William The Conqueror (27 page)

‘I suppose you’ve broken up?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said William, his voice and face equally devoid of expression.

‘Do you like the holidays?’

‘Yes,’ said William in the same tone of voice.

‘Are you fond of lessons?’

‘No.’

‘I expect you’re looking forward to Christmas.’

William, considering this remark beneath contempt, vouchsafed no answer. The tall, thin man, crushed, transferred his attention to the lady on the other side of him.

Now William was painfully conscious of the presence of Ginger and Henry and Douglas beneath the table. He realised, too, that he had towards them the duties of a host. He could not eat in
comfort with Ginger, Douglas and Henry cramped and uncomfortable and hungry in his so immediate vicinity. He took two bites at the sausage-roll with which the tall, thin man had supplied him, then,
looking dreamily at the opposite wall, slipped his hand under the table.

There another hand, grateful and unseen, promptly relieved him of the rest of the sausage-roll. His plate was empty. The tall, thin man looked at it. Then he looked at William. William met his
eyes with an aggressive stare.

The tall, thin man looked at William’s plate again. It was true. This child really had consumed a large sausage-roll in less than a minute. He handed him the plate of sausage-rolls
again.

Again William took one.

Again William took two small bites and handed the rest to his invisible friends beneath the table.

Again he turned his aggressive stare upon the tall, thin man.

Again the young man looked with rising horror from William to the empty plate in front of him, and then from the empty plate back to William.

He then took the whole dish of sausage-rolls, put them just in front of William, and turned to continue his conversation with his other neighbour. William felt cheered. This was just what he
wanted. He took a roll on to his plate and looked round. No one was watching him. With a lightning movement he transferred the roll to his knee and held it out beneath the table. The unseen
recipient grabbed it eagerly. William did the same with a second, a third, a fourth. He grew reckless. He put down a fifth, a sixth, a seventh. That was two each. He was doing them jolly well.
There were three more on the dish. He’d given them those, too, and then he’d begin to eat something himself. One – two – three –

He twitched them all quickly from the dish to his plate, from his plate to the unseen hand. No more were within his reach. He turned his aggressive stare upon the tall, thin man. As though
hypnotised by the stare, the tall, thin man turned slowly to William. He looked at the empty plate and the empty dish in front of William and his jaw dropped open weakly.

He put his hand to his head, and pinched himself to make sure he was awake. He simply couldn’t believe his eyes. It was like a dreadful nightmare. In a few seconds this child had eaten up
a large dishful of enormous sausage-rolls – he must be suffering from some horrible disease. William did not speak, merely fixed him with that hungry, unflinching stare. The tall, thin man
tried to say, ‘And what can I pass you now?’ but he couldn’t. Words wouldn’t come. The sight of that enormous empty dish had broken his nerve.

Just then a diversion occurred. A friend of Ethel’s almost opposite had slipped off her shoe under the table, and a few minutes later reached out for it, and could not find it. She made a
large circular sweep in search of it with her stockinged foot and just caught Ginger on the neck above his collar where he was most ticklish. Ginger dropped his half-eaten sausage roll and gave a
loud yell. A sudden tense silence fell over the table. Had the proverbial pin been dropped, it would have been heard for miles. Then the girl who had tickled Ginger gave an embarrassed little
giggle.

‘I’m afraid I kicked your dog – or your cat – or something,’ she said. She lifted up the table-cloth and grew pale. ‘It’s boys,’ she said in a
breathless whisper; ‘ever so many of them!’

It was half-an-hour later. Ginger, Douglas and Henry had been ignominiously ejected. William had been despatched to spend the rest of the evening in his bedroom. The dining-room was empty. Only
three pathetic half-eaten sausage-rolls beneath the table were left to tell the tale.

William leant out of his bedroom window. The shadowy forms of the Outlaws lurked in the bushes beneath.

‘What’re they doin’ now?’ whispered William.

‘They’re acting the play,’ whispered Douglas, ‘an’ everyone is watching – maids an’ all.’

‘Well, go an’ watch it,’ whispered William, ‘an’ tell me about it tomorrow. Tell me about Robert an’ Ethel – speshly if they do anythin’ silly
– An’, I say—’

‘Yes?’ whispered the faithful Outlaws from the bushes.

‘I’m awful hungry. I only had a few bites of roll – go an’ see if there’s anyone in the dining-room and if the stuff’s still there.’

‘There won’t be anyone in the dining-room,’ whispered Henry, ‘’cause everyone’s in watching the play.’

‘Well, go an’ get a lot of grub,’ ordered William in a sibilant commanding whisper. ‘Keep some for yourself an’ put some in a basket, an’ I’ll throw
down a rope to draw it up.’

This method of obtaining food appealed greatly to William’s romance-loving soul.

The Outlaws departed and in a few minutes returned – very quickly.

‘William,’ said Ginger excitedly, ‘there’s a burglar in the dinin’-room.’

‘What!’ said William.

‘A burglar with his bag of tools an’ his bag of booty, an’ everything. He’s drinkin’ wine or somethin’ at the sideboard.’

In less than a minute William had joined the Outlaws in the garden, and together they all went round to the dining-room window. Yes, there he was – a real burglar in dingy clothes and
shabby necktie, a cap pulled low over his eyes, his bag of tools and a half-filled sack by him. He was standing at the sideboard drinking a whisky and soda.

The Outlaws retired to the bushes to discuss their tactics.

‘We’d better go’n tell your father,’ said Douglas.

‘No, we
wont
,’ said William, ‘we’ll catch him ourselves. What’s the fun of findin’ a burglar an’ lettin’ someone else catch him?’

Henry and Ginger agreed with him. William assumed the position of leader. There was an enormous curtain in a box upstairs. They’d used it for theatricals once. Robert and Ethel had got a
new one for this year, but the old one would do nicely to catch the burglar in. It hadn’t many holes.

‘What’ll we do with him, then?’ said Ginger.

‘We’ll – we’ll lock him up somewhere,’ said William, as he went up to fetch the curtain.

In less than a minute he returned with it. It was certainly voluminous enough. The Outlaws laid their plans. They crept into the dining-room silently and, stealing up behind him, enveloped their
prey, just as he was in the act of pouring out some more whisky. He was taken completely by surprise. He lost his footing and fell forward into a dusky mass of all-enveloping green serge. He was
not a big man or a strong man. He tried to regain his footing and failed. In his green serge covering he was being dragged somewhere. He shouted.

It happened that in the morning-room (where the play was being held) Ethel, in her capacity of heroine, had just finished singing a song, which was greeted with frenzied applause by her loyal
guests. The applause drowned the burglar’s shouts. Douglas flung open the French windows that led from the dining-room to the garden, and panting, tugging and perspiring the Outlaws dragged
their victim out into the night across the lawn. Douglas opened the greenhouse door. They hoisted the large green curtain, which still contained its straggling inhabitant, into the greenhouse, shut
the door and turned the key in the lock. Then, still panting and purple-faced, the Outlaws went back to the house.

‘Well, he
was
a weight!’ commented Douglas.

‘Shall we go an’ tell ’em now?’ said Ginger.

But William was still rent by the pangs of hunger.

‘Oh, he’s all right for a bit,’ he said. ‘He can’t get out. Let’s take a bit of food upstairs first. We can tell ’em after.’

The Outlaws approved of this. It was certainly a wise plan to make sure of the food. They returned to the dining-room, heaped several plates with dainties that particularly appealed to them, and
crept silently upstairs to William’s bedroom. There they sat on the floor munching happily and discussing their capture. They were just deciding that it would be rather fun to be policemen
when they grew up, when Ginger pricked up his ears.

‘Seems a sort of noise going on downstairs,’ he said.

Very softly the Outlaws opened the door of William’s bedroom and crept on to the landing. There was most certainly a sort of noise going on downstairs. Everyone seemed to be bustling
about, and talking excitedly.

‘Do be quiet a minute while I ring up his mother,’ said Ethel’s voice, distraught and tearful. ‘Hello – hello – Is that Mrs Langley?
Has
Harold come
home?
Hasn’t he? –
No, he’s completely disappeared – No one knows
where
he is – we got to the point in the play where he comes on – just after my
song, you know – and I waited and
waited
and he never came, and I had to leave the stage without finishing the scene. My nerves had absolutely all gone. I’m still trembling all
over, and everyone was hunting and
hunting
for him – and we had to stop the play,’ tearfully; ‘we couldn’t go on without him. He was the burglar, you know – I
do hope nothing awful’s happened – I mean, I hope he didn’t get so nervous he lost his memory, or – or – went out and had some awful accident or anything. We’re
all so distressed – it’s quite spoilt the party, of course, and
ruined
the play. We only got to the song – I don’t know when I’ve felt so awful.’

She was interrupted by Mrs Brown’s voice, high and hysterical. ‘Oh, Ethel, do fetch your father. It’s too dark to see anything – but there’s the most awful
commotion going on in the garden. Someone’s breaking all the glass in the greenhouse.’

The entire party sallied out excitedly into the garden. They were not there long, but during their absence two things happened. The Outlaws, acting with great presence of mind, seized their
share of the food and fled like so many flashes of streaked lightning to their several homes. And William got into bed and went to sleep. He went to sleep with almost incredible rapidity. When his
family entered his bedroom a few minutes later, demanding explanation, William lay red and breathless, but determinedly and unwakably asleep. The grimly set lines of his mouth and the frown on his
brow testified to the intense and concentrated nature of his sleep.

‘Oh, don’t wake him,’ pleaded Mrs Brown. ‘It’s so bad for children to be
startled
out of sleep.’

‘Sleep!’ said Robert sarcastically. ‘Well, I don’t mind. It can wait till tomorrow for all I care. The party’s
ruined
, anyway.’

Fortunately, they did not look under the bed, or they would have seen a large plate piled with appetising dainties. They went away with threatening murmurs in which the word
‘tomorrow’ figured largely.

When they had gone William got out of bed with great caution and sat in the darkness munching iced cakes. That sleep idea had been jolly good. Of course, he knew it couldn’t go on
indefinitely. He couldn’t go on sleeping for a month. He’d have to wake up tomorrow, but tomorrow was tomorrow, and when tonight holds an entire plate of iced cakes (many of them with
layers of real cream inside), tomorrow is hardly worth serious consideration.

CHAPTER 13

T
HE Outlaws were agog with excitement, for the day of Hubert Lane’s party was drawing near. This may sound as though the Outlaws were to be
honoured guests at Hubert Lane’s party, were to join in the cracker-pulling and cake-eating and dancing and parlour games that were being laboriously prepared for it by the Lane parents.

Far from it. For between the Outlaws and the Hubert Lanites a deadly feud waged, and tradition demanded that they should treat each other’s parties with indifference and contempt. It was
the Hubert Lanites who had broken that tradition. They had deliberately wrecked William’s party the week before Christmas. They had gathered round the windows to jeer at the Outlaws
disporting themselves within, and had dispersed miraculously in the darkness whenever a sally had been made from the house against them. They had, moreover, substituted a deceased cat (which Hubert
had found in a ditch) for the rabbit which the conjuror had brought with him and which was to appear miraculously from his hat.

Even the adult relations of the Outlaws had resented this outrage. But they had told the Outlaws that little gentlemen would regard the matter as beneath contempt. The Outlaws, however, did not
regard the matter as beneath contempt. They were not out to prove themselves little gentlemen. They were out for revenge.

They were determined to wreck Hubert Lane’s party as Hubert Lane had wrecked theirs. They wisely hid their resolve, however, from their elders and betters. Their elders and betters fondly
imagined that the Outlaws had accepted the insult like little gentlemen.

But the Outlaws with silent determination were only biding their time. They were awaiting the day of Hubert Lane’s party.

The news that Mr and Mrs Lane would be away for the party and that Hubert’s Aunt Emmy would preside heartened the Outlaws considerably. Mr and Mrs Lane had flown to the sick bed of an aunt
of Mr Lane’s, of whom he had ‘expectations’, and against those ‘expectations’ the success of Hubert’s party seemed a negligible matter. The Outlaws felt that
Providence was on their side. The conviction was strengthened when they heard later that at sight of her nephew the sick aunt completely recovered and did not even offer to pay his railway
fare.

Of course, Aunt Emmy in command simplified matters considerably for the Outlaws. The Outlaws had met Aunt Emmy. Anything vaguer, kinder, more shortsighted, and more devastatingly well-meaning
than Aunt Emmy could scarcely be imagined. Aunt Emmy should not be difficult to deal with in any crisis.