The Outlaws sat around the old barn, plunged in deep thought. Henry, the oldest member (aged 12¼) had said in a moment of inspiration:
“Let’s think of—sumthin’ else to do—sumthin’ quite fresh from what we’ve ever done before.”
And the Outlaws were thinking.
They had engaged in mortal combat with one another, they had cooked strange ingredients over a smoking and reluctant flame with a fine disregard of culinary conventions, they had tracked each other over the country-side with gait and complexions intended to represent those of the aborigines of South America, they had even turned their attention to kidnapping (without any striking success), and these occupations had palled.
In all its activities the Society of Outlaws (comprising four members) aimed at a simple, unostentatious mode of procedure. In their shrinking from the glare of publicity they showed an example of unaffected modesty that many other public societies might profitably emulate. The parents of the members were unaware of the very existence of the society. The ill-timed and tactless interference of parents had nipped in the bud many a cherished plan, and by bitter experience the Outlaws had learnt that secrecy was their only protection. Owing to the rules and restrictions of an unsympathetic world that orders school hours from 9 to 4 their meetings were confined to half-holidays and occasionally Sunday afternoons.
William, the ever ingenious, made the first suggestion.
“Let’s shoot things with bows an’ arrows same as real outlaws used to,” he said.
“What things?” and
“What bows an’ arrows?” said Henry and Ginger simultaneously.
“Oh, anything—birds an’ cats an’ hens an’ things—an’ buy bows an’ arrows. You can buy them in shops.”