STILL—WILLIAM

“NOW YOU MUTH PLAY WITH ME,” LISPED VIOLET
ELIZABETH, SWEETLY.

“I DON’T PLAY LITTLE GIRL’S GAMES,” ANSWERED THE
DISGUSTED WILLIAM.

STILL—WILLIAM

BY

RICHMAL CROMPTON

ILLUSTRATED BY

THOMAS HENRY

LONDON

GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED

SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, W.C.

Made and Printed in Great Britain by
Wyman & Sons, Ltd., London, Fakenham and Reading.

TO
COLONEL R. E. CROMPTON, C.B., R.E.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE BISHOP’S HANDKERCHIEF

Until now William had taken no interest in his handkerchiefs as toilet accessories. They were greyish (once white) squares useful for blotting ink or carrying frogs or making lifelike rats to divert the long hours of afternoon school, but otherwise he had had no pride or interest in them.

But last week, Ginger (a member of the circle known to themselves as the Outlaws of which William was the leader) had received a handkerchief as a birthday present from an aunt in London. William, on hearing the news, had jeered, but the sight of the handkerchief had silenced him.

It was a large handkerchief, larger than William had conceived it possible for handkerchiefs to be. It was made of silk, and contained all the colours of the rainbow. Round the edge green dragons sported upon a red ground. Ginger displayed it at first deprecatingly, fully prepared for scorn and merriment, and for some moments the fate of the handkerchief hung in the balance. But there was something about the handkerchief that impressed them.

“Kinder—funny,” said Henry critically.

“Jolly big, isn’t it?” said Douglas uncertainly.

“’S more like a sheet,” said William, wavering between scorn and admiration.

Ginger was relieved. At any rate they had taken it seriously. They had not wept tears of mirth over it. That afternoon he drew it out of his pocket with a flourish and airily wiped his nose with it. The next morning Henry appeared with a handkerchief almost exactly like it, and the day after that Douglas had one. William felt his prestige lowered. He—the born leader—was the only one of the select circle who did not possess a coloured silk handkerchief.

That evening he approached his mother.

“I don’t think white ones is much use,” he said.

“Don’t scrape your feet on the carpet, William,” said his mother placidly. “I thought white ones were the only tame kind—not that I think your father will let you have any more. You know what he said when they got all over the floor and bit his finger.”

“I’m not talkin’ about rats,” said William. “I’m talkin’ about handkerchiefs.”

“Oh—handkerchiefs! White ones are far the best. They launder properly. They come out a good colour—at least yours don’t, but that’s because you get them so black—but there’s nothing better than white linen.”

“Pers’nally,” said William with a judicial air, “I think silk’s better than linen an’ white’s so tirin’ to look at. I think a kind of colour’s better for your eyes. My eyes do ache a bit sometimes. I think it’s prob’ly with keep lookin’ at white handkerchiefs.”

“Don’t be silly, William. I’m not going to buy you silk handkerchiefs to get covered with mud and ink and coal as yours do.”

Mrs. Brown calmly cut off her darning wool as she spoke, and took another sock from the pile by her chair. William sighed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do those things with a silk one,” he said earnestly. “It’s only because they’re cotton ones I do those things.”

“Linen,” corrected Mrs. Brown.

“Linen an’ cotton’s the same,” said William, “it’s not silk. I jus’ want a silk one with colours an’ so on, that’s all. That’s all I want. It’s not much. Just a silk handkerchief with colours. Surely——”

“I’m not going to buy you another thing, William,” said Mrs. Brown firmly. “I had to get you a new suit and new collars only last month, and your overcoat’s dreadful, because you will crawl through the ditch in it——”

William resented this cowardly change of attack.

“I’m not talkin’ about suits an’ collars an’ overcoats an’ so on——” he said; “I’m talkin’ about handkerchiefs. I simply ask you if——”

“If you want a silk handkerchief, William,” said Mrs. Brown decisively, “you’ll have to buy one.”

“Well!” said William, aghast at the unfairness of the remark—“Well, jus’ fancy you sayin’ that to me when you know I’ve not got any money, when you know I’m not even going to have any money for years an’ years an’ years.”

“You shouldn’t have broken the landing-window,” said Mrs. Brown.

William was pained and disappointed. He had no illusions about his father and elder brother, but he had expected more feeling and sympathy from his mother.

Determinedly, but not very hopefully, he went to his father, who was reading a newspaper in the library.

“You know, father,” said William confidingly, taking his seat upon the newspaper rack, “I think white ones is all right for children—and so on. Wot I mean to say is that when you get older coloured ones is better.”

“Really?” said his father politely.

“Yes,” said William, encouraged. “They wouldn’t show dirt so, either—not like white ones do. An’ they’re bigger, too. They’d be cheaper in the end. They wouldn’t cost so much for laundry—an’ so on.”

“Exactly,” murmured his father, turning over to the next page.

“Well,” said William boldly, “if you’d very kin’ly buy me some, or one would do, or I could buy them or it if you’d jus’ give me——”

“As I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about,” said his father, “I don’t see how I can. Would you be so very kind as to remove yourself from the newspaper rack for a minute and let me get the evening paper? I’m so sorry to trouble you. Thank you so much.”

“Handkerchiefs!” said William impatiently. “I keep telling you. It’s handkerchiefs. I jus’ want a nice silk-coloured one, ’cause I think it would last longer and be cheaper in the wash. That’s all. I think the ones I have makes such a lot of trouble for the laundry. I jus’——”

“Though deeply moved by your consideration for other people,” said Mr. Brown, as he ran his eye down the financial column, “I may as well save you any further waste of your valuable time and eloquence by informing you at once that you won’t get a halfpenny out of me if you talk till midnight.”

William went with silent disgust and slow dignity from the room.

Next he investigated Robert’s bedroom. He opened Robert’s dressing-table drawer and turned over his handkerchiefs. He caught his breath with surprise and pleasure. There it was beneath all Robert’s other handkerchiefs—larger, silkier, more multi-coloured than Ginger’s or Douglas’s or Henry’s. He gazed at it in ecstatic joy. He slipped it into his pocket and, standing before the looking-glass, took it out with a flourish, shaking its lustrous folds. He was absorbed in this occupation when Robert entered. Robert looked at him with elder-brother disapproval.

“I told you that if I caught you playing monkey tricks in my room again——” he began threateningly, glancing suspiciously at the bed, in the “apple-pie” arrangements of which William was an expert.

“I’m not, Robert,” said William with disarming innocence. “Honest I’m not. I jus’ wanted to borrow a handkerchief. I thought you wun’t mind lendin’ me a handkerchief.”

“Well, I would,” said Robert shortly, “so you can jolly well clear out.”

“It was this one I thought you wun’t mind lendin’ me,” said William. “I wun’t take one of your nice white ones, but I thought you wun’t mind me having this ole coloured dirty-looking one.”

“Did you? Well, give it back to me.”

Reluctantly William handed it back to Robert.

“How much’ll you give it me for?” he said shortly.

“Well, how much have you?” said Robert ruthlessly.

“Nothin’—not jus’ at present,” admitted William. “But I’d do something for you for it. I’d do anythin’ you want done for it. You just tell me what to do for it, an’ I’ll do it.”

“Well, you can—you can get the Bishop’s handkerchief for me, and then I’ll give mine to you.”

The trouble with Robert was that he imagined himself a wit.

The trouble with William was that he took things literally.

******

The Bishop was expected in the village the next day. It was the great event of the summer. He was a distant relation of the Vicar’s. He was to open the Sale of Work, address a large meeting on temperance, spend the night at the vicarage, and depart the next morning.

The Bishop was a fatherly, simple-minded old man of seventy. He enjoyed the Sale of Work except for one thing. Wherever he looked he met the gaze of a freckled untidy frowning small boy. He could not understand it. The boy seemed to be everywhere. The boy seemed to follow him about. He came to the conclusion that it must be his imagination, but it made him feel vaguely uneasy.

Then he addressed the meeting on Temperance, his audience consisting chiefly of adults. But, in the very front seat, the same earnest frowning boy fixed him with a determined gaze. When the Bishop first encountered this gaze he became slightly disconcerted, and lost his place in his notes. Then he tried to forget the disturbing presence and address his remarks to the middle of the hall. But there was something hypnotic in the small boy’s gaze. In the end the Bishop yielded to it. He fixed his eyes obediently upon William. He harangued William earnestly and forcibly upon the necessity of self-control and the effect of alcohol upon the liver. And William returned his gaze unblinkingly.

After the meeting William wandered down the road to the Vicarage. He pondered gloomily over his wasted afternoon. Fate had not thrown the Bishop’s handkerchief in his path. But he did not yet despair.

On the way he met Ginger. Ginger drew out his interminable coloured handkerchief and shook it proudly.

“D’ye mean to say,” he said to William, “that you still use those old white ones?”

William looked at him with cold scorn.

“I’m too busy to bother with you jus’ now,” he said.

Ginger went on.

William looked cautiously through the Vicarage hedge. Nothing was to be seen. He crawled inside the garden and round to the back of the house, which was invisible from the road. The Bishop was tired after his address. He lay outstretched upon a deck-chair beneath a tree.

Over the head and face of His Lordship was stretched a large superfine linen handkerchief. William’s set stern expression brightened. On hands and knees he began to crawl through the grass towards the portly form, his tongue protruding from his pursed lips.

Crouching behind the chair, he braced himself for the crime; he measured the distance between the chair and the garden gate.

One, two, three—then suddenly the portly form stirred, the handkerchief was firmly withdrawn by a podgy hand, and a dignified voice yawned and said: “Heigh-ho!”

At the same moment the Bishop sat up. William, from his refuge behind the chair, looked wildly round. The door of the house was opening. There was only one thing to do. William was as nimble as a monkey. Like a flash of lightning he disappeared up the tree. It was a very leafy tree. It completely concealed William, but William had a good bird’s eye view of the world beneath him. The Vicar came out rubbing his hands.

“You rested, my Lord?” he said.

“I’m afraid I’ve had forty winks,” said His Lordship pleasantly. “Just dropped off, you know. I dreamt about that boy who was at the meeting this afternoon.”

“What boy, my Lord?” asked the Vicar.

“I noticed him at the Sale of Work and the meeting—he looked—he looked a soulful boy. I daresay you know him.”

The Vicar considered.

“I can’t think of any boy round here like that,” he said.

THE BENT PIN CAUGHT THE BISHOP’S EAR,
AND THE BISHOP SAT UP WITH A
LITTLE SCREAM.

The Bishop sighed.

“He may have been a stranger, of course,” he said meditatively. “It seemed an earnest questing face—as if the boy wanted something—needed something. I hope my little talk helped him.”

“Without doubt it did, my Lord,” said the Vicar politely. “I thought we might dine out here—the days draw out so pleasantly now.”

Up in his tree, William with smirks and hand-rubbing and mincing (though soundless) movements of his lips kept up a running imitation of the Vicar’s speech, for the edification apparently of a caterpillar which was watching him intently.

The Vicar went in to order dinner in the garden. The Bishop drew the delicate handkerchief once more over his rubicund features. In the tree William abandoned his airy pastime, and his face took on again the expression of soulful earnestness that had pleased the Bishop.

The breast of the Bishop on the lawn began to rise and sink. The figure of the Vicar was visible at the study window as he gazed with fond pride upon the slumbers of his distinguished guest. William dared not descend in view of that watching figure. Finally it sat down in a chair by the window and began to read a book.

Then William began to act. He took from his pocket a bent pin attached to a piece of string. This apparatus lived permanently in his pocket, because he had not given up hope of catching a trout in the village stream. He lowered this cautiously and drew the bent pin carefully on to the white linen expanse.

FROM THE TREE WILLIAM MADE A
LAST DESPERATE EFFORT.

It caught—joy!

“Phut!” said the Bishop, bringing down his hand heavily, not on the pin, but near it.

The pin was loosened—William drew it back cautiously up into the tree, and the Bishop settled himself once more to his slumbers.

Again the pin descended—again it caught.

“Phut!” said the Bishop, testily shaking the handkerchief, and again loosening the pin.

Leaning down from his leafy retreat William made one last desperate effort. He drew the bent pin sharply across. It missed the handkerchief and it caught the Bishop’s ear. The Bishop sat up with a scream. William, pin and string, withdrew into the shade of the branches. “Crumbs!” said William desperately to the caterpillar, “talk about bad luck!”

The Vicar ran out from the house, full of concern at the sound of the Bishop’s scream.

“I’ve been badly stung in the ear by some insect,” said the Bishop in a voice that was pained and dignified. “Some virulent tropical insect, I should think—very painful. Very painful indeed——”

“My Lord,” said the Vicar, “I am so sorry—so very sorry—a thousand pardons—can I procure some remedy for you—vaseline, ammonia—er—cold cream——?” Up in the tree the pantomimic imitation of him went on much to William’s satisfaction.

“No, no, no, no,” snapped the Bishop. “This must be a bad place for insects, that’s all. Even before that some heavy creatures came banging against my handkerchief. I put my handkerchief over my face for a protection. If I had failed to do that I should have been badly stung.”

“Shall we dine indoors, then, my Lord?” said the Vicar.

“Oh, no, no, NO!” said the Bishop impatiently.

The Vicar sat down upon his chair. William collected a handful of acorns and began to drop them one by one upon the Vicar’s bald head. He did this simply because he could not help it. The sight of the Vicar’s bald head was irresistible. Each time an acorn struck the Vicar’s bald head it bounced up into the air, and the Vicar put up his hand and rubbed his head. At first he tried to continue his conversation on the state of the parish finances with the Bishop, but his replies became distrait and incoherent. He moved his chair slightly. William moved the position of his arm and continued to drop acorns.

At last the Bishop noticed it.

“The acorns seem to be falling,” he said.

The Vicar rubbed his head again.

“Don’t they?” he said.

“Rather early,” commented the Bishop.

“Isn’t it?” he said as another acorn bounced upon his head.

The Bishop began to take quite an interest in the unusual phenomenon.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of blight in that tree,” he said. “It would account for the premature dropping of the acorns and for the insects that attacked me.”

“Exactly,” said the Vicar irritably, as yet another acorn hit him. William’s aim was unerring.

Here a diversion was caused by the maid who came out to lay the table. They watched her in silence. The Vicar moved his chair again, and William, after pocketing his friend the caterpillar, shifted his position in the tree again to get a better aim.

“Do you know,” said the Bishop, “I believe that there is a cat in the tree. Several times I have heard a slight rustling.”

It would have been better for William to remain silent, but William’s genius occasionally misled him. He was anxious to prevent investigation; to prove once for all his identity as a cat.

He leant forward and uttered a re-echoing “Mi-aw-aw-aw!”

As imitations go it was rather good.

There was a slight silence. Then:

“It is a cat,” said the Bishop in triumph.

“Excuse me, my Lord,” said the Vicar.

He went softly into the house and returned holding a shoe.

“This will settle his feline majesty,” he smiled.

Then he hurled the shoe violently into the tree.

“Sh! Scoot!” he said as he did it.

William was annoyed. The shoe narrowly missed his face. He secured it and waited.

“I hope you haven’t lost the shoe,” said the Bishop anxiously.

“Oh, no. The gardener’s boy or someone will get it for me. It’s the best thing to do with cats. It’s probably scared it on to the roof.”

He settled himself in his chair comfortably with a smile.

William leant down, held the shoe deliberately over the bald head, then dropped it.

“Damn!” said the Vicar. “Excuse me, my Lord.”

“H’m,” said the Bishop. “Er—yes—most annoying. It lodged in a branch for a time probably, and then obeyed the force of gravity.”

The Vicar was rubbing his head. William wanted to enjoy the sight of the Vicar rubbing his head. He moved a little further up the branch. He forgot all caution. He forgot that the branch on which he was was not a very secure branch, and that the further up he moved the less secure it became.

There was the sound of a rending and a crashing, and on to the table between the amazed Vicar and Bishop descended William’s branch and William.

The Bishop gazed at him. “Why, that’s the boy,” he said.

William sat up among the debris of broken glasses and crockery. He discovered that he was bruised and that his hand was cut by one of the broken glasses. He extricated himself from the branch and the table, and stood rubbing his bruises and sucking his hand.

“Crumbs!” was all he said.

The Vicar was gazing at him speechlessly.

“You know, my boy,” said the Bishop in mild reproach, “that’s a very curious thing to do—to hide up there for the purpose of eavesdropping. I know that you are an earnest, well-meaning little boy, and that you were interested in my address this afternoon, and I daresay you were hoping to listen to me again, but this is my time for relaxation, you know. Suppose the Vicar and I had been talking about something we didn’t want you to hear? I’m sure you wouldn’t like to listen to things people didn’t want you to hear, would you?”

William stared at him in unconcealed amazement. The Vicar, with growing memories of acorns and shoes and “damns” and with murder in his heart, was picking up twigs and broken glass. He knew that he could not, in the Bishop’s presence, say the things to William and do the things to William that he wanted to do and say. He contented himself with saying:

“You’d better go home now. Tell your father I’ll be coming to see him to-morrow.”

“A well-meaning little boy, I’m sure,” said the Bishop kindly, “well-meaning, but unwise—er—unwise—but your attentiveness during the meeting did you credit, my boy—did you credit.”

William, for all his ingenuity, could think of no remark suitable to the occasion.

“Hurry up,” said the Vicar.

William turned to go. He knew when he was beaten. He had spent a lot of time and trouble and had not even secured the episcopal handkerchief. He had bruised himself and cut himself. He understood the Vicar’s veiled threat. He saw his already distant chances of pocket-money vanish into nothingness when the cost of the Vicar’s glasses and plates was added to the landing window. He wouldn’t have minded if he’d got the handkerchief. He wouldn’t have minded anything if——

“Don’t suck your hand, my boy,” said the Bishop. “An open cut like that is most dangerous. Poison works into the system by it. You remember I told you how the poison of alcohol works into the system—well, any kind of poison can work into it by a cut—don’t suck it; keep it covered up—haven’t you a handkerchief?—here, take mine. You needn’t trouble to return it. It’s an old one.”

The Bishop was deeply touched by what he called the “bright spirituality” of the smile with which William thanked him.

******

William, limping slightly, his hand covered by a grimy rag, came out into the garden, drawing from his pocket with a triumphant flourish an enormous violently-coloured silk handkerchief. Robert, who was weeding the rose-bed, looked up. “Here,” he called, “you can jolly well go and put that handkerchief of mine back.”

William continued his limping but proud advance.

“’S’ all right,” he called airily, “the Bishop’s is on your dressing-table.”

Robert dropped the trowel.

“Gosh!” he gasped, and hastened indoors to investigate.

William went down to the gate, smiling very slightly to himself.

“The days are drawing out so pleasantly,” he was saying to himself in a mincing accent. “Vaseline—ammonia—er—or cold cream——Damn!”

He leant over the gate, took out his caterpillar, satisfied himself that it was still alive, put it back and looked up and down the road. In the distance he caught sight of the figure of his friend.

“Gin—ger,” he yelled in hideous shrillness.

He waved his coloured handkerchief carelessly in greeting as he called. Then he swaggered out into the road....

CHAPTER II

HENRI LEARNS THE LANGUAGE

It was Joan who drew William and the Outlaws from their immemorial practice of playing at Pirates and Red Indians.

“I’m tired of being a squaw,” she said plaintively, “an’ I’m tired of walking the plank an’ I want to be something else an’ do something else.”

Joan was the only girl whose existence the Outlaws officially recognised. This was partly owing to Joan’s own personal attractiveness and partly to the fact that an admiration for Joan was the only human weakness of their manly leader, William. Thus Joan was admitted to all such games as required the female element. The others she was graciously allowed to watch.

They received her outburst with pained astonishment.

“Well,” said Ginger coldly, “wot else is there to do an’ be?”

Ginger felt that the very foundation of the Society of Outlaws was being threatened. The Outlaws had played at Red Indians and Pirates since their foundation.

“Let’s play at being ordinary people,” said Joan.

“Ordinary people——!” exploded Douglas. “There’s no playin’ in bein’ ordinary people. Wot’s the good——?”

“Let’s be Jasmine Villas,” said Joan, warming to her theme. “We’ll each be a person in Jasmine Villas——”

William, who had so far preserved a judicial silence, now said:

“I don’ mind playin’ ornery people s’long as we don’ do ornery things.”

“Oh, no, William,” said Joan with the air of meekness with which she always received William’s oracles, “we needn’t do ornery things.”

“Then bags me be ole Mr. Burwash.”

“And me Miss Milton next door,” said Joan hastily.

The Outlaws were beginning to see vague possibilities in the game.

“An’ me Mr. Luton,” said Ginger.

“An’ me Mr. Buck,” said Douglas.

Henry, the remaining outlaw, looked around him indignantly. Jasmine Villas only contained four houses.

“An’ wot about me?” he said.

“Oh, you be a policeman wot walks about outside,” said William.

Henry, mollified, began to practise a commanding strut.

In the field behind the old barn that was the scene of most of their activities they began to construct Jasmine Villas by boundary lines of twigs. Each inhabitant took up their position inside a twig-encircled enclosure, and Henry paraded officiously around.

“Now we’ll jus’ have a minute to think of what things to do,” said William, “an’ then I’ll begin.”

******

William was sitting in his back garden thinking out exploits to perform that afternoon in the character of Mr. Burwash. The game of Jasmine Villas had “taken on” beyond all expectation. Mr. Burwash stole Miss Milton’s washing during her afternoon siesta, Mr. Buck locked up Mr. Luton in his coal cellar and ate up all his provisions, and always the entire population of Jasmine Villas was chased round the field by Henry, the policeman, several times during a game. Often some of them were arrested, tried, condemned and imprisoned by the stalwart Henry, to be rescued later by a joint force of the other inhabitants of Jasmine Villas.

William, sitting on an inverted flower pot, absent-mindedly chewing grass and throwing sticks for his mongrel, Jumble, to worry, was wondering whether (in his rôle of Mr. Burwash) it would be more exciting to go mad and resist the ubiquitous Henry’s efforts to take him to an asylum, or marry Miss Milton. The only drawback to the latter plan was that they had provided no clergyman. However, perhaps a policeman would do.... Finally he decided that it would be more exciting to go mad and leave Miss Milton to someone else.

“’Ello!”

A thin, lugubrious face appeared over the fence that separated William’s garden from the next door garden.

“’Ello!” replied William, throwing it a cold glance and returning to his pastime of entertaining Jumble.

“I weesh to leearn ze Eengleesh,” went on the owner of the lugubrious face. “My godmother ’ere she talk ze correct Eengleesh. It ees ze idiomatic Eengleesh I weesh to leearn—how you call it?—ze slang. You talk ze slang—ees it not?”

William gave the intruder a devastating glare, gathering up his twigs and with a commanding “Hi, Jumble,” set off round the side of the house.

“Oh, William!”

William sighed as he recognised his mother’s voice. This was followed by his mother’s head which appeared at the open drawing-room window.

“I’m busy jus’ now——” said William sternly.

“William, Mrs. Frame next door has a godson staying with her and he is so anxious to mix with boys and learn colloquial English. I’ve asked him to tea this afternoon. Oh here he is.”

The owner of the thin lugubrious face—a young man of about eighteen—appeared behind William.

“I made a way—’ow say you?—through a ’ole in ze fence. I weeshed to talk wiz ze boy.”

“Well, now, William,” said Mrs. Brown persuasively, “you might spend the afternoon with Henri and talk to him.”

William’s face was a study in horror and indignation.

“I shan’t know what to say to him,” he said desperately. “I can’t talk his kind of talk.”

“I’m sure that’ll be quite all right,” said Mrs. Brown, kindly. “He speaks English very well. Just talk to him simply and naturally.”

She brought the argument to an end by closing the window and leaving an embittered William to undertake his new responsibility.

“’Ave you a ’oliday zis afternoon,” began his new responsibility.

“I ’ave,” said William simply and naturally.

“Zen we weel talk,” said Henri with enthusiasm. “We weel talk an’ you weel teach to me ze slang.”

“’Fraid I’ve gotter play a game this afternoon,” said William icily as they set off down the road.

“I weel play,” said Henri pleasantly, “I like ze games.”

“I’m fraid,” said William with equal pleasantness, “there won’t be no room for you.”

“I weel watch zen,” said Henri, “I like too ze watching.”

******

Henri, who had spent the afternoon watching the game, was on his way home. He had enjoyed watching the game. He had watched a realistically insane Mr. Burwash resist all attempts at capture on the part of the local policeman. He had watched Mr. Luton propose to Miss Milton, and he had watched Mr. Buck in his end house being gloriously and realistically drunk. This was an accomplishment of Douglas’s that was forbidden at home under threat of severe punishment, but it was greatly appreciated by the Outlaws.

Henri walked along jauntily, practising slang to himself.

“Oh, ze Crumbs ... oh, ze Crikey ... ze jolly well ... righto ... git out ... ze bash on the mug....”

General Moult—fat and important-looking—came breezily down the road.

“Ah, Henri ... how are you getting on?”

“Ze jolly well,” said Henri.

“Been for a walk?” said the General yet more breezily.

“Non.... I been to Jasmine Villas.... Oh, ze Crumbs.... I see ole Meester Burwash go—’ow you say it?—off ze head—out of ze chump.”

“What?”

“Oh, yes,” said Henri, “an’ the policeman ’e come an’ try to take ’im away an’ ’e fight an’ fight, an’ ze policeman ’e go for ’elp——”

The General’s mouth was hanging open in amazement.

“B-but, are you sure?” he gasped.

“Oh, yes,” said Henri cheerfully. “I ’ave been zere. I ’ave ze jolly well watch eet.”

“But, good heavens!” said the General, and hastened in the direction of Jasmine Villas.

Henri sauntered on by himself.

“Ze ’oly aunt ... a’right ... ze boose ...” he murmured softly.

At the corner of the road he ran into Mr. Graham Graham. Mr. Graham Graham was tall and lank, with pince-nez and an earnest expression. Mr. Graham Graham’s earnest expression did not belie his character. He was, among other things, the President of the local Temperance Society. He had met Henri with his godmother the day before.

“Well, Henri,” he said earnestly. “And how have you been spending your time?”

“I ’ave been to Jasmine Villas,” said Henri.

“Ah, yes—to whom——?”

Henri interrupted.

“An’ I ’ave seen Meester Buck ... oh, ze crumbs ... ’ow say you? ... tight ... boozed ... derrunk.”

Mr. Graham Graham paled.

“Never!” he said.

Mr. Buck was the Secretary of the local Temperance Society.

“Oh, yes, ze ’oly aunt!” said Henri, “ze policeman ’e ’elp ’im into the ’ouse—’e was, ’ow say you? ro-o-o-o-olling.”

“This is impossible,” said Mr. Graham Graham sternly.

“I ’ave seed it,” said Henri simply. “I laugh ... oh, ze Crikey ... ’ow I laugh....”

Mr. Graham Graham turned upon Henri a cold condemning silent glance then set off in the direction of Jasmine Villas.

Henri wandered homewards.

He met his godmother coming out of her front gate.

“We’re going to Mrs. Brown’s to tea, you know, Henri,” she reminded him.

“A’right,” said Henri. “A’right—righto.”

He accompanied her to Mrs. Brown’s.

“And did you spend the afternoon with William?” said Mrs. Brown pleasantly.

“Oh, yes,” said Henri as he sat down comfortably by the fire, “at ze Jasmine Villas.... Mr. Luton ’e kees Miss Milton in the garden.”

Henri’s godmother dropped her buttered scone.

“Nonsense!” she said.

“’E did,” said Henri calmly. “I ’ave seed ’im. An’ she gave ’im—’ow say you?—ze bash on ze mug. But she tell me she goin’ to marry ’im—righto.”

“She told you?” gasped Mrs. Brown.

“Oh, yes,” said Henri, “she tell me so ’erself.”

Both Mrs. Brown and Henri’s godmother were pale.

“Do you think she doesn’t know that he’s married and separated from his wife?” said Henri’s godmother.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Brown. “I feel that I can’t eat a thing now. Someone ought to tell her at once.”

“Let’s go,” said Henri’s godmother suddenly, “before she tells anyone else. The poor woman!”

They went out quickly, leaving Henri alone in the drawing-room. Henri chose a large sugared cake and began to munch it.

“Ze jolly well good,” he commented contentedly.

******

The General approached Mr. Burwash’s house cautiously. There was no sign of a disturbance. Evidently the policeman had not yet returned with help. The General entered the garden and went on tiptoe to the morning-room window. He was full of curiosity. There was the madman. He was sitting at a table with his back to the window. There was a mad look about his very back. The General was suddenly inspired by the idea of making the capture single-handed. It would be a glorious page in the annals of the village. The front door was open. The General entered and walked very slowly down the hall. The morning-room door was open. It was here that the General made the painful discovery that his boots squeaked. The squeaking would undoubtedly attract the attention of the lunatic as he entered. The General had another inspiration. He dropped down upon his hands and knees. He could thus make his way unseen and unheard to the back of the madman, then spring to his feet and overpower him.

He entered the room.

He reached the middle of the room.

Then Mr. Burwash turned round.

Mr. Burwash was met by the sight of the General creeping gingerly and delicately across his morning-room carpet on hands and knees. Mr. Burwash leapt to the not unreasonable conclusion that the General had gone mad. Mr. Burwash knew that a madman must be humoured. He also dropped upon his hands and knees.

“Bow-wow!” he said.

If the General thought he was a dog, the General must be humoured.

“Bow-wow!” promptly replied the General.

The General also knew that madmen must be humoured.

They continued this conversation for several minutes.

Then Mr. Burwash, intent on escape, made a leap towards the door, and the General, intent on capture, made a leap to intercept him.

They leapt about the room excitedly uttering short, shrill barks. The General never quite knew what made him change into a cat. It was partly that he was tired of barking and partly that he hoped to lure Mr. Burwash after him into the more open space of the hall and there overpower him. Mr. Burwash’s pursuit was realistic, and the General, violently chased into the hall, decided to leave the capture to the police after all, and made for the hall door. But a furiously barking Mr. Burwash cut off his retreat. The General, still miaowing unconsciously in a high treble voice, scampered on all fours up the stairs and took refuge in a small room at the top, slamming the door against the pursuing lunatic. The key was turned in the lock from outside.

At the top of the stairs Mr. Burwash stood trembling slightly, and wiped his brow. A violent sound of kicking came from the locked room.

******

Mrs. Brown and Henri’s godmother heard vaguely the distant sounds of the kicking next door, but their delicate interview with Miss Milton was taking all their attention.

Miss Milton, who had been to see a girl whom she was engaging as housemaid for Mr. Luton, was just taking off her things. Miss Milton kept a purely maternal eye upon Mr. Luton.

“You know, dear,” said Henri’s godmother, “we felt we had to come and tell you as soon as we heard the news. He’s got one already.”

“Who?” said Miss Milton, angular and severe looking.

“Mr. Luton.”

“He might have told me,” said Miss Milton.

“But she’s left him,” put in Mrs. Brown.

“Then I’d better see about providing him with another,” said Miss Milton.

“She—she’s not divorced,” gasped Mrs. Brown.

“I should hope not,” said Miss Milton primly. “I’m always most particular about that sort of thing.”

“But when we heard he’d been seen kissing you——” said Henri’s godmother.

Miss Milton gave a piercing scream.

“ME?” she said.

“Yes, when we heard that Mr. Luton had been seen——”

Miss Milton gave a still more piercing scream.

“Slanderers,” she shrieked, “vampires....”

She advanced upon them quivering with rage.

“I’m so sorry,” gasped Mrs. Brown retreating precipitately. “Quite a mistake ... a misunderstanding....”

“Liars ... hypocrites ... snakes in the grass!” screamed Miss Milton, still advancing.