William the Good (23 page)

William sat in his bedroom gazing at the stupendous gift, torn between ecstasy at its possession, and a hopeless realisation of the impossibility of conferring upon Robert any comparable
benefit. He rose, put on his Red Indian suit, tied on the wonderful feather head-band, and, drunk with pride and rapture, swaggered to and fro before his looking-glass. Then he sat down on the
floor, and chin in hand, brows drawn into a fierce frown, he thought and thought and thought and thought. What could he give to Robert, what could he do for Robert, to win back his independence of
spirit? No light broke in upon the problem. He rose and went to the window. There below him in the garden walked Uncle Frederick with Robert and Flavia upon either side. Uncle Frederick looked very
happy. He was gesticulating forcibly as he talked. He was talking about his set of 1923 Esthonia Triangular, overprinted and surcharged. Scarce.

Robert walked dejectedly, casting alternate glances of fury at Uncle Frederick and languishment at Flavia. Flavia walked with eyes demurely downcast, occasionally returning Robert’s gaze.
Emboldened by this, Robert suggested that Uncle Frederick should sit down and rest upon the garden seat and that he and Flavia should have a little game of tennis on the hard court. Uncle Frederick
said that he’d love a little game of tennis and that he’d take them both on and beat them both hollow. He went in to change his shoes and dejectedly they followed.

William returned to his seat on the floor and again contorted his freckled countenance into an expression indicative of deep thought. Then suddenly a light shone through it. He rose to his feet
and, still wearing his headdress, performed a dance of victory, snatching up a toothbrush to wave in lieu of a spear.

He knew now what he was going to do for Robert.

It was the next evening. Flavia had gone out to tea with Mrs Brown. Robert had very, very moodily gone off for a walk by himself. Uncle Frederick was sitting alone in the dining-room reading the
paper.

He was interrupted by the entry of William – William wearing that guileless expression of imbecility that to those who knew him well betokened danger. Uncle Frederick, however, was not
among those who knew William well. William sat and looked into the fire in silence, a far-away, wistful expression upon his face. This attracted Uncle Frederick’s attention.

‘A penny for your thoughts, my little man.’

William with an effort concealed his indignation at being thus addressed, and still guilelessly, wistfully replied:

‘I was thinking about the wireless Robert’s made. It’s such a beautiful one.’

‘Ah!’ said Uncle Frederick pleasantly, ‘I must certainly hear that wireless.’

‘Would you like to go and hear it now,’ said William. ‘I think that Robert would be so pleased when he came in to know that you’d been listening to his wireless.’
Again Uncle Frederick was vaguely touched by this.

‘Then certainly we must go and listen to it, my little man,’ he said.

‘Will you come now?’ said his little man, rising and holding out a grubby hand confidingly.

Uncle Frederick was very, very comfortable, but he could not resist the invitation of that outstretched grubby hand. He rose reluctantly, took it somewhat gingerly, saying heartily:

‘Oh, yes, we must certainly hear this wireless. Just for a few minutes, of course. A few minutes, I think, will be enough.’

He threw a longing glance at the fire and his newspaper, then yielded to the firm pressure of William’s hand and allowed himself to be drawn from the room.

‘Here it is,’ said William. ‘You just turn this,’ and William, secure in the knowledge that no programme was going on at the moment, made the reaction handle turn a
complete circuit till it was where it had been to start with.

‘It will begin in a few minutes now,’ he said. ‘Only I’ve just got to go an’ do some lessons. Jus’ wait a minute an’ it will come. I’m sorry I
can’t wait.’

Uncle Frederick, sitting in front of Robert’s wireless which was just in front of the drawn window curtains, waited just a minute or two – waited in fact just long enough for William
to run out of the side door round the house, and to put in his head at the open window of the morning-room behind the curtain. Then Uncle Frederick’s patience was rewarded. A deep bass voice
(which those who knew William better might have recognised as one of his ‘disguised’ voices) began to speak. It said:

‘HERE’S ROBERT’S WIRELESS SET, UNCLE FREDERICK’ SAID WILLIAM. ‘YOU JUST TURN THIS – THERE!’

‘London callin’ the British Isles. There is a ridge of high pressure movin’ eastwards over England, together with a secondary anticyclone deepenin’ over Scandinavia.

‘There is one S.O.S. Will Mr Frederick Brown kindly go home at once as his stamp collection has been stolen. It—’

But Uncle Frederick could not wait for more. He leapt from his seat, flew up to his bedroom, hastily packed a bag and, hurling an incoherent message at William, rushed forth into the night.

William, looking quite expressionless, explained matters as best he could to his bewildered family on their return.

‘Well, he just said he’d had bad news and had to go home. Had he had a telegram? I dunno. P’raps he had. No, I didn’t see one. No, he didn’t say what sort of bad
news. Something about something stolen. Had he been rung up? I dunno. P’raps he had. I wasn’t at home in the afternoon. Well, he’d just gone into the morning-room to listen to
Robert’s wireless. I wasn’t there with him. I just turned it on for him to listen and then I went out. I
keep tellin
’ you I wasn’t there with him. He came
rushin’ out an’ said he’d gotter go home. No, why should I know anythin’ about it? I
keep tellin
’ you. He went into the mornin’-room to listen to
Robert’s wireless and he came rushin’ out and went home. Well, how should I know anythin’ about it, more’n anyone else?’

Robert’s expression throughout the recital had been gradually brightening till it was now a veritable glow. He looked at Flavia.

‘Would you care to come out for a little stroll in the garden, Flavia?’ he said. ‘It’s quite a nice evening.’

And Flavia dimpling demurely murmured: ‘Yes, I’d love it.’

The next morning there arrived a long letter from Uncle Frederick. He told them about the message he’d received by wireless and how he’d been assured by all his friends that no such
message had been sent by wireless, and that no such message could have been sent by wireless. They all said that he must have dropped asleep and dreamed it, and that was the explanation that he had
finally adopted. He must have dropped into a doze while he sat waiting for the wireless to begin and dreamed it. Anyway, he thought that he’d stay at home now and not return for the remainder
of his visit as the incident had made him nervous. Dreams were, he was sure, often sent for a warning and he thought he’d like to be on the spot for the next few months in case there were any
thieves about who had their eye on his stamp collection. He was afraid that his two young friends would miss him very much, but he was sure they would forgive him and understand.

It was evening. All was well. An atmosphere of peace hung over the house. Robert and Flavia had packed a picnic basket and gone off for the day.

William, wearing his new and magnificent headgear, was demonstrating his freshly regained independence of spirit by erecting a cunning arrangement above Robert’s bedroom door, whereby when
Robert opened it a pillow would drop down and, he hoped, completely envelop Robert’s head.

CHAPTER 8

W
ILLIAM and the other Outlaws sat in the old bam discussing the latest tragedy that had befallen them. Tragedies, of course, fell thick and fast
upon the Outlaws’ path through life. They waged ceaseless warfare upon the grown-up world around them and, as was natural, they frequently came off second best. But this was a special
tragedy. Not only was it a grown-up victory, but it was a victory that bade fair to make the Outlaws’ daily lives a perpetual martyrdom at the hands of their contemporaries.

Usually, the compensating element of a grown-up victory was the fact that it concentrated upon them the sympathy of their associates – a sympathy that not infrequently found tangible form
in the shape of bulls-eyes or conkers. But this grown-up victory was a victory that promised to make the lives of the early Christian martyrs beds of roses in comparison with those of the
Outlaws.

The way it happened was this.

The headmaster of William’s school had a cousin who was a Great Man, and once a year the cousin who was a Great Man came down to the school to address the boys of William’s school.
He possessed, presumably, gifts of a high and noble order, otherwise he would not have been a Great Man, but whatever those gifts may have been they did not include that of holding the interest of
small boys. Only the front two rows could ever hear anything he said and not even the front two rows (carefully chosen by the headmaster for their – misleadingly – intelligent
expressions) could understand it.

It might be gathered from this that the annual visit of the Great Man was looked forward to without enthusiasm, but this was not the case, for always at the end of the lecture he turned to the
headmaster and asked that the boys might be given a half-holiday the next day, and the headmaster, after simulating first of all intense surprise and then doubt and hesitation, while the rows of
small boys watched him in breathless suspense, their eyes nearly dropping out of their heads, finally said that they might. Then someone called for three cheers for the Great Man, and the roof
quivered. The Great Man was always much gratified by his reception. He always said afterwards that it was delightful to see young boys taking a deep and intelligent interest in such subjects as
Astronomy and Egyptology and Geology, and that the cheers with which they greeted the close of the lecture left him with no doubt at all of their appreciation of it. The school in general went very
carefully the day before the lecture because it was known that the headmaster disliked granting the half-holiday and with the meanness of his kind would welcome with hidden joy and triumph any
excuse for cancelling it. The Great Man’s visit was a nervous strain on the headmaster, and his temper was never at its best just then. To begin with, it was an exhausting and nerve-racking
task to discover sufficient boys with intelligent expressions to fill the front rows. Then the other boys had to be graded in dimishing degrees of cleanliness and presentability to the back of the
hall which the Great Man, being very short-sighted, could not see, and where the least presentable specimens were massed. The Outlaws were always relegated to the very back row. They found no
insult in this, but were, on the contrary, grateful for it. By a slight adjustment of their positions they could hide themselves comfortably from the view of Authority, and give their whole
attention to such pursuits as conker battles, the swopping of cigarette-cards, or the ‘racing’ of insects conveyed thither in matchboxes for the purpose. But this year a terrible thing
had happened.

The Great Man arrived at the village as usual. As usual he stayed with the headmaster. As usual the Outlaws hid behind the hedge to watch him with interest and curiosity as he passed to and from
the headmaster’s house, going to the village or returning from it. It was unfortunate that the Great Man happened to be wearing a bowler hat that was undoubtedly too small for him. He may
have bought it in a hurry and not realised till he had worn it once or twice how much too small it was, and then with dogged British courage and determination decided to wear it out. He may have
been honestly labouring under the delusion that it suited and fitted him. The fact remains that when he emerged from the headmaster’s gate into the lane the waiting and watching Outlaws drew
deep breaths and ejaculated simultaneously;

‘Crumbs! Look at his hat!’

‘Don’t look like a hat at all,’ commented Douglas.

‘Looks like as if he was carryin’ an apple on his head,’ said Ginger.

‘William Tell,’ said Henry with the modest air of one who, without undue ostentation, has no wish to hide his culture and general information under a bushel. ‘You know, William
Tell. What his father shot an apple off his head without touchin’ him.’

‘An’ I bet I could shoot his hat off his head without touchin’ him if I’d got my catapult here,’ said William, in order to divert the limelight from Henry’s
intellect to his own physical prowess.

‘Bet you couldn’t,’ challenged Ginger.

‘Bet I could,’ said William.

‘Bet you couldn’t.’

‘Bet I could.’

It was the sort of discussion that can go on for ever. However, when it had gone only about ten minutes, William said with an air of finality:

‘Well, I haven’t got my catapult, anyway, or else I’d jolly well
show
you.’

Ginger unexpectedly produced a catapult.

‘Here’s mine,’ he said.

‘Well, I haven’t got anything to shoot.’

Douglas searched in his pocket and produced from beneath the inevitable string, hairy boiled sweets, penknife and piece of putty, two or three shrivelled peas.