William—the outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

CHAPTER VII

WILLIAM’S BUSY DAY

WILLIAM and the Outlaws strode along the road engaged in a lusty but inharmonious outburst of Community singing. It was the first real day of Spring. The buds were bursting, the birds were singing (more harmoniously than the Outlaws) and there was a fresh invigorating breeze. The Outlaws were going fishing. They held over their shoulders their home-made rods and they carried jam-jars with string handles. They were going to fish the stream in the valley. The jam-jars were to receive the minnows and other small water creatures which they might catch; but the Outlaws, despite all the lessons of experience, were still hopeful of catching one day a trout or even a salmon in the stream. They were quite certain, though they had never seen any, that mighty water beasts haunted the place.

“Under the big stones,” said William, “why, I bet there’s all sorts of things. There’s room for great big fish right under the stones.”

“Well, once we turned ’em over an’ there weren’t any,” Douglas the literal reminded him.

William’s faith, however, was not to be lightly shaken.

“Oh, they sort of dart about,” he explained vaguely, “by the time you’ve turned up one stone to see if they’re there they’ve darted off to the next an’ when you turn over the next they’ve darted back to the first without you seein’ ’em, but they’re there all the time really. I bet they are. An’ I bet I catch a great big whopper—a salmon or somethin’—this afternoon.”

“Huh!” said Ginger, “I’ll give you sixpence if you catch a salmon.”

“A’ right,” said William hopefully, “an’ don’t you forget. Don’t start pretendin’ you said tuppence same as you did about me seein’ the water rat.”

This started a heated argument which lasted till they reached what was known locally as the cave.

The cave lay just outside the village and was believed by some people to be natural and by others to be part of old excavations.

The Outlaws believed it to be the present haunt of smugglers. They believed that smugglers held nightly meetings there. The fact of its distance from the sea did not shake their faith in this theory. As William said, “I bet they have their meetin’s here ’cause folk won’t suspect ’em of bein’ here. Folks keep on the look out for ’em by the sea an’ they trick ’em by comin’ out here an’ havin’ their meetin’s here where nobody’s on the look out for ’em.”

For the hundredth time they explored the cave, hoping to find some proofs of the smugglers’ visits in the shape of a forgotten bottle of rum or one of the lurid handkerchiefs which they knew to be the correct smuggler’s headgear, or even a piece of paper containing a note of the smugglers’ latest exploit or a map of the district. For the hundredth time they searched in vain and ended by gazing up at a small slit in the rock just above their heads. They had noticed it before but had not given it serious consideration. Now William gazed at it frowningly and said, “I bet I could get through that and I bet that it leads down a passage an’ that,” his imagination as ever running away with him, “an’ that at the end of a passage there’s a big place where they hold their meetin’s an’ I bet they’re there now—all of ’em—holdin’ a meetin’.”

He stood on tiptoe and put his ear to the aperture. “Yes,” he said, “I b’lieve I can hear ’em talkin’.”

“Oh, come on,” said Douglas, who was not of an imaginative turn of mind. “I want to catch some minnows an’ I bet there aren’t any smugglers there, anyway.”

William was annoyed by this interruption, but arguing strenuously, proving the presence of smugglers in the cave to his own entire satisfaction, he led his band out of the cave and on to the high road again.

The subject of smugglers soon languished. They were passing a large barrack-like house which had been in the process of building for the best part of a year. It was finished at last. Curtains now hung at the windows and there were signs of habitation—a line of clothes flapping in the breeze in the back garden and the fleeting glimpse of a woman at one of the windows. A very high wall surrounded the garden.

“Wonder what it is,” said Henry speculatively, “looks to me like a prison.”

“P’raps it’s a lunatic asylum,” said Ginger, “why’s it got a high wall round it like that if it’s not a lunatic asylum?”

Discussing the matter animatedly they wandered on to the stream.

“Now catch your salmon,” challenged Ginger.

“All right. I bet I will,” said William doggedly.

For a short time they fished in silence.

Then William gave a cry of triumph. His hook had caught something beneath one of the big stones.

“There!” he said, “I’ve got one. I told you so.”

“Bet it’s not a salmon,” said Ginger but with a certain excitement in his voice.

“I bet it is,” said William, “if it’s not a salmon I—I——” with a sudden burst of inspiration, “I’ll go through that hole in the cave—so there!”

He tugged harder.

His “catch” came out.

It was an old boot.

******

They escorted him back to the cave. The hole looked far too small for one of William’s solid bulk. They stood below and stared at it speculatively.

“You’ve got to,” said Ginger, “you said you would.”

“Oh, all right,” said William with a swagger which was far from expressing his real feelings, “I bet I can easy get through that little hole an’ I bet I’ll find a big place full of smugglers or smuggled stuff inside. Give me a shove ... that’s it.... Oo,” irritably, “don’t shove so hard.... You nearly pushed my head off my neck.... Go on—go on.... Oo, I say, I’m getting through quite easy ... it’s all dark ... it’s a sort of passage....” William had miraculously scraped himself through the small aperture. Two large boots was all of him which was now visible to the Outlaws. Those, too, disappeared, as William began to crawl down the passage. It was mercifully a little wider after the actual opening. His voice reached them faintly.

“It’s all dark ... it’s like a little tunnel.... I’m going right to the end to see what’s there ... well, anyway if that wasn’t a salmon I bet there are salmons there and I bet I’ll catch one too one of these days, and——”

His voice died away in the distance. They waited rather anxiously.... They heard nothing and saw nothing more. William seemed to have been completely swallowed up by the rock.

******

William slowly and painfully (for the aperture was so small that occasionally it grazed his back and head) travelled along what was little more than a fissure in the rock. The spirit of adventure was high in him. He was longing to come upon a cave full of swarthy men with coloured handkerchiefs tied round their heads and gold ear-rings, quaffing goblets of smuggled rum or unloading bales of smuggled silk. Occasionally he stopped and listened for the sound of deep-throated oaths or whispers or smugglers’ songs. Once or twice he was almost sure he heard them. He crawled on and on and on and into a curtain of undergrowth and out into a field. He stopped and looked around him. He was in the field behind the cave. The curtain of undergrowth completely concealed the little hole from which he had emerged. He was partly relieved and partly disappointed. It was rather nice to be out in the open air again (the tunnel had had a very earthy taste); on the other hand he had hoped for more adventures than it had afforded. But he consoled himself by telling himself that they might still exist. He’d explore that passage more thoroughly some other time—there might be a passage opening off it leading to the smugglers’ cave—and meantime it had given him quite a satisfactory thrill. He’d never really thought he could get through that little hole. And it had given him a secret. The knowledge that that little tunnel led out into the field was very thrilling. He looked around him again. Within a few yards from him was the wall surrounding the house about which they had just been making surmises. Was it a prison, or an asylum or—possibly—a Bolshevist headquarters? William looked at it curiously. He longed to know. He noticed a small door in the wall standing open. He went up to it and peeped inside. It gave on to a paved yard which was empty. The temptation was too strong for William. Very cautiously he entered. Still he couldn’t see anyone about. A door—a kitchen door apparently—stood open. Still very cautiously William approached. He decided to say that he’d lost his way should anyone accost him. He was dimly aware that his appearance after his passage through the bowels of the earth was not such as to inspire confidence. Yet his curiosity and the suggestion of adventure which their surmises had thrown over the house was an irresistible magnet. Within the open door was a kitchen where a boy, about William’s size and height and not unlike William, stood at a table wearing blue overalls and polishing silver.

They stared at each other. Then William said, “Hello.”

The boy was evidently ready to be friendly. He replied “Hello.”

Again they stared at each other in silence. This time it was the boy who broke the silence.

“What’ve you come for?” he said in a tone of weary boredom. “You the butcher’s boy or the baker’s boy or somethin’? Only came in this mornin’ so I don’ know who’s what yet. P’raps you’re the milk boy?”

“No, I’m not,” said William.

“Beggin’?” said the boy.

“No,” said William.

But the boy’s tone was friendly so William cautiously entered the kitchen and began to watch him. The boy was cleaning silver with a paste which he made by the highly interesting process of spitting into a powder. William watched, absorbed. He longed to assist.

“You live here?” he said ingratiatingly to the boy.

“Naw,” said the boy laconically. “House boy. Only came to-day,” and added dispassionately. “Rotten place.”

“Is it a prison?” said William with interest.

The boy seemed to resent the question.

“Prison yourself,” he said with spirit.

“A lunatic asylum, then?” said William.

This seemed to sting the boy yet further.

“Garn,” he said pugnaciously, “Oo’re yer callin’ a lunatic asylum?”

“I din’ mean you,” said William pacifically. “P’raps it’s a place where they make plots.”

The boy relapsed into boredom. “I dunno what they make,” he said. “Only came this mornin’. They’ve gorn off to ’is aunt but the other one—she’s still here, you bet, a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ at her bell, an’ givin’ no one peace nowheres.” He warmed to his theme. “I wouldn’ve come if I’d knowed. House-maid went off yesterday wivout notice. She’d ’ad as much as she wanted an’ only the ole cook—well I’m, not used to places wiv only a ole cook ’sides meself an’ her upstairs a-ringin’ an’ a-ringin’ at her bell an’ givin’ no one no peace nowheres an’ the other two off to their aunt’s. No place fit to call a place I don’t call it.” He spat viciously into his powder. “Yus, an’ anyone can have my job.”

“Can I?” said William eagerly.

During the last few minutes a longing to make paste by spitting into a powder and then to clean silver with it had grown in William’s soul till it was a consuming passion.

The boy looked at him in surprise and suspicion, not sure whether the question was intended as an insult.

“What you doin’ an’ where you come from?” he demanded aggressively.

“Been fishin’,” said William, “an’ I jolly nearly caught a salmon.”

The boy looked out of the window. It was still the first real day of Spring.

“Crumbs!” he said enviously, “fishin’.” He gazed with distaste at his work, “an me muckin’ about with this ’ere.”

“Well,” suggested William simply, “you go out an’ fish an’ I’ll go on muckin’ about with that.”

The boy stared at him again first in pure amazement and finally with speculation.

“Yus,” he said at last, “an’ you pinch my screw. Not much!”

“No, I won’t,” said William with great emphasis. “I won’t. Honest I won’t. I’ll give it you. I don’t want it. I only want,” again he gazed enviously at the boy’s engaging pastime, “I only want to clean silver same as you’re doin’.”

“Then there’s the car to clean with the ’ose-pipe.”

William’s eyes gleamed.

“I bet I can do that,” he said, “an’ what after that?”

“Dunno,” said the boy, “that’s all they told me. The ole cook’ll tell you what to do next. I specks,” optimistically, “she won’t notice you not bein’ me with me only comin’ this mornin’ an’ her run off her feet what with her ringin’ her bell all the time an’ givin’ no one no peace an’ them bein’ away. Anyway,” he ended defiantly, “I don’t care if she does. It ain’t the sort of place I’ve bin used to an’ for two pins I’d tell ’em so.”

He took a length of string from his pocket, a pin from a pincushion which hung by the fire-place, a jam jar from a cupboard, then looked uncertainly at William.

“I c’n find a stick down there by the stream,” he said, “an’ I won’t stay long. I bet I’ll be back before that ole cook comes down from her an’—well, you put these here on an’ try’n look like me an’—I won’t be long.”

He slipped off his overalls and disappeared into the sunshine. William heard him run across the paved yard and close the door cautiously behind him. Then evidently he felt safe. There came the sound of his whistling as he ran across the field.

William put on the overalls and gave himself up to his enthralling task. It was every bit as thrilling as he’d thought it would be. He spat and mixed and rubbed and spat and mixed and rubbed in blissful absorption.... He got the powder all over his face and hair and hands and overalls. Then he heard the sound of someone coming downstairs. He bent his head low over his work. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a large hot-looking woman enter, wearing an apron and a print dress.

“Gosh!” she exclaimed as though in despair. “Gosh! of all the places!”

At that minute a bell rang loudly and with a groan she turned and went from the room again. William went on with his task of cleaning the silver. The novelty of the process was wearing off and he was beginning to feel rather tired of it. He amused himself by tracing patterns upon the surface of the silver with the paste he had manufactured. He took a lot of trouble making a funny face upon the teapot which fortunately had a plain surface.

Then the large woman came down again. She entered the kitchen groaning and saying “Oh, lor!” and she was summoned upstairs again at once by an imperious peal of the bell. After a few minutes she came down again, still groaning and saying, “Oh, lor!... First she wants hot milk an’ then she wants cold milk an’ then she wants beef tea an’ then the Lord only knows what she wants ... first one thing an’ then another.... I’ve fair had enough of it an’ them goin’ off to their aunt’s an’ that Ellen ’oppin’ it an’ you not much help to a body, are you?” she asked sarcastically. Then she looked at his face and screamed. “My Gosh!... What’s ’appened to you?”

“Me?” said William blankly.

“Yes. Your face as gone an’ changed since jus’ a few minutes ago. What’s ’appened to it?”

“Nothin’,” said William.

“Well, it’s my nerves, then,” she said shrilly. “I’m startin’ seein’ things wrong. An’ no wonder.... Well, I’ve ’ad enough of it, I ’ave an’ I’m goin’ ’ome ... now ... first that Ellen ’oppin’ it an’ then them goin’ off an’ then ’er badgerin’ the life out of me. An’ then your face changin’ before me very eyes. Me nervous system’s wore out, that’s what it is, an’ I’ve ’ad enough of it. When people’s faces start changin’ under me very eyes it shows I needs a change an’ I’m goin’ to ’ave one. That Ellen ain’t the only one what can ’op it. ’Er an’ ’er bell-ringing—an’—an’ you an’ your face-changin’! ’Taint no place for a respectable woman. You can ’ave a taste of waitin’ on ’er an’ you can tell them I’ve gone an’ why—you an’ your face!”

During this tirade she had divested herself of her apron and clothed herself in her coat and hat. She stood now and looked at William for a minute in scornful silence. Then her glance wandered to his operations.

“Ugh!” she said in disgust, “you nasty little messer, you! Call yourself a house boy—changin’ your face every minute. What d’you think you are? A blinkin’ cornelian? An’ messin’ about like that. What d’you think you’re doin’? Distemperin’ the silver or cleanin’ it?”

At this moment came another irascible peal at the bell.

“Listen!” said the fat woman. “’Ark at ’er! Well, I’m orf. I’m fair finished, I am. An’ you can go or stay has you please! Serve ’em right to come ’ome an’ find us hall gone. Serve ’er right if you went up to ’er an’ did a bit of face changin’ at ’er just to scare ’er same as you did me. Do ’er good. Drat ’er—an’ all of you.”

She went out of the kitchen and slammed the back door. Then she went out of the paved yard and slammed the door. Then she went across the field and out of the field into the road and slammed the gate.

William stood and looked about him. A bell rang again with vicious intensity and he realised with mingled excitement and apprehension that he and the mysterious ringer were the only occupants of the house. The ringing went on and on and on.

William stood beneath the bell-dial and watched the blue disc waggle with dispassionate interest. The little blue disc was labelled “Miss Pilliter.” Then he bethought himself of his next duty. It was cleaning the car with the hose. His spirits rose at the prospect.

The bell was still ringing wildly, furiously, hysterically, but its ringing did not trouble William. He went out into the yard to find the car. It was in the garage and just near it was a hose pipe.

William, much thrilled by this discovery, began to experiment with the hose pipe. He found a tap by which it could be turned off and on, by which it could be made to play fiercely or languidly. William experimented with this for some time. It was even more fascinating than the silver cleaning. There was a small leak near the nozzle which formed a little fountain. William cleaned the car by playing on to it wildly and at random, making enthralling water snakes and serpents by writhing the pipe to and fro. He deluged the car for about a quarter of an hour in a state of pure ecstasy.... The bell could still be heard ringing in the house, but William heeded it not. He was engrossed heart and mind and soul in his manipulation of the hose pipe. At the end of the quarter of the hour he laid down the pipe and went to examine the car. He had performed his task rather too thoroughly. Not only was the car dripping outside; it was also dripping inside. There were pools of water on the floor at the back and on the front. There were pools on all the seats. Too late William realised that he should have tempered thoroughness with discretion. Still, he thought optimistically, it would dry in time. His gaze wandered round. It might be a good plan to clean the walls of the garage while he was about it. They looked pretty dirty.

He turned the hose on to them. That was almost more fascinating than cleaning the car. The water bounced back at you from the wall unexpectedly and delightfully. He could sluice it round and round the wall in patterns. He could make a mammoth fountain of it by pointing it straight at the ceiling. After some minutes of this enthralling occupation he turned his attention to the tap which regulated the flow and began to experiment with that. Laying the hose pipe flat on the floor he turned the tap in one direction till the flow was a mere trickle, then turned it in the other till it was a torrent. The torrent was more thrilling than the trickle but it was also more unmanageable. So he tried to turn the tap down again and found that he couldn’t. It had stuck. He wrestled with it, but in vain. The torrent continued to discharge itself with unabated violence.

William was slightly dismayed by the discovery. He looked round for a hammer or some other implement to apply to the recalcitrant tap, but saw none. He decided to go back to the kitchen and look for one there. He dripped his way across to the kitchen and there looked about him. The bell was still ringing violently. The blue disc was still wobbling hysterically. It occurred to William suddenly that as sole staff of the house it was perhaps his duty to answer the bell. So he dripped his way upstairs. The blue disc had been marked 6. Outside the door marked six he stopped a minute, then opened the door and entered. A woman wearing an expression of suffering and a very purple dress lay moaning on the sofa. The continued ringing of the bell was explained by a large book which she had propped up against it in such a way as to keep the button pressed.

She opened her eyes and looked balefully at William.

“I’ve been ringing that bell,” she said viciously, “for a whole hour without anyone coming to answer it. I’ve had three separate fits of hysterics. I feel so ill that I can’t speak. I shall claim damages from Dr. Morlan. Never, never, NEVER have I been treated like this before. Here I come—a quivering victim of nerves, riddled by neurasthenia—come here to be nursed back to health and strength by Dr. Morlan, and first of all off he goes to some aunt or other, then off goes the housemaid. And I shall report that cook to Dr. Morlan the minute he returns, the minute he returns. I’ll sue her for damages. I’ll sue the whole lot of you for damages; I’m going to have hysterics again.”

She had them, and William watched with calm interest and enjoyment. It was even more diverting than the silver cleaning and the hose pipe. When she’d finished she sat up and wiped her eyes.

“Why don’t you do something?” she said irritably to William.

“All right—what?” said William obligingly, but rather sorry that the entertainment had come to an end.

“Fetch the cook,” snapped the lady, “ask her how she dare ignore my bell for hours and hours and HOURS. Tell her I’m going to sue her for damages. Tell her——”

“She’s gone,” said William.

“Gone!” screamed the lady. “Gone where?”

“Gone off,” said William; “she said she was fair finished an’ went off.”

“When’s she coming back? I’m in a most critical state of health. All this neglect and confusion will be. the death of my nervous system. When’s she coming back?”

“Never,” said William. “She’s gone off for good. She said her nervous system was wore out an’ went off—for good.”

“Her nervous system indeed,” said the lady, stung by the cook’s presumption in having a nervous system. “What’s anyone’s nervous system compared with mine? Who’s in charge of the staff, then?”

“Me,” said William simply. “I’m all there is left of it.”

He was rewarded by an even finer display of hysterics than the one before. He sat and watched this one, too, with critical enjoyment as one might watch a firework display or an exhibition of conjuring. His attitude seemed to irate her. She recovered suddenly and launched into another tirade.

“Here I come,” she said, “as paying guest to be nursed back to health and strength from a state of neurasthenic prostration, and find myself left to the mercies of a common house-boy, a nasty, common, low, little rapscallion like you—find myself literally murdered by neglect, but I’ll sue you for damages, the whole lot of you—the doctor and the housemaid and the cook and you—you nasty little—monkey ... and I’ll have you all hung for murder.”

She burst into tears again and William continued to watch her, not at all stung by her reflections on his personal appearance and social standing. He was hoping that the sobbing would lead to another fit of hysterics. It didn’t, however. She dried her tears suddenly and sat up.

“It’s more than an hour and a half,” she said pathetically, “since I had any nourishment at all. The effect on my nervous system will be serious. My nerves are in such a condition that I must have nourishment every hour, every hour at least. Go and get me a glass of milk at once, boy.”

William obligingly went downstairs and looked for some milk. He couldn’t find any. At last he came upon a bowl of some milky-looking liquid. Much relieved he filled a glass with it and took it upstairs to the golden-haired lady. She received it with a suffering expression and closing her eyes took a dainty sip. Then her suffering expression changed to one of fury and she flung the glass of liquid at William’s head. It missed William’s head and emptied itself over a Venus de Milo by the door, the glass, miraculously unbroken, encaging the beauty’s head and shoulders. William watched this phenomenon with delight.

“You little fiend!” screamed the lady, “it’s starch!”

“Starch,” said William. “Fancy! An’ it looked jus’ like milk. But I say, it’s funny about that glass stayin’ on the stachoo like that. I bet you couldn’t have done that if you’d tried!”

The lady had returned to her expression of patient suffering. She spoke with closed eyes and in a voice so faint that William could hardly hear it.

“I must have some nourishment at once. I’ve had nothing—nothing—since my breakfast at nine and now it’s nearly eleven. And for my breakfast I only had a few eggs. Go and make me some cocoa at once ... at once.”

William went downstairs again and looked for some cocoa. He found a cupboard with various tins and in one tin he found a brown powder which might quite well be cocoa, though there was no label on it. Ever hopeful, he mixed some with water in a cup and took it up to the lady. Again she assumed her suffering expression, closed her eyes and sipped it daintily. Again her suffering expression changed to one of fury, again she flung the cup at William and again she missed him. This time the cup hit a bust of William Shakespeare. Though the impact broke the cup the bottom of it rested hat-wise at a rakish angle upon the immortal bard’s head, giving him a rather debauched appearance while the dark liquid streamed down his smug countenance.

“It’s knife powder,” screamed the lady hysterically. “Oh, you murderous little brute. It’s knife powder! This will be the death of me. I’ll never get over this as long as I live—never, never, NEVER!”

William stood expectant awaiting the inevitable attack of hysterics. But it did not come. The lady’s eyes had wandered to the window and there they stayed, growing wider and wider and rounder and rounder and wider, while her mouth slowly opened to its fullest extent. She pointed with a trembling hand.

“Look!” she said. “The river’s flooding.”

William looked. The part of the garden which could be seen from the window was completely under water. Then—and not till then—did William remember the hose pipe which he had left playing at full force in the back yard. He gazed in silent horror.

“I always said so,” panted the lady hysterically, “I said so. I said so to Dr. Morlan. I said ‘I couldn’t live in a house in a valley. There’d be floods and my nerves couldn’t stand them,’ and he said that the river couldn’t possibly flood this house and it can and I might have known he was lying and oh my poor nerves, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

William gazed around the room as if in search of inspiration. He met the gaze of Venus de Milo soaked in starch and leering through her enclosing glass; he met the gaze of William Shakespeare soaked in water and knife powder and wearing his broken cup jauntily. Neither afforded him inspiration.

“It rises as I watch it—inch by inch,” shrilled the lady, “inch by inch! It’s terrible ... we’re marooned.... Oh, it’s horrible. There isn’t even a life belt in the house.”

William was conscious of a great relief at her explanation of the spreading sheet of water. It would for the present at any rate divert guilt from him.

“Yes,” he agreed looking out with her upon the water-covered garden. “That’s what I bet it is—it’s the river rising.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she screamed, “you must have known. Why, now I come to think of it, you were dripping wet when you first came into the room.”

“Well,” said William with a burst of inspiration, “I din’ want to give you a sudden shock—what I thought it might give you tellin’ you you was macarooned——”

“Oh, don’t talk,” she said. “Go down at once and see if you can find any hope of rescue.”

William went downstairs again. He waded out to the hose pipe and wrestled again with the tap beneath the gushing water. In vain. He waded into a neighbouring shed and found three of four panic-stricken hens. He captured two and took them up to the lady’s room, flinging them in carelessly.

“Rescued ’em,” he said with quiet pride, and then went down for the others. The mingled sounds of the squeaking and terrified flight of hens and the lady’s screams pursued him down the stairs. He caught the other two hens and brought them up, too, carelessly flinging them in to join the chaos. Then he went down for further investigations. In another shed he found a puppy who had climbed into a box to escape the water and there was engaged in trying to catch a spider on the wall. William rescued the puppy, and took it upstairs to join the lady’s menagerie.

“Rescued this, too,” he said as he deposited it inside.

It promptly began to chase the hens. There ensued a scene of wild confusion as the hens, with piercing squawks, flew over chairs and tables, pursued by the puppy.

“HERE’S SOMETHIN’ ELSE I’VE
RESCUED,” SAID WILLIAM,
PROUDLY.

Even the lady seemed to feel that hysterics would have no chance of competing with this uproar, so she began to chase the puppy. William returned to the deluge in which he was beginning to find an irresistible fascination. He had read a story not long ago in which a flood figured largely and in which the hero had rescued children and animals from the passing torrent and had taken them to a place of safety at the top of a house. In William’s mind the law of association was a strong one. As he gazed upon the surging stream he became the rescuer hero of the story and began to look round for something else to rescue. There appeared to be no more live stock to be rescued from the sheds. He waded down to the road, which also was now partially under water, and looked up and down. A small pig had wandered out of a neighbouring farm and was standing contemplating the flooded road with interest and surprise. The hero rescuer of William’s story had rescued a pig. Without a moment’s hesitation William waded up to the pig, seized it firmly round the middle before it could escape, and staggered through the deluge with it and into the house. Though small it showed more resistance than William had expected. It wriggled and squeaked and kicked in all directions. Panting, William staggered upstairs with it. He flung open the door and deposited the pig on the threshold.

“Here’s somethin’ else I’ve rescued,” he said proudly.

The lady was showing unexpected capabilities in dealing with the situation. She had taken the china out of the china cabinet and had put the hens into it. They were staring through the glass doors in stupid amazement and one of them had just complicated matters by laying an egg.

The lady was just disputing the possession of a table runner with the spirited puppy who thought she was having a game with it. The puppy had already completely dismembered a hassock, a mat and two cushions. Traces of them lay about the room. Venus and Shakespeare, still wearing their rakish head adornments, were gazing at the scene through runnels of starch and liquid knife-powder. Miss Polliter received the new refugee in a business-like fashion. She had evidently finally decided that this was no occasion for the display of nervous systems. She seemed, in fact, exhilarated and stimulated.

“Put him down here,” she said. “That’s quite right, my boy. Go and rescue anything else you can. This is a noble work, indeed.”

The puppy charged the pig and the pig charged the china cabinet. There came the sound of the breaking of glass. The egg rolled out and the puppy fell upon it with wild delight. The hens began to fly about the room in panic again.

“PUT HIM DOWN HERE,” MISS POLLITER SAID. “THIS IS
A NOBLE WORK, INDEED.”

William hastily shut the door and went downstairs to continue his work of rescuing. He had by this time almost persuaded himself that the flood was of natural origin and that he was performing heroic deeds of valour in rescuing its victims. Again he looked up and down the road. He felt that he had done his duty by the animal creation and he would have welcomed a rescuable human being. Suddenly he saw two infants from the Infant School coming hand in hand down the road. They stared in amazement at the flood that barred their progress. Then with a touching faith in their power over the forces of nature and an innate love of paddling, they walked serenely into the midst of the stream. When they reached the middle, however, panic overcame them. The smaller one sat down and roared and the larger one stood on tip-toe and screamed. William at once plunged into the stream and “rescued” them. They were stalwart infants but he managed to get one tucked under each arm and carried them roaring lustily and dripping copiously up to Miss Polliter’s room. Again Miss Polliter had restored as if by magic a certain amount of order. She had cooped up the hens by an ingenious arrangement of the fireguard and she had put the pig in the coal-scuttle, leaving him an air-hole through which he was determinedly squeezing his snout as if in the hope of ultimately squeezing the rest of him. The puppy had dealt thoroughly with the table runner while Miss Polliter was engaged on the hens and pig, and was now seeing whether he could pull down window curtains or not.

William deposited his dripping, roaring infants.

“Some more I’ve rescued,” he said succinctly.

Miss Polliter turned to him a face which was bright with interest and enterprise.

“Splendid, dear boy,” she said happily, “splendid.... I’ll soon have them warmed and dried—or wait—is the flood rising?”

William said it was.

“Well, then, the best thing would be to go to the very top of the house where we shall be safer than here!”

Determinedly she picked up the infants, went out on to the landing and mounted the attic stairs. William followed holding the puppy who managed during the journey to tear off and (presumably—as they were never seen again) swallow his pocket flap and three buttons from his coat. Then Miss Polliter returned for the pig and William followed with a hen. The pig was very recalcitrant and Miss Polliter said “Naughty,” to him quite sternly once or twice. Then they returned for the other hens. One hen escaped and in the intoxication of sudden liberty flew squawking loudly out of a skylight.

In the attic bedroom where Miss Polliter now assembled her little company of refugees she lit the gas fire and started her great task of organisation.

“I’ll dry these dear children first,” she said. “Now go down, dear boy, and see if there is anyone else in need of your aid.”

William went downstairs slowly. Something of his rapture and excitement was leaving him. Cold reality was placing its icy grip upon his heart. He began to wonder what would happen to him when they discovered the nature and cause of his “flood,” and whether the state to which the refugees were reducing the house would also be laid to his charge. He waded out to the hose pipe and had another fruitless struggle with the tap. Then he looked despondently up and down the road. The “flood” was spreading visibly, but there was no one in sight. He returned slowly and thoughtfully to Miss Polliter. Miss Polliter looked brisk and happy. She had apparently forgotten both her nervous system and its need of perpetual nourishment. She was having a game with the infants who were now partially dried and crowing with delight. She had managed to drive the hens into a corner of the room and had secured them there by a chest of drawers. She had tied the pig by a piece of string to the washhand-stand and it was now lying down quite placidly, engaged in eating the carpet. One hen had escaped from its “coop” and was running round a table pursued by or pursuing (it was impossible to say which) the puppy. Miss Polliter was playing pat-a-cake with the drying infants and seemed to be enjoying it as much as the infants. She greeted William gaily.

“Don’t look so sad, dear boy,” she said. “I think that even though the river continues to rise all night we shall be safe here—quite safe here—and I daresay you can find something for these dear children to eat when they get hungry. I don’t need anything. I’m quite all right. I can easily go without anything till morning. Now do one more thing for me, dear boy. Go down to my room on the lower floor and see the time. Dr. Morlan said that he would be home by six.”

Still more slowly, still more thoughtfully, William descended to her room on the lower floor and saw the time. It was five minutes to six. Dr. Morlan might arrive then at any minute. William considered the situation from every angle. To depart now as unostentatiously as possible seemed to him a far, far better thing than to wait and face Dr. Morlan’s wrath. The hose pipe was damaged, the garden was flooded, Miss Polliter’s room was like a battlefield after a battle, strange infants and a pig were disporting themselves about the house, a destructive puppy had wreaked its will upon every cushion and curtain and chair within reach (it had found that it could pull down window curtains).

William very quietly slipped out of the front door and crept down the drive. The flood seemed to be concentrating itself upon the back of the house. The front was still more or less dry. William crept across the field to the stile that led to the main road. Here his progress was barred by a group of three who stood talking by the stile. There was a tall pompous-looking man with a beard, a small woman and an elderly man.

“Oh, yes, we’ve quite settled in now,” the tall, pompous-looking man was saying. “We’ve got a resident patient with us—a Miss Polliter who is a chronic nervous case. We are rather uneasy at having to leave her all to-day with only the cook and house-boy. Unfortunately our housemaid left us suddenly yesterday but we trust that things will have gone all right. An aunt of mine was reported to be seriously ill and we had to hurry to her to be in time but unfortunately—ahem—I mean fortunately—we found that she had taken a turn for the better so we returned as soon as we could.”

“Of course,” said the woman, “we’d have been back ever so much earlier if it hadn’t been for that affair at the cave.”

“Oh, yes,” said the doctor, “very tragic affair, very tragic indeed. Some poor boy ... there were a lot of people there trying to recover the body and they wanted to have a doctor in the unlikely case of the boy being alive when they got him out. I assured them that it was very unlikely that he would be alive and that I had to get back to my own patient ... and it would only be a matter of a few minutes to send for me.... The poor mother was distraught.”

“What had happened?” said the other man.

“Some rash child had crawled into an opening in the rock and had not come out. He must have been suffocated. His friends waited for over an hour before they notified the parents and I am afraid that it is too late now. They have repeatedly called to him but there is no response. As I told them, there are frequently poisonous gases in the fissures of the rock and the poor child must have succumbed to them. So far all attempts to recover the body have been unsuccessful. They have just sent for men with pickaxes.”

William’s heart was sinking lower and lower. Crumbs! He’d quite forgotten the cave part of it. Crumbs! he’d quite forgotten that he’d left the Outlaws in the cave waiting for him. The house-boy and the cook and the silver cleaning and the hose-pipe and the flood and Miss Polliter and the hens and the pig and the puppy and the infants had completely driven the cave and the Outlaws out of his head. Crumbs, wouldn’t everybody be mad!

For William had learnt by experience that with a strange perversity parents who had mourned their children as lost or dead are generally for some reason best known to themselves intensely irritated to find that they have been alive and well and near them all the time. William had little hopes of being received by his parents with the joy and affection that should be given to one miraculously restored to them from the fissures of the rock. And just as he stood pondering his next step the doctor turned and saw him. He stared at him for a few minutes, then said, “Do you want me, my boy? Anything wrong? You’re the new house-boy, aren’t you?”

William realised that he was still wearing the overalls which the house-boy had given him. He gaped at the doctor and blinked nervously, wondering whether it wouldn’t be wiser to be the new house-boy as the doctor evidently thought he was. The doctor turned to his wife.

“Er—it is the new house-boy, dear, isn’t it?” he said.

“I think so,” said his wife doubtfully. “He only came this morning, you know, and Cook engaged him, and I hardly had time to look at him, but I think he is.... Yes, he’s wearing our overalls. What’s your name, boy?”

William was on the point of saying “William Brown,” then stopped himself. He mustn’t be William Brown. William Brown was presumably lost in the bowels of the earth. And he didn’t know the house-boy’s name. So he gaped again and said:

“I don’t know.”

There came a gleam into the doctor’s eye.

“What do you mean, my boy,” he said. “Do you mean that you’ve lost your memory?”

“Yes,” said William, relieved at the simplicity of the explanation, and the fact that it relieved him of all further responsibility. “Yes, I’ve lost my memory.”

“Do you mean you don’t remember anything?” said the doctor sharply.

“Yes,” said William happily, “I don’ remember anythin’.”

“Not where you live or anything?”

“No,” said William very firmly, “not where I live nor anything.”

The other man, feeling evidently that he could contribute little illumination to the problem, moved on, leaving the doctor and his wife staring at William. They held a whispered consultation. Then the doctor turned to William and said suddenly:

“Frank Simpkins ... does that suggest anything to you?”

“No,” said William with perfect truth.

“Doesn’t know his own name,” whispered the doctor, then again sharply:

“Acacia Cottage ... does that convey anything to you?”

“No,” said William again with perfect truth.

The doctor turned to his wife.

“No memory of his name or home,” he commented. “I’ve always wanted to study a case of this sort at close quarters. Now, my good boy, come back home with me.”

But William didn’t want to go back home with him. He didn’t want to return to the house which still bore traces of his recent habitation and where his “flood” presumably still raged. He was just contemplating precipitate flight when a woman came hurrying along the road. The doctor’s wife seemed to recognise her. She whispered to the doctor. The doctor turned to William.

“You know this woman, my boy, don’t you?”

“No,” said William, “I’ve never seen her before.”

The doctor looked pleased. “Doesn’t remember his own mother,” he said to his wife: “quite an interesting case.”

The woman approached them aggressively. The doctor stepped in front of William.

“Come after my boy,” she said, “Sayin’ ’is hours ended at five an’ then keepin’ ’im till now! I’ll ’ave the lor on you, I will. Where is ’e?”

“Prepare yourself, my good woman,” said the doctor, “for a slight shock. Your son has temporarily—only temporarily, we trust—lost his memory.”

She screamed.

“HERE IS YOUR SON,” SAID THE DOCTOR POMPOUSLY.

“’IM?” SHRIEKED THE WOMAN. “NEVER SEED ’IM
BEFORE.”

“What’ve you bin doin’ of to ’im?” she said indignantly, “’e ’adn’t lorst it when ’e left ’ome this mornin’. Where is ’e, anyway?”

Silently the doctor stepped on to one side, revealing William.

“Here he is,” he said pompously.

“’Im?” she shrilled. “Never seed ’im before.”

“She’s lost hers too,” said William without flinching.

They stared at each other for some seconds in silence. Then William saw the real house boy coming along the road and spoke with the hopelessness of one who surrenders himself to fate to do its worst with.

“Here he is.”

The real original house boy was stepping blithely down the road, an extemporised rod over his shoulders, swinging precariously a jar full of minnows. He was evidently ignorant of the flight of time. He saw William first and called out cheerfully:

“I say, I’ve not been long, have I? Is it all right?”

Then he saw the others and the smile dropped from his face. His mother darted to him protectively.

“Oh, my pore, blessed child,” she said, “what have they bin a-doin’ to you—keepin’ you hours an’ hours after your time an’ losin’ your pore memory an’ you your pore widowed mother’s only child.... Come home with your mother, then, an’ she’ll take care of you and we’ll have the lor on them, we will.”

The boy looked from one to another bewildered, then realising from his mother’s tones that he had been badly treated he burst into tears and was led away by his consoling parent.

The doctor and his wife turned to William for an explanation. Their expressions showed considerably less friendliness than they had shown before. William looked about him desperately. Even escape seemed impossible. He felt that he would have welcomed any interruption. When, however, he saw Miss Polliter running towards them down the field he felt that he would have chosen some other interruption than that.

“Oh, there you are!” panted Miss Polliter. “Such dreadful things have happened. Oh, there’s the dear boy. I don’t know what we should have done without him ... rescuing children and animals at the risk, I’m sure, of his own dear life. I must give you just a little present.” She handed him a half crown which William pocketed gratefully.

“But, my dear Miss Polliter,” said the doctor, deeply concerned, “you should be resting in your room. You should never run like that in your state of nervous exhaustion ... never.”

“Oh, I’m quite well now,” said Miss Polliter.

“Well?” said the doctor amazed and horrified at the idea.

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Polliter, “I feel ever so well. The flood’s cured me.”

“The flood?” said the doctor still more amazed and still more horrified.

“Oh yes. The river’s risen and the whole place is flooded out,” said Miss Polliter excitedly. “It’s a most stimulating experience altogether. We’ve saved a lot of animals and two children.”

The doctor was holding his head.

“Good Heavens!” he said. “Good Heavens! Good Heavens!”

At that moment two more women descended upon the group. They were the mothers of the infants. They had searched through the village for their missing offspring and at last an eye-witness had described their deliberate kidnapping and imprisonment in the doctor’s house. They were demanding the return of their children. They were threatening legal proceedings. They were calling the doctor a murderer and a kidnapper, a vivisectioner, a Hun and a Bolshevist.

The doctor and the doctor’s wife and Miss Polliter and the two mothers all began to talk at once. William, seizing his opportunity, crept away. He crept down the road towards the cave.

At the bend in the road he turned. The doctor and the doctor’s wife and the two mothers and Miss Polliter, still all talking excitedly at the same time, began to make their way slowly up the hill to the doctor’s house.

He looked in the other direction. There was just a large crowd surrounding the cave; men were just coming along the road from the other direction with pickaxes to dig his dead body from the rock.

He went forward very reluctantly and slowly.

He went forward because he had a horrible suspicion that the doctor would soon have discovered the extent and the cause of the “flood” and would soon be pursuing him lusting for vengeance.

He went forward reluctantly and slowly because he did not foresee an enthusiastic welcome from his bereaved parents.

Ginger saw him first. Ginger gave a piercing yell and pointed down the road towards William’s reluctant form.

“There—he is!” he shouted. “He’s not dead.”

They all turned and gaped at him open-mouthed.

William presented a strange figure. He seemed at first sight chiefly compounded of the two elements, earth and water.

He turned as if to flee but the figure of the doctor could be seen running down the road from his house after him; following the doctor were the doctor’s wife, the infants’ mothers with the infants and Miss Polliter. Even at that distance he could see that the doctor’s face was purple with fury. Miss Polliter still looked bright and stimulated.

So William advanced slowly towards his gaping rescuers. “Here I am,” he said. “I—I’ve got out all right.”

He fingered the half-crown in his pocket as if it were an amulet against disaster.

He felt that he would soon need an amulet against disaster.

“Oh, where have you been?” sobbed his mother, “where have you been?”

“I got in a flood,” said William, “an’ then I lost my memory.” He looked round at the doctor who was running towards them and added with a mixture of fatalistic resignation and bitterness, “Oh, well, he’ll tell you about it. I bet you’ll b’lieve him sooner than me an’ I bet he’ll make a different tale of it to what I would.”

And he did.

******

But Miss Polliter (who left the doctor’s charge, cured, to his great disgust, the next day) persisted to her dying day that the river had flooded and that the hose-pipe had nothing to do with it.

And she sent William a pound note the next week in an envelope marked “For a brave boy.”

And, as William remarked bitterly, he jolly well deserved it....

Transcriber’s Notes:

Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

Perceived typographical errors have been changed.