More William Page 4

  CHAPTER IV

  THE KNIGHT AT ARMS

  "A knight," said Miss Drew, who was struggling to inspire her classwith enthusiasm for Tennyson's "Idylls of the King," "a knight was aperson 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 introuble."

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

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

  William's respect for the knight rose.

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

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

  "I say," he said to his chum Ginger after school, "that knight thingsounds all right. Suckin'--I mean helpin' people an' fightin' an' allthat. 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 thoughtof _you_ bein' the squire."

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

  "Wot'll you give me if I'm first?" said Ginger, displaying again thebase 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'retakin' the next two weeks to pay for an ole window wot my ball slippedinto by mistake."

  He spoke with the bitterness that always characterised his statementsof 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' horsesan' trumpets, but I 'spect folks ud think anyone a bit soft wot wentabout in the streets in armour now, 'cause these times is different.She said so. Anyway she said we could still be knights an' helppeople, 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 itsperiodic terms of retirement into his father's keeping.

  William took his bugle proudly in one hand and his pistol (theglorious result of a dip in the bran tub at a school party) in theother, and, sternly denying themselves the pleasures of afternoonschool, 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. Williambegan 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 Iwouldn't mind sumthin' to eat."

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

  "You ought to have _brought_ sumthin'," said William severely. "You'rethe 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 forme 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'nnothing."

  "_You_ go 'an milk it."

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

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

  They entered the field and gazed at the cow from a respectfuldistance. 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 advancedboldly upon the animal. The animal very slightly lowered its horns(perhaps in sign of greeting) and emitted a sonorous mo-o-o-o-o. Likelightning the gallant pair made for the road.

  "Anyway," said William gloomily, "we'd got nothin' to put it in, sowe'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 gatesand a drive that led up to a big house. William's spirits rose. Hishunger was forgotten.

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

  There was no one in the garden to question the right of entry of twosmall boys armed with a bugle and a toy pistol. Unchallenged theywent up to the house. While the knight was wondering whether to blowhis bugle at the front door or by the open window, they caught sightsuddenly of a vision inside the window. It was a girl as fair and slimand beautiful as any wandering knight could desire. And she wasspeaking 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 whitebeard.

  "And how long will you keep me in this vile prison?" she was saying ina 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 youhere a prisoner till you sign the paper which will make me master ofall your wealth, and beware, girl, if you do not sign, you may answerfor it with your life!"

  "Golly!" murmured William.

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

  "Well," said William, his face purple with excitement, "we've foundsomeone 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 someplan--somethin' cunnin'."

  WILLIAM AND GINGER FOLLOWED ON ALL FOURS WITH ELABORATECAUTION.]

  He sat with his chin on his hands, gazing into space, till they weresurprised by the opening of the front door and the appearance of atall, thick-set, elderly man. William quivered with excitement. Theman went along a path through the bushes. William and Ginger followedon all fours with elaborate caution. At every almost inaudible soundfrom Ginger, William turned his red, frowning face on to him with aresounding "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 thedevil----"

  "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, hismouth 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_! Doyou hear?"

  A resounding kick shook the door.

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

  The sound of kicking ceased and a scrambli
ng and scraping, accompaniedby oaths, proceeded from the interior.

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

  * * * * *

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

  "Dad will be here in a minute," she said. "He's just gone to thedark-room to see to some photos he'd left in toning or fixing, orsomething. We'll get on with the rehearsal as soon as he comes. We'djust rehearsed the scene he and I have together, so we're ready forthe 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 straightback. 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 thegarden that he uses. We use half as a dark-room and half as acoal-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 onto the floor and there crash into fragments. The young lady visitoremitted a scream that would have done credit to a factory siren. Thenat 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 awayfrom the broken crockery on the floor as if to disclaim allresponsibility for it and said sternly:

  "Did you make that horrible noise?"

  Miss Greene began to laugh hysterically.

  "Do have some tea now you've come," she said to Ginger.

  Ginger remembered the pangs of hunger, of which excitement hadmomentarily rendered him oblivious, and, deciding that there was notime like the present, took a cake from the stand and began to consumeit in silence.

  "You'd better be careful," said the young lady to her hostess; "hemight have escaped from the asylum. He looks mad. He had a very madlook, I thought, when he was standing at the window."

  "He's evidently hungry, anyway. I can't think why father doesn'tcome."

  Here Ginger, fortified by a walnut bun, remembered his mission.

  "It's all right now," he said. "You can go home. He's shut up. Me an'William shut him up."

  "You see!" said the young lady with a meaning glance around. "I _said_he was from the asylum. He looked mad. We'd better humour him and ringup the asylum. Have another cake, darling boy," she said in a tone ofhoneyed sweetness.

  Nothing loth, Ginger selected an ornate pyramid of icing.

  At this point there came a bellowing and crashing and tramping outsideand Miss Priscilla's father, roaring fury and threats of vengeance,hurled himself into the room. Miss Priscilla's father had made hisescape by a small window at the other end of the shed. To do this hehad had to climb over the coals in the dark. His face and hands andclothes and once-white beard were covered with coal. His eyes gleamedwhitely.

  "HE'S GOT OUT," WILLIAM SAID REPROACHFULLY. "WHY DI'N'TSOMEONE STOP HIM GETTIN' OUT?"]

  "An abominable attack ... utterly unprovoked ... dastardly ruffians!"

  Here he stopped to splutter because his mouth was full of coal dust.While he was spluttering, William, who had just discovered that hisbird had flown, appeared at the window.

  "He's got out," he said reproachfully. "Look at him. He's got out. An'all our trouble for nothing. Why di'n't someone _stop_ him gettin'out?"

  * * * * *

  William and Ginger sat on the railing that separated their houses.

  "It's not really much _fun_ bein' a knight," said William slowly.

  "No," agreed Ginger. "You never know when folks _is_ oppressed. An'anyway, wot's one afternoon away from school to make such a fussabout?"

  "Seems to me from wot father said," went on William gloomily, "you'llhave to wait a jolly long time for that drink of ginger-ale."

  An expression of dejection came over Ginger's face.

  "An' you wasn't even ever squire," he said. Then he brightened.

  "They were jolly good cakes, wasn't they?" he said.

  William's lips curved into a smile of blissful reminiscence.

  "_Jolly_ good!" he agreed.