William The Conqueror (14 page)

‘HOW CAN YOU TELL SUCH AN UNTRUTH ABOUT LAST NIGHT?’ DEMANDED MISS MONTAGU.

WILLIAM STOPPED WHISTLING AND LOOKED AT HER.

‘How
can
you tell such an untruth about last night?’

William stopped whistling for a minute and looked at her.

‘I hope you won’t tell such a silly untruth to
anyone
else,’ she said severely. ‘If you don’t – I mean,’ with a slight display of embarrassment,
‘I mean – I mean I was going to tell you that my nerves have quite recovered now and that no noise from your garden will disturb me. Also if your arrows or things come over here you may
come over to fetch them.’

Then, with great dignity, she got up and swept into the house.

William watched her retreat with apparent unconcern.

CHAPTER 7

I
T was William’s Uncle Frederick who was responsible for the whole thing.

He gave William a book called ‘Hunted by the Reds’. A spell of wet weather was also partly responsible.

The Outlaws met in the old barn while the rain came down in torrents on and through the roof, and, having nothing else to do, read the story aloud in turns. Though the reading was frequently
interrupted by criticism of each member’s reading by the rest (resulting occasionally in physical conflict), and by long, heart-searching discussions as to the conventional pronunciation of
such words as ‘catastrophe’, the interest of the story was proof against all interruption. It gripped. It did more than grip. It thrilled.

At first the Outlaws had taken for granted that the Reds must mean Red Indians. But they did not. They meant the Reds of Russia, modern Reds, the dreaded Bolshies.

The villain of the story was one Dmitrich (which the Outlaws pronounced ‘Dimtritch’), chief of the Reds. He murdered everyone he met on principle. He flung bombs about as carelessly
as other men fling used matches. Finally, he captured a princess of the Whites and kept her a prisoner in his castle, trying to extort from her by cruel threats the secrets of the Whites. In the
last chapter she was rescued from the villain by her faithful lover, Paulovitch.

The descriptions of Dmitritch were intriguing. He was cross-eyed and had a crooked nose. He was a most satisfactory villain in every way. Most of his remarks were prefaced by oaths represented
on the printed page by blanks and dashes. This rather annoyed Ginger.

‘Why can’t they print wot he ackshully says?’ he asked indignantly. ‘It’d be much more int’restin’.’

‘They daren’t,’ said Douglas in an awed whisper, ‘they daren’t print the ackshull words. They’re too bad for print.’

‘What sort of words, though?’ persisted Ginger. ‘That’s all I want to know. It’s not fair putting blanks. I bet they don’t know themselves.’

‘They do,’ said William with an air of an oracle. ‘’Course they know. It’s bad words – words like “Damn” an’ “Hell” an’
– an’ – an’ “Hell” an’ “Damn”. Bad words like that – “Hell” an’ “Damn”.’

‘Well, that’s only two,’ said Ginger, still dissatisfied. ‘There’s one – two – three – four blanks in what he says here. He says – one, two,
three, four blanks an’ then “Ho, would you, then? Curse you for a fool,” an’ then two more blanks. Well, that mus’ be more than jus’ “Hell” an’
“Damn”. There’s six blanks in what he says there.’

William was slow to own himself in the wrong.

‘Well, those are the only two bad words there are. I know they are. He’d say ’em over an’ over again, of course. Like this: “Damn Hell, Damn Hell. Ho, there, what
would you? Curse you for a fool. Hell, Damn.” Like that. Over an’ over again. “Damn Hell, Hell Damn”.’ William seemed to derive a certain pleasure from the
repetition.

‘I don’t think you ought to keep on saying ’em like that, William,’ said Douglas piously.

‘Well, I like that,’ said William indignantly. ‘I don’t want to say ’em, but I have to, to explain about ’em prop’ly. Ginger was saying there mus’
be more’n two bad words an’ I was only explainin’ to him that there is only two bad words, but you use ’em over an’ over again.’

‘I think there is more’n two bad words,’ said Henry slowly and thoughtfully. ‘What about “By Jove!” ’

‘That’s not bad,’ said William.

‘Well, what about “Darn!” ’ said Ginger.

William seemed to regard ‘Darn’ judicially.

‘Yes, that’s bad,’ he said at last, as though ‘Darn’ had just passed some severe test. ‘Darn’s bad all right. Well, he’d just put that in
somewhere, too.’

‘Anyway, he might have been a norful-looking man,’ said Ginger, ‘whether he said two bad words or three or only blanks. He must have been a norful-looking man. Just fancy
– cross-eyed an’ a crooked nose. An’ jus’ think of all the orful things he did – murderin’ people an’ chuckin’ bombs about an’ –
an’ savin’ those bad words all over the place an’ carrying off the princess. I know what I’d’ve done to him if I’d met him.’

‘What?’ said William.

‘I’d’ve killed him,’ said Ginger boldly. ‘I’d’ve gone up to him an’ stuck a knife into him.’

‘Would you?’ jeered William. ‘I guess he’d be too quick for you. He’d see you comin’ an’ throw a bomb or somethin’ at you. He’d jus’
say, “Darn damn hell” to you an’—’

‘William,’ protested Douglas patiently, ‘you’ve gotter
stop
sayin’ those words.’

‘Well, he said them, din’ he?’ said William aggressively. ‘If I’m sayin’ what he’d’ve said I’ve gotter say the sort of words he
did.’

‘You needn’t say ’em. You can say “Blank,” can’t you?’

‘All right,’ said William obligingly, ‘I don’ mind doin’ that. Well, then, he’d simply look at you with his cross-eyes an’ say, “Blank, blank,
blank, blank. Curse you for a fool. Blank, blank,” and shoot you or bomb you, or cut your head off before you’ve got a chance to move. You talkin’ about killin’ him –
a clever man like him—
You!
’

Ginger was annoyed.

‘You talk,’ he said indignantly, ‘’s if I’d say I’d go up to him with a knife in my hand so’s he’d know I was going to do it. I wouldn’t,
either.’

‘Where’d you put it, then?’

‘In my pocket.’

‘Huh! You can’t get any size of a knife that’d kill him
into
your pocket.’

‘Maybe I wun’t kill him with a knife at all,’ said Ginger, shifting his ground. ‘I daresday I wun’t, after all. I’d pretend to take him a walk, an’ when
I got him into the middle of a bridge I’d push him into the water.’

‘An’ he’d swim out,’ said William, with contempt.

‘All right,’ said Ginger huffily, ‘kill him yourself.’

‘I’d poison him,’ said William. ‘I’d get some deathly poison an’ put it in his tea.’

‘How d’you know he drinks tea?’ said Ginger contemptuously. ‘I should think he’s the sort of man who drinks beer more’n tea.’

‘Oh, do shut up about him,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve jus’ about had enough of him, anyway. I say, it’s stopped rainin’ an’ it’s dinner time.
Let’s go home.’

It was on their way home that they met him – unmistakably cross-eyed and broken-nosed.

They stopped still in amazement to stare at him.

‘Dimtritch!’ they gasped together.

He looked at them furtively as he passed.

‘That’s him – that’s – that’s simply him,’ gasped Ginger. ‘Abs’lutely straight out of the book!’

‘Out of the book!’ repeated William scornfully. ‘Huh! That book’s not a book. I mean it’s true. It mus’ be. I guess someone jus’ wrote it to put people
on their guard against him ’cause—’

‘’Cause they daren’t do it ’cept in a book, ’cause they’re afraid of him, an’ his bombs,’ supplied Ginger eagerly.

‘I was goin’ to say that,’ said William coldly. ‘You keep on int’ruptin’.’

‘I b’lieve I can see a bomb in his pocket,’ said Henry. ‘Look, it’s all bulging out – at that side. It looks to me ’xactly like a bomb.’

‘You ever seen a bomb?’ said William.

‘I may’ve done,’ said Henry. ‘I may quite possibly have done. Anyway, it looked to me like a bomb. That’s all I say. I can only say how it looks to me. I
don’t know how bombs look to other folks.’

The figure was already disappearing round the bend in the road. The Outlaws hurried after it.

‘Hope his bomb doesn’t go off suddenly,’ said Henry, who was keeping in the rear. ‘Looks to me rather’s if it would.’

‘Well, it’d kill him first, wun’t it?’ said William.

‘I don’ know. He might turn round an’ throw it back at us sudden.’

‘He doesn’t know we’re here.’

‘Oh, doesn’t he! He knows everything. D’you remember when he led that other man – what d’you call him, Paulovitch – on an’ on, thinkin’ that he
was followin’, an’ that Dimtritch din’ know he was there, an’ suddenly Dimtritch turned an’ stabbed him an’ left him for dead. D’you remember?’

The Outlaws perceptibly slackened pace.

‘He’s goin’ in at Mr Jones’s gate.’

‘He’s goin’ to kill Mr Jones, p’raps.’

‘Don’ be silly. Mr Jones’s gone away.’

‘He mus’ be the man who’s taken Mr Jones’s house while he’s away.’

‘What’s he come to live here for, anyway?’

‘Some plot, you bet – somebody he wants to bomb, or murder, or revenge, somehow.’

‘I think he’s got a princess imprisoned there in Mr Jones’s house,’ said Douglas, ‘an’ I think we ought to rescue her.’

‘How?’ said William.

‘Well, we’ve gotter think of some plan for that,’ said Douglas.

The discussion was resumed on the way to school the next afternoon.

‘What we’ve gotter do,’ said William, ‘is to find out what he’s doing here.’

‘We don’ even know what he’s calling himself,’ said Henry. ‘He’s sure to be calling himself something different from Dimtritch now.’

‘How’re we going to find that out?’ asked Ginger.

‘Once,’ said Henry thoughtfully, ‘I heard about a man who wanted to find out the name of a man who lived in a house and he went to the door and asked if Mr Brown lived there
an’ they said “No”, and told him who did live there.’

‘It’s jus’ half past two,’ said William severely, ‘an’ we’re goin’ to be jolly late for school if we don’t run jolly quick.’

So the Outlaws ran jolly quick.

It happened that they all came out of school at different times.

Henry’s chemistry division was let out very early because something had gone wrong with the gas supply for the bunsen burners, and they popped in a most fascinating manner instead of
lighting properly. The class would have preferred to stay and pop them, but old ‘Stinks’ sent them home.

‘Of course he would,’ said Henry bitterly, ‘when there’s anything int’resting to do, but on an ord’nary dull day when they light all right we’ve got to
stay on till the end. That’s
like
’em.’

By ‘’em’ he meant the mysterious and exasperating race of grown-ups who always seemed bent on ridding life of its glamour and romance. Fancy being able to pop a bunsen burner
like that time after time indefinitely and not wanting to do it – more than that, wanting to stop other people doing it.

But Henry’s dejection soon vanished, and he walked along briskly. Instead of going straight along the road he went in at Mr Jones’s front gate, and with quickly beating heart went up
to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. There was still no answer. He raised the knocker and beat a fierce rat-tat-tat upon the door.

‘If nothing happens now I’ll go away,’ he said, almost hoping that nothing would happen.

But something did happen. The door opened very slightly and an old woman’s face appeared round it. Henry was thrilled. She was wizened and lined and bent and sinister – just the sort
of old woman one would guess would guard Dmitritch’s house.

‘Does Mr Brown live here?’ he said boldly.

The old woman looked at him suspiciously.

‘Eh?’ she said.

‘Does Mr Brown live here?’ said Henry.

‘Eh?’ she said again.

Some of Henry’s assurance departed.