William—the outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

CHAPTER II

THE TERRIBLE MAGICIAN

THE advent of Mr. Galileo Simpkins to the village would in normal times have roused little interest in William and his friends. But the summer holidays had already lasted six weeks and though the Outlaws were not tired of holidays (it was against the laws of nature for the Outlaws ever to tire of holidays), still they had run the gamut of almost every conceivable occupation both lawful and unlawful, and they were ready for a fresh sensation. They had been Pirates and Smugglers and Red Indians and Highwaymen ad nauseam. They had trespassed till every farmer in the neighbourhood saw red at the mere sight of them. They had made with much trouble a motor boat and an aeroplane, both of which had insisted on obeying the law of gravity rather than fulfilling the functions of motor boats and aeroplanes. They had made a fire in Ginger’s backyard and cooked over it a mixture of water from the stream and blackberries and Worcester Sauce and Turkish delight and sardines (these being all the edibles they could jointly produce), had pronounced the resultant concoction to be excellent and had spent the next day in bed. They had taken Jumble (William’s mongrel) “hunting” and had watched the ignominious spectacle of Jumble’s being attacked by a cat half his size and pursued in a state of abject terror all the length of the village with a bleeding nose. They had discovered a wasps’ nest and almost simultaneously its inhabitants had discovered them. They were only just leaving off their bandages. They had essayed tight-rope walking on Henry’s mother’s clothes line, but Henry’s mother’s clothes line had proved unexpectedly brittle and William still limped slightly. They had tried to teach tricks to Etheldrida, Douglas’ aunt’s parrot, and Douglas still bore the marks of her beak in several places on his face. Altogether they were, as I said, ripe for any fresh sensation when Mr. Galileo Simpkins dawned upon their horizon.

Mr. Galileo Simpkins had been thus christened by his parents in the hope that he would take to science. And Mr. Galileo Simpkins, being by nature ready to follow the line of least resistance, had obligingly taken to science at their suggestion. Moreover, he quite enjoyed taking to science. He enjoyed pottering about with test tubes and he disliked being sociable. A scientist, as everyone knows, is immune from sociability. A scientist can retire to his lab. as to a fortress and, if he likes, read detective novels there to his heart’s content without being disturbed by anyone. Not that Mr. Galileo Simpkins only read detective novels. He was genuinely interested in Science as Science (he put it that way) and though as yet he had made no startling contribution to Science as Science, still he enjoyed reading in his text-books of experiments that other men had made and then doing the experiments to see if the same thing happened in his case. It didn’t always.... Fortunately he was not dependent for his living on his scientific efforts. He had a nice little income of his own which enabled him to stage himself as a Scientist to his complete satisfaction. He took a great interest in the staging of himself as a Scientist. He liked to have an imposing array of test tubes and bottles and appliances of every sort—even those whose use he did not quite understand. He was very proud too of a skeleton which he had bought third-hand from a medical student and which he thought conferred great éclat on his position as a Scientist from its stronghold in the darkest corner. As you will gather from all this, Mr. Galileo Simpkins was a very simple and inoffensive and well-meaning little man and before he came to the village where William lived, had not caused a moment’s uneasiness to anyone since the time when at three years old he had inadvertently fallen into the rain tub and been fished out half drowned by his nurse.

He had come to the village because the lease of the house where he had lived previously had run out and the original owners were returning to it and he had seen the house in William’s village advertised in the paper, and it seemed just what he wanted. He liked to live in the country because he was rather a nervous little man and was afraid of traffic.

The first sight of Mr. Galileo Simpkins on his way from the station had not interested the Outlaws much except that as a stranger to the village he was naturally to be kept under observation and his possibilities in every direction explored at the earliest opportunity.

“He dun’t look very int’restin’,” said Ginger scornfully as, sitting in a row on a gate, the Outlaws stared in an unblinking manner quite incompatible with Good Manners at little Mr. Galileo Simpkins driving by on his way from the station in the village cab. The driver of the village cab, who knew the Outlaws well, kept a wary eye upon them as he passed, and had his whip ready. The ancient quadruped who drew the village cab seemed to know them too, and turned his head to leer at them sardonically from behind his blinkers. But the attention of the Outlaws was all for the occupant of the village cab, who alone was quite unaware of them as the ancient equipage passed on its way. He was merely thinking what a fine day it was for his arrival at his new home and hoping that his skeleton (which he had packed most carefully) had travelled well.

William considered Ginger’s comment for a moment in silence. Then he said meditatively: “Oh ... dunno. He looks sort of soft and ’s if he couldn’t run very fast. We c’n try playin’ in his garden sometime. I bet he couldn’t catch us.”

They then had a stone-throwing competition which lasted till one of William’s stones went through General Moult’s cucumber-frame.

When General Moult had finally given up the chase, the Outlaws threw themselves breathlessly (for General Moult, despite his size, was quite a good runner) on to the grass at the top of the hill and reviewed the further possibilities of amusement which the world held for them. They decided after a short discussion not to teach Etheldrida any more tricks, not so much because they were tired of teaching Etheldrida tricks as because Etheldrida seemed to be tired of learning them.

Douglas stroked his scars thoughtfully and said:

“Not that I’m frightened of her, but—but, well, let’s try’n think of somethin’ a bit more int’restin’.”

No one had anything very original to suggest (they seemed to have exhausted the possibilities of the whole universe in those six weeks of holidays), so they made new bows and arrows and held a match which William won in that he made the finest long distance shot. He shot his arrow into the air and unfortunately it came to earth by way of Miss Miggs’ scullery window. Miss Miggs happened to be in the scullery at the time and again the Outlaws, bitterly meditating on the over-population of the countryside, had to flee from the avenging wrath of an outraged householder. In the shelter of the woods they again drew breath.

“I say,” said Ginger, “wun’t it be nice to live in the middle of Central Africa or the North Pole or somewhere where there isn’t any houses for miles an’ miles an’ miles.”

“She runs,” commented Douglas patronisingly, “faster’n what you’d think to look at her.”

“What’ll we do now?” said Henry.

Dusk was falling, and ahead of them loomed the evil hour of bedtime which they were ever ready to postpone.

“I tell you what,” said William, his freckled face suddenly alight, “let’s go ’n see how he’s gettin’ on—you know, him what we saw ridin’ up in the cab. We c’n go an’ watch him through his window. It’s quite dark.”

******

They watched him in petrified amazement. They watched him as, dressed in a black dressing-gown and a black skull-cap, he pottered about, laying out test tubes and pestles and mortars and crucibles and curious-looking instruments and bottles of strangely coloured liquids. Eyes and mouths opened still further when little Mr. Galileo Simpkins brought in his skeleton and set it up with tender care and pride in its corner.

They crept away through the darkness in a stricken silence and did not speak till they reached the road. Then: “Crumbs!” said William in a hoarse whisper. “What is he? What’s he doin’?”

“I think he’s a sort of Bolsh’vist goin’ to blow up all the world,” said Douglas with a burst of inspiration.

“An’ a dead body an’ all,” said Ginger, deeply awed by the memory of what they had seen.

“P’raps he’s just doin’ ordinary chemistry,” suggested Henry mildly.

This suggestion was indignantly scouted by the Outlaws.

“Course it’s not jus’ ordin’ry chemistry,” said William, “not with all that set-out.”

“Dead bodies an’ all,” murmured Ginger again in a sepulchral voice.

“An’ dressed all funny,” said William, “an’ queer sorts of things all over the place. ’Sides, what’d he be doin’ ordin’ry chemistry for, anyway? He’s too old to be goin’ in for exams.”

This was felt to be unanswerable.

“What I think is——” began William, but he never got as far as what he thought.

A plaintive voice came through the dusk—the voice of William’s sister Ethel.

“William! Mother says it’s long past your bedtime and will you come in and she says——”

The Outlaws crept off through the dusk.

******

The next day Joan came back from a visit to an aunt.

Joan was the only female member of the Outlaws. Though she did not accompany them on their more dangerous and manly exploits she was their unfailing confidante and sympathiser and could be always counted on to side with them against a hostile and unsympathetic world. She was small and dark and very pretty and she considered William the greatest hero the world has ever known.

She joined them the first morning of their return and they told her without any undue modesty of their exploits during her absence—of their heroic flights from irate farmers, of their miraculous creation of motor boats and aeroplanes (they omitted any reference to the over-officious law of gravity), of their glorious culinary operations (they omitted the sequel), their Herculean contest with the wasps, their tight-rope walking performance, their (partial) mastery over the brute creation as represented by Etheldrida, their glorious feats of stone throwing and arrow shooting.

“An’ no one what’s run after us has caught us—not once,” ended William proudly and added: “I bet we c’n run faster ’n anybody else in the world.”

Joan smiled upon him fondly. She firmly believed that William could do anything in the world better than any one else in it.

“And what are you going to do to-day?” she said with interest.

That, the expressions of the Outlaws gave her to understand, was the question. The Outlaws had no idea what they were going to do to-day. They were obviously ready for any suggestions from the gentleman who, moralists inform us, specialises in providing occupation for the unoccupied.

“Let’s make another motor boat,” said Henry feebly, but this suggestion was treated with well-deserved contempt. The Outlaws were not in the habit of repeating their efforts. Moreover, the motor boat experiment had not been so successful as to warrant its repetition.

Suddenly Ginger’s face lit up.

“I know!” he said, “let’s show Joan him ... you know, him what we saw last night—with the dead body——”

Joan’s eyes grew round with horror.

“It wasn’t a dead body,” said Douglas impatiently, “it was a skeleton.”

“That’s the same as a dead body,” said Ginger pugnaciously, “it was a body, wasn’t it? an’ now it’s dead.”

“Yes, but it’s bones,” protested Douglas.

“Well, a body’s bones, isn’t it?” said Ginger.

But here Joan interrupted. “Oh, what is it, where is it?” she said, clasping her hands, “it sounds awful.”

Her horror satisfied them completely. With Joan you could always be so pleasantly sure that your effects would come off.

“Come on,” said William briskly assuming his air of Master of the Ceremonies, “we’ll show him you. We c’n get through the hole in the hedge ’n creep up to the window through the bushes without him seein’ us at all.”

******

They got through the hole in the hedge and crept up to the window through the bushes. William, as Master of the Ceremonies, had an uneasy suspicion that in the cold morning light both man and room might look perfectly normal, that the ghostly effect of the night before might have banished completely. But the suspicions proved to be groundless. The room looked, if possible, even more uncanny than it had done. And Mr. Galileo Simpkins still pottered about it happily in his black dressing gown and skull cap (it was a costume in which he rather fancied himself). Mr. Galileo Simpkins liked his nice large downstairs lab. and felt very happy in it. As he stirred an experiment in a little crucible he sang softly to himself from sheer good spirits. He was quite unaware of the Outlaws watching his every movement with eager interest from the bushes outside the window. It was Ginger who saw and pointed out to the others the shelf at the back of the room on which stood a row of bottles containing wizened frogs in some sort of liquid.

Aghast, they crept away.

“Well, I’m cert’n that’s what he’s goin’ to do,” said Douglas as soon as they reached the road, “he’s goin’ to blow up all the world. He’s jus’ mixin’ up the stuff to do it with.”

“Well, I still think he might be jus’ an ornery sort of man doin’ ornery chemistry,” said Henry.

“What about the dead body, then?” said Ginger.

“An’ what about frogs an’ things shut up in bottles an’ things?” said William.

Then Joan spoke.

“He’s a wizard,” she said, “of course he’s a wizard.”

William treated this suggestion with derision.

“A wizard,” he said contemptuously, “Soppy fairy-tale stuff! Course he’s not. There aren’t any!”

But Joan was not crushed.

“There are, William,” she said solemnly, “I know there are.”

“How d’you know there are!” said William incredulously.

“And what about the dead body?” said Ginger with the air of one bringing forward an unanswerable objection.

“The skeleton,” corrected Douglas.

“It’s someone he’s turned into a skeleton, of course,” said Joan firmly.

“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” commented William again with scorn. Joan bore his reproof meekly but clung to her point with feminine pertinacity.

“It’s not, William. It’s true. I know it’s true.”

There was certainly something convincing about her earnestness though the Outlaws were determined not to be convinced by it.

“No,” said Douglas very firmly. “He’s a blower up, that’s what he is. He’s goin’ to blow up all the world.”

“What about the frogs in bottles?” said Henry.

“They’re people he’s turned into frogs,” said Joan.

The frogs certainly seemed to fit into Joan’s theory better than they fitted into Douglas’s. Joan pursued her advantage. “And didn’t you hear him sort of singing as he mixed the things? He was making spells over them.”

The Outlaws were, outwardly, at least, still sceptical.

“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” said William once more with masculine superiority. “I tell you there aren’t any.”

But there was a fascination about the sight and they were loth to go far from it.

“Let’s go back an’ see what he’s doin’ now,” said Ginger, and eagerly they accepted the proposal. The hole in the hedge was conveniently large, the bushes by the window afforded a convenient shelter and all would have gone well had not Mr. Galileo Simpkins been engaged on the simple task of washing out some test tubes in a cupboard just outside the Outlaws’ line of vision. This was more than they could endure.

“What’s he doin’?” said William in a voice of agonised suspense.

But none of them could see what he was doing.

“I’ll go out,” said Ginger with a heroic air. “I bet he won’t see me.”

So Ginger crept out of the shelter of the bushes and advanced boldly to the window. Too boldly—for Mr. Galileo Simpkins, turning suddenly, saw, to his great surprise and indignation, a small boy with an exceedingly impertinent face standing in his garden and staring rudely at him through his window. Mr. Galileo Simpkins hated small boys, especially small boys with impertinent faces. With unexpected agility he leapt to the window and threw it open. Ginger fled in terror to the gate. Mr. Galileo Simpkins shook his fist after him.

“All right, you wait, my boy, you wait!” he called.

By this time he wanted the boy with the impertinent face to understand that he was going to find out who he was and tell his father. He was going to put a stop to that sort of thing once and for all. He wasn’t going to have boys with impertinent faces wandering about his garden and looking through his windows. He’d frighten them off now—at once. “You wait!” he shouted again with vague but terrible menace in his voice.

Then he returned to his lab. well pleased with himself.

The Outlaws crept back through the hole in the hedge and met Ginger in the road. They looked at Ginger as one might look at someone who has returned from the jaws of death. Ginger, now that the danger was over, rather enjoyed his position.

“Well,” he said with satisfaction, “did you see him an’ hear him. I bet he’d’ve killed me if he’d caught me.”

“Blown you up,” said Douglas.

“Turned you into something,” said Joan.

“Wonder what he meant by saying ‘Wait’ like that?” said William meditatively.

“He meant that he was goin’ to put a spell on you,” said Joan composedly.

Ginger went rather pale.

“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” said William.

“All right,” said Joan, “just you wait and see.”

So they waited and they saw.

It was, of course, a coincidence that that night Ginger’s mother’s cook had made trifle for supper and that Ginger ate of this not wisely, but too well, and was the next morning confined to bed with what the doctor called “slight gastric trouble.”

The Outlaws called for him the next morning and were curtly informed by the housemaid (who, like Mr. Galileo Simpkins, hated all boys on principle) that Ginger was ill in bed and would not be getting up that day.

They walked away in silence.

“Well,” said Joan in triumph, “what do you think about him being a magician now?”

This time William did not say “Soppy fairy-tale stuff.”

******

Ginger returned to them, somewhat pale and wobbly, the next day. Like them he preferred to lay the blame of his enforced retirement on to Mr. Galileo Simpkins rather than upon the trifle.

“Yes, that’s what he said,” agreed Ginger earnestly. “He said ‘you wait,’ an’ then jus’ about an hour after that I began to feel orful pains. An’ I hadn’t had hardly any of that ole trifle ... well, not much, anyway; well, not too much ... well, not as much as I often have of things ... an’ I had most orful pains an’——”

“He must have made a little image of you in wax, Ginger,” said Joan with an air of deep wisdom, “and stuck pins into it. That’s what they do.... I expect he thinks you’re dead now. That’s why he said ‘You wait’!”

They did not scoff at her any longer.

“Well, I was nearly dead yesterday all right,” said Ginger. “I’ve never had such orful pains. Jus’ like pins running into me.”

“They were pins running into you, Ginger,” said Joan simply. “We’d better keep right away from him now or he’ll be turning us into something.”

“Like to turn him into something,” said Ginger who was still feeling vindictive towards the supposed author of his gastric trouble.

But Joan shook her head. “No,” said Joan, “we must keep right out of his way. You don’t know what they can do—magicians and people like that.”

“I do,” groaned Ginger.

So they went for a walk and held races and played Red Indians and sailed boats on the pond and climbed trees—but there was little zest in any of these pursuits. Their thoughts were with Mr. Galileo Simpkins the magician as he stirred his concoctions and uttered his spells and gazed upon his bottle victims and stuck pins into the waxen images of his foes.

“Let’s jus’ go’n look at him again,” said William, when they met in the afternoon. “We won’t go near enough for him to see us but—but let’s jus’ go’n see what he’s doin’!”

“You can,” said Ginger bitterly. “He’s not stuck pins into you an’ given you orful pains. Why, I’m still feelin’ ill with it. We had trifle again for lunch an’ I can’t eat more’n three helpin’s of it.”

“No, we’d better not go near him again,” said Joan shaking her head, her eyes wide.

But William did not agree with them.

“I only want jus’ to look at him again an’ see what he’s doin’. I’m goin’, anyway.”

So they all went.

******

They had decided to creep down through the field behind the Red House to the road and thence through the hole in the hedge to the sheltering cluster of bushes that commanded the magician’s room, but they had not so far to go before they saw him. It was a fine afternoon and Mr. Galileo Simpkins had taken his detective novel and gone into the field just behind his house. And there he was when the Outlaws stopped at the gate of the field, lying on the bank in the shade, reading. He was feeling at peace with all the world. He did not see the five faces that gazed at him over the gate of the field and then disappeared. He went on dozing happily over his novel. He’d had a very happy morning. Though none of his experiments had come out still he’d much enjoyed doing them. He’d thought once of that boy with the impertinent face and felt glad that he’d frightened him away so successfully. He’d seen no signs of him since. That was what you had to do with boys—scare them off, or you got no peace at all.... Very nice warm sun ... very exciting novel....

Meanwhile the Outlaws crept past the field and were standing talking excitedly in the road.

“Did you see?” gasped Ginger, “jus’ sittin’ an’ readin’ ornery jus’ as if he hadn’t been stickin’ pins into me all last night.”

“Let’s go home,” pleaded Joan. “You—you don’t know what he’ll do.”

“No,” said William, “now he’s all right readin’ in that field let’s go into his room an’ look at his things.”

There was a murmur of dissent.

“All right,” said William, “you needn’t. I’m jolly well goin’.”

So they all went.

******

It was certainly thrilling to creep through the window and stand in the terrible room with the knowledge that at any minute the Magician might return, change them into frogs and cork them up in bottles.

“Wonder if I can find the wax thing of me he was sticking pins into last night,” said Ginger looking round the bench.

“Let’s make a wax thing of him ’n stick pins into it,” suggested Henry.

“No, let’s turn him into something,” said Douglas.

Joan clapped her hands.

“Oh yes,” she said, “let’s! That would be fun! His spells and things must be all over the place.”

Ginger took up a pestle and mortar.

“This is what he was stirring to-day,” he said, “Wonder what this changes folks into.”

“Prob’ly depends what sort of a spell you say when you stir it,” said Joan.

“Well, let’s try it,” said William.

“What’ll we turn him into?” said Ginger.

“A donkey,” suggested William.

“Well, who’ll do it?”

“Let me try,” said Joan who had a certain prestige as originator of the now generally accepted magician theory.

Ginger handed her the crucible. “I think,” said Joan importantly, “that I ought to have a circle of chalk drawn round me.”

They couldn’t find any chalk so they made a little circle of test tubes around her and watched her with interest. Joan shut her eyes, stirred up the mixture in the crucible and chanted:

“Turn into a donkey,

Turn into a donkey,

Turn into a donkey,

Mr. Magician.”

Then she opened her eyes.

“It may be all wrong,” she admitted, “I’m only guessing how to do it. But if it’s a very good spell it may be all right.”

“Well, let’s go and have a look at him,” said William, “and if he’s still there we’ll come back and try again.”

So they went.

******

And now comes one of those coincidences without which both life and the art of the novelist would be so barren. Five minutes after the Outlaws had left Mr. Galileo Simpkins peacefully reading his novel on a bank in the shade in the field, a boy crossed the field carrying a telegram. He came from the post office and the telegram was for Mr. Galileo Simpkins, so, on seeing Mr. Galileo Simpkins in the field, the boy took it up to him. Mr. Simpkins opened it. It summoned him to the sick bed of a great-aunt from whom he had expectations. There was a train to town in ten minutes. Mr. Simpkins had his hat and coat and plenty of money on him. He decided not to risk missing the train by going back to the house. He set off at once for the station, meaning to telegraph to his housekeeper from town (which he quite forgot to do). He left his book on the bank where he had laid it down on taking the telegram from the boy’s hand.

Five minutes after he had gone Farmer Jenks, to whom the field belonged, brought to it a young donkey which he had just purchased, and departed. The young donkey had been christened “Maria” by Mrs. Jenks. Maria kicked her heels happily in the field for a few minutes, then realised that it was rather a hot afternoon. There was only one bit of shade in the field and that was the bank where but lately Mr. Galileo Simpkins had reposed and where even now his book lay. Maria went over to this and lay down in it just by the book. In fact her attitude suggested that she was engaged in reading the book.

And so when five minutes later the Outlaws cautiously and fearfully peeped over the hedge, they saw what was apparently Mr. Galileo Simpkins metamorphosed by their spell into a donkey lying where they had last seen him still reading his book. No words in the English language could quite describe the Outlaws’ feelings. Not one of them had really expected Joan’s spell to take effect. And here was the incredible spectacle before them—Mr. Galileo Simpkins turned into a donkey before their very eyes by one of his own spells. They all went rather pale. William blinked. Ginger’s jaw dropped open. Henry’s eyes seemed on the point of falling out of his head. Douglas swallowed and held on to the gate for support and Joan gave a little scream. At the sound of the scream Maria turned her head and gave them a reproachful glance.

“Well!” said Joan.

“Crumbs!” said William.

“Gosh!” said Douglas.

“Crikey!” said Henry.

And “Now we’ve done it!” said Ginger.

Maria turned away her head and surveyed the distant landscape, drowsily. “I wonder if he knows,” said William awefully, “or if he thinks he’s still a man.”

“WELL!” SAID JOAN. “NOW WE’VE DONE IT!” SAID
GINGER.

“He must know,” said Ginger. “He’s got eyes. He c’n see his legs ’n tail an’ things.”

“An’ he was reading his book when we first came along,” said Douglas.

“P’raps,” suggested Henry, “he’s forgotten all about bein’ a man an’ only feels like a donkey now.”

“Well, he won’t try stickin’ pins into me again, anyway,” said Ginger.

But a new aspect of the affair had come to William.

“This is Farmer Jenks’ field,” he said; “he’ll be mad findin’ a donkey in it. He won’t know it’s reely Mr. Simpkins.”

HERE WAS THE INCREDIBLE BEFORE THEM—MR. SIMPKINS,
TURNED INTO A DONKEY BY ONE OF HIS OWN SPELLS!

“Well, it won’t matter,” said Ginger.

“Yes, I bet it will,” said William. “P’raps it can talk still—the donkey, I mean—p’raps it’ll tell people about us an’ get us into trouble. I specks there’s a law against turnin’ people into things like what there is against murder—an’ he’s got a nasty look in his eye. Look at him now. I bet he c’n still talk an’ he’ll go tellin’ people an’ we’ll be put in prison or hanged or somethin’.”

“It’s your fault,” said Ginger, “why did you say a big thing like a donkey? If you’d said a little thing like a frog or somethin’ we could’ve put him in a bottle, same as he did other folks, but what can you do with a big thing like a donkey?”

“Well, I never thought he’d really turn into one,” said William with spirit.

“Well, he has done,” said Ginger, “an’ we’ve gotter do something about it ’fore anyone comes along and he starts tellin’ them about us.”

At this point Maria uttered a loud “Hee-haw!”

“There, you see,” said Henry relieved, “he can only talk donkey talk.”

“I don’t believe it,” said William doggedly. “He’s jus’ pretendin’. He was readin’ his book when we came along an’ I bet he can talk. He only wants to wait till someone comes along an’ then get us into trouble.... Look at him now eatin’ grass.... Well,” virtuously, “he’s got no right eatin’ that grass. It’s Farmer Jenks’ grass ... an’ what’re we goin’ to do when they find out that the man’s disappeared an’ there’s only a donkey left an’—they’ll blame us ... they always blame us for everything.”

“Let’s turn him back now,” said Joan, “we’ve prob’ly taught him a lesson. Now he knows what it feels like to be turned into something perhaps he’ll stop turning other people into things.”

“And running pins into ’em,” said Ginger feelingly.

“Well, we’d better get him to his house, anyway,” said William, “then he can turn himself back with his own things.”

Maria had arisen from the bank and was now munching grass a few yards away. Somewhat cautiously they approached her. William addressed her sternly.

“Now,” he said, “we know that you’re a magician an’ that you turned people into frogs an’ bones an’ run pins into people so we turned you into a donkey, but we’re goin’ to let you turn yourself back if you promise never to be a magician any more?”

Maria opened her mouth to its fullest extent and emitted a “hee-haw” that took William’s breath away.

The Outlaws withdrew and held a hasty conclave.

“I think he meant to promise, William,” said Joan.

“Well, I don’t,” said William, “I don’t. I think he meant he wun’t promise.”

“Well, let’s get him home, anyway,” said Douglas. “Someone’ll only be comin’ along and findin’ out all about it if we leave him here.”

Again William approached Maria and fixed her with a stern eye.

“You can come home an’ turn yourself back now,” he said magnanimously, “if you want to.”

For answer Maria turned her back on them, kicked her heels into the air, then leapt skittishly away.

It would take too long to describe in detail the struggle by which the Outlaws finally brought the recalcitrant Maria from the field into Mr. Simpkins’ garden and from Mr. Simpkins’ garden through the French window into Mr. Simpkins’ laboratory. Henry retired early from the contest after a kick on the shin.

“Now you know what he’s like,” said Ginger bitterly, still obsessed by memories of his gastric trouble.

It was William who had the bright idea of running home for a bunch of carrots and by means of this they led the frisky Maria into the garden of Mr. Simpkins’ home. There Maria for a time ran amok. She broke a pane of glass in the greenhouse, she pranced about the well rolled lawn, leaving innumerable hoof holes to mark her progress. She trampled down a bed of heliotrope. She completely demolished a bed of roses. She bit William. She was finally brought through the French window into the lab. at the cost of all the glass in the French window. The housekeeper, as it happened, was lying down and was a very sound sleeper. A small child belonging to the jobbing gardener, pressing its nose through the front gate, was the amazed spectator of these proceedings.

Inside the lab. Maria grew more frisky still. She broke and ground into the carpet the test tubes that had formed Joan’s magic circle. She wrecked the bench and everything upon it. She kicked over an entire shelf of bottles.

“He’s mad,” said William, “he’s mad at bein’ a donkey an’ he doesn’t know how to turn himself back.”

“Say somethin’ to him,” urged Ginger.

William said something to him.

“If you can’t turn yourself back,” said William, “you’ll have to stay like you are. We can’t do anything more for you.”

In answer to this Maria kicked over a small cupboard and then put her head through a large glass beaker.

“Let’s go,” said Ginger, “let’s go home. We’ve brought him back to his own home. We can’t do anything more. And, anyway, it serves him right, him and his dead bodies an’ sticking pins into people.”

The Outlaws were just going to take his advice and return home as unostentatiously as possible, when they discovered that their line of retreat was cut off. A small band of women headed by the Vicar’s wife was coming up the drive towards the front door. Like five streaks of lightning the Outlaws disappeared behind a screen which Maria amid the general chaos had considerately left standing.

The small band of women headed by the Vicar’s wife were the members of a local Anti-vivisection Society which had been formed in the village by the Vicar’s wife a year ago. Up to now there had been little scope in the village for their activities, though they had all much enjoyed the monthly meetings at which they had had tea and cakes and discussed the various village scandals. But now, as the Vicar’s wife said, was the Time to Act. They had heard of Mr. Galileo Simpkins’ skeleton and bottled frogs and they thought that the Local Anti-vivisection Society should approach him and demand from him a guarantee that he would not in his researches touch the hair of the head of any living animal. Also they wanted an opportunity of inspecting the mysterious lab. of which they had heard so much. Things in the village had been rather dull lately and like the Outlaws they welcomed any fresh diversion....

“HE’S MAD AT BEIN’ A DONKEY,” SAID WILLIAM, “AN’ HE
DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO TURN HIMSELF BACK.”

They were approaching the front door, meaning to ring and ask to see Mr. Simpkins in the normal fashion of callers. But to reach the front door they had to pass the window of the lab. and it proved far too thrilling to be passed. The Outlaws, neatly hidden behind the screen, were invisible. Maria stood in the middle of the room, her head drooping in an utterly deceptive attitude of patient meekness. All around was wreckage. The visitors stood and gazed at the scene open-mouthed. Tacitly they abandoned their intention of knocking at the front door and being admitted as callers. Led by the Vicar’s wife, they entered by the French windows.

“A donkey!” said Mrs. Hopkins, Treasurer of the Anti-vivisection Society (that is to say, she collected their sixpences and bought the cakes for tea). “I thought they used monkeys or rabbits.”

“They use different animals for different experiments,” said the Vicar’s wife with an air of deep knowledge. “I expect that a donkey is the most suitable animal for some experiments.”

“How terrible!” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, covering her face with her hands. “How truly terrible.... Poor, patient, suffering, dumb beast.”

Maria laid back her ears and rolled her wicked eyes at them.

Mrs. Hopkins and the Vicar’s wife began to wander about the room.

They stopped simultaneously before the row of bottled frogs.

“Poor creatures!” said Mrs. Hopkins unsteadily. “Poor, patient, suffering creatures—once so beautiful and lovable and free.”

(It was only the week before that Mrs. Hopkins had screamed for help on meeting a frog in her larder.)

Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald had by this time discovered the skeleton. She adjusted her glasses and looked slowly and closely up and down it several times. Then she pronounced in a sepulchral whisper: “Human remains!”

The Outlaws held their breath in their retreat, but a resonant “Hee-haw!” from Maria drew the members of the local Anti-vivisection Society from any further exploring.

“The patient creature,” said the Vicar’s wife brokenly, “seems to be asking our help.”

Maria assumed again her attitude of deceptive meekness.

“We certainly must do something,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, “we can’t leave our dear dumb friend to torture. Look at the signs of struggle all around us. Look at its air of suffering. The foul work has evidently already begun. Let’s—let’s take it away with us.”

“On the other hand,” said the Vicar’s wife slowly, “there are the laws of private property to be considered. Mr. Simpkins doubtless purchased this creature and the law will hold it to belong to him.”

“We can buy it from him then,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald brightly. “That would be a noble work indeed. How much money have we in hand, Mrs. Hopkins?”

“Only threepence-halfpenny,” said Mrs. Hopkins gloomily, “we’ve been having iced cakes lately, you know. They’re more expensive.”

“They cost more than that,” said the Vicar’s wife, “donkeys, I mean. But,” with a flash of inspiration, “we can get up a bazaar for it or a concert for it.”

Their spirits rose at the prospect.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hopkins. “Why, it’s nearly a month since we had a bazaar. And such a good cause. Rescuing the poor dumb suffering creature from the hands of the torturer.... How sad it looks and yet grateful as though it understood all that we were going to do for it.”

Maria rolled her eyes again and drooped her head still further.

“I’m going to take it straight home,” said the Vicar’s wife, “and give it a good meal and nurse it back to health and strength. I’ll go to the police station and tell them that I have taken it and why. I’ll just fix up something to lead it home by.”

She took down a picture and divested it of its picture cord, which she then tied round the neck of the still meekly unprotesting Maria. The others gazed at her in silent admiration. There was really no one like the Vicar’s wife in a crisis.

Then, with the air of a general who has now marshalled her forces, she led out Maria, followed by her faithful band. The Outlaws, weakly wondering what was going to happen, crept out of their hiding place and followed at a distance.

“They don’t know it’s him,” said Joan in a thrilled whisper.

Maria behaved quite well till they got to the hill. Then her familiar devil returned to her. She did not kick or bite. She ran. She ran at top speed up the steep hill, dragging the panting, gasping Vicar’s wife after her at the end of the cord. Maria’s neck seemed to be made of iron. The weight of the Vicar’s wife did not seem to trouble it at all. The picture cord, too, must have been pretty strong. The Vicar’s wife did not let go. With dogged British determination she clung to her end of the cord. She lost her footing, her hat came off, she gasped and panted and gurgled and choked and sputtered. She dropped her bag. But she did not let go her end of the picture cord. Behind her—far behind her—ran her little crowd of followers, clucking in dismayed horror. Mrs. Hopkins picked up the Vicar’s wife’s hat and Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald her bag.

At the top of the hill Maria stopped abruptly and reassumed her air of weary patience. The Vicar’s wife sat down in the dust by her side, gasping but still undaunted, holding on to the end of the cord. The others arrived and the Vicar’s wife, still sitting in the road, put on her hat and wiped the dust out of her eyes.

“What happened?” panted Mrs. Hopkins. “Did it—bolt or something?”

But the Vicar’s wife was past speech.

“Poor creature!” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald in an effort to restore the atmosphere, “poor dumb creature.”

She put out her hand to stroke Maria and Maria very neatly bit her elbow.

The Vicar’s wife arose from the dust and wearily but determinedly led Maria through the gate on to the Vicarage lawn. The Outlaws came cautiously up the hill and watched proceedings through the Vicarage gate.

The members of the local Anti-vivisection Society stood round Maria and gazed at her. A close observer might have noticed that their glances held less affection and pity than they had held a short time before.

“It doesn’t seem at all—er—cowed,” said Mrs. Hopkins at last. “It seems quite—er as—fresh.... And it hasn’t any wounds or anything.”

“Sometimes,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, “they just use them for diseases. They just inject disease germs into them.”

“Do you mean,” said Mrs. Hopkins, turning pale, “that it may be infected with a deadly disease?”

“Quite possibly,” said Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald.

They looked at the Vicar’s wife for advice and help. And again the Vicar’s wife showed her capacities for dealing with a crisis. Though still dusty and shaken from her inglorious career up the hill at Maria’s heels she took command of affairs once more.

“One minute,” she said, and disappeared into the house.

The members of the Anti-vivisection Society stood timorously in the porch, eyes fixed apprehensively upon Maria who stood motionless in the middle of the lawn looking as if butter would not melt in her mouth.

And the Outlaws still watched proceedings with interest through the Vicarage gate.

Then the Vicar’s wife came out staggering beneath the weight of a large pail.

“Disinfectant,” she explained shortly to her audience.

She approached Maria who was still standing in maiden meditation fancy free on the lawn, and with a sudden swift movement threw over her the entire pail of carbolic solution, soaking her from head to foot. Then Maria went mad. She leapt, she kicked, she reared. Dripping with carbolic she dashed round the lawn. She trampled over the flower beds. She broke two dozen flower pots and destroyed their contents. She kicked the greenhouse door in. She put her back hoof through the Vicar’s study window. She tried to climb an apple tree. She wrecked the summer-house....

The members of the local Anti-vivisection Society withdrew into the Vicarage and bolted all the doors. Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, after explaining that she wasn’t used to this sort of thing, went into hysterics that rivalled Maria’s outburst in intensity.

And still the Outlaws watched spellbound through the gate.

It was the Outlaws who first saw Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper coming up the hill. She entered the Vicarage gate without looking at them. To her they were merely four inoffensive small boys and one inoffensive small girl looking through a gate. She little knew that they held the key to a situation that was becoming more complicated every minute. Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper looked upset. She rang at the Vicarage front door and demanded to see the Vicar. The Vicar was out, but the Vicar’s wife, looking very pale and keeping well within the doorway and casting apprehensive glances round the garden, where Maria, temporarily breathless and exhausted, was standing motionless—the picture of mute patience—on the lawn, interviewed her. From within the house came the unmelodious strains of Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald’s hysterics. Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper said that Mr. Simpkins had vanished. He was nowhere to be found. The book he had been reading had been discovered in the field near the garden and his lab. was in such a state as to suggest a violent struggle, and Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper suspected foul play of which Mr. Simpkins was the victim.

The Vicar’s wife, who was a woman of one idea, only pointed sternly to Maria and said:

“What do you know about that, my good woman?”

Her good woman looked, saw a mournful-looking and very wet donkey and shook her head.

“Nothing ’m,” she said primly. “But what I want to know is, where is Mr. Simpkins? I thought the Vicar might advise me what to do, but as he’s not in, ’m, p’raps I’d better go to the police straight.”

The Outlaws, who felt that with the advent of Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper the plot was thickening, and who were consumed with curiosity as to why Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper had followed the metamorphosed Mr. Simpkins, crept up to the Vicarage door and listened. The mention of “police” made them rather uncomfortable. The Vicar’s wife saw them and frowned.

The Vicar’s wife was a good Christian woman, but she could never learn to like the Outlaws.

“Go away, little boys,” she said tartly, “how dare you come up to the door listening to conversation that is not meant for you? Go away at once. Or, wait one minute.... Have any of you seen Mr. Simpkins this afternoon?”

It was Joan who answered. She pointed across the lawn to Maria who was now placidly nibbling the Vicar’s hedge and said:

“That’s Mr. Simpkins.”

******

There was a moment’s tense silence. Then the Vicar’s wife said sternly:

“Do you imagine that to be funny, you impertinent little girl?”

“No,” said Joan.

“PERHAPS,” SAID THE VICAR’S WIFE, “YOU ARE SHORT-SIGHTED,
LITTLE GIRL. THAT IS A DONKEY.”

“IT’S MR. SIMPKINS, REALLY,” SAID JOAN EARNESTLY.

There was an innocence in Joan’s face that convinced even the Vicar’s wife.

“Perhaps,” she said more kindly, “you are short-sighted, little girl. That,” pointing to Maria, “is a donkey.”

“It’s Mr. Simpkins really,” said Joan earnestly, “we turned him into a donkey and we can’t turn him back.”

The Vicar’s wife gasped, Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper gasped, the other members of the Anti-vivisection Society came out to see what it was all about and all gasped. Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald for the time being abandoned her hysterics to gasp with them.

“What?” said the Vicar’s wife.

“What?” said all the rest of them.

“It’s true,” affirmed William, “we’ve turned him into a donkey and we can’t turn him back again.”

At that moment there was a sound of great commotion outside and in at the gate rushed Mr. Simpkins, followed by Farmer Jenks.

******

Farmer Jenks was not pursuing Mr. Simpkins. Farmer Jenks and Mr. Simpkins were coming on independent missions. Farmer Jenks had come to his field for Maria and found Maria gone. The jobbing gardener’s youngest child had told him that four boys and a girl had taken the donkey out of the field. It took only few words to make Farmer Jenks recognise his old enemies, the Outlaws, as the invaders of his domain and thieves of his donkey, and Farmer Jenks saw red. He had traced the donkey to the Vicarage garden. He didn’t know how it had got there, but he knew how it had got out of his field, and he was out for his donkey and vengeance on the Outlaws....

Mr. Simpkins had reached town, to be met at the station by a telegram telling him that his great-aunt was better, so with feelings of deep disgust with life in general and great-aunts in particular, he had returned to his rural retreat—to find his housekeeper vanished and his laboratory wrecked. Again the jobbing gardener’s youngest child had brightly come forward with all the information it could produce. It had seen four boys and a girl turn a donkey into his lab. through the window and then let the donkey break things. Then more people had come and then they’d all gone up to the Vicarage. So Mr. Galileo Simpkins had gone up to the Vicarage in search of more light on the situation, and in search of the Outlaws.

******

He and Farmer Jenks caught sight of the Outlaws simultaneously and neither could resist the temptation to make the most of the opportunity. Both flung themselves upon the Outlaws. The Outlaws fled round the lawn, pursued by Farmer Jenks and Mr. Galileo Simpkins. Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald went back to the drawing-room to have a few more hysterics, the Vicar’s wife dashed into the hall for the fire extinguisher and Maria watched proceedings with interest as she meditatively chewed the Vicar’s hedge.

Farmer Jenks caught hold of William, lost his balance and fell with him to the ground. Mr. Galileo Simpkins fell over Farmer Jenks and caught hold of Maria’s tail as he fell. Maria, annoyed at this familiarity, went mad again. The Vicar’s wife, with vague ideas of pouring oil on troubled waters, turned the fire extinguisher on to them all. Mrs. Hopkins ran into the road shouting “Murder” and Mr. Simpkins’ housekeeper went to fetch the police.

******

“I’ve got to draw the line somewhere,” said William’s father to William’s mother the next evening. “I suppose I’ve got to pay my share for all the damage the quadruped did in the laboratory, but I don’t see that I need re-stock the vicar’s garden. As far as I can make out his own wife took the creature there. Well, I’ve taken everything I can think of from William and done everything I can think of to him—it’s against the law to drown him or I’d do that and be done with it——”

“Poor William,” murmured his wife, “he means well—and such a lot of people say he’s like you.”

“He isn’t,” said his father indignantly, “I’m more or less sane, and he’s a raving lunatic. He can’t possibly be like me. Do I go about turning donkeys into labs. and for no reason at all? Do I—Nonsense!”

“Never mind, dear. He goes to school to-morrow,” said his wife soothingly.

“Thank heaven!” said Mr. Brown quite reverently.

******

Outside in the summer-house sat the Outlaws.

“It’s simply no use explainin’ to them,” William was saying. “They sort of won’t listen to you. They go on as if we’d meant to break all of his ole glass things. Well, how were we to know his aunt was ill? I said that to them but they wun’t take any notice. ’S almost funny,” he ended bitterly, “the way they blame us for everything—took my bow an’ arrow an’ airgun an’ money an’ everythin’ off me just as if we hadn’t been tryin’ to do good all the time. An’ no one does anythin’ to that old donkey. Oh, no! It was all its fault but no one does anything to it. Oh, no.”

“An’ we go to school to-morrow,” added Ginger, gloomily.

“Never mind,” said William with rising spirits, “we’ve done all the sorts of things you can do in holidays an’—an’ after all, there’s quite a lot of excitin’ things you can do in school.”