William Page 9

  Hubert pointed to William and said excitedly:

  ‘I say, look at that one. Who does he remind you of?’

  His companions looked long and searchingly at William’s feather-shadowed face and then began to giggle.

  ‘William Brown!’ they said, ‘he! he! It is a bit like him.’

  ‘Poor old William,’ said Hubert. ‘We’ll tell him tomorrow. We’ll tell him there was a waxwork jus’ like him.’

  ‘Poor ole William,’ repeated his companions, ‘swotting Latin verbs instead of coming to the fair. It was a joke, wasn’t it, Hubert?’

  They giggled together. There came a gleam to the eye of the little prince in the Tower. Then one of Hubert’s followers leant forward and said in jeering challenge to the little prince in the Tower:

  ‘Hello, William! Hello, poor ole William Brown. Swotting Latin verbs instead of coming to the fair. Poor ole William Brown.’

  It was an exquisite jest to the Hubert Laneites to bait this waxwork, which resembled William Brown, to its face as they dared not bait William Brown himself.

  ‘Hello, silly ole William Brown. Catch me if you can, William Brown. Yah! William Brown! Who’s got to stay in swotting Latin verbs instead of going to the fair? Yah! Yah! Yah! Little Lord Fauntleroy.’

  This last taunt was more than William’s proud spirit could brook. In a second he had leapt over the rope and was pursuing his amazed foes to the entrance of the tent and across the fair ground. The Hubert Laneites, so startled as hardly able to believe the evidence of their senses, were yet not too paralysed by fear to turn to flee before this avenging fury. Even William’s lace collar and feathered hat did not make him at that moment less terrible in their eyes.

  The spectators stood motionless and the straw dropped from the mouth of the bored-looking youth. One of the waxworks had suddenly come to life, leapt over the rope, and fled headlong out of the tent. The youngest spectator suddenly pointed to Henry the Eighth and said, ‘He’s beginning to move, too. I sor him movin’. They’re all comin’ alive,’ and the whole body of spectators suddenly made a rush for the doorway.

  The people in the fair ground also stood spellbound with astonishment. They had seen no waxwork come to life, but they had seen a boy strangely attired in a black velvet suit and lace collar and a black velvet feathered hat dashing across the ground in fierce pursuit of a little crowd of normally attired boys. The waxwork show spectators followed. The showman and the bored-looking youth followed them. The youth had shed his boredom with his straw and was leaping along, uttering shrill cries of excitement. At the end of the fair ground the showman gave up the chase and returned (still running) to his tent. It had perhaps occurred to him that what had happened to one might happen to another, and he had horrible mental visions of Guy Fawkes with his gunpowder, or the executioner with his axe, running amok through the fair ground. The bored-looking youth followed him, eager to be in at the coming to life of the next waxwork. The Outlaws, who had been standing in a little crowd at the door of the tent where they could just see William, followed in the wake of William’s strange figure across the fair ground. Outside the fair ground William forgot the Hubert Laneites and the uncontrollable fury that had sent him after them. He found himself in a public road wearing a humiliating costume that would attract scorn and ridicule from all beholders, and thought only of escaping from the public gaze. He left the Hubert Laneites to go panting and puffing but unpursued down the lane that led to Hubert’s home, while he turned into a lane and ran by devious ways till he reached the barn which was the Outlaws’ meeting place. His pursuers had given up the chase (William was a fleet runner), but the Outlaws had made straight for the old barn, knowing that William would take refuge there. They found him, purple-faced and panting. He glared at them furiously. His mental picture of his appearance was a horrible one. That ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’ rankled deeply. But to his relief the Outlaws did not collapse upon each other in helpless mirth. They looked at him gloomily.

  WILLIAM TRIED HIS UTMOST TO LOOK UNCONCERNED, BUT A GLEAM CAME INTO HIS EYE.

  ‘YAH! YAH! YAH!’ JEERED HUBERT LANE. ‘LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY!’

  ‘I said you’d make a mess of it,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said William fiercely. ‘I’m jolly well goin’ to get into some decent clothes.’ He glanced coldly at Ginger. ‘Can’t think what made you think of a thing like this.’

  Ginger defended himself with spirit.

  ‘It’d have been all right if you’d kept the overcoat on ’stead of messin’ the whole thing up pretendin’ to be a waxwork.’

  But William was too much depressed to argue. Moreover, Henry had lent him his overcoat again and the overcoat had restored something of his self-respect. At least the black velvet suit and lace collar that had earned him the opprobrious taunt were no longer visible.

  ‘Well, I’m goin’ back to get my own clothes now,’ said William, and added earnestly, ‘I’d almost sooner go nakid than wear things like these.’

  ‘The hour’ll be up now,’ said Henry soothingly, ‘it’ll be all right. We’ll jus’ go an’ get it an’ – an’’ – tamely – ‘take it back an’—’

  The difficulties of the situation were becoming more and more evident to them at every minute. The excitement and admiration that had greeted Ginger’s conception of the plan were paling into apprehension and disapproval. Ginger, feeling that his popularity was on the wane, said spiritedly:

  ‘Well, he messed it all up pretendin’ to be a waxwork. It was a jolly good plan before he started messin’ it up.’

  ‘Oh, shut up and come on,’ said William, hugging Henry’s overcoat around him and fiercely pushing down a bit of the lace collar that showed above it. ‘Come on and let’s get back to my clothes. I’m sick of these things. I tell you I’d sooner go nakid.’

  They made their way down to the main road and walked silently towards the school.

  A man was walking in front of them. So depressed were they that at first they did not recognise him. Then suddenly something familiar in his gait made Ginger stand rigid and draw in his breath.

  ‘Crumbs!’ he breathed. ‘Ole Markie!’

  The Outlaws stared aghast at the figure that was striding on ahead of them towards the school.

  ‘He can’t—’ gasped William.

  ‘Shurely he isn’t—’ gasped Ginger.

  ‘He never has before—’ gasped Douglas.

  ‘Well, of all the—’ gasped Henry.

  But they could do nothing but walk on behind him, apprehensive and aghast.

  The school gates were now in sight.

  ‘P’raps he’s jus’ goin’ for a walk,’ suggested Henry hoarsely. ‘P’raps—’

  His sentence faded away.

  Mr Markson had turned in at the school gates.

  ‘Crumbs!’ breathed all the Outlaws in horror.

  ‘Quick!’ said William breathlessly, ‘let’s run round to the window. P’raps we’ll jus’ be in time—’

  They ran round to the window. But they weren’t just in time. Already Mr Markson was entering the door of his class-room. The waxwork still sat as they had left it, garbed in William’s tweed suit, propped up at the desk, its head on its hands, before an open Latin grammar. Its face was hidden by its hands and the sleeves of its suit.

  The Outlaws crouched in the bushes just outside the open window and watched and listened, horror-struck.

  ‘Well, my boy,’ said Mr Markson, ‘have you learnt it?’

  His boy continued to pore over the Latin grammar without moving or replying.

  Mr Markson raised his voice. ‘I’ll – er – hear you now, my boy. You’ve had your hour.’

  Still the figure did not move. Mr Markson went across the room and touched its shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you hear me, my boy?’ he said.

  The figure collapsed on to the desk, head down, arms outstretched, as if abandoning itself to despair.

  Mr Markson (who was rather short-sighted) wa
s evidently surprised and distressed at this.

  ‘Come, come, my boy,’ he said. ‘No need to despair like that. No need at all. If you can say your verbs properly no more will be said about the matter. Very childish to behave like this. Be a man. Be a man.’

  The figure refused to be a man. It remained in its tragic attitude of despair, its head on the desk, its arms outspread.

  Mr Markson, still surprised and distressed, approached it and laid his hand again on its shoulder. It collapsed in a heap on the floor. Mr Markson rushed to the door and called loudly for the caretaker, ‘Cramps! Cramps! Ring up for the doctor at once and bring some water to my class-room. There’s a boy here fainted.’

  Then he approached the prostrate figure and lifted it carefully in his arms . . .

  The Outlaws, of course, should have disappeared before that, but horror and surprise had literally deprived them of the power of movement, and when Mr Markson had laid down his burden with considerably less tenderness than he had shown in raising it, and had looked around him, his eye ablaze with lust for vengeance, the first object it fell on was William, standing outside the window, his eyes and mouth wide open, his unbuttoned overcoat disclosing a black velvet suit and a lace collar. The power of movement returned to William, but too late. With surprising agility Mr Markson had flung himself across the room and through the open window and his hand closed on William’s neck just as William’s power of movement was returning.

  The crisis was over. The Outlaws assembled again in the old barn to discuss the matter. They had taken back the waxwork to its proprietor, prepared for a scene almost as unpleasant as the one in which William and Mr Markson had played the leading parts. But the proprietor of the waxwork show was unexpectedly benign. His waxwork show was being an unprecedented success. Queues stood half-way down the fair ground, waiting to come in. Various rumours were afloat about it. One was to the effect that one of the waxworks was alive and that you got £10 if you guessed which one it was. Another was that they all came miraculously to life every twenty minutes and if you were lucky you might catch them at it. It was generally understood that even if neither of these things were true, there was something unusual about the waxwork show and that it should not be missed. The showman had doubled his entrance fee and still they came. The bored-looking youth (now strawless and no longer bored) was giving wildly exaggerated accounts of the coming to life of the Little Prince in the Tower. A woman in very large spectacles and a dress of hand-woven tweed was saying that she could tell by the atmosphere that elementals were at work here and that someone ought to send for the Psychical Research Society.

  The showman examined his figure, found it uninjured and dismissed the Outlaws with a ‘You try it on again, my boys, and you’ll hear something.’

  They didn’t feel like trying it on again, however. They’d heard something already.

  They went to the old barn to discuss the affair in all its aspects.

  Ginger, Henry and Douglas sat on the ground. William, of his own choice, stood, for Mr Markson, sacrificing himself to the noble cause of discipline, had deliberately brought on one of the worst attacks of arthritis in his right arm he’d had for a long time.

  ‘Well, what I say about it is,’ said William, ‘that in spite of the crule way people treat boys nowadays I’d sooner live nowadays than then. I’d sooner be treated in the crule way they treat boys nowadays jus’ when it happens than have to wear collars that tickle your neck and feathers that tickle your face all the time. Well, that’s what I think anyway, and I oughter know; I’ve tried both.’

  CHAPTER 5

  WILLIAM THE SHOWMAN

  ‘I think,’ said William, ‘that it’s time we did something a little more exciting than some of the things we’ve been doing lately.’

  ‘They seem exciting enough to me!’ retorted Ginger.

  ‘Oh yes,’ admitted William, ‘they’re excitin’ in a way all right, but they’re the sort of thing we’ve always done. What we want is somethin’ new. You know. Somethin’ we’ve never done before.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Douglas sardonically, ‘some of your things are a bit too excitin’ for us. That time you had greyhound racin’ with Jumble, an’ that time you pretended to be a waxwork.’

  ‘Now that’s a thing we’ve never done an’ I’ve always thought it would be nice to do,’ said William, ‘have a waxwork show. What about havin’ a waxwork show? It’s quite a long time since we had any sort of a show. People’ll be thinkin’ we can’t think of anythin’ else to do an’ I shun’t like people to get thinkin’ things like that about us.’

  ‘You mean have a waxwork show an’ let people come an’ watch it?’ said Henry with growing interest.

  ‘Make ’em pay, of course,’ said William; ‘we’ll have it in aid of somethin’, same as grown-ups do.’

  ‘In aid of us,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘No, we can’t do that,’ said Douglas; ‘they keep a bit for expenses, but they give the rest to something.’

  ‘The worst of givin’ money to things,’ said William slowly, ‘is that one doesn’t get anythin’ out of it oneself. I’d like it if we could find a way of givin’ money to somethin’ an’ still gettin’ somethin’ out of it ourselves.’

  ‘Well, we can’t,’ said Ginger; ‘we’ve jus’ got to choose somethin’ to give it to and give it to it.’

  ‘What’ll we give it to?’

  ‘Oh, there’s lots of things to give it to. Socities they call ’em. Lookin’ after old people an’ givin’ socks to fishermen – that sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t feel as if I could get up much interest in anythin’ like that,’ said William. ‘All the old people I know can look after themselves a jolly sight too well an’ I don’t see what fishermen want with socks.’

  ‘Well, those aren’t the only two,’ said Ginger irritably; ‘there’s heaps more. There’s one for sendin’ children to the sea.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go to sea,’ said William with interest, ‘but I didn’t know there was a Socity—’

  ‘Not that sort of goin’ to sea,’ said Ginger. ‘Goin’ to the seaside, I mean.’

  ‘Well, I never see why people want to go to the seaside,’ said William. ‘Nothin’ but sand. I jolly well get fed up with sand in a day. And the water tastes nasty an’ everyone’s cross. Well, I bet we don’t give any money to any of those. What others are there?’

  ‘There’s – oh, there’s lots, but I don’t remember ’em, I know that one of ’em belongs to Mr Peters, at The Elms, you know. It’s somethin’ for old people, or children, or animals, or fishermen, or somethin’: I know he goes round gettin’ money for it.’

  ‘We’ll give it to that one, then,’ said William finally; ‘then he’ll have to let us play in his shrubbery ’stead of chasin’ us out, same as he does now. Yes, I bet that would be a very good Socity to give it to. We’ll keep half the money ourselves for expenses, an’ give half to Mr Peters for his Socity to let us play in his shrubbery. Don’t you all think so?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Douglas sarcastically, ‘let’s give ’em half. Half of nothin’s nothin’. Let’s give ’em nothin’. If you think anyone’s goin’ to pay money – well, think of all the other things we’ve done, that’s all. When’ve we ever made any money?’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ said William wearily, ‘we never should, for all you do to help, that’s cert’nly true. Why, I tell you we’ve never done a waxwork show before. I bet we’ll make heaps of money with a waxwork show.’

  ‘Well, what’d we have to do?’

  ‘Oh, jus’ dress up as people, that’s all. People in history. Then I’ll make a speech about you an’ say you’re made of wax. An’ you’ve not gotter do anythin’ but jus’ stand starin’ in front of you an’ not movin’. It’s quite easy; you jus’ stand starin’ in front of you and not movin’ an’ they jus’ pay money an’ look at you.’

  ‘What history people?’ said Ginger.

  ‘Oh, any,’ said William carelessl
y.

  ‘We haven’t got any history people’s clothes,’ objected Douglas.

  ‘Haven’t you got any sense?’ said William irritably. ‘Cert’nly to hear you talk anyone ’d think you hadn’t. Anyone can make up history people’s clothes. History people jus’ wore tablecloths and long stockings an’ funny things on their heads. Anyone c’n get those. You can make crowns out of cardboard for kings, an’ other people wore waste-paper baskets or – well, p’raps not saucepans,’ ended William thoughtfully, remembering an occasion when a saucepan had slipped down over his head during his rendering of a dramatic part in a play and refused to be removed. ‘No – p’raps jus’ waste-paper baskets an’ crowns made of cardboard. An’ we’ll put on beards an’ whiskers an’ things with cork an’ then we’ll look jus’ like history people.’

  ‘What history people shall we be?’ said Ginger.

  They were passing the gate of The Hall. The Hall had lately been taken by a famous actress and according to rumours fabulous sums had been spent upon its redecoration. The actress and her little girl had only come into residence the week before and as yet the neighbourhood had seen little of them. The Outlaws glanced up at the chimneys that could be seen through the trees.

  ‘Pity it’s a girl,’ said William dispassionately, ‘they’re never any use.’

  As they reached the gate, a little girl about the Outlaws’ age, accompanied by a governess, was turning into it. She was a very pretty little girl, but William was immune against the wiles of feminine charm. He looked at her scornfully. She looked at him with interest. They passed each other. She went in through the gate with the governess. When William had gone a few yards he looked back. He could still see her. She too was looking back. He pulled a face at her. She did not burst into tears or turn haughtily away as he expected her to do. Instead she pulled a face back at him – a face so perfect in its suddenly assumed hideousness that William was startled into relaxing his own efforts.