WILLIAM—THE FOURTH

By the Same Author

“YOU CAN LOOK AT THE ALBUM WHILE I AM GETTING
READY.” WILLIAM WAS TRAPPED, TRAPPED IN A HUGE
AND HORRIBLE DRAWING-ROOM, BY A HUGE AND
HORRIBLE WOMAN.

(See page 38.)

WILLIAM—THE
FOURTH

BY

RICHMAL CROMPTON

ILLUSTRATED BY

THOMAS HENRY

LONDON

GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED

TOWER HOUSE, SOUTHAMPTON STREET

STRAND, W.C. 2

Copyright
All Rights Reserved

First Published 1924

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

CONTENTS

TO
GWEN

CHAPTER I

THE WEAK SPOT

“YOU see,” said Jameson Jameson, “we’re all human beings. That’s a very important point. You must admit that we’re all human beings?”

Jameson Jameson, aged nineteen and three-quarters, was very eloquent. He paused more for rhetorical effect than because he really needed confirmation on the point. His audience, all under nineteen, agreed hoarsely and unanimously.

They were all human beings. They admitted it.

“Well, then,” Jameson continued, warming to his subject, “as human beings we’re equal. As being equal we’ve got equal rights, I suppose. Anyone deny that?”

Robert Brown, aged seventeen, in whose room the meeting took place, leaned forward eagerly. He was thoroughly enjoying the meeting. The only drawback was the presence of his younger brother, William, aged eleven. By some mistake someone had admitted William, and by some still greater mistake no one had ejected him; and now it was too late. He gave no excuse for ejection. He was sitting motionless, his hands on his knees, his eyes, under their untidy shock of hair, glued on the speaker, his mouth wide open. There was no doubt at all that he was impressed. But Robert wished he wasn’t there. He felt that the presence of a kid was an insult to the mature intelligences round him, most of whom were in their first year at college.

But no one seemed to mind, so he contented himself with sitting so that he could not see William.

“Well,” continued Jameson Jameson, “then why aren’t we equal? Why are some rich and some poor? Why do some work and others not? Tell me that.”

There was no answer—only a gasp of wonder and admiration.

Jameson Jameson (whose parents had perpetrated on him the supreme practical joke of giving him his surname for a Christian name, so that people who addressed him by his full name always seemed to be indulging in some witticism) brought down his fist upon the table with a bang.

“Then it’s somebody’s duty to make us equal. It’s only common justice, isn’t it? You admit that? Those who haven’t money must be given money, and those who have too much must have some taken off them. We want Equality. And no more Tyranny. The working-class must have Freedom. And who’s going to do it?”

He thrust his hand into his coat front in a manner reminiscent of the late Mr. Gladstone and glared at his audience from under scowling brows.

“Ah, who?” gasped the audience.

“It’s here that the Bolshevists come in!”

“Bolshevists?” said Robert, aghast.

“The Bolshevists are very much misjudged and—er—maligned,” retorted Jameson Jameson, with emotion. “Shamefully misjudged and——” he wasn’t sure whether he’d pronounced it right, so he ended feebly, “what I said before. I’m not,” he admitted frankly, “in direct communication with Lenin, but I’ve read about it in a magazine, and I know a bit about it from that. The Bolshevists want to share things out so as we’re equal, and that’s only right, isn’t it? ’Cause we’re all human beings, and as such are equal, and as such have equal rights. Well, that’s clear, isn’t it? Does anyone,” he glared round fiercely, “wish to contradict me?”

No one did. William, who was sitting in a draught, sneezed and was annihilated by a glance from Robert.

“Well,” he continued, “I propose to form a Bolshevist Society, first of all, just to start with. You see, the Bolshevists have gone to extremes, but we’ll join the Bolshevist party and—and purge it of all where it’s wrong now. Now, who’ll join the Society?”

As human beings with equal rights they were all anxious to join. They were all fired to the soul by Jameson Jameson’s eloquence. Even William pressed onward to give in his name, but was sternly ordered away by Robert.

“But I believe all you do,” he pleaded wistfully, “’bout want’n other people’s money an’ thinking we oughtn’t to work.”

“You’ve misunderstood me, my young friend,” said Jameson Jameson, with a sigh, “but we want numbers. There’s no reason why——”

“If that kid belongs, I’m not going to,” said Robert firmly.

“We might have a Junior Branch——” suggested one of them.

So thus it was finally settled. William became the Junior Branch of the Society of Reformed Bolshevists. Alone he was President and Secretary and Committee and Members. He resented any suggestion of enlarging the Junior Branch. He preferred to form the Branch himself. He held meetings of his Branch under the laurel bushes in the garden, and made eloquent speeches to an audience consisting of a few depressed daffodil roots, and sometimes the cat from next door.

“All gotter be equal,” he pronounced fiercely, “all gotter have lots of money. All ’uman beings. That’s sense, isn’t it? Is it sense or isn’t it?”

The cat from next door scratched its ear and slowly winked.

“Well, then,” said William, “someone ought to do somethin’.”

The Society of Advanced Bolshevists met next month in Robert’s room. William had left nothing to chance. He had heard Robert saying that he’d see no kids got in to this one, so he installed himself under Robert’s bed before anyone arrived. Robert looked round the room with a keen and threatening gaze before he ushered Jameson Jameson into the chair, or, to be more accurate, on to the bed. The meeting began.

“Comrades,” began Jameson Jameson, “we have, I hope, all spent this time in thinking things out and making ourselves more devoted to the cause. But now is the time for action. We’ve got to do something. If we had any money ’cept the mean bit that our fathers allow us we could make people jolly well sit up—we could——”

Here William, who had just inhaled a large mouthful of dust, sneezed loudly, and Robert made a dive beneath the bed. In the scuffle that ensued William embedded his teeth deeply into Jameson Jameson’s ankle, and vengeance was vowed on either side.

WILLIAM MADE ELOQUENT SPEECHES TO AN AUDIENCE
OF DEPRESSED DAFFODIL ROOTS AND THE CAT FROM
NEXT DOOR.

“Well, why can’t I come? I’m a Bolshevist too like wot all you are!”

“Well, you’ve got a Branch of your own,” said Robert fiercely.

Jameson Jameson was still standing on one leg and holding the other in two hands with an expression of (fortunately) speechless agony on his face.

“Look!” went on Robert, “you may have maimed him for life for all you know, and he’s the life and soul of the Cause, and what can he do with a maimed foot? You’ll have to keep him all his life if he is maimed for life, and when the Bolshevists get in power he’ll have your blood—and I shan’t mind,” he added, darkly.

Jameson Jameson gave a feeble smile.

“It’s all right, Comrade,” he said, “I harbour no thoughts of vengeance. I hope I can bear more than this for the Cause.”

Very ungently William was deposited on the landing outside.

“You can keep your nasty little Branch to yourself, and don’t come bothering us,” was Robert’s parting shot.

It was then that William realised the power of numbers. He resolved at once to enlarge his Branch.

Rubbing the side on which he had descended on the landing, and frowning fiercely, he went downstairs and out into the road. Near the gate was Victor Jameson, Jameson Jameson’s younger brother, gazing up at Robert’s bedroom window, which could be seen through the trees.

“He’s up there talkin’,” he muttered scornfully. “Doesn’t he talk?”

The tone of contempt was oil on the troubled waters of William’s feelings.

“I’ve just bit him hard,” he said modestly.

The two linked arms affectionately and set off down the road. At the corner of the road they fell in with George Bell. William had left Ronald Bell, George’s elder brother, leaning against the mantelpiece in Robert’s room and examining himself in the glass. He was letting his hair grow long, and he hoped it was beginning to show.

“What do they do up at your house?” demanded George with curiosity. “He won’t tell me anything. He says it’s secret. He says no one’s got to know now, but all the world will know some day. That’s what he says.”

“Huh,” said Victor scornfully, “they talk. That’s all they do. They talk.”

“Let’s find a few more,” said William, “an’ I’ll tell you all about it.”

It being Saturday afternoon they soon collected the few more, and the company returned to the summer-house at the end of William’s garden. The company consisted chiefly of younger brothers of the members of the gathering upstairs.

William rose to address them with one hand inside his coat in an attitude copied faithfully from Jameson Jameson.

“They’ve gotter ole society,” he said, “an’ they’ve made me a Branch, so I can make all you Branches. So, now you’re all Branches. See? Well, they say how we’re all ’uman bein’s an’ equal. Well, they say if we’re equal we oughtn’t to have less money an’ things than other folks, and more work to do, an’ all that. That’s wot I heard ’em say.”

Here the cat from next door, drawn by the familiar sound of William’s voice, peered into the summer-house, and was promptly dismissed by a well-aimed stick. It looked reproachfully at William as it departed.

“And to-day they said,” went on William, “that now is the time for Action, an’ how we’d only the mean bit of money our fathers gave us; and then they found me an’ I bit his leg, and they threw me out, an’ I bet I’ve got a big ole bruise on my side, an’ I bet he’s got a bigger ole bite on his leg.”

He sat down, amid applause, and George, acting with a generosity born of a sudden feeling of comradeship, took a stick of rock from his pocket and passed it round for a suck each. This somewhat disturbed the harmony of the meeting, as “Ginger,” William’s oldest friend, was accused of biting a piece off, and the explanation, that it “came off in his mouth,” was not accepted by the irate owner, who was already regretting his generosity. The combatants were parted by William, and peace was sealed by the passing round of a bottle of liquorice water belonging to Victor Jameson.

Then William rose for a second speech.

“Well, we’re all Branches, so let’s do same as them. They’re goin’ to get equal cause they’re ’uman bein’s; so let’s try and get equal too.”

“Equal with what?” demanded Douglas, whose elder brother had joined Jameson Jameson’s society, and had secretly purchased a red tie, which he did not dare to wear in public, but which he donned behind a tree on his way to William’s house, and doffed in the same place on his way from William’s house.

“Equal to them,” said William. “Why, just think of the things they’ve got. They’ve got lots of money, haven’t they?—lots more than what we have, an’ they can buy anything they want, an’ they stay up for dinner always, and go out late at night, an’ eat what they want with no one sayin’ had they better, or cert’nly not, or what happened last time, an’ they smoke an’ don’t go to school, an’ go to the pictures, an’ they’ve got lots more things ’n we’ve got—bicycles an’ grammerphones, an’ fountain-pens, an’ watches, an’ things what we’ve not got. Well, an’ we’re ’uman beings, too, an’ we ought to be equal, an’ why shun’t we be equal?—an’ now’s the time for Action! They said so.”

... AN’ WE’RE ’UMAN BEINGS, TOO, AN’ WE OUGHT TO
BE EQUAL, AN’ WHY SHUN’T WE BE EQUAL?...”

There was a silence.

“But——” said Douglas slowly, “we can’t just take things, can we?”

“Yes,” said William, “we can if we’re Bolshevists. They said so. An’ we’re all Bolshevist Branches. They made me, an’ I made you. See? So we can take anything to make us equal. See? We’ve got to be equal.”

Here the meeting was stopped by the spectacle of the Senior Bolshevists issuing from the side door wearing frowns of stern determination. Douglas’s brother fingered his red tie ostentatiously; Ronald pulled down his cap over his eyes with the air of a conspirator; Jameson Jameson limped slightly and smiled patiently and forgivingly upon Robert, who was still apologising for William. The words that were wafted across to listening ears upon the Spring breeze were: “Next Tuesday, then.”

Then the Branches turned to a discussion of details. They were nothing if not practical. After about a quarter of an hour they departed, each pulling his cap over his eye and frowning. As they departed they murmured: “Next Tuesday, then.”

Next Tuesday dawned bright and clear, with no hint that it was one of those days on which the world’s fate is decided.

The Senior Bolshevists met in the morning. They discussed the possibility of getting into touch with Lenin, but no one knew his exact address, or the rate of postage to Russia, so no definite step was taken.

During the afternoon Robert followed his father into the library. His face was set and stern.

“Look here, father,” he said, “we’ve been thinking—some of us. Things don’t seem fair. We’re all human beings. It’s time for action. We’ve all agreed to speak to our fathers to-day and point things out to them. They’ve been misjudged and maligned, but we’re going to purge them of all that. You see, we’re all human beings, and it’s time for action. We’re all agreed on that. We’ve got equal rights, because we’re all human beings.”

He paused, inserted a finger between his neck and collar as if he found its pressure intolerable, then smoothed back his hair. He was looking almost apoplectic.

“I don’t know whether I make my meaning clear,” he began again.

“You don’t, old chap, whatever it may be,” said his father soothingly. “Perhaps you feel the heat?—or the Spring? You ought to take something cooling, and then lie down for a few hours.”

“You don’t understand,” said Robert desperately. “It’s life or death to civilisation. You see, we’re all human beings, and all equal, and we’ve got equal rights, and yet some have all the things, and some have none. You see, we thought we’d all start at home and get things made more fair there, and our fathers to divide up the money more fairly and give us our real share, and then we could go round teaching other people to give things up to other people and share things out more fairly. You see, we must begin at home, and then we start fair. We’re all human beings with equal rights.”

“You’re so very modest in your demands,” said Robert’s father. “Would half be enough for you? Are you sure you wouldn’t like a little more?”

Robert waved the suggestion aside.

“No,” he said, “you see, you have the others to keep. But we’ve all decided to ask our fathers to-day, then we can start fair and have some funds to go on. A society without funds seems to be so handicapped. And it would be an example to other fathers all over the world. You see——”

At this moment Robert’s mother came in.

“What a mess your room’s in, Robert! I hope William hasn’t been rummaging in it.”

Robert turned pale.

“William!” he gasped, and fled to investigate.

He returned in a few minutes, almost inarticulate with fury.

“My watch!” he said. “My purse! Both gone! I’m going after him.”

He seized his hat from the hall, and started to the door. His father watched him, leaning easily against the doorpost of the library, and smiling.

From the garden as he passed came a wail.

“My bicycle! Gone too. The shed’s empty!”

In the road he met Jameson Jameson.

“Burglars!” said Jameson Jameson. “All my money’s been taken. And my camera! The wretches! I’m going to scour the country for them.”

Various other members of the Bolshevist Society appeared, filled with wrath and lamenting vanished treasures.

“It can’t be burglars,” said Robert, “because why only us?”

“Do you think someone in the Government found out about us being Bolshevists and is trying to intimidate us?”

Jameson Jameson thought this very likely, and they discussed it excitedly in the middle of the road, some hatless, some hatted, all talking breathlessly. Then at the other end of the road appeared a group of boys. They were happy, rollicking boys. They all carried bags of sweets which they ate lavishly and handed round to their friends equally lavishly. One held a camera—or the remains of a camera—whose mechanism the entire party had just been investigating. One more had a large wrist-watch upon a small wrist. One walked (or rather leapt) upon a silver-topped walking-stick. One, the quietest of the group, was smoking a cigarette. At the side near the ditch about half a dozen rode intermittently upon a bicycle. The descent of the bicycle and its cargo into the ditch was greeted with roars of laughter. They were very happy boys. They sang as they walked.

THEN AT THE OTHER END OF THE ROAD APPEARED A GROUP
OF BOYS. THEY WERE HAPPY, ROLLICKING BOYS.

“We’ve been to the pictures.”

“In the best seats.”

“Bought lots of sweets and a mouth-organ.”

“We’ve got a bicycle, an’ a camera, an’ two watches, an’ a fountain-pen, an’ a razor, an’ a football, an’ lots of things.”

White with fury, the Senior Bolshevists charged down upon them. The Junior Bolshevists stood their ground firmly, with the exception of the one who had been smoking a cigarette, and he, perforce a coward for physical rather than moral reasons, crept quietly home, relinquishing without reluctance his half-smoked cigarette. In the Homeric battle that followed, accusations and justifications were hurled to and fro as the struggle proceeded.

“You beastly little thieves!”

“You said to be equal, an’ why should some people have all the things!”

“You little wretches!”

“We’re ’uman beings an’ got to take things to make equal. You said so.”

“Give it back to me!”

“Why should you have it an’ not me? It was time for Action, you said.”

“You’ve spoilt it.”

“Well, it’s as much mine as yours. We’ve got equal rights. We’re all ’uman beings.”

But the battle was one-sided, and the Junior Branch, having surrendered their booty and received punishment, fled in confusion. The Senior Branch, bending lovingly and sadly over battered treasures, walked slowly and silently up the road.

*****

“About your Society——” began Mr. Brown after dinner.

“No,” said Robert, “it’s all off. We’ve given it up, after all. We don’t think there’s much in it, after all. None of us do, now. We feel quite different.”

“But you were so enthusiastic about it this afternoon. Sharing fairly, and all that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” said Robert. “That’s all very well. It’s all right when you can get your share of other people’s things, but when other people try to get their share of your things, then it’s different.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Brown, “that’s the weak spot. I’m glad you found it out.”

CHAPTER II

WILLIAM AND PHOTOGRAPHY

MRS. ADOLPHUS CRANE was William’s mother’s second cousin and William’s godmother. Among the many senseless institutions of grown-up life the institutions of godmothers and godfathers seemed to William the most senseless of all. Moreover, Mrs. Adolphus Crane was rich and immensely respectable—the last person whom Fate should have selected as his godmother. Fortunately, she lived at a distance, and so was spared the horrible spectacle of William’s daily crimes. His meetings with her had not been fortunate, so far, in spite of his family’s earnest desire that he should impress her favourably.

There had been that terrible meeting two months ago. William was running a race with one of his friends. It was quite a novel race invented by William. The competitors each had their mouths full of water and the one who could run the farthest without either swallowing his load or discharging it, won. William in the course of the race encountered Mrs. Adolphus Crane, who was on her way to William’s house to pay him a surprise visit. She recognised him and addressed to him a kindly, affectionate remark. Of course, if he had had time to think over the matter from all points of view, he might have conceived the idea of swallowing the water before he answered. But, as he afterwards explained, he had no time to think. The worst of it was that the painful incident was witnessed by almost all William’s family from the drawing-room window. Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s visit on that occasion was a very short one. She seemed slightly distant. It was felt strongly that something must be done to win back her favour. William disclaimed all responsibility.

“Well, I can’t help it. I can’t help it. I don’t mind. Honestly I don’t mind if she doesn’t like me. Well, I don’t mind if she doesn’t come again, either.”

“But, William, she’s your godmother.”

“Well,” said the goaded William. “I can’t help that. I didn’t do that.”

When Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s birthday came, William’s mother attacked him again.

“You ought to give her something, William, you know, especially after the way you treated her the last time she came over.”

“I’ve nothin’ to give her,” said William simply. “She can have that book Uncle George gave me, if she likes. Yes, she can have that.” He warmed to the subject. “You know. The one about Ancient Hist’ry. I don’t mind her having it a bit.”

“But you haven’t read it.”

“I don’t mind not readin’ it,” said William generously. “I—I’d like her to have it,” he went on.

But it was Mrs. Brown who had the great inspiration.

“We’ll have William’s photograph taken for her.”

It was quite simple to say that, and it was quite simple to make an appointment at the photographer’s, but it was another matter to provide an escort for him. Mrs. Brown happened to have a bad cold; Mr. Brown was at the office; Robert, William’s grown-up brother, flatly refused to go with him. So, after a conversation that lasted almost an hour, William’s elder sister Ethel was induced, mainly by bribery and corruption, to go with William to the photographer’s. But she took a friend with her to act as a buffer state.

William, at the appointed hour, was in a state of suppressed fury. To William the lowest depth of humiliation was having his photograph taken. Mrs. Brown had expended much honest toil upon him. He had been washed and brushed and combed and manicured till his spirits had sunk below zero. To William, complete cleanliness was quite incompatible with happiness. He had been encased in his “best suit”—a thing of hard, unbending cloth; with that horror of horrors, a stiff collar.

“Won’t a jersey do?” he had asked plaintively. “It’ll probably make me ill—give me a sort throat or somethin’—this tight thing at my neck, an’ I wouldn’t like to be ill—’cause of giving you trouble,” he ended piously.

Mrs. Brown was touched—she was the one being in the world who never lost faith in William.

“But you wear it every Sunday, dear,” she protested.

“Sundays is different,” he said. “Everyone wears silly things on Sundays—but, but s’pose I met someone on my way there.” His horror was pathetic.

“Well, you look very nice, dear. Where are your gloves.”

“Gloves?” he said indignantly.

“Yes—to keep your hands clean till you get there.”

“Is anyone goin’ to give me anythin’ for doin’ all this?”

She sighed.

“No, dear. It’s to give pleasure to your godmother. I know you like to give people pleasure.” William was silent cogitating over this entirely new aspect of his character.

He set off down the road with Ethel and her friend Blanche. Bosom friends of his, with jerseys, with normal dirty hands and faces, passed him and stared at him in amazement.

He acknowledged their presence only by a cold stare. On ordinary days he was a familiar figure on that road himself, also comfortably jerseyed and gloriously dirty. He would then have greeted them with a war-whoop and a friendly punch. But now he was an outcast, a pariah, a thing apart—a boy in his best clothes and kid gloves on an ordinary morning.

The photographer was awaiting them. William returned his smile of welcome with a scowl.

“So this is our little friend?” said the photographer. “And what is his name?”

William grew purple.

Ethel began to enjoy it.

“Willie,” she said.

Now, there were many insults that William had learned to endure with outward equanimity, but this was not one. Ethel knew perfectly well his feeling with regard to the name “Willie.” It was a deliberate revenge because she had to waste a whole morning on him. Moreover, Ethel had various scores to wipe off against William, and it was not often that she had him entirely at her mercy.

William growled. That is the only word that describes the sound emitted.

“Pretty name for a pretty boy,” commented the photographer in sprightly vein.

Ethel and Blanche gurgled. William, dark and scowling, looked unspeakable things at them.

“Come forward,” said the photographer invitingly. “Any preparations? Fancy dress?”

“I think not,” gurgled Ethel.

“I have some nice costumes,” he persisted. “A little page? Bubbles? But perhaps the hair is hardly suitable. Cupid? I have some pretty wings and drapery. But perhaps the little boy’s expression is hardly—— No, I think not,” hastily, as he encountered the fixed intensity of William’s scowling gaze. “Remove the cap and gloves, my little chap.”

He looked up and down William’s shining, immaculate person. “Ah, very nice.”

He waved Ethel and Blanche to a seat.

“Now, my boy——”

He waved the infuriated William to a rustic woodland scene at the other end.

“Now, stand just here. That’s right. No, not quite so stiff—and—no, not quite so hunched up, my little chap ... the hands resting carelessly ... one on the hip, I think ... just easy and natural ... that’s right ... but no, hardly. Relax the brow a little. And—ah, no ... not a grimace ... it would spoil a pretty picture ... the feet so ... and the head so ... the hair is slightly deranged ... that’s better.”

Let it stand to William’s eternal credit that he resisted the temptation to bite the photographer’s hand as it strayed among his short locks. At last he was posed and the photographer returned to the camera, but during his return William moved feet, hands, and head to an easier position. The photographer sighed.

“Ah, he’s moved. William’s moved. What a pity! We’ll have to begin all over again.”

He returned to William, and very patiently he rearranged William’s feet and hands and head.

“The toes turned out—not in, you see, Willie, and the hands so, and the head slightly on one side ... so, no, not right down on to the shoulder ... ah, that’s right ... that’s sweet, a very pretty picture.”

Ethel had retired hysterically behind a screen.

The photographer returned to his camera. William promptly composed his limbs more comfortably.

“Ah, what a pity! Willie’s moved again. We shall have to commence afresh.”

He returned to William and again put his unwilling head on one side, his hand upon his hip, and turned William’s stout boots at a graceful angle.

He returned. William was clinging doggedly to his pose. Anything to put an end to this torture.

“Ah, right,” commented the photographer. “Splendid! Ve-ry pretty. The head just a lee-eetle more on one side. The expression a lee-eetle less—melancholy. A smile, please—just a lee-eetle smile. Ah, no,” hastily, as William savagely bared his teeth, “perhaps it is better without the smile.” Suppressed gurgles came from behind the screen where Ethel clung helplessly to Blanche. “One more, please. Sitting, I think, this time. The legs crossed—easily and naturally—so. The elbow resting on the arm of the chair and the cheek upon the hand—so.” He retired to a distance and examined the effect, with his head on one side. “A little spoilt by the expression, perhaps—but very pretty. The expression a lee-eetle less—er—fierce, if you will pardon the word.” William here deigned to speak.

“I can’t look any different to this,” he remarked coldly.

“Now, think of the things I say,” went on the photographer, brightly. “Sweeties? Ah!” looking merrily at William’s unchangingly ferocious expression. “Do I see a saucy little smile?” As a matter of fact, he didn’t, because at that moment Ethel, her eyes streaming, peeped round the screen for another look at the priceless sight of William in his best suit, in the familiar attitude of the Bard of Avon. Encountering the concentrated fury of William’s gaze, she retired hastily.

AT THAT MOMENT ETHEL PEEPED ROUND THE SCREEN
FOR ANOTHER LOOK AT THE PRICELESS SIGHT OF
WILLIAM IN THE FAMILIAR ATTITUDE OF THE BARD
OF AVON.

“Seaside with spade and bucket?” went on the photographer, watching William’s unchanging expression. “Pantomimes? That nice, soft, furry pussy cat you’ve got at home?” But seeing William’s expression change from one of scornful fury to one of Nebuchadnezzan rage and fury, he hastily pressed the little ball lest worse should follow.

Ethel’s description of the morning considerably enlivened the lunch table. Only Mrs. Brown did not join in the roars of laughter.

“But I think it sounds very nice, dear,” she said, “very nice. I’m very much looking forward to the proofs coming.”

“Well, it was priceless,” said Ethel. “It was ever so much funnier than the pantomime. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. For years to come, if I feel depressed, I shall just think of William this morning. His face ... oh, his face!”

William defended himself.

“My face is jus’ like anyone else’s face,” he said indignantly. “I don’t know why you’re all laughing. There’s nothin’ funny about my face. I’ve never done anythin’ to it. It’s no different to other people’s. It doesn’t make me laugh.”

“No, dear,” said Mrs. Brown soothingly, “it’s very, nice—very nice, indeed. And I’m sure it will be a beautiful photograph.”

The proofs arrived next week. They were highly appreciated by William’s family. There were two positions. In one, William, in an attitude of intellectual contemplation, glowered at them from an artistic background; in the other, he stood stiffly with one hand on his hip, his toes (in spite of all) turned resolutely in, and glared ferociously and defiantly upon the world in general. Mrs. Brown was delighted. “I think it’s awfully nice,” she said, “and he looks so smart and clean.”

William, mystified by Robert’s and Ethel’s reception of them, carried them up to his room and studied them long and earnestly.

“Well, I can’t see wot’s funny about them,” he said at last, half indignantly and half mystified. “It doesn’t seem funny to me.”

“You’ll have to write a letter to your godmother, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, as Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s birthday drew near.

“Me?” said William bitterly. “I should think I’ve done enough for her.”

“No,” said Mrs. Brown firmly, “you must write a letter.”

“I dunno what to say to her.”

“Say whatever comes into your head.”

“I dunno how to spell all the words that come in my head.”

“I’ll help you, dear.”

Seeing no escape, William sat gloomily down at the table and was supplied with pen, ink, and paper. He looked round disapprovingly.

“S’pose I wear out the nib?” he said sadly. Mrs. Brown obligingly placed a box of nibs at his elbow. He sighed wearily. Life sometimes is hardly worth living.

After much patient thought he got as far as “Dear Godmother.” He occupied the next ten minutes in seeing how far you could bend apart the two halves of a nib without breaking them. After breaking six, he wearied of the occupation and returned to his letter. With deeply-furrowed brow and protruding tongue he continued his efforts. “Many happy returns of your birthday. I hopp you are verry well. I am very well and so is mother and father and Ethel and Robbert.” He gazed out of the window and chewed the end of his penholder into splinters. Some he swallowed, then choked, and had to retire for a drink of water. Then he demanded a fresh pen. After about fifteen minutes he returned to his epistolary efforts.

“It is not raning to-day,” he wrote, after much thought. Then, “It did not rane yesterday and we are hoppin’ it will not rane to-morrow.”

Having exhausted that topic he scratched his head in despair, wrinkled up his brows, and chewed his penholder again.

“I have a hole in my stokking,” was his next effort. Then, “I have had my phottograf took and send it for a birthday present. Some peeple think it funny but to me it seems alrite. I hopp you will like it. Your loving godsun, William.”

Mrs. Adolphus Crane was touched, both by letter and photograph.

“I must have been wrong,” she said with penitence. “He looks so good. And there’s something rather sad about his face.”

She asked William to her birthday tea-party. To William this was the climax of a long chain of insults.

“But I don’t want to go to tea with her,” he said in dismay.

“But she wants you, darling,” said Mrs. Brown. “I expect she liked your photograph.”

“I’m not going,” said William testily, “if they’re all going to be laughing at my photograph all the time. I’m jus’ sick of people laughing at my photograph.”

“Of course they won’t, dear,” said Mrs. Brown. “It’s a very nice photograph. You look a bit—depressed in it, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s not funny,” he said indignantly.

“Of course not, dear. You’ll behave nicely, won’t you?”

“I’ll behave ordinary,” he said coldly, “but I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go ’cause—’cause—’cause——” he sought silently for a reason that might appeal to a grown-up mind, then, with a brilliant inspiration, “’cause I don’t want my best clothes to get all wore out.”

“I don’t think they will, dear,” she said; “don’t worry about that.”

William dejectedly promised not to.

The afternoon of Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s birthday dawned bright and clear, and William, resigned and martyred, set off. He arrived early and was shown into Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s magnificent drawing-room. An air of magisterial magnificence shed gloom over Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s whole house. Mrs. Adolphus Crane, as magisterial, and magnificent and depressing and enormous as her house, entered.

“Good afternoon, William. Now I’ve a pleasant little surprise for you.” William’s gloomy countenance brightened. “I’ve put your photograph into my album. There! What an honour for a little boy!” William’s countenance relapsed into gloom.

“You can look at the album while I’m getting ready, and then when the guests come you can show it to them. Won’t that be nice?” She departed.

William was trapped—trapped in a huge and horrible drawing-room by a huge and horrible woman, and he would have to stay there at least two hours. And Ginger and Henry were bird-nesting! Oh, the horror of it. Why was he chosen by Fate for this penance? He felt a sudden fury against the art of photography in general. William’s sudden furies against anything demanded some immediate outlet.

So William, with the aid of a pencil, looked at Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s family album till Mrs. Adolphus Crane was ready. Then she arrived, and soon after her the guests, or rather such of them as had not had the presence of mind to invent excuses for their absence. For, funeral affairs were Mrs. Adolphus Crane’s parties. Liveliness and hilarity dropped slain on the doorstep. The guests came sadly into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Adolphus Crane dispensed gloom from the hearthrug. Her voice was low and deep.

“How do you do ... thank you so much ... I doubt whether I shall live to see another ... yes, my nerves! By the way—my little godson——” They turned to look at William who was sitting in silent misery in a corner, his hands on his knees. He returned their interested stares with his best company frown. On the chair by him was the album. “Have you seen the family album?” went on Mrs. Adolphus Crane. “It’s most interesting. Do look at it.” A group of visitors sadly gathered round it and one of them opened it. Mrs. Adolphus Crane did not join them. She knew her album by heart. She took her knitting, sat down by the fire, and poured forth her knowledge.

“The first one is great uncle Joshua,” she said, “a splendid old man. Never touched tobacco or alcoholic drinks in his life.”

They looked at great uncle Joshua. He sat, grim and earnest and respectable, with his hand on the table. But a lately-added pipe, in pencil, adorned his mouth, and his hand seemed to encircle a tankard. Quite suddenly animation returned to the group by the album. They began to believe that they were going to enjoy it, after all.

“Then comes my poor dear mother.” Poor, dear mother wore a large eye-glass with a black ribbon and a wild Indian head-dress. The group by the album grew large. There seemed to be some magnetic attraction about it.

“Then comes my paternal uncle James, a very handsome man.”

Paternal uncle James might have been a very handsome man before his nose had been elongated for several inches, and his lips curved into an enormous smile, showing gigantic teeth. He smoked a large-vulgar-looking pipe.

“A beautiful character, too,” said Mrs. Adolphus Crane. She continued the family catalogue, and the visitors followed the photographs in the album. They were all embellished. Some had pipes, some had blue noses, some black eyes, some giant spectacles, some comic head-dresses. Some had received more attention than others. Aunt Julia, “a most saintly woman,” positively leered from her “cabinet,” with a huge nose, and a black eye, and a cigar in her mouth. The album was handed from one to another. An unwonted hilarity and vivacity reigned supreme—and always there were crowds round the album.

Mrs. Adolphus Crane was surprised, but vaguely flattered. Her party seemed more successful than usual. People seemed to be taking quite a lot of notice of William, too. One young curate, who had wept tears over the album, pressed half a crown into William’s hand. By some unerring instinct they guessed the author of the outrage. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Adolphus Crane did not happen to look at her album till several months later, and then it did not occur to her to connect it with William. But this afternoon she somehow connected the strange spirit of cheerfulness that pervaded her drawing-room with him, and was most gracious to him.

“He’s been so good,” she said to Mrs. Brown when she arrived to take William home; “quite helped to make my little party a success.”

Mrs. Brown concealed her amazement as best she could.

“But what did you do, William?” she said on the way home as William plodded along beside her, his hands in his pockets lovingly fingering his half-crown.

“Me?” said William innocently. “Nothin’.”

CHAPTER III

THE FÊTE—AND FORTUNE

WILLIAM took a fancy to Miss Tabitha Croft as soon as he saw her. She was small and inoffensive-looking. She didn’t look the sort of person to write irate letters to William’s parents. William was a great judge of character. He could tell at a glance who was likely to object to him, who was likely to ignore him, and who was likely definitely to encourage him. The last was a very rare class indeed. Most people belonged to the first class. But as he sat on the wall and watched Miss Tabitha Croft timidly and flutteringly superintending the unloading of her furniture at her little cottage gate, he came to the conclusion that she would be very inoffensive indeed. He also came to the conclusion that he was going to like her. William generally got on well with timid people. He was not timid himself. He was small and freckled and solemn and possessed of great tenacity of purpose for his eleven years.

Miss Tabitha, happening to look up from the débris of a small table which one of the removers had carelessly and gracefully crushed against the wall, saw a boy perched on her wall, scowling at her. She did not know that the scowl was William’s ordinary normal expression. She smiled apologetically.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Arternoon,” said William.

There was silence for a time while another of the removers took the door off its hinges with little or no effort by means of a small piano which he then placed firmly upon another remover’s foot. Then the silence was broken. During the breaking of silence, William’s scowl disappeared and a rapt smile appeared on his face.

“Can’t they think of things to say?” he said delightedly to Miss Tabitha when a partial peace was restored.

Miss Tabitha raised a face of horror and misery.

“Oh, dear!” she said in a voice that trembled, “it’s simply dreadful!”

William’s chivalry (that curious quality) was aroused. He leapt heavily from the wall.

“I’ll help,” he said airily. “Don’t you worry.”

He helped.

He staggered from the van to the house and from the house to the van. He worked till the perspiration poured from his freckled brow. He broke two candlesticks, a fender, a lamp, a statuette, and most of a breakfast service. After each breakage he said, “Never mind,” comfortingly to Miss Tabitha and put the pieces tidily in the dustbin. When he had filled the dustbin he arranged them in a neat pile by the side of it. He was completely master of the situation. Miss Tabitha gave up the struggle and sat on a packing-case in the kitchen with some sal-volatile and smelling-salts. One of the removers gave William a drink of cold tea—another gave him a bit of cold sausage. William was blissfully, riotously happy. The afternoon seemed to fly on wings. He tore a large hole in his knickers and upset a tin of paint, which he found on a window sill, down his jersey. At last the removers departed and William proudly surveyed the scene of his labours and destruction.

“Well,” he said, “I bet things would have been a lot different if I hadn’t helped.”

“I’m sure they would,” said Miss Tabitha with perfect truth.

“Seems about tea time, doesn’t it?” went on William gently.

Miss Tabitha gave a start and put aside the sal-volatile.

“Yes; do stay and have some here.”

“Thanks,” said William simply, “I was thinking you’d most likely ask me.”

Over the tea (to which he did full justice in spite of his previous repast of cold tea and sausage) William waxed very conversational. He told her of his friends and enemies (chiefly enemies) in the neighbourhood—of Farmer Jones who made such a fuss over his old apples, of the Rev. P. Craig who entered into a base conspiracy with parents to deprive quite well-meaning boys of their Sunday afternoon freedom. “If Sunday school’s so nice an’ good for folks as they say it is,” said William bitterly, “why don’t they go? I wun’t mind them going.”

He told her of Ginger’s air-gun and his own catapult, of the dead rat they found in the ditch and the house they had made of branches in the wood, of the dare-devil career of robber and outlaw he meant to pursue as soon as he left school. In short, he admitted her unreservedly into his friendship.

And while he talked, he consumed large quantities of bread and jam and butter and cakes and pastry. At last he rose.

“Well,” he said, “I s’pose I’d better be goin’.”

Miss Tabitha was bewildered but vaguely cheered by him.

“You must come again....” she said.

“Oh, yes,” said William cheerfully. “I’ll come again lots ... an’ let me know when you’re movin’ again—I’ll come an’ help again.”

Miss Tabitha shuddered slightly.

“Thank you so much,” she said.

*****

He arrived the next afternoon.

“I’ve just come to see,” he said, “how you’re gettin’ on.”

Miss Tabitha was seated at a little table—with a row of playing cards spread out in front of her.

She flushed slightly.

“I’m—I’m just telling my fortune, William,” she said.

“Oh,” said William. He was impressed.

“It does sometimes come true,” she said eagerly, “I do it nearly every day. It’s curious—how it grows on one.”

She began to turn up the covered cards and study them intently. William sat on a chair opposite her and watched with interest.

“There was a letter in my cards yesterday,” she said, “and it came this morning. Sometimes it comes true like that, but often,” she sighed, “it doesn’t.”

“Wot’s in it to-day?” said William, scowling at the cards.

“A death,” said Miss Tabitha in a sepulchral whisper, “and a letter from a dark man and jealousy of a fair woman and a present from across the sea and legal business and a legacy—but they’re none of them the sort of thing that comes true. I don’t know though,” she went on dreamily, “the Income Tax man might be dark—I don’t know—and I may hear from him soon. It’s wonderful really—I mean that any of it should come out. It’s quite an absorbing pursuit. Shall I do yours?”

“’Um,” said William graciously.

“You must wish first.”

William wished with his eyes screwed up in silent concentration.

“I’ve done it,” he said.

Miss Tabitha dealt out the cards. She shook her head sorrowfully.

“You’ll be treated badly by a fair woman,” she said.

William agreed gloomily.

“That’ll be Ethel—my sister,” he said. “She thinks that jus’ ’cause she’s grown-up....” He relapsed into subterranean mutterings.

“And you’ll have your wish,” she said.

William brightened. Then his eye roved round the room to a photograph on a bureau by the window.

“Who’s he?” he said.

Miss Tabitha flushed again.