William in Trouble (11 page)

Here interposed a hole where one of Ginger’s mud bullets had gone right through the paper – ‘if blacks – I can’t read what comes next,’ ended Douglas
thoughtlessly.

‘Yah!’ said William triumphantly.

‘’Tisn’t my writing I can’t read,’ said Douglas with spirit, ‘it’s the hole what Ginger made what I can’t read.’

‘Oh, is it?’ said William sarcastically. ‘Oh, no, it’s not your writing you can’t read, is it? Oh, no.’

They fell upon each other in furious combat, peace was not restored till they had both rolled into a puddle. Then, just as if nothing had happened, they returned to the editorial
packing-case.

‘That’s all,’ said William, ‘’cept her silly crossword puzzle that we won’t have in, and,’ with an air of mingled modesty and importance –
‘my serial. Shall I read my serial now?’

The Outlaws assented half-heartedly by means of grunts.

‘All right,’ said William with the air of one yielding reluctantly to overwhelming pressure. ‘All right – I don’t mind readin’ you a bit of it, anyway.
It’s called ‘The Black Death Gang.’’

He paused impressively.

‘Dun’t sound very excitin’,’ said Douglas. Douglas considered that William’s editorship had entirely murdered his own contribution.

William ignored him.

‘I’ll read the first chapter,’ he said. ‘It starts like this.’ William cleared his throat very elaborately and lowering his voice to what he fondly imagined was a
thrilling whisper but which in reality was a hoarse croak, began:

‘It was a pitch black dark night, the black harted villun John Smith was creepin’ along the shore with his pockets full of smuggeled beer and such like.’

‘Such like what?’ said Douglas.

‘Shut up,’ said William raising his voice from its hoarse croak to a note of stern threatening; then, sinking it again to its hoarse croak, ‘But in the cleer light of the moon
the brave gallunt manly hero Dick Jones saw the villun at his dedly work.’

‘Thought you said it was a pitch-dark night,’ said Douglas, rather unkindly. William, for the time being, ignored him and continued to read.

‘Ho, villun,’ said Dick Jones walking up to him in his brave manly gallunt heroick way. ‘Ho, villun, I know that you’re a sneeky meen deceetful crul pig. What dush thou
here?’

‘Why, was he dushing the beer or something?’ said Douglas.

William continued to ignore him.

‘He held out his gun as he spoke, holding it pointing strate at John Smith’s meen wicked branes but alas he had not notised that the villun carried a pistol in his mouth and at once
with a clever but villunus movement of his teeth the villun fired it strate at Dick Jones manly gallunt hart. Fortunately it missed his manly gallunt hart but it struck his rist that was holding
the gun strate at the villun’s branes. The gun fel and the hero mooning and stagering said brokenly through his teeth—’

‘Who’d broken his teeth?’ said Douglas.

Once more William ignored him.

‘Said brokenly through his teeth – to be continued in our next.’

‘What’d he say that for?’ said Ginger quite innocently.

Douglas uttered a loud and jeering laugh. William flung his masterpiece upon the ground and the second and long overdue combat took place. All joined in. It was still taking place when Violet
Elizabeth’s shrill young voice sounded from the distance, ‘Come an’ thee what
I’ve
done!’

A sudden silence fell upon the Outlaws. William and Douglas sat up and loosed their hold on each other. William dragged his tie round from somewhere at the back of his neck and Douglas wiped the
mud out of his eye with an unrecognisable handkerchief.

‘Oh,
crumbs
!’ they groaned simultaneously.

Violet Elizabeth had trotted happily down across the field over the stile and into the main road, intent upon a career of crime. In the road she found the young man with curly
hair. He was on his way to the Vicarage party. Beneath his macintosh he was dressed with scrupulous care. His heart was singing at the thought of meeting his adored. In his pocket-book reposed
those snapshots of Ethel which he had managed to take without her knowledge. He did not like to be parted from them for one second.

In fact, every now and then he stopped, opened the pocket case and threw a surreptitious glance at them. They made his heart flutter afresh each time. Of course, if they got
really
friendly this afternoon, he’d show them to her and then she’d
guess.
He walked rather slowly. He had a suspicion that he was far too early and though be did not want to miss one
possible minute of his beloved’s company, still he did not want to disgrace himself by appearing ignorant of the requirements of social etiquette. She might think that he was ill-bred if he
arrived too early. She might think that he was the sort of person who doesn’t know how to do the right thing. And the very idea of that turned him hot and cold. Dante and Beatrice – the
two cases were curiously alike, only Dante’s love for Beatrice was a pale and commonplace thing compared with his love for the beautiful unknown. Perhaps if they got
really
friendly
this afternoon, he’d just murmur, ‘Beatrice!’ to her, and perhaps she’d understand.

A small child in gum-boots, macintosh and sou’wester was coming down the road. She seemed to be looking about her expectantly. She was rather an engaging-looking child. The young man
smiled at her.

The young man liked children, chiefly because he had not met many. The little girl looked up at him with a confiding smile. The young man slowed down. The church clock struck half-past three,
and the Vicarage was only a few minutes’ walk away. Oh, most decidedly too early to go out to tea anywhere as yet.

‘Hello,’ said the little girl with a bright smile.

‘Hello,’ he replied.

He’d while away a few minutes with this friendly child. In about ten minutes he might go on walking very slowly. Quarter-to-four would be all right.

‘Pleath thit on the thtile with me,’ said the little girl.

He was rather flattered. There must be something about him that appealed to children, and everyone said that children were good judges of character. He wished that
she
could see this
little child turning to him with such flattering friendliness and confidence.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s.’

The stile was very wet but they both wore macintoshes. They perched there side by side in the rain.

The child did not speak. The young man felt that he ought to say something. He’d always had a vague idea that he was ‘good with children’ though he’d as yet met few
children to try it on. He felt that this silence didn’t do him credit.

‘It’s very wet today, isn’t it?’ he said brightly.

‘Yeth,’ said the child simply.

It had not been, he felt, a happy remark. It was the sort of remark that anyone might have made to anyone. It was not a remark that if
she
had overheard it would have riveted her
attention on to him and remained for ever in her heart, a precious memory. With vague recollections of
Helen’s Babies
in his mind, he took out his watch.

‘Would you like to see the wheels go round?’ he said.

He could not help having an uneasy suspicion that though slightly better than ‘It’s a very wet day, isn’t it?’ still it lacked originality. The bright child, however,
said, ‘Yeth, pleath,’ and seemed quite pleased. Perhaps it had not read
Helen’s Babies.

He took out his watch and opened the back of it.

‘The wheelth aren’t going round,’ said the child dispassionately.

He made an exclamation of annoyance. Of course – he forgot he’d broken the mainspring of the beastly thing last night. He put it back in his pocket.

‘Thow me your money,’ said the child imperiously.

The young man obligingly took out his pocket-book. He was rather glad of the excuse. It was quite five minutes since he had looked at the most engaging snapshot of
her
–
three-quarter back view, just as she was turning out of her garden gate into the road. He looked at it now.

‘There’s my money,’ he said kindly, ‘these are one-pound notes, and these are ten-shilling notes, and this is a five-pound note, and these,’ blushing, ‘are
photographs of a most beautiful—’

He grabbed at the stile, nearly overbalancing. The small child had seized his pocket-book and was already disappearing round the bend of the road. Hastily reconstructing his ideas of innocent
childhood, the young man followed in swift pursuit.

He caught her up at the end of the road and held her arm.

‘Give me that back,’ he said sternly.

She uttered a scream that turned the young man’s blood cold. Then she stopped screaming and said quite composedly:

‘I’ll thcream again if you don’t let go’f my arm!’

Broken in spirit by that terrible scream, the young man let go of her arm. He knew that another scream like that would have shattered his nerve completely.

Besides, anyone hearing it would think that he was murdering the poor child. Suppose – the perspiration stood out on his brow at the thought – suppose
she
came along and heard
the child scream like that and saw him holding her arm. She’d think – Heavens! she’d think he was hurting her.

Then he saw that as he was standing motionless in the grip of that nightmare thought, the child, still firmly clasping his precious pocket-book, was wriggling her small form through a very
inadequate gap in the hedge and was now practically in the field beyond it.

One glance at the gap told the young man that it would not admit his more solid person, so he doubled quickly round to the stile. The small child was running up the field towards an old
tumble-down barn at the further end. The young man followed, not daring again to lay hands on her, but keeping his pocket-book anxiously in view.

‘Come an’ thee what
I’ve done
,’ shrilled the young person.

He followed her into the old barn. Four boys in various stages of dishevelment were engaged in a rough-and-tumble fight on the muddy floor. One of the boys wore a badly fitting and rather mangy
wig hanging over one ear. The young man recognised him with a leap of his heart as
her
brother. Pieces of paper, evidently laboriously written upon, were trodden into the mud around the
battlefield. The four boys sat up and gaped at the two intruders. The small child waved aloft the pocket-book triumphantly.

‘I’ve thtolen it,’ she said, ‘I’m a crim’nal.’

Proudly she laid it in the hands of the boy with the ill-fitting wig.

‘Tell him I thtole it,’ she said to the young man.

The young man rubbed his eyes.

‘Am I mad?’ he said, ‘or am I dreaming?’

The small child had taken affairs into her own hands.

‘You’ve got to be the judge,’ she said to William, ‘and you,’ to the young man: ‘Tellem how I thtole your purth an’ put me in prithon an’ put all
about it in the newthpaper an’ my photograph. You
muth
have my photograph in the newthpaper, cauth they alwayth do with crim’nals.’

Calmly she surveyed them. They gaped at her.

She laid down the pocket-book on the largest packing-case and opened it. The photograph of Ethel fell out.

Suddenly someone appeared in the doorway.

To the young man it was as if a radiant goddess had stepped down from Olympus. The barn was full of heavenly light. He went purple to the roots of his ears.

To William it was as if a sister whom he considered to be elderly and disagreeable and entirely devoid of all personal charm had appeared. He groaned.

‘Oh, William, you are an
awful
boy,’ said Ethel, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Mother says have you been out in all this rain and if you have, go
straight
in and change.’

‘Well, I haven’t,’ said William. ‘I’ve been shelt’rin’ here.’

‘You do look
awful
,’ said Ethel, gazing at him despairingly.

Then her glance fell upon the open pocket-book, upon the packing-case and upon her photographs.

‘Who – who took these?’ she said in quite a different tone.

‘I – I did,’ stammered the young man, who was now a dull petunia shade.

‘But – why?’ said Ethel in a very sweet voice.

Really, she did not need to ask why. The soulful look of the young man’s eye and the petunia shade of the young man’s face told her why.

‘I say, it’s stopped raining,’ said Ginger joyously from the doorway. ‘Let’s go out.’

‘Why?’ said Ethel demurely, with curling lashes lowered over peachlike cheek, ‘why did you only take me side and back view? I look nicer from the front.’

The young man gulped. Emotion gave him the appearance of one about to have an apoplectic fit.

‘M-m-m-may I take you from the front?’ he said.

Ethel took up the snapshots again.

‘I think you’d better,’ she said, ‘to make a complete set. We’d have to find a suitable background, of course.’

The young man conquered his embarrassment and took a bold plunge.

‘The background I’d like,’ he said, ‘is Fairy Glen. We’d pass the Inn on the way and I’d call for my camera. It’s stopped raining and the sun’s
coming out. Will you?’

Fairy Glen was at least two miles away.

Ethel’s blue eyes danced and her pretty lips quivered.

‘Why not?’ she said.