William the Fourth (16 page)

‘Luky!’

‘Twinkie!’

‘He’s mine.’

‘I bought him at Mr Gorton’s.’

‘How
can
you say he’s yours?’

‘He’s mine,’ cried Miss Cliff.

‘He isn’t,’ retorted Miss Blake.

‘He knows me –
Twinkie
!’

‘Luky!’

Both made a grab at Twinkie-Luky but Twinkie-Luky escaped both and flew like a dart down the road in the direction of Mr Gorton’s. Like all real gentlemen, Twinkie-Luky preferred death to
a scene. William was no coward, but even a braver man than William would have fled. William’s fleeing figure was already half-way down the road in which his home lay.

At the cross-roads Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff clung to each other hysterically and sent forth shrill, discordant cries after the fleeing Twinkie-Luky.

‘Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie, Twink-ee-ee-ee-ee-
ee
!’

‘Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee-
ee
!’

And William ran as if all the cats in the world were at his heels.

CHAPTER 10

WILLIAM THE SHOWMAN

W
illiam and his friends, known to themselves as the Outlaws, were in their usual state of insolvency. All entreaties had failed to melt the heart
of Mr Beezum, the keeper of the general store in the village, who sold marbles, along with such goods as hams and shoes and vegetables.

William and his friends wanted marbles – simply a few dozen of ordinary glass marbles which could be bought for a few pence. But Mr Beezum refused to overlook the small matter of the few
pence. He refused to give the Outlaws credit.

‘My terms to you, young gents, is cash down, an’ well you know it,’ he said firmly.

‘If you,’ said William generously, ‘let us have the marbles now we’ll give you a halfpenny extra Saturday.’

‘You said that once before, young gent, if I remember right,’ said Mr Beezum, adjusting his capacious apron and turning up his shirt-sleeves preparatory to sweeping out his shop.

William was indignant at the suggestion.

‘Well,’ he said,
‘well
– you talk ’s if that was
my
fault – ’s if I knew my people was going to decide sudden not to give me any money
that week
simply
because one of their cucumber frames got broke by my ball. An’ I brought back the things wot you’d let me have. I brought the trumpet back
an
’ the
rock—’

‘Yes – the trumpet all broke an’ the rock all bits,’ said Mr Beezum. ‘No – cash down is my terms, an’ I sticks to ’em – if
you
please, young gents.’

He began his sweeping operations with great energy, and the Outlaws found themselves precipitated into the street by the end of his long broom.

‘Mean,’ commented William, rising again to the perpendicular. ‘Jus’
mean!
I’ve a good mind not to buy ’em there at all.’

‘He’s the only shop that sells ’em,’ remarked Ginger.

‘An’ we’ve got no money to buy ’em anywhere, anyway,’ said Henry.

‘S’pose we couldn’t wait for ’em till Saturday?’ suggested Douglas tentatively.

He was promptly crushed by the Outlaws.

‘Wait!’
said Ginger.
‘Wait!
Wot’s the use of waitin’? We may be doing something else on Saturday. We mayn’t
want
to play with marbles
– all that long time off.’

‘ ’F only you’d
save
your money,’ said William severely, ‘ ’stead of spendin’ it the day you get it we shun’t be like this – no
marbles, an’ swep’ out of his shop an’ nothin’ to play at.’

This was felt to be unfair.

‘Well, I like
that
– I
like
that,’ said Ginger. ‘And wot about
you
– wot about
you?

‘Well, if I was the only one, you could have lent me money an’ we could get marbles with it – if
you’d
not spent all your money we could be buyin’ marbles
now ’stead of standin’ swep’ out of his shop.’

Ginger thought over this, aware that there was usually some fallacy in William’s arguments if only one could lay one’s hands on it.

Henry turned away

‘Oh, come along,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s no good staring in at his ole butter an’ cheese. Let’s think of something else to do.’

‘Anyway it’s nasty cheese,’ said Douglas comfortingly. ‘My mother said it was – so p’raps it’s a good thing we’ve been saved buyin’ his
marbles.’

‘Something else to do?’ said William. ‘We want to play marbles, don’t we? Wot’s the good of thinkin’ of other things when we want to play marbles?’

‘ ’S all very well to talk like that,’ said Ginger with sudden inspiration, ‘an’ we might jus’ as well say that ’f you’d not spent your money you
could have lent us some, an’ that’s just as much sense as you saying if
we
—’

‘Oh, do shut up talkin’ stuff no one can understand,’ said William, ‘let’s
get
some money’

‘How?’ said Ginger, who was nettled. ‘All right. Get some, an’ we’ll watch you. You goin’ to
steal
some or
make
some. ’F you’re
clever enough to steal some
or
make some I’ll be very glad to join with it.’

‘Yes, well, if I stealed some or made some you just
wouldn’t
join with it,’ said William crushingly

‘Let’s sell something,’ said Henry

‘We’ve got nothing anyone’d buy,’ said Ginger.

‘Let’s sell Jumble.’

‘Jumble’s
mine.
You can jus’ sell your own dogs,’ said William, sternly.

‘We’ve not got any’

‘Well, then, sell ’em.’

‘That’s sense, isn’t it?’ said Ginger. ‘Jus’ kindly tell us how to sell dogs we’ve not got—Jus’—’

But William was suddenly tired of this type of verbal warfare.

‘Let’s do something – let’s have a show’

‘Wot of?’ said Ginger without enthusiasm. ‘We’ve got nothing to show, an’ who’ll pay us money to look at nothing? Jus’ tell us that.’

‘We’ll get something to show – I
know,
’ he said suddenly, ‘a c’lection of insecks. Anyone’d pay to see an exhibition of a c’lection of
insecks, wun’t they? I don’t s’pose there are many c’lections of insecks, anyway. It’d be
interestin’.
Everyone’s interested in
insecks.
’

For a minute the Outlaws wavered.

‘Who’d c’lect ’em?’ said Henry, dubiously

‘I would,’ said William with an air of stern purpose.

The Collection of Insects was almost complete. The show was to be held that afternoon.

The audience had been ordered to attend and bring their halfpennies. The audience had agreed, but had reserved to itself the right not to contribute the halfpennies if the exhibition was not
considered worth it.

‘Well,’ was William’s bitter comment on hearing this, ‘I shouldn’t have thought there was so many
mean
people in the world.’

He had taken a great deal of trouble with his collection. He had that very morning been driven out of Miss Euphemia Barney’s garden by Miss Euphemia herself, though he had only entered in
pursuit of a yellow butterfly that he felt was indispensable to the collection.

Miss Euphemia Barney was the local poetess and the leader of the intellectual life of the village. Miss Euphemia Barney was the President of the Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought.
The members of the society discussed Higher Thought in all its branches once every fortnight. At the end of the discussion Miss Euphemia Barney would read her poems.

Euphemia Barney’s poems had never been published. Miss Euphemia said that in these days of worldliness and money-worship she would set an example of unworldliness and scorn for money.
‘I think it best,’ she would say, ‘that I should not publish.’

As a matter of fact she had the authority of several publishers for the statement. She disliked William more than anyone else she had ever known – and she said that she knew just what sort
of a woman Miss Fairlow was as soon as she heard that Miss Fairlow had ‘taken to’ William.

Miss Fairlow had only recently come to live at the village. Miss Fairlow was a real, live, worldly, money-worshipping author who published a book every year and made a lot of money out of it.
When she came to live in the village Miss Euphemia Barney was prepared to patronise her in spite of this fact, and even asked her to join the Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought.

But, to the surprise of Miss Euphemia, Miss Fairlow refused.

Miss Euphemia pitied her as she would have pitied anyone who had refused the golden chance of belonging to the Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought under her – Miss Euphemia
Barney’s – presidency, but, as she said to the Society, ‘her influence would not have tended to the unworldliness and purity that distinguishes us from so many other societies and
bodies – it is all for the best.’

To her most intimate friends she said that Miss Fairlow had refused the offer of membership in order to mask her complete ignorance of Higher Thought.

‘Ignorant, my dear,’ she said. ‘Ignorant – like all these popular writers.’

So the Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought pursued its pure and unworldly path, and Miss Fairlow only laughed at it from a distance.

Chased ignominiously from Miss Euphemia’s garden, William went along to Miss Fairlow’s. He could see her over the hedge mowing the lawn.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello, William,’ she replied.

‘Got any insects there?’ said William.

‘Heaps. Come in and see.’

William came in with a business-like air – his large cardboard box under his arm – and began to hunt among her garden plants.

‘Would you call a tortoise an insect?’ he said suddenly

‘If I wanted to,’ she replied.

‘Well, I’m going to,’ said William firmly. ‘And I’m going to call a white rat an insect.’

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t – it might belong to a special branch of the insect world, a very special branch. You ought to give it a very special name.’

The idea appealed to William.

‘All right. What name?’

Miss Fairlow rested against the handle of her lawn mower in an attitude of profound meditation.

‘We must consider that – something nice and long.’

‘Omshafu,’ said William suddenly, after a moment’s thought. ‘It just came,’ he went on modestly, ‘just came into my head.’

‘It’s a beautiful word,’ said Miss Fairlow. ‘I don’t think you could have a better one – an insect of the Omshafu branch.’

‘I think I’ll call its name Omshafu, too,’ said William, picking a furry caterpillar off a leaf.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Fairlow, ‘it seems a pity not to use a word like that as much as you can now you’ve thought of it.’

William put a ladybird in on top of the caterpillar.

‘It’s going to be jolly fine,’ he said optimistically

‘What?’ said Miss Fairlow.

‘Oh, jus’ a c’lection of insects I’m doing,’ said William.

Later in the morning, William brought Omshafu over to visit Miss Fairlow. It escaped, and Miss Fairlow pursued it up her front stairs and down her back ones, and finally captured it. Omshafu
rewarded her by biting her finger. William was apologetic.

‘I daresay it just didn’t like the look of me,’ said Miss Fairlow sadly.

‘Oh, no,’ William hastened to reassure her; ‘it’s bit heaps of people this year – it bites people it likes. I don’t say why it
shun’t
be an
insect, anyway, do you?’

William’s Collection of Insects was ready for the afternoon’s show. The exhibits were arranged in small cardboard boxes, covered mostly with paper, and these were
all packed into a large cardboard box.

The only difficulty was that he could not think where to conceal it from curious or disapproving eyes till after lunch. The garden, he felt, was not safe – cats might upset it, and once
upset in the garden the insects would be able to return to their native haunts too quickly. His mother would not allow him to keep them indoors. She would find them and expel them wherever he put
them.