William set off from home very early in the afternoon wearing his old clothes, but without the zest and eagerness that generally accompanied them. He walked indeed as slowly and dejectedly as if he had been wearing his hated Eton suit.
His dejection lasted till he reached the main street of the village, and then vanished completely at the sight of a herd of cows stampeding in all directions on meeting a charabanc. The farmer, who was in charge of them, was dancing about and waving his arms on one side of the road, and his boy doing the same on the other, while the cows scattered wildly into gardens or down side roads. Some bystanders came to the farmer’s aid, and William, joining them, went in pursuit of a cow that had plunged down a narrow lane. It was, however, a more difficult task than he had foreseen. The cow ran when William ran, and walked when William walked, and William found it impossible to catch. They wandered further and further from the village. No one seemed to be following them, or to care whether William caught the cow or not. The lust of the chase, however, had entered into William’s soul. He had forgotten everything but his pursuit of this elusive cow. He would catch the cow even if it took him half across England. When they had proceeded in this way for some distance, the cow seemed suddenly to tire of the game, and stood still, allowing him to come right up to it. He approached it, his heart swelling with the pride of achievement. His cow! His captured cow! He walked round it several times with a possessive swagger. He even addressed it with a mixture of propitiation and command. ‘Hey, you there . . . hey, cow!’ It turned its large eyes upon him. It looked as if it wanted something. Perhaps it was hungry. A heavy load of responsibility seemed to descend upon William. It was his cow. It must be fed. He gazed searchingly around him, and finally espied a haystack in a neighbouring field. He crawled through a hole in the hedge, and returned in a few minutes with an armful of hay. The cow ate it with every appearance of enjoyment. But, having eaten it, it turned its large, soulful eyes again beseechingly upon William. It must still be hungry. William set off upon another short voyage of discovery, which revealed to him a ‘clamp’ of turnips in a field on the other side of the road. William scrambled through the hedge and returned with an armful of turnips. His cow ate them with equal relish. William’s elation knew no bounds. To have a cow of one’s own, to feed it . . . He decided to be a farmer when he grew up. Then he remembered the real farmer, who was presumably awaiting his return in the village street, and, having cut a stick from the hedgerow, he gently tapped his charge with it, and turned her back again towards the village. She seemed to understand quite well what was expected of her. She ambled comfortably and slowly along the road followed by her new guardian. William marched behind her whistling, his stick over his shoulder. The cow in front of him was not one cow but thousands. He was the greatest cattle farmer in the world. All the land as far as he could see belonged to him. He was driving a huge herd of his cattle from one pasturage to another somewhere in the heart of Africa or India. The woods around were thick with Red Indians who wished to attack him and steal his cattle. They were creeping along under cover. Occasionally one or two of them would venture into the open, and then he would turn, raise his stick to his shoulder and fire, and the Red Indians would fall dead. He was the best shot in the whole world. The Red Indians had guns, too, and sometimes shot at him, but they always missed him. Thus beguiled, the road back to the village was very short. Having arrived there with his charge, he looked about him. The street was empty. No farmer, no cows, no boys, no anyone. The place wore its usual mid-afternoon ‘deserted village’ appearance. William and his cow looked at each other. And suddenly William remembered his engagement. He had started off unduly early, but it was quite time now that he was on his way to Miss Pollit’s. He didn’t know which farm the cow belonged to, and there was no one about to ask. Well, he’d just have to leave it. Probably it would find its way home by itself. Or the farmer would come back for it. Anyway, William had done his best for it, and he couldn’t be expected to do more.
Turning his back on the cow, he set off briskly towards Miss Pollit’s. It wasn’t till he’d gone several yards that he discovered that the cow was following him. The cow evidently considered that it belonged to him. He had fed it with hay and turnips. He had taken it into his charge. It had no intention of being left alone and ownerless in the middle of the village street. William, in order to escape the embarrassing companion, quickened his pace to a run. The cow, seeing its new friend and owner vanishing in the distance, quickened its pace to a run. William was in the terrible position of appearing to be chased by a cow. He stopped. The cow approached slowly and trustingly, obviously ready for any more contributions of hay or turnips that might be forthcoming. William considered the situation. It was, he was sure, contrary to all rules of etiquette to go out to tea accompanied by a cow. Even to Miss Pollit, who was so kind and understanding, he couldn’t very well take a cow with him for tea. He tried a deep and cunning ruse. He walked for a few yards in one direction, followed by the cow, then turned swiftly and walked in the other hoping that the cow would go straight on. But the cow turned too, and continued to follow him. William sat on the bank by the roadside to consider the situation again, his head in his hands. His cow stood over him, breathing heavily down his neck. He decided finally to divest himself of all responsibility for his cow, and to go to Miss Pollit’s quite independently. If the cow came too it would be its own affair. He practised the expression of detached surprise and amusement with which he should turn round at her front door as she admitted him, and say:
‘I say! There’s a cow just coming into your garden.’
He walked on without looking round, but he was aware from the sounds of heavy breathing and lumbering footsteps that his cow was closely following him. After turning the corner that led to Miss Pollit’s cottage, he began to run in order to evade his pursuer. As he ran in at the gate, he looked back fearfully. The anxious face of his cow was just appearing round the corner. The animal broke into a trot as it saw how much the distance between them had increased. He ran up to the front door and knocked. Miss Pollit opened it.
‘Here you are!’ she said cheerfully. He entered very quickly. Just as she shut the door, he seemed to see the face of his cow appearing questingly at the front gate.
‘The other boy hasn’t arrived yet,’ said Miss Pollit, and William’s spirits sank again as he remembered Hubert.
‘We won’t wait for him,’ went on Miss Pollit cheerfully, ‘we’ll go down and start the fire straight away.’
They went down to the little wood at the back of the house, and there they began to collect dry sticks for the fire.
William decided to make the most of the afternoon before Hubert came. He tried to forget everything but the glorious fact of making a fire. But he couldn’t help wondering what had happened to his cow. In his search for sticks he went over to the extreme corner of the wood from which he could see the front garden, and threw a covert glance at it. Yes, his cow was there in the garden, engaged in desultorily munching the lawn and the hedge. He felt partly apprehensive, partly gratified. It was, after all, rather magnificent to go about accompanied by a cow, where other lesser mortals were accompanied by mere dogs, to have a cow waiting outside houses for one, when one went out to tea.
He came back with his little heap of gathered twigs. Miss Pollit was bending over the fire.
‘Go and see if Hubert’s come, William,’ she said, ‘we mightn’t hear the bell out here.’
William returned to the corner of the wood whence he could see the front garden. His cow had tired of the lawn, and was standing in the gateway, looking up and down the road. And just at that moment Hubert approached, walking jauntily and carrying his bouquet of hothouse flowers. He stopped, amazed to find a cow standing in the gateway, then paled and retreated hastily. It was a well known fact that Hubert was frightened of cows.
William returned to Miss Pollit.
‘No, he’s not come yet,’ he said.
They knelt over the
fire together.
‘I think it’s going to go now,’ said Miss Pollit, ‘and anyway I told his mother to tell him to come straight round to the garden, so it will be all right.’
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘I’ll get a few more sticks, shall I?’
And he returned to that fascinating corner whence he could watch the front garden. His cow had wandered from the gate now, and was standing on the lawn looking about with an expression of beneficent amusement. And once more Hubert was approaching the gate with his hothouse bouquet. He approached cautiously, his eyes fixed apprehensively upon the cow. Measuring the distance between it and the path, he was preparing fearfully to slip past on tiptoe, when the cow was suddenly moved to inspect him at closer quarters. It took a step nearer him, and with a yell he turned and fled down the road.
William returned to the fire with his armful of sticks.
‘What was that noise?’ said Miss Pollit.
‘Oh, jus’ someone on the road,’ said William.
‘The boy’s not come yet, has he?’ said Miss Pollit.
‘No,’ said William, ‘he’s not come yet.’
‘The fire’s going nicely now,’ said Miss Pollit.
‘I’ll just get a few more sticks,’ said William, who found the lure of that corner of the wood irresistible.
‘We’ve got enough,’ said Miss Pollit.
‘Well, I’ll get a few more,’ said William.
‘There are heaps just about here. You needn’t go right over there.’
But William had already gone right over there.
‘I’ll help you,’ said Miss Pollit, following him. Then she too looked at the front garden, and gave a little scream.
‘Good heavens, there’s a cow in my garden,’ she said.
‘So there is!’ said William, as if he saw it for the first time.
‘What— Oh, here’s the boy,’ said Miss Pollit.
For Hubert was approaching again, pale and apprehensive, holding his bouquet out as if it were a shield. The cow was eating grass at the edge of the lawn. With eyes fixed fearfully upon it, bouquet held out as if to ward it off, Hubert began to tiptoe past . . . Suddenly, just when he was opposite it, the cow looked up, mistook the bouquet for a tempting morsel, and, opening an enormous mouth, snapped it up. With a yell that could be heard from end to end of the village, Hubert fled. His yells continued, fading away into the distance as he neared his home. The cow stood munching, looking vaguely surprised, a few chrysanthemums and the white ribbon that had tied the bouquet hanging out of its mouth.
Miss Pollit was leaning against a tree, holding her sides, helpless with laughter.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh, dear! That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Was that—was that—the boy?’
‘Yes,’ said William, ‘and he won’t come back. He’ll say it was a bull. He always says they’re bulls.’
‘He’s not—really a friend of yours, surely? He didn’t look—’
‘No,’ said William. ‘He’s not my friend. He’s my deathly foe.’
‘Oh, splendid! We won’t wait for anything then now, we’ll— Oh, but the cow! What shall we do about the cow?’
TO WILLIAM’S DELIGHT THE COW LOOKED UP AS HUBERT PASSED, AND MISTOOK THE BOUQUET FOR A TEMPTING MORSEL.
They had now joined the cow in the front garden, and at that moment a youth appeared at the gate with a straw in his mouth.
WITH A YELL THAT COULD BE HEARD TO THE END OF THE VILLAGE, HUBERT FLED.
He looked from them to the cow in mild reproach, and finally said:
‘’Ere, that’s our cow. It’s our Daisy.’
‘However did it get here?’ said Miss Pollit.
‘Got scared in the street an’ farmer sprained his ankle ketchin’ ’em an’ ’ad to be carried ’ome an’ I took cows ’ome an’ this one ’ere was missin’.’
‘Well, take it,’ said Miss Pollit. ‘I don’t want it. Do you, William?’
‘No,’ said William.
They watched Daisy disappear in the distance, still munching contentedly, the ribbon hanging out of her mouth. Then they turned back to the wood.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘let’s have a really jolly afternoon.’
And, his mind free of both Hubert and the cow, William had a really jolly afternoon.
CHAPTER 6
WILLIAM’S BIRTHDAY
It was William’s birthday, but, in spite of that, his spirit was gloomy and overcast. His birthday, in fact, seemed to contribute to his gloom instead of lightening it. For one thing, he hadn’t got Jumble, his beloved mongrel, and a birthday without Jumble was, in William’s eyes, a hollow mockery of a birthday.
Jumble had hurt his foot in a rabbit trap, and had been treated for it at home, till William’s well-meaning but mistaken ministrations had caused the vet. to advise Jumble’s removal to his own establishment. William had indignantly protested.
‘Why’s he got to go away? Me? I’ve been curin’ him, I tell you. Well, a gipsy boy told me about that. He said, tie beech leaves round it. Well, he started chewin’ off his bandage himself. I din’ tell him to. Well, I wanted to try splints. I read in a book about how to put a dog’s legs into splints. An’ he liked it. He liked it better’n what he liked the bandage . . . Well, he’ll prob’ly die now without me to look after him, an’ it’ll be your fault.’
His fury increased when his visits to the vet.’s establishment were forbidden. The vet. explained quite politely that William’s presence there was having a deleterious effect upon his nerves and business.
‘I din’ do any harm,’ said William indignantly. ‘I cudn’t help upsettin’ that jar of goldfishes an’ I din’ reely start those two dogs fightin’. I bet they’d done it even if I’d not been there. An’ I din’ mean that white rat to get out of my pocket an’ get ’em all excited. An’ I din’ bother him for food or anythin’ when dinner-time came. I jus’ ate dog biscuits an’ ant eggs an’ any stuff I found about.’
William’s family, however, was adamant. William was not to visit the veterinary surgeon’s establishment again.
‘All right, he’ll die,’ said William with gloomy conviction, referring not to the vet., whose death would have left him unmoved, but to Jumble, ‘an’ it’ll be all your faults, an’ I hope you’ll always remember that you killed my dog.’
So annoyed was he with them that, in order to punish them, he lost his voice. This, of course, alone, would have been a reward rather than a punishment, but he insisted on writing all he had to say (which was a lot) on a slate with a squeaky slate-pencil that went through everyone’s head. They gave him paper and pencil, and he deliberately broke the point on the first word, and then returned to his squeaky slate-pencil to explain and apologise at agonising length. Finally, in despair, they sent over to the doctor for some medicine which proved so nauseous that William’s voice returned.
This episode increased the tension between William and his family, and, when the question of his birthday celebration was broached, feeling was still high on both sides.
‘I’d like a dog for my birthday present,’ said William.
‘You’ve got a dog,’ said his mother.
‘I shan’t have when you an’ that man have killed it between you,’ said William. ‘I’ve seen him stickin’ his fingers down their throats fit to choke ’em, givin’ ’em pills an’ things. An’ he puts on their bandages so tight that their calculations stop flowin’ an’ that’s jus’ the same as stranglin’ ’em.’
‘Nonsense, William!’
‘Then why’d he stop me goin’ to see ’em?’ went on William dramatically. ‘ ’Cause he knew that I saw he was killin’ ’em, chokin’ ’em with givin’ ’em pills an’ puttin’ tight bandages on ’em stoppin’ their calculations flowin’. I’ve a good mind to go to the police. He ought to be done something to by lor.’
‘You’re talking a lot of nonsense, William.’
‘Anyway, I want a dog for my birthday present.
I’m sick of not havin’ a dog. I’ve not had a dog for nearly three days now. Well, even if he doesn’t kill Jumble—an’ he’s tryin’ jolly hard—an’ what dog can live when he’s bein’ choked an’ strangled all day for nearly three days—well, even if he doesn’t kill him, I want another dog. I want two more dogs,’ he added shamelessly, knowing that his family wouldn’t give him another dog, and feeling that if he were going to have a grievance against them, he might as well have it for two dogs as one.
‘Nonsense! Of course you can’t have another dog.’
‘I said two more dogs.’
‘Well, you can’t have two more dogs.’
‘I’m going to give you a bottle of throat mixture for my present,’ said Ethel, who had suffered more than anyone through the squeaky slate-pencil because she had been deputed to attend on him.
William glared at her.
‘Yes,’ he said darkly, ‘you needn’t think I don’t know that you’re trying to kill me as well as Jumble. Poisonin’ me an’ chokin’ an’ stranglin’ him.’
‘Would you like a party for your birthday, William?’ said his mother, vaguely propitiating.
William considered this offer for a moment in silence. His mother’s idea of giving a party consisted in asking back all the people who had asked him to their parties, and William knew from experience that it was impossible to move her from this attitude. He assembled in a mental review all the people who had asked him to their parties that year, and the result was a depressing one.
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