WILLIAM—THE OUTLAW

By the Same Author

(1) JUST WILLIAM
(2) MORE WILLIAM
(3) WILLIAM AGAIN
(4) WILLIAM—THE FOURTH
(5) STILL WILLIAM
(6) WILLIAM—THE CONQUEROR
(7) WILLIAM—THE OUTLAW
(8) WILLIAM—IN TROUBLE
(9) WILLIAM—THE GOOD
(10) WILLIAM
(11) WILLIAM—THE BAD
(12) WILLIAM’S HAPPY DAYS
(13) WILLIAM’S CROWDED HOURS
(14) WILLIAM—THE PIRATE
(15) WILLIAM—THE REBEL
(16) WILLIAM—THE GANGSTER
(17) WILLIAM—THE DETECTIVE
(18) SWEET WILLIAM
(19) WILLIAM—THE SHOWMAN
(20) WILLIAM—THE DICTATOR
(21) WILLIAM’S BAD RESOLUTION
(22) WILLIAM—THE FILM STAR
(23) WILLIAM DOES HIS BIT
(24) WILLIAM CARRIES ON
(25) WILLIAM AND THE BRAINS TRUST
(26) JUST WILLIAM’S LUCK
(27) WILLIAM—THE BOLD
(28) WILLIAM AND THE TRAMP
(29) WILLIAM AND THE MOON ROCKET
(30) WILLIAM AND THE SPACE ANIMAL
(31) WILLIAM’S TELEVISION SHOW } First
(32) WILLIAM—THE EXPLORER } Editions
(33) WILLIAM’S TREASURE TROVE }

“JUST WHAT I WANTED,” SAID THE ARTIST; “A DIRTY
RAPSCALLIAN OF A BOY WITH A CROOKED TIE AND A
GRIMY COLLAR.”

(See page 140)

WILLIAM—THE
OUTLAW

BY
RICHMAL CROMPTON

ILLUSTRATED BY
THOMAS HENRY

LONDON
GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED
TOWER HOUSE, SOUTHAMPTON STREET
LONDON, W.C. 2

© RICHMAL CROMPTON LAMBURN 1927

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

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

WILLIAM—THE OUTLAW

WILLIAM and Ginger and Douglas (known as the Outlaws) walked slowly down the road to school. It was a very fine afternoon—one of those afternoons which, one feels—certainly the Outlaws felt—it is base ingratitude to spend indoors. The sun was shining and the birds were singing in a particularly inviting way.

“G’omtry,” said William with scornful emphasis and repeated bitterly, “G’omtry!”

“Might be worse,” said Douglas, “might be Latin.”

“Might be better,” said Henry, “might be singin’.”

The Outlaws liked singing lessons not because they were musical, but because it involved no mental effort and because the master who taught singing was a poor disciplinarian.

“Might be better still,” said Ginger, “might be nothin’.”

The Outlaws slackened their already very slack pace and their eyes wandered wistfully to the tree-covered hill-tops which lay so invitingly in the distance.

“Afternoon school’s all wrong,” said William suddenly. “Mornin’s bad enough. But afternoon——!”

That morning certainly had been bad enough. It had been the sort of morning when everything goes wrong that can go wrong. The Outlaws had incurred the wrath of every master with whom they had come in contact.

“An’ this afternoon!” said Ginger with infinite disgust. “It’ll be worse even than an ordinary afternoon with me havin’ to stay in writin’ lines for old Face.”

“An’ me havin’ to stay in doin’ stuff all over again for ole Stinks.”

It turned out that each one of the four Outlaws would have to stay in after afternoon school as the victim of one or other of the masters whose wrath they had incurred that morning.

William heaved a deep sigh.

“Makes me feel mad,” he said. “Miners havin’ Trades Unions an’ Strikes an’ things to stop ’em doin’ too much work an’ us havin’ to go on an’ on an’ on till we’re wore out. You’d think Parliament’d stop it. People go on writin’ in the papers about people needin’ fresh air an’ then ’stead of lettin’ people have fresh air they shut ’em up in schools all day, mornin’ an’ afternoon, till—till they’re all wore out.”

“Yes,” said Ginger in hearty agreement. “I think that there oughter be a law stoppin’ afternoon school. I think that we’d be much healthier in every way if someone made a law stoppin’ afternoon school so’s we could get a bit of fresh air. I think,” with an air of unctuous virtue, “that it’s our juty to try’n get a bit of fresh air to keep us healthy so’s to save our parents havin’ to pay doctor’s bills.”

Ginger ignored the fact that so far no one in all his healthy young life had ever paid a doctor’s bill for him.

“I’ve a good mind to be a member of Parliament when I grow up,” threatened Douglas, “jus’ to make all schools have a holiday in the afternoons.”

“An’ the mornin’,” added Henry dreamily.

But, attractive as this idea was, even the Outlaws felt it was going rather too far.

“No, we’ll have to keep on mornin’ school,” said Douglas earnestly, “cause of—cause of exams an’ things. An’ school-masters’d all starve if we didn’t have any school.”

“Do ’em good,” said Ginger bitterly and added, darkly, “I’d jolly well make some laws about school-masters if I was a member of Parliament.”

“What I think’d be a good idea,” said William, “would be jus’ to have school on wet mornin’s. Not if it’s fine ’cause of gettin’ a little fresh air jus’ to keep us healthy.”

This was felt by them all to be an excellent idea.

“The rotten thing about it is,” went on William, “that by the time we’re in Parliament makin’ the laws we’ll be makin’ it for other people an’ too late to do us any good.”

“An’ it seems hardly worth botherin’ to get into Parliament jus’ to do things for other people,” said Ginger the egoist.

They were very near the school now and instinctively had slowed down to a stop. The sun was shining more brightly than ever. The whole countryside looked more inviting than ever. There was a short silence. They gazed from the school building (grim and dark and uninviting) to the sunny hills and woods and fields that surrounded it. At last William spoke.

“Seems ridic’lous to go in,” he said slowly.

And Ginger said still with his air of unctuous virtue, “Seems sort of wrong to go when we reely don’t believe that we oughter go. They’re always tellin’ us not to do things our conscience tells us not to do. Well, my conscience tells me not to go to school this afternoon. My conscience tells me that it’s my juty to go out into the fresh air gettin’ healthy. My conscience——”

Douglas interrupted gloomily: “’S’ all very well talkin’ like that. You know what’ll happen to us to-morrow morning.”

The soaring spirits of the Outlaws dropped abruptly at this reminder. The general feeling was that it was rather tactless of Douglas to have introduced the subject. It was difficult after that to restore the attitude of reckless daring which had existed a few minutes before. It was William of course who restored it, swinging well to the other extreme in order to repair the balance.

“Well, we won’t go to-morrow mornin’ either,” he said. “I’m jolly well sick of wastin’ my time in a stuffy old school when I might be outside gettin’ fresh air. Let’s be Outlaws. Let’s be real Outlaws. Let’s go right away somewhere to a wood where no one’ll find us an’ live on blackberries an’ roots an’ things an’ if they come out to fetch us we’ll climb trees an’ hide or run away or shoot at ’em with bows and arrows. Let’s go’n’ live all the rest of our lives as Outlaws.”

And so infectious was William’s spirit, so hypnotic was William’s glorious optimism that the Outlaws cheered jubilantly and said, “Yes, let’s.... Hurrah!”

“And never go to school no more,” said Douglas rapturously.

“No, never go to school no more,” chanted the Outlaws.

They decided not to go home for provisions because their unexpected presence there would be sure to raise comment and question.

And as William said, “We don’t want any food but blackberries an’ mushrooms an’ roots an’ things. People used to live on roots an’ I bet we’ll soon find some roots to live on. It’ll be quite easy to find what sort to eat and what sort not to eat. An’ we’ll kill rabbits an’ things an’ make fires an’ cook them. That’s what real Outlaws did, an’ we’re real Outlaws now. An’ we don’t want any clothes but what we’ve got. When they fall to pieces we’ll make some more out of the skins of rabbits we’ve killed to eat. That’s what real Outlaws did, I bet.”

“Where’ll we go to?” said Douglas. William considered.

“Well,” he said, “we must be in a wood. Outlaws are always in woods, ’cause of hiding an’ eating the roots and things. And we oughter be on a hill ’cause of seeing people comin’ when they come tryin’ to catch us——”

“Ringers’ Hill, then,” said Ginger blithely.

Ringers’ Hill was both high and wooded.

The Outlaws cheered again. They were still drunk with the prospect of freedom, intoxicated by William’s glorious optimism. They marched down the road that led away from the school singing lustily. The Outlaws were very fond of community singing. They liked to sing different songs simultaneously. William in sheer lightness of heart was singing—very unsuitably—“Home Sweet Home,” Ginger was singing “We won’t go to school no more,” to the tune of “It ain’t go’n rain no more,” Douglas was singing “Shepherd of the Hills,” and Henry was singing “Bye-bye, Blackbird.”

Suddenly two of their class-mates—Brown and Smith—came round the corner on their way to school. They looked at the Outlaws in surprise. Brown was deprived of the power of speech by a twopenny bull’s eye of giant proportions which he had just purchased at the village shop, but Smith said, “Hello! You’re going the wrong way.”

“No, we aren’t,” said William, blithely, “we’re going the right way.”

Brown made an inarticulate sound through his bull’s eye, meant to convey interest and interrogation, and Smith, interpreting it, said, “Where are you going?”

“To Ringers’ Hill,” said William defiantly and passed on, leaving Brown and Smith gazing after them amazedly.

“You di’n’ ought to have told them,” said Ginger.

But William was in a mood of joyous defiance.

“I don’t care,” he said, “I don’t care who knows. I don’t care who comes to fetch us home. We won’t go. We’ll climb trees an’ shoot at ’em and throw stones at ’em. I bet no one in the whole world’ll be able to catch us. I’m an Outlaw, I am,” he chanted. “I’m an Outlaw.”

Again his spirit infected his followers. They cheered lustily. “We’re Outlaws, we are,” they chanted, “we’re Outlaws.”

******

They sat under the largest tree on Ringers’ Hill. They had been Outlaws now for half an hour and it somehow wasn’t going as well as they’d thought it would. Douglas, wishing to test the food-producing properties of the place at once, had eaten so many unripe blackberries that he could for the time being take little interest in anything but his own feelings. Ginger had from purely altruistic motives begun to test the roots and was already regretting it.

“Well, I din’ ask you to go about eatin’ roots,” said William irritably. William had for the whole half hour been trying to light a fire and was by this time feeling thoroughly fed up with it. He had just used the last of a box of matches which he had abstracted from the lab. that morning.

“I did it for you,” said Ginger indignantly, “I did it to find the sort of roots that people eat, so you’d be able to eat ’em. Well, you can jolly well find your own roots now and I jolly well hope you find the one I did—the last one. It’s the sort of taste that goes on for ever. I don’ s’pose if I go on livin’ for years an’ years, I’ll ever get the taste of it out of my mouth——”

“Taste!” said Douglas bitterly. “I wun’t mind a taste ... it’s pain I mind—orful pain—gnawin’ at your inside.”

“I wish you’d shut up,” said William yet more irritably, “an’ help me with this fire. All the wood seems to be damp or somethin’. I can’t get anythin’ to happen.”

“Blow it,” suggested Ginger, taking his mind temporarily from his taste.

Douglas, tearing himself metaphorically speaking from his pain, knelt down and blew it.

It went out.

William raised his blackened face.

“That’s a nice thing to do,” he said bitterly. “Blowin’ it out. All the trouble I’ve had lightin’ it an’ then you jus’ go an’ blow it out. An’ there isn’t another match.”

“ALL THE TROUBLE I’VE HAD LIGHTIN’ IT AN’ THEN YOU
JUS’ GO AN’ BLOW IT OUT.”

“Well, it’d’ve gone out if we hadn’t blown it out,” said Ginger optimistically, “so it doesn’t matter. Anyway, let’s do somethin’ int’restin’. We’ve not had much fun so far—eatin’ roots an’ things an’ messin’ about with fire. We don’t want a fire yet. It’s warm enough without a fire. Let’s leave it till to-night when we need a fire, to sleep by and to keep the wild animals off. We’ll light one with,” vaguely, “flint an’ steel if we c’n find a bit of flint an’ steel lyin’ about anywhere. But we won’t light another now. We’re all sick of it and if we go burnin’ up all the firewood in the wood an——”

“All right,” said William, impressed by the sound logic of the argument, “I don’t mind. I’m jus’ about sick of it. I’ve simply wore myself out with it an’ you’ve not been much help, I must say.”

“Well, I like that,” said Douglas, “an’ me nearly dyin’ of agony from blackberries.”

“An’ me riskin’ my life testin’ roots,” said Ginger. “I can still taste it—strong as ever. It seems to be gettin’ stronger ’stead of weaker. It’s a wonder I’m alive at all. Not many people’d suffer like what I’ve suffered an’ still go on livin’. If I wasn’t strong I’d be dead of it now.”

Douglas, stung by Ginger’s self-pity, again rose to the defence of his own martyrdom.

“A taste,” he said. “I could stand any amount of tastes. I——”

At this moment a diversion was caused by the return of Henry. Henry had been out to catch rabbits to cook over the fire for supper. He looked hot and cross.

“Couldn’t catch any,” he said shortly. “I saw a lot on the other side of the hill. I hid behind a tree till they came out an’ then I ran out after them, and I’m absolutely wore out with runnin’ out after them an’ I’ve not caught one.”

“Let’s go down to the river,” said Ginger, “I’m jus’ about sick of messin’ about here. There isn’t anything to do here, ’cept eat roots, an’ I’ve had enough of that.”

“No,” said William firmly, “we’ve gotter stay up here. If we go down an’ they start comin’ out to fetch us home they’ll overpower us easy. It’s a—a sort of vantage ground up here. We can see ’em comin’ up here an’ escape or throw things down on ’em.”

“Well, I’m sick of stayin’ up here,” said Ginger.

“Think of ’em,” said William tactfully, “doin’ G’omtry at school.”

At this the Outlaws’ discontent faded and their spirits rose.

“Hurrah!” said Ginger, who now had completely forgotten his taste, “and I bet we can easy make up a game to play here an——”

“Look!” gasped Douglas suddenly, pointing down into the valley.

The Outlaws looked.

Then they stood motionless as if turned to stone.

There was no doubt about it.

Down in the valley coming along the path that led up to Ringers’ Hill could be seen the figures of the Head-master and the second master.

For some moments horror and surprise robbed the Outlaws of the power of speech.

Then William said:

“Crumbs!” but no words could describe the tone in which he said it.

“They’re—they’re comin’ after us,” gasped Ginger.

“Smith must have told him where we’d gone,” gasped Henry.

Ginger, recovering something of his self-possession, turned to William.

“I said you din’ oughter’ve told him,” he said with spirit.

“B-but,” gasped William, still paralysed with amazement, “how’d he know we’re Outlaws an’ never goin’ back?”

“Prob’ly Smith heard us sayin’ it,” said Ginger. “Well, it’s a nice set-out, isn’t it? What we goin’ to do? Fight him?”

Even William’s proud spirit quailed at the thought of doing that.

“If—if only——” he began.

Then his speech died on his lips. His mouth dropped open again. His eyes dilated with horror and amazement. Behind the figure of the head-master and second master came other figures—the mathematical master, the gym master, three or four prefects.

“They’re all comin’!” gasped William, “they’re comin’ to take us by force. They—they’re goin’ to surround the hill and take us by force.”

“Crumbs!” said Ginger again. “Crumbs!”

“What’ll we do?” gasped Douglas.

They looked at William and into William’s freckled face came a set look of purpose.

BREATHLESS WITH APPREHENSION THE OUTLAWS CROUCHED
UNDER THE BUSHES AND WATCHED. THEY COULD
SEE THE PROCESSION COME UP THE ROAD—NEARER,
NEARER.

“Well, we’ve gotter do something,” he said. He scowled ferociously, then a light flashed over his face. “I know what we’ll do. Smith must jus’ simply have told ’em ‘Ringers’ Hill.’ That’s what we told him, ‘Ringers’ Hill.’ Well, you remember the sign post thing at the bottom of the hill with ‘Ringers’ Hill’ on it?”

Yes, they remembered it—a wobbly, decrepit affair at the bottom of the hill.

William’s face was now fairly gleaming with his idea.

“Well,” he said, “you remember it was all loose in its hole? I bet if we pushed hard we could push it right round so’s the ‘Ringers’ Hill’ pointed right on up the other hill. An’ I bet they don’ know this part ’cause they don’t live here an’ they never come here so I bet—well, let’s try anyway, an’ we’d better be jolly quick.”

THEN—THE HEAD-MASTER PAUSED UNDER THE SIGN-POST.
“HERE WE ARE,” HE CALLED OUT. “HERE’S THE SIGN-POST—RINGER’S
HILL—UP THERE.”

Behind their leader they scrambled down the hillside to the sign-post.

“Now push!” directed William.

The Outlaws pushed.

The sign-post rocked in its hole and—joy!—slowly pivoted round in obedience to the Outlaws’ straining weight. The solitary arm bearing the legend “Ringers’ Hill” now pointed to the hill in the opposite direction.

The Outlaws’ spirits rose.

They gave a cautious muffled cheer.

“Now quick, back again to the top!” said William and they scrambled once more to the hill-top.

The procession led by the head-master was approaching.

“Lie down under the bushes,” hissed William, “so’s they won’t see you. An’ watch what they do.”

Breathless with apprehension the Outlaws crouched under the bushes and watched. They could see the procession come up the road—nearer, nearer. Then—the head-master paused under the sign-post. The Outlaws held their breath. Did he know the lie of the land or would he be deceived? Evidently he didn’t know the lie of the land.

“Here we are,” he called out. “Here’s the sign-post—Ringers’ Hill—up there.”

Slowly the procession passed on up the other hillside.

The Outlaws climbed from out of their bushes. They still looked rather pale. “That was a jolly narrow shave,” said Ginger.

“What we’d better do now,” said William grimly, “is to look for a proper hidin’ place case they find out an’ come back.”

******

So intent had they been on looking down at the side of the hill where the dread procession was wending its way that they had not noticed an enormous man with bushy eyebrows and a generally ferocious aspect who was climbing up the hill from the other side. They did not in fact notice him until he had come up behind them and his gruff voice boomed:

“Well, is this all there is of you?”

The Outlaws turned round with a start.

There was a tense silence.

The Outlaws, having, as they thought, narrowly saved themselves from destruction on one side of the hill, were quite unprepared for this attack from the other. It unnerved them. It paralysed them. They had no reserve of ingenuity and aplomb with which to meet it.

William gulped and blinked and said, “Yes.”

“All?” boomed the ferocious man, “well, all I can say is that it’s hardly worth my while to come all this way for you. I’d understood that it was quite a different sort of affair altogether. Do you mean to say that there are only four of you?”

William felt that he had done all that could be expected of him and nudged Ginger.

“Er-yes,” quaked Ginger.

“Only four of you,” said the ferocious man ferociously, “and how old?”

Douglas and Henry had slunk behind William and Ginger. Ginger nudged William to intimate that it was his turn.

William swallowed and said feebly, “Eleven—eleven and nearly three-quarters.”

“Pish!” said the man in a tone of fierce disgust. “Eleven! As I say I’d never have agreed to come if I’d known it was this sort of an affair. I naturally imagined—however, now I’m here—and it’s late to start with——” He looked at them and seemed to relent somewhat, “I gathered that you know a fair amount about the subject and you must be keen. I suppose one should be thankful for four keen students even though they seem so very—however,” his irritability seemed to get the better of him again, “let’s get to business. We’ll start over here ... quickly, please,” he snapped, “or we’ll never get through this afternoon——”

Dazedly, as if in a dream, the Outlaws went to where he pointed. They didn’t know what else to do. The situation seemed to have got entirely out of hand. It seemed best to follow the line of least resistance and to give themselves away as little as possible. They stood in a dejected group in front of the ferocious man and the ferocious man began to talk. He talked about such things as strata and igneous rock and neolithic and eolithic and paloælithic and stratigraphical and Pithecanthropus erectus and other things of which the Outlaws had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. He asked them questions and got angry because they didn’t know the answers. He asked them what he’d said about things and got angry because they’d forgotten. He strode about the hill-top pointing out rocks with his stick and talking about them in a loud, ferocious voice. He made them follow him wherever he went, and got angry because they didn’t follow nimbly enough. So terrifying was he that they daren’t even try to run away. It was like a nightmare. It was far worse than Geometry. And it seemed to last for hours and hours and hours. Actually it lasted an hour. At the end the man became more angry than ever, said that it was an insult to have asked him to come over to address four half-witted gutter-snipes and muttering ferociously stalked off again down the hillside.

The Outlaws sat down weakly on the ground around the little heap of black twigs and dead leaves which marked the scene of William’s failure as a fire-maker and held their heads.

“Crumbs!” moaned William, and Ginger mournfully echoed, “Crumbs!”

“Well, anyway, he’s gone,” said Henry trying to look on the bright side.

But it wasn’t really easy to look on the bright side. The Outlaws were feeling very hungry and there wasn’t anything to eat. Ringers’ Hill had lost its charm. They’d had a rotten time there—not a bit the sort of time they’d always imagined Outlaws having. And the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud. It was cold and dark. They were hungry and fed up.

“Wonder what time it is,” said Henry casually.

As if in answer the clock of the village church struck in the valley, One—Two—Three—Four—Five. Five o’clock. Tea-time. Into each mind flashed a picture of a cheerful dining-room with a table laid for tea.

“Well,” said William with an unconvincing attempt at cheerfulness, “we’d better be getting something to eat. We might have had a rabbit if Henry’d caught one. Let’s have a go at the blackberries.”

“There aren’t any ripe ones,” said Douglas, “and the others make you feel awful inside after you’ve eaten a few.”

Then suddenly to their secret relief Henry rose and said bluntly, “I want my tea and I’m sick of being an Outlaw. I’m going home.”

******

On the road they met Brown and Smith. Brown and Smith were swinging happily along the road carrying fishing-rods and jars of minnows.

“I say, we’ve had a topping time,” they called. “Have you? But you were rotters not to have told us.”

“Told you what?” said the Outlaws.

“That there was going to be a half-holiday.”

“What?” said the Outlaws.

“They sent us all away as soon as we got there. Said they’d forgotten to give it out in the morning. We were jolly surprised to meet you going away from school, but when we got there we knew why but we thought you jolly well might have told us.”

“Why was there a half-holiday?” gasped William.

“Oh, some old josser or other coming to give some old jaw or other to some old society or other,” said Smith vaguely, “but we’ve had a topping afternoon, have you?”

In bitter silence the Outlaws walked on. They hadn’t had a topping afternoon. At the end of the road a prefect was putting a letter into a pillar-box. Another prefect stood by.

“What was it like?” said the one who stood by.

“He never turned up,” said the one who’d just posted the letter. The Outlaws slowed their pace to listen.

“We’d arranged to meet him on Ringers’ Hill. The Head and everyone was there. We’d never been to Ringers’ Hill before but there was a sign post up so we couldn’t have gone wrong. We waited three quarters of an hour and he never turned up. It’s sickening. I’ve just posted a letter from the Head telling him that we went there and waited three quarters of an hour. I suppose he was kept somewhere. He might have let us know, but some of those professors are beastly absent-minded. We were looking forward to it awfully, because it was Professor Fremlin, one of the greatest geologists in England, you know. Ringers’ Hill’s supposed to be an old volcano crater. It would have been awfully interesting. He was going to lecture on its formation and show us the strata and fossils there. We’d been reading it up for weeks so as to know something about it. A shame when we’ve got such a decent Geologist Society for the star turn show of the year to fall flat. Perhaps he was taken ill on the way.” He turned to the Outlaws. “Now then, you kids, what are you hanging about for? Clear off.”

Blinking dazedly, walking very, very slowly, very very thoughtfully, the Outlaws cleared off.

CHAPTER II

THE TERRIBLE MAGICIAN

THE advent of Mr. Galileo Simpkins to the village would in normal times have roused little interest in William and his friends. But the summer holidays had already lasted six weeks and though the Outlaws were not tired of holidays (it was against the laws of nature for the Outlaws ever to tire of holidays), still they had run the gamut of almost every conceivable occupation both lawful and unlawful, and they were ready for a fresh sensation. They had been Pirates and Smugglers and Red Indians and Highwaymen ad nauseam. They had trespassed till every farmer in the neighbourhood saw red at the mere sight of them. They had made with much trouble a motor boat and an aeroplane, both of which had insisted on obeying the law of gravity rather than fulfilling the functions of motor boats and aeroplanes. They had made a fire in Ginger’s backyard and cooked over it a mixture of water from the stream and blackberries and Worcester Sauce and Turkish delight and sardines (these being all the edibles they could jointly produce), had pronounced the resultant concoction to be excellent and had spent the next day in bed. They had taken Jumble (William’s mongrel) “hunting” and had watched the ignominious spectacle of Jumble’s being attacked by a cat half his size and pursued in a state of abject terror all the length of the village with a bleeding nose. They had discovered a wasps’ nest and almost simultaneously its inhabitants had discovered them. They were only just leaving off their bandages. They had essayed tight-rope walking on Henry’s mother’s clothes line, but Henry’s mother’s clothes line had proved unexpectedly brittle and William still limped slightly. They had tried to teach tricks to Etheldrida, Douglas’ aunt’s parrot, and Douglas still bore the marks of her beak in several places on his face. Altogether they were, as I said, ripe for any fresh sensation when Mr. Galileo Simpkins dawned upon their horizon.

Mr. Galileo Simpkins had been thus christened by his parents in the hope that he would take to science. And Mr. Galileo Simpkins, being by nature ready to follow the line of least resistance, had obligingly taken to science at their suggestion. Moreover, he quite enjoyed taking to science. He enjoyed pottering about with test tubes and he disliked being sociable. A scientist, as everyone knows, is immune from sociability. A scientist can retire to his lab. as to a fortress and, if he likes, read detective novels there to his heart’s content without being disturbed by anyone. Not that Mr. Galileo Simpkins only read detective novels. He was genuinely interested in Science as Science (he put it that way) and though as yet he had made no startling contribution to Science as Science, still he enjoyed reading in his text-books of experiments that other men had made and then doing the experiments to see if the same thing happened in his case. It didn’t always.... Fortunately he was not dependent for his living on his scientific efforts. He had a nice little income of his own which enabled him to stage himself as a Scientist to his complete satisfaction. He took a great interest in the staging of himself as a Scientist. He liked to have an imposing array of test tubes and bottles and appliances of every sort—even those whose use he did not quite understand. He was very proud too of a skeleton which he had bought third-hand from a medical student and which he thought conferred great éclat on his position as a Scientist from its stronghold in the darkest corner. As you will gather from all this, Mr. Galileo Simpkins was a very simple and inoffensive and well-meaning little man and before he came to the village where William lived, had not caused a moment’s uneasiness to anyone since the time when at three years old he had inadvertently fallen into the rain tub and been fished out half drowned by his nurse.

He had come to the village because the lease of the house where he had lived previously had run out and the original owners were returning to it and he had seen the house in William’s village advertised in the paper, and it seemed just what he wanted. He liked to live in the country because he was rather a nervous little man and was afraid of traffic.

The first sight of Mr. Galileo Simpkins on his way from the station had not interested the Outlaws much except that as a stranger to the village he was naturally to be kept under observation and his possibilities in every direction explored at the earliest opportunity.

“He dun’t look very int’restin’,” said Ginger scornfully as, sitting in a row on a gate, the Outlaws stared in an unblinking manner quite incompatible with Good Manners at little Mr. Galileo Simpkins driving by on his way from the station in the village cab. The driver of the village cab, who knew the Outlaws well, kept a wary eye upon them as he passed, and had his whip ready. The ancient quadruped who drew the village cab seemed to know them too, and turned his head to leer at them sardonically from behind his blinkers. But the attention of the Outlaws was all for the occupant of the village cab, who alone was quite unaware of them as the ancient equipage passed on its way. He was merely thinking what a fine day it was for his arrival at his new home and hoping that his skeleton (which he had packed most carefully) had travelled well.

William considered Ginger’s comment for a moment in silence. Then he said meditatively: “Oh ... dunno. He looks sort of soft and ’s if he couldn’t run very fast. We c’n try playin’ in his garden sometime. I bet he couldn’t catch us.”

They then had a stone-throwing competition which lasted till one of William’s stones went through General Moult’s cucumber-frame.

When General Moult had finally given up the chase, the Outlaws threw themselves breathlessly (for General Moult, despite his size, was quite a good runner) on to the grass at the top of the hill and reviewed the further possibilities of amusement which the world held for them. They decided after a short discussion not to teach Etheldrida any more tricks, not so much because they were tired of teaching Etheldrida tricks as because Etheldrida seemed to be tired of learning them.

Douglas stroked his scars thoughtfully and said:

“Not that I’m frightened of her, but—but, well, let’s try’n think of somethin’ a bit more int’restin’.”

No one had anything very original to suggest (they seemed to have exhausted the possibilities of the whole universe in those six weeks of holidays), so they made new bows and arrows and held a match which William won in that he made the finest long distance shot. He shot his arrow into the air and unfortunately it came to earth by way of Miss Miggs’ scullery window. Miss Miggs happened to be in the scullery at the time and again the Outlaws, bitterly meditating on the over-population of the countryside, had to flee from the avenging wrath of an outraged householder. In the shelter of the woods they again drew breath.

“I say,” said Ginger, “wun’t it be nice to live in the middle of Central Africa or the North Pole or somewhere where there isn’t any houses for miles an’ miles an’ miles.”

“She runs,” commented Douglas patronisingly, “faster’n what you’d think to look at her.”

“What’ll we do now?” said Henry.

Dusk was falling, and ahead of them loomed the evil hour of bedtime which they were ever ready to postpone.

“I tell you what,” said William, his freckled face suddenly alight, “let’s go ’n see how he’s gettin’ on—you know, him what we saw ridin’ up in the cab. We c’n go an’ watch him through his window. It’s quite dark.”

******

They watched him in petrified amazement. They watched him as, dressed in a black dressing-gown and a black skull-cap, he pottered about, laying out test tubes and pestles and mortars and crucibles and curious-looking instruments and bottles of strangely coloured liquids. Eyes and mouths opened still further when little Mr. Galileo Simpkins brought in his skeleton and set it up with tender care and pride in its corner.

They crept away through the darkness in a stricken silence and did not speak till they reached the road. Then: “Crumbs!” said William in a hoarse whisper. “What is he? What’s he doin’?”

“I think he’s a sort of Bolsh’vist goin’ to blow up all the world,” said Douglas with a burst of inspiration.

“An’ a dead body an’ all,” said Ginger, deeply awed by the memory of what they had seen.

“P’raps he’s just doin’ ordinary chemistry,” suggested Henry mildly.

This suggestion was indignantly scouted by the Outlaws.

“Course it’s not jus’ ordin’ry chemistry,” said William, “not with all that set-out.”

“Dead bodies an’ all,” murmured Ginger again in a sepulchral voice.

“An’ dressed all funny,” said William, “an’ queer sorts of things all over the place. ’Sides, what’d he be doin’ ordin’ry chemistry for, anyway? He’s too old to be goin’ in for exams.”

This was felt to be unanswerable.

“What I think is——” began William, but he never got as far as what he thought.

A plaintive voice came through the dusk—the voice of William’s sister Ethel.

“William! Mother says it’s long past your bedtime and will you come in and she says——”

The Outlaws crept off through the dusk.

******

The next day Joan came back from a visit to an aunt.

Joan was the only female member of the Outlaws. Though she did not accompany them on their more dangerous and manly exploits she was their unfailing confidante and sympathiser and could be always counted on to side with them against a hostile and unsympathetic world. She was small and dark and very pretty and she considered William the greatest hero the world has ever known.

She joined them the first morning of their return and they told her without any undue modesty of their exploits during her absence—of their heroic flights from irate farmers, of their miraculous creation of motor boats and aeroplanes (they omitted any reference to the over-officious law of gravity), of their glorious culinary operations (they omitted the sequel), their Herculean contest with the wasps, their tight-rope walking performance, their (partial) mastery over the brute creation as represented by Etheldrida, their glorious feats of stone throwing and arrow shooting.

“An’ no one what’s run after us has caught us—not once,” ended William proudly and added: “I bet we c’n run faster ’n anybody else in the world.”

Joan smiled upon him fondly. She firmly believed that William could do anything in the world better than any one else in it.

“And what are you going to do to-day?” she said with interest.

That, the expressions of the Outlaws gave her to understand, was the question. The Outlaws had no idea what they were going to do to-day. They were obviously ready for any suggestions from the gentleman who, moralists inform us, specialises in providing occupation for the unoccupied.

“Let’s make another motor boat,” said Henry feebly, but this suggestion was treated with well-deserved contempt. The Outlaws were not in the habit of repeating their efforts. Moreover, the motor boat experiment had not been so successful as to warrant its repetition.

Suddenly Ginger’s face lit up.

“I know!” he said, “let’s show Joan him ... you know, him what we saw last night—with the dead body——”

Joan’s eyes grew round with horror.

“It wasn’t a dead body,” said Douglas impatiently, “it was a skeleton.”

“That’s the same as a dead body,” said Ginger pugnaciously, “it was a body, wasn’t it? an’ now it’s dead.”

“Yes, but it’s bones,” protested Douglas.

“Well, a body’s bones, isn’t it?” said Ginger.

But here Joan interrupted. “Oh, what is it, where is it?” she said, clasping her hands, “it sounds awful.”

Her horror satisfied them completely. With Joan you could always be so pleasantly sure that your effects would come off.

“Come on,” said William briskly assuming his air of Master of the Ceremonies, “we’ll show him you. We c’n get through the hole in the hedge ’n creep up to the window through the bushes without him seein’ us at all.”

******

They got through the hole in the hedge and crept up to the window through the bushes. William, as Master of the Ceremonies, had an uneasy suspicion that in the cold morning light both man and room might look perfectly normal, that the ghostly effect of the night before might have banished completely. But the suspicions proved to be groundless. The room looked, if possible, even more uncanny than it had done. And Mr. Galileo Simpkins still pottered about it happily in his black dressing gown and skull cap (it was a costume in which he rather fancied himself). Mr. Galileo Simpkins liked his nice large downstairs lab. and felt very happy in it. As he stirred an experiment in a little crucible he sang softly to himself from sheer good spirits. He was quite unaware of the Outlaws watching his every movement with eager interest from the bushes outside the window. It was Ginger who saw and pointed out to the others the shelf at the back of the room on which stood a row of bottles containing wizened frogs in some sort of liquid.

Aghast, they crept away.

“Well, I’m cert’n that’s what he’s goin’ to do,” said Douglas as soon as they reached the road, “he’s goin’ to blow up all the world. He’s jus’ mixin’ up the stuff to do it with.”

“Well, I still think he might be jus’ an ornery sort of man doin’ ornery chemistry,” said Henry.

“What about the dead body, then?” said Ginger.

“An’ what about frogs an’ things shut up in bottles an’ things?” said William.

Then Joan spoke.

“He’s a wizard,” she said, “of course he’s a wizard.”

William treated this suggestion with derision.

“A wizard,” he said contemptuously, “Soppy fairy-tale stuff! Course he’s not. There aren’t any!”

But Joan was not crushed.

“There are, William,” she said solemnly, “I know there are.”

“How d’you know there are!” said William incredulously.

“And what about the dead body?” said Ginger with the air of one bringing forward an unanswerable objection.

“The skeleton,” corrected Douglas.

“It’s someone he’s turned into a skeleton, of course,” said Joan firmly.

“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” commented William again with scorn. Joan bore his reproof meekly but clung to her point with feminine pertinacity.

“It’s not, William. It’s true. I know it’s true.”

There was certainly something convincing about her earnestness though the Outlaws were determined not to be convinced by it.

“No,” said Douglas very firmly. “He’s a blower up, that’s what he is. He’s goin’ to blow up all the world.”

“What about the frogs in bottles?” said Henry.

“They’re people he’s turned into frogs,” said Joan.

The frogs certainly seemed to fit into Joan’s theory better than they fitted into Douglas’s. Joan pursued her advantage. “And didn’t you hear him sort of singing as he mixed the things? He was making spells over them.”

The Outlaws were, outwardly, at least, still sceptical.

“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” said William once more with masculine superiority. “I tell you there aren’t any.”

But there was a fascination about the sight and they were loth to go far from it.

“Let’s go back an’ see what he’s doin’ now,” said Ginger, and eagerly they accepted the proposal. The hole in the hedge was conveniently large, the bushes by the window afforded a convenient shelter and all would have gone well had not Mr. Galileo Simpkins been engaged on the simple task of washing out some test tubes in a cupboard just outside the Outlaws’ line of vision. This was more than they could endure.

“What’s he doin’?” said William in a voice of agonised suspense.

But none of them could see what he was doing.

“I’ll go out,” said Ginger with a heroic air. “I bet he won’t see me.”

So Ginger crept out of the shelter of the bushes and advanced boldly to the window. Too boldly—for Mr. Galileo Simpkins, turning suddenly, saw, to his great surprise and indignation, a small boy with an exceedingly impertinent face standing in his garden and staring rudely at him through his window. Mr. Galileo Simpkins hated small boys, especially small boys with impertinent faces. With unexpected agility he leapt to the window and threw it open. Ginger fled in terror to the gate. Mr. Galileo Simpkins shook his fist after him.

“All right, you wait, my boy, you wait!” he called.

By this time he wanted the boy with the impertinent face to understand that he was going to find out who he was and tell his father. He was going to put a stop to that sort of thing once and for all. He wasn’t going to have boys with impertinent faces wandering about his garden and looking through his windows. He’d frighten them off now—at once. “You wait!” he shouted again with vague but terrible menace in his voice.

Then he returned to his lab. well pleased with himself.

The Outlaws crept back through the hole in the hedge and met Ginger in the road. They looked at Ginger as one might look at someone who has returned from the jaws of death. Ginger, now that the danger was over, rather enjoyed his position.

“Well,” he said with satisfaction, “did you see him an’ hear him. I bet he’d’ve killed me if he’d caught me.”

“Blown you up,” said Douglas.

“Turned you into something,” said Joan.

“Wonder what he meant by saying ‘Wait’ like that?” said William meditatively.

“He meant that he was goin’ to put a spell on you,” said Joan composedly.

Ginger went rather pale.

“Soppy fairy-tale stuff,” said William.

“All right,” said Joan, “just you wait and see.”

So they waited and they saw.

It was, of course, a coincidence that that night Ginger’s mother’s cook had made trifle for supper and that Ginger ate of this not wisely, but too well, and was the next morning confined to bed with what the doctor called “slight gastric trouble.”

The Outlaws called for him the next morning and were curtly informed by the housemaid (who, like Mr. Galileo Simpkins, hated all boys on principle) that Ginger was ill in bed and would not be getting up that day.

They walked away in silence.

“Well,” said Joan in triumph, “what do you think about him being a magician now?”

This time William did not say “Soppy fairy-tale stuff.”

******

Ginger returned to them, somewhat pale and wobbly, the next day. Like them he preferred to lay the blame of his enforced retirement on to Mr. Galileo Simpkins rather than upon the trifle.

“Yes, that’s what he said,” agreed Ginger earnestly. “He said ‘you wait,’ an’ then jus’ about an hour after that I began to feel orful pains. An’ I hadn’t had hardly any of that ole trifle ... well, not much, anyway; well, not too much ... well, not as much as I often have of things ... an’ I had most orful pains an’——”

“He must have made a little image of you in wax, Ginger,” said Joan with an air of deep wisdom, “and stuck pins into it. That’s what they do.... I expect he thinks you’re dead now. That’s why he said ‘You wait’!”

They did not scoff at her any longer.

“Well, I was nearly dead yesterday all right,” said Ginger. “I’ve never had such orful pains. Jus’ like pins running into me.”

“They were pins running into you, Ginger,” said Joan simply. “We’d better keep right away from him now or he’ll be turning us into something.”

“Like to turn him into something,” said Ginger who was still feeling vindictive towards the supposed author of his gastric trouble.

But Joan shook her head. “No,” said Joan, “we must keep right out of his way. You don’t know what they can do—magicians and people like that.”

“I do,” groaned Ginger.

So they went for a walk and held races and played Red Indians and sailed boats on the pond and climbed trees—but there was little zest in any of these pursuits. Their thoughts were with Mr. Galileo Simpkins the magician as he stirred his concoctions and uttered his spells and gazed upon his bottle victims and stuck pins into the waxen images of his foes.

“Let’s jus’ go’n look at him again,” said William, when they met in the afternoon. “We won’t go near enough for him to see us but—but let’s jus’ go’n see what he’s doin’!”

“You can,” said Ginger bitterly. “He’s not stuck pins into you an’ given you orful pains. Why, I’m still feelin’ ill with it. We had trifle again for lunch an’ I can’t eat more’n three helpin’s of it.”

“No, we’d better not go near him again,” said Joan shaking her head, her eyes wide.

But William did not agree with them.

“I only want jus’ to look at him again an’ see what he’s doin’. I’m goin’, anyway.”

So they all went.

******

They had decided to creep down through the field behind the Red House to the road and thence through the hole in the hedge to the sheltering cluster of bushes that commanded the magician’s room, but they had not so far to go before they saw him. It was a fine afternoon and Mr. Galileo Simpkins had taken his detective novel and gone into the field just behind his house. And there he was when the Outlaws stopped at the gate of the field, lying on the bank in the shade, reading. He was feeling at peace with all the world. He did not see the five faces that gazed at him over the gate of the field and then disappeared. He went on dozing happily over his novel. He’d had a very happy morning. Though none of his experiments had come out still he’d much enjoyed doing them. He’d thought once of that boy with the impertinent face and felt glad that he’d frightened him away so successfully. He’d seen no signs of him since. That was what you had to do with boys—scare them off, or you got no peace at all.... Very nice warm sun ... very exciting novel....

Meanwhile the Outlaws crept past the field and were standing talking excitedly in the road.

“Did you see?” gasped Ginger, “jus’ sittin’ an’ readin’ ornery jus’ as if he hadn’t been stickin’ pins into me all last night.”

“Let’s go home,” pleaded Joan. “You—you don’t know what he’ll do.”

“No,” said William, “now he’s all right readin’ in that field let’s go into his room an’ look at his things.”

There was a murmur of dissent.