William—the outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

CHAPTER VI

WILLIAM FINDS A JOB

PROBABLY if she hadn’t been so pretty the Outlaws would not have noticed her at all. But as it was they not only noticed her but noticed also that she was crying. She was sitting on the doorstep of a small house and her hair was a mass of auburn curls, and her eyes were blue and her mouth—well, the Outlaws were not poetic but they dimly realised that her mouth was rather nice. They looked at her and passed on sheepishly, then they hesitated, and, still more sheepishly, returned. William was the spokesman.

“What’s the matter?” he said gruffly.

She raised blue, tear-filled eyes.

“Wot?” she said.

“What’s the matter?” repeated William still more gruffly.

She wiped away a tear with the corner of a pinafore.

“Wot?” she said again.

“Anyone been hurtin’ you?” said William still gruffly, but with the light of battle in his eye. She looked up at him.

“No,” she said, and returned to the corner of her pinafore.

The light of battle died away from William’s eye. He looked disappointed.

“Lost anythin’?” he then asked, assuming the expression of one who is willing to search every corner of the globe for whatever she had lost. She looked up at him again.

“No,” she said listlessly.

“Well, what’s the matter?” persisted William.

“My daddy’s out of work,” said the little girl.

This nonplussed the Outlaws. They’d have fought anyone who’d hurt her, they’d have found anything she’d lost, but this seemed outside their sphere.

“What d’you mean?” said Douglas, “d’you mean he’s got nothin’ to do?”

“Yes,” said the little girl, “nobody’ll give ’im any work to do, an’ he’s got to stop at home all day.”

“Coo!” said Ginger feelingly, “I wish I was him.”

“Well,” said William, “don’ you worry, that’s all. Don’ you worry. We’ll get him some work,” and added as an afterthought, “What can he do?”

“He can do anythin’,” said the little girl peeping at him from behind the corner of her pinafore. “Wot can you do?”

Then someone called her in and the Outlaws found themselves standing around in a semicircle gazing with ardent sympathy and admiration at a closed door. They hastily assumed their normal manly expressions and went on down the road.

******

“Well,” said Ginger the optimist, “he can do anythin’, so it ought to be pretty easy to get him a job.”

“Yes,” said William, “we’d better start on it at once, ’cause we want to go out shootin’ to-morrow.”

“My bow’s broke,” said Henry sadly.

“Lend you my pea-shooter,” said Douglas.

“Let’s think of the things he could be,” said William, “there’s lots of ’em.”

“A doctor or a lawyer or a clergyman,” said Henry dreamily. “Let’s make him a clergyman.”

“No, he couldn’t be any of those,” said William irritably, “those are special sorts of people. They start turnin’ into those before they leave school. But he could be a gardener or a butler or—or a motor car driver——”

“Shuvver,” put in Ginger with an air of superiority.

“Motor car driver,” repeated William firmly, “or—or a sort of man nurse. I read in a book once about a man what once had a sort of man nurse—he sort of went queer in his head—the man, not the man nurse—an’ the man nurse looked after him—or he could be a sort of man what looks after people’s clothes——”

“A valley,” put in Ginger.

“A man what looks after people’s clothes,” repeated William firmly, “or—or a fireman, or a policeman, or a postman, or servin’ in a shop. Why,” with growing cheerfulness, “we’ll be able to find hundreds an’ hundreds of things for him to do.”

“He only wants one,” said Douglas mildly.

“What’ll we start on?” said Ginger.

William assumed his frown of generalship and mentally surveyed the field of operation.

“Well,” he said at last, “I’ll try’n get him a job as a man what drives a motor car, an’ Ginger try’n get him one as a gardener, an’ Henry try’n get him as a man what looks after people’s clothes, an’ Douglas as a man what looks after people what aren’t quite right in their head, an’ we’ll have a meetin’ in the ole barn after tea an’ tell how we’ve got on ... an’ if we’ve all got him work, of course,” he added with his unfailing optimism, “we’ll let him choose.”

******

William began to make tentative efforts at lunch.

“When are we goin’ to have a car?” he demanded innocently.

“Not while I’m alive,” answered his father.

William considered this in silence for some minutes, then asked:

“How soon after you’re dead?”

His father glared at him and William cautiously withdrew into silence. A few minutes later, however, he emerged from it.

“Seems sort of funny to me,” he remarked meditatively, to no one in particular, “that we don’t have one. Neely everyone else I know’s got a car. They’re an awful savin’ in bus tickets an’ shoes an’ things. Seems to me sort of wrong to keep spendin’ money on bus tickets an’ shoes when we could save it so easy by buyin’ a car.”

No one was taking any notice of him. They were discussing an artist who had taken The Limes furnished for a month. Robert, William’s nineteen-year-old brother, was saying, “One daughter, I know, I saw her at the window.” William continued undaunted:

“We’d jus’ want a man to look after it that’s all an’ I could easy get that for you. I know a man what’s good at lookin’ after ’em an’ I could get him for you. An’ they’re cheap enough. Why, someone told me about someone what knew someone what got one for jus’ a few pounds—an ole one, of course, but they’re jus’ as good as new ones—only a bit older, of course. The ones what were made when first they was invented must be goin’ quite cheap now an’ one of them’d do quite all right for us—jus’ to save us ’bus tickets an’ shoes—with a man to look after it. Ginger an’ me’d paint it up an’ it would be as good as new. Shouldn’t be surprised,” with rising cheerfulness, “if you could get an ole one—a really ole one—for jus’ a few shillin’s an’ Ginger’n me’d paint it for you and this man’d mend it up for you an’ drive it for you an——”

There was a sudden lull in the general conversation and his mother said:

“Do get on with your lunch, William. What are you talking about?”

“About this car,” said William doggedly.

“What car?”

“This car of ours. Well, this man——”

“What man?”

“This man what’s goin’ to drive it for us——”

But this touched Robert on a tender spot.

“Any car belonging to the house will be driven by me,” he said firmly.

William was nonplussed for a minute. Then he said gently, “I don’ think Robert ought to tire himself out drivin’ cars. I think Robert ought to be keepin’ himself fresh for his exams an’ things, not tire himself out drivin’ cars. This man’d drive it an’ save Robert the trouble of tirin’ himself out drivin’ cars because Robert’s got his exams an’ things to keep fresh for. An’ besides all these girls what Robert likes to take out with him—he wun’t talk to ’em prop’ly if he had to be tirin’ himself out drivin’ the car all the time——”

“Shut up,” ordered Robert angrily.

Temporarily William shut up.

“Are you taking Gladys Oldham on the river this afternoon?” said his mother.

“Gladys Oldham?” said Robert coldly. “Whatever made you think I’d be taking a girl like Gladys Oldham anywhere?”

His mother looked bewildered.

“My dear ... only last week you said——”

Robert spoke with dignity and a certain embarrassment.

“Last week?” he said frowning, as if he had a difficulty in carrying his mind back as far as that ... “well, I remember I did once think her an entirely different sort of person to what she turned out to be.... He’s called Groves, isn’t he, mother?”

“Who, dear?” said his mother mildly.

“The artist who’s taken The Limes.”

“I believe so, dear.”

“I’ve seen the daughter—she’s—she’s——”

He stopped confusedly trying to hide his blushes.

“She’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen in your life,” put in his father sardonically.

“How did you know?” asked Robert. “Have you seen her?”

“No, I didn’t know.... I guessed,” said his father.

Robert seemed about to launch into a fuller description of Miss Groves, then stopped, glancing suspiciously at William. But William was intent upon his own thoughts. Noticing a slight lull in the conversation he rose again hopefully to the attack.

“This man,” he said, “you’d find him awful useful——”

“What man, William?” groaned his mother.

“This man what I keep tellin’ you about,” said William patiently. “It seems to me sort of silly to wait till you get a car to get a man to drive it. I think the best thing is to get this man at once an’ then when we get the car there he is all ready to drive it for us at once ’stead of havin’ to waste the car while we start lookin’ round for a man to drive it and——”

“The lunatic asylums of the country,” remarked Mr. Brown, “must be full of men who’ve had sons like William.”

William looked at him hopefully.

“If you do feel like that, father,” he said, “I know that this man——”

“Oh, shut up,” said Robert again.

“Yes,” said William bitterly, “what I’d like to know is why you can go on talkin’ an’ talkin’ an’ talkin’ an’ talkin’ about girls an’ the minute I start talkin’ about this man——”

“What man?”

“This man I’ve been tellin’ you about ever since I started talkin’ only no one listens to me. What I say is that this man——”

“William,” said his mother, “if you say one word more about that man whoever he is——”

“All right,” said William resignedly, and turned his whole attention to his pudding.

******

He renewed the attack, however, after lunch. The car prospects didn’t seem very hopeful but it might be worth while to explore other avenues. He stood at the drawing-room window looking out at the garden where Jenkins, the gardener, was weeding the bed on the lawn.

“Poor ole man,” said William compassionately, “I think he’d do with someone to help him, don’t you, mother?”

His mother looked up from the sock she was darning.

“I think that’s a very kind thought, dear,” she said, “and I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Take one of the kneeling mats out because the grass is rather damp.”

William’s face fell but after a moment’s hesitation he took a kneeling mat and went out to help weed the bed. He returned a few minutes later pursued by an indignant Jenkins after having unwittingly uprooted all his pet seedlings.

“Finished, dear?” said his mother. “You’ve not been long.”

“No,” said William, “I kind of worked hard an’ got it finished quick.... Mother, don’t you kind of think you’d like another gardener ’stead of Jenkins?”

“Why ever?” said his mother in surprise.

“Well, he always seems so sort of disagreeable an’ this man——”

“What man?”

“This man I keep tellin’ you about,” said William patiently, “he’s an abs’lutely wonderful man. He can do anythin’. He can drive a car ... he’s the one what’s goin’ to drive our car ... an’—an’ there’s nothin’ he can’t do, look after clothes an’ people what are queer in the head an’—an’—she was ever so nice an’ cryin’.”

“William, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, but before you do anything else go and wash your hands and brush your hair.”

William sighed as he went to obey. His family seemed to have no souls above hands and hair and that sort of thing.

******

The Outlaws met the next afternoon to report progress.

“I did all I could,” said William, “I tried to make ’em get a car so’s we could have him to drive it an’ they just wun’t. I tried makin’ ’em have him as a gardener an’ they wun’t do that either.”

Ginger, looking melancholy, related his experiences.

“I thought we might have him as a gardener, too,” he said, “an’ so I tied a string across the doorway of the greenhouse ’cause I thought that if ours fell an’ sprained his ankle I could tell ’em about this new one an’ then they’d get him. I din’t think it would do ours any harm to sprain his ankle—jus’ give him a nice rest for one thing an—an’ he’s a such a crabby ole thing. It might make him kinder same as what they say sufferin’ does in books.”

“Did he fall?” said the Outlaws with interest.

“No,” said Ginger sadly, “he saw me doin’ it an’ went an’ told my father.”

“Was he mad?” said the Outlaws with interest.

“Yes,” said Ginger still more sadly, “he was awful mad. Simply wouldn’t listen to me tellin’ him I’d tied it there to practise skippin’.”

The Outlaws murmured sympathy and then Henry spoke.

“Well, I tried to get ’em to have him as a man what looks after clothes——”

“Valley,” murmured Ginger.

“An’ I kep’ tellin’ my father an’ my brother that their clothes looked to me’s if they wanted brushin’ or cleanin’ or pressin’ or somethin’ an’ I was goin’ to tell ’em about this man what’s come an’ do it for them but,” mournfully, “they din’t give me a chance to get’s far as that. Seems to me that it’s very funny that one can’t try’n help a poor man what’s out of work without bein’ treated like that about it.”

Again the Outlaws murmured sympathy, then Douglas spoke up.

“I thought I’d try’n get him as a sort of man nurse so I acted like I was goin’ queer in my head.”

“What did they do?” said William.

An expression of agony passed over Douglas’ face.

“Gave me Gregory powder,” he said, “an’ I couldn’t sort of seem to make ’em understand I was actin’ queer in the head. They seemed to think I was actin’ ordin’ry. Anyway when they got reely mad I had to stop it ’cause I was afraid they’d start on me with more Gregory powder, an’ it’s a wonder I’m not poisoned dead with the first lot. It’s more diff’cult than you’d think,” he ended meditatively, “to make folks think you’re queer in the head.”

“So nobody’s got nothing,” William summed up the situation sadly and ungrammatically.

But Ginger was more cheerful.

“Well, there’s lots other houses in the village ’sides ours,” he said, “an’ there’s lots other fam’lies in the village ’sides ours. I votes we start on them. Seems to me that people outside your own fam’ly always give you more ’f a chance to explain what you mean than people in your fam’ly. They don’t start bein’ mad at you before you’ve reely got to what you want to say like people in your own fam’ly do.”

The Outlaws considered the suggestion in silence. Then William pointed out its obvious disadvantage.

“Yes, but most of the people round here,” he said simply, “know us, an’ so it wun’t be much use.”

“There’s someone new come to The Limes,” said Henry, “I heard my mother talkin’ about them.”

“So did I mine,” said Douglas, “he’s an artist.”

“Oh, yes,” said William, “so did I mine. An’ he’s got a daughter what’s the most beautiful girl what Robert’s ever seen.”

“Well, let’s try him,” said Ginger, “he oughter want someone to look after his clothes or drive his car or nurse him when he’s queer in the head or something. Who’ll try him? I votes William does first.”

“All right,” said William who was always ready for any fresh adventure. “I’ll go straight off now ’fore he gets anyone else.”

William entered the garden gate of The Limes and looked cautiously around him. There was no one in sight. The building was a long, low one with French windows opening straight on to the garden.

William was furtively exploring this in order to see how the land lay before venturing up to the front door when a voice called out:

“Boy! Hi! Come here!”

A man had suddenly appeared at one of the downstair windows and was beckoning to him.

Warily William approached. The man had a pointed beard, and very bushy eyebrows.

“Boy!” he called again.

“Uh-huh?” said William non-committally, coming up to the window. The room inside was evidently a studio. Several easels stood about and the table was littered with tubes of paint and palettes.

“Just what I wanted,” said the man, “a boy—a real human boy—of the ruffian type, too. Splendid! My boy, I’ve been longing for you all morning. I’ve tried to materialise you. You are probably at this moment nothing but the creature of my brain. I wished for a boy and a boy appeared. I was just thinking that I must go out into the highways and byways to search for one when lo! the boy my thoughts had conjured up stood before us. I’m a superman, a magician. I always had a suspicion that I might be. Come in, boy.”

Distrustfully William entered the studio. The man gazed at him rapturously.

“Just what I wanted,” he said, “a dirty rapscallion of a boy with a crooked tie and a grimy collar.”

This insult stung William to retaliation. He gazed coldly at the artist who had a smear of yellow paint down one side of his face, and said:

“Bet I’m as clean as you are ... an’ as to ties——” his gaze wandered down to the artist’s flowing bow and stayed there meaningly.

“Spirited withal!” commented the artist, “better and better.... Come in.”

William came in.

“Sit down.”

William sat down.

“Now I’m going to draw you,” went on the artist. “I’m a genius whose immortal masterpieces are but inadequately recognised by his generation, therefore perforce I eke out a modest livelihood illustrating magazine stories, and some idiot here,” he touched a manuscript, “has written one about a boy. Fancy writing a story about a boy. Now where shall I find a boy? thought I. I wish I had a boy, and lo! a boy appears.... Keep still, boy. Stand just so ... look here ... and keep quite still.”

William, his brain working quickly, stood just so, looked there and kept quite still.

The artist sketched in silence, putting William into various postures. At the end he passed him the sketches for his inspection. William gazed at them coldly.

“Not much like me,” he commented.

“Think not?” said the artist, “probably you have an idealised conception of your appearance.”

William looked at him suspiciously.

“I’ve not got anythin’ like what you said,” he remarked, “never even heard of it so I can’t have. Would you like a man to drive your motor-car?”

“I’ve not got a motor-car,” said the artist, busily engaged in putting finishing touches into his sketch.

“Well,” said William, “what about someone to brush your clothes?”

“I prefer my clothes unbrushed,” said the artist; “dust protects the material.”

William considered this point of view with interest, storing it up for future use, then returned to the point at issue.

“Wun’t you like someone to look after you when you’re queer in the head?”

“No,” said the artist, “it’s more fun not having anyone to look after you when you’re queer in the head.”

He put the sketches on to one side and took up a manuscript from the table.

“Good Lord,” he groaned as he glanced through it, “Charles I’s time. Why the dickens do they write stories about Charles I’s time? Where the deuce am I to get anyone to sit for me in the costume of Charles I’s time? Tell me that.”

William told him.

“I know a man what’d come to sit to you,” he said, promptly, “he’d want payin’.”

“Oh, he would, would he?... All right, I’ll pay him. But the question is, has he got a costume of Charles I’s time?”

“I don’t——” began William, then stopped. “Oh, yes, I expect so.... Oh, yes, he’s sure to have. Oh, yes, we’ll get him one anyway.”

“A protégé?” said the artist.

“Uh-huh?” said William. “No. He’s as nice as what you are. Nicer.”

“Touché,” said the artist. “Well, bring him along in his Charles I’s costume and I’ll pay him half a crown an hour.”

The remuneration seemed princely to William.

“A’ right,” he said, impressed. “A’ right. I’ll bring him along. An’ if you find out you want any other sort of man he’ll be that, too. He can do anythin’.”

With that he departed and joined the Outlaws who were still waiting for him in the road.

“Well, you have been a time,” said Ginger.

“Gottim a job,” swaggered William.

“What as?”

“Bein’ drawed. He’s got to have special clothes. Any of you gotta Charles I dress? He’s got to have one.”

“Crumbs, no!” said the Outlaws.

“Well,” said William, “we’ve got to get him one. I’ve got him the job an’ the rest of you got to get him the dress.”

“He might have one already,” said Ginger the optimist. “He might’ve been to a fancy dress dance in one.”

The other Outlaws looked doubtful.

“No harm goin’ to see anyway,” said William.

So they went to see.

The little girl with blue eyes and auburn curls was sitting on the doorstep. She looked prettier than ever. And she was still crying.

“Cheer up,” said William, “we’ve got your father a job.”

She continued to cry.

“Has he got a Charles the First dress?” asked William. “If he has he can come to the job straight away.”

“He can’t come to no job at all,” said the little girl mopping her blue eyes languidly with the corner of her pinafore, “he’s ill.”

The Outlaws stared at her.

“Crumbs!” said William appalled.

She stared at the Outlaws.

“Go away,” she said, “I don’t like you.”

The Outlaws went away, but despite her professed dislike of them it never occurred to them to relax their efforts on her behalf.

“We’ll jus’ have to get a Charles the First dress an’ do it for her an’ take him the money,” said William.

“How’ll we get a Charles the First dress?” said Douglas.

“Oh, we will somehow,” said William, cheerfully, “somehow we will. See if we don’t.”

With this they separated and went to their respective homes for tea.

William was rather silent at tea. He was silent because he was thinking about the Charles I costume. He was rather vague as to what a Charles I costume was like, but he had a well-founded suspicion that the only fancy costume he possessed—a much-worn Red Indian costume—would not pass muster in its stead. He wondered whether they could transform it in some way to a Charles I costume by adding an old lace curtain for instance, or wearing a waste-paper basket as a headdress instead of the feathered band.... His sister, he knew, had a fairy queen dress. Mentally he considered the picture of the fairy queen dress superimposed upon the Red Indian costume. It would look sort of queer and after all historical dresses had to look sort of queer—that was the most important thing about them—so it might do. Robert seemed to be talking a good deal. William began to listen idly.

“I’ve seen her again,” Robert was saying, “she was looking out of a window upstairs. I heard him call to her. She’s called Gloria.... Haven’t you really seen her, mother?”

“No,” said Mrs. Brown mildly, “I’ve not seen either of them.”

A glorious blush overspread Robert’s face.

“She’s wonderful,” he said, “marvellous. I simply can’t describe her. But it seems so strange that one never sees her in the village. One just catches accidental glimpses of her as one passes the house by chance.... It seems so strange that one doesn’t see her about.... Gloria, that’s her name. I heard him call her that. I think it’s such a beautiful name, don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” agreed Mrs. Brown doubtfully; “somehow it suggests to me the name of a gas cooker or a furniture polish, but I daresay that it is beautiful really.”

“She’s beautiful anyway,” said Robert hotly.

William was listening intently. Mrs. Brown, perceiving this, hastily changed the conversation. She was aware that William took an active and not always a kindly interest in his brother’s frequently changing love affairs.

“You’re going to the fancy dress dance to-night, aren’t you, dear?” she said to Robert.

“Yes,” said Robert.

“Did you decide on the pierrot’s costume, after all?”

“Oh, no,” said Robert, “didn’t I tell you? Victor’s going to lend me his Charles I costume. He’d meant to go in it but his cold’s so bad that he can’t go at all, so he’s sending it over to me.”

“How kind,” said Mrs. Brown, “William, dear, do stop staring at your brother and get on with your tea.”

William obligingly began to demolish a slice of cake in a way that argued a rhinoceros’ capacity of mouth and an ostrich’s capacity of digestion. Having assuaged the pangs of hunger for the time being, he turned to Robert.

“You got that costume upstairs, Robert?” he said guilelessly.

“Perhaps I have and perhaps I haven’t,” said Robert.

Thoughtfully William demolished another piece of cake.

Then he said, still thoughtfully, and to no one in particular:

“I’d sort of like to see a Charles the First dress. I sort of think it might be good for my history. I think,” with a burst of inspiration, “that I’d sort of learn the dates of him better if I’d seen his clothes. It’s history, an’ my report said I din’t take enough int’rest in history. Well, I’d sort’ve take a better int’rest in it if I’d seen his clothes. It’d sort of make it more int’resting. I bet I’d get an ever so much better hist’ry report next term if I could only see the Charles the First dress what Robert’s got.”

“Well, you can’t,” said Robert firmly.

“And you’ve had quite enough cake, dear,” said his mother.

William turned to the buns, picked out the largest he could see and returned to the attack.

“I’m not doin’ anythin’ particular this evenin’, Robert,” he said, “I’ll help you dress if you like.”

“Thanks, I don’t,” said Robert.

“And don’t talk with your mouth full, William,” said his mother.

William finished the bun in silence, then returned yet again to the attack.

“I bet I could show you how to put it on, Robert. They’re awful hard to put on are Charles the First dresses. I don’t s’pose you could do it alone. I’d be able to show you the way the things went on. Prob’ly you’ll have ’em all laughin’ at you if you try to put ’em on alone. I’ll go up now if you like an’ put them out ready for you the way they ought to go on.”

“Well, I don’t like,” said Robert, “and you can shut up.”

William took another very large bun for consolation. Robert looked at him dispassionately.

“To watch him eating,” he remarked, “you’d think he was something out of the Zoo.”

That remark destroyed any compunction that William might otherwise have had on Robert’s behalf in the events that followed.

Robert, fully attired in his Charles the First costume discreetly covered by an overcoat, came downstairs. He wore a look of pleasure and triumph.

The pleasure was caused by his appearance which he imagined to be slightly more romantic than it really was. The triumph was triumph over William. He knew that William had been anxious to see the costume, from what Robert took to be motives of idle curiosity with a not improbable view to jeering at him afterwards. Robert, who considered that he owed William a good deal for one thing and another (notably for a watch which William had dismembered in the interests of Science the week before), had determined to frustrate that object. Directly after tea he had locked his bedroom door and pocketed the key, and a few minutes later he had had the satisfaction of seeing William furtively trying the handle. William, however, was not about the hall as he descended the stairs. The costume had proved satisfactorily magnificent, but the drawback to the whole affair was that SHE would not be there to see it. At that moment he would have given almost anything in exchange for the certainty that SHE could see him in his glory. For Robert considered that the costume made him look very handsome indeed. He did not see how any girl could look at him in it and remain completely heart whole.... If only SHE were to be there....

He took down his hat, bade farewell to his mother and set off down the drive. A small boy whom he could not see, but who, he satisfied himself, was not William (it was Henry) stepped out of the bushes, handed him a note and disappeared. He went down to the end of the drive and, standing beneath the lamp-post in the road, read it. It was type-written.

“Dear Mr. Brown,” it read,

“I have seen you in the road passing by our house, and because you look good and kind, I turn to you for help. Will you please rescue me from my father? He keeps me a prisoner here. He is mad, but not mad enough to put in an asylum. He thinks he’s living in the reign of Charles the First and he won’t let anyone into the house unless they’re dressed in Charles the First clothes, so I don’t know how you’ll get in. If you can get in please humour him and let him draw you because he thinks that he is an artist, and when once he’s drawn you he’ll probably let you do what you like. Then please rescue me and take me to my aunt in Scotland and she will reward you.

“Gloria Groves.”

The letter was the result of arduous toil on the part of the Outlaws. Every word had been laboriously looked up in the dictionary and then laboriously typed in secret by Henry on his father’s typewriter.

Robert stood reading it, his face paling, his mouth and eyes opening wide with astonishment. He looked down at the costume which was visible beneath his coat.

“Charles the First costume,” he gasped. “Well.... By Jove ... of all the coincidences!”

Then, with an air of courage and daring, he set off towards The Limes.

******

William entered the studio unannounced. The artist looked up from his easel.

“Hello,” he said, “you back?”

“Yes,” said William, “that man I told you about’s comin’.”

“Costume and all?” said the man.

“Yes,” said William, “but I’d better explain to you a bit about him first. He’s queer in the head.”

“In other words you’re bringing me the village idiot.”

“Yes,” said William relieved at having the matter put so succinctly.

“It’s sort of like that. He’s not dangerous, but he dresses up in Charles the First costume (that’s why I thought he’d do for you) an’ he thinks it is Charles the First time an’ so you’ve got to talk to him as if it was Charles the First time jus’ to keep him quiet. He’ll get mad if you don’t. He’ll be drawed all right ’cause he likes bein’ drawed but the minute he sees any girls he always wants to start to rescuin’ them an’ takin’ them up to their aunts in Scotland.”

“Why Scotland?” said the artist mildly.

“’Cause that’s part of his madness,” explained William.

“Well, there’s only one girl on the premises,” said the artist, “and that’s my daughter ... been in quarantine for mumps ... just out of it to-day ... and I don’t suppose he’ll see her ... so that’s all right.”

“You’ll give me the money, won’t you?” said William. “’Cause—’cause I keep his money for him.... See?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” said the man, “if he comes and when he comes. Are you his keeper, by the way?”

“Well,” said William guardedly, “I sort of am and I’m sort of not.”

But just then he heard the sound of the opening of the front gate and discreetly retired again through the open window.

******

Robert walked up the garden path, his face stern and set with resolve. Robert was a voracious reader of romantic fiction and had often longed for something like this to happen to him. It’s only drawback in his eye was that he hadn’t enough money to take the heroine of the drama to Scotland, but he could not imagine the hero of a story being baffled by a little thing like that. They always seemed to have enough money to take the heroine anywhere. But the first thing to do was to rescue her. Then he’d pawn something or other, pawn his Charles the First costume perhaps ... but then he’d have nothing to go to Scotland in ... though in any case one couldn’t travel to Scotland wearing a Charles the First costume. It was all very baffling ... but the first thing to do was to rescue her. She might have some jewels or heirlooms that they could pawn. Heroines in books always had jewels and heirlooms....

“Oh, there you are.... Come in.”

The voice came from one of the open French windows. It was the madman standing at one end of the room at an easel. He evidently thought he was an artist just as the girl had warned him. Hastily Robert flung his overcoat over a garden seat and entered in all the glory of his Charles the First costume.

“Good evening,” said the artist. “You’ve come to sit for me?”

Robert assumed the simpering expression of one who humours a madman.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “I’ve come to sit for you.”

Certainly the effect of the simper superimposed upon the stern set expression of resolve would have justified anyone regarding Robert in his bizarre costume as mentally though not dangerously deranged. The artist posed him appropriately and then proceeded to test the sanity or insanity of his sitter.

“Well,” he said, “how’s Charles the First to-day?”

Robert went paler and gathered his forces together. At all costs he must humour him.

“His Majesty,” he said solemnly, “seems of a truth well to-day.”

Rather good that, he thought.

The artist looked at him keenly ... but the pallid earnestness of Robert’s expression beneath the humouring simper convinced him ... it was true ... he was potty. Well, he must just humour him ... he had to get those sketches off to-day ... and he didn’t look dangerous.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, and added with a burst of inspiration, “gadzooks.”

For a minute or two he worked in silence. Then—he found the pose he had chosen rather difficult, and for a few seconds he stood frowning at Robert meditatively. The artist’s bushy eyebrows made him look very ferocious when he frowned. Robert began to tremble. The man might fly at him or something. He must say something about Charles the First to soothe him ... at once.... What a pity he knew so little about Charles the First ... except that he was executed ... or was he executed?... Better avoid that part of it perhaps, especially as presumably he was supposed to be still alive.... He didn’t even know whom Charles the First had married. He might, of course, have been a bachelor.... He must say something quickly.... The man’s stare was growing positively murderous.... With a ghastly smile he said:

“King Charles’—er—wife—was looking well this morning.”

The man’s ferocious stare vanished. Robert heaved a sigh of relief and furtively wiped his brow.

“Er—yes, wasn’t she?” said the artist, who’d moved a little to one side and so got a better view of his sitter, “do you mind turning a little more this way?” and added as an afterthought, “prithee, gadzooks!”

Robert obediently turned a little that way and for a few minutes all was well. The artist sketched in silence. Robert was beginning to feel a little less nervous. He gazed round the studio.... Where was SHE, he wondered?... Perhaps already preparing to fly with him to her aunt’s in Scotland.... He hoped that she’d remember to bring along a few heirlooms to pawn, but then he thought with dismay that he’d never pawned anything in his life and didn’t know how one set about it. That was awful. He couldn’t help admitting that he seemed rather inadequate for the glorious rôle which Fate had thrust upon him. Then he comforted himself by the thought that every hero had to start, had to do the thing for the first time. It would probably be all right. The artist became suddenly doubtful about the pose again. He didn’t think it was quite natural. Once more he gazed frowningly at the sitter and once more the perspiration stood out on Robert’s brow. He must say something else about Charles the First at once. He searched feverishly in his mind for something else to say about Charles the First. He wished he’d tried harder with his history when he was at school. It was awful knowing nothing, nothing about Charles the First. He couldn’t even remember what he looked like though he knew that there’d been pictures of all the kings and queens in his history book. By Jove, that was an idea.

“King Charles,” he said, “had his picture painted ... the one in the history b——I mean just had his picture painted. It turned out quite a good likeness, I believe.”

“Did it?” said the artist, “could you move your head a bit to the right?” and added, “grammercy. You a friend of His Majesty’s, I suppose?”

Robert grew yet paler. It was a most awkward question. If he said he was it might arouse this madman to frenzy, and if he said that he wasn’t it might equally rouse this madman to frenzy.... The whole thing was terrible, being alone with a madman like this.... He almost wished he’d never come ... not quite, of course ... he still remembered the vision of beauty he’d seen at the upstairs window.... He coughed again and said, “Well—er—are you?”

ROBERT BLUSHED AND MADE SIGNS INTENDED TO CONVEY
TO HER THAT HE HAD GOT HER LETTER AND WOULD
RESCUE HER.

“I?” said the artist, “I’m one of his most intimate friends. We were discussing you only the other day. Ods bodkin—or is that Elizabethan?—you’ve got a difficult profile—grammercy.”

“WHAT AN EXTRAORDINARY PERSON, DADDY,” WHISPERED
THE GIRL.

He seemed harmless enough, poor fellow, thought the artist—you could see at a glance that the poor chap was a bit wanting—gaping and staring like that all the time ... quite young, too ... very sad ... poor fellow ... and quite harmless.

Robert was just going to make some reply when the door opened and the artist’s daughter entered.

Robert blushed to a dull beetroot shade and made signs intended to convey to her that he had got her letter and would rescue her from her father at once and take her to her aunt in Scotland. Then the artist turned round. The artist’s daughter was staring at her would-be rescuer in amazement. She had to, of course, thought Robert, with her father watching. He’d better be a bit more careful, too.

“You’ve got a sitter, Daddy?” she said.

“Yes, dear,” he said, “a gentleman of Charles the First’s court.”

She went to her father’s easel and looked at the sketch, whispering:

“What an extraordinary person, Daddy.”

“Yes, dear,” whispered her father, “a bit potty, but absolutely harmless. I’m a bit vague as to where he comes from. He was brought here by a boy and will, I suppose, be fetched. He imagines that he’s living in Charles the First’s time. That’s why he’s dressed like that ... they have to humour him ... but harmless ... quite harmless. I’ve not quite finished with him, but I want some more paper. Don’t let him go till I come back, will you ... humour him ... he’s quite harmless.”

He vanished into the next room.

Robert spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“You sent me that note, didn’t you?”

She began the process of humouring him.

“Er—yes,” she replied fearfully.

“I’ll rescue you,” he hissed, “be ready.... As soon as he’s finished drawing me.... We’ll be at your aunt’s in Scotland before morning.”

“One minute,” she said fearfully and joined her father in the inner room.

“Daddy,” she said, “he’s absolutely mad. He says that he’s going to rescue me and take me to my aunt’s in Scotland.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said the artist, “that’s one of his obsessions. They told me that. But he’s harmless. Humour him. I simply must get that Charles I costume in four poses.”

She returned to the studio.

“You’re ready to come?” said Robert.

“Er—yes,” she said.

“How shall we escape?”

“Oh—er—quite easily,” she said, watching him guardedly and backing towards the door.

“You trust me?” said Robert ardently.

“Er—yes,” she said.

The artist returned.

“One more,” he said, “sitting there, please, and holding out one arm—thus—gadzooks—prithee——”

He opened a door in his bureau and stood stooping over it, his back to Robert. The opportunity of thus catching the oppressor of his beloved bending was too much for Robert. He leapt upon his back calling out to the girl:

“Get your things on—quick.... I’ll tie him up.”

“Good heavens!” said the artist, “the blighter’s turned dangerous.”

The artist was stronger than he looked and he soon had Robert neatly trussed. Then he turned to Gloria.

“A boy brought him,” he said, “go and see if you can find him outside.”

But there were no boys outside.

The Outlaws, who had watched events through the French window till now, were hurrying homewards to establish alibis.

******

Yet on the way they called at the house of the little girl with the auburn curls. They had undertaken a responsibility to her and they meant to see it through. She was not sitting on the doorstep so, summoning courage by degrees, they knocked at the door. A woman opened it. Inside the kitchen sat a man eating a pork-pie at a table. The little girl was nursing a doll by the fire.

The Outlaws entered sheepishly. William was spokesman.

“This your father?” he said to the little girl.

“Yes,” said the little girl.

“Well, we’ve sort of got him work,” said William, “what I mean to say is that someone went to be drawed for him in these things an’ we’re goin’ to try jolly hard to get the money from the man what drawed it to-morrow, an’—we’ll give it him an——”

The man laid down his knife and fork, swallowed a large mouthful of pork unmasticated, and said:

“Wot cher mean?”

“Well,” explained William, “she told us ’bout you bein’ out of work——”

“Me out of work,” said the man indignantly.

“Oh, they are such stupid boys,” burst out the little girl. “I was havin’ a nice little game all to myself pretendin’ to be a little girl in a book wiv a daddy out of work an’ they came interferin’—an’ then I was pretendin’ to be a little girl in a book wiv a daddy what was ill an’ they came again interferin’——”

“Weren’t you ill?” stammered William.

“Me?” roared the man, “never been ill in me life.”

“W—weren’t you out of work?” said William.

“Me!” roared the man again, “never been out of work in my life.”

“They kept interferin’ with my games——” said the little girl.

“You interfere with ’er games again——” said the man threateningly, “an’ I’ll——”

Bewildered, the Outlaws crept away.