William in Trouble (10 page)
Read William in Trouble Online
Authors: Richmal Crompton
‘You can’t fill a newspaper with sayin’ it’s rainin’,’ said Henry.
‘Newspapers don’ only say news,’ contributed Ginger with an air of deep wisdom, ‘they – they sort of say what they sort of – think of things.’
‘What sort of things?’ said Henry.
‘They sort of write about things they don’t like,’ said Ginger rather vaguely, ‘an’ about people doin’ things they don’t like.’
William brightened.
‘We could easy do that,’ he said. Then after a slight deliberation, pencil on insecurely moustached lip and head on one side: ‘Well, let’s all start writin’ about
people doin’ things we don’t like, and start now straight off.’
The Outlaws signified their assent.
There was silence – a silence broken only by the sound of the rain dripping on and through the roof of the old barn, and the groans of the Outlaws in mental travail.
Then suddenly through the silence came a shrill voice.
‘Hello, William, darling.’
He looked up with a groan.
Violet Elizabeth, gum-booted, macintoshed, sou’-westered, stood smiling happily in the doorway.
‘I made them let me come,’ she explained. ‘I wanted to find you all an’ play with you, tho I thcreamed an’ thcreamed an’
thcreamed
till they let
me.’
She beamed around triumphantly.
‘What you doing?’
‘We’re writing a newspaper an’ we don’t – want – girls,’ said William firmly.
‘But I want to write a newthpaper, too,’ pleaded Violet Elizabeth.
William scowled so fiercely that his moustache fell off. He picked it up and carefully adjusted it again.
‘Well, you’re not
going
to,’ he said, with an air of finality.
Violet Elizabeth’s blue eyes filled with tears. That was her first weapon. William, though he had no hopes of final victory, did not mean to be worsted by her first weapon.
‘I c’ write, too, I can,’ said Violet Elizabeth plaintively. ‘I c’ write newthpaperth, too, I can. I’m a
good
writer, I am. I can thpell, too, I
can.’
‘Well, you’re not going to
thpell
here,’ mimicked William heartlessly.
Violet Elizabeth dried her tears. She saw that they were useless and she did not believe in wasting her effects.
‘All right,’ she said calmly, ‘I’ll thcream then. I’ll thcream, an’ thcream, an’ thcream till I’m thick.’
More than once William had seen the small but redoubtable lady fulfil this threat quite literally. He watched her with fearsome awe. Violet Elizabeth with a look of fiendish determination upon
her angelic face opened her small mouth.
‘’Sall right,’ said William brokenly. ‘Come on – write if you want to.’
Violet Elizabeth came on. She wanted to. She found on the floor a piece of grimy paper and a pencil with a broken point, both of which had been discarded as unfit for use by the others, and sat
down beaming ecstatically on the ground by William. Violet Elizabeth adored William. She smiled around on them all.
‘What thall I write?’ she demanded happily.
‘Write anything,’ snapped William.
‘I’ll make up a croth-word puthle,’ she said brightly.
William threw her a glance over his unstable moustache. In spite of her general objectionableness she certainly had ideas.
‘What you doin’, William?’ she said sweetly.
‘I’m writing a serial,’ said William with a superior air.
He stooped to pick up his moustache and then tried to affix it again, but it seemed to have exhausted its adhesive powers, and after a few unsuccessful attempts, he slipped it surreptitiously
into his pocket.
‘Dothn’t it thtick any more?’ said Violet Elizabeth sympathetically, ‘I’m tho thorry.’
He disdained to answer.
‘You writing a therial, William?’ she said. ‘How nithe!’
‘People,’ said William ferociously, ‘what write newspapers aren’t allowed to talk.’
‘All right,’ said Violet Elizabeth sweetly. ‘I don’t mind.’
Again there was silence. All the Outlaws were working hard, with frowning brows, bitten pencils, dishevelled hair, agonised, grimy countenances.
‘I’ve finished my croth-word puthle,’ piped Violet Elizabeth.
‘You can’t have,’ said William in indignant surprise.
‘Well, I have, tho there!’ said Violet Elizabeth with spirit.
‘Let me look at it,’ he said sternly.
She passed it to him.
1 down – Wot you hav dropps of.
1 acros – Oppossit of cat.
William looked at this sternly for a long time.
‘Well, what is it?’ he said at last.
‘Can’t you gueth it, William?’ said Violet Elizabeth with triumph in her voice, ‘ith cough an’ dog. C-O-F – Cough.’
‘You don’t have drops of cough,’ said William scornfully.
‘Yeth, you do, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth. ‘You have cough dropth. I’ve had them. I’ve had cough dropth, I have.’
‘You don’t spellem like that, anyway,’ said William.
‘Well, how
do
you thpellem?’ said Violet Elizabeth.
William, who was rather hazy on the point, quickly changed the subject.
‘Well, what’s the opposite of a cat?’
‘Dog, William.’
‘Dog isn’t the opposite of cat.’
‘Yeth it ith, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth sweetly, ‘’cauth I
know
it ith.’
‘It’s a rotten puzzle,’ said William with contempt.
‘Ith not, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth unperturbed, ‘ith a nithe one. You ought to give a prithe of a hundred poundth for guething it like they do in
new-thpaperth.’
‘Well, I’m not
going
to,’ said William firmly.
‘Wish you two’d shut
up
,’ growled Ginger who was pulling his hair and chewing his pencil. ‘I can’t think.’
‘Shut up,’ said William to Violet Elizabeth.
‘All right, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth meekly. ‘I don’t mind.’ Violet Elizabeth, having gained her main object, could be disarmingly meek.
For some minutes there was silence broken only by the sighs and groans of the editorial staff.
The silence was finally broken by Violet Elizabeth who raised her voice again shrill and unabashed.
‘I don’t thee what good a newthpaper ith without any crimeth.’
They looked at her. She met their gaze unflinchingly and repeated her statement.
‘I don’t thee what good a newthpaper ith without any crimeth.’
‘I wish you’d stop int’ruptin’ an’ int’ruptin’ an’
int’ruptin
’,’ said William. ‘How d’you think we’re
goin’ to get any work done with you int’ruptin’ an’
int’ruptin
’?’ But he added, because her words had really intrigued him, ‘What d’you
mean sayin’ that a newspaper isn’t any good without crimes?’
‘Thereth alwayth crimeth in newthpaperth,’ said Violet Elizabeth, with that air of superior knowledge which the Outlaws always found so maddening in one of her extreme youth.
‘Thereth crimeth and polithe an’ people goin’ to prithon. If you’re goin’ to have a real newthpaper, thomebody ought to do a crime.’
‘All right,’ said William, nettled by this terrible child’s invasion of his editorial province. ‘All right. Go an’ do one then!’
Violet Elizabeth leapt to her feet.
‘Yeth, I will, William,’ she said sweetly. ‘I don’t mind.’
A sigh of relief went up as the small form disappeared into the rain. And again there was silence in the barn.
It was evident at last that most of the Outlaws had finished their tasks or, at any rate, that the first fine careless rapture of inspiration was failing. Ginger began to throw
mud pellets at Douglas while Henry began to direct, by means of various dams, the course of a small rivulet that was trickling down the barn floor, so that it should reach William.
‘IF YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE A REAL NEWTHPAPER,’ LISPED VIOLET ELIZABETH, ‘THOMEBODY OUGHT TO DO A CRIME.’
They all scuffled exuberantly for a few minutes, then William said:
‘Well, let’s c’lect the papers now an’ make up the newspaper.’
‘How much’re you goin’ to sell it for, William?’ said Ginger optimistically.
‘Who’d buy it, anyway?’ said Henry.
‘I bet anyone’d be
glad
to buy it,’ said William indignantly, ‘
a jolly
good newspaper like this!’
William collected the papers, perched himself upon the most important-looking packing-case, made a last unsuccessful attempt to put on his moustache, pulled up his wig (which was too big for
him), and began to read. It is perhaps unnecessary to remark that on all the Outlaws’ school reports on spelling, the comment ‘Poor’ occurred with monotonous regularity.
This was Henry’s contribution:
‘SWEETS.’
‘Something ought to be don about sweets. Even the cheepest sorts are too deer fancy paing a penny an ounce for quite ornery sweets when you only get tuppence a week
and an ounce lars no time. They ought to be made harder to so as they’d lars longer. Wot we all say is that somethin ought to be don about sweets fancy people letting this stat of things
go on and on and not doing something about it. The guvment ought to do something about it, they ought to give a subciddy to it like what they do to mins fancy them not doing wot we all says
is—’
Here, apparently, Henry’s inspiration had entirely given out.
Henry listened to William’s reading of his contribution with a blush of pride.
‘That’s
jolly
good,’ commented William.
‘Yes, that’s jolly good,’ the others agreed feelingly. The modest author’s blush deepened. ‘Yes, we’ll put that first.’
The next was Ginger’s. Ginger’s spelling was, perhaps, slightly above the Outlaw average, but his literary genius scorned such artificial aids as punctuation.
‘HOMEWORK.’
‘There ought not to be any homework in school and anyway what there is is too much just think of poor boys coming home from school eggsausted and weery and then having
to do homework latin and sums and french and gography and gomatry and a lot more just think of it and think what a lot old Maskie sets look at our fathers and grone-up brothers they don’t
have to do homework when they come home from work eggsausted and weery why should we its getting our brains abslutly wore out homework ought to be put a stop to by law and schoolmasters what
set it ought to be put in prissen and hung it ought to count same as cruelty thats what I think about homework.’
This effort was received by the Outlaws with enthusiasm.
William then took up Douglas’s composition. It was headed ‘Washing.’
‘When we considder washing,’ read William, ‘the question is one of – I can’t read this word.’
‘V-i-t-l,’ spelt Douglas, slightly annoyed. ‘Vitl.’
‘Vitl?’ said William. ‘What’s vitl? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Well, I
have
,’ said Douglas, ‘an’ if you keep stoppin’ jus’ because you’ve never heard of ornery English words I – I jus’
won’t write any more.’
‘All right,’ said William, unmoved by this threat, ‘don’t then.’ He proceeded with the article – ‘is one of vitl – if there
is
such a
word,’ he added doubtfully in parenthesis, ‘importence. Peple nowadays wash to much Mothers and Fathers think nothing of sending pore boys to wash both before and after meels sevverel
times a day it wares away the face and hands and if boys wasn’t made to wash sevverel times a day both before and after meals peple would be more helthy We know that – can’t read
this.’ This part of the article, in fact, had received the full impact of one of Ginger’s mud pellets. Douglas snatched the paper from him with a sigh of exasperation.
‘’Squite easy to read,’ he said sternly, ‘an’ you’re spoilin’ it all with not bein’ able to read ornery writin’ and understand ornery words.
People can’t keep what its about in their heads when you keep not bein’ able to read ornery writin’, I understand ornery words.’
He peered at the mud-encrusted paper on which his article was inscribed. ‘This is what it says. Savvidges don’t wash, and everyone knows that savvidges are helthy and if only pore
boys were not made to wash sevverel times a day both before and after meels they’d be as helthy as what savvidges are it would be nice if everyone in the world was blacks because then peple
culdn’t see when you were dirty and if blacks—’
