“I think I’m goin’ to be sick soon,” said Henry with a certain gentle resignation, “swallerin’ all that ink.”
“Well, no one asked you to swaller ink,” said William whose position of responsibility was making him slightly irritable. “You talk ’s if we’d wanted you to swaller ink. It’s not done any good to us you swallerin’ ink. ’F you’ve been wastin’ Ginger’s ink swallerin’ it then you don’ need to blame us. It’s not Ginger’s fault that you’ve swallered his ink, is it?”
“Yes, an’ it is,” said Henry, “it got all up his pen an’ on to my fingers an’ then I had to keep lickin’ ’em to get it off an’ that’s wot’s made me feel sick. Well, ornery ink doesn’t do that. It’s somethin’ wrong with Ginger’s ink I should say. It——”
“Henry!” called an irate maternal voice through the dusk, “when are you coming in? It’s hours past your bedtime.”
The Outlaws scattered hastily....
III
The Outlaws had decided to hold the exhibition in Farmer Jenks’ field behind the barn. Farmer Jenks was the Outlaws’ most implacable foe. He frequently chased the Outlaws from his fields with shouts and imprecations and stones and dogs. He had once uttered the intriguing threat to William that he would “cut his liver out.” This had deeply impressed the Outlaws and William had felt proud of the fame it won him. He could not resist haunting Farmer Jenks’ lands because the chase that always ensued was so much more exciting than an ordinary chase. “Well, he’s not cut it out yet,” he used to say proudly after each escape.
But just now Farmer Jenks was away staying with a brother and Mrs. Jenks was confined to bed, and the farm labourers quite wisely preferred to leave the Outlaws as far as possible to their own devices. So the Outlaws were coming more and more to regard that field of Farmer Jenks’ as their private property.
The afternoon of the exhibition was unusually warm. The exhibition opened at 2 o’clock. To the stile that led from the road was attached a notice
THIS WAY T
O WEMBLY D
E LUCKS