William—the outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

CHAPTER III

GEORGIE AND THE OUTLAWS

IT seemed to the Outlaws that before George Murdoch came to live at the Laurels they had led comparatively peaceful lives. They had not at any rate been subjected to relentless and unceasing persecution as they were now. It was not Georgie who persecuted them. It was their own parents. But I will explain the connection between the advent of Georgie Murdoch and the persecution of the Outlaws. Before Georgie came to the Laurels the Outlaws’ parents had realised that the Outlaws were characterised chiefly by roughness, untidiness, unpunctuality, lack of cleanliness and various kindred vices. They mentioned these faults to their possessors in a manner expressive of a resigned disgust several times a day. But they always said to each other, “Well, boys will be boys,” or, “They’re all as bad as each other,” or, “I’ve never known a boy who wasn’t like that.” They were in fact consoled by the reflection that the Perfect Boy did not exist.

And then George Murdoch came to live at the Laurels and Georgie Murdoch was the Perfect Boy.

The effect upon the Outlaws’ parents was dynamic.

No longer did they view their offspring with resigned disgust and tell themselves and each other that boys would be boys, for was not Georgie Murdoch a walking refutation of the theory. Georgie Murdoch’s whole existence proved conclusively that boys needn’t be boys. So with renewed vigour and a perseverance that was worthy of a better cause the Outlaws’ parents set to work to uproot those vices of roughness, untidiness, unpunctuality and lack of cleanliness that hitherto they had treated, not indeed with encouragement, but with a certain resignation. Day after day the Outlaws heard the never-ceasing refrain, “George Murdoch doesn’t behave like that,” “You never see Georgie Murdoch looking like that,” “Nonsense, Georgie Murdoch can make his hair stay tidy and his face stay clean, so why can’t you?” or, “watch the way Georgie Murdoch eats.”...

But the time was come to describe George Murdoch in more detail. Georgie Murdoch was ten years of age. He was neat and tidy and methodical and clean and only spoke when he was spoken to and always did what he was told. He hated messy things like mud and water and clay and sand and he disliked rough games. He had very beautiful manners and was much in request at afternoon teas. He never forgot to say, “How do you do?” and “Yes, please,” and “No, thank you,” and “how very kind of you,” and he never had been known to drop a cup or knock over a cake stand. In summer he always dressed in white and could make one suit do for three days. That gives you a pretty good idea of Georgie Murdoch’s personal habits. It is hardly necessary to add that he loved his lessons and thought that the holidays were far too long.

When first the Murdochs came to live in the village, the Outlaws were prepared to receive Georgie with friendliness. His fame as the World’s Most Perfect Boy had not preceded him. All they knew was that he was about their own age and of their sex and they were ready to make the best of him.

Mrs. Brown met him first when she went to call on his mother.

“He’s such a nice little boy, William,” was her verdict on her return, “I’ve asked him to come to tea to-morrow because I’d like you to make friends with him. He’s just about your age, and so well-mannered.”

This description was not encouraging, and whatever enthusiasm William may previously have felt for the new-comer waned.

“Can I have some of the others to tea as well, mother?” he asked with an air of engaging innocence. But unfortunately William’s mother remembered the last occasion when “the others” had been asked to help William entertain a little stranger. William and “the others,” after a short test of the little stranger’s capacities which the little stranger had failed to pass with credit, had gone off for the afternoon on their own devices, leaving the little stranger to his. After wandering round the garden once and finding in it few possibilities of amusement the little stranger had returned home—just half an hour after he had left it. Mrs. Brown wasn’t going to have any more contretemps like that. So she said very firmly, “No, William.”

“All right,” acquiesced William with an air of weary patience, “I was only thinkin’ of him. I was only thinkin’ that p’raps he’d sort of enjoy it better if there was more of us to play with.”

But Mrs. Brown again said, “No, William,” meaningly, and William, who had a suspicion that she remembered their entertaining of the last little stranger, forebore to press the point. So William was the solitary host when George arrived. The prospect of being the solitary host had depressed him all morning, and the sight of Georgie’s trim little figure in its spotless white sailor suit threw him into a state of despair that was almost homicidal in its intensity. He’d had a horrible suspicion all along that Georgie would be like that. And a whole afternoon with him ... a whole afternoon!

Mrs. Brown, however, gave Georgie a kindly smile of welcome as she received him.

“How nice to see you, dear,” she said, “I’m so glad you could come. This is my little boy, William. He’s been so much looking forward to your visit. I hope you’re going to be great friends. How nice you look, dear. I wish William could only keep as clean and tidy as that. He gets so untidy.”

Georgie moved so as to get a better view of William. He looked him up and down and finally said:

“Yes, he does look untidy, doesn’t he?” To which momentous announcement he added complacently, “I hardly ever seem to get untidy.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Brown, temporarily taken aback “will you play with William till tea time, dear?... nothing rough, mind, William.”

“No,” agreed Georgie, “I don’t like rough games.”

William, who by this time hated Georgie with a hatred which was the more bitter because Georgie was robbing him of a whole afternoon which might have been spent with his beloved Outlaws, led Georgie into the garden. They walked down to the bottom of the garden. Then William said distantly:

“What would you like to play at?”

“Don’t mind,” said Georgie.

“Hide an’ Seek?” said William.

This puerile suggestion was intended as a subtle insult, but Georgie took it seriously. He considered it in silence and at last said, “No, thank you. Hide and Seek generally ends in getting so rough.”

For a moment William had not believed his ears, but Georgie added calmly:

“It generally ends by being a very nasty rough game.”

William swallowed and gazed at him helplessly. Then he suggested, more out of curiosity than from any other reason:

“Like to play Red Indians?”

“Red Indians?” queried that astounding child as if he had not heard of the game before.

“Yes,” said William, almost speechless with amazement. “Scoutin’ each other through the bushes an’ makin’ a fire, an’——”

But an expression of horror had overspread Georgie’s smug countenance.

“Oh, no,” he said firmly, “I don’t want to get my suit dirty.”

William recovered with an effort.

“Well,” he said at last, “what would you like to do?”

“Let’s go for a nice quiet walk, shall we?” said Georgie brightly.

So they went for a nice quiet walk—straight along the road to the village. William at first made an effort to fulfil his duties as host by pointing out the objects of interest of the neighbourhood.

“There’s a robin’s nest in that hedge,” he said.

“I know,” said Georgie.

“That’s Bunker’s Hill over there.”

“I know,” said Georgie.

“That was a Clouded Yellow,” as a butterfly flitted past.

“I know.”

“They’ve got sort of scent bags on their wings.”

“I know.”

“What sort of a bird is that flying over there?” challenged William.

“Well, what sort is it?”

“A starling.”

“I knew it was.”

William then tired of the conversation and began to while away the tedium of the journey as best he could by more active measures. Georgie, however, refused to take part in them. Georgie refused to jump over the ditch with William because he said he might fall in. He refused to walk on the fence with William because he said that he might fall off. He refused to swing on the gate with William because he said it might dirty his suit. He refused to climb a tree for the same reason. He refused to race William to the end of the road because, he said, it was rough. William was only deterred by his position as host and by Georgie’s protective one year’s minority from forcibly making Georgie acquainted with the contents of the ditch as the inner prompting of his heart bade him to. Instead he leapt to and fro across the ditch (falling in only twice), swung on the gate, walked on the fence (over-balancing once) and trailed his toes in the dust in solitary glory, ignoring his companion entirely.

“What will your mother say?” said his companion once disapprovingly.

William received the remark with scornful silence.

When they returned to the Brown homestead Georgie was as immaculate as when he had set out, while William bore many and visible marks of his fallings into the ditch and on to the road and swinging on gates and climbing trees.

“William!” said Mrs. Brown, “you look awful ... and look at Georgie—how clean and neat he is still.”

“Yes,” said Georgie looking at William with marked distaste, “I told him not to. I said you wouldn’t like it, but he wouldn’t take any notice of me.”

******

The next day William met the Outlaws by appointment and gloomily told them the worst.

“And he’s come to live here,” he ended with passionate disgust, “him and his white suits.”

“And we shall all have to have him to tea,” said Ginger.

“And our mothers’ll never stop talkin’ about him,” said Douglas.

“And he’ll prob’ly get worse the more we know him,” said Henry.

“Him an’ his white suits!” repeated William morosely.

All these fears proved to be well founded.

As Ginger had predicted, they all had to have him to tea, and on each occasion Georgie remained clean and tidy and immaculate in his white suit and said at the end to his host’s mother, “Yes, I told him not to. I said you wouldn’t like it.” And when the guest had departed the host’s mother said to the host:

“How I wish that you were a little more like Georgie Murdoch.”

Henry’s prediction was also fulfilled. For Georgie did get worse the more they knew him. In addition to the vices of personal cleanliness and exquisite manners he possessed that of tale-bearing. He was a frequent visitor at the Outlaws’ houses. He would gaze at William’s mother with a wistful smile and say, “Please, Mrs. Brown, I’m so sorry to disturb you but I think I ought to tell you that William is paddling in the stream after you told him not to,” or, “Please, Mrs. Flowerdew, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but Ginger ’n’ Henry’s throwing mud at each other down the road an’ getting in such a mess. I thought you ought to know.”

And the Outlaws couldn’t get their own back. Georgie would never fight because it might dirty his suit, and any personal attacks upon Georgie (however mild) were faithfully reported by the attacked in person to the parent of the attacker.

“Please, Mrs. Brown, William’s just pushed me over and hurt me.” “Please, Mrs. Flowerdew, Ginger’s just banged into me and made quite a bruise on my arm.” Moreover the Outlaws seemed to have a strong fascination for Georgie. He followed them around, watching their pursuits from a safe and cleanly distance, generally eating chocolate creams which he never offered to the Outlaws, and which never seemed to leave any traces on his face. Whenever any elders were in hearing Georgie would raise his voice and say in a tone of horror, “Oh, you naughty boy! What will your mother say?” and having attracted the elder’s attention and interference he would say sorrowfully, “I told him not to. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

Yet such was the power of his white suit, his clean face, his sweet smile, his beautiful manners that Georgie was always referred to by the grown-ups of the neighbourhood as “Such a dear little boy.”

The Outlaws bore it as long as they could, and then they held a meeting to decide what could be done about it. It was not on the whole a very successful meeting. William kept muttering, “We’ve gotter do something ... him and his white suits.”

But not one of the Outlaws, usually so prolific in ideas of every sort, could think of any sort of plan to meet the case.

“S’no good doin’ anythin’ to him,” said Ginger bitterly, “’f you just touch him he goes an’ tells your mother.”

“Oh, you naughty boys!” mimicked Henry shrilly. “What will your mothers say? I told him not to, I said you wouldn’t like it.”

As an imitation it was rather good, but the Outlaws were not in a mood to be entertained by imitations of Georgie.

“Oh, shut up!” said William. “S’ bad enough hearin’ him sayin’ it.”

“Well, let’s think of something to do,” said Ginger again.

“I wish you wun’t keep sayin’ that,” said William irritably.

“Well I’ll stop when you’ve thought of something,” said Ginger.

“Think of somethin’ yourself,” snapped William.

As you will gather from this conversation the perfect little gentleman was having a wearing effect upon the Outlaws’ nerves. Henry, with a sudden gleam of inspiration, suggested haunting the Murdoch homestead by night, robed in a sheet, till the Murdochs should depart in terror to some other part of England, taking the perfect little gentleman with them, but it was decided, after a brief and acrimonious discussion, that this was not feasible. It was more likely that the Murdochs would investigate the alleged ghost and discover the concealed Outlaw, and also it might prove difficult to gain egress from the parental home and ingress into the Murdoch home at the rather awkward hours suitable for “haunting.”

The only other suggestion came from Douglas who had got full marks for Scripture the week before.

“I think Joseph must have been a bit like Georgie,” he said. “I—I s’pose we couldn’t take him right away somewhere and leave him in a pit same as what they did, an’ take his coat home an’ say a wild animal ate him?”

The Outlaws considered this alluring suggestion, but feared that it would be impracticable.

“There aren’t any pits or wild animals like that in England in these days,” said William mournfully.

The Outlaws sighed, thinking—not for the first time—that the vaunted benefits of civilisation were more than nullified by its hampering elements.

“Well, we aren’t any nearer doin’ anythin’,” said Ginger.

“There dun’t seem anythin’ to do,” said William, whose gloom had been deepened by the thought of the simplicity of Joseph’s brethren’s problem compared with theirs.

“An’ he’s gettin’ worse an’ worse,” groaned Douglas.

“They’re havin’ a garden party next week,” contributed Henry, “an’ we’ll all have to go.”

“An’ watch him in his white suit,” put in William bitterly.

“Handin’ cakes an’ telling tales,” put in Ginger to complete the picture.

“What do they want goin’ havin’ garden parties for?” said William fiercely.

Henry, who was rather “up” in the Murdoch news owing to the fact that Mrs. Murdoch had been to tea with his mother the day before, answered him.

“Well, they’ve got a sort of cousin what’s famous comin’ to stay with them an’ they want to sort of show him off,” he said, translating freely from the conversation he had overheard the day before, “so they’re goin’ to ask everyone to meet him at a garden party.”

“How’d he get famous?” said William with mournful interest.

“Writin’ plays,” said Henry.

William groaned.

“He’ll be worse than ever,” he said, referring not to the writer of plays but to the perfect little gentleman.

The meeting broke up without having arrived at any satisfactory plan, though Henry still cherished the haunting idea and Douglas still considered that something might be done in the pit and wild beast line.

The next day the famous cousin arrived at the Murdoch’s and was proudly paraded through the village by Georgie resplendent in a new white suit and a smile that was more smug and complacent than ever. Close observers might have noticed that the famous cousin looked bored.

The next few days, however, were—outside their homes—days of respite for the Outlaws. For Georgie was too busy with the famous cousin to be able to spare any time for the Outlaws, and the Outlaws could wallow in the mud, climb trees, and turn somersaults in the road to their heart’s content without hearing the shrill little refrain, “Oh, you naughty boys! what will your mothers say ... I told them not to do it ... I said you wouldn’t like it.”

I said “outside their homes.” For inside their homes things were if possible worse. For the interest of the whole village was, thanks to the visit of the famous cousin, now concentrated upon the Murdochs.

“I met little Georgie Murdoch out with his cousin to-day. He introduced me so nicely. I only wish that I thought you’d ever be half so polite,” or, “I met little Georgie Murdoch in the village this morning. He’d gone to post a letter for his cousin. He looked so nice and clean. How I wish you could keep like that.”

As the days of the garden party approached the gloom of the Outlaws deepened.

But they knew that no excuses would avail them. They would have to go there and watch Georgie being “more sick’nin’ than ever,” as Henry put it, parading his famous cousin, showing off his beautiful manners and basking in the admiration of all the guests.... And after that he’d be more unbearable even than he had been before.

Fate seemed to be on the side of the Murdochs. The day of the garden party was warm and sunny and cloudless so that the garden party (contrary to its English custom) really could be a garden party and little Georgie could wear one of his white suits.

William set off to the festivity with his mother, engulfed in gloom and his Sunday suit and looking more as if bound for a funeral than a garden party.

They found a large crowd already assembled and in the middle of it was Georgie wearing his newest and whitest suit and smiling his smuggest smile, and with his golden curls glinting in the sunshine....

“Isn’t he a dear little boy?” heard William on all sides, and “He’s such a little gentleman,” and then from his mother the inevitable, “I wish you could behave like that, William.”

William looked about him and soon picked out Ginger and Henry and Douglas all in similar plight. Their mothers too were gazing rapturously at Georgie and telling their sons how they wished that they could ever behave like that or ever look like that or ever speak like that or ever keep as clean and tidy as that. And the Outlaws (who were quite used to it by this time) bore it in scornful silence.

Then William noticed the famous cousin. He was standing in the background watching Georgie, not with the radiant pleasure with which the mothers watched him, but with an expression more akin to that with which the Outlaws watched him. This caused William a passing interest which however he soon forgot in his deep passionate loathing of the perfect little gentleman.

Gradually the Outlaws eluded the maternal escorts and foregathered on the outskirts of the throng.

“Let’s get out of this,” said Ginger gloomily.

They wandered down a small path that led off from the lawn and finally reached the rather muddy pond which the Murdochs dignified by the name of “lake.” The Outlaws gazed at it gloomily. In ordinary circumstances it would have suggested a dozen enthralling games, but the Outlaws, encased in Sunday suits, and more or less clean and tidy, felt that any straying from the paths of strict decorum upon this occasion would be simply playing into the hands of the enemy. They wandered morosely into a small summer-house that stood near the banks of the pond, and there they held a further consultation. Feeling against William was running high. What after all was the use of a leader who could not cope with an emergency like this...?

“’Straordinary,” said Ginger aloofly, “’Straordinary that you can’t think of anythin’ to do.”

William glared at Ginger. He couldn’t for the moment even fight old Ginger, which would have been something of a relief to his feelings. So he merely retorted coldly, “’Straordinary you can’t think of anythin’ to do yourself.”

And Henry said gloomily, “And he gets sickniner an’ sickniner.”

“He certainly does,” said a strange voice.

The Outlaws looked up to see the famous cousin lolling negligently against the side of the doorway of the summer-house.

“You are referring, I presume,” he said, “to our little host, Georgie the Terrible.”

“Yes, we are,” said William belligerently, “an’——an’ I don’t care if you tellem.”

“Oh, I shan’t tell them,” said the famous cousin carelessly. “I’ve thought far worse things about Georgie than you could ever put into words.”

“Uh?” said William, surprised.

“You only see him occasionally. For this week I’ve seen him every day.”

“Uh?” said William again.

“I’ve suffered,” went on the famous cousin, “more deeply than you can ever have suffered. Georgie is, as it were, branded into my very soul. I have often wondered why—My hands, of course, are tied. I am the guest of Georgie’s parents. Battery and assault upon Georgie would therefore ill become me. But you——” he looked at them scornfully—“that one—two—three—four boys your size can continue to allow Georgie to exist as he is passes my comprehension.”

“’S’all very well talkin’ like that,” said William indignantly, “but he’s such a little sneak! We can’t do anythin’ to him that he doesn’t go an’ tell our mothers an’ then we get into trouble an’ he gets more sickenin’ than ever.”

“Sickniner an’ sickniner,” murmured Henry again dejectedly.

“I see,” said the stranger judicially, “I fully appreciate the difficulty.... Er—may I join the conference?”

He entered the summer-house and sat down next William.

“Have you,” he said, “discussed any plan of action?”

“Lots,” said William. “Douglas wanted to put him in a pit an’ say wild beasts had eaten him.”

“Same as they did Joseph in the Bible,” explained Douglas.

“Ingenious,” commented the stranger, “but impracticable.... Now we want to approach the matter in a scientific frame of mind. Before fixing on a plan of action you should always study the enemy’s weaknesses. Has the egregious Georgie any weaknesses?”

“Has he?” said William bitterly, “he tells tales an’ won’t play games an’——”

The famous cousin raised his hand.

“Pardon me,” he said, “those are vices, not weaknesses. In my sojourn with Georgie I have noticed two weaknesses. He will never own to ignorance even on the most abstruse subjects, and he is passionately fond of chocolate creams. Did you know that?”

“Y—yes. S’pose so,” said William, “but I don’t see how it will help.”

“Ah ... you must somehow make it help. A good general always utilises his enemy’s weak points.... I can’t of course suggest or connive at any plan of action, but I’ll help you. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll offer a two pound box of chocolate creams as a prize for some competition. That brings in one weakness. I leave it to your ingenuity to make good use of the other. Georgie would, I believe, do anything for chocolate creams—I wish you good luck. Good day.”

The famous cousin disappeared leaving the Outlaws gaping and mystified. But his visit had heartened them. The knowledge that one grown up at least saw Georgie the Perfect Little Gentleman as he really was gave them a fresh confidence in the righteousness of their cause. Their despondency dropped from them.

“Let’s go back to the others,” said William briskly, “an’ see what he’s goin’ to say about the chocolate creams.”

They emerged on the lawn and made their way to the group around Mrs. Murdoch. Beside Mrs. Murdoch stood Georgie still immaculately clean and smugly smiling, with curls that glinted in the sun.

“Isn’t it too kind of my cousin,” Mrs. Murdoch was saying. “Yes, he loves children. He’s passionately attached to Georgie. He wants the children to do a little scene—he’s passionately interested in literature, of course, being one himself—a little scene from English history—any part of English history—my cousin’s passionately fond of English history—and he’s offered a two pound box of chocolate creams as a prize to the child who acts the best.... Collect your little friends, Georgie, darling.” Georgie’s eyes were still gleaming from the mention of chocolate creams, “and you might go down to the summer-house to talk things over and then come back and act your little scene to us here.”

Georgie, the Outlaws and a few odds and ends of children who do not really come into the story, drifted down to the summer-house. The Outlaws looked at Georgie. Georgie’s eyes still gleamed. Then they looked at William, and with a great relief at their hearts they read in William’s sphinx-like face that at last he was justifying his position as leader. He had a plan.

THE OUTLAWS EMERGED ON THE LAWN AND MADE THEIR
WAY DISGUSTEDLY TOWARDS THE GROUP AROUND MRS.
MURDOCH.

“MY COUSIN’S OFFERED A BOX OF CHOCOLATE CREAMS AS
A PRIZE TO THE ONE WHO ACTS BEST,” MRS. MURDOCH
WAS SAYING. GEORGIE’S EYES GLEAMED.

First of all William kindly but firmly gathered together the odds and ends and despatched them to the kitchen garden.

“There’s too many of us for one scene,” he explained, “so we’ll do one scene and you do another scene. An’ we’d better get right away from each other so’s not to disturb each other ... so you just go’n make up your scene in the kitchen garden where nobody’ll disturb you an’ we’ll stay an’ make up ours here. Georgie’ll show you the way to the kitchen garden.”

And while Georgie was showing them the way to the kitchen garden William unfolded his plan to the Outlaws. The odds and ends had fully intended to discuss the scenes from English history in the kitchen garden, but they discovered a bed of ripe strawberries, and considering a strawberry in the hand worth two scenes from English history in the bush, decided to leave the Past to its peaceful sleep and concentrate wholly upon the Present.... So they don’t come into the story any more.

Georgie returned to the Outlaws in the summer-house. Upon his face was a resolute determination to win that box of chocolate creams at all costs.

“What’ll we act?” he said eagerly.

“Well,” said William thoughtfully, “he was down here talkin’ to us a few minutes ago an’ he said that his favourite period in English history was King John.”

“We’ll do King John then,” said Georgie firmly.

“He said that his favourite part of King John was where he came back from losing his things in the Wash.”

“We’ll do that then,” said Georgie hastily.

“Who’ll be King John?” said William.

“I’ll be King John,” said Georgie.

“All right,” said William with unexpected amenity, “an’ shall Ginger an’ me be your two heralds an’ Douglas and Henry your servants or somethin’?”

“Yes,” said Georgie, and added, “You needn’t do anythin’ but jus’ stand there—any of you. I’ll do the actin’.”

“All right,” agreed William, still with disarming humility. “You know all about the story, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“About how King John went into the Wash tryin’ to find his things——”

“Yes, I know all that.”

“An’ the Wash was a kind of a bog——”

“Yes, I know.”

“An’ he came out all muddy but couldn’t find his things ’cause they’d sunk in the mud.”

“Yes, I know.”

“An’ he came to his two servants called Dam an’ Blarst——”

“Called——?”

“Fancy you not knowin’ about King John’s servants bein’ called Dam an’ Blarst!”

“I did know,” said Georgie, “I’ve known it for ever so long.... What did you say they were called?”

“Dam and Blarst.”

“Dam and Blarst. Of course I knew.”

“Well, let’s get you ready for bein’ King John.... S’no good goin’ on as King John lookin’ like that when you’re s’posed to’ve just come out of a bog looking for your things ... no one’d give anyone a prize for that.”

“I’m not going to get myself all muddy, so there!”

“All right,” said William, “I’ll be King John. I don’t care.”

“No, I’m going to be King John,” persisted Georgie.

“Well, you can’t be King John,” said William firmly, “if you don’t get yourself a bit muddy like what he was when he come back from losin’ his things in the Wash. It’ll easy come off afterwards. Jus’ take off your shoes an’ stockings an’ paddle about a bit at the edge of the pond. You needn’t mess up anythin’ but jus’ your feet.”

There was a silence in which Georgie’s love of chocolate creams fought with his instincts of cleanliness and put them to flight.

“All right,” he said, “I don’t mind muddying my feet just a bit.”

He took off his shoes and stockings. William and Ginger took off theirs too.

“Just to help you Georgie,” they said, “and to stop you fallin’ in or anythin’.”

They held him firmly on either side, and walked him down to the pond. “Jus’ because we wun’t like you to fall an’ mess up your suit,” said William.

“Be careful, Georgie,” said Ginger, “don’ go too far.”

“Be careful, Georgie,” said William, “mind you don’t fall.”

At last they returned to the bank.

“Nice sort of help you were,” said Georgie indignantly, “why, you made me go in lots further than I meant to and, look, you’ve got mud all over my trousers.”

“Sorry, Georgie,” said William meekly, “that was where I splashed you by mistake, wasn’t it? Shall I be King John if you don’t like it?”

“No, I’m goin’ to be King John,” said Georgie. “Well, shall we go and do it now?”

William looked at him doubtfully. Georgie was gloriously muddy as far as his lower regions were concerned but his face and blouse were still spotlessly clean and his curls still glinted in the sun.

“It’s not quite right yet, Georgie,” he said gently. “Don’ you remember how in History King John dived into the Wash after his things?”

“Yes, I know,” said Georgie, “I know all about that.”

“Well, s’no good you goin’ actin’ King John an’ not lookin’ as if you’d jus’ dived into a bog,” said William.

“I tell you,” said Georgie indignantly, “I’m not goin’ to put any more nasty mud on me.”

“All right,” said William kindly, “let Ginger be King John ... he won’t mind.”

“No, I’m goin’ to be King John,” said Georgie.

“We’ll jus’ put a bit of mud on your hair then,” said William persuasively, “it’ll soon wash off an’ it would be awfully nice if you got the prize, Georgie.”

“All right,” said Georgie relenting, “but only a little, mind.”

“Oh, yes, Georgie,” said William, “only a little....”

“YOU’RE ONLY PUTTING A LITTLE ON, AREN’T YOU?”
GEORGIE ASKED ANXIOUSLY.

“OH, YES, GEORGIE,” WILLIAM REASSURED HIM—“ONLY
A LITTLE.”

They plastered his head and face with mud from the pond and dropped a goodly portion of it upon his blouse. Fortunately Georgie could not see his upper half very well.

“You’re only putting a little on, aren’t you?” he asked anxiously.

“Oh, yes, Georgie,” William reassured him, “only a little. Now you look lovely. You look jus’ like King John after he’d been tryin’ to find his things in the Wash—divin’ in for ’em an’ all....”

Certainly the perfect little gentleman was unrecognisable. His suit was covered with mud, his hair was caked with mud, his face was streaked with mud. He had waded in mud. His smile, though still there, was almost invisible. No longer did his curls glint in the sun.

“Now let’s start, shall we?” said William, his spirits rising as he gazed at his handiwork. “First of all I’ll go on with Ginger—we’re your heralds you know—and we’ll say you’re coming; ‘Make way for King John’ or somethin’ like that. Then you come on with Henry and Douglas and you speak to ’em. You know what King John said to ’em in History, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do,” said Georgie. “What did he say?”

“He just looked at ’em an’ said, ‘Oh Dam and Blarst (their names, you know) I cannot find my things.’”

“Of course I knew he said that.”

“Well, you jus’ say that to ’em and——shall we start? I say, Georgie, you do make a fine King John.”

“Oh, I bet I’ll win the prize all right,” said Georgie complacently from beneath his mud.

The grown-ups sat in an expectant semicircle, smiling indulgently.

“I do so love to see little children acting,” said one. “They’re always so sweet and natural.”

“I wish you’d seen Georgie last Christmas,” murmured Georgie’s mother, “as Prince Charming in a little children’s pantomime we got up. I had his photograph taken. I’ll show it to you afterwards.”

Just then William and Ginger appeared. They had replaced their stockings and shoes and looked for William and Ginger unusually neat and tidy.

“Well, dears,” said Mrs. Murdoch smiling, “have you chosen your little scene yet?”

“No,” said William, “we can’t get on with it with Georgie messin’ about the pond all the time.”

At that moment Georgie, imagining that William and Ginger had heralded his approach with all ceremony, came proudly into view from behind the bushes, followed by Douglas and Henry. The mud from the pond was a peculiarly concentrated kind of mud and Georgie had wallowed in it from head to foot. One could only guess at his white suit and glinting curls. But through it shone Georgie’s eyes in rapturous anticipation of a two pound box of chocolate creams.

William and Ginger gazed at him in well simulated horror.

“Oh, Georgie, you naughty boy!” said William.

“What will your mother say?” said Ginger.

Douglas and Henry stepped forward.

“We told him not to,” said Douglas.

“We knew you wouldn’t like it,” said Henry to the speechless Mrs. Murdoch.

Georgie felt that something had gone wrong somewhere but he was determined to do his part at any rate to win those chocolate creams.

He looked at Henry and Douglas. “Oh, Dam and Blarst——” he began, but the uproar drowned the rest.

With a scream of horror audible a mile away Mrs. Murdoch seized the perfect little gentleman by the arm and hurried him indoors.

******

Georgie explained as best he could. He explained that he was meant to be King John returning from the Wash and that Dam and Blarst were his two servants. But explanations were unavailing. No explanation could wipe out from the memories of those present that astounding picture of Georgie Murdoch standing in the middle of the lawn caked with black mud from head to foot and saying, “Oh, damn and blast!”

The party broke up after that. No festive atmosphere could have survived that shock. The Outlaws, clean and neat and sphinx-like and silent, accompanied their parents home.

“Well,” said the parents, “I’d never have believed that of Georgie Murdoch!”

“Caked with mud!”

“And such language!”

“It shows that you never can tell.”

A close observer might have gathered that at heart the Outlaws’ parents were almost as jubilant over Georgie’s downfall as were the Outlaws themselves.

The famous cousin, who was by the gate as William took his leave, managed to press a ten-shilling note into William’s hand.

“To be divided amongst your accomplices,” he murmured. “You surpassed my highest expectation. As artist to artist I tend you my congratulations.”

That, of course, is quite a good place to stop, but, there remains more to be said.

The next day Georgie appeared once more, cleaner and neater than ever and clad in a new white suit, walking decorously down the village street and smiling complacently. But it was no use. Georgie’s reputation was gone. It had so to speak vanished in a night. Georgie might have paraded his clean white-clad figure and smug smile and golden curls before the eyes of the village for a hundred years and yet never wiped out the memory of that mud-caked little horror uttering horrible oaths before the assembled aristocrats of the village.

At the end of the month the Murdochs sold their house and removed. They told their new neighbours that there hadn’t been a boy in the place fit for Georgie to associate with.

History does not relate what happened to the chocolate creams.

Perhaps the famous cousin ate them.