‘Oh, I don’ suppose anyone’s really seen it,’ said William carelessly. ‘I never have. I think they’ve simply made it up – purple dress an’ ruffle an’ all – but it’s s’posed to mean very bad luck for the one who sees it.’
‘W-w-what kind of bad luck?’ stammered Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, whose ruddy countenance had faded to a dull grey.
‘Well,’ said William confidentially, ‘it’s s’posed to be seen by one of two people together an’ the one what sees it is s’posed to be goin’ to have some very bad luck through the other – the one what was with him when he saw it, but what didn’t see it. The bad luck’s s’posed always to come through the one what doesn’t see it but what’s with the one what does.’
Through the trees William spied the figure of Miss Moyna Greene who had evidently left Jenkins and was returning to the drawing-room.
‘An’ folks say,’ added William carelessly, ‘that it’s worst of all if you see it twice – once going from the house and once comin’ to it.’
The figure of Miss Moyna Greene emerged from the trees and passed slowly on to the lawn. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough watched it in stricken silence. Then he said to William with an unconvincing attempt at nonchalance:
MR CRANTHORPE-CRANBOROUGH GAZED ACROSS THE LAWN AND HIS JAW DROPPED. ‘LOOK!’ HE GASPED TO WILLIAM. ‘WHO’S THAT?’
‘You – you don’t see anyone on the lawn, William, do you?’ he said.
Again William looked straight at Miss Moyna Greene.
‘No,’ he said innocently. ‘There ain’t no one there.’
Miss Moyna Greene disappeared through the drawing-room window.
‘All the bad luck,’ repeated William artlessly, ‘s’posed to come from the one they’re with when they see it, but I don’ b’lieve anyone ever has seen it if you ask me.
He looked up at Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough was still yellow and still perspiring. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
THE FIGURE OF MISS GREENE CROSSED THE LAWN AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE TREES.
‘You don’ look very well,’ said William kindly, ‘can I do anythin’ for you?’
Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough brought his eyes with an effort from the direction in which Miss Moyna Greene had vanished to William. And his expression changed. He seemed to realise for the first time the full import of his vision.
‘Yes, William,’ he said with fear and shrinking in his manner. ‘You can – er – you can fetch me a railway timetable, my dear boy, if you’ll be so good.’
William and Ethel and Robert had gone to bed.
Mr and Mrs Brown sat in the drawing-room alone.
‘He went very suddenly, didn’t he?’ said Mr Brown, ‘I thought I’d find him here tonight.’
‘I can’t understand it,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘he behaved most strangely. Suddenly came in and said he was going. Gave no reason and was most peculiar in his manner.’
‘And you didn’t arrange anything about William going there?’
‘I tried to. I said should we consider it settled, but he said he was afraid he’d have no room for William, after all. I suggested putting him on a waiting list, but he said he’d no room on his waiting list either. He wouldn’t even stay to discuss it. He went off to the station at once though I told him he’d have to wait half an hour for a train. And the last thing he said was that he was sorry but he’d no room for William. He said it several times. So strange after his offering to take him at a special price.’
‘Very strange,’ said Mr Brown slowly. ‘He was – all right at lunch you say?’
‘Quite. He was talking then as if William were going.’
‘And what did he do after lunch?’
‘He went into the garden to rest. ‘
‘And who was with him?’
‘No one – Oh, except William for a few minutes.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Brown, and remembered the sphinxlike look upon William’s face when he said Goodnight to him. ‘I’d give a good deal to have been present at those few minutes – but the secret, whatever it was, will die with William, I suppose. William possesses the supreme gift of being able to keep his own counsel.’
‘Are you sorry, dear, that William’s not going to a boarding-school?’
‘I don’t think I am,’ said Mr Brown.
‘I should have thought you’d have found it so nice and quiet without him.’
‘Doubtless I should. But it would also have been extremely dull.’
CHAPTER 7
THE STOLEN WHISTLE
WILLIAM had been to watch the sheep dog trials at a neighbouring Agricultural Show and had been much thrilled by the spectacle. It had seemed, moreover, perfectly simple. Just a dog and some sheep and anyone could do it. He had a dog, of course – Jumble, his beloved mongrel who had filled many and various rôles since he had joined William’s ménage. He had been a walking dog and a dancing dog and a talking dog. He had even on one occasion represented a crowd in a play organised by William. It cannot be claimed that Jumble brought any great brilliance to bear on the fulfilment of these rôles. He was essentially passive, rather than active, in his representation of them. He walked and danced perforce, because William on these occasions held his front paws and he could do nothing else. His ‘talking’ was his natural reaction of excitement to William’s softly whispered ‘rats!’ It did not really represent that almost superhuman intelligence that William claimed for it. Jumble himself took no pride in his accomplishments. When he heard the word ‘trick’ he slunk off as quickly as he could, but if escape were impossible he yielded to the inevitable, and suffered the humiliation of walking or dancing with an air of supercilious boredom.
After breakfast on the morning after the sheep trials, William walked slowly and thoughtfully into the garden. There he was greeted effusively by Jumble who tried to convey to him by barks and leaps and whirlwind rushes that it was just the morning for a walk in the wood, where perhaps – perhaps – with luck one might meet a rabbit or two. But William was not in a rabbit mood. He was in a sheep dog mood. He had definitely decided to train Jumble to be a sheep dog. It might be objected that with truth Jumble was not a sheep dog, to which objection it might with equal truth be replied that Jumble was as much a sheep dog as he was any other sort of dog. The sorts of dog in Jumble were so thoroughly mixed that there was no sort of dog you could definitely say he wasn’t.
William had decided to use a whistle for giving his signals to Jumble chiefly because his newest and dearest treasure happened to be a whistle. It had been sent to him for his last birthday, by an uncle who, as William’s father bitterly remarked, ought to have known better. It was not an ordinary whistle. It was the Platonic ideal of a whistle. It was very large and very ornate and emitted a sound rivalled only by a factory siren. William to the relief and surprise of his family had made little use of this since his reception of it. He had kept it in a box in a drawer in his bedroom. His family fondly imagined that he had forgotten about it and never allowed the conversation even remotely to approach the subject of musical instruments in general or whistles in particular, lest it should remind him of it. They could not know, of course, that William’s whistle was his secret pride and joy and dearest treasure and that he did not use it simply because he considered it too precious to use till some great and worthy occasion presented itself. And here the great and worthy occasion had presented itself – the training of Jumble to be a sheep dog.
With Jumble bounding about in innocent glee and all unaware of his coming ordeal, he entered his bedroom and reverently took the whistle from its bed of cotton wool in the box in which he had received it. Then he placed it in his pocket and with Jumble still leaping exuberantly about him went out into the road.
He had now a dog and a whistle. The only thing that remained was to find some sheep. He swung down the road, one hand fingering lovingly the whistle that reposed in his pocket, his eyes fixed proudly on Jumble. Jumble, who fondly imagined that his hi
nt about the walk in a rabbity wood had been taken, leapt ecstatically into the air at every passing fly or butterfly and as often as not overbalanced in the process. The very word ‘trick’ would have sent him slinking homeward, his tail between his legs, but no one uttered the fateful word so Jumble leapt and bounded in light-hearted glee with no thought in his mind but of scurrying white-tailed rabbits.
William was now walking along without paying much attention to his pet. His mind was set on other things. He was looking for sheep. Suddenly he saw them – a whole fieldful of sheep with no guardian or owner in sight. He brightened. The training of Jumble as a sheep dog could begin. With Jumble still at his heels he entered the field.
‘Now, Jumble,’ he said sternly, ‘when I blow one blow on this whistle you drive ’em to the end of the field an’ when I blow two you drive ’em back again.’ Jumble gave a short sharp bark, which William, ever optimistic, took to be one of complete understanding.
William drew in his breath then blew a piercing blast on his whistle. The nightmare sound rent the air. A sheep who was cropping grass turned and gazed at him reproachfully. The others took no notice. Jumble continued to chase butterflies. William sighed and repeated his instructions.
‘When I blow once on this whistle, Jumble, you drive ’em over there and when I blow twice you drive ’em back.’ Jumble wagged his tail and William thought that he’d really tumbled to it at last.
He blew again – a mighty piercing blast. The sheep who had looked at him reproachfully turned and looked at him still more reproachfully. Jumble, upon whose mind the conviction was slowly forcing itself that something was being expected of him, sat up and begged.
William sighed.
‘No, Jumble,’ he said, ‘jus’ listen – when I blow once—’
He stopped. Jumble was off after another butterfly. It was simply no use talking to Jumble with all those butterflies about. He must make him understand by some other means. He pointed to the sheep.
‘Hi, Jumble!’ he urged, ‘at ’em! Rats!’
Jumble looked from William to the sheep, head on one side, ears cocked. His master evidently wanted him to attack those big white things that inhabited the field. But why? They were doing no harm and there was a vein of caution in Jumble that objected to the unnecessary attacking of things three times his size. Still, he didn’t mind showing willing and he needn’t go too near.
With elaborate ostentation of ferocity he began to bark at the nearest sheep, making little leaps and rushes as if to attack it – but keeping all the time a respectful distance.
‘Good old Jumble!’ encouraged William, ‘go on at them. Rats!’
Jumble, glad to learn from the tone of William’s voice that he was doing the right thing, redoubled his pretence of fury and attack. The nearest sheep with a scared look on its face rose and moved farther away. Jumble’s delight knew no bounds. He had frightened the thing. That big white animal three times his size was afraid of him. Some of his caution deserted him. He advanced again upon the sheep, his sound and fury redoubled. The sheep began to run. In a state of frenzied intoxication Jumble flung himself to the pursuit. Panic broke out among the flock. They rushed hither and thither bleating wildly, with Jumble, who imagined himself a Great Dane at least, pursuing them, barking loudly. William felt gratified. Things were getting a move on at last. Jumble was turning out a really fine sheep dog. Then he blew twice on his whistle.
‘Now bring ’em back, Jumble,’ he ordered.
But Jumble was deaf and blind to everything but the ecstasy of chasing these large foolish white creatures who did not seem to realise their size, who – joy of joys, miracle of miracles! were afraid of him – of him! The field was a medley of scurrying bleating sheep and leaping, barking, exulting, pursuing, ecstatic Jumble.
‘Hi, Jumble!’ called William again, ‘stop it – bring ’em back now.’
But the sheep had found a way of escape and were streaming in a jostling panic-stricken crowd through the gate inadvertently left open by William on to the road where some streamed off in one direction, some in another, still bleating wildly.
Jumble surveyed the empty field. He’d cleared them out, which was evidently what William meant him to do. The place belonged to him and William now. He swaggered up to William and sat down sideways head in the air, mouth open, panting.
He fairly radiated conceit. He couldn’t get over it – hundreds and hundreds of big white things each three times as big as himself flying in panic before him – before him – what a dog! What a dog! He gave William a glance that said:
‘Well, what do you think of me, now?
William could have told him quite adequately and eloquently what he thought of him but already sounds of commotion and shouting came from the direction of the farm whence the errant sheep had been sighted. Already men were running down the road to deal with the crisis. William, not wishing to be dealt with as part of the crisis, hastily picked up Jumble, scrambled through the hedge into a further field and thence by devious routes to the road and back to his home.
His first lesson to Jumble on sheep dogging had not been altogether successful but William was not a boy lightly to abandon anything he had undertaken. Only he thought that perhaps it had been a mistake to begin on sheep. It would be best probably to work up to sheep gradually. Sitting on an upturned plant pot in his back yard, his chin on his hands, he frowningly considered the situation, while Jumble sat by him, leaning against the plant pot wearing a complacent simper, still seeing himself, alone and unaided, putting to flight vast hordes of large white animals. Yes, thought William, that had been the mistake – beginning with sheep instead of working up to them gradually. If he could begin on something small they could work up to sheep by degrees. His white mice – the very thing! He turned and gave Jumble a long and patient detailed account of what he wanted him to do.
‘When I blow once, Jumble,’ he said, ‘you run ’em over to the end of the lawn and when I blow twice run ’em back to me again an’ mind you don’t let any of them escape.’
Jumble looked at him foolishly, obviously not even trying to understand and taking for granted that William was singing his praises, telling him that he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw him scattering them far and near. William went to fetch his white mice, leaving Jumble still simpering. He returned and knelt down with the box.
‘Now run ’em gentle, Jumble,’ he ordered as he released the flock.
But Jumble was in no mood for gentleness. Either he considered it an insult to try to make him a mouse dog instead of a sheep dog or he wished to show William that this was mere child’s play after his late exploit. He’d killed two before William could rescue them. He listened to William’s remarks with polite boredom and watched the subsequent obsequies with alert interest as though marking the spot for future investigation. He then watched the remnants of the flock being carried indoors with an air of wistfulness. He’d have quite liked to have gone on with them.
William was not really disheartened. He was sorry of course to lose two of his white mice, but his white mice themselves were capable of filling any gaps in their numbers with such speed and thoroughness that the shortage would not be of long duration. And he was still determined to teach Jumble to be a sheep dog. He ignored Jumble’s attempts to suggest to him again the walk in the rabbity wood (Jumble felt that he’d have simply loved to have a go at rabbits now – he was just in the mood) and sat down again on the upturned plant pot to consider the matter. Perhaps the best thing to do was to train Jumble to be a sheep dog by himself without anything to represent the sheep, and then when Jumble was an expert sheep dog gradually introduce sheep for him to work upon. He’d teach Jumble to go to the other end of the lawn when he blew once and return when he blew twice.
He did this by throwing a stone to the other end of the lawn for Jumble to fetch and blowing once when he threw it and twice when Jumble was ready to bring it back. He hoped that if he did this often enough, Jumble would begin to as
sociate his departure and return with the whistle instead of the stone. When he’d been doing it for about half an hour his father came out wearing an expression of mingled agony and fury.
‘If I hear one more sound from that beastly instrument of torture,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it from you and throw it into the fire. Do you know I’ve been trying to sleep this last half hour? What the dickens are you doing sitting there and blowing the thing like that, to all eternity? Are you trying to play a tune?’
William did not explain that he was trying to teach Jumble to be a sheep dog. He withdrew himself and Jumble and the whistle out of harm’s way as quickly as possible.
He knew that it would be useless to continue the training of Jumble within earshot of his father. It would be safer to withdraw to the other end of the village where there was no possibility of his father hearing it. It was particularly annoying because he’d thought that just before his father came out Jumble really had begun to understand what he wanted him to do. He slipped the whistle into his pocket and set off down the road, Jumble following merrily at his heels. Jumble evidently thought that the walk through the rabbity wood was going to come off at last.
Right at the end of the village was a large brown house with a field behind it. The field was empty and well hidden from the road. Here William decided to complete the training of Jumble. Armed with a little pile of stones and his whistle he patiently threw stones and whistled his one blast then his two as Jumble departed and returned. Jumble was fetching the stones in a perfunctory fashion as one who does it merely to oblige. His considered opinion was that as a game it was going on a bit too long. It was in any case rather a puerile amusement for a dog who alone and unaided could put to flight great hordes of large white animals. And he wanted to have a go at those rabbits.
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