William in Trouble (21 page)

‘An’ the adventure sort, like—

‘an’ – an’ –
any
sort straight off like that without stop-pin’ to think – rhymes an’ all. I bet,’ darkly,
‘that if I b’longed to their ole society that ole fat Oswald wun’t carry off the badge every time like what he does.’

But their way led past the Franks’ house and silence fell upon them as they approached. Yes – Oswald had evidently reached home with his badge.

A little crowd of triumphantly yelling, jeering boys stood at the gate. Bertie Franks and his friends were awaiting them. Their taunts were not marked by any great originality.

‘
Yah!
Whose brothers can’t write po’try?
Yah!
They thought they’d get it this time, then, didn’t they?

‘
Yah!
An’ they didn’t – they can’t write po’try for nuts. We’ve got the badge again,’ they chanted. ‘We’ve got the badge again.
WE’VE GOT THE BADGE AGAIN.’’

The Outlaws’ onslaught was too late. Bertie Franks & Co. reached the safety of the side door just in time. The side door was fortunately near the front gate. Overcome by their
feelings, the Outlaws once more charged up after them to the side door, but were indignantly repelled by a large and muscular gardener, and their ignominious retreat watched gleefully by Bertie
Franks & Co. from the window. They walked away seething with fury.

‘We’ve gotter
do
somethin’ about this,’ said William grimly.

The Outlaws lay in the field near the old barn. They were still gloomy. They had been very busy lately carrying out the self-appointed task of guardian angels to the Twentieth
Century Poets. William had visited Robert’s bedroom daily in secret to inspect the progress of his sonnet. It was, William pronounced condescendingly, in conclave with the Outlaws, going on
quite nicely, though he gave them to understand that he could have improved on it considerably had Robert been wise enough to ask his help. He still went about uttering extempore poems. The habit
was beginning to annoy the Outlaws. They lay at their ease eating grass and brooding over the problems of the Twentieth Century Poets.

It appeared that no one had been able to ascertain anything about Oswald’s sonnet, but as Oswald still wore his superior smile they assumed that Oswald himself at any rate was satisfied
with it.

Bertie Franks & Co. felt no doubts on the subject.

‘Yah!’ they had yelled only the day before from a safe refuge. ‘Yah! Who’s goin’ to get the Magazine prize? I bet you think your ole Robert is! Well, he’s
not! Oswald
is. Poor ole Robert – poor ole Robert – thinks he can write po’try – Yah!’

‘If only they’d let us get prop’ly near them,’ said William longingly, for the hundredth time.

‘Well, let’s plan somethin’ to
do
,’ said Henry impatiently.

Ginger interrupted.

‘There’s some teeny little mushrooms jus’ where I’m lyin’,’ he said with interest.

They abandoned the immediate discussion to examine them.

‘They’re toadstools!’ they jeered derisively.

Ginger paled.

‘I’ve been eatin’ ’em,’ he said faintly.

‘Well, I bet you anything you like you’ll be dead tomorrow,’ said William, with the air of one who makes a sporting offer.

‘How many ’ve you eaten, Ginger?’ said Henry with interest.

‘About four,’ said Ginger.

‘Poor ole Ginger,’ said William cheerfully, ‘you’re sure to die. I bet I can make up a piece of po’try about it,’ he went on, with a burst of inspiration.

‘Oh, shut
up
,’ said Ginger. ‘I bet if it was
you
what was goin’ to die—’

But here Douglas provided a diversion. He had found a copy of
The Young Crusader
lying about at home, and had quietly appropriated it. The Outlaws bent over it eagerly, studying the
rules, all except Ginger, who sat staring morosely in front of him, evidently contemplating mentally his immediate dissolution, and murmuring ‘’S all very well for
you
—’

‘The man what writes the paper,’ said William excitedly, ‘he’s called Mr Boston, an’ there’s a Mr Boston comin’ to give a speech at the village hall
nex’ week on somethin’ called Prortional Representation.’

‘He’s the same one,’ said Douglas, ‘he goes about speakin’ on politics as well as writin’ the paper. I heard George say so.’

‘He’s comin’
here
?’ said William slowly, ‘the man wot’s goin’ to judge their pomes?’

‘Yes,’ said Douglas.

‘Crumbs!’ said William, impressed, and again after a pause, ‘Crumbs.’ They looked at him expectantly. Even Ginger lost his toadstool complex, and said, ‘Yes?
– well?’

‘Well,’ said William slowly, ‘we oughter be able to do
somethin
’.’

Mr Eugene Boston, editor of
The Young Crusader
and amateur politician, arrived by a train about an hour before the one by which he was expected, and set off for a brisk
walk. He met no one, arrived at the village hall just very shortly after the time he was expected, gave an interesting lecture on Proportional Representation and then went home.

It was for Mr Eugene Boston quite a pleasant and uneventful evening.

When the time came for the arrival of the train by which Mr Eugene Boston was expected, William crept furtively on to the station. His frowning, freckled face wore a look of tense resolve.

He watched the train with a ferocious scowl as it slid to a standstill, and scanned the passengers who alighted with the air of a detective on the lookout for criminals. Finally his eye rested
on one of them. He certainly might be a lecturer. He was a precise-looking man who wore a beard and an air of intellect and carried a leather bag. And curiously enough, though he was not Mr Eugene
Boston, he was a lecturer.

He was a Mr Farqueson, mis-named by his parents Augustus, and he had come to lecture on Central Asia at a village a few miles farther on which did not possess a station. He had said in his
letter to the Vicar that he would walk, but he was half-expecting someone to meet him. He looked around. He was a very amiable, mild, short-sighted man. William approached him.

‘You the lecturer?’ said William, with stern, unsmiling countenance.’

‘Er – yes, my little boy. Yes, certainly.’

He was rather taken aback by the ferocity of William’s expression.

‘You – er – you’ve come to meet me?’ he went on pleasantly.

‘Yes,’ said William.

The whole thing seemed to be simpler than William had thought it would be.

‘I thought it might be rather nice to walk,’ said Mr Augustus Farqueson tentatively, ‘but if you have some conveyance with you—’

‘No,’ said William, ‘I haven’t got anything like that with me.’

‘Well, come along,’ said Mr Augustus Farqueson brightly, ‘let us set off.’

They set off.

William had counted on the lecturer’s not knowing his way, and in this he was right. They set off together down the high road in the direction leading away from the village hall. Mr
Augustus Farqueson conversed about Central Asia, but William did not respond.

William led the way over a stile, Mr Augustus Farqueson followed less nimbly.

‘A short cut, I presume?’ he said rather breathlessly, and then returned to Central Asia.

William, still silent, led him over the field up the hill.

Mr Augustus Farqueson’s breathlessness increased, but with true British determination he continued to talk about Central Asia. He asked if William were interested in Central Asia. William,
it seemed, was not. Mr Augustus Farqueson could hardly believe his ears. Despite his breathlessness he began to do his utmost to interest William in Central Asia. They came to another stile. It was
rather a difficult stile and it led into a ploughed field. Mr Augustus Farqueson, from the top rung of the stile, looked at it in dismay. Then he looked down at his little twinkling,
highly-polished boots.

‘It’s – er – rather muddy, is it not?’ he said.

There was a right of way and, generally, a path through that field, but it happened that the farmer had just finished ploughing, and it was for the public now to claim its right of way and make
its own footpath over the loosened, furrowed earth. It happened that William and Mr Augustus Farqueson were pioneers. The farmer had only finished ploughing that afternoon, and no one else had as
yet appeared to claim the right of way.

‘It’s all right,’ said William, leaping down into the loose muddy earth.

Mr Augustus Farqueson followed more slowly. He was beginning to feel a horrible misgiving about the boy and another about the ploughed field and another about whether he really
was
on the
right road to the Church Hall at Bassenton. There was something – something rather
peculiar
about the boy. Very gingerly he lowered a small shining boot into the loose clayey soil.
‘I think,’ he said pleadingly, ‘that – that perhaps we’re trespassing. Perhaps it would be wiser to return to the main road.’

‘I THINK,’ SAID MR FARQUESON, ‘THAT PERHAPS WE’RE TRESPASSING. PERHAPS IT WOULD BE WISER TO RETURN TO THE MAIN ROAD.

But William didn’t think so. William hastened on ahead through the mud. Mr Augustus Farqueson floundered unhappily behind. He didn’t talk about Central Asia any more. For the time
being he’d lost all interest in Central Asia. The loose earth was ploughed into little hillocks over which Mr Augustus Farqueson kept stumbling. He had clay and mud on his nice dark suit. His
nice shiny little boots and the bottoms of his trouser legs were caked with clay and mud. Dusk was falling.

WILLIAM HASTENED ON AHEAD THROUGH THE MUD

He began to feel very unhappy.

Yet he stumbled desperately on in the wake of the strange boy. It was just like a nightmare. Instead of being in a nice warm, brightly lit room, talking about Central Asia to a nice, interested
audience he was struggling over hills and dales of clay and mud behind a boy he was beginning to detest.

He ought never to have come with this boy. He was beginning to believe that this boy hadn’t really been sent to meet him. He’d noticed something strange about the boy from the very
first. He ought to have been on his guard against him. Why, the boy hadn’t even been interested in Central Asia. He ought to have guessed then that there was something wrong with him. And
suddenly the boy stopped and waited for him with a look of determination on his frowning face. Little Mr Augustus Farqueson advanced slowly, feeling more apprehensive than ever.

‘You’ve gotter give it to Robert,’ said the boy fiercely.

‘Er – give what to Robert?’ said Mr Augustus Farqueson faintly.

‘The prize, the po’try prize, that ole Oswald – I tell you he’s no good, he isn’t – it’s only ’cause he makes ’em sound sort of grand,
an’ so they think they’re better than Robert’s but they’re
not.
’

‘Er – what?’ said Mr Augustus Farqueson still more faintly.

‘You know,’ said William impatiently. ‘You know – they’ve made a Society, it’s jus’ like drivin’ a motor – an’ it’s so noble
– an’ it made Robert feel quite diff’rent an’ that’s why he made the Society, the young – young devotions of poetry– because it’s so uplifting
–jus’ like drivin’ a motor car. But Robert, he sits and works
reely
hard – findin’ out rhymes an’ that sort of thing an’ I don’t see why
Oswald should have it jus’ because he makes them sound sort of
grand.
They aren’t any
better
than Robert’s. They aren’t as
good
as
Robert’s.’

‘Of – of course not,’ said Mr Augustus Farqueson.

He spoke very, very faintly. The nightmare was growing more terrible every minute. The boy was mad. That was the explanation of the whole thing. Of course, he ought to have known from the
strange beginning. Why, he’d noticed something strange about him even on the railway station.

He didn’t know where he was. It was getting late. He was probably miles away from the Church hall where he ought to be lecturing. He was alone in a ploughed field in the gathering dusk
with a mad boy. It was terrible.