Just William Part 14

"We're measuring the footprints, madam. You say he went out by the front door?"

"I'm convinced he did. I'm convinced he's hiding in the bushes by the gate. Such a low face. My nerves are absolutely jarred."

"We'll search the bushes again, madam," said the other voice wearily, "but I expect he has escaped by now."

"The brute!" said the fat lady. "Oh, the _brute_! And that _face_. If I hadn't had the courage to cry out----"

The voices died away and William was left alone in a corner of the hen-house.

A white hen appeared in the little doorway, squawked at him angrily, and retired, cackling indignation. Visions of life-long penal servitude or hanging pa.s.sed before William's eyes. He'd rather be executed, really.

He hoped they'd execute him.

Then he heard the fat lady bidding good-bye to the policeman. Then she came to the back garden evidently with a friend, and continued to pour forth her troubles.

"And he _dashed_ past me, dear. Quite a small man, but with such an evil face."

A black hen appeared in the little doorway, and with an angry squawk at William, returned to the back garden.

"I think you're _splendid_, dear," said the invisible friend. "How you had the _courage_."

The white hen gave a sardonic scream.

"You'd better come in and rest, darling," said the friend.

"I'd better," said the fat lady in a plaintive, suffering voice. "I do feel very ... shaken...."

Their voices ceased, the door was closed, and all was still.

Cautiously, very cautiously, a much-dishevelled William crept from the hen-house and round the side of the house. Here he found a locked side-gate over which he climbed, and very quietly he glided down to the front gate and to the road.

"Where's William this evening?" said Mrs. Brown. "I do hope he won't stay out after his bed-time."

"Oh, I've just met him," said Ethel. "He was going up to his bedroom. He was covered with hen feathers and holding a bunch of syringa."

"Mad!" sighed his father. "Mad! mad! mad!"

The next morning William laid a bunch of syringa upon Miss Drew's desk.

He performed the offering with an air of quiet, manly pride. Miss Drew recoiled.

"_Not_ syringa, William. I simply can't _bear_ the smell!"

William gazed at her in silent astonishment for a few moments.

Then: "But you _said_ ... you _said_ ... you said you were fond of syringa an' that you'd like to have them."

"Did I say syringa?" said Miss Drew vaguely. "I meant guelder roses."

William's gaze was one of stony contempt.

He went slowly back to his old seat at the back of the room.

That evening he made a bonfire with several choice friends, and played Red Indians in the garden. There was a certain thrill in returning to the old life.

"h.e.l.lo!" said his father, encountering William creeping on all fours among the bushes. "I thought you did home lessons now?"

William arose to an upright position.

"I'm not goin' to take much bother over 'em now," said William. "Miss Drew, she can't talk straight. She dunno what she _means_."

"That's always the trouble with women," agreed his father. "William says his idol has feet of clay," he said to his wife, who had approached.

"I dunno as she's got feet of clay," said William, the literal. "All I say is she can't talk straight. I took no end of trouble an' she dunno what she means. I think her feet's all right. She walks all right.

'Sides, when they make folks false feet, they make 'em of wood, not clay."

CHAPTER V

THE SHOW

The Outlaws sat around the old barn, plunged in deep thought. Henry, the oldest member (aged 12) had said in a moment of inspiration:

"Let's think of--sumthin' else to do--sumthin' quite fresh from what we've ever done before."

And the Outlaws were thinking.

They had engaged in mortal combat with one another, they had cooked strange ingredients over a smoking and reluctant flame with a fine disregard of culinary conventions, they had tracked each other over the country-side with gait and complexions intended to represent those of the aborigines of South America, they had even turned their attention to kidnapping (without any striking success), and these occupations had palled.

In all its activities the Society of Outlaws (comprising four members) aimed at a simple, unostentatious mode of procedure. In their shrinking from the glare of publicity they showed an example of unaffected modesty that many other public societies might profitably emulate. The parents of the members were unaware of the very existence of the society. The ill-timed and tactless interference of parents had nipped in the bud many a cherished plan, and by bitter experience the Outlaws had learnt that secrecy was their only protection. Owing to the rules and restrictions of an unsympathetic world that orders school hours from 9 to 4 their meetings were confined to half-holidays and occasionally Sunday afternoons.

William, the ever ingenious, made the first suggestion.

"Let's shoot things with bows an' arrows same as real outlaws used to,"

he said.

"What things?" and

"What bows an' arrows?" said Henry and Ginger simultaneously.

"Oh, anything--birds an' cats an' hens an' things--an' buy bows an'

arrows. You can buy them in shops."

"We can make them," said Douglas, hopefully.

"Not like you can get them in shops. They'd shoot crooked or sumthin' if we made them. They've got to be jus' so to shoot straight. I saw some in Brook's window, too, jus' right--jus' same as real outlaws had."