CHAPTER I
WILLIAM—THE OUTLAW
WILLIAM and Ginger and Douglas (known as the Outlaws) walked slowly down the road to school. It was a very fine afternoon—one of those afternoons which, one feels—certainly the Outlaws felt—it is base ingratitude to spend indoors. The sun was shining and the birds were singing in a particularly inviting way.
“G’omtry,” said William with scornful emphasis and repeated bitterly, “G’omtry!”
“Might be worse,” said Douglas, “might be Latin.”
“Might be better,” said Henry, “might be singin’.”
The Outlaws liked singing lessons not because they were musical, but because it involved no mental effort and because the master who taught singing was a poor disciplinarian.
“Might be better still,” said Ginger, “might be nothin’.”
The Outlaws slackened their already very slack pace and their eyes wandered wistfully to the tree-covered hill-tops which lay so invitingly in the distance.
“Afternoon school’s all wrong,” said William suddenly. “Mornin’s bad enough. But afternoon——!”
That morning certainly had been bad enough. It had been the sort of morning when everything goes wrong that can go wrong. The Outlaws had incurred the wrath of every master with whom they had come in contact.
“An’ this afternoon!” said Ginger with infinite disgust. “It’ll be worse even than an ordinary afternoon with me havin’ to stay in writin’ lines for old Face.”
“An’ me havin’ to stay in doin’ stuff all over again for ole Stinks.”
It turned out that each one of the four Outlaws would have to stay in after afternoon school as the victim of one or other of the masters whose wrath they had incurred that morning.
William heaved a deep sigh.
“Makes me feel mad,” he said. “Miners havin’ Trades Unions an’ Strikes an’ things to stop ’em doin’ too much work an’ us havin’ to go on an’ on an’ on till we’re wore out. You’d think Parliament’d stop it. People go on writin’ in the papers about people needin’ fresh air an’ then ’stead of lettin’ people have fresh air they shut ’em up in schools all day, mornin’ an’ afternoon, till—till they’re all wore out.”
“Yes,” said Ginger in hearty agreement. “I think that there oughter be a law stoppin’ afternoon school. I think that we’d be much healthier in every way if someone made a law stoppin’ afternoon school so’s we could get a bit of fresh air. I think,” with an air of unctuous virtue, “that it’s our juty to try’n get a bit of fresh air to keep us healthy so’s to save our parents havin’ to pay doctor’s bills.”
Ginger ignored the fact that so far no one in all his healthy young life had ever paid a doctor’s bill for him.
“I’ve a good mind to be a member of Parliament when I grow up,” threatened Douglas, “jus’ to make all schools have a holiday in the afternoons.”
“An’ the mornin’,” added Henry dreamily.
But, attractive as this idea was, even the Outlaws felt it was going rather too far.
“No, we’ll have to keep on mornin’ school,” said Douglas earnestly, “cause of—cause of exams an’ things. An’ school-masters’d all starve if we didn’t have any school.”
“Do ’em good,” said Ginger bitterly and added, darkly, “I’d jolly well make some laws about school-masters if I was a member of Parliament.”
“What I think’d be a good idea,” said William, “would be jus’ to have school on wet mornin’s. Not if it’s fine ’cause of gettin’ a little fresh air jus’ to keep us healthy.”
This was felt by them all to be an excellent idea.
“The rotten thing about it is,” went on William, “that by the time we’re in Parliament makin’ the laws we’ll be makin’ it for other people an’ too late to do us any good.”
“An’ it seems hardly worth botherin’ to get into Parliament jus’ to do things for other people,” said Ginger the egoist.
They were very near the school now and instinctively had slowed down to a stop. The sun was shining more brightly than ever. The whole countryside looked more inviting than ever. There was a short silence. They gazed from the school building (grim and dark and uninviting) to the sunny hills and woods and fields that surrounded it. At last William spoke.
“Seems ridic’lous to go in,” he said slowly.
And Ginger said still with his air of unctuous virtue, “Seems sort of wrong to go when we reely don’t believe that we oughter go. They’re always tellin’ us not to do things our conscience tells us not to do. Well, my conscience tells me not to go to school this afternoon. My conscience tells me that it’s my juty to go out into the fresh air gettin’ healthy. My conscience——”
Douglas interrupted gloomily: “’S’ all very well talkin’ like that. You know what’ll happen to us to-morrow morning.”
The soaring spirits of the Outlaws dropped abruptly at this reminder. The general feeling was that it was rather tactless of Douglas to have introduced the subject. It was difficult after that to restore the attitude of reckless daring which had existed a few minutes before. It was William of course who restored it, swinging well to the other extreme in order to repair the balance.
“Well, we won’t go to-morrow mornin’ either,” he said. “I’m jolly well sick of wastin’ my time in a stuffy old school when I might be outside gettin’ fresh air. Let’s be Outlaws. Let’s be real Outlaws. Let’s go right away somewhere to a wood where no one’ll find us an’ live on blackberries an’ roots an’ things an’ if they come out to fetch us we’ll climb trees an’ hide or run away or shoot at ’em with bows and arrows. Let’s go’n’ live all the rest of our lives as Outlaws.”
And so infectious was William’s spirit, so hypnotic was William’s glorious optimism that the Outlaws cheered jubilantly and said, “Yes, let’s.... Hurrah!”
“And never go to school no more,” said Douglas rapturously.
“No, never go to school no more,” chanted the Outlaws.
They decided not to go home for provisions because their unexpected presence there would be sure to raise comment and question.
And as William said, “We don’t want any food but blackberries an’ mushrooms an’ roots an’ things. People used to live on roots an’ I bet we’ll soon find some roots to live on. It’ll be quite easy to find what sort to eat and what sort not to eat. An’ we’ll kill rabbits an’ things an’ make fires an’ cook them. That’s what real Outlaws did, an’ we’re real Outlaws now. An’ we don’t want any clothes but what we’ve got. When they fall to pieces we’ll make some more out of the skins of rabbits we’ve killed to eat. That’s what real Outlaws did, I bet.”
“Where’ll we go to?” said Douglas. William considered.
“Well,” he said, “we must be in a wood. Outlaws are always in woods, ’cause of hiding an’ eating the roots and things. And we oughter be on a hill ’cause of seeing people comin’ when they come tryin’ to catch us——”
“Ringers’ Hill, then,” said Ginger blithely.
Ringers’ Hill was both high and wooded.
The Outlaws cheered again. They were still drunk with the prospect of freedom, intoxicated by William’s glorious optimism. They marched down the road that led away from the school singing lustily. The Outlaws were very fond of community singing. They liked to sing different songs simultaneously. William in sheer lightness of heart was singing—very unsuitably—“Home Sweet Home,” Ginger was singing “We won’t go to school no more,” to the tune of “It ain’t go’n rain no more,” Douglas was singing “Shepherd of the Hills,” and Henry was singing “Bye-bye, Blackbird.”
Suddenly two of their class-mates—Brown and Smith—came round the corner on their way to school. They looked at the Outlaws in surprise. Brown was deprived of the power of speech by a twopenny bull’s eye of giant proportions which he had just purchased at the village shop, but Smith said, “Hello! You’re going the wrong way.”
“No, we aren’t,” said William, blithely, “we’re going the right way.”
Brown made an inarticulate sound through his bull’s eye, meant to convey interest and interrogation, and Smith, interpreting it, said, “Where are you going?”
“To Ringers’ Hill,” said William defiantly and passed on, leaving Brown and Smith gazing after them amazedly.
“You di’n’ ought to have told them,” said Ginger.
But William was in a mood of joyous defiance.
“I don’t care,” he said, “I don’t care who knows. I don’t care who comes to fetch us home. We won’t go. We’ll climb trees an’ shoot at ’em and throw stones at ’em. I bet no one in the whole world’ll be able to catch us. I’m an Outlaw, I am,” he chanted. “I’m an Outlaw.”
Again his spirit infected his followers. They cheered lustily. “We’re Outlaws, we are,” they chanted, “we’re Outlaws.”
******
They sat under the largest tree on Ringers’ Hill. They had been Outlaws now for half an hour and it somehow wasn’t going as well as they’d thought it would. Douglas, wishing to test the food-producing properties of the place at once, had eaten so many unripe blackberries that he could for the time being take little interest in anything but his own feelings. Ginger had from purely altruistic motives begun to test the roots and was already regretting it.
“Well, I din’ ask you to go about eatin’ roots,” said William irritably. William had for the whole half hour been trying to light a fire and was by this time feeling thoroughly fed up with it. He had just used the last of a box of matches which he had abstracted from the lab. that morning.
“I did it for you,” said Ginger indignantly, “I did it to find the sort of roots that people eat, so you’d be able to eat ’em. Well, you can jolly well find your own roots now and I jolly well hope you find the one I did—the last one. It’s the sort of taste that goes on for ever. I don’ s’pose if I go on livin’ for years an’ years, I’ll ever get the taste of it out of my mouth——”
“Taste!” said Douglas bitterly. “I wun’t mind a taste ... it’s pain I mind—orful pain—gnawin’ at your inside.”
“I wish you’d shut up,” said William yet more irritably, “an’ help me with this fire. All the wood seems to be damp or somethin’. I can’t get anythin’ to happen.”
“Blow it,” suggested Ginger, taking his mind temporarily from his taste.
Douglas, tearing himself metaphorically speaking from his pain, knelt down and blew it.
It went out.
William raised his blackened face.
“That’s a nice thing to do,” he said bitterly. “Blowin’ it out. All the trouble I’ve had lightin’ it an’ then you jus’ go an’ blow it out. An’ there isn’t another match.”
“ALL THE TROUBLE I’VE HAD LIGHTIN’ IT AN’ THEN YOU
JUS’ GO AN’ BLOW IT OUT.”
“Well, it’d’ve gone out if we hadn’t blown it out,” said Ginger optimistically, “so it doesn’t matter. Anyway, let’s do somethin’ int’restin’. We’ve not had much fun so far—eatin’ roots an’ things an’ messin’ about with fire. We don’t want a fire yet. It’s warm enough without a fire. Let’s leave it till to-night when we need a fire, to sleep by and to keep the wild animals off. We’ll light one with,” vaguely, “flint an’ steel if we c’n find a bit of flint an’ steel lyin’ about anywhere. But we won’t light another now. We’re all sick of it and if we go burnin’ up all the firewood in the wood an——”
“All right,” said William, impressed by the sound logic of the argument, “I don’t mind. I’m jus’ about sick of it. I’ve simply wore myself out with it an’ you’ve not been much help, I must say.”
“Well, I like that,” said Douglas, “an’ me nearly dyin’ of agony from blackberries.”
“An’ me riskin’ my life testin’ roots,” said Ginger. “I can still taste it—strong as ever. It seems to be gettin’ stronger ’stead of weaker. It’s a wonder I’m alive at all. Not many people’d suffer like what I’ve suffered an’ still go on livin’. If I wasn’t strong I’d be dead of it now.”
Douglas, stung by Ginger’s self-pity, again rose to the defence of his own martyrdom.
“A taste,” he said. “I could stand any amount of tastes. I——”
At this moment a diversion was caused by the return of Henry. Henry had been out to catch rabbits to cook over the fire for supper. He looked hot and cross.
“Couldn’t catch any,” he said shortly. “I saw a lot on the other side of the hill. I hid behind a tree till they came out an’ then I ran out after them, and I’m absolutely wore out with runnin’ out after them an’ I’ve not caught one.”
“Let’s go down to the river,” said Ginger, “I’m jus’ about sick of messin’ about here. There isn’t anything to do here, ’cept eat roots, an’ I’ve had enough of that.”
“No,” said William firmly, “we’ve gotter stay up here. If we go down an’ they start comin’ out to fetch us home they’ll overpower us easy. It’s a—a sort of vantage ground up here. We can see ’em comin’ up here an’ escape or throw things down on ’em.”
“Well, I’m sick of stayin’ up here,” said Ginger.
“Think of ’em,” said William tactfully, “doin’ G’omtry at school.”
At this the Outlaws’ discontent faded and their spirits rose.
“Hurrah!” said Ginger, who now had completely forgotten his taste, “and I bet we can easy make up a game to play here an——”
“Look!” gasped Douglas suddenly, pointing down into the valley.
The Outlaws looked.
Then they stood motionless as if turned to stone.
There was no doubt about it.
Down in the valley coming along the path that led up to Ringers’ Hill could be seen the figures of the Head-master and the second master.
For some moments horror and surprise robbed the Outlaws of the power of speech.
Then William said:
“Crumbs!” but no words could describe the tone in which he said it.
“They’re—they’re comin’ after us,” gasped Ginger.
“Smith must have told him where we’d gone,” gasped Henry.
Ginger, recovering something of his self-possession, turned to William.
“I said you din’ oughter’ve told him,” he said with spirit.
“B-but,” gasped William, still paralysed with amazement, “how’d he know we’re Outlaws an’ never goin’ back?”
“Prob’ly Smith heard us sayin’ it,” said Ginger. “Well, it’s a nice set-out, isn’t it? What we goin’ to do? Fight him?”
Even William’s proud spirit quailed at the thought of doing that.
“If—if only——” he began.
Then his speech died on his lips. His mouth dropped open again. His eyes dilated with horror and amazement. Behind the figure of the head-master and second master came other figures—the mathematical master, the gym master, three or four prefects.
“They’re all comin’!” gasped William, “they’re comin’ to take us by force. They—they’re goin’ to surround the hill and take us by force.”
“Crumbs!” said Ginger again. “Crumbs!”
“What’ll we do?” gasped Douglas.
They looked at William and into William’s freckled face came a set look of purpose.
BREATHLESS WITH APPREHENSION THE OUTLAWS CROUCHED
UNDER THE BUSHES AND WATCHED. THEY COULD
SEE THE PROCESSION COME UP THE ROAD—NEARER,
NEARER.
“Well, we’ve gotter do something,” he said. He scowled ferociously, then a light flashed over his face. “I know what we’ll do. Smith must jus’ simply have told ’em ‘Ringers’ Hill.’ That’s what we told him, ‘Ringers’ Hill.’ Well, you remember the sign post thing at the bottom of the hill with ‘Ringers’ Hill’ on it?”
Yes, they remembered it—a wobbly, decrepit affair at the bottom of the hill.
William’s face was now fairly gleaming with his idea.
“Well,” he said, “you remember it was all loose in its hole? I bet if we pushed hard we could push it right round so’s the ‘Ringers’ Hill’ pointed right on up the other hill. An’ I bet they don’ know this part ’cause they don’t live here an’ they never come here so I bet—well, let’s try anyway, an’ we’d better be jolly quick.”
THEN—THE HEAD-MASTER PAUSED UNDER THE SIGN-POST.
“HERE WE ARE,” HE CALLED OUT. “HERE’S THE SIGN-POST—RINGER’S
HILL—UP THERE.”
Behind their leader they scrambled down the hillside to the sign-post.
“Now push!” directed William.
The Outlaws pushed.
The sign-post rocked in its hole and—joy!—slowly pivoted round in obedience to the Outlaws’ straining weight. The solitary arm bearing the legend “Ringers’ Hill” now pointed to the hill in the opposite direction.
The Outlaws’ spirits rose.
They gave a cautious muffled cheer.
“Now quick, back again to the top!” said William and they scrambled once more to the hill-top.
The procession led by the head-master was approaching.
“Lie down under the bushes,” hissed William, “so’s they won’t see you. An’ watch what they do.”
Breathless with apprehension the Outlaws crouched under the bushes and watched. They could see the procession come up the road—nearer, nearer. Then—the head-master paused under the sign-post. The Outlaws held their breath. Did he know the lie of the land or would he be deceived? Evidently he didn’t know the lie of the land.
“Here we are,” he called out. “Here’s the sign-post—Ringers’ Hill—up there.”
Slowly the procession passed on up the other hillside.
The Outlaws climbed from out of their bushes. They still looked rather pale. “That was a jolly narrow shave,” said Ginger.
“What we’d better do now,” said William grimly, “is to look for a proper hidin’ place case they find out an’ come back.”
******
So intent had they been on looking down at the side of the hill where the dread procession was wending its way that they had not noticed an enormous man with bushy eyebrows and a generally ferocious aspect who was climbing up the hill from the other side. They did not in fact notice him until he had come up behind them and his gruff voice boomed:
“Well, is this all there is of you?”
The Outlaws turned round with a start.
There was a tense silence.
The Outlaws, having, as they thought, narrowly saved themselves from destruction on one side of the hill, were quite unprepared for this attack from the other. It unnerved them. It paralysed them. They had no reserve of ingenuity and aplomb with which to meet it.
William gulped and blinked and said, “Yes.”
“All?” boomed the ferocious man, “well, all I can say is that it’s hardly worth my while to come all this way for you. I’d understood that it was quite a different sort of affair altogether. Do you mean to say that there are only four of you?”
William felt that he had done all that could be expected of him and nudged Ginger.
“Er-yes,” quaked Ginger.
“Only four of you,” said the ferocious man ferociously, “and how old?”
Douglas and Henry had slunk behind William and Ginger. Ginger nudged William to intimate that it was his turn.
William swallowed and said feebly, “Eleven—eleven and nearly three-quarters.”
“Pish!” said the man in a tone of fierce disgust. “Eleven! As I say I’d never have agreed to come if I’d known it was this sort of an affair. I naturally imagined—however, now I’m here—and it’s late to start with——” He looked at them and seemed to relent somewhat, “I gathered that you know a fair amount about the subject and you must be keen. I suppose one should be thankful for four keen students even though they seem so very—however,” his irritability seemed to get the better of him again, “let’s get to business. We’ll start over here ... quickly, please,” he snapped, “or we’ll never get through this afternoon——”
Dazedly, as if in a dream, the Outlaws went to where he pointed. They didn’t know what else to do. The situation seemed to have got entirely out of hand. It seemed best to follow the line of least resistance and to give themselves away as little as possible. They stood in a dejected group in front of the ferocious man and the ferocious man began to talk. He talked about such things as strata and igneous rock and neolithic and eolithic and paloælithic and stratigraphical and Pithecanthropus erectus and other things of which the Outlaws had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. He asked them questions and got angry because they didn’t know the answers. He asked them what he’d said about things and got angry because they’d forgotten. He strode about the hill-top pointing out rocks with his stick and talking about them in a loud, ferocious voice. He made them follow him wherever he went, and got angry because they didn’t follow nimbly enough. So terrifying was he that they daren’t even try to run away. It was like a nightmare. It was far worse than Geometry. And it seemed to last for hours and hours and hours. Actually it lasted an hour. At the end the man became more angry than ever, said that it was an insult to have asked him to come over to address four half-witted gutter-snipes and muttering ferociously stalked off again down the hillside.
The Outlaws sat down weakly on the ground around the little heap of black twigs and dead leaves which marked the scene of William’s failure as a fire-maker and held their heads.
“Crumbs!” moaned William, and Ginger mournfully echoed, “Crumbs!”
“Well, anyway, he’s gone,” said Henry trying to look on the bright side.
But it wasn’t really easy to look on the bright side. The Outlaws were feeling very hungry and there wasn’t anything to eat. Ringers’ Hill had lost its charm. They’d had a rotten time there—not a bit the sort of time they’d always imagined Outlaws having. And the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud. It was cold and dark. They were hungry and fed up.
“Wonder what time it is,” said Henry casually.
As if in answer the clock of the village church struck in the valley, One—Two—Three—Four—Five. Five o’clock. Tea-time. Into each mind flashed a picture of a cheerful dining-room with a table laid for tea.
“Well,” said William with an unconvincing attempt at cheerfulness, “we’d better be getting something to eat. We might have had a rabbit if Henry’d caught one. Let’s have a go at the blackberries.”
“There aren’t any ripe ones,” said Douglas, “and the others make you feel awful inside after you’ve eaten a few.”
Then suddenly to their secret relief Henry rose and said bluntly, “I want my tea and I’m sick of being an Outlaw. I’m going home.”
******
On the road they met Brown and Smith. Brown and Smith were swinging happily along the road carrying fishing-rods and jars of minnows.
“I say, we’ve had a topping time,” they called. “Have you? But you were rotters not to have told us.”
“Told you what?” said the Outlaws.
“That there was going to be a half-holiday.”
“What?” said the Outlaws.
“They sent us all away as soon as we got there. Said they’d forgotten to give it out in the morning. We were jolly surprised to meet you going away from school, but when we got there we knew why but we thought you jolly well might have told us.”
“Why was there a half-holiday?” gasped William.
“Oh, some old josser or other coming to give some old jaw or other to some old society or other,” said Smith vaguely, “but we’ve had a topping afternoon, have you?”
In bitter silence the Outlaws walked on. They hadn’t had a topping afternoon. At the end of the road a prefect was putting a letter into a pillar-box. Another prefect stood by.
“What was it like?” said the one who stood by.
“He never turned up,” said the one who’d just posted the letter. The Outlaws slowed their pace to listen.
“We’d arranged to meet him on Ringers’ Hill. The Head and everyone was there. We’d never been to Ringers’ Hill before but there was a sign post up so we couldn’t have gone wrong. We waited three quarters of an hour and he never turned up. It’s sickening. I’ve just posted a letter from the Head telling him that we went there and waited three quarters of an hour. I suppose he was kept somewhere. He might have let us know, but some of those professors are beastly absent-minded. We were looking forward to it awfully, because it was Professor Fremlin, one of the greatest geologists in England, you know. Ringers’ Hill’s supposed to be an old volcano crater. It would have been awfully interesting. He was going to lecture on its formation and show us the strata and fossils there. We’d been reading it up for weeks so as to know something about it. A shame when we’ve got such a decent Geologist Society for the star turn show of the year to fall flat. Perhaps he was taken ill on the way.” He turned to the Outlaws. “Now then, you kids, what are you hanging about for? Clear off.”
Blinking dazedly, walking very, very slowly, very very thoughtfully, the Outlaws cleared off.