"Now," he said, "where is that boy?"
But a long and energetic search of house and garden failed to reveal any traces of him. It was not till an hour later that William, inspired more by the pangs of hunger than by pangs of conscience, emerged from the boot cupboard in the kitchen and surrendered himself to justice.
CHAPTER IV
WILLIAM THE REFORMER
William's regular attendance at church on Sunday mornings did not betoken any deeply religious feeling on his part. It was rather the result of pressure from without, weekly applied and resisted by William with fresh indignation on each occasion. His church-going was a point on which his family insisted. It was not that they hoped that any real improvement of William would result from it. As a matter of fact, it generally seemed to have the opposite effect upon him. But it meant that those of his family who did not go to church had one morning at least in the sure knowledge that William's strident voice could not dispel their Sabbath peace and calm, nor could William, with his curious genius for such things, spring any awkward situation suddenly upon them, while those who went to church had the comfortable knowledge that William, cowed, and brushed, and washed, and encased in his hated best suit, and scowling at the vicar from the front pew, could do little harm beside the strange scuffling with his feet that he seemed able to produce without even moving them. Moreover, they "knew where he was." It was something to "know where he was."
This Sunday the usual preliminaries took place.
"I'm not going to church this morning," Robert happened to say, carrying a deck-chair into the garden.
"An' I'm not, either," said William, as he seized another chair. The would-be light finality of his tone did not deceive even himself.
"You must go, dear," said his mother placidly. "You know you always do."
"Yes, but why me an' not him?" demanded William, pale with outrage. "Why him not go an' me go?"