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  ‘Come on, my gallant braves,’ he said addressing an imaginary band of fellow captives. ‘Let us eat well and then devise some way of escape or ere dawn our bleached bones may dangle from yon gallows.’

  Then quite happily and contentedly he began to eat the fluffy stick of toffee . . .

  CHAPTER 5

  A BIT OF BLACKMAIL

  Bob Andrews was one of the picturesque figures of the village. He lived at the East Lodge of the Hall, and was supposed to help with the gardening of the Hall grounds. He was tall, handsome, white-bearded and gloriously lazy. He had a roguish twinkle in his blue eyes and a genius for wasting time – both his own and other people’s. He was a great friend of William and the Outlaws. He seemed to them to be free of all the drawbacks that usually accompany the state of grown-upness. He was never busy, never disapproving, never tidy, never abstracted. He took seriously the really important things of life such as cigarette-card collecting, the top season, Red Indians, and the finding of birds’ nests. Having abstracted a promise from them that they would take ‘one igg an’ no more, ye rascals’, he would show them every bird’s nest in the Hall woods. He seemed to know exactly where each bird would build each year. He had a family of two tame squirrels, four dogs and seven cats, who all lived together in unity. He could carve boats out of wood, make whistles and bows and arrows and tops. He did all these things as if he had nothing else to do in the world. He would stand for hours perfectly happy with his hands in his pockets, smoking. He would watch the Outlaws organising races of boats, watch them shooting their bows and arrows, taking interest in their marksmanship, offering helpful criticism. He was in every way an eminently satisfactory person. He was paid a regular salary by the absent owner of the Hall for occasionally opening the Lodge gates, and still more occasionally assisting with the gardening. He understood the word assistance in its most literal sense – that of ‘standing by’. He was also generous with kindly advice to his more active colleagues. It says much for his attractive personality that this want of activity was resented by no one.

  Mr Bott, the new owner of the Hall, was a businessman. He liked to get his money’s worth for his money. It was not for nothing that passionate appeals to safeguard their health by taking Bott’s Sauce with every meal met England’s citizens in every town. Mr Bott believed in getting the last ounce of work out of his work-people. That was what had raised Mr Bott from grocer’s errand boy to lord of the manor. When Mr Bott discovered that he had upon his newly acquired estate a man who drew a working man’s salary for merely standing about and at intervals consuming the more choice fruit from the hothouses, Mr Bott promptly sacked that man. It would have been against Mr Bott’s most sacred principles to do otherwise . . .

  The Outlaws avoided Mr Bott’s estate for some time after their adventure with his daughter. But having heard that she had departed on a lengthy visit to distant relatives, the Outlaws decided to return to their favourite haunts. They entered the wood by crawling through the hedge. For a time they amused themselves by climbing trees and turning somersaults among the leaves. Then they tried jumping over the stream. The stream possessed the attraction of being just too wide to jump over. The interest lay in seeing how much or how little of their boots got wet each time. Finally the Outlaws wearied of these pursuits.

  ‘Let’s go and find Bob,’ said William at last.

  Scuffling, shuffling, dragging their toes along the ground, whistling, punching each other at intervals, in the fashion of boyhood, they made their way slowly to the East Lodge.

  Bob stood at his door smoking as usual.

  ‘Hello, Bob,’ called the Outlaws.

  ‘Hello, ye young rascals.’

  ‘I say, Bob, make us some boats an’ let’s have a race.’

  ‘Sure an’ I will,’ said Bob knocking out his pipe and taking a large penknife out of his pocket, ‘though it’s wastin’ me time ye are, as usual.’

  He took up a piece of wood and began to whittle.

  ‘How’s the squirrel, Bob?’

  ‘Foine.’

  ‘Bob, they’re building in the ivy on the Old Oak again.’

  ‘Shure an’ I knew that before you did, me bhoy.’

  But though he whittled and whistled Bob was evidently not his old self.

  ‘I say, Bob, next month—’

  ‘Next month, me bhoys, I shall not be here.’

  They stared at him open-mouthed.

  ‘What – you goin’ away for a holiday, Bob?’

  Bob whittled away nonchalantly.

  ‘I’m goin’ away, me bhoys, because th’ould devil up there has given me the sack – God forgive him for Oi won’t,’ he ended piously.

  ‘But – why?’ they said, aghast.

  ‘He sez I don’t work. Me!’ he said indignantly. ‘Me – an’ me wearin’ me hands to the bone for him the way I do. An’ he says I steal ’is fruit – me what takes only the few peaches he’d come an’ give me with his own hands if he was a gintleman at all, at all.’

  ‘What a shame!’ said the Outlaws.

  ‘Turnin’ me an’ me hanimals out into the cold world. May God forgive him!’ said Bob. ‘Well, here’s yer boats, ye young rascals, an’ don’t ye go near me pheasants’ nests or I’ll put the fear of God on ye.’

  ‘We’ve gotter do something,’ said William, when Bob had returned, smoking peacefully, to his Lodge.

  ‘We can’t do anything,’ said Ginger despondently. ‘Who’d listen to us? Who’d take any notice of us, anyway?’

  William the leader looked at him sternly.

  ‘You jus’ wait an’ see,’ he said.

  Mr Bott was very stout. His stoutness was a great secret trouble to Mr Bott. Mr Bott had made his money and now Mr Bott wished to take his proper place in Society. Mr Bott considered not unreasonably that his corpulency, though an excellent advertisement of the nourishing qualities of Bott’s Sauce, yet detracted from the refinement of his appearance. Mrs Bott frequently urged him to ‘do something about it’. He had consulted many expensive specialists. Mrs Bott kept finding ‘new men’ for him. The last ‘new man’ she had found was highly recommended on all sides. He practically guaranteed his treatment to transform a human balloon to a human pencil in a few months. Mr Bott had begun the treatment. It was irksome but Mr Bott was persevering. Had Mr Bott not been persevering he would never have attained that position of eminence in the commercial world that he now held. Every morning as soon as it was light, Mr Bott, decently covered by a large overcoat, went down to a small lake in the grounds among the bushes. There Mr Bott divested himself of his overcoat and appeared in small bathing drawers. From the pocket of his overcoat Mr Bott would then take a skipping rope and with this he would skip five times round the lake. Then he would put away his skipping rope and do his exercises. He would twist his short fat body into strange attitudes, flinging his short fat arms towards Heaven, standing upon one short fat leg with the other thrust out at various angles and invariably overbalancing. Finally, Mr Bott had to plunge into the lake (it was not deep), splash and kick and run round in it, and then emerge to dry himself on a towel concealed in the other pocket of his overcoat, shiveringly don the overcoat again and furtively return to the house. For Mr Bott was shy about his ‘treatment’. He fondly imagined that no one except Mrs Bott, the ‘new man’ and himself knew about his early morning adventures.

  One chilly morning Mr Bott had skipped and leapt and twisted himself and splashed himself and emerged shivering and red-nosed for his overcoat. Then Mr Bott received a shock that was nearly too much for his much exercised system. His overcoat was not there. He looked all round the tree where he knew he had left it, and it was not there. It was most certainly not there. With chattering teeth Mr Bott threw a glance of pathetic despair around him. Then above the sound of the chattering of his teeth he heard a voice.

  ‘I’ve got your coat up here.’

  Mr Bott threw a startled glance up into the tree whence the voice came. From among the leaves a stern, frec
kled, snub-nosed, wild-haired face glared down at him.

  ‘I’ll give you your coat,’ said William, ‘ ’f you’ll promise to let Bob stay.’

  Mr Bott clasped his dripping head with a dripping hand.

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Bob Andrews what you’re sending away for nothing.’

  Mr Bott tried to look dignified in spite of the chattering of his teeth and the water that poured from his hair down his face.

  ‘I have my reasons, child,’ he said, ‘of which you know nothing. Will you kindly give me back my coat? I’m afraid you are a very naughty, ill-behaved little boy to do a thing like this and if you aren’t careful I’ll tell the police about it.’

  ‘I’ll give you your coat if you’ll promise not to send Bob away,’ said William again sternly.

  ‘I shall most certainly speak to your father and the police,’ said Mr Bott. ‘You’re a very impudent little boy! Give me my coat at once.’

  ‘I’ll give you your coat,’ said William again, ‘if you’ll promise not to send Bob away.’

  Mr Bott’s dignity began to melt away.

  ‘You young devil,’ he roared. ‘You—’

  He looked wildly around and his eyes fell upon something upon which William’s eye ought to have fallen before. William had for once overlooked something vital to his strategy. In the long grass behind the tree lay a ladder that had been left there long ago by some gardener and forgotten. With a yell of triumph Mr Bott rushed to it.

  ‘Oh, crumbs!’ said William among the leafage.

  Mr Bott put the ladder against the tree trunk and began to swarm up it – large, dripping, chattering with rage and cold. William retreated along his branch, still clinging to the overcoat. Mr Bott pursued furiously.

  ‘You young rogue – you young devil. I’ll teach you – I’ll—’

  The branch down which William was retreating pursued by Mr Bott was directly over the lake. William alone it could easily have supported, but it drew the line at Mr Bott. With a creaking and crashing above which rose a yell of terror from Mr Bott, it fell into the water accompanied by its two occupants. The splash made by Mr Bott’s falling body at first obscured the landscape. Before William could recover from the shock caused by Mr Bott’s splash and yell and his own unexpected descent, Mr Bott was upon him. Mr Bott was maddened by rage and fury, and wet and cold. He ducked William and shook William and tore his wet overcoat from William. William butted Mr Bott in his largest and roundest part, then scrambled from the lake and fled dripping towards the gate. Mr Bott at first pursued him, then realising that the path was taking him within sight of the high road, turned back, drew his soaked overcoat over his shoulders and fled chatteringly and shiveringly towards his resplendent mansion.

  Two hours later, William met the other Outlaws by appointment in the old barn where all their meetings were held.

  ‘Well?’ said the other Outlaws eagerly.

  William, who was wearing his best suit, looked pale and chastened but none the less determined.

  ‘It didn’t quite come off,’ admitted William. ‘Something went wrong.’

  Their faces fell, but they did not question him.

  ‘Well, we’ve done all we can,’ said Ginger resignedly, ‘an’ we jus’ can’t help it.’

  ‘I’ve got another idea,’ said William grimly. ‘I’ve jolly well not finished yet.’

  They looked at him with awe and respect.

  ‘We’ll have another meeting in three days,’ said William with his stern frown, ‘an’ – an’ – well, you jus’ wait and see.’

  The next day was bright and sunny. Mr Bott almost enjoyed his morning exercises. He thought occasionally with indignation of the events of the previous morning. That dreadful boy . . . anyway he’d shown him – he wasn’t likely to come again after yesterday. And most certainly Bob Andrews should go . . . he’d like to see any fool boy dictating to him. But Mr Bott could not feel bad-tempered for long. It was such a bright sunny morning and he’d just discovered himself to be 7/8 of an inch thinner round the waist than this time last week . . .

  He leapt and skipped and gambolled and splashed. Once he imagined he saw the horrible boy’s face in the bushes, but looking again he came to the conclusion that he must have been mistaken. Once too, he thought he heard a snap or a click as if someone had stepped on a twig, but listening again he came to the conclusion that he must have been mistaken. He enjoyed his exercises for the next two mornings as well. But on the third morning as soon as he had come down, dressed and glowing, to his study after his exercises, to look at his letters before breakfast the butler threw open the door and announced:

  ‘They said it was himportant business, sir, an’ you knew about it. I ’ope it’s all right.’

  Then four boys walked up to his desk. One was the boy who had taken his overcoat up a tree two days before. The butler had gone. Mr Bott, sputtering with rage, reached out to the bell. He was going to say ‘Kick these boys out’, when the worst of the boys – the devil – laid half a dozen snapshots on his desk. Mr Bott looked at them, and then sat rigid and motionless, his hand still outstretched towards the bell.

  Then his rubicund face grew pale.

  The first snapshot showed Mr Bott, short, fat, and (except for his microscopic bathing drawers) naked, skipping by the lake. The angle of his legs was irresistibly comic. The second snapshot showed Mr Bott, still short and fat and almost naked, balancing himself on one arm and one leg, the others stuck out wildly in the air, his eyes staring, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. The third snapshot showed Mr Bott in the act of overbalancing in a rather difficult exercise. That was the gem of the collection. The fourth showed Mr Bott lying on his back and kicking his legs in the air. The fifth showed Mr Bott standing on two very stiff arms and stiff legs with an expression of acute suffering on his face. The sixth showed Mr Bott splashing in the lake.

  MR BOTT LEAPED AND SKIPPED AND GAMBOLLED AND SPLASHED. HE WAS DETERMINED TO OBEY TO THE FULL THE SPECIALIST’S ADVICE ABOUT PHYSICAL EXERCISES.

  Mr Bott took out his handkerchief and wiped away the perspiration that was standing out on his brow.

  ‘If you burn ’em,’ said William firmly, ‘we can get more. We ’ve got the films and we can make hundreds more – and jolly good ones too.’

  Mr Bott began to stammer.

  ‘W-what are you g-going to d-do with them?’ he asked.

  ‘Just show them to people,’ said William calmly.

  Horrid visions passed before Mr Bott’s eyes. He saw the wretched things in the local paper. He saw them passed from hand to hand in drawing-rooms. He saw strong men helpless with mirth as they seized on them. His position in Society – well, the less said about his position in Society if those things became public the better . . .

  William took a crumpled document from his pocket and laid it solemnly upon Mr Bott’s desk.

  ‘That’s a contrack,’ he said, ‘signed in all our life’s blood sayin’ that we’ll keep ’em hid safely and never show ’em to anyone s’long as you let Bob stay.’

  ONCE MR BOTT THOUGHT HE SAW THAT HORRIBLE BOY’S FACE IN THE BUSHES. ONCE HE IMAGINED HE HEARD AN ODD CLICK, AS IF SOMEONE HAD STEPPED ON A TWIG.

  Mr Bott knew when he was beaten. He moistened his lips.

  ‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘All right . . . I promise – only – go away.’

  They went away.

  Mr Bott locked the contract in his desk and pocketed the key.

  Mrs Bott came in. Mr Bott still sat huddled in his chair.

  ‘You don’t look well, Botty, darling,’ said Mrs Bott with concern in her voice.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Bott in a hollow voice. ‘I don’t know that this treatment’s doing me any good.’

  ‘Isn’t it, ducky?’ said Mrs Bott. ‘Well, I’ll try to find you a new man.’

  That afternoon the Outlaws passed Bob. He stood outside his Lodge, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth, handsome, white-bearded, gloriously lazy.

  ‘I’ve found a gra
ss snake for ye, me bhoys,’ he sang out. ‘He’s in a box in the yard beyond. Oh, an’ Bob Andrews is not goin’, me bhoys. The sack is withdrawn. Th’aud devil’s realised me value, glory be to God.’

  That night Robert, William’s elder brother, came downstairs with his camera in his hand.

  ‘I say,’ he said, ‘I could have sworn I put this away with half a dozen films in.’

  ‘When did you have it last, dear?’ said his mother.

  William took a book from a shelf and sat down at the table, resting his head on his hands.

  ‘I put it away last autumn till the decent weather came round, but I could have sworn I put it away with a roll of films in.’

  His eyes fell sternly and accusingly upon William.

  William looked up, met it unflinchingly with an expression of patient endurance on his face.

  ‘Robert,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I wish you’d talk more quietly. I’m trying to learn my history dates.’

  Robert’s jaw dropped. Then he went quietly from the room still gaping. There was simply no making head or tail of that kid . . .

  CHAPTER 6

  WILLIAM THE MONEY-MAKER

  The rain poured ceaselessly upon the old barn where the Outlaws were assembled. They had meant to spend the afternoon bird’s-nesting, and they had continued to bird’s-nest in spite of the steady downpour till Ginger had torn such a large hole in his knickers that as he pathetically remarked, ‘ ’S’all very well for you. ’S only rainin’ on your clothes. But it’s rainin’ right on to me through my hole an’ its jolly cold an’ I’m goin’ home.’

  His threat of going home was hardly serious. It was not likely that any of the Outlaws would waste the precious hours of a half-holiday in a place so barren of any hope of adventure as home.

  ‘All right,’ said William the leader (upon whose stern and grimy countenance the rain had traced little channels of cleanliness) testily. ‘All right. My goodness, what a fuss you make about a bit of rain on your bare skin. What would you do if you was a Red Indian an’ had to be out of doors all weathers and nearly all bare skin?’