CHAPTER IV
WILLIAM AND THE WHITE ELEPHANTS
WILLIAM,” said Mrs. Brown to her younger son, “as Robert will be away, I think it would be rather nice if you helped me at my stall at the Fête.”
William’s father at the head of the table groaned aloud.
“Another Fête,” he said.
“My dear, it’s centuries ... weeks since we had one last,” said his wife, “and this is the Conservative Fête—and quite different from all the others.”
“What sort ’f a stall you goin’ to have?” said William, who had received her invitation to help without enthusiasm.
“A White Elephant stall,” said Mrs. Brown.
William showed signs of animation.
“And where you goin’ to gettem?” he said with interest.
“Oh, people will give them,” said Mrs. Brown vaguely.
“Crumbs!” said William, impressed.
“You must be very careful with them, William,” said his father gravely, “they’re delicate animals and must be given only the very best buns. Don’t allow the people to feed them indiscriminately.”
“Oh, no,” said William with a swagger, “I bet I’ll stop ’em doin’ it that way if I’m lookin’ after em.”
“And be very careful when you’re in charge of them. They’re difficult beasts to handle.”
“Oh, I’m not scared of any ole elephant,” boasted William, then wonderingly after a minute’s deep thought, “white uns’ did you say?”
“Don’t tease him, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, to her husband, and to William, “white elephants, dear, are things you don’t need.”
“I know,” said William, “I know I don’t need ’em but I s’pose some people do or you wun’t be sellin’ ’em.”
With that he left the room.
******
He joined his friends the Outlaws in the old barn.
“There’s goin’ to be white elephants at the Fête,” he announced carelessly, “an’ I’m goin’ to be lookin’ after them.”
“White elephants!” said Ginger, impressed, “an’ what they goin’ to do?”
“Oh, walk about an’ give people rides same as in the Zoo an’ eat buns an’ that sort of thing. I’ve gotter feed ’em.”
“Never seen white ’uns before,” said Henry.
“Haven’t you,” said William airily, “they’re—they’re same as black uns’ cept that they’re white. They come from cold places—same as polar bears. That’s what turns ’em white—roamin’ about in snow an’ ice same as polar bears.”
The Outlaws were impressed.
“When are they comin’?” they demanded.
William hesitated. His pride would not allow him to admit that he did not know.
“Oh ... comin’ by train jus’ a bit before the Sale of Work begins. I’m goin’ to meet ’em an’ bring ’em to the Sale of Work. They’re s’posed to be savage but I bet they won’t try on bein’ savage with me,” he added meaningly. “I bet I c’n manage any ole elephant.”
They gazed at him with a deep respect.
“You’ll let me help with ’em a bit, won’t you?”
“William, can I help feed ’em?”
“William, can I have a ride free?”
“Well, I’ll see,” promised William largely, and with odious imitation of grown-up phraseology, “I’ll see when the time comes.”
The subsequent discovery of the real meaning of the term White Elephant filled William with such disgust that he announced that nothing would now induce him to attend the Fête in any capacity whatsoever. The unconcern with which this announcement was received by his family further increased his disgust. The disappointment of the Outlaws at the disappearance of that glorious vision of William and themselves in sole charge of a herd of snowy mammals caused them to sympathise with William rather than jeer at him.
“If there isn’t no white elephants,” said William bitterly, “then why did they say there was goin’ to be some?”
Ginger kindly attempted to explain.
“You see that’s the point, William—there isn’t white elephants.”
“Then why did they say there was?” persisted William. “Fancy callin’ rubbish white elephants. If you’re going to have a stall of rubbish why don’t they say they’re goin’ to have a stall of rubbish ’stead of callin’ it White Elephants? Where’s the sense of it? White elephants! An’ all the time it’s broken old pots an’ dull ole books an’ stuff like that. What’s the sense of it ... callin’ it white elephants!”
Ginger still tried to explain.
“You see there isn’t any white elephants, William,” he said.
“Well, why do they say there is?” said William finally. “Well I’m jus’ payin’ ’em out by not helpin’—that’s all.”
But when the day of the Fête arrived William had relented. After all there was something thrilling about serving at a stall. He could pretend that it was his shop. He could feel gloriously important for the time being at any rate, taking in money and handing out change....
“I don’t mind helpin’ you a bit this afternoon, mother,” he said at breakfast with the air of one who confers a great favour.
His mother considered.
“I almost think we have enough helpers, thank you, William,” she said, “we don’t want too many.”
“Oh, do let William feed the white elephants and take them out for a walk,” pleaded his father.
William glowered at him furiously.
“Of course,” said his mother, “it’s always useful to have someone to send on messages, so if you’ll just be there, William, in case I need you ... I daresay there’ll be a few little odd jobs you could do.”
“I’ll sell the things for you if you like,” said William graciously.
“Oh no,” said his mother hastily, “I—I don’t think you need do that, William, thank you.”
William emitted a meaning “Huh!”—a mixture of contempt and mystery and superiority and sardonic amusement.
His father rose and folded up his newspaper.
“Take plenty of buns, William, and mind they don’t bite you,” he said kindly.
******
The White Elephant stall contained the usual medley of battered household goods, unwanted Christmas presents, old clothes and derelict sports apparatus.
Mrs. Brown stood, placid and serene, behind it. William stood at the side of it surveying it scornfully.
The other Outlaws who had no official positions were watching him from a distance. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that they were jeering at him, that they were comparing his insignificant and servile position as potential errand-goer at the corner of a stall of uninspiring oddments with his glorious dream of tending a flock of snow-white elephants. Pretending not to notice them he moved more to the centre of the stall, and placing one hand on his hip assumed an attitude of proprietorship and importance.... They came nearer. Still pretending not to notice them he began to make a pretence of arranging the things on the stall....
His mother turned to him and said, “I won’t be a second away, William, just keep an eye on things,” and departed.
That was splendid. Beneath the (he hoped) admiring gaze of his friends he moved right to the centre of the stall and seemed almost visibly to swell to larger proportions.
A woman came up to the stall and examined a black coat lying across the corner of it.
“You can have that for a shilling,” said William generously.
He looked at the Outlaws from the corner of his eye hoping that they noticed him left thus in sole charge, fixing prices, selling goods and generally directing affairs. The woman handed him a shilling and disappeared with the coat into the crowd.
William again struck the attitude of sole proprietor of the White Elephant stall.
Soon his mother returned and he moved to the side of the stall shedding something of his air of importance.
Then the Vicar’s wife came up. She looked about the stall anxiously, then said to William’s mother:
“IT—IT CAN’T HAVE BEEN
SOLD, CAN IT?” SAID THE
VICAR’S WIFE.
“I thought I’d put my coat down just here for a few minutes, dear. You haven’t seen it, have you? I put it just here.”
William’s mother joined in the search.
Over William’s face stole a look of blank horror.
“It——it can’t have been sold, dear, can it?” said the Vicar’s wife with a nervous laugh.
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Brown, “we’ve sold nothing. The sale’s not really been opened yet.... What sort of a coat was it?”
“A black one.”
“Perhaps someone’s just carried it in for you.”
“I’ll go and see,” said the Vicar’s wife.
William very quietly joined Ginger, Henry and Douglas who had watched the dénouement open-mouthed.
“Well!” said Ginger, “now you’ve been an’ gone an’ done it.”
“Sellin’ her coat,” said Henry in a tone of shocked horror.
“An’ she’ll probab’ly wear it to church on Sunday an’ she’ll see it,” said Douglas.
“Oh, shut up about it,” said William who was feeling uneasy.
“Well I should think you oughter do something about it,” said Henry virtuously.
“Well, what c’n I do?” said William irritably.
“You won’t half catch it,” contributed Douglas cheerfully, “they’ll be sure to find out who did it. You won’t half catch it.”
“Tell you what,” said Ginger, “let’s go an’ get it back.” William brightened.
“How?” he said.
“Oh ... sort of find out where she’s took it an’ get it back,” said Ginger vaguely, his spirits rising at the thought of possible adventure; “ought to be quite easy ... heaps more fun than hangin’ round here anyway.”
“OH, NO,” SAID MRS. BROWN. “THE SALE’S NOT REALLY
OPENED YET. WHAT SORT OF A COAT WAS IT?”
A cursory examination of the crowd who thronged the Vicarage garden revealed no black coat to the anxious Outlaws. William had been so intent upon asserting his own importance and upon impressing his watching friends that he had not noticed his customer at all. She had merely been a woman and he had an uneasy feeling that he would not recognise her again even if he were to meet her.
“I bet she’s not here,” said Ginger, “course she’s not here. She’ll’ve taken her coat home jolly quick I bet. She’d be afraid of someone comin’ an’ sayin’ it was a mistake. I bet she’ll be clearin’ off home pretty quick now—coat an’ all.”
The Outlaws went to the gate and looked up and down the road. The rest of the company were clustered round the lawn where the member, who was opening the Fête, had just got to the point where he was congratulating the stall holders on the beautiful and artistic appearance of the stalls, and wincing involuntarily whenever his gaze fell upon the bilious expanse of green and mauve bunting.
“There she is,” said Ginger suddenly, “there she is—walkin’ down the road in it—cheek!”
The figure of a woman wearing a black coat could be seen a few hundred yards down the road. The Outlaws wasted no further time in conversation but set off in pursuit. It was only when they were practically upon her that they realised the difficulty of confronting her and demanding the return of the coat which she had, after all, acquired by the right of purchase.
They slowed down.
“We—we’d better think out a plan,” said William.
“We can watch where she lives anyway,” said Ginger.
They followed their quarry more cautiously.
She went in at the gate of a small house.
The Outlaws clustered round the gate gazing at the front door as it closed behind her.
“Well, we’ve got to get it back some way,” said William with an air of fierce determination.
“Let’s jus’ try askin’ for it,” said Ginger hopefully.
“All right,” agreed William and added generously, “you can do it.”
“No,” said Ginger firmly, “I’ve done my part s’gestin’ it. Someone else’s gotter do it.”
“Henry can do it,” said William, still with his air of lavish generosity.
“No,” said that young gentleman firmly, even pugnaciously, “I’m jolly well not goin’ to do it. You went an’ sold it an’ you can jolly well go an’ ask for it back.”
William considered this in silence. They seemed quite firm on the point. He foresaw that argument with them would be useless.
He gave a scornful laugh.
“Huh!” he said, “Afraid! That’s what you are. Afraid. Huh.... Well, I c’n tell you one person what’s not afraid of an’ ole woman in an ole black coat an’ that’s me.”
With that he swaggered up the path to the front door and rang the bell violently. After that his courage failed, and but for the critical and admiring audience clustered round the gate he would certainly have turned to flee while yet there was time.... A maid opened the door. William cleared his throat nervously and tried to express by his back and shoulders (visible to the Outlaws) a proud and imperious defiance and by his face (visible to the maid) an ingratiating humility.
“Scuse me,” he said with a politeness that was rather over done, “Scuse me ... if it’s not troublin’ you too much——”
“Now, then,” said the girl sharply, “none of your sauce.”
William in his nervousness redoubled his already exaggerated courtesy. He bared his teeth in a smile.
“Scuse me,” he said, “but a lady’s jus’ come into this house wearin’ a white elephant——”
He was outraged to receive a sudden box on the ear accompanied by a “Get out, you saucy little ’ound,” and the slamming of the front door in his face.
William rejoined his giggling friends, nursing his boxed ear. He felt an annoyance which was divided impartially between the girl who had boxed his ears and the Outlaws who had giggled at it.
“Oh yes,” he said aggrievedly, “S’easy to laugh, in’t it. S’nice an’ easy to laugh ... an’ all of you afraid to go an’ then laughin’ at the only one what’s brave enough. You’d laugh if it was you, wun’t you? Oh yes?” He uttered his famous snort of bitter sarcasm and contempt. “Oh yes ... you’d laugh then, wun’t you? You’d laugh if it was your ear what she’d nearly knocked off, wun’t you? Lots of people ’ve died for less than that an’ then I bet you’d get hung for murderers. Your brain’s in the middle of your head joined on to your ear, an’ she’s nearly killed me shakin’ my brain up like what she did.... Oh yes, s’easy to laugh an’ me nearly dead an’ my brains all shook up.”
“Did she hurt you awful, William?” said Ginger.
The sympathy in Ginger’s voice mollified William.
“I sh’d jus’ think so,” he said. “Not that I minded,” he added hastily, “I don’t mind a little pain like that ... I mean, I c’n stand any amount of pain—pain what would kill most folks ... but,” he looked again towards the house and uttered again his short sarcastic laugh, “p’raps she thinks she’s got rid of me. Huh! P’raps she thinks they can go on stickin’ to the ole black coat what they’ve stole. Well, they’re not ... let me kin’ly tell them ... they’re jolly well not ... I—I bet I’m goin’ right into the house to get it off them, so there!”
The physical attack perpetrated on William by the housemaid had stirred his blood and inspired him with a lust for revenge. He glared ferociously at the closed front door.
“I’ll go’n have a try, shall I?” said Ginger, who shared with William a love of danger and a dislike of any sort of monotony.
“All right,” said William, torn by a desire to see Ginger also fiercely assailed by the housemaid and a reluctance to having his glory as martyr shared by anyone else. “What’ll you say to ’em?”
“Oh, I’ve got an idea,” said Ginger with what William considered undue optimism and self-assurance, “well, if she bought it for a shillin’ I bet she’ll be glad to sell if for more’n a shillin’ won’t she? Stands to reason, dun’t it?”
Ginger, imitating William’s swagger (for Ginger, despite almost daily conflicts with him, secretly admired William immensely), walked up to the front door and knocked with an imperious bravado, also copied from William. The haughty housemaid opened the door.
“G’d afternoon,” said Ginger with a courteous smile, “Scuse me, but will you kin’ly tell the lady what’s jus’ come in here wearin’ a black coat that I’ll give her one an’ six for it an’——”
Ginger also received a box on the ear that sent him rolling half way down the drive, and the door was slammed in his face. It was opened again immediately and the red angry face of the housemaid again glared out.
“Any more of it, you saucy little ’ounds,” she said, “an’ I’ll send for the police.”
Ginger rejoined the others nursing his ear and making what William thought was an altogether ridiculous fuss about it.
“She didn’t hit you half’s hard’s what she hit me,” said William.
“She did,” said the aggrieved Ginger, “she hit harder ... a jolly sight harder. She’d nachurally hit harder the second time. She’d be more in practice.”
“No, she wun’t,” argued William, “she’d be more tired the second time. She’d used up all her strength on me.”
“Well, anyway I saw yours an’ I felt mine an’ could tell that mine was harder. Well, gettem to look at our ears. I bet mine’s redder than what yours is.”
“P’raps it is,” said William, “it nachurally would be because of mine bein’ done first an’ havin’ time to get wore off. I bet mine’s redder now than what yours will be when yours had had the same time to get wore off in as what mine has ... an’ let me kin’ly tell you I saw yours an’ I felt mine an’ I know that mine was a jolly sight harder ’n yours.”
After a spirited quarrel which culminated in a scuffle which culminated in an involuntary descent of both of them into the ditch, the matter was allowed to rest. Ginger had in secret been somewhat relieved at the housemaid’s reception of his offer as he did not possess one-and-six and would have been at a loss had it been accepted.
An informal meeting was then held to consider their next step.
“I votes,” said Douglas who was the one of the Outlaws least addicted to dangerous exploits, “I votes that we jus’ go back to the Fête. We’ve done our best,” he added unctuously, “an’ if the ole coat’s sold, well, it’s just sold. P’raps she’ll be able to get it back by goin’ to a lawyer or to Parliament or somethin’ like that.”
But William, having once formed a purpose, did not lightly relinquish it.
“You can go back,” he said scornfully. “I’m jolly well not goin’ back without that ole coat.”
“All right,” said Douglas in a resigned tone of voice, “I’ll stay an’ help.”
To Douglas’ credit be it said that having uttered his exhortation to caution he was always content to follow the other Outlaws on their paths of lawlessness and hazard.
“Tell you what I’m goin’ to do,” said William suddenly, “I’ve asked for it polite an’ if they won’t give it me then it’s their fault, in’t it? Well I’ve asked for it polite an’ they wun’t give it me so now I’m jolly well goin’ to take it.”
“I’ll go with you, William,” volunteered Ginger.
“I think,” said William frowning and assuming his Commander-in-Chief air, “I’d better go on alone. But you jus’ stay near an’ then if I’m in reel danger—sort of danger of life or death—I’ll shout an’ you come in an’ rescue me.”
This was such a situation as the Outlaws loved. They had by this time quite lost sight of what they were rescuing and why they were rescuing it. The thrill of the rescue itself filled their entire horizon....
They went round to the side gate where they crouched in the bushes watching the redoubtable William as he crept Indian fashion with elaborate “registration” of cunning and secrecy across a small lawn up to a small open window. Breathlessly they watched him hoist himself up and swing his legs over the window sill. They saw his freckled face still wearing its frown of determination as he disappeared inside the room.
He had meant to make his way through the room to the hall where he hoped to find the black coat hanging and to be able to abstract it without interference and return at once to his waiting comrades. But things are seldom as simple as we hope they are going to be. No sooner had he found himself in the room than he heard voices approaching the door and with admirable presence of mind dived beneath the round table in the middle of the room, whose cloth just—but only just—concealed him from view.
The lady whom the Outlaws had followed down the road—now divested of the fateful black coat—entered the room followed by another gayer and more highly-coloured lady.
“A black coat, did you say?” said the first lady.
William, beneath the table, pricked up his ears.
“Yes, if you can, dear,” said the highly-coloured lady, “if you’d be so good, dear. I only want it for to-morrow for the funeral. I think I told you, didn’t I, dear? A removed cousin whom I hardly knew—a very removed cousin—but they’ve invited me and one likes to show oneself appreciative of these little attentions—not that I think he’ll have left me a penny in his will and it certainly isn’t worth while buying black but I have a black dress and if you wouldn’t mind lending me a black coat.”
“Certainly,” said the first lady. “I can let you have one with pleasure. It’s in the hall. It’s one I’ve only just bought....”
William ground his teeth.... So it was in the hall! If he’d only been a few minutes earlier....
They went into the hall and William gathered that the black coat was being displayed.
“Quite a bargain, wasn’t it?” he heard the first lady say.
It was all he could do to repress a bitter and scornful “Huh!”
They returned—evidently with the coat.
“Thank you so much, dear,” said the highly-coloured lady, “it’s just what I wanted and so smart. What was it like at the Fête...?” she was trying on the coat and examining herself smilingly in the overmantel mirror. “I must say it does suit me.”
“Oh, very dull,” said the first lady. “I really came away before it was actually opened. Just got what I wanted and then came away. It all looked as if it was going to be most dull.”
The highly-coloured lady sniffed and her complacency gave way to aggrievement. “I must say that I was a bit hurt that they didn’t ask me to give an entertainment. I can’t help feeling that it was a bit of a slight. People have so often told me that no function about here is complete without one of my entertainments and then not to ask me to entertain at the Conservative fête ... well, I call it pointed, and it points to one thing and one thing only in my eyes. It points to jealousy, and intrigue, and spitefulness, and underhandedness, and cunning, and deceit on the part of some person or persons unknown—but, believe me, Mrs. Bute, quite easily guessed at!”
The highly-coloured lady was evidently in the state known as “working herself up.” Suddenly William knew who she was. She must be Miss Poll. He remembered now hearing his mother say only yesterday, “That dreadful Poll woman wants to give an entertainment at the Fête and we’re determined not to have her. She’s so vulgar. She’d cheapen the whole thing....”
He peeped at her anxiously from behind his concealing table-cloth, then hastily withdrew.
“Of course,” said Mrs Bute, who sounded bored and as if she’d heard it many times before, “of course, dear, but ... the coat will do, will it ?”
“Very nicely, thank you,” said Miss Poll rather stiffly because she thought that Mrs. Bute really ought to have been more sympathetic. “Good afternoon, dear.”
“I’ll wrap it up for you,” said Mrs. Bute.
There was silence while she wrapped it up, then Miss Poll said, “Good afternoon, dear,” again and went into the hall and there followed the sound of the closing of the front door, then sounds as of the mistress of the house going upstairs. William retreated through his open window and rejoined Douglas and Henry at the gate. Ginger had vanished.
“Quick,” he said, “she’s got it.”
The figure of Miss Poll carrying a large paper parcel could be seen walking down the road. “We’ve gotter follow her. She’s got it now.”
At this minute Ginger reappeared.
“She’s got it,” William explained to him.
“Yes, but there’s another,” said Ginger, pointing, “there’s another black coat hangin’ up in the hall. I’ve been round an’ looked through a little window an’ seen it ... it’s there.”
William was for a moment nonplussed. Then he said: “Well, I bet the one she’s took’s the one, ’cause I heard her say wasn’t it a bargain, an it was a bargain too. Huh! I’m goin’ after her.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Ginger. “I’m goin’ to stop here an’ get the other one.”
“All right,” said William, “you an’ Douglas stay here an’ Henry ’n me’ll go after the other an’ I bet you ours is the right one.”
So quite amicably the Outlaws divided forces. Ginger and Douglas remained concealed in the bushes by the gate of Mrs. Bute’s house, warily eyeing the windows, while William and Henry set off down the road after Miss Poll’s rapidly vanishing figure.
******
William and Henry stood at Miss Poll’s gate and held a hasty consultation. Their previous experience did not encourage them to go boldly to the front door and demand the black coat.
“Let’s jus’ go in an’ steal it,” said Henry cheerfully. “’S not hers really.”
But William seemed averse to this.
“No,” he said, “I bet that it wouldn’t come off. I bet she’s the sort of woman that’s always poppin’ up jus’ when you don’ want her. No, I guess we’ve gotter think out a plan.”
He thought deeply for a few minutes, then his face cleared and over it broke a light that betokened inspiration.
“I know what we’ll do. It’s a jolly good idea. I bet ... well, anyway, you come in with me an’ see.”
Boldly William walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Apprehensively Henry followed him.
Miss Poll, wearing the black coat (for she had been trying it on and fancied herself in it so much that she had not been able to bring herself to take it off to answer the bell), opened the door.
William, his face devoid of any expression whatever, repeated monotonously as though it were a lesson:
“G’afternoon, Miss Poll, please will you come to the Fête to give an entertainment.”
Miss Poll went rather red and for one terrible minute William thought that she was going to attack him as the maid had done—but the moment passed. Miss Poll was simpering coyly.
“You—you’ve been sent on a message, I suppose, little boy?” then, relieving William’s conscience of the difficult task of answering this question, she went on, “I thought there must be some mistake.... Of course,” she simpered again, then pouted, “really I’d be quite within my rights to refuse to go. It’s most discourteous of them to send for me like this at such short notice but,” she gave a triumphant little giggle, “I knew that really they couldn’t get on without me. They didn’t send a note by you, I suppose?”
“No,” said William quite truthfully.
She pouted again.
“Well, that I think is rather rude, don’t you? However,” the pout merged again into the simper, “I wouldn’t be so cruel as to punish them for that by staying away. I knew they’d want me in the end. But these things are always so shamefully organised, don’t you think so?”
William cleared his throat and said that he did. Henry, in response to a violent nudge from William, cleared his throat and said that he did too. Miss Poll encouraged by their sympathy, warmed to her subject.
“Instead of writing to engage me months ago they send a message like this at the last minute.... What would they have done if I’d been out?”
Again William said he didn’t know and again Henry, in response to a nudge from William, said he didn’t know either.
“Well, I mustn’t keep the poor dears waiting,” said Miss Poll brightly. “I’ll be ready in a second I’ve only to put my hat on.”
Then Miss Poll underwent a short inward struggle which William watched breathlessly. Would she keep on the black coat or would she change it for another? Wild plans floated through William’s head. He’d say would she please go in something black because the Vicar had died quite suddenly that morning or—or the Member had just been murdered or something like that.... It was obvious that Miss Poll was torn between the joy of wearing a coat in which she considered herself to look “smarter” than in anything else she possessed and the impropriety of wearing for a festal occasion a garment borrowed for the obsequies of the very removed cousin. To William’s relief the coat won the day and after buttoning up the collar to give it an even smarter appearance than it had before and putting on a smart hat with a very red feather, she joined them at the door.
“Now I’m ready, children,” she said, at which William scowled ferociously and Henry winced, “they didn’t say which of my repertoire” (Miss Poll pronounced it reppertwaw) “I was to bring with me, did they?”
And again William said “no” with a face devoid of expression and with perfect truth. And Henry said “No,” too.
“As it’s such short notice,” she went on, “they really can’t expect anything in the way of—well, of make-up or dress, can they?”
William said that they couldn’t and Henry, being nudged again by William, confirmed the opinion....
“Though I wish you children could see me in my charwoman skit. I’m an artist in make-up.... Now, can you imagine me looking really old and ugly?”
Henry quite innocently said “Yes,” and on being nudged by William, changed it to “yes, please.” Miss Poll looked at Henry as if she quite definitely disliked him and turned her attentions to William.
“You know, dear ... I can make myself to look really old. You’d never believe it, would you? Now guess how old I am, really?”
Henry, not wishing to be left out of it, said with perfect good faith, “fifty” and William, with a vague idea of being tactful, said “forty.” Miss Poll who looked, as a matter of fact, about forty-five, laughed shrilly.
“You children will have your joke,” she said, “now I wonder what I’d better do for them to start with? You know, what makes me so unique as an entertainer, children—and if I’d wanted to be I’d be famous now on the London stage—is that I’m entirely independent of such artificial aids as mechanical musical instruments and books of words and such things. I depend upon the unaided efforts of my voice—and I’ve a perfect voice for humorous songs, you know, children—and my facial expression. Of course I’ve a magnetic personality ... that’s the secret of the whole thing....”
William was tense and stern and scowling. He wasn’t thinking of Miss Poll’s magnetic personality. He was thinking of Miss Poll’s coat. The first step had been to lure Miss Poll to the Fête; the second and, he began to think, the harder, would be to detach the coat from Miss Poll’s person.
“It’s—it’s sort of gettin’ hot, i’n’t it?” he said huskily.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Miss Poll pleasantly.
William’s heart lightened. “Wun’t you like to take your coat off?” he said persuasively. “I’ll carry it for you.”
But Miss Poll who considered, quite erroneously, that the coat made her look startlingly youthful and pretty, shook her head and clutched the coat tightly at her neck.
“No, certainly not,” she said firmly.
William pondered his next line of argument.
“I thought,” he suggested at last meekly, “I thought p’raps you sing better without your coat.”
Henry, who felt that he was supporting William rather inadequately, said: “Yes, you sort of look as if you’d sing better without a coat.”
“What nonsense!” said Miss Poll rather sharply, “I sing perfectly well in a coat.”
Then William had an idea. He remembered an incident which had taken place about a month ago which had completely mystified him at the time, but which he had stored up for possible future use. Ethel had come home from a garden party in a state bordering on hysterics and had passionately destroyed a perfectly good hat which she had been wearing. The reason she gave for this extraordinary behaviour had been that Miss Weston had been wearing a hat exactly like it at the garden party (“exactly like it ... I could have killed her and myself,” Ethel had said hysterically). The reason had seemed to William wholly inadequate. He met boys every day of his life wearing headgear which was exactly identical with his and the sight failed to rouse him to hysterical fury. It was one of the many mysteries in which the behaviour of grown-up sisters was shrouded—not to be understood but possible to be utilised. Now he looked Miss Poll up and down and said ruminatingly, “Funny!”
“What’s funny?” said Miss Poll sharply.
“Oh, nothin’,” said William apologetically, knowing full well that Miss Poll would now know no peace till she’d discovered the reason for his ejaculation and steady contemplation of her.
“Nonsense!” she said sharply, “you wouldn’t say ‘funny’ like that unless there was some reason for it, I suppose. If I’ve got a smut on my nose or my hat’s on crooked say so and don’t stand there looking at me.”
William’s steady gaze was evidently getting upon Miss Poll’s nerves.
“Nothin’,” said William again vaguely, “only I’ve just remembered somethin’.”
“What have you remembered?” snapped Miss Poll.
“Nothin’ much,” said William, “only I’ve jus’ remembered that I saw someone at the Fête jus’ before I came out to you, in a coat exactly like that one what you’ve got on.”
There was a long silence, and finally Miss Poll said: “It is a little hot, dear. You were quite right. If you would be so kind as to carry my coat——”
“I’VE JUS’ REMEMBERED,” SAID WILLIAM, “THAT I SAW
SOMEONE AT THE FÊTE IN A COAT EXACTLY LIKE THAT
ONE WHAT YOU’VE GOT ON.”
She took it off, revealing a dress that was very short and very diaphanous and very, very pink, folded up the coat so as to show only the lining and handed it to William. William, though retaining his sphinx-like expression, heaved a sigh of relief, and Henry dropped behind Miss Poll to turn a cart wheel expressive of triumph in the middle of the road. They had reached the gate of the Vicarage now. They were only just in time....
William meant to thrust the coat into the arms of the Vicar’s wife and escape as quickly as he could, leaving Miss Poll (for whom he had already conceived a deep dislike) to her fate.
It had happened that the Member’s agent had with difficulty and with the help of great persuasive power and a megaphone, collected the majority of the attendants at the Fête into a large tent where the Member was to “say a few words” on the political situation. Many of those who had had experience of the Member’s “few words” on other occasions had tried to escape but the agent was a very determined young man with an Oxford manner and an eagle eye, and in the end he had hounded them all in. The Member was just buying a raffle ticket for a nightdress case and being particularly nice to the raffle ticket seller partly because she was pretty and partly because she might have a vote (one could never tell what age girls were nowadays). The agent was hovering in the background ready to tell him that his audience was awaiting him as soon as he’d finished being nice to the pretty girl, and at the same time keeping a wary eye on the door of the tent to see that no one escaped.... And then the contretemps happened. Miss Poll tripped airily up to the door of the tent in her pink, pink frock, peeped in, saw the serried ranks of an audience with a vacant place in front of them, presumably for the entertainer, and skipping lightly in with a “So sorry to have kept you all waiting,” leapt at once into her first item—an imitation of a tipsy landlady, an item that Miss Poll herself considered the cream of her repertoire. The audience (a very heavy and respectable audience) gaped at her, dismayed and astounded. And when a few minutes later the Member, calm and dignified and full to overflowing of eloquence and statistics, having exchanged the smile he had assumed while being nice to the pretty raffle ticket seller for a look of responsibility and capability, and having exchanged his raffle ticket for a neat little sheaf of notes (typed and clipped together by the ubiquitous agent), appeared at the door of the tent he found Miss Gertie Poll prancing to and fro before his amazed audience, her pink, pink skirts held very high, announcing that she was Gilbert the filbert, the colonel of the nuts. The agent, looking over his shoulder, grew pale and loose-jawed. The Member turned to him with dignity and a certain amount of restraint.
“What’s all this?” he demanded sternly.
The agent mopped his brow with an orange silk handkerchief.
“I—I—I’ve no idea, sir,” he gasped weakly.
“Please put a stop to it,” said the Member and added hastily, remembering that the tent was packed full of votes, “without any unpleasantness, of course.”
I have said that the agent was a capable young man with an Oxford manner, but it would have taken more than a dozen capable young men with Oxford manners to stop Miss Gertie Poll in the full flow of her repertoire. She went on for over an hour. She merely smiled bewitchingly at the agent whenever he tried to stop her without any unpleasantness, and when the Member himself appeared like a deux ex machina to take command of the situation, she blew him a kiss and he hastily retired.
Meanwhile William, triumphantly bearing the black coat, made his way up to the Vicar’s wife. He met Ginger and Douglas, also carrying a black coat and on the same mission.
“Bet you tuppence mine’s the one,” said Ginger.
“Bet you tuppence mine is,” said William; “where’d you get yours?”
“We got it out of her hall,” said Douglas cheerfully, “we jus’ walked in an’ got it an’ no one saw us.... I bet ours is the one.”
“Well, come on an’ see,” said William, pushing his way up to the stall presided over by the Vicar’s wife.
“Here’s your coat, Mrs. Marks,” he said handing it to her, “it was sold by mistake off the rubbish stall but we’ve got it back for you—me an’ Henry.”
Before the Vicar’s wife could answer, a frantic messenger came up to her.
“What shall we do?” she moaned. “Miss Poll’s entertaining the tent and the Member can’t speak.”
“Miss Poll!” gasped the Vicar’s wife, “we never asked her.”
“No, but she’s come and she’s singing all her awful songs and no one can stop her and the Member can’t speak.”
The Vicar’s wife, still absently nursing the coat that William had thrust into her arm, stared in front of her.
“But—but how awful!” she murmured, “how awful?”
Then Ginger came up and thrust the second coat into her protesting arms.
“Your coat, Mrs. Marks,” he said politely, “what we sold by mistake off the rubbish stall. Me an’ Douglas ’v got it back for you.”
He made a grimace at William which William returned with interest.
They waited breathlessly to see which coat the Vicar’s wife should claim as her own.
She looked down at her armful of coats as if she saw them for the first time.
“B-but,” she said faintly, “I got that coat back. The woman who bought it thought there must be some mistake and brought it to me. These aren’t my coats.... I don’t know anything about these coats.”
Shrill strains of some strident music hall ditty came from the tent. A second messenger came up.
“She won’t stop,” she sobbed, “and the Member’s foaming at the mouth.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Vicar’s wife, clutching her bundle of coats still more tightly to her. “Oh, dear, oh, dear!”
At that moment a woman pushed her way through the crowds up to the Vicar’s wife. It was Mrs. Bute.
“Brought it here, they did,” she panted. “Where is it? Thieves! Came into my hall bold as brass an’ took it!... There it is!” she glared suspiciously at the Vicar’s wife, “what’ve you got it for ... my coat ... I’d like to know. I’d——” She tore it out of her arms and the other coat too fell to the ground. “My other coat!” she screamed, “both my coats! Thieves—that’s what you all are! Thieves!”
“Where are those boys?” said the Vicar’s wife very faintly. But “those boys” had gone. William, resisting the strong temptation to go and enjoy the spectacle of the Member foaming at the mouth, had hastily withdrawn his little band to a safe distance.
******
They were found, of course, and brought back. They were forced to give explanations. They were forced to apologise to all concerned, even to Miss Poll (who forgave them because she’d had such a perfectly ripping afternoon and her little show gone off so sweetly and everyone been so adorable). They were sent home in disgrace.... William was despatched to bed on dry bread and water, but being quite tired by the day’s events and the bread happening to be new and unlimited in quantity, William’s manly spirit survived the indignity.
And William’s mother said the next day: “I knew what would happen.” (William’s mother always said that she knew it would happen after it had safely—or dangerously—happened.) “I knew that if I let William come and help everything would go wrong. It always does. Selling people’s coats and stealing people’s coats and getting that awful woman to come that we’d sworn we’d never have again and stopping the Member speaking when he’d taken ages over preparing his speech, and upsetting the whole thing—well, if anyone had told me beforehand that one boy William’s size could upset a whole afternoon like that I simply shouldn’t have believed them.”
And William’s father said: “Well, I warned you, William. I told you they were difficult beasts to manage. Of course, if you lose control of a whole herd of white elephants like that they’re bound to do some damage.”
And William said disgustedly: “I’m just sick of white elephants and black coats. I’m going out to play Red Indians.”