There was a tense silence during which William held his breath.
‘I have, as it happens,’ said the old gentleman excitedly, ‘by a curious chance, one came into my possession the other day – but it’s in my bedroom. How am I to get at it?’
‘Where’s your bedroom?’ said William shortly.
‘Just above us. The window, I see, is open.’
‘Where’s the whistle?’ said William trying not to sound too eager.
‘In the right-hand small drawer in my dressing-table. What are you doing?’
‘THERE!’ SAID WILLIAM. ‘LOOK AT THAT!’ MR MORGAN LOOKED AT IT, WHILE HIS MOUTH AND EYES SLOWLY OPENED AND HIS CHEEKS GREW PALE.
For William with a speed and agility worthy of one of his remotest forebears was shinning up the tree, and swinging himself from the tree to the window sill of the room just above. He disappeared into the room. Soon he reappeared, swung himself on to the tree and came back as quickly as he had gone.
THERE IN MR MORGAN’S LIBRARY, WITH HIS FEET ON THE WRITING TABLE, SAT A BRUTAL COMMUNIST COMMANDER, WITH A PRISONER TREMBLING BEFORE HIM IN THE HANDS OF BRUTAL COMMUNIST SOLDIERS.
In his hand he held his beloved long-lost whistle.
‘Brave boy!’ said the old gentleman fervently, ‘now go down to the road and blow three times.’
William crept away into the darkness with the whistle. He could not refrain from chuckling as he reached the road. The old gentleman waited and waited, but no blast came from the darkness into which William had disappeared.
William was creeping back. He knew that it was a dangerous proceeding, but curiosity triumphed over caution. He wanted to know what had happened to the old gentleman and the brutal communist commander and – everyone. Cautiously he approached the library window. The old gentleman was sitting in his chair and the brutal communist, the prisoner and a lot more people were sitting on other chairs and on the floor drinking lemonade and eating sandwiches. Someone had opened the window and William could hear what they were saying. The three girls and Freddie were there.
‘You gave me quite a fright, Uncle,’ the red-haired girl was saying, ‘when I saw you out there in the dark. Whatever were you doing?’
‘Oh – er – nothing much,’ said Mr Morgan, who had evidently not given himself away, ‘just having a look round – er – just having a look round at the garden before I came in.’
‘We thought you weren’t coming back till tomorrow.’
‘I hadn’t meant to.’
‘You don’t mind us having had the rehearsal here, do you?’
‘Not a bit, my dear. Not a bit.’
‘The real reason we didn’t tell you was that we knew you were just a bit nervous of communists and things like that. I told the others so that day we arranged it – the day that boy was here.’
‘What boy?’ said Mr Morgan sharply.
‘Oh, a poor boy we picked up on the road unconscious and nearly dead, and Freddie examined him and found that he was suffering from some terrible disease of the spine.’
Mr Morgan’s sniff expressed no great respect for Freddie’s diagnosis.
‘The poor child had come for his whistle.’
‘What whistle?’ said Mr Morgan still more sharply.
‘He said you’d borrowed a whistle from him and promised to give it back that day. We looked all over the place for it, but couldn’t find it so he had to go away without it. . . . What’s the matter, Uncle?’
Mr Morgan was staring into space, his complexion changing from pink to a dull red. He’d thought there was something familiar about that boy though he hadn’t been able to see him plainly in the darkness. There came to him memories of that curious snigger he’d heard as the boy disappeared in the darkness with the whistle.
The red deepened to an apoplectic purple.
He gave a sudden furious bellow of rage.
William, chuckling to himself, crept away again through the night. . . .
CHAPTER 8
WILLIAM FINDS A JOB
PROBABLY if she hadn’t been so pretty the Outlaws would not have noticed her at all. But as it was they not only noticed her but noticed also that she was crying. She was sitting on the doorstep of a small house and her hair was a mass of auburn curls, and her eyes were blue and her mouth – well, the Outlaws were not poetic but they dimly realised that her mouth was rather nice. They looked at her and passed on sheepishly, then they hesitated, and, still more sheepishly, returned. William was the spokesman.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said gruffly.
She raised blue, tear-filled eyes.
‘Wot?’ she said.
‘What’s the matter?’ repeated William still more gruffly.
She wiped away a tear with the corner of a pinafore.
‘Wot?’ she said again.
‘Anyone been hurtin’ you?’ said William still gruffly, but with the light of battle in his eye. She looked up at him.
‘No,’ she said, and returned to the corner of her pinafore.
The light of battle died away from William’s eye. He looked disappointed.
‘Lost anythin’?’ he then asked, assuming the expression of one who is willing to search every corner of the globe for whatever she had lost. She looked up at him again.
‘No,’ she said listlessly.
‘Well, what’s the matter?’ persisted William.
‘My daddy’s out of work,’ said the little girl.
This nonplussed the Outlaws. They’d have fought anyone who’d hurt her, they’d have found anything she’d lost, but this seemed outside their sphere.
‘What d’you mean?’ said Douglas, ‘d’you mean he’s got nothin’ to do?’
‘Yes,’ said the little girl, ‘nobody’ll give ’im any work to do, an’ he’s got to stop at home all day.’
‘Coo!’ said Ginger feelingly, ‘I wish I was him.’
‘Well,’ said William, ‘don’ you worry, that’s all. Don’ you worry. We’ll get him some work,’ and added as an afterthought, ‘What can he do?’
‘He can do anythin’,’ said the little girl peeping at him from behind the corner of her pinafore. ‘Wot can you do?’
Then someone called her in and the Outlaws found themselves standing around in a semicircle gazing with ardent sympathy and admiration at a closed door. They hastily assumed their normal manly expressions and went on down the road.
‘Well,’ said Ginger the optimist, ‘he can do anythin’, so it ought to be pretty easy to get him a job.’
‘Yes,’ said William, ‘we’d better start on it at once, ’cause we want to go out shootin’ tomorrow.’
‘My bow’s broke,’ said Henry sadly.
‘Lend you my pea-shooter,’ said Douglas.
‘Let’s think of the things he could be,’ said William, ‘there’s lots of ’em.’
‘A doctor or a lawyer or a clergyman,’ said Henry dreamily. ‘Let’s make him a clergyman.’
‘No, he couldn’t be any of those,’ said William irritably, ‘those are special sorts of people. They start turnin’ into those before they leave school. But he could be a gardener or a butler or – or a motor car driver—’
‘Shuvver,’ put in Ginger with an air of superiority.
‘Motor car driver,’ repeated William firmly, ‘or – or a sort of man nurse. I read in a book once about a man what once had a sort of man nurse – he sort of went queer in his head – the man, not the man nurse – an’ the man nurse looked after him – or he could be a sort of man what looks after people’s clothes—’
‘A valley,’ put in Ginger.
‘A man what looks after people’s clothes,’ repeated William firmly, ‘or – or a fireman, or a policeman, or a postman, or servin’ in a shop. Why,’ with growing cheerfulness, ‘we’ll be able to find hundreds an’ hundreds of things for him to do.’
‘He only wants one,’ said Douglas mildly.
‘What’ll we start on?’ said Ginger.
William assumed his f
rown of generalship and mentally surveyed the field of operation.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll try’n get him a job as a man what drives a motor car, an’ Ginger try’n get him one as a gardener, an’ Henry try’n get him one as a man what looks after people’s clothes, an’ Douglas as a man what looks after people what aren’t quite right in their head, an’ we’ll have a meetin’ in the ole barn after tea an’ tell how we’ve got on . . . an’ if we’ve all got him work, of course,’ he added with his unfailing optimism, ‘we’ll let him choose.’
William began to make tentative efforts at lunch.
‘When are we goin’ to have a car?’ he demanded innocently.
‘Not while I’m alive,’ answered his father.
William considered this in silence for some minutes, then asked:
‘How soon after you’re dead?’
His father glared at him and William cautiously withdrew into silence. A few minutes later, however, he emerged from it.
‘Seems sort of funny to me,’ he remarked – meditatively, to no one in particular, ‘that we don’t have one. Neely everyone else I know’s got a car. They’re an awful savin’ in bus tickets an’ shoes an’ things. Seems to me sort of wrong to keep spendin’ money on bus tickets an’ shoes when we could save it so easy by buyin’ a car.’
No one was taking any notice of him. They were discussing an artist who had taken The Limes furnished for a month. Robert, William’s seventeen-year-old brother, was saying, ‘One daughter, I know, I saw her at the window.’ William continued undaunted:
‘We’d jus’ want a man to look after it that’s all an’ I could easy get that for you. I know a man what’s good at lookin’ after ’em an’ I could get him for you. An’ they’re cheap enough. Why, someone told me about someone who knew someone what got one for jus’ a few pounds – an ole one, of course, but they’re jus’ as good as new ones – only a bit older, of course. The ones what were made when first they was invented must be goin’ quite cheap now an’ one of them’d do quite all right for us – jus’ to save us bus tickets an’ shoes – with a man to look after it. Ginger an’ me’d paint it up an’ it would be as good as new. Shouldn’t be surprised,’ with rising cheerfulness, ‘if you could get an ole one – a really ole one – for jus’ a few shillin’s an’ Ginger’n me’d paint it for you and this man’d mend it up for you an’ drive it for you an—’
There was a sudden lull in the general conversation and his mother said:
‘Do get on with your lunch, William. What are you talking about?’
‘About this car,’ said William doggedly.
‘What car?’
‘This car of ours. Well, this man—’
‘What man?’
‘This man what’s goin’ to drive it for us—’
But this touched Robert on a tender spot.
‘Any car belonging to the house will be driven by me,’ he said firmly.
William was nonplussed for a minute. Then he said gently, ‘I don’t think Robert ought to tire himself out drivin’ cars. I think Robert ought to be keepin’ himself fresh for his exams an’ things, not tire himself out drivin’ cars. This man’d drive it an’ save Robert the trouble of tirin’ himself out drivin’ cars because Robert’s got his exams an’ things to keep fresh for. An’ besides all these girls what Robert likes to take out with him – he wun’t talk to ’em prop’ly if he has to be tirin’ himself out drivin’ the car all the time—’
‘Shut up,’ ordered Robert angrily.
Temporarily William shut up.
‘Are you taking Gladys Oldham on the river this afternoon?’ said his mother.
‘Gladys Oldham?’ said Robert coldly. ‘Whatever made you think I’d be taking a girl like Gladys Oldham anywhere?’
His mother looked bewildered.
‘My dear – only last week you said—’
Robert spoke with dignity and a certain embarrassment.
‘Last week?’ he said frowning, as if he had a difficulty in carrying his mind back as far as that . . . ‘well, I remember I did once think her an entirely different sort of person to what she turned out to be. . . . He’s called Groves, isn’t he, mother?’
‘Who, dear?’ said his mother mildly.
‘The artist who’s taken The Limes.’
‘I believe so, dear.’
‘I’ve seen the daughter – she’s – she’s—’
He stopped confusedly, trying to hide his blushes.
‘She’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen in your life,’ put in his father sardonically.
‘How did you know?’ asked Robert. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No, I didn’t know – I guessed,’ said his father.
Robert seemed about to launch into a fuller description of Miss Groves, then stopped, glancing suspiciously at William. But William was intent upon his own thoughts. Noticing a slight lull in the conversation he rose again hopefully to the attack.
‘This man,’ he said, ‘you’d find him awful useful—’
‘What man, William?’ groaned his mother.
‘This man what I keep tellin’ you about,’ said William patiently. ‘It seems to me sort of silly to wait till you get a car to get a man to drive it. I think the best thing is to get this man at once an’ then when we get the car there he is all ready to drive it for us at once ’stead of havin’ to waste the car while we start lookin’ round for a man to drive it and—’
‘The lunatic asylums of the country,’ remarked Mr Brown, ‘must be full of men who’ve had sons like William.’
William looked at him hopefully.
‘If you feel like that, father,’ he said, ‘I know that this man—’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Robert again.
‘Yes,’ said William bitterly, ‘what I’d like to know is why you can go on talkin’ an’ talkin’ an’ talkin’ an’ talkin’ about girls an’ the minute I start talkin’ about this man—’
‘What man?’
‘This man I’ve been tellin’ you about ever since I started talkin’ only no one listens to me. What I say is that this man—’
‘William,’ said his mother, ‘if you say one word more about that man whoever he is—’
‘All right,’ said William resignedly, and turned his whole attention to his pudding.
He renewed the attack, however, after lunch. The car prospects didn’t seem very hopeful but it might be worth while to explore other avenues. He stood at the drawing-room window looking out at the garden where Jenkins, the gardener, was weeding the bed on the lawn.
‘Poor ole man,’ said William compassionately, ‘I think he’d do with someone to help him, don’t you, mother?’
His mother looked up from the sock she was darning.
‘I think that’s a very kind thought, dear,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Take one of the kneeling mats out because the grass is rather damp.’
William’s face fell but after a moment’s hesitation he took a kneeling mat and went out to help weed the bed. He returned a few minutes later pursued by an indignant Jenkins after having unwittingly uprooted all his pet seedlings.
‘Finished, dear?’ said his mother. ‘You’ve not been long.’
‘No,’ said William, ‘I kind of worked hard an’ got it finished quick. . . . Mother, don’t you kind of think you’d like another gardener ’stead of Jenkins?’
‘Why ever?’ said his mother in surprise.
‘Well, he always seems so sort of disagreeable an’ this man—’
‘What man?’
‘This man I keep tellin’ you about,’ said William patiently, ‘he’s an abs’lutely wonderful man. He can do anythin’. He can drive a car . . . he’s the one what’s goin’ to drive our car . . . an’ – an’ there’s nothin’ he can’t do, look after clothes an’ people what are queer in the head an’ – an’ – she was ever so nice an’ cryin’.’
‘William, dear,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I really do
n’t know what you’re talking about, but before you do anything else go and wash your hands and brush your hair.’
William sighed as he went to obey. His family seemed to have no souls above hands and hair and that sort of thing.
The Outlaws met the next afternoon to report progress.
‘I did all I could,’ said William, ‘I tried to make ’em get a car so’s we could have him to drive it an’ they jus’ wun’t. I tried makin’ ’em have him as a gardener an’ they wun’t do that either.’
Ginger, looking melancholy, related his experiences.
‘I thought we might have him as a gardener, too,’ he said, ‘an’ so I tied a string across the doorway of the greenhouse ’cause I thought that if ours fell an’ sprained his ankle I could tell ’em about this new one an’ then they’d get him. I din’t think it would do ours any harm to sprain his ankle – jus’ give him a nice rest for one thing an’ – an’ he’s such a crabby ole thing. It might make him kinder same as what they say sufferin’ does in books.’
‘Did he fall?’ said the Outlaws with interest.
‘No,’ said Ginger sadly, ‘he saw me doin’ it an’ went an’ told my father.’
‘Was he mad?’ said the Outlaws with interest.
‘Yes,’ said Ginger still more sadly, ‘he was awful mad. Simply wouldn’t listen to me tellin’ him I’d tied it there to practise skippin’.’
The Outlaws murmured sympathy and then Henry spoke.
‘Well, I tried to get ’em to have him as a man what looks after clothes—’
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