WILLIAM'S HELPING HAND
William was on his way to visit his new friend. He whistled as he went, his lips pursed determinedly, his brows drawn into a scowl of absorption, his untidy hair standing, like a somewhat unsaintly halo, round his head. When William whistled, he could be heard a long way off. It was an affair of great effort and concentration. It was a sound before which strong men quailed.
William's new friend heard the sound long before William had turned the corner that led to his house. He put his hand to his head and groaned.
William's new friend was Vivian Strange, the distinguished poet and journalist. Vivian Strange had taken a furnished house in the village in order to enjoy the calm and quiet which were so essential to his literary calling. Instead of calm and quiet he had found William. That is, William had adopted him.
William was attracted to Vivian Strange because, although Vivian Strange belonged to the tyrant race of the "grown-ups," he had never yet told William to wipe his boots or go home at once or not to speak till he was spoken to. This touched William deeply. He was not used to it. He imagined that it must hide a lasting affection for him on the part of Strange. As a matter of fact it did no such thing. The attitude of Vivian Strange to William may be compared to that of a timid fawn before a lion, or a rabbit before a snake. He was not used to the human boy. He had never known one before at close quarters. When he gently hinted to William that he must be missed at home, William kindly intimated that they didn't mind a bit and he could stay a good long time yet.
Such mild sarcasm as Strange could produce had the same effect on William as water on the back of the proverbial duck. William was not used to hints. William was not used either to houses where he could sit in the best chairs and talk to his heart's content and eat cake unrestrained. He made the most of it. He liked Vivian Strange.
And Vivian told himself bitterly every night that his genius was being ruined, his naturally sweet temper embittered, his constitution undermined by a creature less than half his own size whom he might almost kill with one hand. He often dreamed of William. He often recalled hard things he had read or heard about the human boy, and decided that they were all true. Yet, when he met William's mother, and William's mother said, "I do hope that William isn't a nuisance to you," he flushed and said hastily, "Oh, no, not at all. I like it." And William's mother went placidly on her way and remarked later to an incredulous family circle, "There must be something about William for a brilliant literary man like Mr. Strange to take pleasure in his company." Thereupon the family raised incredulous eyebrows.
On the previous day William had paid three visits to his new friend. The first visit had nipped in the bud a very promising poem written in an uncommon metre.
William entered playing on his mouth-organ a tune that he had learnt (not quite correctly, he admitted) that morning. During the third repetition of the tune, Vivian Strange began to see red, but his curse of politeness still clung to him.
"Hadn't you better let them hear that at home?" he said desperately.