“They weren’t in the house,” said William firmly. “They were outside the window. Right outside the window. Right on the sill. You can’t call outside the window in the house, can you? I put it outside the house. I can’t help it comin’ inside the house when I’m asleep, can I?”
Mr. Brown eyed his son solemnly.
“The next time I catch either of those animals inside this house, William,” he said slowly, “I’ll wring its neck.”
When Mr. French called the next afternoon, he felt that his popularity had declined.
“I can’t think why you gave William such dreadful things,” Ethel said weakly, lying on the sofa. “I feel quite upset. I’ve got such a headache and my nerves are a wreck absolutely.”
Mr. French worked hard that afternoon and evening to regain his lost ground. He sat by the sofa and talked in low tones. He read aloud to her. He was sympathetic, penitent, humble and devoted. In spite of all his efforts, however, he felt that his old prestige was gone. He was no longer the Man Who Carried William Home. He was the Man Who Gave William the Rat. He felt that, in the eyes of the Brown household, he was solely responsible for Ethel’s collapse. There was reproach even in the eyes of the housemaid who showed him out. In the drive he met William. William was holding a grimy, blood-stained handkerchief round his finger. There was reproach in William’s eyes also. “It’s bit me,” he said indignantly. “One of those rats what you gave me’s bit me.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Mr. French penitently. Then, with sudden spirit, “Well, you asked for rats, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said William. “But not savage ones. I never asked for savage ones, did I? I di’n’t ask for rats what would scare Ethel and bite me, did I? I was jus’ teaching it to dance on its hind legs an’ holding up its front ones for it an’ it went an’ bit me.”
Mr. French looked at him apprehensively.
“You—you’d better not—er—tell your mother or sister about your finger. I—I wouldn’t like your sister to be upset any more.”