“William!” gasped Mrs. Brown, “you can’t have a sick headache, if you’ve eaten all that.”
That was the end of the sick headache.
He spent the rest of the morning with Henry and Douglas and Ginger. William and Henry and Douglas and Ginger constituted a secret society called the Outlaws. It had few aims beyond that of secrecy. William was its acknowledged leader, and he was proud of the honour. If they knew—if they guessed. He grew hot and cold at the thought. Suppose they saw him going—or someone told them—he would never hold up his head again. He made tentative efforts to find out their plans for the afternoon. If only he knew where they’d be—he might avoid them somehow. But he got no satisfaction.
“’E’S EAT NEARLY EVERYTHING, MUM. ’E’S EAT THE COLD ’AM AND THE KIDNEY PIE, AND ’E’S EAT THE JAR OF LEMON CHEESE!” COOK WAS PALE AND OUTRAGED
They spent the morning “rabbiting” in a wood with Henry’s fox terrier, Chips, and William’s mongrel, Jumble. None of them saw or heard a rabbit, but Jumble chased a butterfly and a bee, and scratched up a molehill, and was stung by a wasp, and Chips caught a field-mouse, so the time was not wasted.
William’s interest, however, was half-hearted. He was turning over plan after plan in his mind, all of which he finally rejected as impracticable.
He entered the dining-room for lunch rather earlier than usual. Only Robert and Ethel, his elder brother and sister, were there. He came in limping, his mouth set into a straight line of agony, his brows frowning.
“Hello! What’s up?” said Robert, who had not been in at breakfast and had forgotten about the Band of Hope.
“I’ve sprained my ankle,” said William weakly.