§ 8
There was a little pause as the ladies moved away.
Then William spat and spoke in a note of irrational bitterness.
“Brasted Voolery,” said William, and then loudly and fiercely, “Cam up, y’ode Runt you.”
At these words the white horse started into a convulsive irregular redistribution of its feet, the caravan strained and quivered into motion and Bealby’s wanderings as a caravanner began.
For a time William spoke no more, and Bealby scarcely regarded him. The light of strange fortunes and deep enthusiasm was in Bealby’s eyes....
“One Thing,” said William, “they don’t ’ave the Sense to lock anythink up—whatever.”
Bealby’s attention was recalled to the existence of his companion.
William’s face was one of those faces that give one at first the impression of a solitary and very conceited nose. The other features are entirely subordinated to that salient effect. One sees them later. His eyes were small and uneven, his mouth apparently toothless, thin-lipped and crumpled, with the upper lip falling over the other in a manner suggestive of a meagre firmness mixed with appetite. When he spoke he made a faint slobbering sound. “Everyfink,” he said, “behind there.”
He became confidential. “I been in there. I larked about wiv their Fings.”
“They got some choc’late,” he said, lusciously. “Oo Fine!”
“All sorts of Fings.”
He did not seem to expect any reply from Bealby.
“We going far before we meet ’em?” asked Bealby.
William’s deafness became apparent.
His mind was preoccupied by other ideas. One wicked eye came close to Bealby’s face. “We going to ’ave a bit of choc’late,” he said in a wet desirous voice.
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the door. “You get it,” said William with reassuring nods and the mouth much pursed and very oblique.
Bealby shook his head.
“It’s in a little dror, under ’er place where she sleeps.”
Bealby’s head-shake became more emphatic.
“Yus, I tell you,” said William.
“No,” said Bealby.
“Choc’late, I tell you,” said William, and ran the tongue of appetite round the rim of his toothless mouth.
“Don’t want choc’late,” said Bealby, thinking of a large lump of it.
“Go on,” said William. “Nobody won’t see you....”
“Go it!” said William....
“You’re afraid,” said William....
“Here, I’ll go,” said William, losing self-control. “You just ’old these reins.”
Bealby took the reins. William got up and opened the door of the caravan. Then Bealby realized his moral responsibility—and, leaving the reins, clutched William firmly by his baggy nether garments. They were elderly garments, much sat upon. “Don’t be a Vool,” said William struggling. “Leago my slack.”
Something partially gave way, and William’s head came round to deal with Bealby.
“What you mean pullin’ my cloes orf me?”
“That,”—he investigated. “Take me a Nour to sew up.”
“I ain’t going to steal,” shouted Bealby into the ear of William.
“Nobody arst you to steal—”
“Nor you neither,” said Bealby.
The caravan bumped heavily against a low garden wall, skidded a little and came to rest. William sat down suddenly. The white horse, after a period of confusion with its legs, tried the flavour of some overhanging lilac branches and was content.
“Gimme those reins,” said William. “You be the Brastedest Young Vool....”
“Sittin’ ’ere,” said William presently, “chewin’ our teeth, when we might be eatin’ choc’late....”
“I ’ent got no use for you,” said William, “blowed if I ’ave....”
Then the thought of his injuries returned to him.
“I’d make you sew ’em up yourself, darned if I wount—on’y you’d go running the brasted needle into me.... Nour’s work there is—by the feel of it.... Mor’n nour.... Goddobe done, too.... All I got....”
“I’ll give you Sumpfin, you little Beace, ’fore I done wi’ you.”
“I wouldn’t steal ’er choc’lates,” said young Bealby, “not if I was starving.”
“Eh?” shouted William.
“Steal!” shouted Bealby.
“I’ll steal ye, ’fore I done with ye,” said William. “Tearin’ my cloes for me.... Oh! Cam up, y’old Runt. We don’t want you to stop and lissen. Cam up, I tell you!”