But he couldn’t continue the sheep dog training till he’d recovered his whistle—his whistle. Had you offered William then a hundred golden whistles set with gems in exchange for his whistle, he would have refused them with scorn. It was his whistle and he was going to have it or know the reason why. He wandered round the front of the house with an elaborate display of secrecy that would have attracted anyone’s attention from miles away had anyone been there to see. The front downstairs rooms were all empty with windows securely locked. The front and side doors also were locked. William dared not go round to the kitchen regions. He had a wholesome awe of inhabitants of kitchen regions. They had such effective weapons to hand in the way of rolling pins and saucepans. Even had the doors and windows been open it would have been difficult to know where to begin looking for his whistle. There was moreover a horrible possibility that the man in the mauve suit might have taken it with him. His voyage of investigation round the house, though fruitless, gave him a certain amount of satisfaction by its vague element of heroism and danger. Having finished it he decided to go home and think out some more definite plan of campaign.
He set off still with a melodramatically conspiratorial air down the drive and suddenly when he’d almost reached the gates he heard the sound of a motor car in the road outside. It was coming in. He looked about wildly for some place of hiding. There was none. With admirable presence of mind he stretched himself out by the edge of the drive and lay there with closed eyes. The car turned in at the gate—passed him, stopped, backed.
“Good heavens!” said a girl’s voice, “it’s a boy.”
“Is he dead?” said another.
Without opening his eyes William perceived that four people were getting out of the car. He remained motionless with closed eyes. He felt that as long as he remained in that position no one could call upon him to account for his presence in their private ground.
“See if he’s breathing,” said someone.
A firm hand was laid on his chest. William was very ticklish and it needed all his self-control not to wriggle. But he remained stark and motionless.
“Yes, he’s alive,” said the voice with a note of relief in it, “he’s breathing.”
“Let’s take him into the house,” said someone else, “and Freddie can see what’s the matter with him.”
A youth’s voice spoke.