"William," said his mother, "take Joan and Cuthbert and show them your engine and books and things. Remember you're the host, dear," she murmured as he passed. "Try to make them happy."

He turned upon her a glance that would have made a stronger woman quail.

Silently he led them up to his play-room.

"There's my engine, an' my books. You can play with them," he said coldly to Cuthbert. "Let's go and play in the garden, you and me, Joan." But Joan shook her head.

"I don't thuppoth the'd care to go out without me," said Cuthbert airily. "I'll go with you. Thith boy can play here if he liketh."

And William, artist in vituperation as he was, could think of no response.

He followed them into the garden, and there came upon him a wild determination to show his superiority.

"You can't climb that tree," he began.

"I can," said Cuthbert sweetly.

"Well, climb it then," grimly.

"No, I don't want to get my thingth all methed. I can climb it, but you can't. He can't climb it, Joan, he'th trying to pretend he can climb it when he can't. He knowth I can climb it, but I don't want to get my thingth methed."

Joan smiled admiringly at Cuthbert.

"I'll show you," said William desperately. "I'll just show you."

He showed them.

He climbed till the tree-top swayed with his weight, then descended, hot and triumphant. The tree was covered with green lichen, a great part of which had deposited itself upon William's suit. His efforts also had twisted his collar round till its stud was beneath his ear. His heated countenance beamed with pride.

For a moment Cuthbert was nonplussed. Then he said scornfully:

"Don't he look a fright, Joan?" Joan giggled.

But William was wholly engrossed in his self-imposed task of "showing them." He led them to the bottom of the garden, where a small stream (now almost dry) disappeared into a narrow tunnel to flow under the road and reappear in the field at the other side.

"You can't crawl through that," challenged William, "you can't do it. I've done it, done it often. I bet you can't. I bet you can't get halfway. I——"

"Well, do it, then!" jeered Cuthbert.

William, on all fours, disappeared into the mud and slime of the small round aperture. Joan clasped her hands, and even Cuthbert was secretly impressed. They stood in silence. At intervals William's muffled voice came from the tunnel.

"It's jolly muddy, too, I can tell you."

"I've caught a frog! I say, I've caught a frog!"

"Crumbs! It's got away!"

"It's nearly quicksands here."

"If I tried I could nearly drown here!"

At last, through the hedge, they saw him emerge in the field across the road. He swaggered across to them aglow with his own heroism. As he entered the gate he was rewarded by the old light of adoration in Joan's blue eyes, but on full sight of him it quickly turned to consternation. His appearance was beyond description. There was a malicious smile on Cuthbert's face.

"Do thumthing elth," he urged him. "Go on, do thumthing elth."

"Oh, William," said Joan anxiously, "you'd better not."

But the gods had sent madness to William. He was drunk with the sense of his own prowess. He was regardless of consequences.



He pointed to a little window high up in the coal-house.

"I can climb up that an' slide down the coal inside. That's what I can do. There's nothin' I can't do. I——"

"All right," urged Cuthbert, "if you can do that, do it, and I'll believe you can do anything."

For Cuthbert, with unholy glee, foresaw William's undoing.

"Oh, William," pleaded Joan, "I know you're brave, but don't——"

But William was already doing it. They saw his disappearance into the little window, they heard plainly his descent down the coal heap inside, and in less than a minute he appeared in the doorway. He was almost unrecognisable. Coal dust adhered freely to the moist consistency of the mud and lichen already clinging to his suit, as well as to his hair and face. His collar had been almost torn away from its stud. William himself was smiling proudly, utterly unconscious of his appearance. Joan was plainly wavering between horror and admiration. Then the moment for which Cuthbert had longed arrived.

"Children! come in now!"

Cuthbert, clean and dainty, entered the drawing-room first and pointed an accusing finger at the strange figure which followed.

"He'th been climbing treeth an' crawling in the mud, an' rolling down the coalth. He'th a nathty rough boy."

A wild babel arose as William entered.

"William!"

"You dreadful boy!"

"Joan, come right away from him. Come over here."

"What will your father say?"

"William, my carpet!"

For the greater part of the stream's bed still clung to William's boots.

Doggedly William defended himself.

"I was showin' 'em how to do things. I was bein' a host. I was tryin' to make 'em happy! I——"

"William, don't stand there talking. Go straight upstairs to the bathroom."

It was the end of the first battle, and undoubtedly William had lost. Yet William had caught sight of the smile on Cuthbert's face and William had decided that that smile was something to be avenged.

But fate did not favour him. Indeed, fate seemed to do the reverse.

The idea of a children's play did not emanate from William's mother, or Joan's. They were both free from guilt in that respect. It emanated from Mrs. de Vere Carter. Mrs. de Vere Carter was a neighbour with a genius for organisation. There were few things she did not organise till their every other aspect or aim was lost but that of "organisation." She also had what amounted practically to a disease for "getting up" things. She "got up" plays, and bazaars, and pageants, and concerts. There were, in fact, few things she did not "get up." It was the sight of Joan and Cuthbert walking together down the road, the sun shining on their golden curls, that had inspired her with the idea of "getting up" a children's play. And Joan must be the Princess and little Cuthbert the Prince.

Mrs. de Vere Carter was to write the play herself. At first she decided on Cinderella. Unfortunately there was a dearth of little girls in the neighbourhood, and therefore it was decided at a meeting composed of Mrs. de Vere Carter, Mrs. Clive, Mrs. Brown (William's mother), and Ethel (William's sister), that William could easily be dressed up to represent one of the ugly sisters. It was, however, decided at a later meeting, consisting of William and his mother and sister, that William could not take the part. It was William who came to this decision. He was adamant against both threats and entreaties. Without cherishing any delusions about his personal appearance, he firmly declined to play the part of the ugly sister. They took the news with deep apologies to Mrs. de Vere Carter, who was already in the middle of the first act. Her already low opinion of William sank to zero. Their next choice was little Red Riding Hood, and William was lured, by glowing pictures of a realistic costume, into consenting to take the part of the Wolf. Every day he had to be dragged by some elder and responsible member of his family to a rehearsal. His hatred of Cuthbert was only equalled by his hatred of Mrs. de Vere Carter.

"He acts so unnaturally," moaned Mrs. de Vere Carter. "Try really to think you're a wolf, darling. Put some spirit into it. Be—animated."

William scowled at her and once more muttered monotonously his opening lines:

"A wolf am I—a wolf on mischief bent, To eat this little maid is my intent."

"Take a breath after 'bent,' darling. Now say it again."

William complied, introducing this time a loud and audible gasp to represent the breath. Mrs. de Vere Carter sighed.

"Now, Cuthbert, darling, draw your little sword and put your arm round Joan. That's right."

Cuthbert obeyed, and his clear voice rose in a high chanting monotone.

"Avaunt! Begone! You wicked wolf, away! This gentle maid shall never be your prey."

"That's beautiful, darling. Now, William, slink away. Slink away, darling. Don't stand staring at Cuthbert like that. Slink away. I'll show you. Watch me slink away."

Mrs. de Vere Carter slunk away realistically, and the sight of it brought momentary delight to William's weary soul. Otherwise the rehearsals were not far removed from torture to him. The thought of being a wolf had at first attracted him, but actually a wolf character who had to repeat Mrs. de Vere Carter's meaningless couplets and be worsted at every turn by the smiling Cuthbert, who was forced to watch from behind the scenes the fond embraces of Cuthbert and Joan, galled his proud spirit unspeakably. Moreover Cuthbert monopolised her both before and after the rehearsals.

"Come away, Joan, he'th prob'bly all over coal dutht and all of a meth."

The continued presence of unsympathetic elders prevented his proper avenging of such insults.

The day of the performance approached, and there arose some little trouble about William's costume. If the wearing of the dining-room hearth-rug had been forbidden by Authority it would have at once become the dearest wish of William's heart and a thing to be accomplished at all costs. But, because Authority decreed that that should be William's official costume as the Wolf, William at once began to find insuperable difficulties.

"It's a dirty ole thing, all dust and bits of black hair come off it on me. I don't think it looks like a wolf. Well, if I've gotter be a wolf folks might just as well know what I am. This looks like as if it came off a black sheep or sumthin'. You don't want folks to think I'm a sheep 'stead of a wolf, do you? You don't want me to be made look ridiclus before all these folks, do you?"

He was slightly mollified by their promise to hire a wolf's head for him. He practised wolf's howlings (though these had no part in Mrs. de Vere Carter's play) at night in his room till he drove his family almost beyond the bounds of sanity.

Mrs. de Vere Carter had hired the Village Hall for the performance, and the proceeds were to go to a local charity.

On the night of the play the Hall was packed, and Mrs. de Vere Carter was in a flutter of excitement and importance.

"Yes, the dear children are splendid, and they look beautiful! We've all worked so hard. Yes, entirely my own composition. I only hope that William Brown won't murder my poetry as he does at rehearsals."

The curtain went up.

The scene was a wood, as was evident from a few small branches of trees placed here and there at intervals on the stage.

Joan, in a white dress and red cloak, entered and began to speak, quickly and breathlessly, stressing every word with impartial regularity.

"A little maid am I—Red Riding-Hood. My journey lies along this dark, thick wood. Within my basket is a little jar Of jam—a present for my grand-mamma."

Then Cuthbert entered—a Prince in white satin with a blue sash. There was a rapt murmur of admiration in the audience as he made his appearance.

William waited impatiently and uneasily behind the scenes. His wolf's head was very hot. One of the eye-holes was beyond his range of vision; through the other he had a somewhat prescribed view of what went on around him. He had been pinned tightly into the dining-room hearth-rug, his arms pinioned down by his side. He was distinctly uncomfortable.

At last his cue came.

Red Riding-Hood and the Prince parted after a short conversation in which their acquaintance made rapid strides, and at the end of which the Prince said casually as he turned to go:

"So sweet a maid have I never seen, Ere long I hope to make her my wife and queen."

Red Riding-Hood gazed after him, remarking (all in the same breath and tone):

"How kind he is, how gentle and how good! But, see what evil beast comes through the wood!"

Here William entered amid wild applause. On the stage he found that his one eye-hole gave him an excellent view of the audience. His mother and father were in the second row. Turning his head round slowly he discovered his sister Ethel sitting with a friend near the back.

"William," hissed the prompter, "go on! 'A wolf am I——'"

But William was engrossed in the audience. There was Mrs. Clive about the middle of the room.

"'A wolf am I'—go on, William!"

William had now found the cook and housemaid in the last row of all and was turning his eye-hole round in search of fresh discoveries.

The prompter grew desperate.

"'A wolf am I—a wolf on mischief bent.' Say it, William."

William turned his wolf's head towards the wings. "Well, I was goin' to say it," he said irritably, "if you'd lef' me alone."

The audience tittered.

"Well, say it," said the voice of the invisible prompter.

"Well, I'm going to," said William. "I'm not goin' to say that again wot you said 'cause they all heard it. I'll go on from there."

The audience rocked in wild delight. Behind the scenes Mrs. de Vere Carter wrung her hands and sniffed strong smelling-salts. "That boy!" she moaned.

Then William, sinking his voice from the indignant clearness with which it had addressed the prompter, to a muffled inaudibility, continued:

"To eat this little maid is my intent."

But there leapt on the stage again the radiant white and blue figure of the Prince brandishing his wooden sword.

"Avaunt! Begone! You wicked wolf, away! This gentle maid shall never be your prey."

At this point William should have slunk away. But the vision revealed by his one available eye-hole of the Prince standing in a threatening attitude with one arm round Joan filled him with a sudden and unaccountable annoyance. He advanced slowly and pugnaciously towards the Prince; and the Prince, who had never before acted with William in his head (which was hired for one evening only) fled from the stage with a wild yell of fear. The curtain was lowered hastily.

There was consternation behind the scenes. William, glaring from out his eye-hole and refusing to remove his head, defended himself in his best manner.

"Well I di'n't tell him to run away, did I? I di'n't mean him to run away. I only looked at him. Well, I was goin' to slink in a minit. I only wanted to look at him. I was goin' to slink."

"Oh, never mind! Get on with the play!" moaned Mrs. de Vere Carter. "But you've quite destroyed the atmosphere, William. You've spoilt the beautiful story. But hurry up, it's time for the grandmother's cottage scene now."

Not a word of William's speeches was audible in the next scene, but his attack on and consumption of the aged grandmother was one of the most realistic parts of the play, especially considering the fact that his arms were imprisoned.

"Not so roughly, William!" said the prompter in a sibilant whisper. "Don't make so much noise. They can't hear a word anyone's saying."

At last William was clothed in the nightgown and nightcap and lying in the bed ready for little Red Riding-Hood's entrance. The combined effect of the rug and the head and the thought of Cuthbert had made him hotter and crosser than he ever remembered having felt before. He was conscious of a wild and unreasoning indignation against the world in general. Then Joan entered and began to pipe monotonously:

"Dear grandmamma, I've come with all quickness To comfort you and sooth your bed of sickness, Here are some little dainties I have brought To show you how we cherish you in our thought."

Here William wearily rose from his bed and made an unconvincing spring in her direction.

But on to the stage leapt Cuthbert once more, the vision in blue and white with golden curls shining and sword again drawn.

"Ha! evil beast——"

It was too much for William. The heat and discomfort of his attire, the sight of the hated Cuthbert already about to embrace his Joan, goaded him to temporary madness. With a furious gesture he burst the pins which attached the dining-room hearth-rug to his person and freed his arms. He tore off the white nightgown. He sprang at the petrified Cuthbert—a small wild figure in a jersey suit and a wolf's head.



Mrs. de Vere Carter had filled Red Riding-Hood's basket with packages of simple groceries, which included, among other things, a paper bag of flour and a jar of jam.

William seized these wildly and hurled handfuls of flour at the prostrate, screaming Cuthbert. The stage was suddenly pandemonium. The other small actors promptly joined the battle. The prompter was too panic-stricken to lower the curtain. The air was white with clouds of flour. The victim scrambled to his feet and fled, a ghost-like figure, round the table.

"Take him off me," he yelled. "Take him off me. Take William off me." His wailing was deafening.

The next second he was on the floor, with William on top of him. William now varied the proceedings by emptying the jar of jam on to Cuthbert's face and hair.

They were separated at last by the prompter and stage manager, while the audience rose and cheered hysterically. But louder than the cheering rose the sound of Cuthbert's lamentation.

"He'th a nathty, rough boy! He puthed me down. He'th methed my nith clotheth. Boo-hoo!"

Mrs. de Vere Carter was inarticulate.

"That boy ... that boy ... that boy!" was all she could say.

William was hurried away by his family before she could regain speech.

"You've disgraced us publicly," said Mrs. Brown plaintively. "I thought you must have gone mad. People will never forget it. I might have known...."

When pressed for an explanation William would only say:

"Well, I felt hot. I felt awful hot, an' I di'n't like Cuthbert."

He appeared to think this sufficient explanation, though he was fully prepared for the want of sympathy displayed by his family.

"Well," he said firmly, "I'd just like to see you do it, I'd just like to see you be in the head and that ole rug an' have to say stupid things an'—an' see folks you don't like, an' I bet you'd do something."

But he felt that public feeling was against him, and relapsed sadly into silence. From the darkness in front of them came the sound of Cuthbert's wailing as Mrs. Clive led her two charges home.

"Poor little Cuthbert!" said Mrs. Brown. "If I were Joan, I don't think I'd ever speak to you again."

"Huh!" ejaculated William scornfully.

But at William's gate a small figure slipped out from the darkness and two little arms crept round William's neck.

"Oh, William," she whispered, "he's going to-morrow, and I am glad. Isn't he a softie? Oh, William, I do love you, you do such 'citing things!"



CHAPTER VII

THE GHOST

William lay on the floor of the barn, engrossed in a book. This was a rare thing with William. His bottle of lemonade lay untouched by his side, and he even forgot the half-eaten apple which reposed in his hand. His jaws were arrested midway in the act of munching.

"Our hero," he read, "was awakened about midnight by the sound of the rattling of chains. Raising himself on his arm he gazed into the darkness. About a foot from his bed he could discern a tall, white, faintly-gleaming figure and a ghostly arm which beckoned him."

William's hair stood on end.

"Crumbs!" he ejaculated.

"Nothing perturbed," he continued to read, "our hero rose and followed the spectre through the long winding passages of the old castle. Whenever he hesitated, a white, luminous arm, hung around with ghostly chains, beckoned him on."

"Gosh!" murmured the enthralled William. "I'd have bin scared!"

"At the panel in the wall the ghost stopped, and silently the panel slid aside, revealing a flight of stone steps. Down this went the apparition followed by our intrepid hero. There was a small stone chamber at the bottom, and into this the rays of moonlight poured, revealing a skeleton in a sitting attitude beside a chest of golden sovereigns. The gold gleamed in the moonlight."

"Golly!" gasped William, red with excitement.

"William!"

The cry came from somewhere in the sunny garden outside. William frowned sternly, took another bite of apple, and continued to read.

"Our hero gave a cry of astonishment."

"Yea, I'd have done that all right," agreed William.

"William!"

"Oh, shut up!" called William, irritably, thereby revealing his hiding-place.

His grown-up sister, Ethel, appeared in the doorway.

"Mother wants you," she announced.

"Well, I can't come. I'm busy," said William, coldly, taking a draught of lemonade and returning to his book.

"Cousin Mildred's come," continued his sister.

William raised his freckled face from his book.

"Well, I can't help that, can I?" he said, with the air of one arguing patiently with a lunatic.

Ethel shrugged her shoulders and departed.

"He's reading some old book in the barn," he heard her announce, "and he says——"



Here he foresaw complications and hastily followed her.

"Well, I'm comin', aren't I?" he said, "as fast as I can."

Cousin Mildred was sitting on the lawn. She was elderly and very thin and very tall, and she wore a curious, long, shapeless garment of green silk with a golden girdle.

"Dear child!" she murmured, taking the grimy hand that William held out to her in dignified silence.

He was cheered by the sight of tea and hot cakes.

Cousin Mildred ate little but talked much.

"I'm living in hopes of a psychic revelation, dear," she said to William's mother. "In hopes! I've heard of wonderful experiences, but so far none—alas!—have befallen me. Automatic writing I have tried, but any communication the spirits may have sent me that way remained illegible—quite illegible."

She sighed.

William eyed her with scorn while he consumed reckless quantities of hot cakes.

"I would love to have a psychic revelation," she sighed again.

"Yes, dear," murmured Mrs. Brown, mystified. "William, you've had enough."

"Enough?" said William, in surprise. "Why I've only had——" He decided hastily against exact statistics and in favour of vague generalities.

"I've only had hardly any," he said, aggrievedly.

"You've had enough, anyway," said Mrs. Brown firmly.

The martyr rose, pale but proud.

"Well, can I go then, if I can't have any more tea?"

"There's plenty of bread and butter."

"I don't want bread and butter," he said, scornfully.

"Dear child!" murmured Cousin Mildred, vaguely, as he departed.

He returned to the story and lemonade and apple, and stretched himself happily at full length in the shady barn.

"But the ghostly visitant seemed to be fading away, and with a soft sigh was gone. Our hero, with a start of surprise, realised that he was alone with the gold and the skeleton. For the first time he experienced a thrill of cold fear and slowly retreated up the stairs before the hollow and, as it seemed, vindictive stare of the grinning skeleton."

"I wonder wot he was grinnin' at?" said William.

"But to his horror the door was shut, the panel had slid back. He had no means of opening it. He was imprisoned on a remote part of the castle, where even the servants came but rarely, and at intervals of weeks. Would his fate be that of the man whose bones gleamed white in the moonlight?"

"Crumbs!" said William, earnestly.

Then a shadow fell upon the floor of the barn, and Cousin Mildred's voice greeted him.

"So you're here, dear? I'm just exploring your garden and thinking. I like to be alone. I see that you are the same, dear child!"

"I'm readin'," said William, with icy dignity.

"Dear boy! Won't you come and show me the garden and your favourite nooks and corners?"

William looked at her thin, vague, amiable face, and shut his book with a resigned sigh.

"All right," he said, laconically.

He conducted her in patient silence round the kitchen garden and the shrubbery. She looked sadly at the house, with its red brick, uncompromisingly-modern appearance.

"William, I wish your house was old," she said, sadly.

William resented any aspersions on his house from outsiders. Personally he considered newness in a house an attraction, but, if anyone wished for age, then old his house should be.

"Old!" he ejaculated. "Huh! I guess it's old enough."

"Oh, is it?" she said, delighted. "Restored recently, I suppose?"

"Umph," agreed William, nodding.

"Oh, I'm so glad. I may have some psychic revelation here, then?"

"Oh yes," said William, judicially. "I shouldn't wonder."

"William, have you ever had one?"

"Well," said William, guardedly, "I dunno."

His mysterious manner threw her into a transport.

"Of course not to anyone. But to me—I'm one of the sympathetic! To me you may speak freely, William."

William, feeling that his ignorance could no longer be hidden by words, maintained a discreet silence.

"To me it shall be sacred, William. I will tell no one—not even your parents. I believe that children see—clouds of glory and all that," vaguely. "With your unstained childish vision——"

"I'm eleven," put in William indignantly.

"You see things that to the wise are sealed. Some manifestation, some spirit, some ghostly visitant——"

"Oh," said William, suddenly enlightened, "you talkin' about ghosts?"

"Yes, ghosts, William."

Her air of deference flattered him. She evidently expected great things of him. Great things she should have. At the best of times with William imagination was stronger than cold facts.

He gave a short laugh.

"Oh, ghosts! Yes, I've seen some of 'em. I guess I have!"

Her face lit up.

"Will you tell me some of your experiences, William?" she said, humbly.

"Well," said William, loftily, "you won't go talkin' about it, will you?"

"Oh, no."

"Well, I've seen 'em, you know. Chains an' all. And skeletons. And ghostly arms beckonin' an' all that."

William was enjoying himself. He walked with a swagger. He almost believed what he said. She gasped.

"Oh, go on!" she said. "Tell me all."

He went on. He soared aloft on the wings of imagination, his hands in his pockets, his freckled face puckered up in frowning mental effort. He certainly enjoyed himself.

"If only some of it could happen to me," breathed his confidante. "Does it come to you at nights, William?"

"Yes," nodded William. "Nights mostly."

"I shall—watch to-night," said Cousin Mildred. "And you say the house is old?"

"Awful old," said William, reassuringly.

Her attitude to William was a relief to the rest of the family. Visitors sometimes objected to William.

"She seems to have almost taken to William," said his mother, with a note of unflattering incredulity in her voice.

William was pleased yet embarrassed by her attentions. It was a strange experience to him to be accepted by a grown-up as a fellow-being. She talked to him with interest and a certain humility, she bought him sweets and seemed pleased that he accepted them, she went for walks with him, and evidently took his constrained silence for the silence of depth and wisdom.

Beneath his embarrassment he was certainly pleased and flattered. She seemed to prefer his company to that of Ethel. That was one in the eye for Ethel. But he felt that something was expected from him in return for all this kindness and attention. William was a sportsman. He decided to supply it. He took a book of ghost stories from the juvenile library at school, and read them in the privacy of his room at night. Many were the thrilling adventures which he had to tell to Cousin Mildred in the morning. Cousin Mildred's bump of credulity was a large one. She supplied him with sweets on a generous scale. She listened to him with awe and wonder.

"William ... you are one of the elect, the chosen," she said, "one of those whose spirits can break down the barrier between the unseen world and ours with ease." And always she sighed and stroked back her thin locks, sadly. "Oh, how I wish that some experience would happen to me!"

One morning, after the gift of an exceptionally large tin of toffee, William's noblest feelings were aroused. Manfully he decided that something should happen to her.

Cousin Mildred slept in the bedroom above William's. Descent from one window to the other was easy, but ascent was difficult. That night Cousin Mildred awoke suddenly as the clock struck twelve. There was no moon, and only dimly did she discern the white figure that stood in the light of the window. She sat up, quivering with eagerness. Her short, thin little pigtail, stuck out horizontally from her head. Her mouth was wide open.



"Oh!" she gasped.

The white figure moved a step forward and coughed nervously.

Cousin Mildred clasped her hands.

"Speak!" she said, in a tense whisper. "Oh, speak! Some message! Some revelation."

William was nonplussed. None of the ghosts he had read of had spoken. They had rattled and groaned and beckoned, but they had not spoken. He tried groaning and emitted a sound faintly reminiscent of a sea-sick voyager.

"Oh, speak!" pleaded Cousin Mildred.

Evidently speech was a necessary part of this performance. William wondered whether ghosts spoke English or a language of their own. He inclined to the latter view and nobly took the plunge.

"Honk. Yonk. Ponk," he said, firmly.

Cousin Mildred gasped in wonder.

"Oh, explain," she pleaded, ardently. "Explain in our poor human speech. Some message——"

William took fright. It was all turning out to be much more complicated than he had expected. He hastily passed through the room and out of the door, closing it noisily behind him. As he ran along the passage came a sound like a crash of thunder. Outside in the passage were Cousin Mildred's boots, William's father's boots, and William's brother's boots, and into these charged William in his headlong retreat. They slid noisily along the polished wooden surface of the floor, ricochetting into each other as they went. Doors opened suddenly and William's father collided with William's brother in the dark passage, where they wrestled fiercely before they discovered each other's identity.

"I heard that confounded noise and I came out——"

"So did I."

"Well, then, who made it?"

"Who did?"

"If it's that wretched boy up to any tricks again——"

William's father left the sentence unfinished, but went with determined tread towards his younger son's room. William was discovered, carefully spreading a sheet over his bed and smoothing it down.

Mr. Brown, roused from his placid slumbers, was a sight to make a brave man quail, but the glance that William turned upon him was guileless and sweet.

"Did you make that confounded row kicking boots about the passage?" spluttered the man of wrath.

"No, Father," said William, gently. "I've not bin kickin' no boots about."

"Were you down on the lower landing just now?" said Mr. Brown, with compressed fury.

William considered this question silently for a few seconds, then spoke up brightly and innocently.

"I dunno, Father. You see, some folks walk in their sleep and when they wake up they dunno where they've bin. Why, I've heard of a man walkin' down a fire escape in his sleep, and then he woke up and couldn't think how he'd got to be there where he was. You see, he didn't know he'd walked down all them steps sound asleep, and——"

"Be quiet," thundered his father. "What in the name of——what on earth are you doing making your bed in the middle of the night? Are you insane?"

William, perfectly composed, tucked in one end of his sheet.

"No Father, I'm not insane. My sheet just fell off me in the night and I got out to pick it up. I must of bin a bit restless, I suppose. Sheets come off easy when folks is restless in bed, and they don't know anythin' about it till they wake up jus' same as sleep walkin'. Why, I've heard of folks——"

"Be quiet——!"

At that moment William's mother arrived, placid as ever, in her dressing gown, carrying a candle.

"Look at him," said Mr. Brown, pointing at the meek-looking William.

"He plays Rugger up and down the passage with the boots all night and then he begins to make his bed. He's mad. He's——"

William turned his calm gaze upon him.

"I wasn't playin' Rugger with the boots, Father," he said, patiently.

Mrs. Brown laid her hand soothingly upon her husband's arm.

"You know, dear," she said, gently, "a house is always full of noises at night. Basket chairs creaking——"

Mr. Brown's face grew purple.

"Basket chairs——!" he exploded, violently, but allowed himself to be led unresisting from the room.

William finished his bed-making with his usual frown of concentration, then, lying down, fell at once into the deep sleep of childish innocence.

But Cousin Mildred was lying awake, a blissful smile upon her lips. She, too, was now one of the elect, the chosen. Her rather deaf ears had caught the sound of supernatural thunder as her ghostly visitant departed, and she had beamed with ecstatic joy.

"Honk," she murmured, dreamily. "Honk, Yonk, Ponk."

* * * * *

William felt rather tired the next evening. Cousin Mildred had departed leaving him a handsome present of a large box of chocolates. William had consumed these with undue haste in view of possible maternal interference. His broken night was telling upon his spirits. He felt distinctly depressed and saw the world through jaundiced eyes. He sat in the shrubbery, his chin in his hand, staring moodily at the adoring mongrel, Jumble.

"It's a rotten world," he said, gloomily. "I've took a lot of trouble over her and she goes and makes me feel sick with chocolates."

Jumble wagged his tail, sympathetically.



CHAPTER VIII

THE MAY KING

William was frankly bored. School always bored him. He disliked facts, and he disliked being tied down to detail, and he disliked answering questions. As a politician a great future would have lain before him. William attended a mixed school because his parents hoped that feminine influence might have a mellowing effect upon his character. As yet the mellowing was not apparent. He was roused from his day-dreams by a change in the voice of Miss Dewhurst, his form mistress. It was evident that she was not talking about the exports of England (a subject in which William took little interest) any longer.

"Children," she said brightly. "I want to have a little May Queen for the first of May. The rest of you must be her courtiers. I want you all to vote to-morrow. Put down on a piece of paper the name of the little girl you think would make the sweetest little Queen, and the rest of you shall be her swains and maidens."

"We're goin' to have a May Queen," remarked William to his family at dinner, "an' I'm goin' to be a swain."

His interest died down considerably when he discovered the meaning of the word swain.

"Isn't it no sort of animal at all?" he asked indignantly.

"Well, I'm not going to be in it, then," he said when he heard that it was not.

The next morning Evangeline Fish began to canvass for votes methodically. Evangeline Fish was very fair, and was dressed always in that shade of blue that shrieks aloud to the heavens and puts the skies to shame. She was considered the beauty of the form.

"I'll give you two bull's eyes if you'll vote for me," she said to William.

"Two!" said William with scorn.

"Six," she bargained.

"All right," he said, "you can give me six bull's eyes if you want. There's nothing to stop you givin' me six bull's eyes if you want, is there? Not that I know of."

"But you'll have to promise to put down my name on the paper if I give you six bull's eyes," she said suspiciously.

"All right," said William. "I can easy promise that."

Whereupon she handed over the six bull's eyes. William returned one as being under regulation size, and waited frowning till she replaced it by a larger one.

"Now, you've promised," said Evangeline Fish. "They'll make you ill an' die if you break your promise on them."

William kept his promise with true political address. He wrote "E. Fish—I don't think!" on his voting paper and his vote was disqualified. But Evangeline Fish was elected May Queen by an overwhelming majority. She was, after all, the beauty of the form and she always wore blue. And now she was to be May Queen. Her prestige was established for ever. "Little angel," murmured the elder girls. The small boys fought for her favours. William began to dislike her intensely. Her voice, and her smile, and her ringlets, and her blue dress began to jar upon his nerves. And when anything began to jar on William's nerves something always happened.

It was not till about a week later that he noticed Bettine Franklin. Bettine was small and dark. There was nothing "angelic" about her. William had noticed her vaguely in school before and had hardly looked upon her as a distinct personality. But one recreation in the playground he stood leaning against the wall by himself, scowling at Evangeline Fish. She was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and was prattling to them artlessly in her angelic voice.

"I'm going to be dressed in white muslin with a blue sash. Blue suits me, you know. I'm so fair." She tossed back a ringlet. "One of you will have to hold my train and the rest must dance round me. I'm going to have a crown and—" She turned round in order to avoid the scowling gaze of William in the distance. William had discovered that his scowl annoyed her, and since then had given it little rest. But there was no satisfaction in scowling at the back of her well-curled head, so he relaxed his scowl and let his gaze wander round the playground. And it fell upon Bettine. Bettine was also standing by herself and gazing at Evangeline Fish. But she was not scowling. She was looking at Evangeline Fish with wistful envy. For Evangeline Fish was "angelic" and a May Queen, and she was neither of these things. William strolled over and lolled against the wall next to her.

"'Ullo!" he said, without looking at her, for this change of position had brought him again within range of Evangeline Fish's eye, and he was once more simply one concentrated scowl.

"'Ullo," murmured Bettine shyly and politely.

"You like pink rock?" was William's next effort.

"Um," said Bettine, nodding emphatically.

"I'll give you some next time I buy some," said William munificently, "but I shan't be buying any for a long time," he added bitterly, "'cause an ole ball slipped out my hands on to our dining-room window before I noticed it yesterday."

She nodded understandingly.

"I don't mind!" she said sweetly. "I'll like you jus' as much if you don't ever give me any rock."

William blushed.

"I di'n't know you liked me," he said.

"I do," she said fervently. "I like your face an' I like the things you say."

William had forgotten to scowl. He was one flaming mixture of embarrassment and delight. He plunged his hands into his pockets and brought out two marbles, a piece of clay, and a broken toy gun.

"You can have 'em all," he said in reckless generosity.

"You keep 'em for me," said Bettine sweetly.

"I hope you dance next me at the Maypole when Evangeline's Queen. Won't it be lovely?" and she sighed.

"Lovely?" exploded William. "Huh!"

"Won't you like it?" said Bettine wonderingly.

"Me!" exploded William again. "Dancin' round a pole! Round that ole girl?"

"But she's so pretty."

"No, she isn't," said William firmly, "she jus' isn't. Not much! I don' like her narsy shiny hair an' I don' like her narsy blue clothes, an' I don' like her narsy face, an' I don' like her narsy white shoes, nor her narsy necklaces, nor her narsy squeaky voice——"

He paused.

Bettine drew a deep breath.

"Go on some more," she said. "I like listening to you."

"Do you like her?" said William.

"No. She's awful greedy. Did you know she was awful greedy?"

"I can b'lieve it," said William. "I can b'lieve anything of anyone wot talks in that squeaky voice."

"Jus' watch her when she's eatin' cakes—she goes on eatin' and eatin' and eatin'."

"She'll bust an' die one day then," prophesied William solemnly, "an' I shan't be sorry."

"But she'll look ever so beautiful when she's a May Queen."

"You'd look nicer," said William.

Bettine's small pale face flamed.

"Oh no," she said.

"Would you like to be a May Queen?"

"Oh, yes," she said.

"Um," said William, and returned to the discomfiture of Evangeline Fish by his steady concentrated scowl.

The next day he had the opportunity of watching her eating cakes. They met at the birthday party of a mutual classmate, and Evangeline Fish took her stand by the table and consumed cakes with a perseverance and determination worthy of a nobler cause. William accorded her a certain grudging admiration. Not once did she falter or faint. Iced cakes, cream cakes, pastries melted away before her and never did she lose her ethereal angelic appearance. Tight golden ringlets, blue eyes, faintly flushed cheeks, vivid pale blue dress remained immaculate and unruffled, and still she ate cakes. William watched her in amazement, forgetting even to scowl at her. Her capacity for cakes exceeded even William's, and his was no mean one.

They had a rehearsal of the Maypole dance and crowning the next day.



"I want William Brown to hold the queen's train," said Miss Dewhurst.

"Me?" ejaculated William in horror. "D'you mean me?"

"Yes, dear. It's a great honour to be asked to hold little Queen Evangeline's train. I'm sure you feel very proud. You must be her little courtier."

"Huh!" said William, transferring his scowl to Miss Dewhurst.

Evangeline beamed. She wanted William's admiration. William was the only boy in the form who was not her slave. She smiled at William sweetly.

"I'm not good at holdin' trains," said William. "I don't like holdin' trains. I've never bin taught 'bout holdin' trains. I might do it wrong on the day an' spoil it all. I shan't like to spoil it all," he added virtuously.

"Oh, we'll have heaps of practices," said Miss Dewhurst brightly.

As he was going Bettine pressed a small apple into his hand.

"A present for you," she murmured. "I saved it from my dinner."

He was touched.

"I'll give you somethin' to-morrow," he said, adding hastily, "if I can find anythin'."

They stood in silence till he had finished his apple.

"I've left a lot on the core," he said in a tone of unusual politeness, handing it to her, "would you like to finish it?"

"No, thank you. William, you'll look so nice holding her train."

"I don't want to, an' I bet I won't! You don't know the things I can do," he said darkly.

"Oh, William!" she gasped in awe and admiration.

"I'd hold your train if you was goin' to be queen," he volunteered.

"I wouldn't want you to hold my train," she said earnestly. "I'd—I'd—I'd want you to be May King with me."

"Yes. Why don't they have May Kings?" said William, stung by this insult to his sex.

"Why shouldn't there be a May King?"

"I speck they do, really, only p'raps Miss Dewhurst doesn't know abut it."

"Well, it doesn't seem sense not having May Kings, does it? I wun't mind bein' May King if you was May Queen."

* * * * *

The rehearsal was, on the whole, a failure.

"William Brown, don't hold the train so high. No, not quite so low. Don't stand so near the Queen, William Brown. No, not so far away—you'll pull the train off. Walk when the Queen walks, William Brown, don't stand still. Sing up, please, train bearer. No, not quite so loud. That's deafening and not melodious."

In the end he was degraded from the position of train-bearer to that of ordinary "swain." The "swains" were to be dressed in smocks and the "maidens" in print dresses, and the Maypole dance was to be performed round Evangeline Fish, who was to stand in queenly attire by the pole in the middle. All the village was to be invited.

At the end of the rehearsal William came upon Bettine, once more gazing wistfully at Evangeline Fish, who was coquetting (with many tosses of the fair ringlets) before a crowd of admirers.

"Isn't it lovely for her to be May Queen?" said Bettine.

"She's a rotten one," said William. "I'm jolly glad I've not to hold up her rotten ole train an' listen to her narsy squeaky voice singin' close to, an' I'll give you a present to-morrow."

He did. He found a centipede in the garden and pressed it into her hand on the way to school.

"They're jolly int'restin'," he said. "Put it in a match-box and make holes for its breath and it'll live ever so long. It won't bite you if you hold it the right way."

And because she loved William she took it without even a shudder.

Evangeline Fish began to pursue William. She grudged him bitterly to Bettine. She pirouetted near him in her sky-blue garments, she tossed her ringlets about him. She ogled him with her pale blue eyes.

And in the long school hours during which he dreamed at his desk, or played games with his friends, while highly-paid instructors poured forth their wisdom for his benefit, William evolved a plan. Unfortunately, like most plans, it required capital, and William had no capital. Occasionally William's elder brother Robert would supply a few shillings without inconvenient questions, but it happened that Robert was ignoring William's existence at that time. For Robert had (not for the first time) discovered his Ideal, and the Ideal had been asked to lunch the previous week. For days before Robert had made William's life miserable. He had objected to William's unbrushed hair and unmanicured hands, and untidy person, and noisy habits. He had bitterly demanded what She would think on being asked to a house where she might meet such an individual as William; he had insisted that William should be taught habits of cleanliness and silence before She came; he had hinted darkly that a man who had William for a brother was hampered considerably in his love affairs because She would think it was a queer kind of family where anyone like William was allowed to grow up. He had reserved some of his fervour for the cook. She must have a proper lunch—not stews and stuff they often had—there must be three vegetables and there must be cheese straws. Cook must learn to make better cheese straws. And William, having swallowed insults for three whole days, planned vengeance. It was a vengeance which only William could have planned or carried out. For only William could have seized a moment just before lunch when the meal was dished up and cook happened to be out of the kitchen to carry the principal dishes down to the coal cellar and conceal them beneath the best nuts.

It is well to draw a veil over the next half-hour. Both William and the meal had vanished. Robert tore his hair and appealed vainly to the heavens. He hinted darkly at suicide. For what is cold tongue and coffee to offer to an Ideal? The meal was discovered during the afternoon in its resting-place and given to William's mongrel, Jumble, who crept about during the next few days in agonies of indigestion. Robert had bitterly demanded of William why he went about the world spoiling people's lives and ruining their happiness. He had implied that when William met with the One and Only Love of his Life he need look for no help or assistance from him (Robert), because he (William) had dashed to the ground his (Robert's) cup of happiness, because he'd never in his life met anyone before like Miss Laing, and never would again, and he (William) had simply condemned him to a lonely and miserable old age, because who'd want to marry anyone that asked them to lunch and then gave them coffee and cold tongue, and he'd never want to marry anyone else, because it was the One and Only Love of his Life, and he hoped he (William) would realise, when he was old enough to realise, what it meant to have your life spoilt and your happiness ruined all through coffee and tongue, because someone you'd never speak to again had hidden the lunch. Whence it came that William, optimist though he was, felt that any appeal to Robert for funds would be inopportune, to say the least of it.

But Providence was on William's side for once. An old uncle came to tea and gave William five shillings.

"Going to dance at a Maypole, I hear?" he chuckled.

"P'raps," was all William said.

His family were relieved by his meekness with regard to the May Day festival. Sometimes William made such a foolish fuss about being dressed up and performing in public.

"You know, dear," said his mother, "it's a dear old festival, and quite an honour to take part in it, and a smock is quite a nice manly garment."

"Yes, Mother," said William.

The day was fine—a real May Day. The Maypole was fixed up in the field near the school, and the little performers were to change in the schoolroom.

William went out with his brown paper parcel of stage properties under his arm and stood gazing up the road by which Evangeline Fish must come to the school. For Evangeline Fish would have to pass his gate. Soon he saw her, her pale blue radiant in the sun.

"'Ullo!" he greeted her.

She simpered. She had won him at last.

"Waitin' to walk to the school with me, William?" she said.

He still loitered.

"You're awful early."

"Am I? I thought I was late. I meant to be late. I don't want to be too early. I'm the most 'portant person, and I want to walk in after the others, then they'll all look at me."

She tossed her tightly-wrought curls.

"Come into our ole shed a minute," said William. "I've got a present for you."

She blushed and ogled.

"Oh, William!" she said, and followed him into the wood-shed.

"Look!" he said.



His uncle's five shillings had been well expended. Rows of cakes lay round the shed, pastries, and sugar cakes, and iced cakes, and currant cakes.

"Have a lot," said William. "They're all for you. Go on! Eat 'em all. You can eat an' eat an' eat. There's lots an' lots of time and they can't begin without you, can they?"

"Oh, William!" she said.

She gloated over them.

"Oh, may I?"

"There's heaps of time," said William. "Go on! Eat them all!"

Her greedy little eyes seemed to stand out of her head.

"Oo!" she said in rapture.

She sat down on the floor and began to eat, lost to everything but icing and currants and pastry. William made for the door, then he paused, gazed wistfully at the feast, stepped back, and, grabbing a cream bun in each hand, crept quietly away.

Bettine in her print frock was at the door of the school.

"Hurry up!" she said anxiously. "You're going to be late. The others are all out. They're waiting to begin. Miss Dewhurst's out there. They're all come but you an' the Queen. I stayed 'cause you asked me to stay to help you."

He came in and shut the door.

"You're goin' to be May Queen," he announced firmly.

"Me?" she said in amazement.

"Yes. An' I'm goin' to be King."

He unwrapped his parcel.

"Look!" he said.

He had ransacked his sister's bedroom. Once Ethel had been to a fancy dress dance as a Fairy. Over Bettine's print frock he drew a crumpled gauze slip with wings, torn in several places. On her brow he placed a tinsel crown at a rakish angle. And she quivered with happiness.

"Oh, how lovely!" she said. "How lovely! How lovely!"

His own preparations were simpler. He tied a red sash that he had taken off his sister's hat over his right shoulder and under his left arm on the top of his smock. Someone had once given him a small 'bus conductor's cap with a toy set of tickets and clippers. He placed the cap upon his head with its peak over one eye. It was the only official headgear he had been able to procure. Then he took a piece of burnt cork from his parcel and solemnly drew a fierce and military moustache upon his cheek and lip. To William no kind of theatricals was complete without a corked moustache.

Then he took Bettine by the hand and led her out to the Maypole.

The dancers were all waiting holding the ribbons. The audience was assembled and a murmur of conversation was rising from it. It ceased abruptly as William and Bettine appeared. William's father, mother and sister were in the front row. Robert was not there. Robert had declined to come to anything in which that little wretch was to perform. He'd jolly well had enough of that little wretch to last his lifetime, thank you very much.



William and Bettine stepped solemnly hand in hand upon the little platform which had been provided for the May Queen.

Miss Dewhurst, who was chatting amicably to the parents till the last of her small performers should appear, seemed suddenly turned to stone, with mouth gaping and eyes wide. The old fiddler, who was rather short-sighted, struck up the strains, and the dancers began to dance. The audience relaxed, leaning back in their chairs to enjoy the scene. Miss Dewhurst was still frozen. There were murmured comments. "How curious to have that boy there! A sort of attendant, I suppose."

"Yes, perhaps he's something allegorical. A sort of pageant. Good Luck or something. It's not quite the sort of thing I expected, I must admit."

"What do you think of the Queen's dress? I always thought Miss Dewhurst had better taste. Rather tawdry, I call it."

"I think the moustache is a mistake. It gives quite a common look to the whole thing. I wonder who he's meant to be? Pan, do you think?" uncertainly.

"Oh, no, nothing so pagan, I hope," said an elderly matron, horrified. "He's that Brown boy, you know. There always seems to be something queer about anything he's in. I've noticed it often. But I hope he's meant to be something more Christian than Pan, though one never knows in these days," she added darkly.

William's sister had recognised her possessions, and was gasping in anger.

William's father, who knew William, was smiling sardonically.

William's mother was smiling proudly.

"You're always running down William," she said to the world in general, "but look at him now. He's got a very important part, and he said nothing about it at home. I call it very nice and modest of him. And what a dear little girl."

Bettine, standing on the platform with William's hand holding hers and the Maypole dancers dancing round her, was radiant with pride and happiness.

* * * * *

And Evangeline Fish in the wood-shed was just beginning the last currant cake.



CHAPTER IX

THE REVENGE

William was a scout. The fact was well known. There was no one within a five-mile radius of William's home who did not know it. Sensitive old ladies had fled shuddering from their front windows when William marched down the street singing (the word is a euphemism) his scout songs in his strong young voice. Curious smells emanated from the depth of the garden where William performed mysterious culinary operations. One old lady whose cat had disappeared looked at William with dour suspicion in her eye whenever he passed. Even the return of her cat a few weeks later did not remove the hostility from her gaze whenever it happened to rest upon William.

William's family had welcomed the suggestion of William's becoming a scout.

"It will keep him out of mischief," they had said.

They were notoriously optimistic where William was concerned.

William's elder brother only was doubtful.

"You know what William is," he said, and in that dark saying much was contained.

Things went fairly smoothly for some time. He took the scouts' law of a daily deed of kindness in its most literal sense. He was to do one (and one only) deed of kindness a day. There were times when he forced complete strangers, much to their embarrassment, to be the unwilling recipients of his deed of kindness. There were times when he answered any demand for help with a cold: "No, I've done it to-day."

He received with saint-like patience the eloquence of his elder sister when she found her silk scarf tied into innumerable knots.

"Well, they're jolly good knots," was all he said.

He had been looking forward to the holidays for a long time. He was to "go under canvas" at the end of the first week.

The first day of the holidays began badly. William's father had been disturbed by William, whose room was just above and who had spent most of the night performing gymnastics as instructed by his scout-master.

"No, he didn't say do it at nights, but he said do it. He said it would make us grow up strong men. Don't you want me to grow up a strong man? He's ever so strong an' he did 'em. Why shun't I?"

His mother found a pan with the bottom burnt out and at once accused William of the crime. William could not deny it.

"Well, I was makin' sumthin', sumthin' he'd told us an' I forgot it. Well, I've got to make things if I'm a scout. I didn't mean to forget it. I won't forget it next time. It's a rotten pan, anyway, to burn itself into a hole jus' for that."

At this point William's father received a note from a neighbour whose garden adjoined William's and whose life had been rendered intolerable by William's efforts upon his bugle.

The bugle was confiscated.

Darkness descended upon William's soul.

"Well," he muttered, "I'm goin' under canvas next week an' I'm jolly glad I'm goin'. P'r'aps you'll be sorry when I'm gone."

He went out into the garden and stood gazing moodily into space, his hands in the pocket of his short scout trousers, for William dressed on any and every occasion in his official costume.

"Can't even have the bugle," he complained to the landscape. "Can't even use their rotten ole pans. Can't tie knots in any of their ole things. Wot's the good of bein' a scout?"

His indignation grew and with it a desire to be avenged upon his family.

"I'd like to do somethin'," he confided to a rose bush with a ferocious scowl. "Somethin' jus' to show 'em."

Then his face brightened. He had an idea.

He'd get lost. He'd get really lost. They'd be sorry then alright. They'd p'r'aps think he was dead and they'd be sorry then alright. He imagined their relief, their tearful apologies when at last he returned to the bosom of his family. It was worth trying, anyway.

He set off cheerfully down the drive. He decided to stay away for lunch and tea and supper, and to return at dusk to a penitent, conscience-stricken family.

He first made his way to a neighbouring wood, where he arranged a pile of twigs for a fire, but they refused to light, even with the aid of the match that William found adhering to a piece of putty in the recess of one of his pockets.

Slightly dispirited, he turned his attention to his handkerchief and tied knots in it till it gave way under the strain. William's handkerchiefs, being regularly used to perform the functions of blotting paper among other duties not generally entrusted to handkerchiefs, were always in the last stages of decrepitude.

He felt rather bored and began to wonder whether it was lunch-time or not.

He then "scouted" the wood and by his wood lore traced three distinct savage tribes' passage through the wood and found the tracks of several elephants. He engaged in deadly warfare with about half-a-dozen lions, then tired of the sport. It must be about lunch-time. He could imagine Ethel, his sister, hunting for him wildly high and low with growing pangs of remorse. She'd wish she'd made less fuss over that old scarf. His mother would recall the scene over the pan and her heart would fail her. His father would think with shame of his conduct in the matter of the bugle.

"Poor William! How cruel we were! How different we shall be if only he comes home ...!"

He could almost hear the words. Perhaps his mother was weeping now. His father—wild-eyed and white-lipped—was pacing his study, waiting for news, eager to atone for his unkindness to his missing son. Perhaps he had the bugle on the table ready to give back to him. Perhaps he'd even bought him a new one.

He imagined the scene of his return. He would be nobly forgiving. He would accept the gift of the new bugle without a word of reproach. His heart thrilled at the thought of it.

He was getting jolly hungry. It must be after lunch-time. But it would spoil it all to go home too early.

Here he caught sight of a minute figure regarding him with a steady gaze and holding a paper bag in one hand.

William stared down at him.

"Wot you dressed up like that for?" said the apparition, with a touch of scorn in his voice.

William looked down at his sacred uniform and scowled. "I'm a scout," he said loftily.

"'Cout?" repeated the apparition, with an air of polite boredom. "Wot's your name?"

"William."

"Mine's Thomas. Will you catch me a wopse? Look at my wopses!"

He opened the bag slightly and William caught sight of a crowd of wasps buzzing about inside the bag.

"Want more," demanded the infant. "Want lots more. Look. Snells!"

He brought out a handful of snails from a miniature pocket, and put them on the ground.

"Watch 'em put their horns out! Watch 'em walk. Look! They're walkin'. They're walkin'."

His voice was a scream of ecstasy. He took them up and returned them to their pocket. From another he drew out a wriggling mass.

"Wood-lice!" he explained, casually. "Got worms in 'nother pocket."

He returned the wood-lice to his pocket except one, which he held between a finger and thumb laid thoughtfully against his lip. "Want wopses now. You get 'em for me."

William roused himself from his bewilderment.

"How—how do you catch 'em?" he said.

"Wings," replied Thomas. "Get hold of their wings an' they don't sting. Sometimes they do, though," he added casually. "Then your hands go big."

A wasp settled near him, and very neatly the young naturalist picked him up and put him in his paper prison.

"Now you get one," he ordered William.

William determined not to be outshone by this minute but dauntless stranger. As a wasp obligingly settled on a flower near him, he put out his hand, only to withdraw it with a yell of pain and apply it to his mouth.

"Oo—ou!" he said. "Crumbs!"

Thomas emitted a peal of laughter.

"You stung?" he said. "Did it sting you? Funny!"

William's expression of rage and pain was exquisite to him.

"Come on, boy!" he ordered at last. "Let's go somewhere else."

William's bewildered dignity made a last stand.

"You can go," he said. "I'm playin' by myself."

"All right!" agreed Thomas. "You play by you'self an' me play by myself, an' we'll be together—playin' by ourselves."

He set off down a path, and meekly William followed.

It must be jolly late—almost tea-time.

"I'm hungry," said Thomas suddenly. "Give me some brekfust."

"I haven't got any," said William irritably.

"Well, find some," persisted the infant.

"I can't. There isn't any to find."

"Well, buy some!"

"I haven't any money."

"Well, buy some money."

Goaded, William turned on him.

"Go away!" he bellowed.

Thomas's blue eyes, beneath a mop of curls, met his coldly.

"Don't talk so loud," he said sternly. "There's some blackberries there. You can get me some blackberries."

William began to walk away, but Thomas trotted by his side.

"There!" he persisted. "Jus' where I'm pointing. Lovely great big suge ones. Get 'em for my brekfust."

Reluctantly the scout turned to perform his deed of kindness.

Thomas consumed blackberries faster than William could gather them.

"Up there," he commanded. "No, the one right up there I want. I want it kick. I've etten all the others."

William was scratched and breathless, and his shirt was torn when at last the rapacious Thomas was satisfied. Then he partook of a little refreshment himself, while Thomas turned out his pockets.

"I'll let 'em go now," he said.

One of his wood-lice, however, stayed motionless where he put it.

"Wot's the matter with it?" said William, curiously.

"I 'speck me's the matter wif it," said Thomas succinctly. "Now, get me some lickle fishes, an' tadpoles an' water sings," he went on cheerfully.

William turned round from his blackberry-bush.

"Well, I won't," he said decidedly. "I've had enough!"

"You've had 'nuff brekfust," said Thomas sternly. "I've found a lickle tin for the sings, so be kick. Oo, here's a fly! A green fly! It's sittin' on my finger. Does it like me 'cause it's sittin' on my finger?"

"No," said William, turning a purple-stained countenance round scornfully.

It must be nearly night. He didn't want to be too hard on them, to make his mother ill or anything. He wanted to be as kind as possible. He'd forgive them at once when he got home. He'd ask for one or two things he wanted, as well as the new bugle. A new penknife, and an engine with a real boiler.

"Waffor does it not like me?" persisted Thomas.

William was silent. Question and questioner were beneath contempt.

"Waffor does it not like me?" he shouted stridently.

"Flies don't like people, silly."

"Waffor not?" retorted Thomas.

"They don't know anything about them."

"Well, I'll tell it about me. My name's Thomas," he said to the fly politely. "Now does it like me?"

William groaned. But the fly had now vanished, and Thomas once more grew impatient.

"Come on!" he said. "Come on an' find sings for me."

William's manly spirit was by this time so far broken that he followed his new acquaintance to a neighbouring pond, growling threateningly but impotently.

"Now," commanded his small tyrant, "take off your boots an' stockings an' go an' find things for me."

"Take off yours," growled William, "an' find things for yourself."

"No," said Thomas, "crockerdiles might be there an' bite my toes. An pittanopotamuses might be there. If you don't go in, I'll scream an' scream an' scream."

William went in.

He walked gingerly about the muddy pond. Thomas watched him critically from the bank.

"I don't like your hair," he said confidingly.

William growled.

He caught various small swimming objects in the tin, and brought them to the bank for inspection.

"I want more'n that," said Thomas calmly.

"Well, you won't get it," retorted William.

He began to put on his boots and stockings, wondering desperately how to rid himself of his unwanted companion. But Fate solved the problem. With a loud cry a woman came running down the path.

"Tommy," she said. "My little darling Tommy. I thought you were lost!" She turned furiously to William. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said. "A great boy of your age leading a little child like this into mischief! If his father was here, he'd show you. You ought to know better! And you a scout."

William gasped.



"Well!" he said. "An' I've bin doin' deeds of kindness on him all morning. I've——"

She turned away indignantly, holding Thomas's hand.

"You're never to go with that nasty rough boy again, darling," she said.

"Got lots of wopses an' some fishes," murmured Thomas contentedly.

They disappeared down the path. With a feeling of depression and disillusionment William turned to go home.

Then his spirits rose. After all, he'd got rid of Thomas, and he was going home to a contrite family. It must be about supper-time. It would be getting dark soon. But it still stayed light a long time now. It wouldn't matter if he just got in for supper. It would have given them time to think things over. He could see his father speaking unsteadily, and holding out his hand.

"My boy ... let bygones be bygones ... if there is anything you want...."

His father had never said anything of this sort to him yet, but, by a violent stretch of imagination, he could just conceive it.

His mother, of course, would cry over him, and so would Ethel.

"Dear William ... do forgive us ... we have been so miserable since you went away ... we will never treat you so again."

This again was unlike the Ethel he knew, but sorrow has a refining effect on all characters.

He entered the gate self-consciously. Ethel was at the front-door. She looked at his torn shirt and mud-caked knees.

"You'd better hurry if you're going to be ready for lunch," she said coldly.

"Lunch?" faltered William. "What time is it?"

"Ten to one. Father's in, so I warn you," she added unpleasantly.

He entered the house in a dazed fashion. His mother was in the hall.

"William!" she said impatiently. "Another shirt torn! You really are careless. You'll have to stop being a scout if that's the way you treat your clothes. And look at your knees!"

Pale and speechless, he went towards the stairs. His father was coming out of the library smoking a pipe. He looked at his son grimly.

"If you aren't downstairs cleaned by the time the lunch-bell goes, my son," he said, "you won't see that bugle of yours this side of Christmas."

William swallowed.

"Yes, father," he said meekly.

He went slowly upstairs to the bathroom.

Life was a rotten show.



CHAPTER X

THE HELPER

The excitement began at breakfast. William descended slightly late, and, after receiving his parents' reproaches with an air of weary boredom, ate his porridge listlessly. He had come to the conclusion that morning that there was a certain monotonous sameness about life. One got up, and had one's breakfast, and went to school, and had one's dinner, and went to school, and had one's tea, and played, and had one's supper, and went to bed. Even the fact that to-day was a half-term holiday did not dispel his depression. One day's holiday! What good was one day? We all have experienced such feelings.

Half abstractedly he began to listen to his elders' conversation.

"They promised to be here by nine," his mother was saying. "I do hope they won't be late!"

"Well, it's not much good their coming if the other house isn't ready, is it?" said William's grown-up sister Ethel. "I don't believe they've even finished painting!"

"I'm so sorry it's William's half-term holiday," sighed Mrs. Brown. "He'll be frightfully in the way."

William's outlook on life brightened considerably.

"They comin' removin' this morning?" he inquired cheerfully.

"Yes, DO try not to hinder them, William."

"Me?" he said indignantly. "I'm goin' to help!"

"If William's going to help," remarked his father, "thank Heaven I shan't be here. Your assistance, William, always seems to be even more devastating in its results than your opposition!"

William smiled politely. Sarcasm was always wasted on William.

"Well," he said, rising from the table, "I'd better go an' be gettin' ready to help."

Ten minutes later Mrs. Brown, coming out of the kitchen from her interview with the cook, found to her amazement that the steps of the front door were covered with small ornaments. As she stood staring William appeared from the drawing-room staggering under the weight of a priceless little statuette that had been the property of Mr. Brown's great grandfather.

"WILLIAM!" she gasped.

"I'm gettin' all the little things ready for 'em jus' to carry straight down. If I put everything on the steps they don't need come into the house at all. You said you didn't want 'em trampin' in dirty boots!"

It took a quarter of an hour to replace them. Over the fragments of a blue delf bowl Mrs. Brown sighed deeply.

"I wish you'd broken anything but this, William."

"Well," he excused himself, "you said things do get broken removin'. You said so yourself! I didn't break it on purpose. It jus' got broken removin'."

At this point the removers arrived.

There were three of them. One was very fat and jovial, and one was thin and harassed-looking, and a third wore a sheepish smile and walked with a slightly unsteady gait. They made profuse apologies for their lateness.

"You'd better begin with the dining-room," said Mrs. Brown. "Will you pack the china first? William, get out of the way!"

She left them packing, assisted by William. William carried the things to them from the sideboard cupboards.

"What's your names?" he asked, as he stumbled over a glass bowl that he had inadvertently left on the hearth-rug. His progress was further delayed while he conscientiously picked up the fragments. "Things do get broken removin'," he murmured.

"Mine is Mister Blake and 'is is Mister Johnson, and 'is is Mister Jones."

"Which is Mr. Jones? The one that walks funny?"

They shook with herculean laughter, so much so that a china cream jug slipped from Mr. Blake's fingers and lay in innumerable pieces round his boot. He kicked it carelessly aside.

"Yus," he said, bending anew to his task, "'im wot walks funny."

"Why's he walk funny?" persisted William. "Has he hurt his legs?"

"Yus," said Blake with a wink. "'E 'urt 'em at the Blue Cow comin' 'ere."

Mr. Jones' sheepish smile broadened into a guffaw.

"Well, you rest," said William sympathetically. "You lie down on the sofa an' rest. I'll help, so's you needn't do anything!"

Mr. Jones grew hilarious.

"Come on!" he said. "My eye! This young gent's all roight, 'e is. You lie down an' rest, 'e says! Well, 'ere goes!"

To the huge delight of his companions, he stretched himself at length upon the chesterfield and closed his eyes. William surveyed him with pleasure.

"That's right," he said. "I'll—I'll show you my dog when your legs are better. I've gotter fine dog!"

"What sort of a dog?" said Mr. Blake, resting from his labours to ask the question.

"He's no partic'lar sort of a dog," said William honestly, "but he's a jolly fine dog. You should see him do tricks!"



"Well, let's 'ave a look at 'im. Fetch 'im art."

William, highly delighted, complied, and Jumble showed off his best tricks to an appreciative audience of two (Mr. Jones had already succumbed to the drowsiness that had long been creeping over him and was lying dead to the world on the chesterfield).

Jumble begged for a biscuit, he walked (perforce, for William's hand firmly imprisoned his front ones) on his hind legs, he leapt over William's arm. He leapt into the very centre of an old Venetian glass that was on the floor by the packing-case and cut his foot slightly on a piece of it, but fortunately suffered no ill-effects.

William saw consternation on Mr. Johnson's face and hastened to gather the pieces and fling them lightly into the waste-paper basket.

"It's all right," he said soothingly. "She said things get broken removin'."

When Mrs. Brown entered the room ten minutes later, Mr. Jones was still asleep, Jumble was still performing, and Messrs. Blake and Johnson were standing in negligent attitudes against the wall appraising the eager Jumble with sportsmanlike eyes.

"'E's no breed," Mr. Blake was saying, "but 'e's orl roight. I'd loik to see 'im arfter a rat. I bet 'e'd——"

Seeing Mrs. Brown, he hastily seized a vase from the mantel-piece and carried it over to the packing case, where he appeared suddenly to be working against time. Mr. Johnson followed his example.

Mrs. Brown's eyes fell upon Mr. Jones and she gasped.

"Whatever—" she began.

"'E's not very well 'm," explained Mr. Blake obsequiously. "'E'll be orl roight when 'e's slep' it orf. 'E's always orl roight when 'e's slep' 'it orf."

"He's hurt his legs," explained William. "He hurt his legs at the Blue Cow. He's jus' restin'!"

Mrs. Brown swallowed and counted twenty to herself. It was a practice she had acquired in her youth for use in times when words crowded upon her too thick and fast for utterance.

At last she spoke with unusual bitterness.

"Need he rest with his muddy boots on my chesterfield?"

At this point Mr. Jones awoke from sleep, hypnotised out of it by her cold eye.

He was profuse in his apologies. He believed he had fainted. He had had a bad headache, brought on probably by exposure to the early morning sun. He felt much better after his faint. He regretted having fainted on to the lady's sofa. He partially brushed off the traces of his dirty boots with an equally dirty hand.

"You've done nothing in this room," said Mrs. Brown. "We shall never get finished. William, come away! I'm sure you're hindering them."

"Me?" said William in righteous indignation. "Me? I'm helpin'!"

After what seemed to Mrs. Brown to be several hours they began on the heavy furniture. They staggered out with the dining-room sideboard, carrying away part of the staircase with it in transit. Mrs. Brown, with a paling face, saw her beloved antique cabinet dismembered against the doorpost, and watched her favourite collapsible card-table perform a thorough and permanent collapse. Even the hat-stand from the hall was devoid of some pegs when it finally reached the van.

"This is simply breaking my heart," moaned Mrs. Brown.

"Where's William?" said Ethel, gloomily, looking round.

"'Sh! I don't know. He disappeared a few minutes ago. I don't know where he is. I only hope he'll stay there!"

The removers now proceeded to the drawing-room and prepared to take out the piano. They tried it every way. The first way took a piece out of the doorpost, the second made a dint two inches deep in the piano, the third knocked over the grandfather clock, which fell with a resounding crash, breaking its glass, and incidentally a tall china plant stand that happened to be in its line of descent.

Mrs. Brown sat down and covered her face with her hands.

"It's like some dreadful nightmare!" she groaned.

Messrs. Blake, Johnson and Jones paused to wipe the sweat of honest toil from their brows.

"I dunno 'ow it's to be got out," said Mr. Blake despairingly.

"It got in!" persisted Mrs. Brown. "If it got in it can get out."

"We'll 'ave another try," said Mr. Blake with the air of a hero leading a forlorn hope. "Come on, mites."

This time was successful and the piano passed safely into the hall, leaving in its wake only a dislocated door handle and a torn chair cover. It then passed slowly and devastatingly down the hall and drive.

The next difficulty was to get it into the van. Messrs. Blake, Johnson and Jones tried alone and failed. For ten minutes they tried alone and failed. Between each attempt they paused to mop their brows and throw longing glances towards the Blue Cow, whose signboard was visible down the road.

The gardener, the cook, the housemaid, and Ethel all gave their assistance, and at last, with a superhuman effort, they raised it to the van.

They then all rested weakly against the nearest support and gasped for breath.

"Well," said Mr. Jones, looking reproachfully at the mistress of the house, "I've never 'andled a pianner——"

At this moment a well-known voice was heard in the recesses of the van, behind the piano and sideboard and hat-stand.

"Hey! let me out! What you've gone blockin' up the van for? I can't get out!"

There was a horror-stricken silence. Then Ethel said sharply:

"What did you go in for?"

The mysterious voice came again with a note of irritability.

"Well, I was restin'. I mus' have some rest, mustn't I? I've been helpin' all mornin'."

"Well, couldn't you see we were putting things in?"

The unseen presence spoke again.

"No, I can't. I wasn't lookin'!"

"You can't get out, William," said Mrs. Brown desperately. "We can't move everything again. You must just stop there till it's unpacked. We'll try to push your lunch in to you."

There was determination in the voice that answered, "I want to get out! I'm going to get out!"

There came tumultuous sounds—the sound of the ripping of some material, of the smashing of glass and of William's voice softly ejaculating "Crumbs! that ole lookin' glass gettin' in the way!"

"You'd better take out the piano again," said Mrs. Brown wanly. "It's the only thing to do."

With straining, and efforts, and groans, and a certain amount of destruction, the piano was eventually lowered again to the ground. Then the sideboard and hat-stand were moved to one side, and finally there emerged from the struggle—William and Jumble. Jumble's coat was covered with little pieces of horsehair, as though from the interior of a chair. William's jersey was torn from shoulder to hem. He looked stern and indignant.



"A nice thing to do!" he began bitterly. "Shuttin' me up in that ole van. How d'you expect me to breathe, shut in with ole bits of furniture. Folks can't live without air, can they? A nice thing if you'd found me dead!"

Emotion had deprived his audience of speech for the time being.

With a certain amount of dignity he walked past them into the house followed by Jumble.

It took another quarter of an hour to replace the piano. As they were making the final effort William came out of the house.

"Here, I'll help!" he said, and laid a finger on the side. His presence rather hindered their efforts, but they succeeded in spite of it. William, however, was under the impression that his strength alone had wrought the miracle. He put on an outrageous swagger.

"I'm jolly strong," he confided to Mr. Blake. "I'm stronger than most folk."

Here the removers decided that it was time for their midday repast and retired to consume it in the shady back garden. All except Mr. Jones, who said he would go down the road for a drink of lemonade. William said that there was lemonade in the larder and offered to fetch it, but Mr. Jones said hastily that he wanted a special sort. He had to be very particular what sort of lemonade he drank.

Mrs. Brown and Ethel sat down to a scratch meal in the library. William followed his two new friends wistfully into the garden.

"William! Come to lunch!" called Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, leave him alone, Mother," pleaded Ethel. "Let us have a little peace."

But William did not absent himself for long.

"I want a red handkerchief," he demanded loudly from the hall.

There was no response.

He appeared in the doorway.

"I say, I want a red handkerchief. Have you gotter red handkerchief, Mother?"

"No, dear."

"Have you Ethel?"

"NO!"

"All right," said William aggrievedly. "You needn't get mad, need you? I'm only askin' for a red handkerchief. I don't want a red handkerchief off you if you haven't got it, do I?"

"William, go away and shut the door."

William obeyed. Peace reigned throughout the house and garden for the next half-hour. Then Mrs. Brown's conscience began to prick her.

"William must have something to eat, dear. Do go and find him."

Ethel went out to the back garden. A scene of happy restfulness met her gaze. Mr. Blake reclined against one tree consuming bread and cheese, while a red handkerchief covered his knees. Mr. Johnson reclined against another tree, also consuming bread and cheese, while a red handkerchief covered his knees. William leant against a third tree consuming a little heap of scraps collected from the larder, while on his knees also reposed what was apparently a red handkerchief. Jumble sat in the middle catching with nimble, snapping jaws dainties flung to him from time to time by his circle of admirers.

Ethel advanced nearer and inspected William's red handkerchief with dawning horror in her face. Then she gave a scream.

"William, that's my silk scarf! It was for a hat. I've only just bought it. Oh, mother, do do something to William! He's taken my new silk scarf—the one I'd got to trim my Leghorn. He's the most awful boy. I don't think——"

Mrs. Brown came out hastily to pacify her. William handed the silk scarf back to its rightful owner.

"Well, I'm sorry. I thought it was a red handkerchief. It looked like a red handkerchief. Well, how could I know it wasn't a red handkerchief? I've given it her back. It's all right, Jumble's only bit one end of it. And that's only jam what dropped on it. Well, it'll wash, won't it? Well, I've said I'm sorry.

"I don't get much thanks," William continued bitterly. "Me givin' up my half holiday to helpin' you removin', an' I don't get much thanks!"

"Well, William," said Mrs. Brown, "you can go to the new house with the first van. He'll be less in the way there," she confided distractedly to the world in general.

William was delighted with this proposal. At the new house there was a fresh set of men to unload the van, and there was the thrill of making their acquaintance.

Then the front gate was only just painted and bore a notice "Wet Paint." It was, of course, incumbent upon William to test personally the wetness of the paint. His trousers bore testimony to the testing to their last day, in spite of many applications of turpentine. Jumble also tested it, and had in fact to be disconnected with the front gate by means of a pair of scissors. For many weeks the first thing that visitors to the Brown household saw was a little tuft of Jumble's hair adorning the front gate.

William then proceeded to "help" to the utmost of his power. He stumbled up from the van to the house staggering under the weight of a medicine cupboard, and leaving a trail of broken bottles and little pools of medicine behind. Jumble sampled many of the latter and became somewhat thoughtful.

It was found that the door of a small bedroom at the top of the stairs was locked, and this fact (added to Mr. Jones' failure to return from his lemonade) rather impeded the progress of the unpackers.

"Brike it open," suggested one.

"Better not."

"Per'aps the key's insoide," suggested another brightly.

William had one of his brilliant ideas.

"Tell you what I'll do," he said eagerly and importantly. "I'll climb up to the roof an' get down the chimney an' open it from the inside."

They greeted the proposal with guffaws.

They did not know William.

It was growing dusk when Mrs. Brown and Ethel and the second van load appeared.

"What is that on the gate?" said Ethel, stooping to examine the part of Jumble's coat that brightened up the dulness of the black paint.

"It's that dog!" she said.

Then came a ghost-like cry, apparently from the heavens.

"Mother!"

Mrs. Brown raised a startled countenance to the skies. There seemed to be nothing in the skies that could have addressed her.

Then she suddenly saw a small face peering down over the coping of the roof. It was a face that was very frightened, under a superficial covering of soot. It was William's face.

"I can't get down," it said hoarsely.

Mrs. Brown's heart stood still.

"Stay where you are, William," she said faintly. "Don't move."

The entire staff of removers was summoned. A ladder was borrowed from a neighbouring garden and found to be too short. Another was fetched and fastened to it. William, at his dizzy height, was growing irritable.

"I can't stay up here for ever," he said severely.

At last he was rescued by his friend Mr. Blake and brought down to safety. His account was confused.

"I wanted to help. I wanted to open that door for 'em, so I climbed up by the scullery roof, an' the ivy, an' the drain-pipe, an' I tried to get down the chimney. I didn't know which one it was, but I tried 'em all an' they were all too little, an' I tried to get down by the ivy again but I couldn't, so I waited till you came an' hollered out. I wasn't scared," he said, fixing them with a stern eye. "I wasn't scared a bit. I jus' wanted to get down. An' this ole black chimney stuff tastes beastly. No, I'm all right," he ended, in answer to tender inquiries. "I'll go on helpin'."

He was with difficulty persuaded to retire to bed at a slightly earlier hour than usual.

"Well," he confessed, "I'm a bit tired with helpin' all day."

Soon after he had gone Mr. Brown and Robert arrived.

"And how have things gone to-day?" said Mr. Brown cheerfully.

"Thank heaven William goes to school to-morrow," said Ethel devoutly.

Upstairs in his room William was studying himself in the glass—torn jersey, paint-stained trousers, blackened face.

"Well," he said with a deep sigh of satisfaction, "I guess I've jolly well helped to-day!"



CHAPTER XI

WILLIAM AND THE SMUGGLER

William's family were going to the seaside for February. It was not an ideal month for the seaside, but William's father's doctor had ordered him a complete rest and change.

"We shall have to take William with us, you know," his wife had said as they discussed plans.

"Good heavens!" groaned Mr. Brown. "I thought it was to be a rest cure."

"Yes, but you know what he is," his wife urged. "I daren't leave him with anyone. Certainly not with Ethel. We shall have to take them both. Ethel will help with him."

Ethel was William's grown-up sister.

"All right," agreed her husband finally. "You can take all responsibility. I formally disown him from now till we get back. I don't care what trouble he lands you in. You know what he is and you deliberately take him away with me on a rest cure!"

"It can't be helped dear," said his wife mildly.

William was thrilled by the news. It was several years since he had been at the seaside.

"Will I be able to go swimmin'?"

"It won't be too cold! Well, if I wrap up warm, will I be able to go swimmin'?"

"Can I catch fishes?"

"Are there lots of smugglers smugglin' there?"

"Well, I'm only askin', you needn't get mad!"

One afternoon Mrs. Brown missed her best silver tray and searched the house high and low for it wildly, while dark suspicions of each servant in turn arose in her usually unsuspicious breast.

It was finally discovered in the garden. William had dug a large hole in one of the garden beds. Into the bottom of this he had fitted the tray and had lined the sides with bricks. He had then filled it with water, and taking off his shoes and stockings stepped up and down his narrow pool. He was distinctly aggrieved by Mrs. Brown's reproaches.

"Well, I was practisin' paddlin', ready for goin' to the seaside. I didn't mean to rune your tray. You talk as if I meant to rune your tray. I was only practisin' paddlin'."

At last the day of departure arrived. William was instructed to put his things ready on his bed, and his mother would then come and pack for him. He summoned her proudly over the balusters after about twenty minutes.

"I've got everythin' ready, Mother."

Mrs. Brown ascended to his room.

Upon his bed was a large pop-gun, a football, a dormouse in a cage, a punchball on a stand, a large box of "curios," and a buckskin which was his dearest possession and had been presented to him by an uncle from South Africa.

Mrs. Brown sat down weakly on a chair.

"You can't possibly take any of these things," she said faintly but firmly.

"Well, you said put my things on the bed for you to pack an' I've put them on the bed, an' now you say——"

"I meant clothes."

"Oh, clothes!" scornfully. "I never thought of clothes."

"Well, you can't take any of these things, anyway."

William hastily began to defend his collection of treasures.

"I mus' have the pop-gun 'cause you never know. There may be pirates an' smugglers down there, an' you can kill a man with a pop-gun if you get near enough and know the right place, an' I might need it. An' I must have the football to play on the sands with, an' the punchball to practise boxin' on, an' I must have the dormouse, 'cause—'cause to feed him, an' I must have this box of things and this skin to show to folks I meet down at the seaside, 'cause they're int'restin'."

But Mrs. Brown was firm, and William reluctantly yielded.

In a moment of weakness, finding that his trunk was only three-quarter filled by his things, she slipped in his beloved buckskin, while William himself put the pop-gun inside when no one was looking.

They had been unable to obtain a furnished house, so had to be content with a boarding house. Mr. Brown was eloquent on the subject.

"If you're deliberately turning that child loose into a boarding-house full, presumably, of quiet, inoffensive people, you deserve all you get. It's nothing to do with me. I'm going to have a rest cure. I've disowned him. He can do as he likes."

"It can't be helped, dear," said Mrs. Brown mildly.

Mr. Brown had engaged one of the huts on the beach chiefly for William's use, and William proudly furnished its floor with the buckskin.

"It was killed by my uncle," he announced to the small crowd of children at the door who had watched with interest his painstaking measuring of the floor in order to place his treasure in the exact centre. "He killed it dead—jus' like this."

William had never heard the story of the death of the buck, and therefore had invented one in which he had gradually come to confuse himself with his uncle in the role of hero.

"It was walkin' about an' I—he—met it. I hadn't got no gun, and it sprung at me an' I caught hold of its neck with one hand an' I broke off its horns with the other, an' I knocked it over. An' it got up an' ran at me—him—again, an' I jus' tripped it up with my foot an' it fell over again, an' then I jus' give it one big hit with my fist right on its head, an' it killed it an' it died!"

There was an incredulous gasp.

Then there came a clear, high voice from behind the crowd.

"Little boy, you are not telling the truth."

William looked up into a thin, spectacled face.

"I wasn't tellin' it to you," he remarked, wholly unabashed.

A little girl with dark curls took up the cudgels quite needlessly in William's defence.

"He's a very brave boy to do all that," she said indignantly. "So don't you go saying things to him."

"Well," said William, flattered but modest, "I didn't say I did it, did I? I said my uncle—well, partly my uncle."

Mr. Percival Jones looked down at him in righteous wrath.

"You're a very wicked little boy. I'll tell your father—er—I'll tell your sister."

For Ethel was approaching in the distance and Mr. Percival Jones was in no way loth to converse with her.



Mr. Percival Jones was a thin, pale, aesthetic would-be poet who lived and thrived on the admiration of the elderly ladies of his boarding-house, and had done so for the past ten years. Once he had published a volume of poems at his own expense. He lived at the same boarding-house as the Browns, and had seen Ethel in the distance to meals. He had admired the red lights in her dark hair and the blue of her eyes, and had even gone so far as to wonder whether she possessed the solid and enduring qualities which he would require of one whom in his mind he referred to as his "future spouse."

He began to walk down the beach with her.

"I should like to speak to you—er—about your brother, Miss Brown," he began, "if you can spare me the time, of course. I trust I do not er—intrude or presume. He is a charming little man but—er—I fear—not veracious. May I accompany you a little on your way? I am—er—much attracted to your—er—family. I—er—should like to know you all better. I am—er—deeply attached to your—er—little brother, but grieved to find that he does not—er—adhere to the truth in his statements. I—er——"

Miss Brown's blue eyes were dancing with merriment.

"Oh, don't you worry about William," she said. "He's awful. It's much best just to leave him alone. Isn't the sea gorgeous to-day?"

They walked along the sands.

Meanwhile William had invited his small defender into his hut.

"You can look round," he said graciously. "You've seen my skin what I—he—killed, haven't you? This is my gun. You put a cork in there and it comes out hard when you shoot it. It would kill anyone," impressively, "if you did it near enough to them and at the right place. An' I've got a dormouse, an' a punchball, an' a box of things, an' a football, but they wouldn't let me bring them," bitterly.

"It's a lovely skin," said the little girl. "What's your name?"

"William. What's yours?"

"Peggy."

"Well, let's be on a desert island, shall we? An' nothin' to eat nor anything, shall we? Come on."

She nodded eagerly.

"How lovely!"

They wandered out on to the promenade, and among a large crowd of passers-by bemoaned the lonely emptiness of the island and scanned the horizon for a sail. In the far distance on the cliffs could be seen the figures of Mr. Percival Jones and William's sister, walking slowly away from the town.

At last they turned towards the hut.

"We must find somethin' to eat," said William firmly. "We can't let ourselves starve to death."

"Shrimps?" suggested Peggy cheerfully.

"We haven't got nets," said William. "We couldn't save them from the wreck."

"Periwinkles?"

"There aren't any on this island. I know! Seaweed! An' we'll cook it."

"Oh, how lovely!"

He gathered up a handful of seaweed and they entered the hut, leaving a white handkerchief tied on to the door to attract the attention of any passing ship. The hut was provided with a gas ring and William, disregarding his family's express injunction, lit this and put on a saucepan filled with water and seaweed.

"We'll pretend it's a wood fire," he said. "We couldn't make a real wood fire out on the prom. They'd stop us. So we'll pretend this is. An' we'll pretend we saved a saucepan from the wreck."

After a few minutes he took off the pan and drew out a long green strand.

"You eat it first," he said politely.

The smell of it was not pleasant. Peggy drew back.

"Oh, no, you first!"

"No, you," said William nobly. "You look hungrier than me."

She bit off a piece, chewed it, shut her eyes and swallowed.

"Now you," she said with a shade of vindictiveness in her voice. "You're not going to not have any."

William took a mouthful and shivered.

"I think it's gone bad," he said critically.

Peggy's rosy face had paled.

"I'm going home," she said suddenly.

"You can't go home on a desert island," said William severely.

"Well, I'm going to be rescued then," she said.

"I think I am, too," said William.

It was lunch time when William arrived at the boarding-house. Mr. Percival Jones had moved his place so as to be nearer Ethel. He was now convinced that she was possessed of every virtue his future "spouse" could need. He conversed brightly and incessantly during the meal. Mr. Brown grew restive.

"The man will drive me mad," he said afterwards. "Bleating away! What's he bleating about anyway? Can't you stop him bleating, Ethel? You seem to have influence. Bleat! Bleat! Bleat! Good Lord! And me here for a rest cure!"

At this point he was summoned to the telephone and returned distraught.

"It's an unknown female," he said. "She says that a boy of the name of William from this boarding-house has made her little girl sick by forcing her to eat seaweed. She says it's brutal. Does anyone know I'm here for a rest cure? Where is the boy? Good heavens! Where is the boy?"

But William, like Peggy, had retired from the world for a space. He returned later on in the afternoon, looking pale and chastened. He bore the reproaches of his family in stately silence.