William the Fourth (12 page)

In the next street a watering cart had just passed, and there was a broad muddy stream flowing along the gutter. With a whoop of joy the tribe made for it, ‘Erb at the head, closely
followed by William.

William’s patent leather shoes began to lose their damning smartness. It was William who began to stamp as he walked, and the rest at once followed suit – splashing, shouting,
whistling, jostling, they followed the muddy stream through street after street. At every corner William seemed to shed yet another portion of the nice equipment of the boy-who-is-going-to-a-party
No party would have claimed him now – no hostess greeted him – no housemaid admitted him – he had completely ‘burned his boats’. But he was happy.

All good things come to an end, however, even a muddy stream in a gutter, and ’Erb, still leader, called out: ‘Come on, you chaps! Come on, Bill – bells!’

Along both sides of a street they flew at break-neck speed, pulling every bell as they passed. Three enraged householders pursued them. One of them, fleeter than the other two, caught the
smallest and slowest of the tribe and began to execute corporal punishment.

It was William who returned, charged from behind, left the householder winded in the gutter, and dragged the yelling scapegoat to the shelter of his tribe.

‘Good ole Bill,’ said ’Erb, and William’s heart swelled again with pride. Nothing on earth would now have checked his victorious career.

A motor-van passed with another gang of street urchins hanging on merrily behind. With a yell of battle, William hurled himself upon them, struggled with them in mid-air, and established
himself, cheering on his own tribe and pushing off the others.

In the fight William lost his overcoat, his Eton coat was torn from top to bottom, and his waistcoat ripped open. But his tribe won the day; the rival tribe dropped off, hurling ineffectual
taunts and insults, and on sailed William and his gang, half-running, half-riding, with an exhilarating mixture of physical exercise and joy-riding unknown to the more law-abiding citizen.

And in the midst was William – William serene and triumphant, William dirty and ragged, William acclaimed leader at last. The motor-van put on speed. There was a ride of pure breathless
joy and peril before, at last exhausted, they dropped off.

Then ’Erb turned to William: ‘Wot you doin’ tonight, maite?’ he said.

‘Maite!’ William’s heart glowed.

‘Nothin’, maite,’ answered William carelessly

‘Oi’m goin’ to the picshers,’ said ’Erb. ‘If you loike ter help my o’d woman with the corfee-stall, she’ll give yer a tanner.’

A coffee-stall – Oh, joy! Was the magic of this evening inexhaustible?

‘Oi’ll ’elp ’er orl
roigbt,
maite,’ said William, making an effort to acquire his new friend’s accent and intonation.

‘Oi’ll taike yer near up to it,’ said ’Erb, and to the gang: ‘Nah, you run orf ’ome, kids. Me an’ Bill is busy’

He gave William a piece of chewing-gum, which William proudly took and chewed and swallowed, and led him to a street-corner, from where a coffee-stall could be seen in a glare of flaming
oil-jets.

‘You just say “’Erb sent me,” an’ you bet you’ll get a tanner when she shuts up – if she’s not in a paddy. Go on. Goo’-night.’

He fled, leaving William to approach the stall alone. A large, untidy woman regarded him with arms akimbo.

‘I’ve come ter ’elp with the stall,’ said William, trying to speak with the purest of Cockney accents. ‘ ’Erb sent me.’

The woman regarded him with a hostile stare, still with arms akimbo.

‘Oh, ’e did, did ’e? ’E’s allus ready ter send someone else. ’E’s gone ter the picshers, I suppose? ’E’s a nice son for a poor woman ter
’ave, isn’t ’e? Larkin’ abaht orl day an’ goin’ ter picshers orl night – an’ where do
Oi
come in? I asks yer, where do
Oi
come
in?’

William, feeling that some reply was expected, said that he didn’t know. She looked him up and down. Her expression implied that her conclusions were far from complimentary.

‘An’
you
– I serpose – one of the young divvils ’e picks up from ’Evving knows where. Told yer yer’d git a tanner, I serpose? Well, yer’ll
git a tanner if yer be’aves ter
my
likin’, an’ yer’ll git a box on the ears if yer don’. Oh, come on, do; don’t stand there orl night. ’Ere’s
the hapron – buns is a penny each, an’ sangwiches a penny each, and cups o’ corfy a penny each. Git a move on.’

He was actually installed behind the counter. He was actually covered from neck to foot in a white apron. His rapture knew no bounds. He served strong men with sandwiches and cups of coffee. He
dropped their pennies into the wooden till. He gave change (generally wrong). He turned the handle of the fascinating urn. He could not resist the handle of the little urn. When there were no
customers he turned the handle, to see the little brown stream gush out in little spurts on to the floor or on to the counter.

His feeling of importance as he handed over buns and received pennies was indescribable. He felt like a king – like a god. He had forgotten all about his family . . .

Then the stout lady presented him with a bowl of hot water, a dish-cloth, and a towel, and told him to wash up. Wash up! He had never washed up before. He swished the water round the bowl with
the dishcloth very fast one way, and then quickly changed and swished it round the other. It was fascinating. He lifted the dish-cloth high out of the water and swirled the thin stream to and fro.
He soaked his apron and swamped the floor.

Finally, his patroness, who had been indulging in a doze, awoke and fixed eyes of horror upon him.

‘What yer think yer a-doing of?’ she said indignantly ‘Yer think yer at the seaside, don’t yer? Yer think yer’ve got yer little bucket an’ spade, don’t
yer? Waistin’ of good water – spoilin’ of a good hapron. Where did ’Erb find
yer,
I’d like ter know? Picked yer aht of a lunatic asylum,
I
should say . .
. Oh, lumme, ’ere’s toffs comin’. Sharp, now, be ready wiv the hurn an’ try an’ ’ave a
bit
of sense, an’ heverythin’ double price fer toffs,
now – don’t forget.’

But William, with a sinking heart, had recognised the toffs. Looking wildly round he saw a large cap (presumably ’Erb’s) on a lower shelf of the stall. He seized
it, put it on, and dragged it over his eyes. The ‘toffs’ approached – four of them. One of them, the elder lady, seemed upset.

‘Have you seen,’ she said to the owner of the stall, ‘a little boy anywhere about – a little boy in an Eton suit?’

‘No, mam,’ said the proprietress, ‘I hain’t seen no one in a heton suit.’

‘He was going out to a party’ went on Mrs Brown breathlessly, ‘and he must have got lost on the way. They rang up to say he hadn’t arrived, and the police have had no
news of him, and we’ve traced him to this locality. You – you haven’t seen a little boy that looked as if he were going to a party?’

‘No, mam,’ said the lady of the coffee-stall. ‘I hain’t seen no little boy goin’ to no party this hevening.’

‘Oh, mother,’ said Ethel; and William, trying to hide his face between his cap-brim and his apron, groaned in spirit as he heard her voice. ‘Do let’s have some coffee now
we’re here.’

‘Very well, darling,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Four cups of coffee, please.’

William, still cowering under his cap, poured them out and handed them over the counter.

‘You couldn’t mistake him,’ said Mrs Brown tearfully. ‘He had a nice blue overcoat over his Eton suit, and a blue cap to match, and patent leather shoes, and he was
so
looking forward to the party, I can’t think—’

‘How much?’ said William’s father to William.

‘Twopence each,’ muttered William.

There was a horrible silence.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said William’s father suavely, and William’s heart sank.

‘Twopence each,’ he muttered again.

There was another horrible silence.

‘May I trouble you,’ went on William’s father – and from the deadly politeness of his tone, William realised that all was over – ‘may I trouble you to remove
your cap a moment? Something about your voice and the lower portion of your face reminds me of a near relative of mine—’

But it was Robert who snatched ’Erb’s cap from his head and stripped his apron from him, and said: ‘You young devil!’ and Ethel who said: ‘Goodness, just
look
at his clothes,’ and Mrs Brown who said: ‘Oh, my darling little William, and I thought I’d lost you’; and the lady of the coffee-stall who said: ‘Well, yer
can
’ave
’im fer all ’e knows abaht washin’ up.’

And William returned sad but unrepentant to the bosom of outraged Respectability.

CHAPTER 8

WILLIAM ADVERTISES

A
new sweetshop, Mallards by name, had been opened in the village. It had been the sensation of the week to William and his friends. For it sold
everything a halfpenny cheaper than Mr Moss.

It revolutionised the finances of the Outlaws. The Outlaws was the secret society which comprised William and his friends Ginger, Henry, and Douglas. Jumble, William’s disreputable
mongrel, was its mascot.

The Outlaws patronised Mallards generously on the first Saturday of its career. William spent his whole threepence there on separate halfpennyworths. He insisted on the halfpennyworths. He said
firmly that Mr Moss always let him have halfpennyworths. In the end the red-haired young woman behind the counter yielded to him. She yielded reluctantly and scornfully. She took no interest in his
choice. She asked him in a voice of bored contempt not to finger the Edinburgh Rock. She muttered as she did up his package – ‘waste of paper and time’ – ‘never heard
such nonsense’ – ‘ha’porths
indeed.
’

William went out of the shop, placing his five minute packets in already over-full pockets and keeping out the sixth for present consumption.

‘I’m not
sure
,’ he said darkly to Ginger and Henry, who accompanied him – Douglas was away from home – ‘I’m not
sure
as I’m ever
going
there
again— Have a bull’s eye? – I didn’t like the way she looked at me nor spoke at me – an’ I’ve a jolly
good
mind not to go to
Mallards next Saturday’

‘But it’s cheap,’ said Ginger, taking out his package. ‘Have an aniseed ball? – an’ it’s
cheap
that matters in a shop, I should think.’

‘Well, I don’t
know,’
said William, with an air of wisdom. ‘That’s all I say – I jus’ don’t
know
– I jus’ don’t
know
that cheap’s all that matters.’

‘Well, wot else matters? You tell me that,’ said Henry, crunching up a bull’s eye and an aniseed ball simultaneously, and taking out his package. ‘Have a pear drop?
– You jus’ tell me wot matters besides
cheap
in a shop.’

William, perceiving that the general feeling was against him, put another bull’s eye in his mouth and waxed irritable.

‘Well, don’t talk about it so much,’ he said. ‘You keep talkin’ an’ talkin’—’ Then an argument occurred to him, and he brought it out with
triumph. ‘S’pose anyone was a
murderer
– well, wot would cheap have to do with it? – S’pose someone wot had a shop murdered someone – well, I s’pose
if they was
cheap
you’d say it was all right! Huh!’

With an expression of intense scorn and amusement William put the last bull’s eye into his mouth, threw away the paper, and took out the treacle toffee.

‘Well, who’s she murdered?’ said Ginger pugnaciously ‘Jus’ ’cause she din’ want to give you ha’p’orths you go an’ say she’s
murdered
someone. Well, who’s she murdered, that’s all? – You can’t go callin’ folks murderers an’ not prove
who
they’ve murdered. Bring out
who
she’s murdered – that’s all.’

William was at the moment deeply engrossed in his treacle toffee.

The red-haired girl had given it an insufficient allowance of paper, and in William’s pocket it had lost even this, and formed a deep attachment to a piece of putty which a friendly
plumber had kindly given him the day before. The piece of putty was at that moment the apple of William’s eye. He detached it gently from the toffee and examined it tenderly to make sure that
it was not harmed. Finally he replaced it in his pocket and put the toffee in his mouth. Then he returned to the argument.

‘How can I bring out who she’s murdered if she’s murdered them. That’s a sens’ble thing to say, isn’t it? If she’s
murdered
’em she’s
buried
’em. Do you think folks wot murder folks leaves ’em about for other folks to bring out to show they’ve murdered ’em? You’ve not got much sense.
That’s all I say. You don’t know much about
murderers.
Why do you keep talkin’ about murderers if you don’t know anything about ’em?’

Ginger was growing slightly bewildered. Arguments with William often left him bewildered. He was inclined, on the whole, to think that perhaps William was right, and she had murdered
someone.

At this point Jumble created a diversion. Jumble loved treacle toffee, and he had caught a whiff of the divine perfume. He sat up promptly to beg for some, but the Outlaws’ mascot was
seldom lucky himself. He sat up on the very edge of a ditch, and William could not resist giving him a push.