William in Trouble (3 page)

William shook hands with the benign old man, who then immediately went on with his conversation with William’s father.

‘Yes, we’ve got some most interesting exhibits – most interesting. Your valley has proved indeed a most fruitful field.’

‘When do you finish?’ asked Mr Brown.

‘On Saturday. The discoveries cannot, of course, be moved till next week. I shall send off the bulk of them on Friday, but the half-dozen or so more valuable ones I shall take up myself on
Saturday. The vicar has asked me to be present at the Village Social on Saturday evening and give the people a little talk with an exhibition of the chief discoveries before I take them away. It
will, of course, be highly educative for them. A few came to watch the excavations, but on the whole I was disappointed – disappointed. A good many boys came on Wednesday afternoon. It would
have been an experience – a cultural experience – that they would have remembered all their lives – but they soon tired of it and went over to another part of the valley to join
in some childish game, I suppose. The modern child lacks perseverance. I fear that it was one of those children who projected some missile across the field the evening before, which precipitated me
into the trench and obliged me to swallow a large amount of moist earth.’

William’s father threw a quick glance of suspicion at William, who had hastily composed his features into their expression of blank imbecility in readiness to receive that glance.

It was arranged, before William left the room, that the Professor was to dine at the Browns’ on Saturday evening before he went on to the Village Social.

William’s pride as an excavator was piqued. If that old man was going to give a show of his finds so would William. He lost no time in making preparations. The old barn
was jolly well as good as the Village Hall any day, and while the adults of the village were listening to the old man lecturing on his discoveries in the Village Hall, William decided that the
youth of the village should be listening to him lecturing on his discoveries in the old barn.

Moreover, he’d be able to prepare a few more ‘discoveries’. It was duly announced that William was going to hold a ‘show’ of his discoveries and lecture on them,
and it seemed as though the youth of the village meant to be there in force. Anything might happen at one of William’s ‘shows.’ They were things not be missed. They rarely turned
out as they were meant to turn out, and there was always a chance of their ending in a free fight.

Saturday evening arrived and Professor Porson arrived at the Browns’ house for dinner. He left his bag of ‘exhibits’ in the hall and went into the drawing-room. William never
scorned to learn from an expert. He wanted to do the thing properly. As soon as the drawing-room door shut, he hastened to examine his rival’s preparations. William’s own exhibits were
still in the basket in which he had brought them from the field. He examined the bag first of all. Why, his father had a brown leather bag just exactly like that. He’d ‘borrow’
his father’s bag for his things. He opened the bag. They looked a mouldy lot of things, anyway. His were a jolly sight more exciting.

But he noticed that to each of them was attached a number. All right. He’d stick numbers on all his things, too. He went upstairs, ‘borrowed’ his father’s leather bag
from his dressing-room, and some labels from his desk, and then set to work fixing the labels on to his exhibits.

Soon he had them all labelled and arranged in the brown bag. He took it downstairs (fortunately meeting no one on the way), put it in the hall near the old Professor’s, looked at it with
deep and burning pride, and then went to join his family.

William always insisted that he was not to blame for what happened.

He didn’t take the wrong bag. The old man did that. The old man went out of the house first and he took up the only brown bag he could see, which happened to be William’s
father’s bag ‘borrowed’ by William.

His own bag happened to be in the shadow of the hall table – exactly where he himself had put it, as William later repeatedly told his accusers. He insisted that he hadn’t touched
the old man’s bag, he’d only put his down near it, and he couldn’t help it if the old man took the wrong one. It wasn’t his fault. Well, and if his bag spoilt the old
man’s show, he could jolly well tell them the old man’s bag had jolly well spoilt his.

But all this comes afterwards. The Professor was rather late for his lecture, as the result of having talked too long to Mrs Brown on the subject of hypocausts in Roman villas. The conversation
had been very one-sided, because Mrs Brown was somewhat vague as to the exact meaning of the term. At the beginning of the conversation she thought that they were prehistoric animals, and at the
end had a vague idea that they had something to do with kitchen flues. But the professor had four cups of her excellent coffee, and drank them with leisurely enjoyment while he wandered from
hypocausts to tessellated pavements (Mrs Brown confused these with macadam pavement, and murmured that she understood that they were less dangerous for skidding), then, realising with a start that
he ought to have departed at least ten minutes ago, he uttered hasty thanks and apologies and farewells, seized a bag from the hall, and fled out into the night.

About five minutes later, William might have been observed to creep downstairs, stealthily, seize the remaining bag, and also flee out into the night.

The Professor hurried up on the stage and faced his audience. The Village Hall was crowded. A Whist Drive was to follow the Professor’s discourse, and upon the faces of
most members of his audience was an expression of suffering patience. After all, the expressions seemed to say, it would only last half-an-hour. They might as well go through with it.

The Professor scuttled across the stage to the table in the centre, where waited a lanky youth who was to help him to display the exhibits. The Professor placed his bag on to the table.

‘I must go and stand over there by the light,’ he said in a hasty whisper. ‘I’ll read my notes from there. The exhibits are numbered. All you have to do is to find the
number I call out and hold it up in sight of the audience while I read the appropriate remarks upon it. We are, I think, ready – I’ll go over to the light.’

There was a feeble burst of applause as the Professor cleared his throat, took up his position beneath the light at the side of the stage and unfolded his little sheaf of notes. He then adjusted
his spectacles. When wearing them he could barely discern an object two yards away. He held his notes close to his eyes and began to read.

‘Exhibit No. 1?’ he announced.

The lanky youth searched in the bag and finally, with an expression of interest and surprise, brought out the battered, grimy cloth goose which belonged to Henry’s sister. It certainly
bore a label on its neck with Number I inscribed upon it. He held it up to the audience. Its neck, which had lost most of its stuffing, hung limply on to one side. Its broken beak wobbled
pathetically.

‘This delightful little object,’ read the Professor, ‘must have been the pride of the Roman villa which enshrined it. We are lucky, indeed, to have secured it. It argues its
possessors to be people of taste and culture. Its exquisite grace and beauty prove it, I think, beyond doubt to be of Greek workmanship, and make it, I may tell you at once, the gem of the
collection.’

The hideous face of the goose upon its wobbling neck leered comically at the audience.

‘Observe,’ went on the lecturer, still reading from his notes, ‘observe the grace of posture, the clarity of outline, the whole dignity and beauty of this little
objet
d’art.
’

Someone applauded half-heartedly, and the audience seemed to begin to wake up. Some there were – earnest souls and seekers after knowledge – who at the Professor’s words
immediately gazed at Henry’s sister’s goose and conscientiously saw in it such an object of beauty as the Professor had described. Some there were who had a dim suspicion that something
must be wrong and looked bewildered. Some there were who had a sudden glorious conviction that something was wrong, and from their faces the expressions of boredom were disappearing as if by magic.
Some there were who had come to sleep and had already attained their object.

‘No. 2,’ called out the Professor.

The lanky youth examined the contents of the bag and at last brought out the toasting fork. There are some dainty toasting-forks that might grace a drawing-room, but this was not of that
fashion. It was unmistakably a kitchen toasting-fork made to fulfil its primary function of toasting rather than conform to any known standard of beauty. It was large and stout and rusty. It bore a
label marked 2. The lanky youth held it up.

‘THIS DELIGHTFUL OBJECT,’ READ THE PROFESSOR, ‘MUST HAVE BEEN THE PRIDE OF THE ROMAN VILLA WHICH ENSHRINED IT. ITS EXQUISITE GRACE AND BEAUTY MAKE IT THE GEM OF
THE COLLECTION.’

‘Exhibit No. 2,’ said the Professor, his notes held closely up to his spectacled eyes. ‘This little article of feminine adornment is a fibula or Roman brooch. It is, you will
remark, somewhat larger than the brooch of the modern daughter of Eve, and the reason for that is that it was used to pin the lady’s garment together upon the shoulder, and so a certain
strength and firmness was required. You will agree that its greater beauty of design is sufficient recompense for its larger size in comparison with its modern descendant. I want you to admire in
this the beauty of design and the exquisite workmanship.’

SOMEONE APPLAUDED HALF-HEARTEDLY, AND THE AUDIENCE SEEMED TO BEGIN TO WAKE UP.

These statements were received with ironical cheers by some of the audience, but the Professor was on the staff of one of our great Universities, and was quite accustomed to his statements being
received with ironical cheers.

The sleepers were awaking. Those who had realised that something was wrong were beginning thoroughly to enjoy the evening. Only the few honest seekers after culture were following the
Professor’s speech with earnest attention, looking with reverent eyes at Henry’s sister’s goose and Ginger’s kitchen’s toasting-fork, and seeing in them that strange
beauty that they tried so conscientiously to see in things they ought to see it in. They knew that to be really cultured you had to make yourself see beauty in things that you knew in your heart to
be ugly. Their only consolation for the effort this entailed was their feeling of superiority over the common herd that it left behind. . . .

‘Exhibit No. 3,’ said the Professor.

The lanky youth again dived into the bag. This time he brought out the old sardine tin. It was very earthy, but the paper bearing the name of a well-known manufacturer of sardines still adhered
to it. The audience gave a howl of joy. The devotees of culture in the front row turned round reproachfully.

‘Exhibit No. 3,’ repeated the Professor, quite unmoved by the commotion (he found it, as a matter of fact, rather soothing. He was not accustomed to lecturing to silent audiences).
‘This dainty piece of Castor pottery is the only piece, alas! that we have been able to obtain intact, but it is a very beautiful representation of its class. It—’

The Vicar was not present, but the curate was sitting in the front row. Up till now he had not been quite sure. He was young enough to wish to conceal his ignorance. He had, so to speak,
swallowed the goose and the toasting-fork. But he could not swallow the sardine tin. He got up and ascended the three steps that led to the platform.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he began.

The Professor did not like to be interrupted. He did not mind lecturing to an accompaniment of conversation or even of mirth. He was used to it. But he couldn’t have people coming up to
the platform to interrupt him.

‘Any questions,’ he said sharply, ‘can be asked at the end of the lecture.’

‘Yes, but, sir—’

The Professor grew still more annoyed.

‘If you want to see the exhibits more closely,’ he said, ‘you will have an opportunity at the end of the lecture. Now, kindly refrain from interrupting me any more. This
exhibit, ladies and gentlemen—’