Then William noticed the famous cousin. He was standing in the background watching Georgie, not with the radiant pleasure with which the mothers watched him, but with an expression more akin to that with which the Outlaws watched him. This caused William a passing interest which however he soon forgot in his deep passionate loathing of the perfect little gentleman.
Gradually the Outlaws eluded the maternal escorts and foregathered on the outskirts of the throng.
“Let’s get out of this,” said Ginger gloomily.
They wandered down a small path that led off from the lawn and finally reached the rather muddy pond which the Murdochs dignified by the name of “lake.” The Outlaws gazed at it gloomily. In ordinary circumstances it would have suggested a dozen enthralling games, but the Outlaws, encased in Sunday suits, and more or less clean and tidy, felt that any straying from the paths of strict decorum upon this occasion would be simply playing into the hands of the enemy. They wandered morosely into a small summer-house that stood near the banks of the pond, and there they held a further consultation. Feeling against William was running high. What after all was the use of a leader who could not cope with an emergency like this...?
“’Straordinary,” said Ginger aloofly, “’Straordinary that you can’t think of anythin’ to do.”
William glared at Ginger. He couldn’t for the moment even fight old Ginger, which would have been something of a relief to his feelings. So he merely retorted coldly, “’Straordinary you can’t think of anythin’ to do yourself.”
And Henry said gloomily, “And he gets sickniner an’ sickniner.”
“He certainly does,” said a strange voice.
The Outlaws looked up to see the famous cousin lolling negligently against the side of the doorway of the summer-house.
“You are referring, I presume,” he said, “to our little host, Georgie the Terrible.”