More William

  MORE WILLIAM

  by

  RICHMAL CROMPTON

  Illustrated by Thomas Henry

  LondonGeorge Newnes, LimitedSouthampton St., Strand, W.C.

  "WOT YOU DRESSED UP LIKE THAT FOR?" SAID THEAPPARITION, WITH A TOUCH OF SCORN IN HIS VOICE.(See Chapter IX: The Revenge.)]

  First Edition December 1922Second Impression January 1923Third Impression February 1923Fourth Impression July 1923Fifth Impression September 1923Sixth Impression December 1923Seventh Impression February 1924Eighth Impression July 1924Ninth Impression November 1924Made and Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Son, Ltd., London,Fakenham and Reading.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. A Busy Day 11

  II. Rice-Mould 31

  III. William's Burglar 49

  IV. The Knight at Arms 67

  V. William's Hobby 78

  VI. The Rivals 89

  VII. The Ghost 110

  VIII. The May King 125

  IX. The Revenge 144

  X. The Helper 157

  XI. William and the Smuggler 174

  XII. The Reform of William 197

  XIII. William and the Ancient Souls 213

  XIV. William's Christmas Eve 228

  CHAPTER I

  A BUSY DAY

  William awoke and rubbed his eyes. It was Christmas Day--the day towhich he had looked forward with mingled feelings for twelve months.It was a jolly day, of course--presents and turkey and crackers andstaying up late. On the other hand, there were generally too manyrelations about, too much was often expected of one, the curious tastedisplayed by people who gave one presents often marred one's pleasure.

  He looked round his bedroom expectantly. On the wall, just oppositehis bed, was a large illuminated card hanging by a string from anail--"A Busy Day is a Happy Day." That had not been there the daybefore. Brightly-coloured roses and forget-me-nots and honeysuckletwined round all the words. William hastily thought over the threeaunts staying in the house, and put it down to Aunt Lucy. He looked atit with a doubtful frown. He distrusted the sentiment.

  A copy of "Portraits of our Kings and Queens" he put aside as beneathcontempt. "Things a Boy Can Do" was more promising. _Much_ morepromising. After inspecting a penknife, a pocket-compass, and apencil-box (which shared the fate of "Portraits of our Kings andQueens"), William returned to "Things a Boy Can Do." As he turned thepages, his face lit up.

  He leapt lightly out of bed and dressed. Then he began to arrange hisown gifts to his family. For his father he had bought a bottle ofhighly-coloured sweets, for his elder brother Robert (aged nineteen)he had expended a vast sum of money on a copy of "The Pirates of theBloody Hand." These gifts had cost him much thought. The knowledgethat his father never touched sweets, and that Robert professed scornof pirate stories, had led him to hope that the recipients of hisgifts would make no objection to the unobtrusive theft of them bytheir recent donor in the course of the next few days. For hisgrown-up sister Ethel he had bought a box of coloured chalks. Thatalso might come in useful later. Funds now had been running low, butfor his mother he had bought a small cream-jug which, after fiercebargaining, the man had let him have at half-price because it wascracked.

  Singing "Christians Awake!" at the top of his lusty young voice, hewent along the landing, putting his gifts outside the doors of hisfamily, and pausing to yell "Happy Christmas" as he did so. Fromwithin he was greeted in each case by muffled groans.

  He went downstairs into the hall, still singing. It was earlier thanhe thought--just five o'clock. The maids were not down yet. Heswitched on lights recklessly, and discovered that he was not the onlyperson in the hall. His four-year-old cousin Jimmy was sitting on thebottom step in an attitude of despondency, holding an empty tin.

  Jimmy's mother had influenza at home, and Jimmy and his small sisterBarbara were in the happy position of spending Christmas withrelations, but immune from parental or maternal interference.

  "They've gotten out," said Jimmy, sadly. "I got 'em for presentsyesterday, an' they've gotten out. I've been feeling for 'em in thedark, but I can't find 'em."

  "What?" said William.

  "Snails. Great big suge ones wiv great big suge shells. I put 'em in atin for presents an' they've gotten out an' I've gotten no presentsfor nobody."

  He relapsed into despondency.

  William surveyed the hall.

  "They've got out right enough!" he said, sternly. "They've got outright _enough_. Jus' look at our hall! Jus' look at our clothes!They've got out _right_ enough."

  Innumerable slimy iridescent trails shone over hats, and coats, andumbrellas, and wall-paper.

  "Huh!" grunted William, who was apt to overwork his phrases. "They'vegot _out_ right enough."

  He looked at the tracks again and brightened. Jimmy was franklydelighted.

  "Oo! Look!" he cried, "Oo _funny_!"

  William's thoughts flew back to his bedroom wall--"A Busy Day is aHappy Day."

  "Let's clean it up!" he said. "Let's have it all nice an' clean forwhen they come down. We'll be busy. You tell me if you feel happy whenwe've done. It might be true wot it says, but I don't like the flowersmessin' all over it."

  Investigation in the kitchen provided them with a large pail of waterand a scrubbing-brush each.

  For a long time they worked in silence. They used plenty of water.When they had finished the trails were all gone. Each soaked garmenton the hat-stand was sending a steady drip on to the already floodedfloor. The wall-paper was sodden. With a feeling of blankness theyrealised that there was nothing else to clean.

  It was Jimmy who conceived the exquisite idea of dipping his brush inthe bucket and sprinkling William with water. A scrubbing-brush is inmany ways almost as good as a hose. Each had a pail of ammunition.Each had a good-sized brush. During the next few minutes theyexperienced purest joy. Then William heard threatening movementsabove, and decided hastily that the battle must cease.

  "Backstairs," he said shortly. "Come on."

  Marking their track by a running stream of water, they crept up thebackstairs.

  But two small boys soaked to the skin could not disclaim allknowledge of a flooded hall.

  William was calm and collected when confronted with a distractedmother.

  "We was tryin' to clean up," he said. "We found all snail marks an' wewas tryin' to clean up. We was tryin' to help. You said so last night,you know, when you was talkin' to me. You said to _help_. Well, Ithought it was helpin' to try an' clean up. You can't clean up withwater an' not get wet--not if you do it prop'ly. You said to try an'make Christmas Day happy for other folks and then I'd be happy. Well,I don't know as I'm very happy," he said, bitterly, "but I've beenworkin' hard enough since early this mornin'. I've been workin'," hewent on pathetically. His eye wandered to the notice on his wall."I've been _busy_ all right, but it doesn't make me _happy_--not jus'now," he added, with memories of the rapture of the fight. Thatcertainly must be repeated some time. Buckets of water andscrubbing-brushes. He wondered he'd never thought of that before.

  William's mother looked down at his dripping form.

  "Did you get all that water with just cleaning up the snail marks?"she said.

  William coughed and cleared his throat. "Well," he said,deprecatingly, "most of it. I think I got most of it."

  "If it wasn't Christmas Day ..." she went on darkly.

  William's spirits rose. T
here was certainly something to be said forChristmas Day.

  It was decided to hide the traces of the crime as far as possible fromWilliam's father. It was felt--and not without reason--that William'sfather's feelings of respect for the sanctity of Christmas Day mightbe overcome by his feelings of paternal ire.

  Half-an-hour later William, dried, dressed, brushed, and chastened,descended the stairs as the gong sounded in a hall which was bare ofhats and coats, and whose floor shone with cleanliness.

  "And jus' to think," said William, despondently, "that it's only jus'got to brekfust time."

  William's father was at the bottom of the stairs. William's fatherfrankly disliked Christmas Day.

  "Good-morning, William," he said, "and a happy Christmas, and I hopeit's not too much to ask of you that on this relation-infested dayone's feelings may be harrowed by you as little as possible. And whythe deu--dickens they think it necessary to wash the hall floor beforebreakfast, Heaven only knows!"

  William coughed, a cough meant to be a polite mixture of greeting anddeference. William's face was a study in holy innocence. His fatherglanced at him suspiciously. There were certain expressions ofWilliam's that he distrusted.

  William entered the dining-room morosely. Jimmy's sister Barbara--asmall bundle of curls and white frills--was already beginning herporridge.

  "Goo' mornin'," she said, politely, "did you hear me cleanin' myteef?"

  He crushed her with a glance.

  He sat eating in silence till everyone had come down, and Aunts Jane,Evangeline, and Lucy were consuming porridge with that mixture offestivity and solemnity that they felt the occasion demanded.

  Then Jimmy entered, radiant, with a tin in his hand.

  "Got presents," he said, proudly. "Got presents, lots of presents."

  He deposited on Barbara's plate a worm which Barbara promptly threw athis face. Jimmy looked at her reproachfully and proceeded to AuntEvangeline. Aunt Evangeline's gift was a centipede--a live centipedethat ran gaily off the tablecloth on to Aunt Evangeline's lap beforeanyone could stop it. With a yell that sent William's father to thelibrary with his hands to his ears, Aunt Evangeline leapt to her chairand stood with her skirts held to her knees.

  "Help! Help!" she cried. "The horrible boy! Catch it! Kill it!"

  Jimmy gazed at her in amazement, and Barbara looked with interest atAunt Evangeline's long expanse of shin.

  "_My_ legs isn't like _your_ legs," she said pleasantly andconversationally. "My legs is knees."

  It was some time before order was restored, the centipede killed, andJimmy's remaining gifts thrown out of the window. William lookedacross the table at Jimmy with respect in his eye. Jimmy, in spite ofhis youth, was an acquaintance worth cultivating. Jimmy was eatingporridge unconcernedly.

  Aunt Evangeline had rushed from the room when the slaughter of thecentipede had left the coast clear, and refused to return. She carriedon a conversation from the top of the stairs.

  "When that horrible child has gone, I'll come. He may have insectsconcealed on his person. And someone's been dropping water all overthese stairs. They're _damp_!"

  "Dear, dear!" murmured Aunt Jane, sadly.

  Jimmy looked up from his porridge.

  "How was I to know she didn't like insecks?" he said, aggrievedly."_I_ like 'em."

  William's mother's despair was only tempered by the fact that thistime William was not the culprit. To William also it was a novelsensation. He realised the advantages of a fellow criminal.

  After breakfast peace reigned. William's father went out for a walkwith Robert. The aunts sat round the drawing-room fire talking anddoing crochet-work. In this consists the whole art and duty ofaunthood. _All_ aunts do crochet-work.

  They had made careful inquiries about the time of the service.

  "You needn't worry," had said William's mother. "It's at 10.30, andif you go to get ready when the clock in the library strikes ten itwill give you heaps of time."

  AROUND THEM LAY, MOST INDECENTLY EXPOSED, THE INTERNALARRANGEMENTS OF THE LIBRARY CLOCK.]

  Peace ... calm ... quiet. Mrs. Brown and Ethel in the kitchensupervising the arrangements for the day. The aunts in thedrawing-room discussing over their crochet-work the terrible way inwhich their sisters had brought up their children. That, also, is anecessary part of aunthood.

  Time slipped by happily and peacefully. Then William's mother cameinto the drawing-room.

  "I thought you were going to church," she said.

  "We are. The clock hasn't struck."

  "But--it's eleven o'clock!"

  There was a gasp of dismay.

  "The clock never struck!"

  Indignantly they set off to the library. Peace and quiet reigned alsoin the library. On the floor sat William and Jimmy gazing with frownsof concentration at an open page of "Things a Boy Can Do." Around themlay most indecently exposed the internal arrangements of the libraryclock.

  "William! You _wicked_ boy!"

  William raised a frowning face.

  "It's not put together right," he said, "it's not been put togetherright all this time. We're makin' it right now. It must have wantedmendin' for ever so long. _I_ dunno how it's been goin' at all. It'slucky we found it out. It's put together wrong. I guess it's _made_wrong. It's goin' to be a lot of trouble to us to put it right, an' wecan't do much when you're all standin' in the light. We're verybusy--workin' at tryin' to mend this ole clock for you all."

  "Clever," said Jimmy, admiringly. "Mendin' the clock. _Clever!_"

  "William!" groaned his mother, "you've ruined the clock. What _will_your father say?"

  "Well, the cog-wheels was wrong," said William doggedly. "See? An'this ratchet-wheel isn't on the pawl prop'ly--not like what this booksays it ought to be. Seems we've got to take it all to pieces to getit right. Seems to me the person wot made this clock didn't know muchabout clock-making. Seems to me----"

  "Be _quiet_, William!"

  "We was be quietin' 'fore you came in," said Jimmy, severely. "You'sturbed us."

  "Leave it just as it is, William," said his mother.

  "You don't _unnerstand_," said William with the excitement of thefanatic. "The cog-wheel an' the ratchet ought to be put on the arbordifferent. See, this is the cog-wheel. Well, it oughtn't to be likewot it was. It was put on all _wrong_. Well, we was mendin' it. An' wewas doin' it for _you_," he ended, bitterly, "jus' to help an'--to--tomake other folks happy. It makes folks happy havin' clocks goin'right, anyone would _think_. But if you _want_ your clocks puttogether wrong, _I_ don't care."

  He picked up his book and walked proudly from the room followed by theadmiring Jimmy.

  "William," said Aunt Lucy patiently, as he passed, "I don't want tosay anything unkind, and I hope you won't remember all your life thatyou have completely spoilt this Christmas Day for me."

  "Oh, dear!" murmured Aunt Jane, sadly.

  William, with a look before which she should have sunk into the earth,answered shortly that he didn't think he would.

  During the midday dinner the grown-ups, as is the foolish fashion ofgrown-ups, wasted much valuable time in the discussion of suchfutilities as the weather and the political state of the nation. AuntLucy was still suffering and aggrieved.

  "I can go this evening, of course," she said, "but it's not quite thesame. The morning service is different. Yes, please, dear--_and_stuffing. Yes, I'll have a little more turkey, too. And, of course,the vicar may not preach to-night. That makes such a difference. Thegravy on the potatoes, please. It's almost the first Christmas I'venot been in the morning. It seems quite to have spoilt the day forme."

  She bent on William a glance of gentle reproach. William was quitecapable of meeting adequately that or any other glance, but at presenthe was too busy for minor hostilities. He was _extremely_ busy. He wasdoing his utmost to do full justice to a meal that only happens once ayear.

  "William," said Barbara pleasantly, "I can _dweam_. Can you?"

  He made no answer.

  "Answer your co
usin, William," said his mother.

  He swallowed, then spoke plaintively, "You always say not to talk withmy mouth full," he said.

  "You could speak when you've finished the mouthful."

  "No. 'Cause I want to fill it again then," said William, firmly.

  "Dear, _dear_!" murmured Aunt Jane.

  This was Aunt Jane's usual contribution to any conversation.

  He looked coldly at the three pairs of horrified aunts' eyes aroundhim, then placidly continued his meal.

  Mrs. Brown hastily changed the subject of conversation. The art ofcombining the duties of mother and hostess is sometimes a difficultone.

  Christmas afternoon is a time of rest. The three aunts withdrew frompublic life. Aunt Lucy found a book of sermons in the library andretired to her bedroom with it.

  "It's the next best thing, I think," she said with a sad glance atWilliam.

  William was beginning definitely to dislike Aunt Lucy.

  "Please'm," said the cook an hour later, "the mincing machine'sdisappeared."

  "Disappeared?" said William's mother, raising her hand to her head.

  "Clean gone'm. 'Ow'm I to get the supper'm? You said as 'ow I couldget it done this afternoon so as to go to church this evening. I can'tdo nuffink with the mincing machine gone."

  "I'll come and look."

  They searched every corner of the kitchen, then William's mother hadan idea. William's mother had not been William's mother for elevenyears without learning many things. She went wearily up to William'sbedroom.

  William was sitting on the floor. Open beside him was "Things a BoyCan Do." Around him lay various parts of the mincing machine. His facewas set and strained in mental and physical effort. He looked up asshe entered.

  "It's a funny kind of mincing machine," he said, crushingly. "It's notgot enough parts. It's _made_ wrong----"

  "Do you know," she said, slowly, "that we've all been looking for thatmincin' machine for the last half-hour?"

  "No," he said without much interest, "I di'n't. I'd have told you Iwas mendin' it if you'd told me you was lookin' for it. It's _wrong_,"he went on aggrievedly. "I can't make anything with it. Look! It saysin my book 'How to make a model railway signal with parts of a mincingmachine.' Listen! It says, 'Borrow a mincing machine from yourmother----"

  "Did you borrow it?" said Mrs. Brown.

  "Yes. Well, I've got it, haven't I? I went all the way down to thekitchen for it."

  "Who lent it to you?"

  "No one _lent_ it me. I _borrowed_ it. I thought you'd like to see amodel railway signal. I thought you'd be interested. Anyone wouldthink anyone would be interested in seein' a railway signal made outof a mincin' machine."

  His tone implied that the dullness of people in general was simplybeyond him. "An' you haven't got a right sort of mincin' machine. It'swrong. Its parts are the wrong shape. I've been hammerin' them, tryin'to make them right, but they're _made_ wrong."

  Mrs. Brown was past expostulating. "Take them all down to the kitchento cook," she said. "She's waiting for them."

  On the stairs William met Aunt Lucy carrying her volume of sermons.

  "It's not quite the same as the spoken word, William, dear," she said."It hasn't the _force_. The written word doesn't reach the _heart_ asthe spoken word does, but I don't want you to worry about it."

  William walked on as if he had not heard her.

  It was Aunt Jane who insisted on the little entertainment after tea.

  "I _love_ to hear the dear children recite," she said. "I'm sure theyall have some little recitation they can say."

  Barbara arose with shy delight to say her piece.

  "Lickle bwown seed, lickle bwown bwother, And what, pway, are you goin' to be? I'll be a poppy as white as my mother, Oh, DO be a poppy like me! What, you'll be a sunflower? Oh, how I shall miss you When you are golden and high! But I'll send all the bees up to tiss you. Lickle bwown bwother, good-bye!"

  She sat down blushing, amid rapturous applause.

  Next Jimmy was dragged from his corner. He stood up as one preparedfor the worst, shut his eyes, and--

  "Licklaxokindness lickledeedsolove-- make--thisearfanedenliketheeav'nabovethasalliknow."

  he gasped all in one breath, and sat down panting.

  This was greeted with slightly milder applause.

  "Now, William!"

  "I don't know any," he said.

  "Oh, you _do_," said his mother. "Say the one you learnt at schoollast term. Stand up, dear, and speak clearly."

  Slowly William rose to his feet.

  "_It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea_,"

  he began.

  Here he stopped, coughed, cleared his throat, and began again.

  "_It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea._"

  "Oh, get _on_!" muttered his brother, irritably.

  "IT WAS THE HESPER SCHOONERUS THAT SAILED THE WINTRYSEA AN' I'M NOT GOIN' ON IF ETHEL'S GOIN' TO KEEP GIGGLIN'."]

  "I can't get on if you keep talkin' to me," said William, sternly."How can I get on if you keep takin' all the time up _sayin'_ get on?I can't get on if you're talkin', can I?"

  "It was the Hesper Schoonerus that sailed the wintry sea an' I'm notgoin' on if Ethel's goin' to keep gigglin'. It's not a funny piece,an' if she's goin' on gigglin' like that I'm not sayin' any more ofit."

  "Ethel, dear!" murmured Mrs. Brown, reproachfully. Ethel turned herchair completely round and left her back only exposed to William'sview. He glared at it suspiciously.

  "Now, William dear," continued his mother, "begin again and no oneshall interrupt you."

  William again went through the preliminaries of coughing and clearinghis throat.

  "_It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry seas._"

  He stopped again, and slowly and carefully straightened his collar andsmoothed back the lock of hair which was dangling over his brow.

  "_The skipper had brought----_" prompted Aunt Jane, kindly.

  William turned on her.

  "I was _goin'_ to say that if you'd left me alone," he said. "I wasjus' thinkin'. I've got to think sometimes. I can't say off a greatlong pome like that without stoppin' to think sometimes, can I?I'll--I'll do a conjuring trick for you instead," he burst out,desperately. "I've learnt one from my book. I'll go an' get it ready."

  He went out of the room. Mr. Brown took out his handkerchief andmopped his brow.

  "May I ask," he said patiently, "how long this exhibition is to beallowed to continue?"

  Here William returned, his pockets bulging. He held a largehandkerchief in his hand.

  "This is a handkerchief," he announced. "If anyone'd like to feel itto see if it's a real one, they can. Now I want a shilling," he lookedround expectantly, but no one moved, "or a penny would do," he said,with a slightly disgusted air. Robert threw one across the room."Well, I put the penny into the handkerchief. You can see me do it,can't you? If anyone wants to come an' feel the penny is in thehandkerchief, they can. Well," he turned his back on them and tooksomething out of his pocket. After a few contortions he turned roundagain, holding the handkerchief tightly. "Now, you look close,"--hewent over to them--"an' you'll see the shil--I mean, penny," he lookedscornfully at Robert, "has changed to an egg. It's a real egg. Ifanyone thinks it isn't a real egg----"

  But it _was_ a real egg. It confirmed his statement by giving aresounding crack and sending a shining stream partly on to the carpetand partly on to Aunt Evangeline's black silk knee. A storm ofreproaches burst out.

  "First that horrible insect," almost wept Aunt Evangeline, "and thenthis messy stuff all over me. It's a good thing I don't live here. Oneday a year is enough.... My nerves!..."

  "Dear, dear!" said Aunt Jane.

  "Fancy taking a new-laid _egg_ for that," said Ethel severely.

  William was pale and indignant.

  "Well, I did jus' what the book said to do. Look at it. It says: 'Takean egg. Conce
al it in the pocket.' Well, I took an egg an' I concealedit in the pocket. Seems to me," he said bitterly, "seems to me thisbook isn't 'Things a Boy Can Do.' It's 'Things a Boy Can't Do.'"

  Mr. Brown rose slowly from his chair.

  "You're just about right there, my son. Thank _you_," he said withelaborate politeness, as he took the book from William's reluctanthands and went over with it to a small cupboard in the wall. In thiscupboard reposed an airgun, a bugle, a catapult, and a mouth-organ. Ashe unlocked it to put the book inside, the fleeting glimpse of hisconfiscated treasures added to the bitterness of William's soul.

  "On Christmas Day, too!"

  While he was still afire with silent indignation Aunt Lucy returnedfrom church.

  "The vicar _didn't_ preach," she said. "They say that this morning'ssermon was beautiful. As I say, I don't want William to reproachhimself, but I feel that he has deprived me of a very great treat."

  "_Nice_ Willum!" murmured Jimmy sleepily from his corner.

  As William undressed that night his gaze fell upon the flower-bedeckedmotto: "A Busy Day is a Happy Day."

  "It's a story," he said, indignantly. "It's jus' a wicked ole story."