and his curls still glinted in the sun.

  ‘It’s not quite right yet, Georgie,’ he said gently. ‘Don’ you remember how in History King John dived into the Wash after his things?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Georgie, ‘I know all about that.’

  ‘Well, ’s no good you goin’ actin’ King John an’ not lookin’ as if you’d jus’ dived into a bog,’ said William.

  ‘I tell you,’ said Georgie indignantly, ‘I’m not goin’ to put any more nasty mud on me.’

  ‘All right,’ said William kindly, ‘let Ginger be King John . . . he won’t mind.’

  ‘No, I’m goin’ to be King John,’ said Georgie.

  ‘We’ll jus’ put a bit of mud on your hair then,’ said William persuasively, ‘it’ll soon wash off an’ it would be awfully nice if you got the prize, Georgie.’

  ‘All right,’ said Georgie relenting, ‘but only a little, mind.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Georgie,’ said William, ‘only a little . . .’

  They plastered his bead and face with mud from the pond and dropped a goodly portion of it upon his blouse. Fortunately Georgie could not see his upper half very well.

  ‘You’re only putting a little on, aren’t you?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Oh, yes, Georgie,’ William reassured him, ‘only a little. Now you look lovely. You look jus’ like King John after he’d been tryin’ to find his things in the Wash – divin’ in for ’em an’ all . . .’

  Certainly the perfect little gentleman was unrecognisable. His suit was covered with mud, his hair was caked with mud, his face was streaked with mud. He had waded in mud. His smile, though still there, was almost invisible. No longer did his curls glint in the sun.

  ‘Now let’s start, shall we?’ said William, his spirits rising as he gazed at his handiwork. ‘First of all I’ll go on with Ginger – we’re your heralds you know – and we’ll say you’re coming; “Make way for King John” or somethin’ like that. Then you come on with Henry and Douglas and you speak to ’em. You know what King John said to ’em in History, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ said Georgie. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He just looked at ’em an’ said, “Oh Dam and Blarst (their names, you know) I cannot find my things”.’

  ‘Of course I knew he said that.’

  ‘Well, you jus’ say that to ’em and – shall we start? I say, Georgie, you do make a fine King John.’

  ‘Oh, I bet I’ll win the prize all right,’ said Georgie complacently from beneath his mud.

  The grown-ups sat in an expectant semicircle, smiling indulgently.

  ‘I do so love to see little children acting,’ said one, ‘They’re always so sweet and natural.’

  ‘I wish you’d seen Georgie last Christmas,’ murmured Georgie’s mother, ‘as Prince Charming in a little children’s pantomime we got up. I had his photograph taken. I’ll show it to you afterwards.’

  Just then William and Ginger appeared. They had replaced their stockings and shoes and looked for William and Ginger unusually neat and tidy.

  ‘Well, dears,’ said Mrs Murdoch smiling, ‘have you chosen your little scene yet?’

  ‘No,’ said William, ‘we can’t get on with it with Georgie messin’ about the pond all the time.’

  At that moment Georgie, imagining that William and Ginger had heralded his approach with all ceremony, came proudly into view from behind the bushes, followed by Douglas and Henry. The mud from the pond was a peculiarly concentrated kind of mud and Georgie had wallowed in it from head to foot. One could only guess at his white suit and glinting curls. But through it shone Georgie’s eyes in rapturous anticipation of a two pound box of chocolate creams.

  William and Ginger gazed at him in well simulated horror.

  ‘Oh, Georgie, you naughty boy!’ said William.

  ‘What will your mother say!’ said Ginger.

  Douglas and Henry stepped forward.

  ‘We told him not to,’ said Douglas.

  ‘We knew you wouldn’t like it,’ said Henry to the speechless Mrs Murdoch.

  Georgie felt that something had gone wrong somewhere but he was determined to do his part at any rate to win those chocolate creams.

  He looked at Henry and Douglas. ‘Oh, Dam and Blarst—’ he began, but the uproar drowned the rest.

  With a scream of horror audible a mile away Mrs Murdoch seized the perfect little gentleman by the arm and hurried him indoors.

  Georgie explained as best he could. He explained that he was meant to be King John returning from the Wash and that Dam and Blarst were his two servants. But explanations were unavailing. No explanation could wipe out from the memories of those present that astounding picture of Georgie Murdoch standing in the middle of the lawn caked with black mud from head to foot and saying, ‘Oh, damn and blast!’

  The party broke up after that. No festive atmosphere could have survived that shock. The Outlaws, clean and neat and sphinx-like and silent, accompanied their parents home.

  ‘Well,’ said the parents, ‘I’d never have believed that of Georgie Murdoch!’

  ‘Caked with mud!’

  ‘And such language!’

  ‘It shows that you never can tell.’

  A close observer might have gathered that at heart the Outlaws’ parents were almost as jubilant over Georgie’s downfall as were the Outlaws themselves.

  The famous cousin, who was by the gate as William took his leave, managed to press a ten-shilling note into William’s hand.

  ‘To be divided amongst your accomplices,’ he murmured. ‘You surpassed my highest expectation. As artist to artist I tend you my congratulations.’

  That, of course, is quite a good place to stop, but, there remains more to be said.

  The next day Georgie appeared once more, cleaner and neater than ever and clad in a new white suit, walking decorously down the village street and smiling complacently. But it was no use. Georgie’s reputation was gone. It had so to speak vanished in a night. Georgie might have paraded his clean white-clad figure and smug smile and golden curls before the eyes of the village for a hundred years and yet never wiped out the memory of that mud-caked little horror uttering horrible oaths before the assembled aristocrats of the village.

  At the end of the month the Murdochs sold their house and removed. They told their new neighbours that there hadn’t been a boy in the place fit for Georgie to associate with.

  History does not relate what happened to the chocolate creams.

  Perhaps the famous cousin ate them.

  CHAPTER 4

  WILLIAM PLAYS SANTA CLAUS

  WILLIAM walked slowly and thoughtfully down the village street. It was the week after Christmas. Henry was still away. Douglas and Ginger were the only two of his friends left in the village. Henry’s absence had its bright side because Henry’s father had, in the excitement of the departure, forgotten to lock his garage and the Outlaws found Henry’s father’s garage a nice change from the old barn, their usual meeting place. William was glad that Christmas was over. He’d not done badl
y out of it on the whole, but Christmas was a season too sacred to the conventions and to uncongenial relatives to appeal to William.

  Suddenly he saw someone coming down the village street towards him. It was Mr Solomon, the superintendent of the Sunday School of which William was a reluctant and inglorious member. William had his reasons for not wishing to meet Mr Solomon. Mr Solomon had organised a party of waits for Christmas Eve from his Sunday School attendants and William had not only joined this party but had assumed leadership of it. They had managed to detach themselves from Mr Solomon quite early in the evening and had spent the night in glorious lawlessness. William had not seen Mr Solomon since that occasion because Mr Solomon had had a slight nervous breakdown and William was now torn between a desire to elude him and a desire to tackle him. The desire to elude him needs no explanation. The desire to tackle was equally simple. William had heard that Mr Solomon, who was ever prolific in fresh ideas, had decided to form a band from the elder boys of the Sunday School. It may be thought that Mr Solomon should have learnt wisdom from his experience on Christmas Eve but then Mr Solomon had decided to ensure success for his scheme by the simple process of debarring the Outlaws from it. William had heard of this and the news had filled him with such righteous indignation that it overcame even his natural reluctance to meet the organiser of the Christmas Eve carol party.

  He confronted him squarely.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Solomon,’ he said.

  Mr Solomon looked him up and down with distaste.

  ‘Good afternoon, my boy,’ he said icily, ‘I am on my way to pay a visit to your parents.’

  This news was not encouraging. William turned to accompany him, consoled slightly by the knowledge that both his parents were out. Losing no time he boldly approached the subject of the band.

  ‘Hear you’re gettin’ up a band, Mr Solomon,’ he said casually.

  ‘I am,’ said Mr Solomon more icily than ever.

  ‘I’d like to be a trumpeter,’ said William, still casually.

  ‘You have not been asked to join the band,’ went on Mr Solomon with a firmness unusual in that mild young man, but his mind was still raw with the memories of Christmas Eve, ‘and you will not be asked to join the band.’

  ‘Oh,’ said William politely.

  ‘You may wonder,’ went on Mr Solomon with deep emotion, ‘why I am going to pay a visit to your parents.’

  William didn’t wonder at all, but he said nothing.

  ‘I am going,’ continued Mr Solomon ‘to complain to your parents of your shameful behaviour on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Oh – that,’ said William as though he remembered the incident with difficulty, ‘I remember – we – sort of lost you, didn’t we? It’s easy losin’ people in the pitch dark. It made it very awkward for us,’ he went on complainingly, ‘you gettin’ lost like that.’

  ‘You are at liberty, of course,’ said Mr Solomon, ‘to give your version of the affair to your parents. I shall give mine. I have little doubt which they will believe.’

  William also had little, or rather no doubt at all, which they would believe. He was constantly being amazed and horrified by his parents’ lack of credulity in his versions of affairs. He changed the subject hastily.

  ‘I could easy learn a trumpet,’ he volunteered, ‘an’ so c’d Ginger an’ Douglas – an’ Henry when he comes back an’ – an’ it won’t be so easy to lose you with a band in daylight. It was with it bein’ so dark that we sort of got lost Christmas Eve.’

  Mr Solomon disdained to answer.

  After a pause, William said solicitously:

  ‘Sorry t’hear you’ve been ill.’

  ‘My slight indisposition,’ said Mr Solomon, ‘was the result of our ill-fated expedition on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Yes,’ said William who was determined to cover that ill-fated expedition as far as possible with the cloak of innocency, ‘it was a nasty cold night. I was sneezin’ a bit myself the next mornin’.’

  Again Mr Solomon disdained to answer.

  ‘Well, when I’m in your band,’ said William with his irrepressible optimism, ‘playin’ a trumpet—’

  ‘William,’ said Mr Solomon patiently, ‘you will not be in my band playing anything. If your parents continue to send you to Sunday School after receiving my complaint, I must – er – endure it, but you will not be in my band. Nor will any of your friends.’

  At the suggestion that his parents might not continue to send him to Sunday School after receiving Mr Solomon’s complaint, William’s spirits had risen only to drop again immediately at the reflection that they would be all the more likely to insist upon it. Mr Solomon, of course, looked upon his Sunday School as a glorious privilege to its attendants. William’s parents looked upon it more simply as their Sunday afternoon’s rest. They would not be likely to put an end to William’s attendance there on any consideration.

  Mr Solomon turned in at the gate of William’s home and William accompanied him with an air of courage that was, as I have said, derived solely from the knowledge that both his parents were out. Then taking a muttered farewell of his companion he went round to the side of the house. His companion went up the front steps and rang the front door ball.

  William amused himself in the back garden for some time but keeping under strict observation the front drive where the baffled Mr Solomon must soon beat his retreat. But no baffled Mr Solomon appeared beating his retreat. Curiosity impelled William to creep cautiously up to the drawing-room window. There sat Mr Solomon, flushed and simpering, having tea with Ethel, William’s grown-up sister. Of course – he’d forgotten that Ethel was at home. Ethel was evidently being very nice to Mr Solomon. Ethel happened to be in the temporary and, for her, very rare position of being without a male admirer on the spot. Everyone seemed to have gone away for Christmas. Her latest conquest, Rudolph Vernon, an exquisite young man quite worthy of his name, had left her almost in tears the week before to pay a Christmas visit to an aunt in the country from whom he had expectations. Mr Solomon was not of course a victim worthy of Ethel’s bow and spear, but he was better than no one. She happened also to be suffering from a cold in her head which made any diversion welcome. Therefore she gave him tea and smiled upon him. He sat, blushing deeply and gazing in rapt adoration at her blue eyes and Titian red hair (for Ethel put every other girl for miles around in the ‘also ran’ class as far as looks were concerned). He had not even dared to tell her the real object of his visit lest it should prejudice her against him. William feasted his eyes upon the spectacle of the lately indignant Mr Solomon, now charmed and docile and, metaphorically speaking, eating out of Ethel’s hand, then curiosity impelled him to come to yet closer quarters with the spectacle. He was anxious to ascertain whether the complaint had actually been lodged against him or whether Ethel’s smiles had driven it completely out of Mr Solomon’s mind. Though, generally speaking, he disapproved of Ethel as unduly exacting and trammelling to his free spirit, he was forced in justice to admit that there were times when she had her uses.

  He went upstairs, performed a hasty and sketchy toilet, assumed his most guileless expression and entered the drawing-room. At his entrance Ethel’s alluring smile gave way to an expression of annoyance and Mr Solomon’s allured smile to one of sheepishness. But this reception had no effect upon William. William was not sensitive to shades of manner. He sat down upon a chair next to Mr Solomon with the expression of one who has every intention of remaining where he is for some time, and turned his guileless countenance from Ethel to Mr Solomon, from Mr Solomon to Ethel. Silence had fallen at his entrance but it was obvious that someone must say something soon.

  ‘There you are, dear,’ said Ethel without enthusiasm, ‘would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said William.

  ‘Mr Solomon has very kindly come to make sure that you’re none the worse after your little outing on Christmas Eve.’

  William turned his guileless countenance upon Mr Solomon. Mr Solomon went
pink and nearly choked over his tea. Demoralised by Ethel’s beauty and sweetness of manner he had indeed substituted for his intended complaint a kindly inquiry as to William’s health after his exposure to the elements on Christmas Eve, but it was hard to have this repeated in William’s hearing and beneath William’s sardonic gaze. William made no comment on this statement.

  ‘That’s very kind of him, isn’t it, William?’ said Ethel rather sharply, ‘you ought to thank him.’

  William still eyed the embarrassed man unflinchingly.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said in a tone in which the embarrassed man perceived quite plainly mockery and scorn.

  A silence fell. Ethel always found the presence of William disconcerting when she was engaged in charming an admirer. So did the admirer. But William sat on.

  ‘Haven’t you any homework to do, William?’ said Ethel at last.

  ‘No,’ said William, ‘it’s holidays.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to go out and play then?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said William.

  Ethel wondered as she had wondered hundreds of times before why somebody didn’t drown that boy. It was painful to have to conceal her natural exasperation beneath a sweet smile for the benefit of the visitor.

  WILLIAM SAT ON AND ON. HE WAS NOT DISCONCERTED.

  ‘Aren’t any of your friends expecting you, dear?’ she said with overacted and unconvincing sweetness.

  ‘HAVEN’T YOU ANY HOMEWORK TO DO, WILLIAM?’ SAID ETHEL AT LAST.

  ‘No,’ said William and continued to sit and stare in front of him.

  Suddenly the clock struck five and Mr Solomon started up.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he said, ‘I must go. I ought to have gone some time ago.’

  ‘Why?’ said Ethel, ‘it’s very early.’

  ‘B-but I ought to have been there by five.’

  ‘Where?’ said Ethel.

  ‘It’s the Old Folks’ Christmas party. I was to give the presents – the Mixed Infants party too – I should have been at the Old Folks to give their presents at five and with the Mixed Infants at half-past five. I’m afraid I shall be terribly late.’