******
After lunch William sallied forth once more into the world. He was feeling slightly bored. Ginger and Douglas and Henry, his three sworn allies, were all away on their holidays. William did not consider holidays unmixed blessings. Anyway, he considered that there ought to be a law that everyone should go on their holidays at the same time. He walked again down the village street. He did not sing this time. Instead he threw stones at the telegraph poles. He stood at one telegraph pole and tried to hit the one across the road. Every pole that was hit was to William a magnificent tiger, falling lifeless, shot by William through the heart. The parrot, catching sight of him again, gave an excited scream. This put William off his aim. He screamed back at the parrot, missed the telegraph pole and hit a King Charles spaniel in a garden. He then dropped the rest of his stones and fled from the indignant owner of the dog. She pursued him down the street. "You cruel boy—I'll tell your father—a poor dumb animal——" She gave up the chase at the end of the road, and William went on his way whistling, his hands in his pockets. At a bend in the road he stood suddenly silent. A group of children were walking along in front of him. They had evidently just come out of the station. At their head walked a tall, thin man. The children—boys and girls—were about William's age. They were clean and tidy, but badly dressed, and with pale cockney faces. William hurried along the road. A little girl turned round.
"'Ullo," she said with a friendly grin, "did yer neerly git left be'ind? Wot's yer nime!"
William liked the almost incredible frizziness of her over-crimped hair. He liked the dirty feather in her hat and the violent blue of her dress. He liked her white stockings and yellow boots. He thought her altogether and entirely charming. He liked the way she talked. He found her whole personality intriguing. His grim freckled features relaxed into an ingratiating smile.
"William," he replied. "Wot's yours?"
"Heglantine," she said. "Noice nime, ain't it? Me sister's called 'Oratia. Loverly, comin' on the trine, weren't it?"
It was evident that she took him for one of her party. William grasped at the opportunity of continuing the acquaintance. "Um," he said non-committally.
"Din't see yer on the trine. Such a crawd, were't there? Some from St. Luke's an' some from St. Mary's. Oi dunno 'arf of 'em, an' don't think much o' some of 'em by their looks. Oi were jus' lookin' aht fer someone ter pal up wif."
William's heart swelled with delight at this implied superiority. A boy in front turned round. He was pale and undersized and wore a loud check cap that would have fitted a grown man.
"'Ullo, Freckles!" he said to William.