William the Good (10 page)

‘Well, Well, well,’ he bellowed irritably, ‘what’s the matter with you, my little man?’

‘I’m lo-o-o-o-ost!’ sobbed his little man.

‘Oh, nonsense! nonsense!’ boomed the General. ‘Nonsense! We’ll soon find your home for you!’

‘Th-thank you,’ sobbed his little man, slipping his hand confidently in his. ‘Th-thank you.’

The General had not quite bargained for this. He had not meant to spend his evening finding a home for a lost boy, but fate seemed to have thrust the situation upon him.

‘Where do you think you live, my little man?’ he said testily.

‘D-down this road, I think,’ sobbed his little man.

In the gathering dusk he led his rescuer down the road.

‘Will you recognise the house when you see it?’ said the General.

‘Y-yes, I think so,’ sobbed the youngest Archer.

‘Well, stop crying, my good child, stop crying. Try to be a man. Crying won’t do any good.’

The youngest Archer stopped crying. He was glad to be told to stop crying. It is quite easy to sob convincingly for a minute or two but difficult to continue it indefinitely. He was afraid that
his performance was beginning to lack realism. At each house along the road the General said, ‘Do you think you live here, my little man?’ and his little man said with a break in his
voice of which he was secretly proud. ‘No – no. N-not here.’ Till they got to the large house at the end of the road, then, when the General said, ‘Do you live here, my
little man?’ the youngest Archer said, brightly, ‘Why, yes, I think – I
think
it’s here.’

They entered the wrought-iron gates together, and walked halfway up the drive. Then the youngest Archer gently withdrew his hand and disappeared in the dusk. The General stood gazing around, his
eyes and mouth wide open. The child had vanished as completely as if the earth had opened to swallow him up. Behind him he heard a clang of metal as the iron gates swung to. As he was standing
there, amazed and indecisive, the front door opened and a voice said:

‘That you, General?’

With relief the General recognised the voice of the friend with whom he was going to dine.

‘Found your way to the house all right?’ went on the friend.

‘Well, a curious chance led me here,’ said the General, ‘as a matter of fact, I’d no idea it was your house till you spoke. A little boy who said he was lost – but
he was probably playing a trick on me, the young ruffian. All boys are the same. Why, only the other day on the main road in broad daylight –’

Talking volubly he entered the hall with his host who shut the front door behind him.

When the General and the realistically sobbing youngest Archer had turned the bend of the road, the main body of Archers with their bows and arrows climbed out of the ditch and clustered round
William.

‘Well,’ said William, ‘I mus’ say he did that jolly well –
jolly
well— Now let’s sep’rate. Ginger an’ Douglas and half of you go
after them an’ me’n’ the others’ll go back an’ charge the soldiers an’ with him not bein’ there they won’t know what to do, an’ they’ll
have no one to lead ’em. Come on!’

With a flourish he led his half army away and Ginger and his little band set off cautiously down the road in the wake of the General and the youngest Archer.

Soon they saw the youngest Archer come out of the gates, shut them behind him, and run excitedly down the road to meet them.

‘I’ve shut him in,’ he said in a shrill whisper, ‘he’s in all right.’

They approached the iron gate and clustered around it, watching and listening. All was as still and silent as it had been when the youngest Archer left it. He could not know, of course, that he
had led the General to his host nor that in that brief interval during which he ran to greet and report to his friends, the General had been received and admitted by the master of the house. They
gazed and listened. All was still – all was silent – and it was growing dark.

‘He’s creepin’ about the garden, I bet,’ said the youngest Archer, ‘tryin’ to find a way out – Look, I believe I c’n see him. Over
there.’

The more imaginative of the Archers said that they thought they could see him too.

‘Well, half of us’ll stay here guardin’ this gate,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ shoot him if he tries to come out, an’ half go round to the back gate, an’
guard that an’ shoot him if he tries to come out. He won’t
dare
to try’n take refuge in the house, ’cause it’s Mr Hunter’s, an’ he’s a
magistrate an’ he’d know at once that he was a foreign enemy an’ put him in prison. He’ll either stay hidin’ in the garden or else try’n’ get out of this
gate when we’ll shoot him or else try’n’ get out of the other gate when the others’ll shoot him.’

The others, had already gone round to the side gate. Ginger and his little band pressed their noses against the wrought iron and gazed intently into the garden.

It was a windy night and black shadows moved with the swaying trees.

‘Look, there he is,’ Ginger would say, ‘crouchin’ down there! Look! He moved! D’you see!’

The Archers saw. With every minute that passed their imaginations grew keener and there was not one of them who did not distinctly see the dark shadow of General Bastow, creeping round the
corners of the house and beneath the trees.

‘He’s gettin’ desperater an’ desperater,’ said Ginger, ‘he daren’t go in ’cause he knows it’s a magistrate livin’ there, an’ he
daren’t come out ’cause he knows we’re waitin’ to shoot him, an’ he’s jus’ creepin’ about gettin’ desperater an’ desperater.’

It happened that in Mr Hunter’s garden was a pond much frequented by frogs. Suddenly through the night air came the sound of a frog’s croak – then another – then
another.

‘Listen to him moanin’ an’ groanin’,’ interpreted Ginger, ‘gettin’ desperater an’ desperater.’

There came the sound of a splash as a frog jumped into the pond and then silence.

‘He’s drowned himself,’ said Ginger in an awestruck voice. ‘He’s got desperater an’ desperater till he’s drowned himself.’

There was another silence.

‘He must have,’ said Ginger, ‘I don’t see him creepin’ about anywhere now, do you?’

The Archers didn’t.

‘Let’s go’n’ look,’ said a specially bold one.

They opened the gate cautiously and crept up the drive past the house to the pond. It was perhaps as well that they could not see through the dining-room blind the figure of their supposed
victim sitting at a table, stout and red-faced as ever, eating and drinking heartily.

They clustered round the pond. Dark shadows lay at the bottom of it.

‘I can see his dead body,’ said Ginger, ‘can’t you? Over there. Under that tree. Right at the bottom.’

The more imaginative Archers said they could see his dead body quite plainly. The less imaginative ones said that they thought they could.

‘Well, we’d better go,’ said Ginger. ‘Now he’s drowned hisself there’s no use stayin’ here keepin’ guard. Let’s go over the side gate
an’ go’n’ help William.’

Meanwhile William and his band had walked back to the field where the ‘foreign enemy’ was still entrenched. Just behind the trench was the high wall which bounded a
garden belonging to Miss Milton, an inveterate enemy of William’s. But – fortunately for William – Miss Milton was away on her holiday and a caretaker occupied the house. William
had little fear or respect for caretakers. He knew by long experience that they spent most of their time sleeping, were generally deaf and short-sighted and always short-winded. Heartened by this
thought he collected and addressed his followers.

‘
Now’s
the time for us to attack ’em,’ he said flourishing his bow and arrows in a warlike manner. ‘
Now’s
the time, while they haven’t got
their leader to tell ’em what to do. We’ll go into Miss Milton’s garden – careful, ’cause the old woman mightn’t be asleep, but anyway she’s sure to be
deaf so it’ll be all right. We’ll climb up behind the wall an’ lean over an’ attack ’em with the bows an’ arrers an’ I bet you – I jolly well bet you
anythin
you like that we put ’em to flight.’

The Archers cheered in shrill excitement and marched off gaily in their leader’s wake. William knew the best hole through the hedge into Miss Milton’s garden. William knew the best
holes through the hedges into most of his neighbours’ gardens. This was not unnatural as most of them had been made by the frequent furtive passage of William’s body. The other Archers
followed less nimbly being less accustomed than their leader to such means of entrance. In the garden William stood and looked about him. All was silent and empty. There was not even a serpent in
the garden in the shape of a gardener. And the windows at the back of the house were reassuringly blank. No suspicious caretaker’s face was visible at any of them. William heaved a sigh of
relief.

‘
That’s
all right,’ he said to his army. ‘Now come along –
creep
– to the bottom where the wall is.’

They crept to the bottom of the garden, William creeping at their head. They imitated faithfully William’s manner of creeping, but none of them approached William’s creeping form.
William was justly proud of his creeping. Not for nothing had he practised being a Red Indian and a robber chief and a cinema villain painstakingly and for many years. He had brought creeping to a
fine art. The finest villain on the cinema stage might have learnt something from William’s creeping. It was not perhaps a very unobtrusive mode of procedure but it was dramatic. He suited
his expression to his walk and assumed an air of furtive cunning. So wrapt up was he in fulfilling his role of creeper to his own satisfaction that it was not till he reached the bottom of the
garden that he realised that the wall was too high for them and that they could not possibly see over it, much less launch an attack from the top of it. The other Archers were taken aback, but
William assumed his stern frown of leadership.

‘We’ll jus’ have to get somethin’ to stand on,’ he hissed in a dramatic whisper.

A small Archer attempted a cheer but was muffled and cuffed by an older one.

So they set about finding something to stand on. Under William’s direction, and still creeping with melodramatic furtiveness to and fro, they fetched a table from a summer-house and put
upon it a row of large plant pots upside down. As this did not hold them all, others moved forward a cucumber frame, stood it up sideways and balanced plant pots upon it. Then laboriously and,
miraculously, without accident, they mounted the precarious erection and peeped cautiously over the top of the wall. Yes, the soldiers were still in the trench below them.

‘Get your bows an’ arrers ready,’ hissed William.

They got them ready as best they could, holding on to the wall with one hand while the erection of table and cucumber frame and plant pots rocked beneath them.

‘One, two, three –
fire!
’ said William.

They fired.

It is one thing to stand on firm ground and take careful aim at a target affixed to a tree near you and quite another to shoot over the top of a wall on to which you have to hold with your chin
while an unsteady erection of plant pots and cucumber frame rocks beneath you. Most of the arrows went rather wild. But it happened that as the grande finale of the manoeuvres the soldiers were
practising an ‘over the top’ charge out of the trench and across the field, and just as William’s band shot their arrows the officer gave the signal to charge. The soldiers
swarmed up out of the trench and began to rush across the field.

‘We’ve put ’em to flight,’ roared William triumphantly, ‘we’ve p—’

But at this point the whole erection of plant pots, table and cucumber frame collapsed with a terrific clatter of breaking glass and pots. Shaken and apprehensive the Archers picked themselves
up from the debris. Their apprehensions were not unfounded for immediately the kitchen door burst open and caretaker and gardener rushed out in avenging fury. The Archers, leaving their weapons
ignominiously behind in the enemies’ territory, scrambled precipitately through the hedge and were not a moment too soon. In fact the gardener seized the foot of the last Archer, who, with
great presence of mind, wriggled his foot out of his shoe and, leaving his shoe in the gardener’s hand, fled after the others down the road pursued by the shoe which the gardener flung after
them, and which hit William neatly on the head. William was just about to throw it back and see if he could hit the gardener equally neatly on the head when its owner, who had been trying to invent
a plausible explanation of its absence for his mother, snatched it from William’s hand and put it on as he ran. The Archers did not dare to go down the road again towards the field where the
irate gardener and caretaker presumably awaited them. So they marched down the road where they had left Ginger and his band, chanting paeans of victory. It was almost dark when they met Ginger and
his band. They also were coming down the road chanting paeans of victory.

‘ONE, TWO, THREE –
FIRE
!’ SAID WILLIAM. THEY FIRED.