“If you’d jus’ stop talkin’,” said William, “an’ deafenin’ us all for jus’ a bit. You’ve been talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all ever since you came out. D’you think we never want to hear anythin’ all our lives ever till death, but you talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all? There is things that we’d like to hear ’sides you talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all—there’s music an’ birds singing, an’—an’ other folks talkin’, but you go on so’s anyone would think that——”
Here Ginger hurled himself upon William, and the two of them rolled on to the floor and wrestled among the faggots. Violent physical encounters were a regular part of the programme of the Outlaws’ meetings. Henry watched nonchalantly from his perch, crunching pear drops, occasionally throwing small twigs at them, and saying: “Go it!”—“That’s right!”—“Go it!” Joan watched with anxious horror, and “William, do be careful,” and: “Oh, Ginger, darling, don’t hurt him.”
Finally the combatants rose, dusty and dishevelled, shook hands, and resumed their seats on the stacks of firewood.
“Now, if you’ll only let me speak——” began William.
“We will, William, darling,” said Joan. “Ginger won’t interrupt, will you, Ginger?”
Ginger, who had decidedly had the worst of the battle, was removing dust and twigs from his mouth. He gave a non-committal grunt.
“Well, you know the Sale of Work next week?” went on William. They groaned. It was a ceremony to which each of the company would be led, brushed and combed and dressed in gala clothes, in a proud parent’s wake.
“Well,” went on William. “You jus’ listen carefully. I got an idea.”
They leant forward eagerly. They had a touching faith in William’s ideas that no amount of bitter experiences seemed able to destroy.
*****