Just William Part 23

That was the end of the sick headache.

He spent the rest of the morning with Henry and Douglas and Ginger.

William and Henry and Douglas and Ginger const.i.tuted a secret society called the Outlaws. It had few aims beyond that of secrecy. William was its acknowledged leader, and he was proud of the honour. If they knew--if they guessed. He grew hot and cold at the thought. Suppose they saw him going--or someone told them--he would never hold up his head again. He made tentative efforts to find out their plans for the afternoon. If only he knew where they'd be--he might avoid them somehow.

But he got no satisfaction.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'E'S EAT NEARLY EVERYTHING, MUM. 'E'S EAT THE COLD 'AM AND THE KIDNEY PIE, AND 'E'S EAT THE JAR OF LEMON CHEESE!" COOK WAS PALE AND OUTRAGED]

They spent the morning "rabbiting" in a wood with Henry's fox terrier, Chips, and William's mongrel, Jumble. None of them saw or heard a rabbit, but Jumble chased a b.u.t.terfly and a bee, and scratched up a molehill, and was stung by a wasp, and Chips caught a field-mouse, so the time was not wasted.

William's interest, however, was half-hearted. He was turning over plan after plan in his mind, all of which he finally rejected as impracticable.

He entered the dining-room for lunch rather earlier than usual. Only Robert and Ethel, his elder brother and sister, were there. He came in limping, his mouth set into a straight line of agony, his brows frowning.

"h.e.l.lo! What's up?" said Robert, who had not been in at breakfast and had forgotten about the Band of Hope.

"I've sprained my ankle," said William weakly.

"Here, sit down, old chap, and let me feel it," said Robert sympathetically.

William sat down meekly upon a chair.

"Which is it?"

"Er--this."

"It's a pity you limped with the other," said Ethel drily.

That was the end of the sprained ankle.

The Band of Hope meeting was to begin at three. His family received with complete indifference his complaint of sudden agonising toothache at half-past two, of acute rheumatism at twenty-five to three, and of a touch of liver (William considered this a heaven-set inspiration. It was responsible for many of his father's absences from work) at twenty to three. At a quarter to three he was ready in the hall.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy it, William," said Mrs. Brown soothingly. "I expect you'll all play games and have quite a good time."

William treated her with silent contempt.

"Hey, Jumble!" he called.

After all, life could never be absolutely black, as long as it held Jumble.

Jumble darted ecstatically from the kitchen regions, his mouth covered with gravy, dropping a half-picked bone on the hall carpet as he came.

"William, you can't take a dog to a Band of Hope meeting."

"Why not?" said William, indignantly. "I don't see why not. Dogs don't drink beer, do they? They've as much right at a Band of Hope meeting as I have, haven't they? There seems jus' nothin' anyone _can_ do."

"Well, I'm sure it wouldn't be allowed. No one takes dogs to meetings."

She held Jumble firmly by the collar, and William set off reluctantly down the drive.

"I hope you'll enjoy it," she called cheerfully.

He turned back and looked at her.

"It's a wonder I'm not _dead_," he said bitterly, "the things I have to do!"

He walked slowly--a dejected, dismal figure. At the gate he stopped and glanced cautiously up and down the road. There were three more figures coming down the road, with short intervals between them. They were Henry, Douglas and Ginger.

William's first instinct was to dart back and wait till they had pa.s.sed. Then something about their figures struck him. They also had a dejected, dismal, hang-dog look. He waited for the first one, Henry.

Henry gave him a shamefaced glance and was going to pa.s.s him by.

"You goin' too?" said William.

Henry gasped in surprise.

"Did she come to _your_ mother?" was his reply.

He was surprised to see Ginger and Douglas behind him and Ginger was surprised to see Douglas behind him. They walked together sheepishly in a depressed silence to the Village Hall. Once Ginger raised a hand to his throat.

"Gotter beas'ly throat," he complained, "I didn't ought to be out."

"I'm ill, too," said Henry; "I _told_ 'em so."

"An' me," said Douglas.

"An' me," said William with a hoa.r.s.e, mirthless laugh. "Cruel sorter thing, sendin' us all out ill like this."

At the door of the Village Hall they halted, and William looked longingly towards the field.

"It's no good," said Ginger sadly, "they'd find out."

Bitter and despondent, they entered.

Within sat a handful of gloomy children who, inspired solely by hopes of the annual treat, were regular attendants at the meeting.

Mrs. de Vere Carter came sailing down to them, her frills and scarfs floating around her, bringing with her a strong smell of perfume.

"Dear children," she said, "welcome to our little gathering. These," she addressed the regular members, who turned gloomy eyes upon the Outlaws, "these are our dear new friends. We must make them _so_ happy. _Dear_ children!"

She led them to seats in the front row, and taking her stand in front of them, addressed the meeting.

"Now, girlies dear and laddies dear, what do I expect you to be at these meetings?"

And in answer came a bored monotonous chant:

"Respectful and reposeful."

"I have a name, children dear."