William—the outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

CHAPTER V

THE STOLEN WHISTLE

WILLIAM had been to watch the sheep dog trials at a neighbouring Agricultural Show and had been much thrilled by the spectacle. It had seemed, moreover, perfectly simple. Just a dog and some sheep and anyone could do it. He had a dog, of course—Jumble, his beloved mongrel who had filled many and various rôles since he had joined William’s ménage. He had been a walking dog and a dancing dog and a talking dog. He had even on one occasion represented a crowd in a play organised by William. It cannot be claimed that Jumble brought any great brilliance to bear on the fulfilment of these rôles. He was essentially passive, rather than active, in his representation of them. He walked and danced perforce, because William on these occasions held his front paws and he could do nothing else. His “talking” was his natural reaction of excitement to William’s softly whispered “rats!” It did not really represent that almost superhuman intelligence that William claimed for it. Jumble himself took no pride in his accomplishments. When he heard the word “trick” he slunk off as quickly as he could, but if escape were impossible he yielded to the inevitable, and suffered the humiliation of walking or dancing with an air of supercilious boredom.

After breakfast on the morning after the sheep trials, William walked slowly and thoughtfully into the garden. There he was greeted effusively by Jumble who tried to convey to him by barks and leaps and whirlwind rushes that it was just the morning for a walk in the wood, where perhaps—perhaps—with luck one might meet a rabbit or two. But William was not in a rabbit mood. He was in a sheep dog mood. He had definitely decided to train Jumble to be a sheep dog. It might be objected that with truth Jumble was not a sheep dog, to which objection it might with equal truth be replied that Jumble was as much a sheep dog as he was any other sort of dog. The sorts of dog in Jumble were so thoroughly mixed that there was no sort of dog you could definitely say he wasn’t. William had decided to use a whistle for giving his signals to Jumble chiefly because his newest and dearest treasure happened to be a whistle. It had been sent to him for his last birthday, by an uncle who, as William’s father bitterly remarked, ought to have known better. It was not an ordinary whistle. It was the Platonic ideal of a whistle. It was very large and very ornate and emitted a sound rivalled only by a factory siren. William to the relief and surprise of his family had made little use of this since his reception of it. He had kept it in a box in a drawer in his bedroom. His family fondly imagined that he had forgotten about it and never allowed the conversation even remotely to approach the subject of musical instruments in general or whistles in particular, lest it should remind him of it. They could not know, of course, that William’s whistle was his secret pride and joy and dearest treasure and that he did not use it simply because he considered it too precious to use till some great and worthy occasion presented itself. And here the great and worthy occasion had presented itself—the training of Jumble to be a sheep dog. With Jumble bounding about in innocent glee and all unaware of his coming ordeal, he entered his bedroom and reverently took the whistle from its bed of cotton wool in the box in which he had received it. Then he placed it in his pocket and with Jumble still leaping exuberantly about him went out into the road. He had now a dog and a whistle. The only thing that remained was to find some sheep. He swung down the road, one hand fingering lovingly the whistle that reposed in his pocket, his eyes fixed proudly on Jumble. Jumble, who fondly imagined that his hint about the walk in a rabbity wood had been taken, leapt ecstatically into the air at every passing fly or butterfly and as often as not overbalanced in the process. The very word “trick” would have sent him slinking homeward, his tail between his legs, but no one uttered the fateful word so Jumble leapt and bounded in light-hearted glee with no thought in his mind but of scurrying white-tailed rabbits.

William was now walking along without paying much attention to his pet. His mind was set on other things. He was looking for sheep. Suddenly he saw them—a whole fieldful of sheep with no guardian or owner in sight. He brightened. The training of Jumble as a sheep dog could begin. With Jumble still at his heels he entered the field.

“Now, Jumble,” he said sternly, “when I blow one blow on this whistle you drive ’em to the end of the field an’ when I blow two you drive ’em back again.” Jumble gave a short sharp bark, which William, ever optimistic, took to be one of complete understanding.

William drew in his breath then blew a piercing blast on his whistle. The nightmare sound rent the air. A sheep who was cropping grass turned and gazed at him reproachfully. The others took no notice. Jumble continued to chase butterflies. William sighed and repeated his instructions.

“When I blow once on this whistle, Jumble, you drive ’em over there and when I blow twice you drive ’em back.” Jumble wagged his tail and William thought he’d really tumbled to it at last.

He blew again—a mighty piercing blast. The sheep who had looked at him reproachfully turned and looked at him still more reproachfully. Jumble, upon whose mind the conviction was slowly forcing itself that something was being expected of him, sat up and begged.

William sighed.

“No, Jumble,” he said, “jus’ listen—when I blow once——”

He stopped. Jumble was off after another butterfly. It was simply no use talking to Jumble with all those butterflies about. He must make him understand by some other means. He pointed to the sheep.

“Hi, Jumble!” he urged, “at ’em! Rats!”

Jumble looked from William to the sheep, head on one side, ears cocked. His master evidently wanted him to attack those big white things that inhabited the field. But why? They were doing no harm and there was a vein of caution in Jumble that objected to the unnecessary attacking of things three times his size. Still, he didn’t mind showing willing and he needn’t go too near.

With elaborate ostentation of ferocity he began to bark at the nearest sheep, making little leaps and rushes as if to attack it—but keeping all the time a respectful distance.

“Good old Jumble!” encouraged William, “go on at them. Rats!” Jumble, glad to learn from the tone of William’s voice that he was doing the right thing, redoubled his pretence of fury and attack. The nearest sheep with a scared look on its face rose and moved farther away. Jumble’s delight knew no bounds. He had frightened the thing. That big white animal three times his size was afraid of him. Some of his caution deserted him. He advanced again upon the sheep, his sound and fury redoubled. The sheep began to run. In a state of frenzied intoxication Jumble flung himself to the pursuit. Panic broke out among the flock. They rushed hither and thither bleating wildly, with Jumble, who imagined himself a Great Dane at least, pursuing them, barking loudly. William felt gratified. Things were getting a move on at last. Jumble was turning out a really fine sheep dog. Then he blew twice on his whistle.

“Now bring ’em back, Jumble,” he ordered.

But Jumble was deaf and blind to everything but the ecstasy of chasing these large foolish white creatures who did not seem to realise their size who—joy of joys, miracle of miracles!—were afraid of him—of him! The field was a medley of scurrying bleating sheep and leaping, barking, exulting, pursuing, ecstatic Jumble.

“Hi, Jumble!” called William again, “stop it—bring ’em back now.”

But the sheep had found a way of escape and were streaming in a jostling panic-stricken crowd through the gate inadvertently left open by William on to the road where some streamed off in one direction, some in another, still bleating wildly.

Jumble surveyed the empty field. He’d cleared them out, which was evidently what William meant him to do. The place belonged to him and William now. He swaggered up to William and sat down sideways head in the air, mouth open panting.

He fairly radiated conceit. He couldn’t get over it—hundreds and hundreds of big white things each three times as big as himself flying in panic before him—before him—what a dog! What a dog! He gave William a glance that said:

“Well, what do you think of me, now?”

William could have told him quite adequately and eloquently what he thought of him but already sounds of commotion and shouting came from the direction of the farm whence the errant sheep had been sighted. Already men were running down the road to deal with the crisis. William, not wishing to be dealt with as part of the crisis, hastily picked up Jumble, scrambled through the hedge into a further field and thence by devious routes to the road and back to his home.

His first lesson to Jumble on sheep dogging had not been altogether successful but William was not a boy lightly to abandon anything he had undertaken. Only he thought that perhaps it had been a mistake to begin on sheep. It would be best probably to work up to sheep gradually. Sitting on an upturned plant pot in his back yard, his chin on his hands, he frowningly considered the situation, while Jumble sat by him, leaning against the plant pot wearing a complacent simper, still seeing himself, alone and unaided, putting to flight vast hordes of large white animals. Yes, thought William, that had been the mistake—beginning with sheep instead of working up to them gradually. If he could begin on something small they could work up to sheep by degrees. His white mice—the very thing! He turned and gave Jumble a long and patient detailed account of what he wanted him to do.

“When I blow once, Jumble,” he said, “you run ’em over to the end of the lawn and when I blow twice run ’em back to me again an’ mind you don’t let any of them escape.”

Jumble looked at him foolishly, obviously not even trying to understand and taking for granted that William was singing his praises, telling him that he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw him scattering them far and near. William went to fetch his white mice, leaving Jumble still simpering. He returned and knelt down with the box.

“Now run ’em gentle, Jumble,” he ordered as he released the flock.

But Jumble was in no mood for gentleness. Either he considered it an insult to try to make him a mouse dog instead of a sheep dog or he wished to show William that this was mere child’s play after his late exploit. He’d killed two before William could rescue them. He listened to William’s remarks with polite boredom and watched the subsequent obsequies with alert interest as though marking the spot for future investigation. He then watched the remnants of the flock being carried indoors with an air of wistfulness. He’d have quite liked to have gone on with them. William was not really disheartened. He was sorry of course to lose two of his white mice, but his white mice themselves were capable of filling any gaps in their numbers with such speed and thoroughness that the shortage would not be of long duration. And he was still determined to teach Jumble to be a sheep dog. He ignored Jumble’s attempts to suggest to him again the walk in the rabbity wood (Jumble felt that he’d have simply loved to have a go at rabbits now—he was just in the mood) and sat down again on the upturned plant pot to consider the matter. Perhaps the best thing to do was to train Jumble to be a sheep dog by himself without anything to represent the sheep, and then when Jumble was an expert sheep dog gradually introduce sheep for him to work upon. He’d teach Jumble to go to the other end of the lawn when he blew once and return when he blew twice.

He did this by throwing a stone to the other end of the lawn for Jumble to fetch and blowing once when he threw it and twice when Jumble was ready to bring it back. He hoped that if he did this often enough, Jumble would begin to associate his departure and return with the whistle instead of the stone. When he’d been doing it for about half an hour his father came out wearing an expression of mingled agony and fury.

“If I hear one more sound from that beastly instrument of torture,” he said, “I’ll take it from you and throw it into the fire. Do you know I’ve been trying to sleep this last half hour? What the dickens are you doing sitting there and blowing the thing like that, to all eternity? Are you trying to play a tune?”

William did not explain that he was trying to teach Jumble to be a sheep dog. He withdrew himself and Jumble and the whistle out of harm’s way as quickly as possible.

He knew that it would be useless to continue the training of Jumble within earshot of his father. It would be safer to withdraw to the other end of the village where there was no possibility of his father hearing it. It was particularly annoying because he’d thought that just before his father came out Jumble really had begun to understand what he wanted him to do. He slipped the whistle into his pocket and set off down the road, Jumble following merrily at his heels. Jumble evidently thought that the walk through the rabbity wood was going to come off at last.

Right at the end of the village was a large brown house with a field behind it. The field was empty and well hidden from the road. Here William decided to complete the training of Jumble. Armed with a little pile of stones and his whistle he patiently threw stones and whistled his one blast then his two as Jumble departed and returned. Jumble was fetching the stones in a perfunctory fashion as one who does it merely to oblige. His considered opinion was that as a game it was going on a bit too long. It was in any case rather a puerile amusement for a dog who alone and unaided could put to flight great hordes of large white animals. And he wanted to have a go at those rabbits.

William really thought that Jumble knew what was expected of him at last. He decided to try without the stones. It was a great moment. He blew a single blast on his whistle and then waited to see if Jumble would fly at the note of command to the other end of the field. William never knew whether Jumble would have flown at the note of command to the other end of the field; it is a question that must remain to all eternity unanswered. For no sooner had William emitted the note of command than a furious tornado dressed in a mauve suit tore down upon him, resolving itself as it became calmer into an elderly gentleman who lived in the brown house.

“You wretched little mongrel,” he said addressing William not Jumble, “you inhuman young torturer—you—you infant Nero! Do you know, I ask you, sir, that I’ve been trying to rest—to rest with this infernal row going on? What do you mean by it, you young scoundrel? What do you think you’re doing with it?—blowing it on and on and on like that. Are you trying to drive me mad?”

Before William could resist he had snatched the precious whistle from William and thrust it into his pocket. “Now I’ve got it, my boy, and I’ll keep it. And I’ll take any other infernal instrument of torture you come around here with—and get out!”

Jumble growled and made ineffective darts toward the old gentleman but finding that the old gentleman did not obligingly turn and flee with bleats of terror like the sheep, he changed his tactics and wagged his tail propitiatingly. William, aghast and infuriated, tried to gather breath for a reply but before it came the old gentleman’s roseate hue deepened to purple and he roared again:

“Get—OUT!”

William with one glance at the purple face threw dignity to the winds and got out, closely followed by the incipient sheep dog. He was ablaze with righteous indignation. He felt that he’d rather have had anything stolen from him than the precious whistle, his glorious insignia as sheep dog trainer. Stolen—yes, that was it, stolen—his whistle stolen. The man in the mauve suit ought to be in prison—a robber, that was what he was—just an ordinary robber. He—he’d go and tell someone about it so that the man in the mauve suit could be put in prison.

He told his father first and his father said: “Thank Heaven!”

Then he told the village policeman and the village policeman slapped his thigh and uttered a guffaw that sent Jumble flying down the road in panic.

After much silent cogitation William decided to approach the robber himself. He waylaid him on the road later in the day and said unctuously:

“Please, can I have my whistle back?”

The robber uttered a loud “ha!” and then said very firmly, “No! you cannot have your whistle back! On no account can you have your whistle back. You can never have your whistle back. Wild horses couldn’t make me give your whistle back. You may look upon that whistle, my boy, as lost to you for ever and likewise every other fiendish contrivance you use to drive away my sleep. Ha!”

With that he passed on still snorting.

William stood motionless in the road gazing after him. Well, he’d tried every lawful means. He’d appealed to his father who ought to have protected his own son from these outrages. He’d appealed to the strong arm of the law who should have taken drastic steps against such lawless extortion of property, he’d appealed to the criminal’s own better feelings—all to no avail.

The only thing that remained was to take matters into his own hands. For William felt that never could he hold up his head again while this blot upon his honour remained unavenged.

******

With no very clear plan of action in his mind, William progressed furtively up the drive of the big brown house. He had seen the old gentleman in the mauve suit drive down towards the station that morning in a cab with a suit-case, so that bold advance into the enemy’s country was less heroic than at first it sounds.

For safety’s sake William had left Jumble at home. Jumble was well meaning but could never understand the need for secrecy. Idly William thought that he’d train Jumble to be a police dog when he’d finished training him to be a sheep dog. He’d train him to hunt down robbers and bite them hard.

But he couldn’t continue the sheep dog training till he’d recovered his whistle—his whistle. Had you offered William then a hundred golden whistles set with gems in exchange for his whistle, he would have refused them with scorn. It was his whistle and he was going to have it or know the reason why. He wandered round the front of the house with an elaborate display of secrecy that would have attracted anyone’s attention from miles away had anyone been there to see. The front downstairs rooms were all empty with windows securely locked. The front and side doors also were locked. William dared not go round to the kitchen regions. He had a wholesome awe of inhabitants of kitchen regions. They had such effective weapons to hand in the way of rolling pins and saucepans. Even had the doors and windows been open it would have been difficult to know where to begin looking for his whistle. There was moreover a horrible possibility that the man in the mauve suit might have taken it with him. His voyage of investigation round the house, though fruitless, gave him a certain amount of satisfaction by its vague element of heroism and danger. Having finished it he decided to go home and think out some more definite plan of campaign.

He set off still with a melodramatically conspiratorial air down the drive and suddenly when he’d almost reached the gates he heard the sound of a motor car in the road outside. It was coming in. He looked about wildly for some place of hiding. There was none. With admirable presence of mind he stretched himself out by the edge of the drive and lay there with closed eyes. The car turned in at the gate—passed him, stopped, backed.

“Good heavens!” said a girl’s voice, “it’s a boy.”

“Is he dead?” said another.

Without opening his eyes William perceived that four people were getting out of the car. He remained motionless with closed eyes. He felt that as long as he remained in that position no one could call upon him to account for his presence in their private ground.

“See if he’s breathing,” said someone.

A firm hand was laid on his chest. William was very ticklish and it needed all his self-control not to wriggle. But he remained stark and motionless.

“Yes, he’s alive,” said the voice with a note of relief in it, “he’s breathing.”

“Let’s take him into the house,” said someone else, “and Freddie can see what’s the matter with him.”

A youth’s voice spoke.

“Well,” it said rather uncertainly, “I’ve only been doing medicine a month, you know.”

“But, my dear, surely you can diagnose a little thing like this when you’ve been doing it a whole month,” said the voice.

“Oh yes,” said Freddie, “I—I daresay I can. It’s—it’s probably something quite simple.”

William, who was beginning to enjoy the situation, felt himself lifted up and placed in a car, taken up to the front door of the brown house, lifted out, carried in and laid upon a sofa.

“What is it, Freddie?” said a girl’s voice, “what’s the matter with him? Perhaps he’s been run over. He’s breathing. See—put your hand over his heart, you’ll feel its beating.”

But at this point, partly because he could contain his curiosity no longer and partly because his ticklishness could not endure the thought of a hand being placed again upon his chest, William opened his eyes and sat up. He saw three girls, one with red hair, one with black hair, one with fair hair and a very young man. The very young man looked relieved by William’s return to consciousness.

“Better, dear?” said the girl with red hair.

“Yes, thank you,” said William.

“What do you think it was, Freddie?” said the girl with dark hair.

“Oh—er—just a slight—er—vertigo,” said Freddie.

“Well, you’d better stay there and rest a little, dear, hadn’t you?” said the girl, “just till you feel well enough to go home.”

WILLIAM OPENED HIS EYES AND SAT UP. “BETTER,
DEAR?” SAID THE GIRL WITH RED HAIR.

“Yes,” said William speaking faintly and trying to assume the expression of one suffering from vertigo, whatever vertigo might be. He was much interested by his present position and did not want to abandon it. Moreover, he was within the building that presumably held his precious whistle and he hoped that Fate might yet deliver it into his hands. The girl with fair hair put a cushion under his head and the girl with dark hair went to fetch the motor rug and spread it over him, and Freddie held his wrist and took out his watch hoping that the action would add to his medical prestige and that no one would notice that the watch was not going. The others gazed at him in an awed silence.

“Is he—all right now?” said one of them.

“Oh yes,” said Freddie putting away his watch, “he ought to rest a little before he goes out, though.”

“Shut your eyes, dear,” said the girl with the red hair, “and try to get a little sleep before you go home. Count sheep going through a gate.” William closed his eyes obediently, forbearing to remark that he’d had quite enough of sheep going through gates.

Then they all sat down in the window alcove and began to talk.

“It’s really quite a jolly place, isn’t it?” said the girl with the dark hair. “Awfully decent of Uncle Charles to say we could come out here to picnic whenever we like.”

“Only while he’s away,” said the girl with fair hair.

“I know. He’s not exactly sociable but we can have some quite jolly times driving down here from town while he’s away. I think it would be an awfully good plan to have the dress rehearsal here on Thursday, don’t you? All come down in cars and picnic and then have dinner here. He’s got an angelic cook and he said we could feed here whenever we like and then drive back to Town by moonlight.”

“Don’t you think we ought to mention it to him—the rehearsal, I mean?”

“Well, we might if it were anyone else but you know what he is. If it were any other play, too, we might, but a play about the Russian Revolution—well, it’s like a red rag to a bull to him. He’s scared stiff of a revolution, you know. It’s a regular bee in his bonnet.”

“He said to me only last week that he never went away from home without being quite prepared to find the communists in possession of his home when he returned. So the poor old thing wouldn’t be able to sleep o’ nights if he thought we were rehearsing a play like that in his house. He won’t be back till the day after so he won’t know. In any case he doesn’t know any of the people who’re acting except us so it’s just as well the old boy shouldn’t know anything about it.”

“Right! And it would be fun to come down here and make a real excursion of it. This room is a bit too small, isn’t it? Freddie, go and see whether the library would be better.”

Freddie departed and they turned to William again.

“Better, dear?” they said again.

“Yes, thank you,” said William.

“What is this vert whatever it is that Freddie says he’s got?” said the dark-haired girl to the red-haired girl.

“Something to do with the backbone, I think,” said the red-haired girl vaguely. “You know they call things that haven’t any backbone invert something or other.”

“I suppose,” said the fair-haired girl to William, “that you were walking down the road and the attack came on suddenly and you came in here for help and succumbed before you could get help.”

“Well,” said William with a burst of inspiration, “I was coming in here for my whistle when this vert thing came over me sudden and I fell down.”

“For your whistle, dear?” said the fair-haired girl in a puzzled voice.

“Yes,” said William brazenly, “Mr. what’s his name? The man what lives here?”

“Oh, Uncle Charles, Mr. Morgan.”

“Yes—well, this Mr. Morgan came out to me the other day to borrow my whistle an’ he said he’d give it me back if I called for it to-day. He asked if I’d just lend it him till to-day and said that it would be all ready for me to take back to-day if I called for it.”

“But—why did he want to borrow your whistle?” said the fair-haired girl, still puzzled.

“Jus’ to blow on. He liked it,” said William casually.

They looked at each other meaningly.

“Poor Uncle Charles,” said the dark-haired girl, “I’m afraid he’s—well, it sounds as if he were getting a little childish.”

“An’ please,” said William firmly, “I’d like to take it home now.”

“But, where is it? Did he say where it would be?”

“No, he didn’t,” said William and added hopefully, “but I s’peck it’s somewhere about.”

“Well, we’ll try to find it for you,” said the dark-haired girl doubtfully, “but—don’t lend him anything else, will you?”

“No,” said William fervently.

Making a complete and rapid recovery from his recent attack of vertigo, William arose from his couch and joined in the search. They looked round drawing-room, dining-room and library without finding the whistle.

“Well, we’ll remind him the very first time we see him,” said the red-haired girl obligingly.

“Thanks,” said William without enthusiasm.

“And now you feel well enough to go home, don’t you? This gentleman who is a doctor—well, almost a doctor, will drive you home in the car and explain to your mother exactly what’s wrong with you.”

But William and Freddie seemed equally anxious to avoid this anti-climax so they finally yielded to William’s assertion that he felt quite all right now and would much rather walk home, and to Freddie’s assertion that probably the family already had a doctor, and it would be against medical etiquette for him to go butting into someone else’s patient and it would do the kid good to walk—get the circulation going again after the vertigo. So Freddie returned to the library and the three girls walked down to the gate with William and watched him depart down the road.

“Poor little child,” said the fair-haired girl with a sigh.

“He doesn’t look as if he had a diseased backbone,” said the red-haired girl.

“No,” said the dark-haired girl, “but some of these internal things don’t show.”

William walked jauntily. He hadn’t got his whistle, but he’d had quite an interesting morning.

******

It was Thursday evening. William crept up the drive again and walked round to the brown house.

“THERE!” SAID WILLIAM. “LOOK AT
THAT!” MR. MORGAN LOOKED AT IT,
WHILE HIS MOUTH AND EYES SLOWLY
OPENED AND HIS CHEEKS GREW PALE.

The windows of library and drawing-room were lit up. The drawing-room was apparently being used as a green room. Actors in various stages sat on chairs or sofa, or “made up” in front of the Venetian mirror. In the library the play was just beginning. An inhuman-looking bearded gentleman of obviously Communist persuasions, his face deeply—perhaps too deeply—scored by lines of cruelty and ill-temper, was sitting on the armchair, his boots on the table. A large red flag was planted beside him and the table was covered with a red flag. Brutal-looking soldiers held a shrinking prisoner in front of him. Other brutal-looking soldiers lounged about the room. The play was evidently just beginning. Neither Freddie nor any of the three girls were in this scene. William who had only a faint hope of recovering his whistle, but a very real curiosity as to the dress rehearsal, stood outside in the darkness, flattening his nose against the window. The brutal man in the chair was overacting—banging the table and shaking his fist and snarling and shouting—but this made it all the more thrilling to William. Then suddenly he heard the sound of wheels coming up the drive. Still impelled by curiosity, he crept round the house to see who it was. Then he stood amazed. It was the man in the mauve suit. He was descending from a taxi with his suit-case, and preparing to enter his front door. Then a glorious inspiration came to William. The taxi drove off but, before the owner of the house could enter his door, a small boy whom he could not see distinctly in the darkness darted forward and seized his arm.

“Don’t go in,” he whispered, “there’s danger.”

Mr. Morgan’s jaw dropped.

“What?” he gasped.

“I say there’s danger,” said the boy again rather irritably, “if you go in that house you’ll never come out alive.”

“B—but it’s my house,” said Mr. Morgan, “I’ve often been in and come out alive.”

“Come here and I’ll show you,” whispered William. “Come round here.”

He led the amazed but unprotesting householder round to the lighted window of the library.

“There!” he said, “look at that.”

THERE IN MR. MORGAN’S LIBRARY, WITH HIS FEET ON THE
WRITING TABLE, SAT A BRUTAL COMMUNIST COMMANDER,
WITH A PRISONER TREMBLING BEFORE HIM IN THE
HANDS OF BRUTAL COMMUNIST SOLDIERS.

Mr. Morgan looked at it while his mouth and eyes slowly opened to an almost incredible extent and his cheeks grew paler and paler. There in his library, with feet on his writing table, sat a brutal communist commander beneath the red flag. Brutal communist soldiers lounged in all his best chairs and some poor unhappy prisoner stood trembling before the brutal communist commander.

“W—what is it?” he gasped.

“It’s broke out,” said William succinctly, “the revolution—it’s broke out.”

“B—but I heard nothing on the way,” gasped the poor man again, drops of perspiration standing out on his brow.

“No, it’s been very sudden,” explained William unabashed, “quite a lot of people don’t know anything about it yet.”

“What I always said would happen,” groaned Mr. Morgan. “On us before we know where we are! The first blaze kindled in this very village and my home—my own house—taken for headquarters. I’ve always feared it—always.”

“They’re having the people from the village in one by one,” said William cheerfully. “They’ve got ’em all locked in the cellars. They’re killin’ most of them.”

“And—and all my valuables there,” groaned Mr. Morgan, “all my money and everything. If only I could collect some of it I could make good my escape.”

He shuddered as the brutal communist commander within shook his fist with a particularly brutal gesture in the shrinking prisoner’s face.

“Well,” said William slowly. “When first I started watchin’ through this window it was open an’ they were alone—it was before they started havin’ in the prisoner—an’ I heard them saying that they were afraid the reg’lar army’d soon be upon them an’ the signal that the reg’lar army was comin’ upon ’em was three blows on a whistle from the road so as soon as they heard three blows on a whistle from the road it’d mean that the reg’lar army was comin’ upon ’em an’ they’d have to clear out quick—so if we could give three blows on a whistle from the road they’d clear out jolly quick an’ you could nip in an’ get your stuff before they come back. But—but, I’ve not got a whistle, have you?”

There was a tense silence during which William held his breath.

“I have, as it happens,” said the old gentleman excitedly, “by a curious chance, one came into my possession the other day—but it’s in my bedroom. How am I to get at it?”

“Where’s your bedroom?” said William shortly.

“Just above us. The window, I see, is open.”

“Where’s the whistle?” said William trying not to sound too eager.

“In the right-hand small drawer in my dressing-table. What are you doing?”

For William with a speed and agility worthy of one of his remotest forbears was shinning up the tree, and swinging himself from the tree to the window sill of the room just above. He disappeared into the room. Soon he reappeared, swung himself on to the tree and came back as quickly as he had gone.

In his hand he held his beloved long-lost whistle.

“Brave boy!” said the old gentleman fervently, “now go down to the road and blow three times.”

William crept away into the darkness with the whistle. He could not refrain from chuckling as he reached the road. The old gentleman waited and waited, but no blast came from the darkness into which William had disappeared.

William was creeping back. He knew that it was a dangerous proceeding, but curiosity triumphed over caution. He wanted to know what had happened to the old gentleman and the brutal communist commander and—everyone. Cautiously he approached the library window. The old gentleman was sitting in his chair and the brutal communist, the prisoner and a lot more people were sitting on other chairs and on the floor drinking lemonade and eating sandwiches. Some one had opened the window and William could hear what they were saying. The three girls and Freddie were there.

“You gave me quite a fright, uncle,” the red-haired girl was saying, “when I saw you out there in the dark. Whatever were you doing ?”

“Oh—er—nothing much,” said Mr. Morgan, who had evidently not given himself away, “just having a look round,—er—just having a look round at the garden before I came in.”

“We thought you weren’t coming back till to-morrow.”

“I hadn’t meant to.”

“You don’t mind us having had the rehearsal here, do you?”

“Not a bit, my dear. Not a bit.”

“The real reason we didn’t tell you was that we knew you were just a bit nervous of communists and things like that. I told the others so that day we arranged it—the day that boy was here.”

“What boy?” said Mr. Morgan sharply.

“Oh, a poor boy we picked up on the road unconscious and nearly dead, and Freddie examined him and found that he was suffering from some terrible disease of the spine.”

Mr. Morgan’s sniff expressed no great respect for Freddie’s diagnosis.

“The poor child had come for his whistle.”

“What whistle?” said Mr. Morgan still more sharply.

“He said you’d borrowed a whistle from him and promised to give it back that day. We looked all over the place for it, but couldn’t find it so he had to go away without.... What’s the matter, Uncle?”

Mr. Morgan was staring into space, his complexion changing from pink to a dull red. He’d thought there was something familiar about that boy though he hadn’t been able to see him plainly in the darkness. There came to him memories of that curious snigger he’d heard as the boy disappeared in the darkness with the whistle. The red deepened to an apoplectic purple.

He gave a sudden furious bellow of rage.

William, chuckling to himself, crept away again through the night....