Richmal Crompton - More William

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Mr. Blank flung back his head and emitted guffaw after guffaw of
unaffected mirth.

"Oh 'ell," he said, wiping his eyes. "Oh, stroike me pink! That's
good, that is. You wait, young gent, you wait till you've growed up
and see what yer pa says to it. Oh 'ell!"

He rose and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

"Well, I'll say good day to yer, young gent."

William looked at him wistfully.

"I'd like to see you again, Mr. Blank, I would, honest. Will you be
here this afternoon?"

"Wot d'yer want to see me agine fer?" said Mr. Blank suspiciously.

"I _like_ you," said William fervently. "I like the way you talk, and
I like the things you say, and I want to know about what you do!"

Mr. Blank was obviously flattered.

"I may be round 'ere agine this arter, though I mike no promise. See?
I've gotter be careful, I 'ave. I've gotter be careful 'oo sees me an'
'oo 'ears me, and where I go. That's the worst of 'aving no ears.
See?"

William did not see, but he was thrilled to the soul by the mystery.

"An' you don't tell no one you seen me nor nothing abart me," went on
Mr. Blank.

Pulling his cap still farther over his head, Mr. Blank set off
unsteadily down the road, leaving William to pay for his lemonade
with his last penny.

He walked home, his heart set firmly on a lawless career of crime.
Opposition he expected from his father and mother and Robert and
Ethel, but his determination was fixed. He wondered if it would be
very painful to have his ears cut off.

He entered the dining-room with an air of intense mystery, pulling his
cap over his eyes, and looking round in a threatening manner.

"William, what _do_ you mean by coming into the house in your cap?
Take it off at once."

William sighed. He wondered if Mr. Blank had a mother.

When he returned he sat down and began quietly to remodel his life. He
would not be an explorer, after all, nor an engine-driver nor
chimney-sweep. He would be a man of mystery, a murderer, fighter,
forger. He fingered his ears tentatively. They seemed fixed on jolly
fast. He glanced with utter contempt at his father who had just come
in. His father's life of blameless respectability seemed to him at
that minute utterly despicable.

"The Wilkinsons over at Todfoot have had their house broken into now,"
Mrs. Brown was saying. "_All_ her jewellery gone. They think it's a
gang. It's just the villages round here. There seems to be one every
day!"

William expressed his surprise.

"Oh, 'ell!" he ejaculated, with a slightly self-conscious air.

Mr. Brown turned round and looked at his son.

"May I ask," he said politely, "where you picked up that expression?"

"I got it off one of my fren's," said William with quiet pride.

"Then I'd take it as a personal favour," went on Mr. Brown, "if you'd
kindly refrain from airing your friends' vocabularies in this house."

"He means you're never to say it again, William," translated Mrs.
Brown sternly. "_Never._"

"All right," said William. "I won't. See? I da--jolly well won't.
Strike me pink. See?"

He departed with an air of scowling mystery and dignity combined,
leaving his parents speechless with amazement.

That afternoon he returned to the White Lion. Mr. Blank was standing
unobtrusively in the shadow of the wall.

"'Ello, young gent," he greeted William, "nice dorg you've got."

William looked proudly down at Jumble.

"You won't find," he said proudly and with some truth, "you won't find
another dog like this--not for _miles_!"

"Will 'e be much good as a watch dog, now?" asked Mr. Blank
carelessly.

"Good?" said William, almost indignant at the question. "There isn't
any sort of dog he isn't good at!"

"Umph," said Mr. Blank, looking at him thoughtfully.

"Tell me about things you've _done_," said William earnestly.

"Yus, I will, too," said Mr. Blank. "But jus' you tell me first 'oo
lives at all these 'ere nice 'ouses an' all about 'em. See?"

[Illustration: WILLIAM DEPARTED WITH AN AIR OF SCOWLING MYSTERY,
LEAVING HIS PARENTS SPEECHLESS WITH AMAZEMENT]

William readily complied, and the strange couple gradually wended
their way along the road towards William's house. William stopped at
the gate and considered deeply. He was torn between instincts of
hospitality and a dim suspicion that his family would not afford to
Mr. Blank that courtesy which is a guest's due. He looked at Mr.
Blank's old green-black cap, long, untidy hair, dirty, lined, sly old
face, muddy clothes and gaping boots, and decided quite finally that
his mother would not allow him in her drawing-room.

"Will you," he said tentatively, "will you come roun' an' see our back
garden? If we go behind these ole bushes and keep close along the
wall, no one'll see us."

To William's relief Mr. Blank did not seem to resent the suggestion of
secrecy. They crept along the wall in silence except for Jumble, who
loudly worried Mr. Blank's trailing boot-strings as he walked. They
reached a part of the back garden that was not visible from the house
and sat down together under a shady tree.

"P'raps," began Mr. Blank politely, "you could bring a bit o' tea out
to me on the quiet like."

"I'll ask mother----" began William.

"Oh, no," said Mr. Blank modestly. "I don't want ter give no one no
trouble. Just a slice o' bread, if you can find it, without troublin'
no one. See?"

William had a brilliant idea.

"Let's go 'cross to that window an' get in," he said eagerly. "That's
the lib'ry and no one uses it 'cept father, and he's not in till
later."

Mr. Blank insisted on tying Jumble up, then he swung himself
dexterously through the window. William gave a gasp of admiration.

"You did that fine," he said.

Again Mr. Blank closed one eye.

"Not the first time I've got in at a winder, young gent, nor the
larst, I bet. Not by a long way. See?"

William followed more slowly. His eye gleamed with pride. This hero of
romance and adventure was now his guest, under his roof.

"Make yourself quite at home, Mr. Blank," he said with an air of
intense politeness.

Mr. Blank did. He emptied Mr. Brown's cigar-box into his pocket. He
drank three glasses of Mr. Brown's whiskey and soda. While William's
back was turned he filled his pockets with the silver ornaments from
the mantel-piece. He began to inspect the drawers in Mr. Brown's desk.
Then:

[Illustration: MR. BLANK MADE HIMSELF QUITE AT HOME]

"William! Come to tea!"

"You stay here," whispered William. "I'll bring you some."

But luck was against him. It was a visitors' tea in the drawing-room,
and Mrs. de Vere Carter, a neighbour, there, in all her glory. She
rose from her seat with an ecstatic murmur.

"Willie! _Dear_ child! _Sweet_ little soul!"

With one arm she crushed the infuriated William against her belt, with
the other she caressed his hair. Then William in moody silence sat
down in a corner and began to eat bread and butter. Every time he
prepared to slip a piece into his pocket, he found his mother's or
Mrs. de Vere Carter's eye fixed upon him and hastily began to eat it
himself. He sat, miserable and hot, seeing only the heroic figure
starving in the next room, and planned a raid on the larder as soon as
he could reasonably depart. Every now and then he scowled across at
Mrs. de Vere Carter and made a movement with his hands as though
pulling a cap over his eyes. He invested even his eating with an air
of dark mystery.

Then Robert, his elder brother, came in, followed by a thin, pale man
with eye-glasses and long hair.

"This is Mr. Lewes, mother," said Robert with an air of pride and
triumph. "He's editor of _Fiddle Strings_."

There was an immediate stir and sensation. Robert had often talked of
his famous friend. In fact Robert's family was weary of the sound of
his name, but this was the first time Robert had induced him to leave
the haunts of his genius to visit the Brown household.

Mr. Lewes bowed with a set, stern, self-conscious expression, as
though to convey to all that his celebrity was more of a weight than a
pleasure to him. Mrs. de Vere Carter bridled and fluttered, for
_Fiddle Strings_ had a society column and a page of scrappy "News of
the Town," and Mrs. de Vere Carter's greatest ambition was to see her
name in print.

Mr. Lewes sat back in his chair, took his tea-cup as though it were a
fresh addition to his responsibilities, and began to talk. He talked
apparently without even breathing. He began on the weather, drifted on
to art and music, and was just beginning a monologue on The Novel,
when William rose and crept from the room like a guilty spirit. He
found Mr. Blank under the library table, having heard a noise in the
kitchen and fearing a visitor. A cigar and a silver snuffer had
fallen from his pocket to the floor. He hastily replaced them. William
went up and took another look at the wonderful ears and heaved a sigh
of relief. While parted from his strange friend he had had a horrible
suspicion that the whole thing was a dream.

"I'll go to the larder and get you sumthin'," he said. "You jus' stay
here."

"I think, young gent," said Mr. Blank, "I think I'll just go an' look
round upstairs on the quiet like, an' you needn't mention it to no
one. See?"

Again he performed the fascinating wink.

They crept on tiptoe into the hall, but--the drawing-room door was
ajar.

"William!"

William's heart stood still. He could hear his mother coming across
the room, then--she stood in the doorway. Her face filled with horror
as her eye fell upon Mr. Blank.

"_William!_" she said.

William's feelings were beyond description. Desperately he sought for
an explanation for his friend's presence. With what pride and
_sang-froid_ had Robert announced his uninvited guest! William
determined to try it, at any rate. He advanced boldly into the
drawing-room.

"This is Mr. Blank, mother," he announced jauntily. "He hasn't got no
ears."

Mr. Blank stood in the background, awaiting developments. Flight was
now impossible.

The announcement fell flat. There was nothing but horror upon the five
silent faces that confronted William. He made a last desperate effort.

"He's bin in the war," he pleaded. "He's--killed folks."

Then the unexpected happened.

Mrs. de Vere Carter rose with a smile of welcome. In her mind's eye
she saw the touching story already in print--the tattered hero--the
gracious lady--the age of Democracy. The stage was laid and that dark,
pale young man had only to watch and listen.

"Ah, one of our dear heroes! My poor, brave man! A cup of tea, my
dear," turning to William's thunderstruck mother. "And he may sit
down, may he not?" She kept her face well turned towards the
sardonic-looking Mr. Lewes. He must not miss a word or gesture. "How
_proud_ we are to do anything for our dear heroes! Wounded, perhaps?
Ah, poor man!" She floated across to him with a cup of tea and plied
him with bread and butter and cake. William sat down meekly on a
chair, looking rather pale. Mr. Blank, whose philosophy was to take
the goods the gods gave and not look to the future, began to make a
hearty meal. "Are you looking for work, my poor man?" asked Mrs. de
Vere Carter, leaning forward in her chair.

Her poor man replied with simple, manly directness that he "was dam'd
if he was. See?" Mr. Lewes began to discuss The Drama with Robert.
Mrs. de Vere Carter raised her voice.

"_How_ you must have suffered! Yes, there is suffering ingrained in
your face. A piece of shrapnel? Ten inches square? Right in at one hip
and out at the other? Oh, my poor man! _How_ I feel for you. How all
class distinctions vanish at such a time. How----"

[Illustration: "ARE YOU LOOKING FOR WORK, MY POOR MAN?" ASKED MRS. DE
VERE CARTER.]

She stopped while Mr. Blank drank his tea. In fact, all conversation
ceased while Mr. Blank drank his tea, just as conversation on a
station ceases while a train passes through.

Mrs. Brown looked helplessly around her. When Mr. Blank had eaten a
plate of sandwiches, a plate of bread and butter, and half a cake, he
rose slowly, keeping one hand over the pocket in which reposed the
silver ornaments.

"Well 'm," he said, touching his cap. "Thank you kindly. I've 'ad a
fine tea. I 'ave. A dam' fine tea. An' I'll not forget yer kindness to
a pore ole soldier." Here he winked brazenly at William. "An' good day
ter you orl."

Mrs. de Vere Carter floated out to the front door with him, and
William followed as in a dream.

Mrs. Brown found her voice.

"We'd better have the chair disinfected," she murmured to Ethel.

Then Mrs. de Vere Carter returned smiling to herself and eyeing the
young editor surmisingly.

"I witnessed a pretty scene the other day in a suburban
drawing-room...." It might begin like that.

William followed the amazing figure round the house again to the
library window. Here it turned to him with a friendly grin.

"I'm just goin' to 'ave that look round upstairs now. See?" he said.
"An' once more, yer don't need ter say nothin' to no one. See?"

With the familiar, beloved gesture he drew his old cap down over his
eyes, and was gone.

William wandered upstairs a few minutes later to find his visitor
standing at the landing window, his pockets bulging.

"I'm goin' to try this 'ere window, young gent," he said in a quick,
business-like voice. "I see yer pa coming in at the front gate. Give
me a shove. Quick, nar."

Mr. Brown entered the drawing-room.

"Mulroyd's had his house burgled now," he said. "Every bit of his
wife's jewellery gone. They've got some clues, though. It's a gang all
right, and one of them is a chap without ears. Grows his hair long to
hide it. But it's a clue. The police are hunting for him."

He looked in amazement at the horror-stricken faces before him. Mrs.
Brown sat down weakly.

"Ethel, my smelling salts! They're on the mantel-piece."

Robert grew pale.

"Good Lord--my silver cricket cup," he gasped, racing upstairs.

The landing window had been too small, and Mr. Blank too big, though
William did his best.

There came to the astounded listeners the sound of a fierce scuffle,
then Robert descended, his hair rumpled and his tie awry, holding
William by the arm. William looked pale and apprehensive. "He was
there," panted Robert, "just getting out of the window. He chucked the
things out of his pockets and got away. I couldn't stop him. And--and
William was there----"

William's face assumed the expression of one who is prepared for the
worst.

"The plucky little chap! Struggling with him! Trying to pull him back
from the window! All by himself!"

"I _wasn't_," cried William excitedly. "I was _helping_ him. He's _my
friend_. I----"

But they heard not a word. They crowded round him, praised him, shook
hands with him, asked if he was hurt. Mrs. de Vere Carter kept up one
perpetual scream of delight and congratulation.

"The _dear_ boy! The little _pet_! How _brave_! What _courage_! What
an _example_ to us all! And the horrid, wretched man! Posing as a
_hero_. Wangling himself into the sweet child's confidence. Are you
hurt, my precious? Did the nasty man hurt you? You _darling_ boy!"

When the babel had somewhat subsided, Mr. Brown came forward and laid
a hand on William's shoulder.

"I'm very pleased with you, my boy," he said. "You can buy anything
you like to-morrow up to five shillings."

William's bewildered countenance cleared.

"Thank you, father," he said meekly.

CHAPTER IV

THE KNIGHT AT ARMS

"A knight," said Miss Drew, who was struggling to inspire her class
with enthusiasm for Tennyson's "Idylls of the King," "a knight was a
person who spent his time going round succouring the oppressed."

"Suckin' wot?" said William, bewildered.

"Succour means to help. He spent his time helping anyone who was in
trouble."

"How much did he get for it?" asked William.

"Nothing, of course," said Miss Drew, appalled by the base
commercialism of the twentieth century. "He helped the poor because he
_loved_ them, William. He had a lot of adventures and fighting and he
helped beautiful, persecuted damsels."

William's respect for the knight rose.

"Of course," said Miss Drew hastily, "they needn't necessarily be
beautiful, but, in most of the stories we have, they were beautiful."

Followed some stories of fighting and adventure and the rescuing of
beautiful damsels. The idea of the thing began to take hold of
William's imagination.

"I say," he said to his chum Ginger after school, "that knight thing
sounds all right. Suckin'--I mean helpin' people an' fightin' an' all
that. I wun't mind doin' it an' you could be my squire."

"Yes," said Ginger slowly, "I'd thought of doin' it, but I'd thought
of _you_ bein' the squire."

"Well," said William after a pause, "let's be squires in turn. You
first," he added hastily.

"Wot'll you give me if I'm first?" said Ginger, displaying again the
base commercialism of his age.

William considered.

"I'll give you first drink out of a bottle of ginger-ale wot I'm goin'
to get with my next money. It'll be three weeks off 'cause they're
takin' the next two weeks to pay for an ole window wot my ball slipped
into by mistake."

He spoke with the bitterness that always characterised his statements
of the injustice of the grown-up world.

"All right," said Ginger.

"I won't forget about the drink of ginger-ale."

"No, you won't," said Ginger simply. "I'll remind you all right. Well,
let's set off."

"'Course," said William, "it would be _nicer_ with armour an' horses
an' trumpets, but I 'spect folks ud think anyone a bit soft wot went
about in the streets in armour now, 'cause these times is different.
She said so. Anyway she said we could still be knights an' help
people, di'n't she? Anyway, I'll get my bugle. That'll be
_something_."

William's bugle had just returned to public life after one of its
periodic terms of retirement into his father's keeping.

William took his bugle proudly in one hand and his pistol (the
glorious result of a dip in the bran tub at a school party) in the
other, and, sternly denying themselves the pleasures of afternoon
school, off the two set upon the road of romance and adventure.

"I'll carry the bugle," said Ginger, "'cause I'm squire."

William was loth to give up his treasure.

"Well, I'll carry it now," he said, "but when I begin' fightin' folks,
I'll give it you to hold."

They walked along for about a mile without meeting anyone. William
began to be aware of a sinking feeling in the region of his waist.

"I wonder wot they _eat_," he said at last. "I'm gettin' so's I
wouldn't mind sumthin' to eat."

"We di'n't ought to have set off before dinner," said the squire with
after-the-event wisdom. "We ought to have waited till _after_ dinner."

"You ought to have _brought_ sumthin'," said William severely. "You're
the squire. You're not much of a squire not to have brought sumthin'
for me to eat."

"An' me," put in Ginger. "If I'd brought any I'd have brought it for
me more'n for you."

William fingered his minute pistol.

"If we meet any wild animals ..." he said darkly.

A cow gazed at them mournfully over a hedge.

"You might go an' milk that," suggested William. "Milk 'ud be better'n
nothing."

"_You_ go 'an milk it."

"No, I'm not squire. I bet squires did the milkin'. Knights wu'n't of
done the milkin'."

"I'll remember," said Ginger bitterly, "when you're squire, all the
things wot you said a squire ought to do when I was squire."

They entered the field and gazed at the cow from a respectful
distance. She turned her eyes upon them sadly.

"Go on!" said the knight to his reluctant squire.

"I'm not good at cows," objected that gentleman.

"Well, I will, then!" said William with reckless bravado, and advanced
boldly upon the animal. The animal very slightly lowered its horns
(perhaps in sign of greeting) and emitted a sonorous mo-o-o-o-o. Like
lightning the gallant pair made for the road.

"Anyway," said William gloomily, "we'd got nothin' to put it in, so
we'd only of got tossed for nothin', p'raps, if we'd gone on."

They walked on down the road till they came to a pair of iron gates
and a drive that led up to a big house. William's spirits rose. His
hunger was forgotten.

"Come on!" he said. "We might find someone to rescue here. It looks
like a place where there might be someone to rescue."

There was no one in the garden to question the right of entry of two
small boys armed with a bugle and a toy pistol. Unchallenged they
went up to the house. While the knight was wondering whether to blow
his bugle at the front door or by the open window, they caught sight
suddenly of a vision inside the window. It was a girl as fair and slim
and beautiful as any wandering knight could desire. And she was
speaking fast and passionately.

William, ready for all contingencies, marshalled his forces.

"Follow me!" he whispered and crept on all fours nearer the window.
They could see a man now, an elderly man with white hair and a white
beard.

"And how long will you keep me in this vile prison?" she was saying in
a voice that trembled with anger, "base wretch that you are!"

"Crumbs!" ejaculated William.

"Ha! Ha!" sneered the man. "I have you in my power. I will keep you
here a prisoner till you sign the paper which will make me master of
all your wealth, and beware, girl, if you do not sign, you may answer
for it with your life!"

"Golly!" murmured William.

Then he crawled away into the bushes, followed by his attendant
squire.

"Well," said William, his face purple with excitement, "we've found
someone to rescue all _right_. He's a base wretch, wot she said, all
_right_."

"Will you kill him?" said the awed squire.

"How big was he? Could you see?" said William the discreet.

"He was ever so big. Great big face he had, too, with a beard."

"Then I won't try killin' him--not straight off. I'll think of some
plan--somethin' cunnin'."

[Illustration: WILLIAM AND GINGER FOLLOWED ON ALL FOURS WITH ELABORATE
CAUTION.]

He sat with his chin on his hands, gazing into space, till they were
surprised by the opening of the front door and the appearance of a
tall, thick-set, elderly man. William quivered with excitement. The
man went along a path through the bushes. William and Ginger followed
on all fours with elaborate caution. At every almost inaudible sound
from Ginger, William turned his red, frowning face on to him with a
resounding "Sh!" The path ended at a small shed with a locked door.
The man opened the door--the key stood in the lock--and entered.

Promptly William, with a snarl expressive of cunning and triumph,
hurled himself at the door and turned the key in the lock.

"Here!" came an angry shout from inside. "Who's that? What the
devil----"

"You low ole caitiff!" said William through the keyhole.

"Who the deuce----?" exploded the voice.

"You base wretch, like wot she said you was," bawled William, his
mouth still applied closely to the keyhole.

"Let me out at once, or I'll--"

"You mean ole oppressor!"

"Who the deuce are you? What's this tomfool trick? Let me _out_! Do
you hear?"

A resounding kick shook the door.

"I've gotter pistol," said William sternly. "I'll shoot you dead if
you kick the door down, you mangy ole beast!"

The sound of kicking ceased and a scrambling and scraping, accompanied
by oaths, proceeded from the interior.

"I'll stay on guard," said William with the tense expression of the
soldier at his post, "an' you go an' set her free. Go an' blow the
bugle at the front door, then they'll know something's happened," he
added simply.

* * * * *

Miss Priscilla Greene was pouring out tea in the drawing-room. Two
young men and a maiden were the recipients of her hospitality.

"Dad will be here in a minute," she said. "He's just gone to the
dark-room to see to some photos he'd left in toning or fixing, or
something. We'll get on with the rehearsal as soon as he comes. We'd
just rehearsed the scene he and I have together, so we're ready for
the ones where we all come in."

"How did it go off?"

"Oh, quite well. We knew our parts, anyway."

"I think the village will enjoy it."

"Anyway, it's never very critical, is it? And it loves a melodrama."

"Yes. I wonder if father knows you're here. He said he'd come straight
back. Perhaps I'd better go and find him."

"Oh, let me go, Miss Greene," said one of the youths ardently.

"Well, I don't know whether you'd find the place. It's a shed in the
garden that he uses. We use half as a dark-room and half as a
coal-cellar."

"I'll go--"

He stopped. A nightmare sound, as discordant as it was ear-splitting,
filled the room. Miss Greene sank back into her chair, suddenly white.
One of the young men let a cup of tea fall neatly from his fingers on
to the floor and there crash into fragments. The young lady visitor
emitted a scream that would have done credit to a factory siren. Then
at the open French window appeared a small boy holding a bugle,
purple-faced with the effort of his performance.

One of the young men was the first to recover speech. He stepped away
from the broken crockery on the floor as if to disclaim all
responsibility for it and said sternly:

"Did you make that horrible noise?"

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