"Whistlin'? I din't know you meant whistlin' when you said noise," William went on, drawing near the window. "I din't know you was talking to me at all jus' at first. I thought——" William was obviously anxious to carry on a friendly conversation with a fellow-being. His father hastily slammed the window and returned to his armchair.
William opened his mouth as for a burst of song. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind and pursed his lips as if for a whistle. Then, after a breathless moment of silence, he unpursed them and humming untunefully under his breath he entered by the side door.
The hall was empty. Through the open kitchen door he could see his mother and Ethel, his grown-up sister, cutting sandwiches at one table and the cook and housemaid at another. He went into the kitchen.
"Who're you makin' sandwiches for?" he demanded.
His mother surveyed him sadly.
"I do wish you could keep clean for more than two minutes together, William," she said.
William smoothed back an obstreperous mop of hair with a grimy hand.
"Yes," he agreed mechanically, "but who're you makin' sandwiches for?"
Ethel paused with a butter-laden knife in mid-air.
"Don't for Heaven's sake tell him," she said, "and let's hope and pray that he'll keep out of the way till it's over. It'll be enough trouble without him hanging round."