William the Good (24 page)

William was taken aback till he realised that the Great Man had passed out of sight. Then he said, with something of relief: ‘Well, I can’t, can I? Considerin’ he’s
gone!’ and added with withering sarcasm, ‘if you’ll kin’ly tell me how to shoot the hat off a person’s head what isn’t here I’ll be very glad
to—’

But at that moment the figure of the Great Man was seen returning down the lane. He had only been to the post. The spirit of adventure – that will-o’-the-wisp that had so often led
the Outlaws astray but that they never could resist – entered into them.

‘Go on, William,’ urged Ginger. ‘Have a shot at his hat an’ see if you c’n knock it off. It won’t matter. It’ll only go “ping” against his
hat and we’ll be across the next field before he knows what’s happened. He’ll never know it was us. Go on, William. Have a shot at his hat.’

The figure was abreast of them now on the other side of the hedge.

William, his eyes gleaming with excitement, his face set and stern with determination, raised the catapult and had a shot at the Great Man’s hat.

He had been unduly optimistic. He did not shoot the little hat off the Great Man’s head as he had boasted he could. Instead he caught the Great Man himself just above his ear. It was, on
the whole, not a very bad shot, but William did not stop to point that out to his friends. A dried pea emitted from a catapult can hurt more than those who have never received it have any
conception of.

For a minute the Great Man was literally paralysed by the shock. Then he uttered a roar of pain, fury and outraged dignity and started forward, lusting for the blood of his assailant. The
dastardly attack had seemed to come from the direction of the hedge. He flung himself in that direction. He could see three boys fleeing over the field and then – clutching desperately at the
hedge above him – a fourth boy rolled back into the ditch. The Great Man pounced upon him. It was William, who had caught his foot while scrambling through the hedge, and lost his balance. He
bore in his hand the evidence of his guilt in the shape of Ginger’s catapult. It was useless for him to deny that he was the perpetrator of the outrage – useless even to plead the
analogy of William Tell and the apple.

The Great Man had mastered the first violence of his fury. With a great effort he choked back several expressions which, though forcible, were unsuited for the ears of the young, and fixing
William with a stern eye said severely: ‘I see by your cap that you attend the school at which I am to lecture tomorrow. After this outrage I shall not, of course, ask for the usual
half-holiday, and I shall request your headmaster to inform your schoolfellows of the reason why no half-holiday is accorded this year.’

Then – stern, dignified, an impressive figure were it not for the smallness of his hat, which the shock of William’s attack had further knocked slightly crooked – the Great Man
passed down the lane.

William, with pale, set face, returned to his waiting friends.

‘
Well!
’ he said succinctly. ‘That’s done it. That’s jolly well
done
it.’ Then, savagely, to Ginger: ‘It’s all your fault, taking
your silly ole catapult about with you wherever you go an’ gettin’ people to shoot at other people all over the place.
Now
look what you’ve done.’

‘Huh! I like that!’ said Ginger with spirit. ‘I like that. What about
you
falling about in ditches? If
you’d
not gone fallin’ about in ditches
he’d never’ve known about it. Huh! A nice Red Indian
you’d
make fallin’ about in ditches. An’, anyway, you were wrong an’ I was right. You
couldn’t
shoot his hat off without touchin’ his face. I
said
you couldn’t.’

He ended on a high-pitched note of jeering triumph which the proud spirit of William found intolerable. They hurled themselves upon each other in deadly combat, which was, however, terminated by
Henry who enquired with innocent curiosity:

‘What did he say, anyway?’

This suddenly reminded William of what the Great Man had said, and his fighting spirit died abruptly.

He sat down on the ground with Ginger on top of him and told them forlornly what the Great Man had said.

On hearing it Ginger’s fighting spirit, too, died, and he got off William and sat in the road beside him.

‘
Crumbs!
’ he said in an awestruck voice of horror.

It was characteristic of the Outlaws that all their mutual recrimination promptly ceased at this news.

This was no mere misfortune. This was tragedy, and a tragedy in which they must all stand together. In the persecution from all ranks of their schoolfellows that would inevitably follow, they
must identify themselves with William, their leader; they must share with him the ostracism, and worse than ostracism, that the Great Man’s sentence would bring upon them.

‘
Crumbs
,’ breathed Henry, voicing their feelings, ‘won’t they just be
mad!
’

‘I’ll tell ’em I did it,’ said William in a faint voice.

‘You didn’t do it,’ said Ginger aggressively. ‘Whose catapult was it, anyway? An’ who dared you to?’

‘An’ whose pea was it?’ put in Douglas with equal indignation.

‘I did it, anyway,’ said William. ‘It was my fault. I’ll tell ’em so.’

‘It was me just as much as you,’ said Ginger with spirit.

‘It wasn’t.’

‘It was.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘It was.’

‘It wasn’t.’

This argument, like the previous one, might have developed into a healthy physical contest had not Henry said slowly:

‘He can’t ’ve told
him
yet ’cause
he’s
gone up to London to choose prizes an’ I heard someone say he wun’t be back till the last train
tonight.’

There was a silence. Through four grimy, freckled, disconsolate faces shone four sudden gleams of hope.

‘P’raps if you told him you were sorry an’ ask him not to –’ suggested Douglas.

William leapt to his feet with alacrity.

‘Come on,’ he said tersely and followed by his faithful band made his way across the field through the hedge and down the lane that led to the headmaster’s house.

He performed an imperious and very lengthy tattoo on the knocker – a tattoo meant to be indicative of the strength and durability of his repentance.

A pretty housemaid appeared.

She saw one small and very dirty boy on the doorstep and three other small and very dirty boys hanging over the gate. She eyed them with disfavour. She disliked small and dirty boys.

‘We’re not deaf,’ she said haughtily.

‘Aren’t you?’ said William with polite interest. ‘I’m not either. But I’ve gotter naunt what’s so deaf that—’

‘What do you want?’ she snapped.

William, pulled up in this pleasant chat with the pretty housemaid, remembered what he wanted and said gloomily: ‘I want to speak to the man what’s staying with the
headmaster.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘William Brown.’

‘Well, stay there, and I’ll ask him.’

‘All right,’ said William preparing to enter.

She pushed him back.

‘I’m not having them boots in my hall,’ she said with passionate indignation, and went in, closing the door upon him.

William looked down at his boots with a puzzled frown and then called anxiously to his friends over the gate:

‘There’s nothing wrong with my boots, is there?’

They looked at William’s boots, large, familiar, mud-encrusted.

‘No,’ they said, ‘they’re quite all right.’

‘What’s she talkin’ about, then?’ said William.

‘P’raps she means they’re
muddy
’ suggested Douglas tentatively.

‘Well, that’s what boots are
for
, i’n’t it?’ said William sternly.

Just then the housemaid returned and opened the door.

‘He says if you’re the boy who’s just shot a catapult at him, certainly not.’

It was quite obvious from William’s expression that he
was
the boy.

‘Well, what I wanted to say was that—’

Slowly but very firmly she was closing the door upon him. William planted one of his boots in the track of the closing door.

‘Look here!’ he said desperately. ‘Tell him he can shoot a catapult at me. I don’t mind. Look here. Tell him I’ll put an apple on my head, an’ he
can—’

Again the housemaid indignantly pushed him back.

‘Look at my
step
!’ she said fiercely as she closed the door. ‘
You
and your
boots
!’

The door was quite closed now.

William opened the flap of the letter-box with his hand and said hoarsely:

‘Tell him that it was all because of his hat. Say that—’

But she’d disappeared and it was obvious that she didn’t intend to return.

He rejoined his friends at the gate.

‘’S no good,’ he said dejectedly. ‘She won’t even listen to me. Jus’ keeps on talkin’ about my boots. They’re jus’ the same as anyone
else’s boots, as far as I can see. Anyway, what’re we goin’ to do now?’

‘Let’s find out what he’s doin’ tonight,’ said Ginger. ‘If he’s goin’ anywhere you might meet him on the way an’ see if he’ll listen
to you.’

‘Yes,’ said William, ‘that’s a jolly good idea, but – how’re we goin’ to find out what he’s doin’ tonight?’

‘It’s after tea-time,’ announced Henry rather pathetically. (Henry hated missing his meals.) ‘I votes we go home to tea now and then come back an’ talk it over some
more’

WILLIAM PLANTED HIS FOOT IN THE TRACK OF THE CLOSING DOOR. ‘LOOK HERE!’ HE SAID DESPERATELY. ‘TELL HIM HE CAN SHOOT A CATAPULT AT ME. I DON’T
MIND!’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s goin’ to be rather hard,’ said William still dejectedly, ‘findin’ out what he’s goin’ to do
tonight.’

But it turned out to be quite simple.

While Douglas was having tea he heard his father say to his mother that he’d heard that the headmaster’s cousin was going to dine with the Carroways, as the headmaster had gone to
London on business and wasn’t coming back till the last train.

Douglas joyfully took this news back to the meeting of the Outlaws.

They gave him a hearty cheer and William began to look as if the whole thing was now settled.

‘
That’s
all right,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll go ’n’ stay by the front gate of the Carroway house till he comes along and then I’ll plead with
him.’

They looked at him rather doubtfully. Somehow they couldn’t visualise William pleading. William defying, William commanding, were familiar figures, but they had never yet seen William
pleading.

‘We’ll come along with you,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ help you.’

‘All right,’ said William cheerfully. ‘We’ll all plead. It oughter melt him all right,
four
people pleadin’. What time ought we to be there?’

‘I ’spect they have dinner at half-past seven,’ said Ginger.

‘Let’s be there at quarter past six so’s to be quite sure not to miss him.’

They reached the Carroways’ at a quarter past six and took up their posts by the gate. So far, so good. All would, in fact, have gone splendidly had not a circus happened
to be in the act of unloading itself in the field next to the Carroways’ house. The Outlaws caught a glimpse of tents, vans, cages. They heard the sound of a muffled roar, they distinctly saw
an elephant. It was more than flesh and blood could stand.

‘Well,’ said William carelessly, ‘we’ve got here too early an’ it’s no good wastin’ time hangin’ about. Let’s jus’ go’n wait in
the field jus’ for five minutes or so. That can’t do any harm.’

Douglas, who was of a cautious disposition, demurred, but his protests were half-hearted and already the others were through the hedge and making their way to the little crowd that surrounded
the caravans and cages. It was beyond their wildest dreams. There was a lion. There was a tiger. There was an elephant. There was a bear. There were several monkeys. They saw a monkey bite a piece
out of someone’s trousers. William laughed at this so much that they thought he was going to be sick. The bear sat on its hind legs and flapped its arms. The lion roared. The elephant took
someone’s hat off. The whole thing was beyond description.

The Outlaws wandered about, getting in everyone’s way, putting their noses through the bars of every cage, miraculously escaping sudden death at every turn. It was when William thought
that they must have been there nearly five minutes that they asked the time and found that it was twenty past seven. They had been there over an hour.

‘
Crumbs!
’ they ejaculated in dismay, and William said slowly:

‘Seems impossible to me. P’raps,’ with sudden hope, ‘their clocks are wrong.’

But their clocks weren’t wrong. They asked four or five other men and were impatiently given the same reply.

Aghast, they wandered back to the gate where they had meant to accost the Great Man, but they realised that it was no use waiting there now. He would certainly have arrived by now.

‘Let’s go up the drive,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ see if we c’n see him.’

They crept up the drive. Dusk was falling quickly and the downstairs rooms were lit up. The drawing-room curtains were not drawn and the Outlaws were rewarded by the sight of the Great Man
standing on the hearthrug talking to Mr and Mrs Carroway.