William's Happy Days

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said the little girl, neatly withdrawing her foot from William’s descending slipper and placing it firmly upon the top, ‘Got you.’

  ‘Well, here’s the window. Have a look at my dog,’ said William.

  They edged to the window, and there the little girl halted, making a pretence of pulling up her socks. Then she glanced out with interest, and stood suddenly paralysed with horror, her mouth and eyes wide open. But almost immediately her vocal powers returned to her and she uttered a scream.

  ‘Look!’ she said. ‘Oh, look!’

  They crowded to the window—little girls, little boys, nurses and mothers.

  The collie had escaped from his lead, and found his way into the little girls’ dressing-room. There he had collected the stockings, gaiters and navy-blue knickers that lay about on tables and desks, and brought them all out on to the lawn, where he was happily engaged in worrying them. Remnants of stockings and gaiters lay everywhere about him. He was tossing up into the air one leg of a pair of navy-blue knickers. Around him the air was thick with wool and fluff. Bits of ravelled stockings, chewed-up gaiters, with here and there a dismembered hat, lay about on the lawn in glorious confusion. He was having the time of his life.

  After a moment’s frozen horror the whole dancing-class—little girls, little boys, nurses, mothers and dancing-mistress—surged out on to the lawn. The collie saw them coming and leapt up playfully, a gaiter hanging out of one corner of his mouth, and a stocking out of the other. It occurred to everyone simultaneously that the first thing to do was to catch the collie, and take the gaiter and stocking from him. They bore down upon him in a crowd. He wagged his tail in delight. All these people coming to play with him! He entered into the spirit of the game at once, and leapt off to the shrubbery, shaking his head excitedly so that the gaiter and stocking waved wildly in the air. In and out of the trees, followed by all these jolly people who were playing with him, back to the lawn, round the house, through the rose garden. A glorious game! The best fun he’d had for weeks . . .

  Meanwhile William was making his way quietly homeward. They’d say it was all his fault, of course, but he’d learnt by experience that it was best to get as far as possible and as quickly as possible away from the scene of a crime. Delayed retribution never had the inspired frenzy of retribution exacted on the spot.

  As he walked along the road, his brows drawn into a frown, his hands plunged into his pockets, his lips were moving as he argued with an invisible accuser.

  ‘Well, how could I help it? Well, you gave me them, didn’t you? Well, how could I know it was a dog like that? It’s not done any real harm either. Jus’ a few stockings an’ things. Well, they can buy some more, can’t they? They’re cheap enough, aren’t they? Grudgin’ the poor dog a bit of fun! They don’t mind paying as much as a pair of stockings for a bit of fun for themselves, do they? Oh no! Then why should they grudge the poor dog a bit of fun? That’s all I say. An’ it wasn’t my fault, was it? I never trained him to eat stockings an’ suchlike, did I? Well, I couldn’t have, could I?—seein’ I’d only had him a few minutes. An’ what I say is—’

  He turned the bend in the road that brought his own house in sight, and there he stood as if turned suddenly to stone. He’d forgotten the other dog. The front garden was a sea of sheep. They covered drive, grass and flower beds. They even stood on the steps that led to the front door. The overflow filled the road outside. Behind them was the other collie pup, his tail still waving triumphantly, running to and fro, crowding them up still more closely, pursuing truants and bringing them back to the fold. Having collected the sheep, his instinct had told him to bring them to his master. His master was, of course, the man who had brought him from the shop, not the boy who had taken him for a walk. His master was in this house. He had brought the sheep to his master . . .

  His master was, in fact, with Ethel in the drawing-room. Mrs. Brown was out, and was not expected back till tea-time. Mr. Dewar considered he was getting on very well with Ethel. He had not yet told her about the two collies he had brought for her. She’d said last week that she ‘adored’ collies, and he’d decided to bring her a couple of them next week. He meant to introduce the subject quite carelessly when he’d reached the right stage of intimacy. He possessed the dramatic instinct and liked to produce his effects at the right moment. And so, when she told him that he seemed to understand her better than any other man she’d ever met (she said this to all her admirers in turn) he said to her quite casually:

  ‘Oh! by the way, I forgot to mention it but I just bought a little present—or rather presents—for you this afternoon. They’re in the drive.’

  Ethel’s face lit up with pleasure and interest.

  ‘Oh, how perfectly sweet of you,’ she said.

  ‘Have a look at them and see if you like them,’ he said.

  She walked over to the window. He remained in his armchair, watching the back of her Botticelli neck, lounging at his ease—the gracious, generous, all-providing male. She looked out. Sheep—hundreds and thousands of sheep—filled the drive, the lawn, the steps, the road outside.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr. Dewar casually, ‘do you like them?’

  She raised a hand to her head.

  ‘What are they for?’ she said faintly.

  ‘Pets,’ said Mr. Dewar.

  ‘Pets?’ she screamed. ‘I’ve nowhere to keep them. I’ve nothing to feed them on.’

  ‘Oh, they only want a few dog biscuits,’ said Mr. Dewar.

  ‘Dog biscuits?’

  Ethel stared at them wildly for another second, then collapsed on to the nearest chair in hysterics.

  Mrs. Brown had returned home before Ethel had emerged from her hysterics. Mrs. Brown had had literally to fight her way to her front door through a tightly packed mass of sheep. If Ethel hadn’t forestalled her she’d have had hysterics herself. Mr. Dewar was wildly apologetic. He couldn’t think what had happened. He couldn’t think how the dogs had got loose. He couldn’t think where the other dog was. He couldn’t think where the sheep had come from. The other dog arrived at the same moment as a crowd of indignant farmers demanding their sheep. It still had a gaiter hanging out of one corner of its mouth and a stocking out of the other. It was curveting coquettishly. It wanted someone else to play with it. William was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘WELL,’ SAID MR. DEWAR, ‘LOVELY PETS, AREN’T THEY?’

  ETHEL TURNED AND FACED HIM. ‘PETS!’ SHE SCREAMED. ‘I’VE NOWHERE TO KEEP THEM.’

  William came home about half an hour later. There were no signs of Mr. Dewar, or the dogs, or the sheep. Ethel and Mrs. Brown were in the drawing-room.

  ‘I shall never speak to him again,’ Ethel was saying. ‘I don’t care whether it was his fault or not. I shall always connect him with that horrible moment when I looked out and saw—it was like a nightmare—nothing but sheep as far as you can see. I’ve told him never to come to the house again.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d dare to when your father’s seen the state the grass is in. It looks like a ploughed field. You can hardly see where the beds begin, and everything in them’s broken and trodden down. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if your father didn’t talk of suing him.’

  ‘As if I’d want hundreds of sheep like that,’ said Ethel, who was still feeling distraught, and confused what Mr. Dewar had meant to do with what he had actually done. ‘Pets indeed!’

  ‘And Mrs. Beauchamp’s just rung up about the other dog,’ went on Mrs. Brown. ‘It evidently followed William to the dancing-class and tore up some stockings and things there. I don’t see how she can blame us for that. She was really very rude about it. I don’t think I shall let William go to any more of her dancing-classes.’

  William sat listening with an expressionless face, as if he didn’t know what they were talking about, but his heart was singing within him. No more dancing-classes . . . that man never coming to the house any more. A glorious birthday—except for one thing, of course. But j
ust then a housemaid came into the room.

  ‘Please, ’m’, it’s the man from the vet. with Master William’s dog. He says he’s quite all right now.’

  William leapt from the room, and he and Jumble fell upon each other ecstatically in the hall. The minute he saw Jumble, William knew that he could never have endured to have any other dog beside him.

  ‘I’ll take him for a little walk,’ he said; ‘I bet he wants one.’

  The joy of walking along the road again with his beloved Jumble at his heels was almost too great to be endured. He sauntered along, Jumble leaping up at him in tempestuous affection. His heart was full of creamy content.

  He’d got Jumble back. That man was never coming to the house any more.

  He wasn’t going to any more dancing-classes.

  It was the nicest birthday he’d ever had in his life.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE OUTLAWS AND THE HIDDEN TREASURE

  ‘I’m going to be a millionaire when I grow up,’ announced William.

  ‘Thought you were going to be a pirate,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Thought you were going to be a lion-tamer,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Thought you were going to be an engine-driver,’ said Henry.

  ‘I’m goin’ to be all those,’ said William very firmly, ‘but I’m goin’ to be a millionaire first.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Ginger said with a certain half-reluctant interest: ‘How’re you goin’ to get to be one?’

  ‘I’ve not thought about that part yet,’ said William. ‘You can’t think of everything all at once.’

  ‘What’re you goin’ to do when you are one, anyway?’ said Douglas.

  ‘I’ll d’vide it with you three to start with,’ said William generously. ‘We’ll all be millionaires.’

  The interest of the others became less impersonal.

  ‘Well,’ said Ginger thoughtfully, ‘well, some people do get to be millionaires. There’s no denyin’ that. An’ if some people do there’s no reason why we shun’t.’

  The logic of this seemed unanswerable.

  ‘What’ll we do with it when we’ve got it?’ said Douglas again.

  ‘We’ll buy a decent sort of house first,’ said William, ‘with no carpets or anythin’ like that in, so that they can’t say you’ve made ’em muddy with not wiping your boots, an’ we can break anythin’ we want to ’cause it won’t matter ’cause we can pay for it. I’m goin’ to break ten windows every day. I bet I’ll have more fun than anyone else in the world. I’m goin’ to keep a window mender in my house all the time mendin’ the windows ready for me to break ’em again. An’ I’m not goin’ to have any flowers or paths in the garden. I’m jus’ goin’ to let it go wild with long grass an’ trees. An’ I’m goin’ to buy a lot of wild animals from the Zoo to live in it—elephants an’ lions an’ tigers an’ giraffes an’ things like that. All livin’ wild in the garden—but we’ll tame them so’s they’ll be tame with us but wild with everyone else. I’m not goin’ to have any flowers in the garden. I never see any sense in flowers. An’ I’m goin’ to have a sweet shop in the house too so’s we can get sweets whenever we like. We’ll all be livin’ together in this house. An’ I’m goin’ to have a real train runnin’ through it all down the passages an’ through the rooms, with real coals, so’s we can drive it about when it’s too wet to go out to play with the wild animals. I’m goin’ to have switchbacks instead of staircases an’ I’m goin’ to have swings on the roof an’ I’m goin’ to have a water-chute from the roof right down to a pond in the garden. An’ I’m goin’ to have one room with insects all over it—snails an’ caterpillars crawlin’ all over the walls, so’s we can watch ’em. An’ they’ll look a jolly sight nicer than what wallpaper does. Seems queer to me,’ he ended meditatively, ‘that people have been buildin’ houses all these years an’ never thought of a few sens’ble things like that.’

  The Outlaws were silent. In imagination they were already living in this house of William’s dreams, driving the train along its corridors, shooting up and down the switchback staircase, hurtling down the water-shute, breaking the windows, playing with the wild animals . . .

  ‘An’ we’re goin’ to have decent food to eat too,’ went on William with great decision, ‘not the sort of stuff we have to eat now. We’ll have ice-cream an’ ginger beer an’ cream buns for every meal. Once we’re millionaires we won’t have any bread an’ butter or rice pudding ever again all the rest of our lives . . .’

  The other Outlaws, hypnotised by this picture of bliss, drew deep breaths of delight.

  It was Henry who came to earth first.

  ‘How’re we goin’ to start gettin’ the money?’ he said.

  William looked at him rather coldly. William disliked being dragged too abruptly out of his dream castles.

  ‘I wish you wun’t always be in such a hurry,’ he said. ‘There’s no sense in startin’ gettin’ the money till we know what we’re going’ to do with it, is there? There’s ever so many ways of gettin’ money. A rich aunt might die and leave me millions of pounds for one thing.’

  ‘Have you got a rich aunt?’ said Henry.

  ‘No,’ admitted William irritably, ‘an’ I wish you wun’t keep on arguin’. If you’re goin’ to keep on arguin’ all the time we shan’t get much pleasure out of the money when we get it. I can’t be thinkin’ of everythin’, at the same time, can I? I can’t be thinkin’ of how to get the money the same minute I’m thinkin’ what to do with it. I’ve only got one brain same as other people, haven’t I? I’ve told you there’s hundreds of ways of gettin’ to be millionaires. There—there’s—’ he pondered for a moment, then said with a flash of inspiration, ‘there’s findin’ hidden treasures. Yes.’ The idea, on further consideration, seemed an attractive one. ‘There’s findin’ hidden treasure . . . Why, when you think what a lot of pirates and smugglers there must have been, the earth must be full of hidden treasure if you know where to dig.’

  ‘Well, we digged for a whole afternoon once an’ didn’t find any,’ said Douglas.

  William gave a scornful laugh.

  ‘We din’ know where to look,’ he said. ‘Fancy anyone startin’ to dig for hidden treasure without findin’ a map first. It’s silly to start diggin’ for hidden treasure without a map.’

  ‘Well, how do you get a map?’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ said William again, irritably. ‘I can’t think of everything at the same minute, can I? I keep on telling you I’ve only got one brain. Anyway, it’s tea-time an’ I’m goin’ home to tea.’

  The thought of tea took the Outlaws’ minds from the prospect of their future career as millionaires. They scuffled joyfully homewards down the lane, playing the informal game they always played on those occasions—a game which had no rules, and in which the sole object was to push someone else into the ditch and avoid being pushed in yourself. William was neatly precipitated into it by a combined attack from Ginger and Douglas. He landed on his head, then sat up to remove dead leaves and grass from his mouth and eyes. Ginger and Douglas, standing on the bank, braced to resist the violent onset of an avenging William, were surprised to see him remain seated in the ditch bending over something he had taken from the hedge.

  ‘What is it?’ they said, forgetting hostilities, as they bent down to see what he was doing.

  ‘Bird’s nest,’ said William shortly.

  He was frowning thoughtfully as he pulled the nest gently and experimentally to pieces.

  A week or so ago a supercilious and æsthetically-minded friend of Robert’s, whom William cordially disliked, had been holding forth on the beauty and intricate workmanship of birds’ nests.

  ‘Which of us, for all our vaunted cleverness,’ he had said, ‘could make a bird’s nest?’

  And William, intensely irritated by his manner and phraseology, had said promptly, ‘I could.’

  Robert’s friend had adjusted his monocle, and, smiling his most superior smile, ha
d retorted:

  ‘On the day when you do, my dear boy, I promise you I’ll eat my hat.’

  Since then William had tried frequently and without success to make a bird’s nest. The mental picture of Robert’s æsthetic friend’s eating his hat was a very pleasant one.

  But even William had to admit that it was harder than it looked. He used just the same materials as the birds used—feathers, and dry grass, and moss, and even cheated a little by using glue as well, but he couldn’t make them stick together in the shape of a nest.

  He was examining it closely now as he took it to pieces.

  ‘What. I don’t see,’ he was saying, ‘is how they make the sides turn up. Seems to me . . .’

  His voice died away. From among the moss and feathers he had taken a small piece of crumpled paper. He was spreading it out and examining it. Then he raised a face alight with a sort of awful joy.

  ‘Crumbs!’ he breathed, ‘it’s a map of hidden treasure!’

  They tumbled down head over heels into the ditch with him, and four bullet heads battled with each other for a clearer view . . . The piece of paper was crumpled and the marks on it half obliterated, but even so it was quite plain.

  ‘It’s the map,’ said William, his voice still faint with excitement, ‘I bet it’s been in the bird’s nest for hundreds an’ hundreds of years. I bet it has. It looks old. Look at it. All yellow and old. I expect that the pirate what made it was caught by the police before he’d had time to give it to anyone, an’ so he jus’ threw it into the hedge when they were takin’ him off to prison an’ it’s been here ever since . . .’ He was examining it intently. ‘The cross is where the treasure is, of course. They always put a cross where the treasure is.’

  ‘But there’s hundreds of copper beeches an’ cedars in the world,’ said Douglas. ‘It would take us all our lives diggin’ between every copper beech an’ cedar in the world.’